Letting Go

I was so thirsty when I pulled into the drive through at Zaxyby's for my usual large unsweet tea with one packet of sweet-n-low the other day.  I couldn't wait for that first sip as I sat in line behind a little blue Honda, wondering what the heck they ordered that could take so long to prepare.  I knew that as soon as that drink was in my hand, I was going to stab the straw in the top and take a big long gulp.  I wasn't even going to wait until I had stirred in the questionable chemical substitute for sugar.  I was just that thirsty.

Miles later as I drove down the road with my tea in my hand, I realized my fingers were freezing. "Why haven't I put this down?" I asked myself.  Then I looked down at the drink holders between the two front seats and realized there was no place for the drink that was in my hand because there was an empty cup and a half-finished can of Coke in the cup holders.  I took the empty cup and tossed it in the floor to make room for my fresh cup of ice-cold tea.  Once in a while I would reach down and pick up my refreshing drink to take a sip, never once worrying about whether or not it would still be there when my hand groped blindly for it.  I knew every time that it would be right where I left it.

Here I go being all metaphorical again...

That drink taught me a whole new way of looking at this "letting go" concept.  It was that sometimes we hang onto things for far too long because we have other things we haven't completely put in their place yet.

I was finished with that empty cup and that half-gone can of Coke, but I hadn't thrown them away.  They were no good to me anymore, but they were taking up valuable space.  They were in a spot that I needed to be able to use for something else, and because they weren't properly put away, the remains of drinks past were forcing me to hold onto something that was uncomfortable for me.

Life really is a huge lesson in learning to let go of things: People, situations, outcomes, emotions, hurts even love at times.  If you look up "letting go" quotes on Google, you'll get a million of them and they all make perfect sense, but when it comes to actually DOING the letting go, well, that's a lot harder than making up a pithy quote.  The thing is, we do let go of things to a certain extent, but many times we leave them sitting unresolved for far too long.  We create a back-log of hurts and failures and disappointments that leaves us little room to properly handle the new stuff that gets handed to us.

It is hard to let go of something we want.  I suppose that's why we often just set it aside for a while, choosing instead to believe that when we are ready, we can come back for it and it will still be there.  The problem is, once you set something aside for long enough, it becomes useless to you.  Everything life gives us has a place; either we keep it and cherish it, or we learn from it and put it away where it belongs.  In times when we find ourselves with a new handful of worries that we need to set down, that back-log of old stuff tends to get in the way and we are forced to either deal with the old, or hang onto the new, even if it hurts.

I'm kind of in that place now.  I'm finding that I have a pile up of old "stuff" that I haven't properly put away yet.  Those old wounds that have left me with a half-filled cup of self-doubt, fear and pain are keeping me from being able to see things objectively.  They have been forcing me to hang on to something uncomfortable for far too long and I'm finally seeing the need to let those things go for good.  I need to find a way to set this new load down, but I need to keep it within reach, at least for a while.  I'm just not ready to put it away yet, I haven't figured out yet where it needs to go or what I need to learn from it.

What I do know though, is that I have to make room for it.  I have to confront those old left-over things that are preventing me from properly putting my current things in their places.

I suppose before you can let something go, you have to acknowledge that you're still hanging onto it. If things are tucked away out of sight, if we refuse to look at them and recognize them for what they are, we can't very well go through them and rid ourselves of the things that are no longer useful to us. We become emotional hoarders; afraid to let go of useless burdens that serve no other purpose than keeping us buried beneath their pile of clutter.  Our hearts and minds become a jumble of fear and uncertainty because we get so overwhelmed.  We can't sort anything out because we don't know where to begin.

But I think I have found my starting point now.  I know I need to start with all the things I have kept packed away in my heart for too long.  I need to let those things go first, then I'll have the space I need to set things down and look at them from a new perspective.  Only then will I be able to figure out what to do with this new stuff life has given me.

My Mother Issues

She sat on the end of the sofa nearest to the kitchen and I sat huddled under a blanket on the floor, right in front of the TV.  Every evening we watched Family Feud, Wheel of Fortune, and then some sit-com or other while she announced before each show that as soon as it was dark outside, we were going to bed.  It was only 6;00 pm. when this would start.  

At first I would protest it, "No! That't too early! I want to watch Dallas!"

"You don't need to be watchin' that trash. We goin' to bed soon as it's dark."

Usually we ended up watching Dallas.

But sometimes my mother's eyes would gloss over as she talked about bed time.  Her voice would grow cold and distant, the distinct little lifts and cracks of her cadence giving way to a more monotone sound as she peered up at the gun rack above my daddy's favorite chair.  

"I'm gon' go blind like my daddy did." She'd say.  "He had this ol' sugar too (Diabetes) an' it left him blind. I'm skeerd o' bein' blind." She'd say.  Then she would sit and ruminate about all the things in her life that hadn't gone well. 

Eventually she would drag my disappointments into the mix, about how this boy or that boy rejected me, about how we were too poor to get me braces and all the kids made fun of my teeth, about how I couldn't wear the stylish clothes or join the coolest clubs, etc. Things that mattered little to me in the grand scheme, but to my mother they sounded of utmost importance.

I would listen, wrapped tight in my blankets with the TV blaring at my ear, as my mother traversed into the tunnel of negative thinking.  I would watch it swirl around her and suck her in, little by little, until she would say, "I think the best thing to do is to wait until you're asleep and I'll take Daddy's gun and shoot us both." or "maybe I should just use the butcher knife and stab us both to death before Daddy gets home."

