On the Ground

September 27, 2017


I spent part of the past couple of days at the funeral events of the father of one of my dearest friends. This man was a legend in his community and in every area of his life. He was truly a giant among men. 

His daughter is a wonder to me. She is the truest of friends and the kindest of people.  She is one of a kind. Just like her dad.

If you are a real friend, the pain of your suffering pal is yours. I would rather take on the hurt of someone I love than watch them suffer. Such is the case in these recent days.

I grew up in the mire of grief and funeral dinners. That's not martyrdom, that's just a fact. None of the difficulty of loss nor the ceremony of it are new to me. But I never cease to be amazed at how the raw evidence of this particular pain takes me aback. People matter. When they leave, there is a void that sometimes seems impossible to fill. 

The Bible tells the story of Job, who was the godliest of men, and from whom everything but his soul is taken. He had three friends who sought to help, but they were out of their depth. Job 2:12-13 says "When they saw him from a distance, they could hardly recognize him; they began to weep aloud, and they tore their robes and sprinkled dust on their heads. Then they sat on the ground with him for seven days and seven nights. No one said a word to him, because they saw how great was his suffering."

That has long been among my favorite Biblical nuggets. Sometimes you just show up. (Granted, friends also urged him to curse God and die, but that is not the good part of the story, folks.)

I think of all the people who have been there for me in my many moments of need. And I selfishly think about being the kind of person who warrants that kind of care. But I also think about being the kind of person who gives it. 

Loss ironically requires so much from those left behind. I am grateful for friends who I know would wait silently for me and have.  

I want to be the person on the ground. We all need support like that. From the ground up.

Home

September 10, 2017

I grew up in the Baptist church. And I mean that. Grew up there. If the doors were open, we were there.  It was my safe haven. I felt loved unconditionally. It was my home. Ironically, it’s called South Haven. I’ve loved it my whole life with my whole heart.

I credit the good people of South Haven with raising me in part, with saving my life (eternally and otherwise), with the best parts of me.  I was 6 when I declared publicly my belief in and love for Jesus. At that same altar I’ve witnessed the funerals of my mother, grandfather, grandmother, and too many fellow, beloved Baptists. I was married there, and so were my parents. My children came to know Christ there. I have laughed, wept, performed, lived there.

And I’ve been forgiven there.  That’s no small feat.  Nance has her flaws.  They are many.  And when I faced that sanctuary again in the wake of many mistakes and at the end of said marriage, I wasn’t sure if the love of South Haven would be as unconditional as I’d always believed.  But it was. It is.

Today I returned after a couple months away.  Between traveling baseball and other distractions, I had been absent from the church house for the longest time in my entire life.  All I felt back inside the walls of this home was love. My people are still my people.  They were happy to see me, and I them. Happy is an understatement. There is really nothing like how it felt to be home.

Christians get a bad rap these days, and sometimes rightfully so.  I struggle with some of the doctrine, some of the cognitive dissonance between love and, well, a seeming lack thereof.  I’m a Baptist Democrat, for heaven’s sake. We aren’t a dime a dozen! But what I felt today back in that pew and in the halls I’ve walked for four decades was the purest, kindest love. No degree of political disagreements, sinful interference (mine!), lack of understanding can take that away. It is real, and it is the foundation of the choice I made these many years ago to believe in a Jesus I’ve never seen. But I felt Him then and I feel Him now.

On this Sunday, when a hurricane rages and so many differences and difficulties challenge us one and all, I want to thank the dear lifelong friends who made me feel like the belle of the ball when I came home today. I’m reminded of my favorite verse in all the Bible. It is from the Book of Ruth, chapter 1, verse 16:  “And Ruth said, Intreat me not to leave thee, or to return from following after thee: for whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge: thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God.”

Thank you, my people.

Home for a Day

September 2, 2017

I found myself today with a day unscripted:  no agenda, no place to be, no to-do list.  It is a rare day. 

There is something to be said for the unpainted canvas, the uncharted territory, the day yet unspent. As my day meandered from a lazy morning in bed with two slightly clingy pups to a spirited walk with a dear friend to a run on the trail to a book in the sun to music in the kitchen and some laundry and cleaning in between, I found myself so happy that at one moment tears sprang to my eyes. Being happy like this is a gift I never thought possible.

A few weeks ago I ended up in the hospital with a kidney infection that had turned septic.  In the words of the urgent care doctor who was explaining why I would be admitted, “you are sicker than you feel.” Well, I felt awful, but I just wanted to go home.  As I begged to do just that, the doc explained that it would just get worse and possibly become lethal. That’s when I shut the hell up and got in the ambulance. Hours later with drugs and fluids, I was a new woman. And grateful. Deeply, deeply grateful. But I was still desperate for home.

