Aretha + God = Preach!

September 24, 2015

I’m listening to Aretha Franklin sing “God Will Take Care of You.”  It is a gem of a song on a gem of an album, the 1972 “Amazing Grace,” which was Aretha’s biggest selling album and the best-selling gospel album of all time.  The song gets to me because I love Aretha, I love God, and I love choral gospel music.  Good choral gospel music.  It stirs up the old-school Baptist in me.  I grew up musically feasting on the likes of Bob and Connie Bilyeu, whose relationship with music was, in my estimation, wholly Biblical:  only God could invest that much talent in one family and allow me to grow up in their midst.  My dad will testify without hesitation that the last song he ever wants to hear is “Hide Thou Me” sung by his dear friend Bob Bilyeu.  Who knows, perhaps Bob & Connie can provide Dad with daily concerts (hopefully long from now) on the other side.  

This particular song, “God Will Take Care of You," testifies that it IS true:  God will take care of me.  Hey, Aretha said so!

Honestly, the lift and the unity of voices and the message all combine to remind me that the good Lord has my back, even when I am least deserving.  It is the scrutiny, judgment, and lack of understanding among His believers that sometimes make me scratch my head and grip my heart, wondering if all those scriptures about love and forgiveness and mercy and grace escape my fellow brethren.  The crazy thing is that I’ve been a Christian since I was 7 years old, but it took me until year 41 to feel that “peace that passes understanding:”  see, I finally decided to take God at his Word.  He loves me.  I’m a big screw up in a lot of ways, and I still feel his watchful eye and his unmerited favor.  (I’m also a firm believer that God has a remarkable sense of humor.  That has nothing to do with the “take care of me” business…wait…yes, actually, it does…)

On the flipside, there are Christians and non-Christians aplenty in my life who have shown me the care and love I think Christ intended when he stated in John 13:34-35: “Love one another. As I have loved you, so you must love one another. By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you love one another."

There is no asterisk in this command: no *if you do ________; *if you are ________.  It’s also terribly interesting to me that our capacity to love one another is the mark by which we may be recognized as followers of Christ.  Hmmmm…

So I’m having a little moment on this Thursday afternoon.  A dose of Aretha does the heart good, right alongside a reminder of the power of faith. If you really know me (and chances are, you know me on some level if you are reading this little nugget), you know how deeply flawed my hyper-critical, cuss-too-much, sin-too-much, often troubled soul can be.  That’s why, my friends, it’s a good thing it’s not all up to me or to my fellow man.  For that, my dear God, I give thanks eternal.

In case you want to hear the Queen sing, here you go:  https://youtu.be/SDroNc1-RzE.  It gets a tad tedious for me toward the end, but the core of it is without comparison.

Thank you, Johnny Cash

"It's good to know who hates you, and it's good to be hated by the right people."  --Johnny Cash


I have spent most of my life trying to please everyone.

I'm over it.

A Smattering of Wisdoms from a Fave: Words from Zora Neale Hurston

September 21, 2015

To me, the brilliance of exceptional writing is in the author's ability to capture a common experience and translate it with uncommon beauty and precision. Such is the work of one of my literary idols, Zora Neale Hurston. She was a renegade author who lit up the Harlem Renaissance.  Her plight was certainly on a scale more important, larger and deeper than mine; but her words ring true. I know I’m not the only one.  Food for thought, friends…here you go:


“If you are silent about your pain, they’ll kill you and say you enjoyed it.”

“I made up my mind to keep my feelings to myself since they did not seem to matter to anyone else but me.”

“She had an inside and an outside now and suddenly she knew how not to mix them.” 

“She stood there until something fell off the shelf inside her.”

“...she starched and ironed her face, forming it into just what people wanted to see…” 

“She had waited all her life for something, and it had killed her when it found her.” 

“I have known the joy and pain of friendship. I have served and been served. I have made some good enemies for which I am not a bit sorry. I have loved unselfishly, and I have fondled hatred with the red-hot tongs of Hell. That's living.” 