I would look at her, doe-eyed and unsure of how serious she was, before I turned around and started watching TV again.  I guess ignoring her felt safer than reacting to her insanity.

But that didn't mean that later, lying in the bed, I didn't remember her words.  Indeed, I remembered them and lay away many a night waiting for my dad to get home from working overtime on his second shift job at the factory. I listened for her footsteps, watched for her reflection in the glass of the book case outside the door of my room.  Watched her stare at me through its reflection, trying to discern without moving, whether she had a gun or  a knife in her hand as she watched me "sleep."  Many nights I fought sleep until I heard the front door open at 2 a.m. and heard my dad taking off his boots in the living room.  Once I knew he was home, I knew it was safe to sleep and sleep found me quickly.

As time went on and Dad worked later and later at night and the strange conversations happened more and more.  The threats of murder-suicide became an almost nightly theme, with my mother thinking up new and more creative ways to end me, then end herself before Dad made it home from work.  She must have thought it more merciful to kill me in my sleep, for she never acted out violently towards me when we were awake.  I never was sure though, whether she would try to kill me in my sleep.

Without having ever read a book on battered women or going to a seminar on how to escape a dangerous home situation, I, at 17 created an exit plan.  I packed a bag of clothes and put it int he back of my car.  I kept the passenger door locked, the driver door unlocked.  I kept my keys and purse right by my bedroom door (which was near the door that went straight out to the carport) and practiced my escape in my mind over and over again.  I set booby  traps in my room to wake me up should she come sneaking in in the dark with a knife or gun.  I hid a knife under my own pillow and assured myself I could fight her off and get out the door quickly enough to get away from her if I had to.

Thank goodness I never had to.

My mother never made these threats to my sisters.  I was the youngest, the only one left at home after they all married and moved away.  Then my dad took a second shift job and Mom was left lonely without his attention.  She didn't have other daughters around to fight with, argue with or say "NO" to every time they asked to go somewhere. It was just the two of us, and I always felt as if she wished I weren't there. However, if I ever asked to go to a church youth function the answer was always "NO!" Then the nightly haunting session of murder threats would commence.

One time at the lake I was playing in the sand while Daddy was out fishing in the boat. Mama was piddling around the campsite as usual.  She came down to the waterside where I sat at about 11 years old, sprawled out on the sandy beach in my swimsuit and a sand bucket, singing to myself as I built a castle..  "You know, if it waddunt fer you, your daddy'd pay me more attention. Sometimes I wish I hadn't ever had you."

I kept playing in the sand as if I didn't hear her.  As if her words didn't cut right through me and make me feel so unnecessary, unimportant, unwanted.  No, I didn't pay attention outwardly, but inside, as I built my castles I smiled, I imagined living in one..  I wondered if I was really ever meant to be, and if I was, why was I so unwanted by the very people who should love me?

"When me and your daddy divorce, who do you want to live with?"  I was expected to answer this question one morning when I was about 6 and I wasn't even sure what divorce was.

"When I'm dead, what stuff of mine do you want? Let's make a list" She'd say out of the blue.  This was years and years before her death.  She would name off her things and say who she was leaving this or that to, but she wanted me to choose what I wanted.  I never could think of anything I wanted.  I wanted a mom that loved me.  That's what I wanted.

I never told anyone about the things my mother said to me on those quiet, creepy evenings at home without Dad or witnesses.  I figured they'd never believe me anyway so why bother.  Or I thought they'd just roll their eyes and say, "That's just Mama. That's how she is." So I lived with my very real fear until I was old enough to marry and move away.

The first few years of my marriage I would startle awake in a cold sweat at night thinking I heard my mother's voice in our room.  My poor first husband had no clue about the threats I endured in that house with her all those years, but he was gracious and loving and always put his arms around me and reminded me that I was safe.  In time the nightmares faded, my mother aged, and the ravages of diabetes and dementia took over her mind in place of her personality disorders and deep depression.

She became more gracious and less angry.  She remembered less of the slights against her throughout her life and began to focus on the positives in her world a little more.  Oh, she always loved being the bearer of bad news--that never changed. But she became a hugger, an "I Love youer" and a "Wish you'd come more" kind of mom.  

The last time I saw her I sat on the arm of her new recliner and held her hand in mine.  I my heart was touched when I saw the similarities between our palms and fingers; the shape of our fingernails.  Her hands were warm and soft as I squeezed them between mine and asked her how she was. "I ain't no good at all, darlin." She said softly.

"I know." I said with tears welling in my eyes.

"How are you?" She asked. " I've been worried about you."

"Oh," I said, trying not to cry. "I'm just fine." I answered, remembering the heavy load of depression and failure that I carried on my back everywhere I went."I'm happy, Mama," I lied.

By the next morning she was gone.  Laid to rest in a casket wearing the blue dress I bought especially for the occasion. It was my last offering to her--just a little something to at least make her exit from this world more as she would have wanted it, since most of her life seemed to have been the life someone else wanted for her.

I was a burden. I was in her way, a disappointment and a drudgery to her for most of her days.  The least I could do in the end was make sure she was pretty in her casket.

And thank goodness, I wasn't in one right next to hers. Hopefully I won't need mine for some time to come.

