This past summer, John took me to the Keys. Because we both work hard and because our time together is scarce and precious and mostly because he loves me and because he can, he upgraded us to first class. It was a treat to be at the front of the bus with those nice glasses, warm towels, snuggly blankies, and special cookies, especially for someone like me who never even flew on a big bird until I was nineteen.

Being at the front of that plane just a few feet ahead of those flying coach started me thinking about how the place you are sitting makes a difference. (I didn’t particularly feel that different – you can take the girl out of Carthage, but never completely wring all the Carthage out of the girl.) It was how I was regarded and treated that was different. It was as if that one little advance in seat order made me SOMEBODY. I had this thought throughout our trip and for the rest of the year and specifically, painfully, I have this thought now.

I was the fifth kid to sit in our family high chair. Rusted and stained by my siblings, I had the seat of the beloved baby child.

I sat beside new friends the first day of first grade and on the lap of my principal when those friends made me cry.

I sat in the alto section of our school choir.

Most everything I have needed to negotiate through life wasn’t learned in kindergarten, but rather was learned from the brown bench seat of school bus #5.

I have sat in so many waiting rooms – waiting for news. Waiting to hear that the margins were clear – that they got all the cancer and then I sat in the seat beside the bed, tears of gratitude rolling down my face, watching my husband sleep.

I sat in the back seat, the back of the truck, on the tailgate, in the Driver’s Ed car and eventually in the left front spot of so many vehicles – it’s hard to remember them all. The ones with the heated seats rise to the top as my favorites.

I have sat in the seat of boats, planes, trains, but never a helicopter.

I sat across from the doctor in disbelief when she said my mom’s systems were shutting down.

And with great pain and grace, I sat in the seat beside my mom when she passed to the other side.

I sat on the couch near the Hospice bed when my dad quietly died – we weren’t sure when it happened exactly, awareness coming when my niece noticed that he wasn’t breathing anymore.

I have sat in a police station pressing charges and a holding area waiting for a restraining order to be signed.

I have sat at the table of fear, hope, change, sadness, joy, anger, possibility, desperation, loss, happiness, resolution, championship, defeat, disappointment, forgiveness, regret.

I have sat in the rocking chair in the wee hours of the morning with two babies – sick, feverish babies, sleepless babies, nursing babies, crying babies, talking babies, sweet, sleeping babies. I so miss that seat.

I have sat in dental, endo and ortho chairs. 

I have sat in chair of the psychiatrist, psychologist, and counselor.

As a child, I sat in the wooden pew of our family church. That church burned when I was nine years old but I can still remember those pews and swinging my patent leather shoes to keep myself busy during “preaching.” I am reminded of that place sometimes through the smell of grape Kool-Aid. The sensory awareness of summer Bible schools and my early indoctrination to all things Jesus.

I have sat bored to tears in math and thrilled to life in literature.

I have sat up until sunrise many times finishing books.

I have sat in cabs and lately, preferably, the cars of Uber.

I have sat in the seat asking for mercy and in the seat demanding justice.

I have sat in chairs that I don’t even remember writing words, words, words.

I have sat in the lobby of the bank needing money and the lobby of the financial planner needing advice on what to do with money.

I have sat on the porches of beach houses watching the never-ending wave roll, drinking coffee, tea, beer, wine. Just sitting, just watching, just drinking.

I have sat in the chair of lots of jobs – the worst being the answering service I worked for in college. So many stupid phone lines. Bad, bad chair.

I have sat in the cheap seats, the balcony, ring side, in the middle, in the aisle, on the steps, on the floor, at the altar, and blocked by people with heads so large that they could cause a solar eclipse.

I have sat in the chair of self-righteousness and judgment – I am trying to make that chair be one that I walk past.

I have reluctantly sat in my brother’s rat infested trailer as he spun a creative tale asking for money to buy beer or Vodka or later, much worse.

I have sat in movie theaters feeling the suspense, surprise, and thrill of the big screen.

I have sat in darkness and sunlight, on the banks of rivers, on the saddle of my pony, Calico, and by the warmth of a campfire.

I have sat holding dogs as they were put to sleep and now I sit beside a dog at a table because she is quite convinced and quite convincing that she is a human.

My current chair is dreamy in a way that may seem ordinary but it is extraordinary for me.

I sit in the lead chair of a great little group doing good work for a great company.

I sit beside a man who has my back and with whom I feel loved and safe in a forever sort of way.

I sit beside two daughters who have grown beyond their babyhood to be much too tall to rock in the middle of the night. I guard protectively and often in frustration as they find their own chairs. It is hard to watch at times as they, in their Goldilocks fashion, sit in the too big, too small, too lumpy, too bumpy. My prayer is that they “settle into but not settle for” less than what is “just right.”

Throughout most of my daughters’ lives, I have been telling them in restaurants, at home, in the car, to “PLEASE SIT DOWN.” Perhaps I would like to reword that messaging to be – walk around, explore, see all the seats you can, you don’t have to sit everywhere – let your spirit guide you and be aware of those seated around you.

I sit at the table of friendship (and wine,) with some amazing people. I am grateful every day for having a seat among real, open, honest women with whom I can be vulnerable without filters or boundaries – just trust.

I am grateful not to sit in a wheel chair or the chair of addiction or the bench of a prison.

I am aware that the seat of poverty or illness or the lack of the chair when you are homeless has an impact that I do not or cannot understand. 

I do not pretend to understand what it is like to sit waiting for your deployed spouse to return from war or sit worrying because your son went out into the night wearing a hoodie.

I have not sat in the seat with PTSD demons shaking my chair or in a chair that vibrates from a palsy that I can’t control.

I am trying to be seated in the chair of faith, patience, and trust but a well-dressed, persistent doubt and blame keep asking me to scooch in beside them instead.

I am aware that the slights that I have felt as an educated white woman living in a free country could never begin to reflect the reality of the chairs of those who can’t enter a place of worship or restaurant or library or shelter without, at best, judgment, and, at worst, shame, torture, or death. All because those seated in the power chairs have determined that the worth of people has some type of measuring scale.

As I charge forward in my life roaring towards mile market 50, I realize that my seat is a culmination of hard work, of good luck, of absolute grace.

I am sure, dear reader, that you too have sat in many chairs and the chair from which you read this blog is quite possibly bigger and better than mine. I am okay with this news – in fact, my prayer every day is for the heart and world of abundance.

I beg that you consider that the world is not open seating. I ask that you pause wherever you are, contemplating that should we have a big ole game of human race musical chairs, any one of us could land in a spot especially designed for teaching us what we should already be practicing – from the front row of humility and love.