The Path Forward

 September 21, 2015

"Run when you can, walk if you have to, crawl if you must; just never give up."

--Dean Karnazes, American Ultramarathon Runner

It's a perfect day here in SWMO: humidity is zilch, the sky is pristine blue, I am afforded a gap of time midday for which I am eternally grateful, and my legs are in working order.

Today I journeyed 8 miles on my favorite stretch of running trail here in my hometown: from Sequiota Park to the James River and beyond and back again. It was just what I needed. Always is.

My head is never clearer than when my legs are moving, my tunes on. God and I talk some, I problem-solve as much as I can, I dream the dreams swirling around out there for my sweet babes and me.

I stopped for a moment on this bridge over the James. I could have stayed much longer, but the path forward called to me. I didn't want to stop my trajectory up and forward. I'm finding that's a theme these days.

"But they that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run, and not be weary; and they shall walk, and not faint."  Isaiah 40:31

Happy Birthday, Mom

September 14, 2015

My mother would be 72 today, had she made it past 35. I've written plenty about her death. I've thought plenty about it, hurt plenty because of it, grieved all my life in the aftermath of it, and eventually I've grown stronger because I finally understand it. Unfortunately like most people who take their own lives, Mom's life is defined by her death. But today, I think remembering her life seems the best birthday gift I can send her way.

Trouble is, I don't know much about her. I was four when she died, and most of the adults in my life were either so stricken by her departure or angered by it--or worried that talking about her would somehow make things worse (huh?)--that she was just a shadow. Undefined and blurry but dimming the light of the life she left behind, it's been hard to figure out who she was.

Her name was Grace Ann.  

I'm told my eyes are her eyes, large and brown. Perhaps they haunted Dad the most, especially in those first years without her. Other than that, my brother is a replica of her older brother, John. It's also my understanding that we might have shared a solid sense of humor, a good laugh, a horrible temper and the frightening possibility that we might swing from one to the next without warning. 

She was a seamstress with God-given talent; and apparently was gifted at whipping the manes of women into complacency and solid 1960s and 70s heights. A beautician by trade, she also worked for the railroad Frisco for a time. 

She made the dress she married Dad in, and her veil caught fire at the reception. By a miracle, her whole head didn't ignite from what was most assuredly a can of Aqua Net that had surrendered its contents to her hairdo on that joyful day.

Dad gave me her wedding ring when I turned 21.  I wear it nearly every day.  Interestingly enough, it fits me perfectly.

Of all the things I don't know, I have been promised again and again that she loved us, even though she left us. And I look at my Grace and Drew and my brother's daughter and think how much she would have loved them. She is part of them...little bits and pieces of them are evidence that she did, in fact, live. They are her legacy.

See, it's not all about her death after all.

So happy birthday, Mom. I know it's better on the other side.  It has to be.  You're there.

The wedding day. Before the candle and the veil met.

Mom's last summer. That's her just to the right of little ol' squinty me.

This Day

September 11, 2015

This morning I found myself explaining September 11 to my Drew. He is 10.

He had vague notions of this horrible day, but as we prepared for school, we watched the day's events unfold in real time on MSNBC. We tuned in just after the first plane hit, and Drew watched as the second plane flew into the neighboring Tower. We had to leave for school, but I relayed the rest to him in pieces.

I have guided students through analyses of terrorism and the governmental and subsequent military actions in its wake. I watched--as did the nation--as this day happened. But answering Drew's simple questions, "what are terrorists? Why would they DO that? Where were they from? Did we find them?" made my heart and head choose my words carefully. But I answered every question. And when I told him a SEAL team had finally found Bin Laden and killed him, he said, "good."

His 10-year-old eyes never left the screen, just as ours didn't 14 years ago. It is as inconceivable now as it was then.

My last year of teaching was the first year I had students with no memory of 9/11. Grace was two months old at the time, and I remember looking at her and knowing American life would never be the same, and she would never know the country of my childhood.

