It's my Birthday!!

It's true. Today is the big 4-0. I'm wearing a tiara...all day. And I've eaten birthday cake for breakfast. I think it's a pretty good start to my day!

The celebration of my birthday has morphed over time. Growing up, I don't recall much celebrating besides having grandparents over for dinner. Many of those "parties" happened on Saturday night, though I'm sure that my birthday did not fall on the same day every year. I know this because I've seen way too many pictures of me blowing out candles with pink foam rollers in my hair...so my hair is nice and pretty for church, of course. Really, I've seen at least 6-7 pictures- from different birthdays- with my hair in pink rollers. (Note to self, "DO NOT do this to your daughter.") I don't remember having parties with my friends. Though, I do remember my dad bringing a cake to Youth Group on my 18th birthday. Since college and most of my adult years, I've made little to no noise about my birthday. I didn't tell people, never did anything...it was just another day. Somewhere in my 30's, or maybe it started after my divorce at 29, I began to do things to honor myself on my birthday. I still didn't mention it much, but would buy myself a present. Slowly, that "self-celebrating" grew. I started a few rituals (like eating b'day cake for breakfast!) and telling others. At first, I would just tell whomever I saw on that day. Now, I give people a lot of notice!! I've been reminding my youth group for a couple of months now!!

There are some mixed feelings I have about being "40." Over the past year, I've have felt this inner wrestling about where my life is and where I thought it would be by today. I would necessarily call it a "crisis", but perhaps a "mid-life predicament." I'll save expounding on that for another day. Because in spite of all that wrestling, I truly feel happy and excited today. I stayed up until midnight just to be awake when the clock struck October 1. I even wore my tiara upstairs when I went to bed! I didn't sleep in it though, it was stabbing me in the head.

Monday and Tuesday I attended Rosh Hashanah services. I'll write more about that later. The litergy from the services was really beautiful. There was one particular paragraph that caught my attention. I'll close with this:

"To say that life is both fleeting and uncertain is a truth that presses upon the mind with special force as the old year ends and a new one begins. We are led to turn our thoughts to Him; to remember that He has given us our lives in trust to use in His service. We begin by entering upon the task of self-examination and self-enoblement. 'A New Year,' say the Rabbis, 'should inaugurate new life."

The quest

Last week I met Phyllis Tickle. A delightful, intelligent and engaging woman. She came to Austin for a series of lectures. I was fortunate enough to hear her speak about her newest book, The Great Emergence. As I've told before, I'm a born and raised Southern Baptist girl. My home church was a typical small-town Baptist church... complete with an expansive organ, choir loft, a bapistry about 10 feet above ground level and burnt orange carpet. Oh, and my church had a Family Life Center. In all other parts of the world, it would be called a gym. I suppose for church folks that's not quite spiritual enough. I practically lived at the church. There were services in the morning and at night. Something happened on Monday (I forget what it was). On Tuesday there was visitation (door knocking during good people's dinner time) and of course, Wednesday night Bible Study. I attended everything. I was taught well, the stories of the Bible, from good men and women from the time I was born until I left at 18. This was the church of my mother and her parents. Good people with strong faiths. I'll skip the next 12 years or so, and simply say that there came a time when I began to question all (or at least many) of the things these good people taught me. I've asked myself the questions of what I believe and why I believe. I have become facinated with church history, and Biblical history. I have loved learning about Jesus from the stand point of the time in history that he lived. I am learning of middle-eastern cultural and the tradition of Jewish faith that he followed. It has brought richness to the scriptures and the teachings of Jesus that I've never had before.

