Close Your Eyes and Breathe It In

Prior to the “C” word, I was walking five miles a day. I’ve recently realized that beginning that routine again is necessary because I can feel my joints getting weaker. We have a very small Rec Center in our town, and it holds maybe ten treadmills. I enjoy going there because, to be honest, I’m rarely the oldest nor the largest working out. It’s small – clean – and convenient.

My normal method is to spend these 45 minutes listening to my 70’s music – Elvis, ZZ Top, Eagles, Chicago, Carpenters, Bob Seger, Clapton, CCR, The Temps….and I could go on forever. Today my heart spoke to me and suggested I listen to my Playlist of Christian Songs. I have a full Playlist that I haven’t listened to in quite a while. Every time I’d try to listen to them, they didn’t provide comfort. Our current world is in such turmoil and conflict that these soft words were not getting through all the anxiety and worry. But today something felt “different”, so I started my treadmill and clicked on this list.The first song that played was The Old Rugged Cross. “On a hill far away stood an old rugged cross”….immediately memories flooded my mind. Tears began pouring from my eyes. I could see me, Jane, Nordis, and Debbie Milburn, sitting on the second row on the left side of Bethel Baptist Church. Shirley Keck was on the piano and Myra Daughtery on the organ. I could hear Charlie Milburn and Don Sewell singing in the choir. The next song that clicked on was How Great Thou Art. “Oh Lord my God when I in awesome wonder”….memories of being in Barbara Bowles Sunday School Class with my friends, where we really studied God’s word and asked hard questions.

I could visualize Jim Keck and Mr. Painter passing the offering plate. Again, the four of us sitting on the second row – Debbie with her crutches – poking us with them – passing notes and making us giggle. Getting side looks from all the adults around us, knowing we’d get scolded at home, yet we continued. Bethel is where Charlie Milburn would belt out the chorus of Standing on the Promises and we’d all stop singing just to hear his voice. Tears came faster.

Pass it On…”It only takes a spark to get a fire going”…and I see Jane with her guitar as we gathered at Debbie’s house for Sunday School, because Debbie had had one of many surgeries, and was in a body cast held up by a piece of plywood. Then I could see our group at Linda Allen’s house – sitting in the living room – Jane on her guitar and, with Linda’s guidance, we were unfolding scripture. More tears.

What I felt during this workout was a gift from Heaven. Minutes where time really did stop – memories pushed through all the ugliness we are facing today. Bethel Baptist Church was so much more than brick and mortar. I remember Mom telling me the nursery was full – it was a tiny nursery at that time with two or three cribs. They had to double up the infants in cribs and my crib mate at times was Chris Keck. I laugh today because I still have a piece of pencil lead in my left hand where he stabbed me with a pencil during Junior High Sunday School, but that’s a different story for another time (one which he’ll deny no doubt). I ran the halls of Bethel from the time I could walk until I walked down the aisle for my wedding.

Bethel is where I accepted Jesus as my Savior and provided me the foundation to face the trials and struggles life has thrown my way. I wondered as I walked, “who would I have become without this small pink brick church?” While I was raised in a home with discipline and was taught serving others was important, my church reinforced that foundation. As Christians, we’re taught it is our moral duty to attend worship services. And I believe that’s true. But what I discovered today was not as much being at church but who I was with at church. Lifetime friendships. Adults who modeled what it means to do the right thing.

The last song I listened to was one of my Dad’s favorites and we had it sung at his Celebration into Heaven – I’ll Fly Away….”Some glad morning when this life is over I’ll fly away.” My eyes were red, and I was out of tears, but my heart and soul were filled with a joy that is unexplainable. It was true joy from Heaven. I didn’t see a burning bush, but God spoke to me today. He spoke through my heart and encouraged me to “close my eyes and breathe it all in.”

The Last Night

The relationship between adult siblings many times doesn’t get nurtured as we have children and must dedicate our time to our own lives. My brother and I grew up in a nurturing environment with our Dad’s large number of siblings. Being surrounded by aunts, uncles, and cousins always created happy memories.

Once the calendar flips to January, I begin to relive Dad’s last days on Earth. The longer he’s been gone, has oddly made the memories of that time more vivid. Last night as I was thinking about Dad’s last night in Hospice, I began to focus not on Dad but the relationship Tommy and I shared that evening. The two of us spent the night in Dad’s room. Dad was resting peacefully on his bed. The nurses had bathed him and shaved him as if he was walking out the next morning. There were two chairs and being the older (more clever) sibling, I chose the one that pulled out a bit to make some sort of place to stretch out a little. Tommy was left with a standard chair.