I know the enormity of today resonates with us all in different ways and at variously levels of pain and understanding. I didn't lose anyone on that day; and for those who did, 9/11 is a mass of pain far out of the depth our collective grief.

Here is the thing: the conflict and acrimony and hopelessness that feel palpable in politics and in any difference of opinion these days are heartbreaking. On this day, be it ever so briefly, maybe it lifts. Maybe we can rise above all that divides us while we grieve, even for a day.

The Deep End of the Pool

September 9, 2015

When I was 13, my eldest cousin Tricia (13 years my senior) gave birth to twin girls. I was the youngest in a line of seven cousins, and Allison and Aubrey became my new favorite human beings on the planet. 

The girls lived in Kansas, so my access was limited and my proximity prohibitive. I still got to spend time with these little cuties--even full weeks some summers.

These beauties are now 28. We reunited tonight over sushi and juicy conversation. I am reminded that the genetic pool from which I swim is all right after all.

Here's to trouble growing up, broken homes, long limbs and big grins...and the realization at 28 or 41 or any year hither or yon that fighting for happiness is something we can do and we should do; and it's something my Mom (their great aunt), Aunt Pat (their grandmother) and our Nanny have to be up in heaven NOT disagreeing over. Wonders never cease.

Swerve-Worthy

On the first day of school, my 3 and I celebrated the fact that we were NOT there with a midday run to Sonic, among other shenanigans. Douglas and I shared a moment here between deep-fried car-hopped goodness before he headed to UC Santa Barbara. We all agree a road trip to CA will assuage the void in SWMO. A chunk of our hearts is now most assuredly on the west coast.

Hannah noted that having Nance in the back seat was a novelty, along with the fact that we aren't in my Buick or on a god-forsaken school bus.

Her comment took me back to one of our last treks together: we were headed back to Springtown from a tourney in St. Louis in the middle of the night. The rest

Of the squad was on a bus and I was driving this crew and a few others who were competing late in the day. Doug was in the back. That's important to remember.

It's also important to note that Doug has long characterized himself as a white man trapped in a black man's body. Doug's mama is white, his dad is African-American, and Doug wears a lot of pastels. He is his own man. Or whatever.

Anyhoo, on this particular night I was sleep deprived and punchy and the car load of geniuses was making me laugh. I was not concentrating as I should have been, and apparently the Buick was not staying between the lines.

We were pulled over.

The officer was kind, and I explained my plight, surrounded by these fresh faced adolescents in suits. He didn't ask for my license, he just took a long look at my crew and encouraged me to pay less attention to them and more to the white lines between which my Enclave should steer. I assured him I would do just that.

As we re-entered the highway, I was accused of flirting my way out of a ticket. With a sizable eye roll I guaranteed my accusers that my chest--which resembles that of a ten year old boy--played no role in my escape from the citation. It was then, as a mystified hush fell after our brush with the law, that the always observant Chase offered this:

"I think it's strange that he didn't say anything about the black kid sitting in the back." 

You may not find that funny. You may even find it racist. You may question my professional behavior by making disparaging comments about my own physique or driving erratically with a bunch of students in the car. But at 1am, we all thought the black kid in the back seat flying under the radar was hysterical.

And that's the thing. We were there. And to us, it will always be swerve-worthy funny.

To my Chase, my Hannah, and my Doug: it may be awhile before we get the band back together. But when we do, supper's on me.

A Rocky Friday

September 4, 2015

I came home today with an hour-long window to tune in to the latest skanky, self-absorbed "reality" that Bravo can offer, only to find my favorite network--gay or otherwise--had been hijacked by the Rocky franchise. I was unaware until today that watching Sylvester Stallone train and lose and train and win and train and bleed and run A LOT in gray sweats and yell "Adrienne!" would appeal to the 18-49 year old female demographic. Wonders never cease.

