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The Little Love That Could: Stories of Tenacious Love, Underdogs, and Ragamuffins
240Overview
Named One of the Most Thought-provoking Books of the Year
In this collection of 65 critically acclaimed, personal essays, Pamela Capone writes with both heart and humor. Using historical and contemporary examples-as well as stories from her own life-she writes for the soul and for the sole intention of pointing to love, reinforcing connections between the author's faith and her daily reflections.
This multi-award-winning essayist will make you laugh, cry, think and feel. Pamela Capone makes the solid case-especially in these divisive times-that we can still believe in love.
The Little Love That Could is about teensy-weensy firecracker love, love that, when ignited, lights up someone's dark night. It's about feet-on-the-ground, sky's-the-limit, life-changing, world-engaging, mustard-seed love that grows from a hunch, an idea, a nudging from above--and then blossoms in the willingness of a heart to act on its sometimes-wobbly faith.
Such audacious, underestimated love-like the little engine that could from the children's book--just keeps chugging along over "impossible" hills, shrugging off the naysayers, imagining the view from the top. The difference is, this tenacity in the human heart is what turns seeming underdogs and ragamuffins into influencers and game-changers, right in our own communities, workplaces, homes, or wherever we go in the world.
"Pamela Capone must be a riot at parties. She can turn the most mundane details of a day into witty poetry, and find a way to connect it all to God's higher plan for us."
- IndieReader
Capone's often-hilarious observations and always-engaging experiences will put a little fuel in your tank to help you get up and over, so you can see that all things are indeed possible . . . if you believe that Love can.
Click on Amazon's 'Look Inside" feature and read the first of these 65 epiphanies on Love.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781642374803 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Gatekeeper Press |
| Publication date: | 03/10/2019 |
| Pages: | 240 |
| Product dimensions: | 6.00(w) x 9.00(h) x 0.51(d) |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
Ragamuffin
ragamuffinnoun A person, typically a child, in ragged, dirty clothes.
I've heard countless times what I was like when my mom and dad brought me home as a toddler: I was filthy.
Gesturing like a Major League pitcher with her arm, my mom reminds me, "I took that dirty bottle you were sucking on and threw it out the door." I think she wanted to get it as far as the east is from the west. (She reminds me of Someone Else.)
She put me in the bath and scrubbed me, shampooing my blonde ringlets. According to the story, which I do not doubt, I left a ring around the tub.
She didn't have anything else for me to wear, so she put me in my new big brother's way-too-big footie pajamas.
She says I was ravenous, so she fed me. I ate like a piglet, and was partial to watermelon and tomatoes.
She took me to the doctor, and he said I was malnourished.
She called her sister and asked for my new, older cousin Susan's hand-me-downs.
She says her mom — my new grandma Josephine — gave her money to buy me some clothes. My mom purchased frilly dresses that were just my size.
She says I was now unrecognizable.
She says my new older brother and sister, Danny and Cheryl, ran around the neighborhood telling everyone who'd listen that their mommy had a baby. The neighbors were confused.
I think I was too. She says I cried all the time. (She will sometimes say it twice for emphasis: Cried. All. The. Time.)
She held me.
She wiped my tears.
In all the years she's been recounting those early days, I have never felt shamed by her description. I've felt loved by the details. By the lengths she went to transform my sorry state.
She took me — an undernourished, homeless, orphaned ragamuffin — into her home and into her arms. She loved me as her own because, in one teeny, life-changing moment, I became her own.
Her split-second decision to become my mom was my first example of a little love that could, because she had a little love that would. I think that might be the way it works: the willingness.
As a toddler, I was unable to remove my "filthy rags" and clothe myself in pretty dresses. I needed my momma. The prophet Isaiah of the Bible says I also need my Father. As a believer, God clothes me too — He clothes me in righteousness. Isaiah says my heavenly Father does for me what I cannot do for myself. My attempts at righteousness are like those filthy rags my new mom removed that day she brought me home.
God has brought me home and so transformed my sorry state that I am unrecognizable in the very best of ways. And dressed as His beloved — His little beloved — I now sport a jeweled tiara on my blessed, ragamuffin head. And I am new.
CHAPTER 2Amygdala Airlines
Good evening. Welcome aboard."
I did a double take at the striking redhead as we boarded our Delta flight returning home from Jamaica. A little later on, she passed by my aisle seat, offering snacks and beverages.
"Excuse me, were you on a Delta in-flight safety video awhile back?" I asked.
Smiling a heard-this-question-before-smile, she replied, "That'd be me. Glad to hear I haven't aged that much."