We spent the next 8+ hours just reminiscing. It was a magical time I’ll never forget. We just talked. About random things in our lives growing up. Remembering how Dad held us accountable for everything we did. How I rarely followed family rules knowing there would be consequences. We laughed – not cried – over family memories. I can’t imagine the joy and pride Dad must have felt, knowing he was living his last hours and his children spent those hours with him sharing memories. Dad wasn’t physically conscious and hadn’t been since he entered a Hospice on Wednesday. Yet Tommy and I both felt him participating in our conversations.

The nurse came in around midnight and took Dad’s temperature. She shared his temperature was rising, which was a normal expectation. She also shared Dad would be made comfortable, as they would continue to drop the room temperature. Tommy had one jacket with him and I had a Texas Tech fleece. She wasn’t kidding about the temperature drop. There was a point the room was so cold we were literally shivering, but Dad was very comfortable. This brought on more laughter, because in our home the air conditioner didn’t go in the window until July 1st and it was removed September 1st.

While Dad’s passing will always bring tears, I treasure the time spent with my brother. Hours no one else would understand nor appreciate. Conversations no one else would consider entertaining. Intense memories no one else would appreciate. That night with Tommy will always remain tucked in my heart. It was a night that brought us closer on a completely different level. What a legacy our father created for us that allowed us to celebrate memories on his last night before entering a Heaven. A simple man who lived life and let us watch.

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MEMORIES IN ROOM 10

The past 24 hours haven’t been easy. Eleven years ago yesterday my Daddy entered Room 10 at Hospice at Wichita Falls. He had been battling stage 4 colon cancer for several months and his body was tired.

He’d put himself through multiple surgeries and the poison of chemo all for me and my brother. Left up to him he’d spent his last six months of life fishing and sitting on the tailgate of his truck talking to his cows. But he raised a fighter and I was going to help him win this battle.

When your hero faces a life threatening diagnosis you’ll grasp at any positive word any doctor will say. I did that. Hard headedness and determination was present with David and Goliath and it was present in me. Our family would beat the odds.

Many times God’s plan and our plan aren’t the same. I’ve had to face that multiple times in my life. I’m not ashamed to admit that I don’t like it, and at times I still question God. I was angry that Dad’s disease progressed as it did. Even as he was being loaded into the ambulance and taken to Hospice, I was bargaining with God. The reality of losing him wasn’t getting through to me.

Now back to Room 10. We were instantly surrounded by nurses who were more like angels. They treated Dad as if he were royalty. The pain he was experiencing was immeasurable and yet he never complained. They ensured he was comfortable, clean, and pain-free. For the first time in months, he was relaxed and his face lacked grimace from pain. Even at this point, my mind was still in denial. Not sure what I was thinking but I wasn’t thinking I was losing my Dad.

My brother and I spent this night alone with Dad in his room. There were two chairs and being the oldest, I quickly realized which one would provide the most comfort. Tommy and I had one of the most memorable nights of our lives that night with our Dad. He wasn’t conscious, but we talked as if he was and we both believe he could hear every word we said.

We laughed and discussed how Dad had raised us to always take care of family – and he had a large one. How consistent he was with discipline yet how gentle he was at teaching life lessons. We laughed about slopping pigs, and being chased by a crazed bull. We reminisced about the Eldred Christmas’s and how 150 relatives was a small number for our gatherings. The stories were endless as was the temperature drop every time the “angel” would enter our room. As Dad’s dying progressed his temperature increased. The nurse shared with us it was “going to be a cold night for us.” I had a small Texas Tech blanket and Tommy had only the jacket he’d worn. As Dad’s temperature increased they would crank down the air conditioner. It was January and cold outside. The temperature inside his room seemed to reach freezing temperatures. Knowing that he refused to use the air conditioner at home because it would cost money, made this ironic. In his final night on Earth, his comfort was what mattered.

The common theme through our all night talk was how amazing was the man laying in the bed beside us. How he came from a lack of money, food, and education, and through determination, a sense of business, and work ethic, grew to raise a family, make good money, and pass down the importance of integrity and a strong work ethic to his children. A man having only a 10th grade education, grew up to manage a lumber yard serving millions of dollars in contractors and local builders, ran many small businesses on the side, and turned everything he touched into money. He never met a stranger and provided help to anyone with need.

While all the above is true, I believe his pride rested on the proof that his children took part of him with them when they left home. My brother earned a degree in Electrical Engineering from Texas Tech, and developed his own successful consulting firm. Dad beamed every time he wore a Tech hat and someone would ask him how Tommy was doing. He was so proud when Tommy branched out on his own. Making his own business decisions and calling Dad for advice.

And then there’s me. The one who tried his patience on a daily basis. The one who tried my teachers patience on a daily basis. I earned three degrees in education. Teaching reading for thirteen years, earning a Master’s in Curriculum and Instruction, a Master’s in Educational Leadership, and a Superintendent’s certification. For my final twelve years in education I served as a middle school principal – working daily with students who resembled me many years ago. Our Dad’s pride was in raising us to serve others. In teaching us the value of a penny and that your reputation, once tarnished, can never become shiny.

