Miss Erma

 December 3, 2021 

I’ve been thinking about Miss Erma.

When I was in college, I went on a mission trip to Mississippi. Mildred McWhorter was a missionary and we rolled down and slept on her floor and made our attempt at doing the Lord’s work. Mildred’s mother was a small woman who sat in an upright chair with a can of AquaNet at her side. At random, she would reach down, pick up this aerosol can, and spray the front of her hair. 

This made Miss Erma happy, and it pleased my besties, Jen and Sarah, to no end. I remember watching Miss Erma and wondering what all she thought about in the day to day.

I know that there was an AquaNet stain on the interior roof of my mother’s car. This is how women groomed in the 70s, and how Miss Erma worked her coif in the mid-90s. It had to have been exhausting: kind of like not having credit cards or rights.

But I applaud Miss Erma for her commitment to the hair. She watched all sorts of business from that chair, but she always had the can in arm’s reach. 

We all do what we have to do.

Chaos Theory

 May 24, 2021

I recognize there is scientific theory grounded in chaos and the resulting patterns that emerge. I don’t pretend to understand said theory—in theory. In practice, however, to God I say: message received.

Three weeks ago, my precious daughter was in an accident. She is okay. She will be okay. But I heard her cries in pain in the aftermath that even now I cannot hush from my mind. The helplessness you feel when your child hurts is the hidden nightmare of parenting. There is no preparation for it, but there is an antidote to despair. What happened on that night and the intervening days was that the grace of the God I’ve known all my life swept in. It wasn’t until I sunk bedside to my knees later that night in grateful prayer that I wept. Then I gathered my mother-self up and rolled on.

We’ve made it through this hot mess, and Saturday my home (which I love just a wee bit less than the kids and the dog) decided to spring a leak and pour water from the kids’ bathroom to the kitchen. Fans and ripped up carpets abound. Silence is a distant memory. Chaos is the constant.

What is confirmed to me, yet again, is that when the universe swirls about with the challenge and the noise and the “what next?”, I find that a peace kicks in that is exactly the stuff I sang songs about at the Baptist Bible school. It’s real.

Thank God.

And that’s all.

The Swad I Knew

 March 12, 2021

It’s taken me a breath to digest Swad’s landing on that shore. Paul Swadley was my pastor, my friend. Those who knew him have their own Swad in their hearts and minds, as he was precious to all. I have no corner on the market where our beloved Swad was concerned. Nonetheless, this is the Swad I knew. 

When the news came that Swad had died on Sunday morning, my first reaction was to be happy for him. Gone was his dementia and the other shackles of this world. After my momentary selflessness, my selfish grief took over. A flood of memories of life with Swad gripped me, and with them, a flood of unstoppable tears. 

I thought of how he stood next to my father as Dad told us Mom was gone. I would eat Jello then, in the hospital, and Swad called me “Miss Jello” for years, making me feel special for something otherwise horrific. I thought of how he was among the first to see each of my newborn children. I saw him officiating at wedding after wedding, including my own; and preaching the funerals of so many I loved. I remembered the Sunday lunches and dips in the Swadley pool as a kid. I remembered how he embraced the youth of the church and how we sat front and center to hear him preach. I remembered the brilliant sermons and the laughter; the faith and the joy. 

The last time I saw him was last December. I was making a video for Dad’s 80th. I woke him and asked if he would say happy birthday to Pops, not sure if he knew who I was. “Happy Birthday, Bill!” He said, without skipping a beat. He knew.

Swad’s service was beautiful and uplifting, gut-wrenching and aimed toward heaven. I was surrounded by people who love God and loved Swad. It felt like home. The joy of Swad’s life and death in that service helped stitch the wounds left behind. I felt myself heal as we sang. And I know I’m not alone.

My children sat between Dad and me, with Nyds to my right. They got to experience the South Haven of my youth, and the Swad of my life. Drew scarcely remembers him, but he knows what he was to us all. Gracie does remember the bit she got to know as a child. 

When we got home, Gracie—who cries little and exhibits sentiment even less (that is no criticism)—stood with me in the kitchen and said this: “I would have been okay, but I can’t bear to hear Papa cry.” I had watched her weep, holding his hand. She went on to say, “I don’t envy much of your childhood, Mom, but I envy what you had at church.” I agreed. It was idyllic, my young life at South Haven, with Swad at the reins. When all else crumbled, it was truly my safe haven. And I mourn for that time in that place as I mourn for Swad. But I thank God my kids had a glimpse on that day, and that the five of us experienced it together.

That was one of Swad’s great gifts: bringing people together.

He made me feel loved unconditionally, and personally. I know I am not alone.

I’m grateful for the Swad I knew. I’m grateful for the church I call home. I’m grateful for a God who is bigger than all grief, and for the promise of, one day, landing on that shore.

The Comfort

 February 26, 2021

I only had two classes today and sweet Hal looked so sad this morning I said, “better to ask forgiveness than permission” and took her along. The kiddos in class loved on her and she relished their company; but she still returned to my feet and laid down as if the nearness of me was a comfort.

The nearness of her is a comfort.

In those moments of such familiarity, I see that kids reframe me as a person. They were happy today, as was I. And they needed a little something.

Lately in class we have been discussing parenting, and life at home, and all the rest. I’ve listened to them, and searched my soul for how I’ve been as a daughter and as a mom.

For some reason, I recalled this, out of nowhere:

When I was in elementary school, my dad went to school on my behalf. See, I had grave insecurities and a unibrow and a bad perm, and I was surrounded by lovely girls who seemed to have the world by the tail. My struggle became evident at home. Dad ventured in to see Mrs. Jarmin, my kind 6th grade teacher who always adjusted her elastic-waist pants awkwardly and who I thought was, frankly, marginal. (In retrospect, she was perfectly wonderful and we got to make marionettes and type on the computer, so what the hell did I know?)

I find faults with the Pops of my childhood for his temper and controlling nature during my formative days. It was—to put it mildly—difficult on the levels of bad Lifetime movies. But I get it (mostly). On that day, in Eugene Field Elementary, he showed up, hat in hand, to try to find out how he could help his little girl. (I didn’t know he had done that at the time: he told me later.) The little progeny he saw at the dinner table and loved more than anything didn’t match up with the tortured 12 year old almost on the ledge.

I will never forget that he searched for the answers.

It’s the caring that is the defining factor. 

And today, when my not-so-little pup accompanied me to class, I saw a relief and joy in the eyes of sweet students who talked to me of the lives they lead; and I thought of mine.

That’s the stuff: dogs and kids and care. Isn’t it?

Chances

 Feb 19, 2021

Years ago, I had guided one of my best and brightest to perform a piece by Whoopi Goldberg. We had the audio version, but nothing printed. It wasn’t legal for our district tournament. I was young and naive. I went so far as to contact Ms. Goldberg’s agent. 

No dice.

We were moments from the tournament. Within a week, we found another script that was beyond reproach. It made me cry, it was so moving. My student mastered it quickly, and qualified to the national tournament.

I remember the guilt I felt at screwing up the original script, how hard we worked to make it work, and how I sweated bullets watching her amazing talent deliver one brilliant result after the next to get her where she always deserved to be.

I tell this story because I see second chances all around. I am the poster child for chances second, third, fourth...

If everything had worked out perfectly with that first script, I think of the lessons I wouldn’t have learned. It was the struggle and the sprint to the finish that makes the memory, 20 years later.

Grateful, sometimes, for the struggle.