The Quitter

I'm the quitter.

I quit trying to fix someone else.  I quit trying to love someone who doesn't know how to accept love. I quit telling myself I'm not good enough, or that my inability to connect with an Adult Child or a Personality Disordered person is my fault.

I quit believing that I have all the answers.  I quit giving so much of myself that I forget who I am.  I quit looking for the answers for everyone else instead of finding solutions for myself.  I quit internalizing the criticism, blame and shame that has piled up in my mind.  I quit avoiding my own needs and quit waiting for someone else to meet them.

I quit avoiding mirrors because I'm afraid of what will be reflected back at me when I see myself as I really am.  I quit trying to BE a mirror for other people who refuse to look at their own reflections.

I quit making excuses for the behavior of others, even though I love them and feel empathy for their pain.  Everyone has pain; we don't all choose to hurt one another because we hurt.  I quit acting out in ways that are not consistent with my character because of my own frustration and pain. I quit trying to fight fire with fire.

Instead, I hand you a bucket of water.  I give you a wet blanket, a fire extinguisher.  I sound a smoke alarm and make sure the doors are open so you can find your way out.  I let you borrow my phone so you can call the fire department; I wait for you outside where I can safely breathe while you find your way out. I quit telling myself you'll join me out here in the fresh air. I quit screaming at you to save yourself before it's too late.

I quit asking you for anything or expecting anything or hoping for anything from you.  I finally realize there's nothing there for me. Nothing you can offer me but a fully involved inferno of turmoil, shame, rage and fear and those are things I already have enough of on my own.

I finally recognize you: You are the child of neglect. the forgotten, the blamed, the invalidated.  You are the one who never saw a promise fulfilled, never knew what security was, never learned that real love isn't conditional.  You're the kid who didn't know that you could love someone and be angry at them too.  You are the kid who couldn't be a kid. You were the kid who wasn't allowed to feel, the kid who had to overlook his own inner world because of the constant threat of the outer world.


I get it. I understand why you can't trust. I understand the rules and regulations, the boundaries that are actually walls of defense, the yearning for closeness and the inner conflict that takes place when someone does manage to get a little too close.  My mind has a grasp of why you must believe the worst of everyone but my heart has trouble accepting it.  Until now, I couldn't stop blaming myself because I am so imperfect, so flawed, so inadequate. But now I know that by blaming myself, I give you weapons to use against me. I've allowed you to inflict pain upon me. I have even come back for more, time and time again.

But now I quit giving you the stick with which to chase me away.

Instead I hope you will smell the smoke and take steps to put out this fire that burns within you before there's nothing left of you anymore. I used to know you as someone else, but that person is swiftly fading away into oblivion. It's really a shame.  That person you used to be always made me smile.

I quit; but I hope.  And I wish hoping were enough but I know it is not.

Nothing I do will ever be enough.  I have to leave this to you.

So, I'm the quitter.

Granny's Tree

"I'm not even gon' put up a Christmas tree this year." She said.  "They ain't no point in all that mess."

At first I felt a little dismayed, but then I remembered, she said that every year.

Inevitably, the Christmas spirit won her over every time despite her consternation and there would be a Christmas tree of some kind tucked away in a corner of our house.  Many years it was a big bush of a cedar that my sisters and I went and chopped down, a few times a big bushy evergreen that my dad brought home from a hunting trip and in recent years, an artificial tree.  With five of us girls around, she never had to do any of the work but she secretly enjoyed the sparkly lights and ornaments with us after we strung the lights and flung the baubles on.

In the days leading up to Christmas the presents would start to pile underneath, just a few at a time after she would come home from the Dollar Store and hide away in the bedroom with wrapping paper and scissors. We were filled with anxious excitement while we waited outside the door, eager to check out the size of the packages and arrange them under the tree so we could feel them, shake them and poke them; try to figure out what surprises waited inside.

Yesterday Charlie and I went to visit with my dad for his birthday.  There was a sense of something missing, as there always is in the house now without my mother there.  The more I sat and chatted with him, the more I missed her.  I missed the way she tried to hide her child-like excitement at decorating for Christmas.  I missed her Christmas tree that she was so proud of the last few years, the little decorations she would pepper around the house, the way she would talk about "strands of lights" that didn't work.  Finally, I couldn't stand it anymore, and I found myself rummaging through the back room looking for her decorations.

I found the Christmas tree boxed up, her ornaments and lights put away in the same fashion they had always been; Thrown haphazardly in boxes and baskets and bags.  I found the lights all tangled up together in a ball and remembered that my job as a little girl was always to untangle the mess of lights my mother made when she put them away every January.  My dad watched and we talked while I put the tree together, untangled the lights and rearranged the furniture so I could put the tree where Mama always wanted it.  We found the colored sparkly lights and when I plugged them in, I could see the joy on my daddy's face. "Those are bright!" He exclaimed.  Charlie was delighted at the sparkly special effects.  My mama loved lights that did tricks.

I strung on the lights, all sparkling and colorful, but when I got to the last string, half of them didn't work.  There just weren't enough lights to make it look right, so I rummaged for more.  I found a big jumble of white lights and I was about to take the colored ones off and put the white ones on when I looked up and saw that the half-string that was dark and lifeless a few minutes before was suddenly blazing with bright beautiful light.  "Thanks, Granny" I said under my breath, and I finished the tree with her colored fancy lights.  I know she would have loved it.  She would have wanted it up, if for no other reason than to watch the fascination on the faces of all the great-grandchildren when they came to visit.  She would want my dad to have the joy of Christmas, even without her there.