At 9:00 p.m., on January 11, 2008, we were all gathered around Dad’s bed. Jesus came into Room 10 and peacefully and quietly took Dad’s hand and led him to his home in Heaven. While my heart was still not prepared, feeling the presence of Jesus in that room is eternally etched into my memory. Each year that I lived in Wichita Falls, I would return to Room 10 on the evening of January 11th. If the room was unoccupied I was allowed to go inside and sit in the same place I did the night Jesus came. I could feel His presence surround me and provide me the belief that Dad was with Him. Sitting around fishing and watching cows. Without pain and no longer needing Room 10.

As I reflect on these memories this year I have realized I too no longer need to go to Room 10. All the warmth, love and safety I felt in Room 10 is living in my heart. Dad remains a part of me daily. I’m blessed he didn’t tell he how to live – he lived and let me watch.

The Pink Clock

School is starting and this story has been on my heart for sometime. As I watched children in the school supply isle this weekend I felt now is the time to share. Being in education for 25 years, twelve as a principal, I saw daily the difference teachers make in the lives of children. I’m writing this to tell my story but mostly hoping current teachers will read, reflect, and understand the power they have in lives of those they teach. Your words matter and will move your students forward or cause them to quit.

I loved school growing up. I loved the feel of my new, red, Big Chief tablet and the smell of my real cigar box purchased from the downtown dime store. To me school was exciting and I loved to make friends and talk. My parents raised me to value school, learn everything I could, respect my teachers, keep my mouth shut (I had a problem with this one), and never cause them to receive a call from a teacher or a principal. I was taught my behavior, or lack of, was a reflection on them and I had been taught proper discipline at home. All the above were non-negotiables.

1st Grade was when I entered the world of public education – September 1964. In the “old days” we didn’t have Meet the Teacher night. We all arrived early the first morning – which was Tuesday after Labor Day – to view a handwritten list of names taped to the teacher’s doors. That’s how you discovered your new teacher for the year.

I couldn’t have been more excited – I was in Mrs. Ruby Milam’s class. I had so hoped to get her. She taught both my parents and they had great memories of being in her class. The desks were all in rows, but hers were not front to back. Her rows were long – left to right – and there were only two rows. That gave me a lot of options to find someone to talk to, but that’s another story.

The dress I wore the first day was plaid and had a white collar. I had a black velvet bow in my hair. These details are still fresh in my memory as is the fact that my assigned seat was on the first row, right in the middle. I reflect as a former teacher, and that spot is one of the places I would put a student who might have talking tendencies.

Mrs. Milam was tiny, not quite 5 ft. tall with solid gray hair and the sweetest voice – unless you didn’t listen. Rulers were used during “those days” to get our attention if we were talking and not listening, and Mrs. Milam wasn’t afraid to use her ruler.

As the year progressed I remember how smart she made me feel. I learned to read really well and really fast. She found books to keep me interested. But what I remember most is how smart she made me feel in MATH. I was a “whiz” she would call me. After I had completed all the skills I needed for 1st grade Math she took me and two more students, to an area away from the other students. She brought with her three, small, pink, paper clocks with brown hands. She told us we were ahead of the others and she wanted to go ahead and begin working with us on telling time. I can still remember that feeling. I’m smart in MATH. My Dad was really great at Math and I couldn’t wait to tell him.

I got to take the clock home with me and practice and I did – every night. I learned how to tell time in record time! Mrs. Milam would talk to me about my parents and share how smart they were and how much she enjoyed teaching them. I remember taking her roses from our rose bushes when they would bloom. She always kept them on her desk. 1st grade could not have been any better!

As the elementary years progressed I had other good teachers but none as good as Mrs. Milam – until 5th Grade. I was blessed to get to be in Mrs. Medlin’s class. Another sweet lady who had taught my parents. She worked us hard but was a master at providing us praise. If you were in Mrs. Medlin’s class you knew you were smart and left each day feeling good about yourself. I continued to be a whiz in Math.

Then in 7th grade my educational world dissolved. I entered believing I was smart at MATH. For six years I’d been extremely successful at every level. I will not share the teacher’s name for professional reasons, but she is the reason I failed at math from that year forward.

This was during the time what was called “New Math” hit the scene. All the parents and teachers were nervous about how to introduce it, should it be taught this early, what would be taught next and in a small town Math teachers weren’t knocking down doors to teach. The material was introduced and it was the most confusing stuff I’d ever looked at. I didn’t understand anything in the book, anything she wrote on the board, nor anything that she tried to explain. But, I did remember I had a very smart Dad at home who was great at Math. He was running a lumber yard working with contractors to build houses. Numbers were his gift and I had the perfect resource to help me get “smart” again.