I did an abbreviated Kip "Yesssss!" from Napoleon Dynamite, pulling my fist down to my side. "I knew it!" Back home in California, I did my homework (also known as a Google search): "Delta In-Flight Safety Video Girl." Tap, tap, tap ... Her actual red head, name, and face popped up.
I travel a lot for my work as a professional, though unpaid, people watcher. It comes with the territory. I fly with ordinary folk just like me, and I've flown with celebrities. One time I passed The Bachelor's Jake Pavelka as I returned from the lavatory on a flight. He was wearing his American Airlines pilot's uniform, though he wasn't actually our pilot on the flight.
Prior to the Delta In-Flight Girl was Third Rock from the Sun's John Lithgow on a flight back from NYC. Dude was downright amiable. At other times there was Natalie Morales from The Today Show, quietly reading; Baywatch hunk David Hasselhoff being all tanned and handsome; and once, the bigger-than-life Bobby Brown alongside us in coach.
While standing behind Bobby in line as we were boarding our LAX-to-JFK flight, it became clear to me, based on his ongoing snarky commentary, that his reputation preceded him. He even went so far as to suggest to my husband, John, that he was putting his carry-on in an overheard compartment not designated for him. Bobby had a point: John was putting his bag in a space that was technically reserved for first-class customers. For some reason, though Bobby didn't have a first-class seat himself, he felt it was his prerogative to make a point. Seemed to me, Bobby wasn't really staying within his Hula-Hoop either.
I get it. I have sometimes had a hard time minding my own business. I tend to want to right wrongs. Especially as a child, I'd have the weight of my own world on my shoulders, and then I'd add some of the world's weight, just so I'd be good and stooped.
I was told I was a little (a lot) too sensitive. I interpreted that as being a little broken. Something was wrong with me that I felt emotions so intensely. Today, I'm well aware that one of the ways I self-sabotage is to overthink. Which often leads to "overfeeling." I can easily end up dealing with some unnecessary negative emotions because I thought too much about a problem — and most times there was no real problem until I made it one — er, well, until Amygdala made it one. Amygdala is the li'l culprit inside my brain that takes situations into her own hands, hijacks things, says its fine to get outside my Hula-Hoop ... Go ahead.
Sometimes Amygdala transitions from Girl Gone Wild to full-on Terrorist with a Russian Accent, just like that. What's so tricky is that I'm typically unaware when she's gone rogue. Like an airplane hijacking, at first the flight might be like any other — you're all buckled in and have your peanuts and ginger ale, but sooner or later you find out the plane has been commandeered.
In the film Air Force One, Harrison Ford plays United States president James Marshall, who shows the terrorist there's a new marshal in town when he chucks the scary Russian out the door. But not before growling, "Get off my plane," not unlike Clint Eastwood's "Get off my lawn." I want to growl to Amygdala, "Get out of my brain." Or more accurately, "Go back to the part of the brain you belong in: the touchy-feely district, not over here in neocortex where it's all business. I love you, I need you, but you're out of bounds, sister!"
I've seen my share of hijacking movies, but none more powerful than United 93. I've probably watched this depiction of the 9/11 hijack at least a half dozen times, and there hasn't been one time that I didn't sob uncontrollably at the ending. The sights, the sounds, the emotions — all capturing such bravery-amid-fear as the passengers rushed the cabin and overtook the cockpit ...
The intensity of the final scene reduces me to a puddle. The passengers — those flying "angels"— were able to obtain their objective while in the throes of great emotion but still using logic. Somehow, miraculously, they blended both.
I would sure love to learn to do the same.
CHAPTER 3Table Talk
I had lunch today with my friend Inez. We sat at a round table in the corner of her assisted-living residence dining room, a community that assists the memory impaired. It's a beautiful place. It really is. The staff are friendly, respectful dignity givers.
Up until this move a few weeks ago, Inez had been on her own. A well-traveled, independent woman, she is of Puerto Rican descent and spent much of her life in the publishing industry in Manhattan before she moved out West. She's savvy, educated, proper, refined, elegant, gracious, loving, beloved. She's teeny, but she's so, so huge.
We enjoy some standard banter. I give her a compliment, and she smiles coyly and says, "Oh, I don't know about that," and I say, "Oh, I know about that!" She smiles again. And I do too. And we leave it at that.
Today she sat to my right, and on her right was "Robert" in his electric wheelchair; and then the second "Robert," a navy vet and retired attorney; and then "Marilyn" and Marilyn's beau, "West"; and then back to me. My sweet friend ordered a chicken salad sandwich with potato chips and coffee with cream, one sugar. I had the bland cup of low-sodium chicken orzo soup and a plain iceberg salad with a few shreds of carrot, ranch dressing on the side.