I returned home the next day to a rainy, fallish early August day.  I opened every window and reveled in my health and my freedom.  I savored the feeling of home. 

There is not a day that passes here in Freedom House when I don’t pinch myself at my great fortune. As I’ve watched the horror unfold in Texas this week, my gratitude for dry land, for my home and my babies who aren’t babies, for the absence of strife, for life, has overwhelmed me.  And as I’ve met new students the past two weeks in my various teaching locales, I’ve been Lifetime-Original-movie-aha-moment-overwhelmed at how lucky I am I get to meet them.

I am well aware that the other shoe can drop at any moment.  Everything can go up in flames or under water or to hell with one phone call, one bad decision, one blink.  But not today. Not while I’m watching the sun set from the porch swing.  Not on this unscripted day at home. This rare, lovely, unseptic, sunburned day. Amen.

Halpert can read. She is very advanced.

The Cry

August 20, 2017

The movie "Jackie" chronicles said First Lady in the worst moments of her life. I saw this movie months ago when it first was released. Gracie and I watched it together. She thought it was slow. I agreed, but I was moved by it in ways I couldn't describe at the time.

I've been in a bit of a mood of late, and have rewatched the movie via the miracle of Amazon. It is this scene that took me off my feet upon first viewing. And it has done the same this time around.

No one knows how this wife and mother really reacted after her husband was assassinated next to her. But Natalie Portman certainly does a masterful job of conveying what I believe to have been that reality.

When I was I child, I cried too much in private. I'm certain it wasn't healthy or at all okay. But in my world, if I didn't share my trouble, somehow, it was all mine. I was in charge of it. And it was thus easier to bear. At least that's how I make sense of it decades later.

I don't pretend to be an artist or a arbiter thereof, but when I saw this scene, something guttural struck within me. I'm not Natalie Portman. I'm not the slain president's grieving widow. But hurt is universal. Strangely enough, there is comfort there. At least there is for me.

Thumbtack Proof

July 30, 2017

Sometimes a euphoric feeling washes over me and it takes my breath away. It just did. On my porch swing on this beautiful Sunday. Thus this little ditty.

It's happiness.

I'm so happy that I am scared something will come along and wreck it all. Because it has. It will. That's the nature of the beast. For now, I hold tightly to this chapter of life that doesn't hurt. Bits and pieces will always hurt, but it doesn't hurt through and through. It's wonderful, through and through. I can't believe it's real.

When I was a child I would use a thumbtack to make holes in the wall next to my bed at night. I don't know why I did it. But it was satisfying in some weird way. It gave me control, I think, when I felt I had none. I shared a room with my brother until our mother died. I was four. The wallpaper was colorful. I dug crevices into it as I listened to the "Dallas" theme song from the television in the living room.

When we moved in with her parents, there was no wall just next to the bed. Instead, Nanny left the closet light on and I would memorize the different brands of shoes in boxes in that closet. She had quite a lot of Selby pumps, as I recall. And each night Nanny would climb into bed beside me and kiss me good night with Mentholatum smeared above her upper lip. I would often take a hefty dose. I didn't care. Getting to room with my Nanny was worth every mouthful of Mentholatum I unwittingly consumed.

But after Nanny and I were no longer roomies, my twin bed again rested against a wall. Again, I would carve away into that wall. It helped me, somehow. You see, when my hands weren't busy, my mind would race. And I wondered what happiness felt like. I would hold my breath and pray that I would go to sleep and wake up in a different life. One where I was happy.

It wasn't anyone's fault. I was a mess. And disclaimer: I'm well aware that I had it pretty great. Even with a dead mother and a bad haircut, life could be considered pretty wonderfully rosy by all sorts of first, second and third world standards. I'm very aware. But I digress...

It's decades later. I don't have a heartbroken grandmother who bathes me in her own brand of affection each day, snoring loudly to my left. I haven't a wall carved by my confused childhood pain. Rather, I've somehow carved out a life that doesn't make me hold my breath until I gasp desperately and pray to wake up in another one.

It's become clear to me of late that a key component of my own happiness is that I am in its charge. The bane of my existence as a child was feeling controlled and lacking any sort of choice over the course of my day, my life. As I look back now with the razor sharp vision of hindsight, I see that every deep hurdle I have fought as an adult has borne that weight: being trapped. Feeling trapped. I cannot bear it. It is my Achilles heel.