I took my book and homework home and sat down with Dad. I can remember the frustration on his face. He shared that he saw what they were doing but he didn’t understand why they would use such a confusing way to get the answer. He showed me how he would get the answer and it was like a light bulb turned on. His way made sense. I was so relieved and skipped into the classroom the next day and couldn’t wait to volunteer to work a problem on the board.

Well you can guess what happened. When I placed the problem on the board she laughed out loud, threw her hands in the air, and asked me how I came up with such a ridiculous way to reach the answer – which by the way was the correct answer. I proudly shared my Dad worked with me the previous night, and while I didn’t understand what we had been doing in class, his methods all made sense. I was so excited. And she responded to me:

“The person who helped you quit school in 10th grade. He had a drunk for a father. Your father never graduated from high school, and by the way your mother didn’t either. You will be lucky if we get you out of high school now sit down.” I quit Math that day. I never listened to another word she had to say nor did I ever learn “New Math.”

I was 12 in 7th grade and knew some of my parent’s struggles. I knew they were born in poverty and so was I. I knew that poverty kept them from finishing school, that Dad had to go to work to provide for nine siblings, as he was the oldest boy. I also know that Dad had broken the cycle and worked his way out of poverty to ensure we as a family would not be a statistic. I later discovered Mrs. Milam and Mrs. Medlin both knew my parent’s history and helped make certain they were successful. These two sweet ladies saw something in me and I’m guessing the same thing they saw in my parents. They knew our STORY.

I never recovered, even to this day, from the remarks made by that 7th grade teacher and I never told Dad nor Mom what she said. My Dad continued a successful career in business and my mother achieved her GED as well as her teaching degree from TWU. They both had the ability they just weren’t provided the availability. Both were just as “smart” as other classmates; however, they were their only advocates. That and intuitive teachers like Mrs. Milam.

Because my parents were not high school graduates my high school teachers never spoke to me about college – not even my high school counselor. He would pull students into his office and they would come back with college literature and plans for college tours but never one time was it mentioned to me. I scheduled my own college tour and navigated through the paperwork the best I could.

In spite of what I consider educational neglect, I was born with an intrinsic desire to succeed. That paired with parents who daily built me up, brainwashed me on the importance of an education, held me accountable, and allowed me to draft my own path. I consider my teaching and leadership careers to be exceptionally successful. From my first day until my final day in 2017 my focus was making certain every student knew they mattered. I didn’t disappoint Mrs. Ruby Milam, who knew Linda Raylene would someday make a difference in others.

I tried to focus on learning the story of every student – they all have them. Sometimes they don’ know how to share their story and it is the teacher and principal’s job to do the research. Listen to what they say, what they do, how they smile or don’t. Look into their eyes. Do their eyes sparkle or do they try to be invisible in your classroom.

Please teachers learn the stories of your student’s. Know where they came from, what they have and don’t have, build them up, make them feel “smart.” What you do daily can accelerate or deflate a child – and it doesn’t matter the age. School is hard and the demands of life even harder. Make a promise to Everyday be someone’s Pink Clock.

The Silent Widow

On the inside, I’ve wanted to write this for years. On the outside I continue to smile and ignore the knot inside of me screaming “you must tell.” The knot continues to scream, this story must be heard! The knot continues to ask me why am I “uncomfortable” sharing? Do I think I’m the only one suffering in silence? Why is the topic of becoming a young widow taboo? Yesterday the knot won.

I’ve shared being raised in a small community. My life lessons came from a father who believed in discipline and from Southern Baptist preaching where I began attending while still in a baby crib. I attended this same church every time the doors were open. This alter is where I gave my heart to Jesus at age nine and ten years later said my wedding vows, moving with my husband 50 miles away from where I was raised. I was so scared to be that far from all I’d ever known, but I had found my soul-mate. My best friend. Life was as it should be.

After marriage I completed my degree in education while working full-time. My husband’s job caused us to move around Texas for three years and during this time we had our first child. We managed to move back to our town and settle down. Our daughter was born and our little family was complete. Gary and I made the decision for me to be a stay-at-home mom. We felt God blessed us with two beautiful, healthy children and we wanted to be the ones who raised them. This came with a cost. Raising a family of four on one income was difficult. We could only afford one car and a smaller house than we would have liked. However, our focus remained on family – not fortune.

Years passed quickly and memories were collected. To say our marriage was perfect would not be true, but it was near perfect. Arguments were few, our children made us proud, every summer we spent two weeks in a pop-up camper in Colorado with just us, nature, and fresh air. Life was just as we’d planned and dreamed. The “knight in shining armor”, that all little girls think is real, actually had found me. We raised our children in church, battled through job losses, held hands while we watched our son thrive as a Rider Raider, cried together at his graduation, and as we left him in Lubbock, Texas to become a Red Raider.

