Leftovers

So it was a very familiar scene during 3rd grade P.E. at St. John's Lutheran School. A class of 23 students had to be divided into two teams for kickball. Doug Stahler and Paul Offhaus, team captains, had chosen all the boys first and the last three remaining to be chosen were girls:

Sara Kessler

Beth Leasch

and me – Susie Sheldon

Sara had some athletic ability, but more of a swimmer than expert kickball player. Beth was the Pastor's daughter and was basically exempt from ever being chosen last. And then there was me – round, soft and really offering nothing to a competitive kickball team.

So there I was standing in front of two teams of 11. I was the leftover. Who wanted this leftover girl who would offer no athletic advantage to either team, but rather a wild card or more accurately a detriment? I was the one leftover in this class of 23. This was the one time in life when a girl didn't want to be the last one standing! No glory, no prize and no adoration – just rejection.

I can't remember which team actually ended up settling for me. All I can remember is being leftover.

Then came middle school where I was the new student at Glen Crest Jr. High. I walked into chorus class after instruction had already begun. There weren't enough chairs on the risers so Miss Halsted, my new music teacher with a starched blond beehive, asked a student to squeeze an extra chair on the end of the highest riser. The risers were able to comfortably fit 8 chairs with side desks, but this student had precariously placed a leftover 9th chair on the third row of the risers where I had been instructed to sit with my music binder. There was very little space for me to squeeze between the chair and the attached desk and I noticed that the back leg of the chair was barely hanging onto the riser. I slowly tried to relax, follow along and sing with the class. But as I turned the pages in the folder, my chair began to totter and I, being unwilling to say anything about my potential demise, tried my hardest to keep myself balanced. But to no avail and with no core strength to save me, the leg of this leftover chair slipped off of the high riser and I came toppling down with it – no grace, no poise – legs up in the air in an undignified position, with my face completely red, and my top flung up to my chin. I had become a helpless turtle turned upside down on the back of my shell with an entire class of 7th graders staring at me, shocked and amazed. I, once again, had been become the leftover, as this 9th chair had fallen off the riser made for only 8. There just wasn't enough room for me.

Then, there were also the daily bus rides to high school. My stop was the last on the route and consequently, every seat was already doubled up. I asked kids if they would be willing to skooch over and make room for me. Once again, I felt like the leftover - the odd girl out. I received lots of headshakes from students, as the bus driver glared at me, in his rear view mirror, reminding me that I was holding up the bus, while I remained standing in the aisle. Finally, there would be two kids who would reluctantly make a sliver of a seat for me and I spent the remainder of the bus ride, trying to prevent my lunch, my books, and my body from collapsing face first in the center aisle.

There are more incidences in my life where I have experienced being the leftover or feeling leftover and of course, these episodes have left remnants of pain and embarrassment, but at the same time they have created in me an eye for other leftovers like:

* the girl eating alone because there wasn't enough room at the lunch table or

* the one student who wasn't chosen as a lab partner or

* the boy who is trying to make his way into a conversation, but no one is paying attention or

* even the driver attempting to merge in traffic, but no one is making a way

Now I find myself being more alert and on the lookout to come along side of those leftover.

These leftover episodes in my life have also caused me to dig deep inside myself, move beyond my circumstances, let go of what people think of me – laugh at myself and enjoy my own company, because there will definitely be more opportunities where I will be leftover or feel like a leftover. Now if I am not chosen or not allowed in, I can find joy regardless of how others perceive me and embrace the moment and all it has to offer. So just like Thanksgiving leftovers, being leftover allows you opportunities to marinate in who you are and you become even better with time.