My sister came in to pick up Daddy for church before I finished the work and cleaned everything up. I told him goodbye, "I love you" and promised to lock up the house for him when I left.  I rummaged until I found the tree skirt, found Granny and Papa's Christmas stockings, but decided to not put them out.  It felt too sad to hang just one.  It was too much of a reminder of her absence for my dad and for all of us.

The tree is there for her.  It is in her memory, in honor of all the Christmases she shared with us, playing Santa when we were little, buying dollar-store gifts for our kids, finding little somethings for the great-grands every year and messily wrapping them before piling them under the tree.  I loved her with every little snowman I hung on its branches, loved her as I placed the angel with crooked wings on top, loved her with one last look through the window at  the tree's twinkling lights as Charlie and I locked the door and walked away.

I hope it greeted my dad with warm memories of all the Christmases past when he walked in the door from church last night.  I hope he sat in its glow and remembered our mother with fondness, I hope he felt a little of her presence there with him the way I felt her there when I was decorating the tree.

I found a little of my mother yesterday, packed away in the back room of her house.  She comforted me with her lights and ornaments, and even with the careless way she had packed everything away from last year.  I remembered her with love and fondness for even her quirkiest of ways; but most of all I was reminded that as long as I live, she will live in me through all the little pieces of her that she gave of herself over the years.  She lives in my father, my sisters, her grandchildren.  She shines back at us from her Christmas tree, reminding us to embrace the joy of the season, even if, like her,
we are too proud to admit that the spirit seizes us like children all over again every year.

Final Rewards

His name was Harold. Born without hip joints, he had never walked. He lived in a nursing home from the time he was in his thirties.  His hair was always slicked back with grease, a few flakes of dandruff floating atop his quaff.  He wore button up shirts and grey dress-slacks every Sunday for church and when my dad picked him up in the church bus, he put his arms around Dad's neck and helped as he lifted him from his wheel chair into the front passenger seat.  I often marveled at how strong my daddy was as I watched him set Harold into place, fold up his wheelchair and heave it into the back of the bus.

As a child, I didn't think much about what my dad was doing.  I didn't think about him as a man with a family of five daughters who worked overtime every week.  I didn't consider how tired he must have been or how much extra time it took us as a family to get to church every Sunday or to get home from church after every service.  I never considered that my mother took on the extra job of getting up super early to cook breakfast for us on Sundays, get us ready for church a couple of hours earlier than all the other families, or sit on the front row of the bus instead of the passenger seat beside my dad, just so Harold could go to church too.  I never thought twice about my parents always making sure we were dressed neatly and all had our Bibles with us before we left.  Like any kid, I took it all for granted.  It was just our life and these were my parents.  I suppose that somewhere in my mind, I believed all parents were pretty much just like mine.

It really took becoming a parent myself to fully grasp all that my folks took upon themselves during those years when they were raising a family and giving back to others as much as they could.  I remember going with Dad to the nursing home on Tuesday nights, where he would play his guitar and sing, then give a short devotion for the residents.  He shook their hands and smiled, called the old ladies, "young ladies" and they were always so happy to see him.  I remember there was a mother and daughter who lived there;  the mother had no legs, and the daughter always sat beside her, holding her hand.  They were both old and as a kid I couldn't really understand how a daughter could seem the same age as her mother.  My dad encouraged us to sing with him.  We got our first experiences in front of an audience in the dining room of that little nursing home in front of little old ladies who were hard of hearing and old men who slept and snored back at us.  I like to believe we learned something valuable from those Tuesday nights.

I know I learned some important lessons about life sitting on the back row of the church bus as we picked up Harold and Mr. Corn and so many other elders from the nursing home for Sunday morning services over the years.  I learned about patience and understanding as we picked up Lonely Dolly from her house on the Mill Hill and listened as she recounted rumors and listed her complaints about living alone.  I learned about humility when we picked up Randy, a younger man who was disabled after an accident that killed his young wife.  I learned about forgiveness when we picked up a guy who later got arrested for being drunk and disorderly--then kept picking him up for church once he was out of jail again.  I learned about random acts of kindness when my dad stopped to help a stranded motorist and noticed their car was on fire before they realized it themselves.  He drove them home in the church bus after he helped them put out the fire.

My dad took his guitar to church and played along with the choir at every service.  He sang in front of the congregation with my mother and sisters, and later with me.  He attended every revival meeting, every Wednesday night prayer meeting and picked up slews of children every summer during the week of Vacation Bible School.  He taught a Sunday school class, faithfully gave his tithes went,  out of his way to help people in need,  and supported the pastor unfailingly.  During the summer he gave away food from our huge garden and fish he caught, and in the winter  he gave away venison because he usually bagged so many deer our family couldn't eat all the meat.  There were times when our own family was in need but he never stopped giving of himself in whatever way he could.  If he didn't have money or food to offer, he gave of his talents.  Giving was just part of his soul; it made him the Charles Curtis everyone knew and loved and often, took for granted.