Our daughter was finally the only child. She was social and always with friends. Gary and I looked forward to weekly date nights and talked often of how blessed we were to have found each other. We made plans of how we would grow old together. We watched friend’s marriages deteriorate, which seemed to always pull us closer. We went to church, gave of our finances to church, and would have people often tell us we were the “perfect family.” And you know I began to believe that as well. God sure was good. Until…

On April 11, 2001, I was teaching and my assistant principal came to my classroom at 3:10 and told me to get my purse. I resisted – not sure why. I couldn’t leave. There were 25 students in my classroom – one of them being my best friend’s son. She demanded and my mind began going in so many directions. First I just knew something had happened to my son at Tech. Was it my daughter? She remained quiet and escorted me down the stairs. When we reached the bottom she shared that my husband was “in trouble. They think he is having a heart attack and I needed to get there.” Me in shock saying he’s only 46. It had to be something else.

As we drove I begged, prayed, screamed, bargained with God. Please let it be a mistake. I even told God we have been the perfect family. Living by His Word. I stayed at home and raised the children. We were involved in church and raised our children there. We ensured they trusted You as their Savior. We gave our money. We prayed as a family. Come on God. Doesn’t that make a difference?

When I reached my husband’s office I saw him laying on the floor with EMT’s shocking and shocking his heart. They threw him on a gurney and ran past me. From there everything seemed surreal and in slow motion. We followed the ambulance, which continued to rock as they continued to try and shock him back to life. After waiting in the ER, the doctor talked to me and shared the standard line, “We did everything we could to help your husband but he expired at 4:28.” What do you mean expired? No I’m 44 years old. We have two children. One is away at college. Our daughter is 16 years-old. Our 25th anniversary is in three months and we have a cruise planned. He still has to watch our daughter graduate. He still has to walk her down the aisle. He can’t expire! He’s my soul mate. The only one who understands my quirks. None of that mattered as the doctor escorted me and my daughter to where he expired.

There is no pain like seeing the pain on your 16 year-old daughter’s face as she looks at her hero, lifeless, on a gurney, his shirt cut open, burned spots glaring where shock attempts were made, not to mention the large white tube still hanging from his mouth. At that moment I didn’t even try to talk to God. God was dark to me. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t speak.

At 44 you don’t visualize yourself walking around a cemetery looking for the perfect place to bury your 46 year-old soul-mate. You don’t plan on sitting at a gigantic conference table planning a funeral while your children watch stunned with tears in their eyes. All these things you do and everyone is watching. They are watching to see how strong you are. You hear whispers among those in your home. They are all wondering “how is she going to do this?” “They were so attached I don’t see how she can make it without him.” “They’ve been married 25 years. They grew up together. She doesn’t know life except with him.” You go through the motions of the viewing and funeral service. Everyone covers your house with food, company, and activity. But the time comes that you must face the word “widow” and the silence begins.

Your friends have gone back home to their families – which are still in tact. They hurt for you but everything in their world still works like before. I had a recliner no one would sit in because it was “his.” His spot was still at the table. His clothes were still in the closet. His pillow still on the bed just like he left it that last morning. More silence. I could not hear God nor could I feel God. I felt abandoned and forgotten. My Southern Baptist lessons taught me that God was almighty. He could have saved my husband that afternoon yet he chose not to. That’s how I saw it.

And the things people would say -“He’s in a better place.” What? Like NO the better place is here with his family taking care of business. I had one friend tell me, “Gary’s death had made her husband realize how important she was to him and that he had began to shower her with attention and gifts.” Well I’m so glad that my husband died so yours could be a better man to you. My final break with God was when a friend in our Sunday School class shared that I should begin attending the singles class. My presence in the “couples” class was too hard on the rest of the members and, well, I wasn’t part of a couple anymore. The anger continued to swell inside and I knew I needed help.

My search began. I called every organization, every church and no one had any type of support for a “young” widow. They offered grief support groups and I tried to attend but there was no one there like me. Some had lost young children and others were in their 60’s and 70’s and had lost their spouses. Some had lost parents. Please there has to be someone like me. Someone my age, thrown into poverty through sudden death, worried about their children’s health. Staying up at night watching and listening in fear that their child would try to hurt themselves because their pain was so raw, and they refused to even say the word “Dad.” Trying to keep one enrolled in college four hours away and having no idea how he was handling his grief. Both refusing to discuss the death with me. More silence.

