GRANDPA'S WATCH

Last summer my mom and I embarked on the arduous journey of sorting through decades - really lifetimes - of photographs in an attempt to create a family portrait montage for my dining room wall. Each picture was pregnant with story, each story birthed another. We talked and snacked and organized until our sides and backs ached.

As Mom was pilfering through one of her boxes, she pulled out an old watch, battered by time and use. "This was Grandpa Norberg's. He was wearing it when he died." She turned the watch in her hand, obviously taken by memories of grief and the loss of time with her father because of his sudden and tragic death. "I probably should've gotten rid of this old thing long ago."

I reached for the watch. To her it was a reminder of tragedy. To me it was treasure. Mom looked up and me and put the old watch in the palm of my hand. Immediately, I stretched its gold band and wrapped it round my wrist. Despite my grandfather's demise, when I put the timepiece on, a force seemed to reach through the time-space continuum connecting me directly to Grandpa. "I'm glad you never got rid of this watch," I said. "If you don't want it, would it be O.K. if I kept it?"

"Sure," she said. We continued our sorting, grouping, storying. Me with the watch on my wrist; Mom with sadness on her sleeve.

Seconds after donning my grandfather's watch the phone rang. I checked the caller ID. It was the number of a huge publisher who I'd just sent a manuscript to the night before. Usually it takes months for editors with their paper-tower laden desks to get back to a writer. Why was he getting back to me so quickly? And why via phone & not just the typical e-mailed rejection letter?! I looked down at my wrist. A fleck of sun glinted off of my grandfather's watch. It was as if he were looking out for me; as if our new connectedness had connected me with this aloof, elusive, super-busy editor.

The machine picked up, I listened for a few seconds, "Sally, this is blah, blah, blah from blah, blah blah . . . I got your manuscript last night and wondered if you'd have a minute or two to talk with me about it . . . "

My heart racing, I picked up the phone and strange as it may sound, as I said, "Hi . . . this is Sally," I involuntarily dropped to my knees.

"Sally . . . thanks for sending your manuscript. I read it last night and sent it around the office for a few other editors to check out this morning. We all agree that you have a unique writing talent for creative nonfiction."

"Thanks," I said jumping up from the ground and then squeezing my lips into a lock-hold so I wouldn't start screaming into the guy's ear.

The conversation went on for a few more minutes. I mentioned that I had just put my daughter down for a nap; and that we'd adopted her from China. He shared that he, too, was an adoptive father. He asked about the sales of my last books. I did my best to give him figures. He mentioned that he'd been getting lots of creative nonfiction proposals lately, but that it seemed to be a difficult genre for writers to really master. I found that interesting and started dreaming about teaching a creative nonfiction course. He said that he'd get back to me soon. I floated back to the dining room and finished selecting pictures for the family picture wall.

I wore Grandpa's watch for a week straight after that. Then, set it on top of my jewelry box for several months. A couple days ago, on an impulse, I put the watch on again and wore it all day. After dinner I checked my e-mail. My heart dropped when I saw the name of one of my favorite editors - the publisher of a couple of my books, someone who has become to be a dear friend - in the subject heading of my first e-mail. The title of a recent book proposal in the subject heading. (If it was good news, a book deal, he would've called.) My heart dropped through my stomach, through the floor of my office, into our living room, then out the front door. In the coldest part of the night, my heart planted itself deeply beneath eight inches of snow that'd just stormed into our town.

Here's what I read.

Sally:

This is a difficult email for me to write because I REALLY like your latest book proposal. It feels like an important book and one that you should write…if not immediately, at least soon. But, I couldn’t generate a lot of enthusiasm for it with the team at ________. Everybody likes you and thinks you are a great writer, but they felt it was not a topic that ________ could sell easily. It is frustrating because our sales are down and that is causing even greater caution than usual, and less willingness to risk on a project simply because it is good.

The e-mail went on with friendly words that really meant a lot to me. As I walked down the stairs to our family room I was bummed that hopes for my next job had been dashed - or at least changed. Then, I felt Grandpa's watch gripping my wrist. That's strange, I thought. One of the last times I wore this heirloom I got the biggest book deal in my life. Today, I wrapped it round my wrist and got an unexpected literary rejection.

love
Believing that our lives are always ripe with messages, hidden truths, spiritual similes, metaphysical metaphors; I wondered what it might mean that I was wearing Grandpa's watch for both of these significant life events. When I put the watch on for the first time (and got the mind-blowing phone call) I remembered thinking that the sad memories of the watch had been redeemed by my new memory; and that somehow the trinket itself had been transformed.

Anyone looking at Grandpa's watch would agree that that old "T and C in jewels" is just as battered as the day Grandpa died wearing it, though. Nothing has changed about the scratches on the face, the patinaed gold plate, the worn winder, its tender and temperamental tick. It still stutters and needs to be tapped a few times to get ticking at proper time-keeping speed. My fortuitous life events haven't refurbished the watch inside or out.

Battered, unlucky and ordinary as the watch may be, it held on to Grandpa and me during treasured and tragic moments. It was with us counting, keeping track of our seconds, minutes, every single inexorable moment of our lives just like God does.

love

My times are in your hands. Psalm 31:15