My father gave of himself without ever considering what he might get in return.  It never entered his mind that he should get any kind of reward for his service to others, so maybe it is my error when I think of him now in his old age, struggling to drive himself to church with his memory failing and his body failing even more.  There is no church bus showing up at his door to drive him to Wednesday night prayer meeting; he tries to drive himself.  He got confused a couple of weeks ago and showed up for church at 5:30 in the evening. Church doesn't start until 7:00 pm.   He waited in the parking lot for a long time and finally decided they must have cancelled services then drove himself back home, disappointed. This has happened more than once.  He misses Sunday services a lot of times because he just can't get himself there.  Despite his many years of making sure Harold and Dolly and so many others got spiritually fed, he seems to be left alone to starve.

It's hard for me to not feel bitter.  Where is his church now that he stands in need of the very kindnesses he offered to others for so many years?  I guess this is a different era.  Maybe people don't consider the needs of others, especially the needs of elders, as much as they used to.  My father taught me to respect and nurture the elderly, but it seems that somewhere along the way, those important lessons got left behind.  Everyone seems so focused on the lives of theirs and their own that they forget to find that little shred of themselves that they can give to others.  We tend to focus on "what's in it for me" instead of  "what would be most helpful to them." I'm sure his church gives him their prayers.  I'm positive of their love for him.  I just keep wondering though, where are the hands of Christ, reaching out to serve and help?  How are they showing him their love; God's love, by merely praying and not backing up those prayers with their own actions?  How are any of us accomplishing the task of demonstrating the love of God to our fellow man?

I keep reminding myself that my father expects nothing.  He is not disappointed because he has always laid up his treasure in another place.  He never invested in the church hoping to get a return on that investment in his old age. My dad has always known his reward would come later; when he enters Heaven's gates and hears his Father say "Well done."  His reward will come when he sees Harold walking towards him with his arms outstretched, when he sees Dolly looking young and beautiful.  His reward will be all of those with whom he shared his heart in this life, sharing a beautiful eternity with him.  His  reward made even sweeter now,  by the waiting arms of my mother who will be there to welcome him Home at last.

Final Rewards

His name was Harold. Born without hip joints, he had never walked. He lived in a nursing home from the time he was in his thirties.  His hair was always slicked back with grease, a few flakes of dandruff floating atop his quaff.  He wore button up shirts and grey dress-slacks every Sunday for church and when my dad picked him up in the church bus, he put his arms around Dad's neck and helped as he lifted him from his wheel chair into the front passenger seat.  I often marveled at how strong my daddy was as I watched him set Harold into place, fold up his wheelchair and heave it into the back of the bus.

As a child, I didn't think much about what my dad was doing.  I didn't think about him as a man with a family of five daughters who worked overtime every week.  I didn't consider how tired he must have been or how much extra time it took us as a family to get to church every Sunday or to get home from church after every service.  I never considered that my mother took on the extra job of getting up super early to cook breakfast for us on Sundays, get us ready for church a couple of hours earlier than all the other families, or sit on the front row of the bus instead of the passenger seat beside my dad, just so Harold could go to church too.  I never thought twice about my parents always making sure we were dressed neatly and all had our Bibles with us before we left.  Like any kid, I took it all for granted.  It was just our life and these were my parents.  I suppose that somewhere in my mind, I believed all parents were pretty much just like mine.

It really took becoming a parent myself to fully grasp all that my folks took upon themselves during those years when they were raising a family and giving back to others as much as they could.  I remember going with Dad to the nursing home on Tuesday nights, where he would play his guitar and sing, then give a short devotion for the residents.  He shook their hands and smiled, called the old ladies, "young ladies" and they were always so happy to see him.  I remember there was a mother and daughter who lived there;  the mother had no legs, and the daughter always sat beside her, holding her hand.  They were both old and as a kid I couldn't really understand how a daughter could seem the same age as her mother.  My dad encouraged us to sing with him.  We got our first experiences in front of an audience in the dining room of that little nursing home in front of little old ladies who were hard of hearing and old men who slept and snored back at us.  I like to believe we learned something valuable from those Tuesday nights.

I know I learned some important lessons about life sitting on the back row of the church bus as we picked up Harold and Mr. Corn and so many other elders from the nursing home for Sunday morning services over the years.  I learned about patience and understanding as we picked up Lonely Dolly from her house on the Mill Hill and listened as she recounted rumors and listed her complaints about living alone.  I learned about humility when we picked up Randy, a younger man who was disabled after an accident that killed his young wife.  I learned about forgiveness when we picked up a guy who later got arrested for being drunk and disorderly--then kept picking him up for church once he was out of jail again.  I learned about random acts of kindness when my dad stopped to help a stranded motorist and noticed their car was on fire before they realized it themselves.  He drove them home in the church bus after he helped them put out the fire.

My dad took his guitar to church and played along with the choir at every service.  He sang in front of the congregation with my mother and sisters, and later with me.  He attended every revival meeting, every Wednesday night prayer meeting and picked up slews of children every summer during the week of Vacation Bible School.  He taught a Sunday school class, faithfully gave his tithes went,  out of his way to help people in need,  and supported the pastor unfailingly.  During the summer he gave away food from our huge garden and fish he caught, and in the winter  he gave away venison because he usually bagged so many deer our family couldn't eat all the meat.  There were times when our own family was in need but he never stopped giving of himself in whatever way he could.  If he didn't have money or food to offer, he gave of his talents.  Giving was just part of his soul; it made him the Charles Curtis everyone knew and loved and often, took for granted.

