Moving Forward

Chicken Soup for the Soul: Think Positive

BY: Shawnelle Eliasen

We can destroy ourselves by cynicism and disillusion, just as effectively as by bombs.
~Kenneth Clark


Our old neighborhood had been like modern-day Mayberry. Neighbors chatted over fences. Newcomers were welcomed with chocolate brownies and butter-braid bread. It had been easy to find friends there.


Our new community was different. It seemed that family roots grew deep. Deep as the Mississippi River that flowed past the tiny river town. Breaking in was tough.


We'd moved to decrease my husband's commute to work. Only thirty miles.


I wished that I could erase each one.


After living there for six months, I was ready to pick up tent stakes and move back home. I was lonely for a friend. My three boys were lonely. My husband, Lonny, fared okay, but he spent his days at work.


"I'm so alone here," I said to Lonny one evening. "I don't see my old friends much, and I can't seem to make new ones." We were sitting on the front porch of our old Victorian. Our three young sons kicked a soccer ball around the side yard.


Lonny is a good listener, but he also has an engineer's brain. He's a problem solver.


"What have you done to meet people?" he asked.


"I go to story time at the library every week. I initiate conversations at the park. I even stalked a lady at a garage sale. She had two boys and looked like someone I'd want to be friends with. But she was more interested in that old vase she was looking at than chatting."


"Sounds like you're doing the right stuff," he said. "Keep at it."


And I did. I tried to be open and friendly. It wasn't that people were unkind. They just all seemed established.


A few more months passed and winter settled in. It was harder than ever to meet people. I admitted that we had a few obstacles. We homeschooled our boys and still attended church in our old community. But I'd never had trouble making friends before, and I started to develop an attitude. Who needed a friend? I was tired of trying to fit in a place it seemed that we didn't belong.


Grey winter days eventually gave way to fresh spring color, but my attitude stayed dark and gloomy. I began to feel bitter. I still went to the library and park, but I didn't start conversations. I didn't invite anyone over. I wanted to move back to our old neighborhood.


Lonny noticed my sinking disposition.


"Shawnelle, you look unapproachable," he whispered in my ear one afternoon. He and I were sitting in lawn chairs at our son's first-of-the-season Little League game. Samuel, our three-year-old watched the game from his own little Scooby-Doo chair.


"What do you mean?"


"Body language. Your arms are crossed. You placed our chairs fifteen yards away from everyone else."


"It doesn't matter. I'm not going to have friends here."


"You sure won't if you stop trying," he said.


Just then Samuel looked up. He must've heard our whispers. "Mom's right, Dad. We'll never ever have friends here. And we just want to go home."


I sat there and looked at my tiny blond son.


His words mirrored my attitude. And I didn't like the murky reflection. That's when I knew that I needed an adjustment. I didn't want my boys to learn that the way to work through a tough time was to wield a wounded and bitter attitude.


Over the next few months I worked very hard. I smiled when I didn't feel like it. I joined conversations at the ballpark. The boys and I baked cookies for our neighbors. It's going to be great when I find that friend, I told myself. I'll appreciate it even more than if I'd made friends right away. I stopped talking about moving back home. We signed up for reading programs at the library and frequented parks and the bike path along the river. I was still lonely, but some of the frustration slipped away. At least I wasn't sitting home stewing. And it was harder to grumble when I was smiling.


I went forward each day. Doing the things I could do. Trying not to look back.


One afternoon Samuel and I clambered up the stairs to the library activity room. We'd signed up to attend a craft class, and I was going to sport my improved attitude. As we rounded the corner, I made sure that I looked approachable. Arms uncrossed. Wide, bright smile as we walked through the door.


A blond woman who I hadn't seen before sat at an oblong table with a tiny, redheaded boy. She smiled back. I noticed her deep dimples and kind, blue eyes. The little boy was about Samuel's age.


There were empty chairs beside her. I decided to walk closer.


"Hi," she said. "I'm Tammy. This is Chase. Do you need a seat? There's one right here."


I sat down next to Tammy. The boys delved into their craft and Tammy and I delved into conversation. Soon class was over, and we still had a lot to say. "Why don't you come over later?" Tammy asked. "I live on a farm. There's plenty of room for the kids to run."


We went.


And since that day, we've been back a million times. Tammy and I became the best of friends, and that farm is like a second home to my boys.


When I look back, I'm grateful for that lonely, tough time. I learned to persevere. I learned to hold my attitude in check. A new sensitivity was born in me -- I'm always on the lookout for newcomers. And I was right -- I do appreciate my friendship with Tammy. My family has broken into this community, and this little town is where we want to be.


I'm glad I didn't give up.


And as for my boys, they learned a lesson too. A valuable lesson about tough times.


"Keep moving forward," is what I tell them. "Your heart will follow."


And once in a while it leads you.


Straight into the arms of a friend.

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