I read every book I could afford on surviving widowhood. Oh there’s that word again. Nothing was written about the “young widow.” Everything was spiritual, sharing scripture and prayers. No I know what the Bible says. I know where to find the scripture. I need to talk to someone who mirrors me. Someone who had a husband one minute and the next he’d expired. Someone to tell me how they made it one minute at a time. I needed someone who knew what I felt without having to say a word. Someone whose child would graduate from college without his proud father watching. Someone whose daughter would graduate from high school without Dad. Someone who dreaded a wedding because there’s no one to walk her down the isle. Someone who would feel bittersweet at every holiday, weddings and births of grandchildren. But I found no one. Silence.

Seventeen years have passed and not one year has been easy. Some easier than others. All happy occasions remain bittersweet. It still amazes me how quickly I can return to April 11, 2001. Recently a friend’s husband passed suddenly. Her children are similar to mine. With the blink of an eye it threw me back in time. Fragile. Unsettled. Feeling the rawness I know she has in her heart. My heart continues to ache as I know how hopeless her days and nights are. I reached out to her with shared silence. The silence only she understands. Wanting her to know she is not alone – there is someone like her. Someone who’s broken, lived minute to minute, and is now able to live day to day. She responded that, “I provided her comfort during desperate days.” Those of us who had the label “young widow” and plowed through the fog must provide comfort during desperate days – even if it takes us back to a place we prefer not to remember. It’s painful for us to go back to “that time” but we have to break the silence. Too many suffer in silence because the topic is too difficult for those unlike us to hear.

Life is unpredictable and our days are numbered before we are born. Yes, I learned that in my small Baptist church. It’s easy to say yet hard to accept. But I no longer will remain silent. The knot inside is no longer a tangled mass. It will always remain and that’s ok. It’s a scar inside and never do I want to forget, because with my grief knot I will continue to reach out to those like me. Those who will openly speak about the unpredictability of life not because someone has told us but because we live it.

Casting Worries and Seaweed

After much discussion and surfing the web, our grandchildren convinced us that we MUST select a beach vacation for our family this summer. If you know me, the grandsons get what they want – always.

Through hours, days, and weeks I looked at all condos on Orange Beach. The location with soothing ocean waves and white, pristine sand. Finally, the perfect condo was booked and the planning began.

With the condo being right on the beach I envisioned myself spending seven days splashing in the ocean with the family. I even forced my self to try on new swim suits and purchased three new ones! Having lived in Corpus Christi for a little over a year, the voice in the back of my head kept trying to remind me of how fickle the ocean can be. Not on this vacation – not on the week my grandsons come to town. The cars were bursting at the seams with boogie boards, golf clubs, ice chests, and beach towels. This week would be one to put into my memory file forever.

We arrived at Silver Beach condo after a 12-hour drive divided in two days. The condo was roomy, with a wonderful pool and perfect beach access. Of course we immediately checked out the ocean and it was just as we’d dreamed. The sand was pristine white and the waves beckoned the boys to grab their boogie boards and join in. Their laughter made the cramped drive worth every mile!

The next morning everyone woke up ready to spend the day with Mother Nature. After gathering up ice chests, towels, and sun screen we headed to the beach.
The night before we experienced a thunderstorm and for those of you who have witnessed what the beach and ocean can look like once it has been stirred,
you already have a visual. Hours before our beach was a touch of heaven – that morning it looked like spinach had thrown up all over the sand. Being positive the boys inched in and gave it a try. They were covered in green, slimy, seaweed – and the smell was awful. To the pool we headed for the rest of the day. There’s always tomorrow.

Tomorrow came and the piles of slime were even higher on the beaches. Fed up with this green nonsense I decided to “google” seaweed to see how long this stuff hangs around. I learned more than I ever cared to know about seaweed, but what I discovered is it’s multicellular, marine algae and it comes and goes as it pleases. Unfortunately we chose just the time that the ocean decided to share its June “grass” with its visitors. This multicellular mess would hang around all week.

On our final day of vacation I visited the spinach covered beach and sat in my rented umbrella chair for the final time. As I watched the waves come and go and churn with the green barf, I was intrigued by how forceful the expulsion of the seaweed was by the ocean. It was as if the ocean was tired of the phytoplankton and saw the opportunity to dispose of it. Just get rid of the ugly stuff.

I began to reflect on life – my life – and thought how I wish it was that easy to just rid myself of all the worries each day brings. The ocean makes it look so smooth and simple. Just go forward, throw it all away, and repeat. Why isn’t it that easy for us? Why do we continue to hold on to the things we can not control or change? I continued to watch the ocean, decided to close my eyes, and began to cast a worry each time the waves came crashing in dumping seaweed. I’ve grown up repeating the verse, “Cast all your anxiety on Him because he cares for you. Phillippians 4:6-7. I know this verse by heart, yet I do not practice the casting. For a short time I was one with the waves, letting go and letting God. Practicing the casting. What a powerful feeling it was – slowly releasing the worries to God – one by one.