In a way, it was a people-watcher's paradise — an airport and Disneyland all in one place. It was tough to take notes, however. I didn't want to be rude. Plus, words pretty much escaped me. So I sat, absorbed, engaged. My heart broke; my heart filled. I watched struggles with manipulating forks, too-full water glasses, scattered thoughts, revisited words just spoken.
Much of the conversation was on a continual loop. The first topic was the election. Marilyn and West were Hillary supporters. That was clear. Marilyn was the ringleader, the outspoken one — raising her hand to punctuate her position, sometimes rolling her eyes or shaking her head. She recognized that First Robert, across the table, would cancel out her vote with his Trump. I wasn't clear who Second Robert was endorsing. He talked mostly about missing his wife. My sweet friend Inez, well, she was demure and wasn't sure if her new move meant she was no longer registered to vote. She was troubled by this election. None of it sat right with her.
The most interesting of the group, I have to admit, was Marilyn. She looked like Hollywood. Blonde curls, unbelievably smooth skin, thick Angelina lips, and once-bright blue eyes, perhaps some enhancements up top. But still, so incredibly natural and beautiful. I couldn't take my eyes off of her. I asked her what she did for a living, and she said she had been a schoolteacher in Los Angeles.
Early on in the meal, I had asked West if he and Marilyn were married. I had noticed them stealing some looks, along with toasting empty wine glasses (several times). The only wine glasses on the lunch table. A wide grin spread across his face. "No, she's my girlfriend."
"Ah," I said.
Her eyes agreed.
When I'd first sat down, I had introduced myself and asked Marilyn her name. She replied, "Mac." First Robert looked at me and said in a matter-of-fact tone, "She's not Mac. Her name's Marilyn." Marilyn/Mac rolled her eyes and shrugged her shoulders.
After politics was exhausted as a topic, I got a little of everyone's backstory, including Second Robert's. He and his wife were married fifty years, and she's now been gone eleven. Every time he said that line, he was a notch sadder. But he does have a new lady friend. They go to church together, but they're just friends — nothing romantic. They'd never live together.
Marilyn shrugged, interjecting, "Too bad."
There was a whole lot of quiet. It was too quiet for me. In fact, I felt uncomfortable. Until I didn't.
I scanned the dining hall. These folks seemed fine with it; maybe I should too, I surmised. The quiet was not just devoid of words but actually peaceful. So I eased into it.
Holding her empty wine glass, Marilyn seemed to be summoning the server. I told her I'd get the server's attention. Also, First Robert needed some tending to. The fried egg sandwich he'd ordered overhard was over-over-easy, and now it was all over him. He just waited, though, yellow goo covering his shirt and napkin. He was unruffled, like he was okay either way, yoke or no yoke.
Wine glasses now refilled, West and Marilyn were toasting his red to her white again. In fact, over the next half hour or so, they retoasted/reclinked at least a dozen times, with the same flirtatious grins and nods. At one point, I noticed a piece of food on West's lower lip, and a few moments later, Marilyn touched her napkin to his face, wiping it away.
Until my own memory fades, I will savor today's lessons of unabashed flirting, of easing into unapologetic quiet, accepting a gentle pace, of patience over inevitable broken yokes, and of voices given to respectful opposing political viewpoints, as we sat around a round table and broke bread together, not a bland flavor in the circle.
CHAPTER 4Charades and Blindspots
At Thanksgiving 2016, our family made a pact that no one would talk about the recent Trump-versus-Clinton election. This was a very good idea.
And there was another very good idea. Rather than playing a board game or charades, my nephew Jared wrote some questions on little pieces of paper and put them in a bowl. Someone would extract a scrap and read the question, and then we went around the room, taking turns answering. This turned into one of the best post-turkey activities ever. I think we all learned some pretty valuable things about each other.
One of the questions we answered was, "If you learned you had one year to live, how would you spend that year?" I said I would be very busy, and listed some of my action items:
• Say sorry to anyone I need to.
• Deal with any unfinished business.
• Finish any project left undone.
• Tell people I love them.
Riding my bike a few days later, I thought about the foolishness of waiting until I know I'm going to die before making amends. I didn't have to jog my memory to know the two or three people I needed to call. And so I parked my bike and sat down on a very "conveniently placed" bench. Coincidence? Nah. It's like God pulled out a seat for me and said, "Go ahead."
And so I did. I made the first call, and it felt good. Cleansing. Then I got back on my bike and rode a little longer, feeling a lot lighter, thinking I was done for the day with this brave apology business. Until I realized I wasn't. So I hopped off again.