Nonetheless, I found myself (ha! IN the demographic. Way to go, Bravo!) sucked in to the original Rocky, back when he was pounding the meat (stop it, you dirty-minded readers! He was literally boxing the carcasses of cows in the meat locker...yum) and hoping to conquer the boxing world and wooing his girl with whom he would not engage in any sort of tomfoolery whilst training for glory.

Anyhoo, I note this Rocky afternoon for two reasons:

1) When Drew was 2 months old we stood atop the steps Rocky passionately climbed in search of his boxing dream. Together Drew and my ten 2005 national qualifiers and I reenacted the seminal moment of the film, when the entire city of Philly followed Rocky on his cardio journey...except we didn't run and Drew was strapped to my chest in one of those Scandinavian harnesses and there was no inspirational music in the background. But I felt the big moment. And honestly, it WAS a big moment: I was standing with some of the smartest and most talented kids on the planet and I was 2-months postpartum with the sweetest little boy content to be dragged along wherever and whenever. It was one of my favorite moments as a debate coach and as a mom. Remarkably, the two roles often intersected, overlapped, fed and deprived each other. It was what it was. And it was a gift.

2) There is a moment when a worn-out Rocky comes home to his Adrienne. He has a piece of meat from training (ala the meat locker) and Adrienne takes it to the kitchen to prepare when Rocky refuses her affections in deference to his prep for Apollo Creed. Realizing he has hurt her by rejecting her tame advances, he walks to the kitchen. All we see is him standing in the doorway as she walks to him, looks up at him, and melts into his chest and arms. That's it.

It's a teeny moment in a big film, but it is among the most romantic and precious I've seen on the screen. Rocky isn't the brightest bulb, but he knew to go to the kitchen. Adrienne is not the most forthright or needy, but she needs him. She needs him, he needs her. It is beautiful when the needs are there...and when they are met.

I assume the "meat got made" (Adrienne's words, not mine) after all the tenderness and hugging. I do love that movies can omit the minutiae of life but that I apparently cannot.

Hours later, I'm finding that Bravo has fully committed to the Rocky franchise. Mr. T is in the house!

Time for Netflix.

But before I click away: Rocky-- thanks for an unexpected Friday afternoon that made my heart beat a little harder. That's the goal. Every day.

My guy and a squinty me up on Rocky's perch.

My crew at Philly Nationals. They still occupy a hunk of my heart. Always will.

The Bees

September 1, 2015

Okay.

As I write this sympathy-seeking post, the venom of four demonic bees is coursing through my veins. The last time I was stung by a bee my mother was alive: I was four, standing by our front tree when a little one nailed the back of my innocent leg.

Today, it was a full-out assault.

In my efforts to make the landscaping behind our house less heinous, I was weeding a bed of, well, weeds. I had the presence of mind to wear a pair of leggings (c. 1997) to protect my gams from flying rock, and I was going medieval on the expanse of green crap that grows with gusto. My headphones in, I was in a zen-like manual labor mode when I felt what I first thought was a sharp rock slam into my left ass cheek. When the pain worsened and didn't stop, I realized that it was no pebble. Another sting on my right thigh then my left and things began to feel Biblical. 

If you know me, you can imagine what kind of batshit crazy screaming, hopping fit ensued. As I danced like a mental patient on meth and threw down the weed eater and hollered bloody hell, I saw another one attacking my left ankle. It was one last swat and a Herculean jump off that top weed bed to the ground below and a sprint far from the scene of the crime before the noises of abject terror stopped. I stood yards away and saw the swarm of little bastards apparently partying at the defeat of the tall tan girl.

Did my singing offend them? Nah. Surely it was the spinning cord of the vicious weed eater upsetting their little kingdom. 

I have nothing against bees. I watched the movie. Jerry Seinfeld's characterization alone convinced me that we couldn't make it without them. Today, though, while my two sizable legs pulsate with the prickly pain that only they can inflict, I'm having a tough time forgiving nature's little blessings.

RIP Fab Four. I hope it was worth it ;).