I left the beach that day changed. Being reminded that I weigh myself down with doubt and worry. Even the ocean is smart enough to rid itself of what weighs down its purpose. I took pictures of the spinach throw up on the beach to be a constant reminder that God wants my worries. Just as the waves rids the ocean of the ugly stuff, God will do the same. It’s up to me to practice daily casting.

Five Dresses and the Dump Ground

Today I was shopping for a new purse. I own two purses, both name brands, and both cost too much. The one I currently carry is black for fall and I was upset because it’s only one-year old and the handles are fraying. The other purse is cream colored for spring. I decided spring is close enough so I tried to switch today. Another frustration because the cream purse wasn’t quite large enough to hold all my stuff. It was large enough last spring so I’m not clear why it wasn’t large enough today.

I ventured out to look for purses and prior to leaving I’d already decided to forego the “over-priced name brand.” Being retired makes you look at personal expenses differently. As I looked at various handbags I couldn’t find one that satisfied me because the non-name brand purses just weren’t as soft, not as accommodating as the ones with the tag letting everyone know what you paid for your purse. My emotional file cabinet flew open and I was reminded of my Dad and the five dresses my parents always bought me for the beginning of school.

As time approached to return to school in September – yes we didn’t begin until after Labor Day – Dad would give my Mom money and we’d drive from Nocona to Wichita Falls to purchase dresses at Levine’s. I was always allowed to pick out five new outfits for back-to-school. I’d have a new dress to wear everyday the first week of school. This was always a special treat and looking back, something that no doubt was difficult for my parents to buy.

This tradition continued for several years until one year when Dad threw me a curve, another one of those lessons that at the time I didn’t quite understand until adulthood. Today digging through purses I was reminded of the change Dad made that year and the power of his choice on another young girl.

When I was around 10 I arrived home with my five new dresses and tried each one on – pranced around the house excited about showing them off at school. The next day when Dad arrived home from work he told me to get the new dresses and come with him. While that was an odd order you just do what your parents tell you – or at least you did in my house! We loaded up in Dad’s pick-up and headed for the dump ground. There was no such thing as trash pick-up in our town. You placed your trash in metal barrels and took it to the dump ground. A family lived close by and their job was to rake and cover up the trash everyone dumped.

I went there with Dad often and one of the daughters of the couple who worked the dump ground was in my class. I was confused because we didn’t have barrels of trash in the truck. We stopped at their house rather than going to the dump. Dad told me to get my five dresses and come with him. I did and we walked to the front door. My Dad was raised in poverty and had an appreciation for anyone who works hard – regardless of their chosen job. He greeted the father with respect and asked if we could come inside. The house was tiny and the odors of everyone’s trash floated down to their house. I remember wondering how awful it would be to smell that all the time.

Dad told the man I had something special for his daughter and asked if we could talk to her. Now understand I was not privy to any part of his plan. His daughter came into their small living room and Dad shared we had five new school dresses and we’d like to give her one of them for her first day of school. I can still see the shocked look on her face and have no doubt I couldn’t hide the shocked look on mine. Her clothes consisted of items others disposed of at the dump ground or clothes that were given to her from a church. Items others no longer wanted. Dad spread out all five dresses on their couch and told her to pick any one she wanted. It took her quite a while – and you guessed it she picked my favorite one. The one I planned on wearing the first day of school.

I recovered well because there really wasn’t any other choice. We visited for a while and were thanked hundreds of times for the dress by the parents and their daughter. Dad picked up the four dresses and we said our goodbyes and headed to the truck. As we left their house I sat silent, a little angry, and very confused. Then my Dad spoke. “Linda Raylene do you know what just happened?” I shook my head no. “How many dresses do you have for school?” I responded with four. “Yes you have four brand new dresses and how many does she have? She has one – one new dress that hasn’t been worn and she got to pick out that dress.” I told Dad that she took my favorite dress – the one I was going to wear on the first day. He shared we would have the blessing knowing on the first day of school she would feel good about how she looked – even if it was just for one day. That day she would look like everyone else – coming to school in new clothes.

As you can guess this became a tradition with us as long as they lived there managing the dump ground. For obvious reasons friends were hard for her to make so Dad would usually drop me off at her house and we would play together while he took our trash to the dump.

Today I left the store with my black purse with frayed handles. When I got home I clipped the strings off the handles and it looks fine. Today I didn’t need a new purse – I needed a reminder of Dad’s lesson that one small act of giving has a ripple effect that can completely change the life of someone else.

The Strength and Depth of Weeds

This Texas morning, I stepped out the front door to take the trash to the corner. It’s trash day and we all know you better not be late or you are stuck with your stinky refuse until your next pick-up day.