My father gave of himself without ever considering what he might get in return.  It never entered his mind that he should get any kind of reward for his service to others, so maybe it is my error when I think of him now in his old age, struggling to drive himself to church with his memory failing and his body failing even more.  There is no church bus showing up at his door to drive him to Wednesday night prayer meeting; he tries to drive himself.  He got confused a couple of weeks ago and showed up for church at 5:30 in the evening. Church doesn't start until 7:00 pm.   He waited in the parking lot for a long time and finally decided they must have cancelled services then drove himself back home, disappointed. This has happened more than once.  He misses Sunday services a lot of times because he just can't get himself there.  Despite his many years of making sure Harold and Dolly and so many others got spiritually fed, he seems to be left alone to starve.

It's hard for me to not feel bitter.  Where is his church now that he stands in need of the very kindnesses he offered to others for so many years?  I guess this is a different era.  Maybe people don't consider the needs of others, especially the needs of elders, as much as they used to.  My father taught me to respect and nurture the elderly, but it seems that somewhere along the way, those important lessons got left behind.  Everyone seems so focused on the lives of theirs and their own that they forget to find that little shred of themselves that they can give to others.  We tend to focus on "what's in it for me" instead of  "what would be most helpful to them." I'm sure his church gives him their prayers.  I'm positive of their love for him.  I just keep wondering though, where are the hands of Christ, reaching out to serve and help?  How are they showing him their love; God's love, by merely praying and not backing up those prayers with their own actions?  How are any of us accomplishing the task of demonstrating the love of God to our fellow man?

I keep reminding myself that my father expects nothing.  He is not disappointed because he has always laid up his treasure in another place.  He never invested in the church hoping to get a return on that investment in his old age. My dad has always known his reward would come later; when he enters Heaven's gates and hears his Father say "Well done."  His reward will come when he sees Harold walking towards him with his arms outstretched, when he sees Dolly looking young and beautiful.  His reward will be all of those with whom he shared his heart in this life, sharing a beautiful eternity with him.  His  reward made even sweeter now,  by the waiting arms of my mother who will be there to welcome him Home at last.

Being Broken

In the quiet of a chilly autumn morning I sit with myself, shouldering a burden of thoughts that seem so preposterously heavy I'm not even sure how I manage to carry them all by myself.  I wonder why I choose to carry them all by myself, instead of asking someone out there to help me bear the load.  It feels impossible though, that I could just unload some of this, hand it off to someone else and be free from it.

In all my thinking and trying to figure things out, the only truth  that keeps coming back to me is that of my own brokenness.  I broke a long time ago, when I began to realize that life never quite lives up to the expectations we set for ourselves as children.  I broke a little more when I found out that my differences--something as seemingly insignificant even as having red hair and freckles, could separate me from the love and acceptance of my peers.  With every set-back, every disappointment, every failure, brokenness replaced my image of myself until finally, I sit here on a couch in someone else's world looking at myself, the broken pieces of me all askance from my effort to hold on to parts of me that I should probably let go.

Sometimes we break in such a way that our pieces don't fit back together the same way anymore..

I feel as though my life became a competition somewhere along the way.  I wanted to prove to myself and to everyone else that my ideas about love, fairness, hope and faith could all exist in perfect harmony; I wanted them to exist without struggle, without boundary, without fear or loss. With every set-back though, I learned more and more that without struggle, without limitations, and especially without loss, the sweetest things in life become the very things we take for granted.

All those broken parts of me define me. I could strive for perfection and perhaps remain intact, never letting my human experience break through the thin shell of my outer existence, but then who would I be?  What substance would I possess?  I believe I would be an empty vessel, sealed off so tightly that no amount of love could ever make its way to my core.

  If we seal ourselves away so completely, no outpouring of love, empathy, joy or goodwill can ever reach our hearts.  We are often too afraid to open ourselves up the easy way and let love transform us. That resistance is why I sit here with these heavy thoughts and an even heavier heart, having poured out all I am trying to fill a vessel that can't even crack itself open enough to even let in a little of what I have to give. What I am will never be good enough.  I possess no perfection to offer.  I am scarred and still somewhat wounded. At times my weaknesses over take me, I hide myself away so I can hang on to parts of me that seem so necessary to keep, but only because no one offers me a safe place to surrender them.

I need no judge or jury to tell me that I am so flawed and imperfect.  I know this very well.

I seek only for the safety of acceptance as I seek to accept those around me.  I wish for the peace of resting securely in the kind of knowledge that is only known by the soul when we are made whole by the unconditional love of someone who has the courage to help us piece ourselves back together.

Yes, I am broken and my soul is poured out.  But brokenness is part of life.  It shatters our ideas of perfection and challenges us, time and time again to redefine ourselves and what gives us meaning.

I sit here in the quiet of an autumn morning on someone else's couch, listening to a little fire crackling in the heater, the rush of cars on the highway outside and the sound of my own voice telling me to let go; let the scattered remains of who I am fall where they may so God, or the Universe or whomever will, can put me back together again.  Because I am only able to make an abstract version of me, and that girl doesn't make sense to anyone.

The Big Lie

The last time I talked to my mother, I told her a lie.  I know, we all lie to our moms now and then even when we are little kids.  Nobody wants to admit they broke the ceramic owl (sorry mom) and no one is going to admit to eating the last cookie, especially if your mother is a midnight snacker  who goes looking for sweets during the night like my mom did.  But the lie I told was a different kind of lie.