There has been a movement (for lack of a better word) in the church world over the last couple of decades called Emergent. The voices of this movement actually refer to it as a "conversation." I love that. The intention is to have a conversation about what it means to be a follower of Jesus. I have found a number of authors whose writings find deep connection for me, such as Brian McLaren and Tony Jones. That's where this wonderful lady, Phyllis Tickle comes in. She's a very learned scholar and thinker of this post-modern 20th/21st century we're living in. Her book, which I have yet to read, explores this idea of "emerging churches" not as a fad, or the latest religious bandwagon. She places this conversation in much broader terms for history. She speaks of it as being a part of a 500 year cycle that the culture or the world has seen since the time of Jesus. What I took away from those 2 hours with her was knowledge (which is always cool), and an excitement for what is happening in the world with regards to Christianity. I guess there's a lot going on in the world today that hardly inspires excitement. Yet, I hear her speak of change, good change, that is happening. And I guess I just feel like I'm a part of of. Asking good questions...questioning the things I've been taught about God, the Bible, Jesus, the world, the church. I'm pretty happy in this place. I don't have many answers really. And there are some around me that don't necessarily champion my path of curiosity. I guess there will always be those and perhaps those naysayers help keep be balanced. Nevertheless, I have a seemingly insatiable appetite to learn about Jesus and the things of God. What I hope comes from that desire is a truer place of serving. I really don't want knowledge just for the sake of being smarter. My prayer is that my quests transform my heart and mind, and I show it by how I love and serve the world.

I'm standing on the eve of a big birthday. As I reflect on this previous decade, I'm clear that it has been about authenticating my faith. I'm very thankful for the church I was raised in and all I was taught, even if I have different opinions about those teachings today. I stand on the heritage that is my grandparents and their parents, but I have to believe in God for me. I'm immensely grateful for the foundation I was given as a little girl and young adult. I offer honor and blessing for all the men and women who took me under their wing, loved me and showed me their faith. My prayer is that I can pass that legacy on. A legacy of faith that is authentic and organic.

History

Politics bore me out of my mind. I've never been interested. I cooperate with the democratic system of this country mostly out of guilt...I'm supposed to care; I'm supposed to vote. I have rarely thought that any given candidate was the savior he, or she, proclaimed. A couple of writers sum it up well for me. I'm an avid South Park fan. I think Trey Parker and Matt Stone are brilliant and hilarious, often giving bold statements about current social issues. As the last Presidential election was taking place in 2004, these boys decided to make their statement about the election. To date, it is absolutely one of my favorite episodes. The boys of South Park have to elect a new school mascot. The choices, one named by Kyle, the other named by Cartman are a Giant Douche Bag and a Turd Sandwich. (Sorry for the crasness...I didn't make this up!!) Their friend, Stan, decides that he doesn't like either candidate and refuses to vote. Bad things begin to happen for poor Stan. Ultimately, following his dad's encouragement, he decides to cast his vote. Stan's father, in all of his wisdom, says, "Son, you are always going to have to choose between a Giant Douche Bag and a Turd Sandwich." Brilliant.

I wouldn't actually characterize either of this years' candiates with those descriptors, but...I'm still flipping a coin. Over the past few years I have felt the spiritual changes in me begin to bleed over into politics. I wish that wasn't the case. Like I said, politics bores me out of my mind. I'm not very educated, and I have absolutely no desire to be smart about politics. Nevertheless, I have been paying attention during this year's campaign. I'm intrigued. At times confused. Usually frustrated. So, I'm watching the DNC. Next week I'll watch the RNC. Maybe I'll learn something!! Doubtful, but there's always hope.

Here's what I really want to say. This country made history today. The United States of America elected the 1st Black presidential nominee. I watched the news this afternoon as the delegate roll call was taken, and the Speaker of the House made it official. Despite whatever apathy I generally have towards politics, I felt unbelievable proud today. I guess there's also a part of it that highlights an embarrasing aspect of our culture. It's unbelievable to me that in the year 2008, blacks and whites still experience so much inequality. But that feeling holds a back seat, at least for today. I just feel very, very proud. I don't know if this is the right guy. I hope he is; I want him to be. Elected as President or not, history was made. And I think that's pretty damn cool.

August 16, 2004

Today marks time again for me. It's been 4 years since my daddy, 60 years old, died of cancer. North Texas had been experiencing unseasonably cool weather during the previous week. Each morning I would sit on his deck and drink my coffee. The temperature had been in the 60's during the mornings. That just doesn't happen in Texas in August. The morning of the 16th was beautiful. Cool, and quiet. The stillness is one of the things I enjoyed so much about where he lived. As I sat there enjoying the coolness, I kept thinking, "this is the day the Lord has made. I will rejoice and be glad in it." Moments later, I walked back in to find that Daddy had taken his last breath in this world.