The Thanksgiving Q&A was the impetus, certainly. But what really got me off my bike was a glaring moment of clarity about one of my blindspots.
What exactly was evident in the window of that moment? Which blindspot became easier to see? I think — no, I'm sure — my ego is more often involved than I've dared to admit when I have relationship troubles. A big slice of my hurts are self-inflicted, borne out of self-protection and self-interest, when I'm attempting to present a false image — a charade.
I recently had a bike rack installed on the back of My MINI Cooper. This colossal rack is so disproportionate to my tiny coupe that it looks as if the weight of it could tip the nose of my car toward the sky. It took a while for me to get used to the rack because it created a second blindspot for me, and I was already a little paranoid about the one the car has, on the back right. After a few weeks of carting around this add-on, I'd moved from anxiety to a more comfortable awareness — an awareness I can work with, live with. Still, with this additional blindspot, I take much greater care when navigating the Los Angeles freeway system.
Now that I have acknowledged my emotional blindspot and made myself accountable regarding my tendency to self-protect, perhaps I will be that much more careful navigating the people I love too.
A charade is defined as "an absurd pretense intended to create a pleasant or respectable appearance." I don't want to play that game anymore. Rather, I'll keep asking myself the important questions and try to be more aware of any cumbersome things I may be carrying.
CHAPTER 5Spoiler
Just recently there was a collective, national reeling over a primetime TV show, NBC's This Is Us. Spoilers abounded.
A terminally ill William and his biological son, Randall, took a road trip from New Jersey to Memphis. This father wanted to show his grown son (whom he had recently become reacquainted with after leaving him at a fire station as an infant) the places of his past. William wanted Randall to know him better. He wanted to return home, make amends, introduce his son to extended family, pay respects.
There is a sweetness to this episode that pierces me. To me, Randall was already a wildly likable character, but for some reason, his "God bless you's" to strangers in Memphis almost felt like an ethereal message.
The show depicts our common humanity, communicating in so many rich ways that It's just us. Here we are. So yeah, good going on that title, NBC. We're hurting — and hurting each other — big time on Planet Earth right now, and we need this message more than ever.
It's been quite the hero's journey, this saga of biological father and son. Early in the season, we watched Randall search for and find William. At first, Randall had anger and mistrust and questions. Questions like why? and how could you? How could you leave me?
I get it.
William offers no excuses, just reasons. Honest, regret-laden reasons. I think that's the better of the two options.
The previous episode had highlighted Randall's lifelong struggle with panic attacks. On this road trip with his biological father, the son vulnerably explains his anxiety. He tells William how his deceased adoptive dad, Jack, used to help Randall cope as a child: Jack would hold Randall's face in his hands and help him breathe. "Breathe with me," he would say. Looking directly into one another's eyes, they would breathe together until the boy's panic had passed.
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "The Little Love That Could"
by .
Copyright © 2019 Pamela Capone.
Excerpted by permission of Aha! Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Table of Contents
Prologue: The Little Love,
Ragamuffin,
Amygdala Airlines,
Table Talk,
Charades and Blindspots,
Spoiler,
Bare My Sole,
The Bio-illogicals,
Water's Falling from the Sky (Thoughts as Another Holiday Season Begins),
Five Minutes and Fifteen Seconds,
On Loan,
Confliction,
Achilles' Heal,
Let Me Call You Sweetheart,
Grasp,
Shiftless,
Black Friday,
Happy Hour,
Crush,
Can I Help You?,
Hallmark,
I Know She Happened,
The One Who Got Away,
Open a Can,
Perfect Moment,
Rebel without a Name Tag,
Bedhead,
The Original Front-Porch Rocker,
South of the Hoarder,
Strangers in the Car Wash,
Sunblock,
Tour-Bus People,
Little Orphan Esther,
Two Demure Girls at the Jazz Club,
Detour,
Juxtaposition,
Aging and Johnny Depp,
At Least It's Not,
Don't Throw Away the Oar,
Trash Day,
Baggage,
Cream of the Crop,
Little Seed into Big Tree,
Pony Rides,
Spaghetti Western,
Storm Trooper in Blue Mascara,
Soar,
#TooBlessedtobeStressed,
Risk vs. Reward,
Come as You Are,
Come-to-Jesus Moment,
Underdoggedness,
Underdoggery: May the Fourth Be with You,
Tenacious Love,
On This Day,
For the Love of Pizza,
Liking,
Aspirations of a Pipsqueak,
It's Who You Know,
Touched,
Little Love to Biggest Love,
Angel's Wink,
Bully for You,
Anonymous,
Little Bunny Cotton Trail,
Acknowledgments,
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