When I let it slip out of my mouth with tears welling in my eyes, I told myself that I was telling that lie to protect her.  After all, I couldn't have her going to her grave believing I was anything but okay.  She was so weak, but she knew me, held my hand as I sat on the arm of the chair beside her and started telling her how all my kids were doing.  She asked about each one of them, and I assured her they were all doing well.  We talked about Hannah's job, Sylia's wedding and Charlie's new school and love of Batman.  She said she wanted to buy him more Batman stuff but couldn't find any whenever she looked for it. Then she asked me very sincerely, looking me straight in the eye with whatever strength she could muster, "How are you doing? Are you okay?"

"Yes," I said.  "I'm fine!"
She looked at me unconvinced.
"I'm happy," I said with a big smile.

I saw the concern in her face melt away as she said, "Good. I've been worried about you since you lost your house.  I'm glad you're doing alright."

"I am." I said.  And then I changed the subject to her banana pudding and the time I called her for the recipe.

I have replayed that conversation in my head a million times over the last 2 weeks.  I sent my mother out of this world believing a lie, and although I would have rather her leave this world without a worry for me, I still feel kind of guilty for lying to her.  Maybe the guilt comes from knowing that in that moment, I was lying to myself as much as I was to her.  I couldn't say out loud that I'm not happy.  If I said it out loud I would have to accept it as the truth.  Sometimes clinging to a delusion is just the only way we can cope.

I don't know whether it was wrong to lie to my mother that one last time. Part of me is relieved that I did, another part of me feels sick about it.  The only thing that's for sure, is that I can't change it now.  All I can do now is make what I said to her the truth.  I suppose that's the only way I can set the record straight with her now, and the only way I'll find peace with myself as well.

A Friend in Grief

It has been a little over a week since my mother died.  I like to use the word "died" instead of "passed away."  It seems like people are so afraid to say the words, "death" or "died" because they are heavy with the reality that life isn't permanent, they signify the end of us in some way and even those of us who believe that there is a life after this one aren't exactly comfortable with the finality of death.

Anyway, she died on October the 11th and the days following her death, with the funeral planning, spending time with my dad and sisters, the visitation and the funeral itself the whole week following her death was a blur.  For the first time in my life I found myself standing on the receiving end of that line of family and friends who came to pay their respects and show their love for us.  It was really very overwhelming to see so many faces, old and new, of people who knew my mother or who were there to show support for one of us whom they knew and loved and felt empathy for.  I saw family members I haven't seen in years, saw friends I hardly think about anymore, and was deeply moved by the friends in my life who came to hug me and tell me how sorry they were for my loss.  I never really understood the value of the visitation before the funeral until now; even my father has commented on how surprised he felt that so many people cared about him and his grief.  I left there that night feeling emotionally wrung out, physically tired and so mentally overcome that I had to drive home slowly, taking in my thoughts as they came to me, concentrating minute by minute on what was before me.

My mother wasn't the kind of person who had close relationships with anyone, including her daughters.  She wasn't the kind of mom we could call up to ask for advice or to vent our frustrations to. In fact we couldn't really talk to her at all about anyone in our lives who caused us any trouble; she was so biased towards us that if we ever once spoke ill of someone in our lives, she forever thought of them as evil.  When I was younger I saw this as a fault in my mother, but now with adult daughters of my own, even in my efforts to remain objective, I have trouble not becoming bitter and angry at anyone who has done wrong by my children.  I like to think that I learned from my mother that it isn't always the best idea to blurt out my own opinions as she did.  Even though I understand it was her love for me that got her stirred up against anyone she thought had mistreated me, I realize the distance her reactions created between us.

Having had a strained relationship with my mom for most of my life I always felt envious of my friends who had close mother-daughter bonds.  My friend Debbie, for instance, had such a bond with her mother that they almost seemed like one person at times.  Her "Mama" as she always referred to her, was often her best friend.  They shared a home together, shared worries and troubles.  They supported each other, worried about each other and both absolutely adored one another.  Debbie took on her mother's nature, always giving to others, recognizing the strengths of others and being everyone's cheerleader.  I often wished for that kind of bond with my own mother, but I knew she was just not that kind of person.  My mother was guarded, always thinking that people were not to be trusted, that most people just ended up causing her pain, so she, in a way, protected herself by not letting anyone get too close.  That wall was erected so soundly that even her children couldn't penetrate it completely.  I don't doubt that she loved us with all her heart, but she wasn't able to really express that love because she couldn't be that vulnerable.  Likewise, I believe I often shield myself from potential "danger" by holding myself back emotionally, even at times when my own emotional vulnerability could help someone else.

Whoever they are, and whatever struggles our mothers face, they teach us how to relate to the world.  My mother taught me to be careful, to hold others suspect, even after they prove they are trust worthy.  Debbie's mom taught her to look for the positives in others, to give her heart and to be a beacon of encouragement to the people she loves.

On the day my mother died, I drove home, tired and emotionally worn out.  I took a long shower and cried to myself at the thought of her languishing on her death-bed.  I hummed the tune of her favorite hymn to myself quietly, and cried even more as I let it comfort me with the assurance that the storms were over for her; that perhaps she was finally resting in that perfect love she had always craved but been too afraid to accept.  I tucked myself into bed, pulling the covers up under my chin as my mind began to race with what the next day would hold--planning the funeral.  Just as I was about to ease into my pillow and seek the comfort of sleep, my phone made that chiming sound.