I'm struck right now at the irony of remembering the verse that was going through my head, and the night that I had just gone through with him and his passing that morning. I haven't talked about that last night much. I guess I felt it selfish to talk about about me during the time that he was dying. After 4 years, I really don't think about that night much. During this last week, though, I've been reminded in a way that caught me off guard. If you'll indulge me, I'll tell you my story.

I've always been a fan of the Olympics. I watch them contstantly when they are on. I probably enjoy the Summer Olympics most; particularly basketball and softball. As this year's Games started, I really haven't been very interested. I'm interested in knowing results, but as for watching the games non-stop I really haven't had any interest. There was something to this disinterest that I just couldn't put my finger on. A few nights ago, I realized what it was. The last time the Summer Olympics were played, daddy was dying. And I had particular memories from the night before he passed. It was startling to me making the connection. I find that, though I miss him, the intensity of that loss has lessened over the years. But this moment shook the dust off those feelings and I cried as hard as I have in 4 years. During the months before he died, I consumed myself with information about death and dying. I learned that the body and mind goes through a very predictable process when it is dying. At least with those who are terminally ill. His hospice nurse told us early in the week prior that his death would be soon. The 16th that year was on a Monday. We were blessed that up until Saturday, he was conscious much of the time, knew who everyone was and could have coherent conversations with us. That really ended on Saturday when he pretty much lost consciousness. My husband arrived late Saturday and I woke him. He knew who Wes was and said hello, but that was the last time he was awake. Late on Sunday afternoon, his body began to show signs that his death was imminent. His breathing changed..."fish out-of-water" breathing it's called. His eyes started doing weird things. We knew. All of my siblings, but one were already there. We called my other sister and she joined us. Another sister called a couple of friends from her church. Two wonderful women came and sat with us till midnight. Hospice recommended that we begin giving him morphine every 30 minutes or so. So, there we all were: sitting, giving medicine and waiting. At one point, I took his Bible and started reading scriptures. Everyone who was there chimed in with requests to read their favorite verses. We read for almost an hour. Around midnight the dear friends left and I needed some space. So, I took a shower. With 10 or so people in this small house, I figured that the shower was my only option for solitude. I took a really long shower. I expected that my brothers and sisters would take turns staying up and giving daddy the morphine (though I knew I wouldn't sleep). When I came out of the shower, though, everyone had picked a corner of the house and were asleep. So, I stayed up. I sat by his bed, gave him medicine at the right intervals, counted breathes, counted the amount of time that he didn't take a breathe...for hours. When I would feel sleepy, I would sit by a wall and play solitaire. And all the while, the same loop of Olympic coverage was playing. I couldn't find the remote or I might have changed the channel. Around 4 am, he started making some weird, loud sounds. It freaked me out, so I called hospice. Moments later, a nurse called me back...at 4 am. She told me I was doing fine, what daddy was doing was normal and that I could increase the morphine. As I side note in this story, I want to say that Hospice nurses are the walking angels on this earth. I will always remember the sweet woman that was daddy's nurse that last week, Edwina. They are some of the most loving and compassionate people I have ever been priviledged to meet. Yes, they know how to care for the dying with great dignity, but they also spend just as much time caring for the living. By sunrise, daddy had settled. His breathing was much easier. Around 10am is when he took his last breath. It was a really hard night for me. I don't know what the dying are aware of or not aware of. I hope those last hours were not spent with him knowing pain. I carried a great burden of that for a long time; wondering if i did enough for him. Those images of watching him, listening to him, counting breathes...those images stayed with me a long time. And yet, I would not have wanted it to be any different. I'm grateful to have been with him those last hours whether he knew it or not. I held his hand, and at times hummed through the songs that I would later sing at his service. I hope this this somehow made a difference.

During the months preceeding his death, I spent much time thinking about what I believe about heaven, or at least what happens to us when we die. I'm still not sure exactly what I believe. I'm not sure I believe in the "streets of gold" that my Baptist heritage would sing of. I think life, after this life, is much bigger than that. I do believe our spirit is with God, though I also believe that we are always with God. Maybe it's that we just return to our most pure and perfect state. Later that day we were at the funeral home when they finished preparing his body. I dreaded this moment and was last behind my step-mother and siblings to walk up to the casket. The instant I walked up to him though, I felt a unexplainable calm and peace that I was experiencing so often during the previous months. I took one look at him and my thought was, "This is not my daddy. He's not here." And I actually smiled. I saw a very sick body that fought a very long battle, but his spirit was no longer there.