As a parent, I have tried to follow the wisdom of a dear friend of mine, who advised to say yes to your children as much as possible. I see now, as I hold on so tightly to this happiness for which I've always longed, that I have tried as best I can and could to give my children control. Choices. I hope they feel it. Power is every bit as influential as powerlessness. I wish my babes to have the former.

I don't hold my breath anymore, praying for happiness. Instead, it is happiness that takes away my breath.

I hold on tight. I am so grateful that I have the chance to see life through this lovely, powerful lens, with deep breaths. Every day. Sometimes a euphoric feeling washes over me and it takes my breath away. It just did.

Of Pickles, Patios and Housewives

June 21, 2017

I like pickles. Jars of them. At a time.

My aunt's homemade pickles are the stuff of my dreams. I hoard them like a miser, then eat a jar at once, standing blissfully over the sink.

I will take a jar of dill pickles, add an obscene amount of Splenda, marinate them, and then devour them. A bowl of olives is an extravagance that I will pound like tater chips. I love to sear my mouth with pepperoncinis or roast it completely with jalapeños.

Even pickled okra makes an occasional appearance on my weird buffet of condiments. Banana peppers, bread and butter pickles, sweet gherkins...my mania knows no bounds.

I'm also freakishly addicted to the outdoors. I'm not too handy with a tent, a campfire, or a steep hill, but I will mow, weed, dig, run, walk, toil as nauseum in 100% humidity and 100 degree temps. I really just want to live outside. Except when I want my hair to look legit. Then I would appreciate some electricity and a dehumidifier, thank you very much.

I also am strangely addicted to Bravo. That's the cable channel that showcases the Real Housewives of _________.  I can't help it. I cannot avert my eyes. It's the train wreck of reality tv and it begs my attention. (I want on record that I still READ, too. All brain cells are not lost. Just a few. But I still have me some literacy!)

Tonight I find myself with a rare moment of solitude. Three of my favorite vices have joined up in perfect concert: I'm watching Bravo, from the patio, eating pickled items with abandon. I know, I know. You're jealous. It's almost too much to bear, my friends.

It's the little things.

But the crazy thing is that this isn't little. I can watch ridiculous reality tv from outside my house, eat pickles by the pound, and apologize to no one. All I felt compelled to do was put it in writing. That's a big deal to a girl for whom such freedom once seemed truly ridiculous.

It all seems so silly now.

Some things, I discover, are worthy of note. Especially pickled, real, and from the porch.

Tiff

April 1, 2017

I was fifteen when I met her. In the choir room at Glendale High School our sophomore year, I quickly discovered that Tiff was a gorgeous, kind, long and lean force of bubbly energy and talent. Our friendship was instantaneous. She taught me to PRESS, which is a word and action in response to anything icky, uncomfortable, stressful. For example, her death makes me press. She would completely understand.

It was a Monday morning when I opened the front door to my Nydia, who told me Tiffany was dead. In the midst of the horror of this, her sweet husband didn't want me to find out another way.

I nearly collapsed under the weight of Tiffany's death. But I owed her more than that. I owe her more than that. She had buoyed me up so many times, I couldn't allow her death to sink me. That would have disappointed her.

Our dads were friends, and both named Bill. I called her parents "Father Bill" and "Mother Kay." She called my Pops "Father Rowe." I marveled at the joy in her home and her family life. Her folks were remarkable and she was the happiest person I knew who was real.

When she left for Baylor, I wept and she stood on her front steps giggling and waving excitedly. Were it any other, I might have been offended that she wasn't a tad sad to leave me and home. But it was Tiff.

We married two weeks apart and were in each other's weddings. She was the first friend to come into the delivery room after Gracie was born. I can still see her smile then. And I can still hear the love in her voice when Reagan was born, and when Will miraculously arrived. She loved them with all her bits and pieces and her whole heart.

I don't understand why chronic pain had to land on my exuberant friend. But it did. And as the years passed, layers of the onion peeled away and I realized how immensely talented this sweet girl was at hiding struggle. When she finally let me really see her, I loved her even more.

Her life became more and more confined as she fought neuropathy and back pain that I can't imagine. But when we talked, her focus was always outward. She was an incredible listener and an insightful respondent. She cared genuinely. And her laugh...

Tiffany was exceptional. She fought, she won  and lost, she cared, she hurt, she soldiered on. I will miss her greeting me with "My Nance!" I will miss her unconditional friendship. I will miss her. Forever.

But I will try to live a life that would make her laugh. That wouldn't disappoint. That wouldn't make her press.

I owe her that.