I had been texting with my friend Debbie earlier in the day, letting her know that my mother had died that morning.  Her mother had been battling all week from illness and was not doing well either. This was the message she sent me just before I went to sleep:



We are two completely different women with completely different mothers, but together we grieve for what we lost when we lost them.  It's a journey that we embarked on together, without ever knowing why it happened as it did.  Their funerals were on the same day, at the same time, and although we were both experiencing our own losses, we both remembered one another as well.  Through her own suffering, my mother taught me never to forget about the suffering of others; through her own graciousness and openness, Debbie's mother taught her to never fail to think of and encourage others.  They went about it in different ways, but both of our mothers must have done a good job, because here we are, traversing the road of grief together, never once getting so lost in our own grief that we forget that we have a friend who is also hurting.

And for those lessons our mothers taught us, we must be forever grateful.  We will miss them, we will wonder what could have been different.  We will feel the loss for a long time to come, but we can both take comfort in remembering and recognizing those parts of our mothers that are now a part of us.  Mama lives on in the struggles and victories, the loves and losses we experience.  She lives on in us when we find ourselves repeating her words, cooking her food, seeing her looking back at us in the mirror as we age.  In a way, Mothers never die, as long as they leave their mark on us.  And our mothers surely did just that.

Sheltered In The Arms Of God

My mother was terrified of storms.  Any time a dark cloud would linger on the horizon and the wind would start to kick up a bit, she would warn us to all sit down and be quiet.  "It's comin' up a cloud!" She'd say, and we would usually obey her orders.  I guess you could say she instilled within us as well, her nearly irrational fear of stormy weather.

She told us stories of the devastation she had witnessed from the ravages of storms: a family member's home that was picked up and tossed about by a tornado, another relative who was struck by lightening while stirring a pot on a stove.  This was a woman whose bravery in the face of illness allowed her to care for my aunt who was dying from cancer, night after night without respite.  A woman who once fired a gun at a would-be intruder and accidentally shot a howling dog trying to scare it away.  She was fiercely protective of her children, causing a scene more than once when she felt one of her daughters had been the victim of some injustice.  She was often stubborn and ornery, determined to have her way even when the odds were against her; but something as simple as a clap of thunder could humble her in a second.

I suppose nearly everyone has some kind of irrational fear that they carry with them throughout life. For some of us its spiders or snakes or heights.  For others its public speaking or roller coasters--things that though they inspire fear in our hearts, are usually quite avoidable.  But storms are something over which we have no control.  Perhaps that lack of control was what my mother found so incredibly frightening about strong wind, heavy rain and angry lightening licking the ground with abandon all around her.  There was no way to stop it, no way to slow it down or change its direction.  Storms were something over which she was powerless, something that made her have to rely on nothing more than her faith in God until the winds calmed and the thunder faded into the distance.

She taught us as children, to sit quietly in reverence to the power of a storm.  It just seemed like tempting God to her if we carried on with business as usual while the weather raged all around us.  It gave her some strange sense of peace I think, to stop the chatter, the playful running around, the chores as usual to just sit and listen as the awesome power of nature drew near, lingered for a while and then began to drift away, moving on to its new destination, leaving us in peace to resume our day with a renewed sense of gratefulness for having survived the turmoil.

My mother was no stranger to the storms of life.  She weathered many that came to her in the form of physical challenges, heartbreak and disappointment.  She suffered with pain in her body for years, day in and day out, seeking relief from it, but never quite finding it.  She suffered the loss of her parents, her friends and even a pregnancy.  She stood strong as a rock for my father as he suffered through painful illnesses, the losses of his own parents and some friends.  She knew the uncertainty of need as my parents struggled to financially provide for 5 daughters and give us all we needed to be healthy and happy.  She helped her daughters find strength to weather their own tribulations and experienced our heartbreaks and struggles as acutely as we  felt them ourselves.

So it is no wonder to me that my mother found great comfort in the song "Sheltered in The Arms of God."  Ever since I got the call this morning that my mother had taken her last breath with my father by her side, the words of that old hymn have been playing in my head.  I've even found myself humming it quietly to myself a few times--feeling the same kind of comfort it must have given her over the years.  On Tuesday my nieces will sing it at her funeral, a reminder to all of us that she is finally in a place where storms can no longer threaten her peace of mind.  She is tucked securely into the shelter of God's arms, where no matter how high the storms may rage, she will never be afraid again.

In memory of my mother, here are the lyrics to that sweet song:

I feel the touch of hands so kind and gentle,
They're leading me in paths that I must trod;
I have no fear when Jesus walks beside me,
For I'm sheltered in the arms of God.

So let the storms rage high, the dark clouds rise,
They won't worry me for I'm sheltered safe within the arms of God;
He walks with me and naught of Earth can harm me,
Sheltered safe within the arms of God.

Soon I shall hear the call from Heaven's portals,
Come home my child, it's the last mile you must trod;
I'll fall asleep and wake in God's new Heaven,
Sheltered safe within the arms of God.

So let the storms rage high, the dark clouds rise,
They won't worry me for I'm sheltered safe within the arms of God;
He walks with me and naught of Earth can harm me,
Sheltered safe within the arms of God.

Sheltered safe within the arms of God!