The next day over 100 people came to his viewing. There were almost 400 at his funeral. He was well loved. It really was a celebration of a very rich life. We showed dozens of pictures while I sang 6 songs that he had chosen. He had asked a couple of other people to talk or read. He planned everything. He wanted this day to celebrate his life. "No gloom and doom," to quote him. It was a wonderful and special time. We didn't actually bury him until the next day. He is buried about 45 minutes from where I live. I'm so grateful. I go there often; including this day. Many family members came to his graveside and most shared a story about him...including a high school girlfriend!! It was a hard week. It was sad. And it was beautiful.

Thanks for listening to my long story. I'm leaving now to go to the cemetary. Each year I write a letter to him, and read it while I'm there. I t's a ritual that has brought me much comfort. I love this cemetary. It's an old hay field, really. But it's beautiful and serene. And of course, I always cook to remember him on special days. Tomorrow I'm making peach cobbler. yum!

The time has come

Today is TJ's last day at home. We leave for Illinois tomorrow. Not to be melodramatic, but it just feels a little surreal right now. I can't believe how fast 4 years have gone!! My house just isn't going to be the same; I can't even imagine him not being here. I have to figure out how to cook for 2 again, instead of 3...I'm mean 4. The boy can eat! No more football games and track meets. No teenagers hanging out at my house at random times. No more teacher meetings...not going to miss that one though. LOL. And the entertainment around here goes waaaay down! TJ is a funny kid.

It's interesting timing in some respects. It took all of us a while to figure out how to live together and what our roles were. Adding to that, life here has been pretty chaotic at times and I feel incredibly guilty about that. I just pray that ultimately we have done more good for him than harm. The relationship between he and I took a while to navigate. Strong women, especially women in a position of authority hasn't always meshed well with this young male adolescent. But this last year, year and a half has been really good. And now he moves on. The impending reality has been really pressing on me this week and I've started feeling pretty sad. I wish I had more time. I worry a lot about what the future will be like for him and us. I hope he will consider this place to be his home. Though I know he has a mother, sisters, and so much other family. Everyone will want to see him, and visa versa, when he is in Texas. Selfishly, I hope we get priority! I've been thinking back to when I was 18 and leaving for Baylor. I'm sure my dad was feeling the same way I am right now. I was a punk at the time, though. I didn't go home till Thanksgiving (even though I was only an 1 1/2 hour away) I barely even called him. I wish he was around for me to apologize. My what time teaches us.

So, pray for me...all of us, I guess. TJ has quite a bit of reluctance. He has never really been away from home for very long. So, going 900 miles away is pretty daunting. And...he has a girlfriend who is staying here. He is a very engaging kid and makes friends easily. I know he'll be fine. I'm thankful that he'll have instant community by being on the football team; this will be good for him. He registers and moves in next Wednesday. There is a reception that evening for parents and students. At the conclusion, they tell parents to leave the campus. Not just leave the building, leave the campus. It's probably be best. So, we'll hit the road (with several boxes of tissue) and head toward St. Louis. The Cardinals play the Dodgers...and Manny. Sweet.

I'm sure you'll be hearing from me.

Aunt Callie

I recently attended her funeral. She was 94. I grew up seeing her once or twice a year. I was lucky to have several "grandmothers" growing up. She was one of them. I remember a sweet, doting woman who was very kind and was always playing with the children.

Her service was in the small, southeast Texas town where she lived. I traveled there with an aunt and uncle, and a cousin who all live near me. Fun road trip, even considering the circumstances. My Uncle Johnny is a great storyteller. I've become more of a fan of family stories since my father passed away. I have some very interesting characters in my family! Maybe I'll share stories at a later time. I keep this entry about Aunt Callie.

The funeral was long and boring...all one hour and 20 minutes of it. There were a couple of funny moments, though. The service began with a recording of Whitney Houston's, "I Will Always Love You." This is a strange choice in and of itself. But the version that was chosen was the dance mix...4 and a half minutes long. Seriously. I heard some electronic sounds as the music started, I thought they pressed the wrong button! But it kept playing! NOT the right song for Aunt Callie. I'm not sure what my fmaily was thinking! The other funny part was watching her son, Jimmy, spit tobacco in his little cup during the whole service. He was sitting on the front row. Welcome to Devers, TX!

There was another interesting part of the service; one I had never seen before. In the program for the service, it was listed as the "Naming Ceremony." It was the reading of all the names of her children, sister/brother, grandchildren, etc. This is done at every I've funeral been to, though usually at the beginning. But there was something different about that way it was framed as the "Naming Ceremony." It just seemed to take the ordinary out of telling who her family is. For the 1st time in an hour and 15 minutes, I was paying attention. The sermon before this was stupid...another moment of manipulating people to "get them into heaven." (in my humble opinion). The song was stupid. The woman who tried to sing "Amazing Grace"...well, she was sweet. It just felt like the 1st real moment of the service. It was a moment honoring her and her legacy. I felt thankful and asked for God's blessing on the family. I was still in this space as we went to the graveside. It's a very small cemetary. Beautiful, though. I love reading grave stones and the dates. For me, there is always a deep reverence and serentity at cemetaries. I'm not quite sure why the "Naming" struck me so strongly. I thought of the book of Hebrews that speaks of the "great cloud of witnesses that surround us." The author was writing of the people of faith that have long since passed on. I think it's important to remember and honor those who have passed on. Maybe at the Aunt Callie's service I was also reminded of the importance of those who carry on a legacy today. Perhaps a reminder to me that our lives here are not lived in a vacuum. We live in communities of many different kinds. We need others. As God said, "It is not good that man should be alone." Sometimes as I write it helps me work out my own struggles; I think this is happening even in this moment. When life gets hard or overwhelming (as it is right now), I tend to isolate. I'm blessed to have so, so many friends. I'm a very rich girl. And yet I find myself choosing to deal with life all by myself at times. Isn't it amazing how gently God comes in to get our attention; even in the most unsuspecting of times and places. So, maybe today God is gently reminding me (home alone, on the computer)...encouraging me...to live my life, the easy and the hard, in the company of others.

Billy Wayne

That's what his family called him. Just "daddy" to me. Today would be his 64th birthday. I've been pretty sentimental about certain days since he passed away in 2004. I do something special, or that helps me remember him on Father's Day, his birthday, and even the day he passed away. I love to cook, so I always cook some of the foods he really liked. On Father's Day, I carry an old Bible of his. It's one his parents gave him on his 12th birthday. King James version, of course. It's pretty old and beat up now, but cool to have it. Today, I'll think I'll watch a John Wayne classic, True Grit. He was a huge John Wayne fan. I remember the night it was announced that he had died. My father promptly said, "Well, it's time to the turn the TV off." I've never been a huge fan of Western movies, but it will be good today.

Daddy was a good man. One of those Texas "good ole boys." A rare and dying breed, I think. He was one of the hardest working men I've ever known. (I wish I had the work ethic!) And he would do anything for just about anyone. I feel like I knew 2 different men growing up, though. When I was a kid, I remember a very disconnected, quiet, isolated man. I remember him coming home from work everyday and he followed the same routine: eat dinner (no one talked), sit in his brown vinyl recliner and watch TV (no one talked) and then go to bed around 9:30 or so. The only other variable was that he and my mother fought constantly...that was about the only "talking" that ever happened. They divorced when I was 12. Something good happened for him as a result of that. He became an engaged, humous guy, and became intensely involved in our church. During my childhood, he rarely went to church. Something in him was tranformed, and it was very cool to watch. In the weeks prior to his death, we talked quite a bit about his marriage to my mother. It was a pretty miserable situation. My mother is an alcoholic and I think there are (or were) other mental disorders as well. I have my own difficult memories from her, but perhaps it was even more difficult as a spouse. Certainly daddy had his part in their problems. I have no intention of painting him as a saint or even a victim. As Al-Anon states, alcoholism is a family disease. It's just hard on everybody.

Hmmm, I had no idea where I was going with this entry! But welcome to my family stories! Mostly, I'm taking the time to remember a good man and give honor to my daddy.

P.S.- I'm not cooking today. I hang out with our teenagers from church every Wednesday. But! Tomorrow's menu: chicken fried steak, mashed potatoes, green beans (stewed with bacon all day till they practically disintegrate!) and, of course, peach cobbler.