As I was walking back to the house I noticed several weeds had popped through the mulch. We’d received rain yesterday and knowing the weeds would be easier to pull I began to choose which weeds would be easier to attack first. As I was pulling I began to notice larger weed groups, let’s call them clumps because that’s what my Dad called them. Weeds that had woven together to make sure their hold in the dirt was solid. This small menial task hit me emotionally in a way that transported me back almost 50 years, allowing me to open up my file cabinet of memories and ponder – the depth and strength of weeds.

Growing up in a rural Texas town taught me more about “real” life than I learned in obtaining three college degrees. Living on the edge of town meant we battled keeping the weeds growing in our pastures from trying to take life and choke out the carpet grass in our yard. In my family we called St. Augustine grass “carpet grass” because it was so soft and comfortable to walk on with the added advantage that you knew you would not step on a “goat head” in this grass. Yes “goat head’ is another rural term – the sticker with a vengeance that once attached to your foot hurt worse than stepping on a rusty nail.

I spent many hours in our yard pulling weeds with my Dad. Dad was a man of few words but when he did speak, I know now that it usually accompanied a life lesson. I didn’t understand that at 12 years old. Actually at times I resented the time I had to waste bending over in the Texas heat and using both hands begging a green, slick, stubborn wad of sprigs to release itself from the dirt. We’d then throw the weeds into an old wheel barrow, which never rolled straight, and cart them to the back-end of the pasture far away from the house.

As a kid I remember thinking, “Aren’t we just sort of pulling them up from the yard and moving them to a different area where they get in line to someday to regrow until they have moved to the area where they can blow back into the yard?” Something I would never have said out loud to Dad but the thought was there.

As we would pull weeds Dad would bring me a clump of weeds where each strand had grown together so tightly he had to grab on with both hands, wiggle the clump back and forth – back and forth. The weeds had conspired and organized in such a way they were certain they could never be removed from continuing their damage to the healthy grass.

Dad then showed me how you had to wiggle then pull, wiggle then pull, and repeat for several intervals before the roots unwillingly gave up their deep hold, fully absorbed by the moist dirt underneath. He didn’t always succeed. Some weeds had an intense awareness they were trying to be “uprooted” and their attachment extended so deep that our strength was unable to move them. I’d look at my Dad and ask, “So what now?” That’s where the life lesson came in except at 12 I was oblivious. This morning fifty years later, what he shared jumped from my emotional file cabinet and hit me hard.

What Dad shared was this: “Raylene (my middle name he always called me) you see weeds are like people. Weeds are alive and they take root. Just like people take root in where they live, what they believe, how they treat each other. Weeds are necessary because they grow fast, build up soil so when we plant healthy grass the soil is prepared. Some weeds are weak and you can yank those out with two fingers. Those are the weeds that don’t know where they want to be and don’t have a strong belief system of who they are. Those weeds won’t help build up our soil. You never want to be one of those weeds. Anybody can tug them out and toss them away.”

“Now look at this clump here,” and he proceeded to show me the larger mass of weeds. When I viewed them from a distance they looked like unattractive grass but once I kneeled down close I could get a good look at their orchestrated plan. They were deep down in the soil with a mission. “Raylene this is the weed you want to be. Just try to pull one up.” I tugged, wiggled, pulled with both hands. I had to stop because I was truly sweating. When I looked at his face he was laughing his quiet chuckle. He was enjoying watching me struggle and being a strong-willed child I now understand why the snicker.

“Raylene this is the weed you want to be. Plant yourself with a purpose. Gather around others who believe like you believe. Help prepare the soil so when other grass is ready to be planted you have left them a healthy place to grow. And see this long sprig of weed right here?” He pointed to the toughest, tallest, weed in the group. “That is the weed you want to be. This weed speaks for the other weeds. It’s a little intimidating this weed. When you grab the clump of weeds to pull it you surround this weed with all the smaller weeds. It’s like your hiding it so you can’t see how strong it is. But it’s strong and it’s looking right at you. This weed will be the last one to let go. This weed will not let go of its grasp in the soil until it knows it’s the right thing to do. If you become this weed, then as your father I’ve done my job.”

I will share that at this moment I honestly questioned my Dad’s sanity. It was hot, it was summer, I didn’t want to be pulling weeds nor having a conversation about them, but for this strong-willed daughter just finishing what he told me to do was my ticket back into the house with the one refrigerated air conditioner.

This morning 48 years later, as I kneeled in my weeds every emotion possible came flooding to the surface. Dad was successful in raising that strong-willed daughter to be a strong-willed wife, mother, friend, educator and Christian. Throughout the many detours and road blocks in life I have never lost my focus of who I am and what I believe. My Dad was a man of few words – the smartest man I’ve ever known. He was a simple man and a spiritual man. I don’t call him religious because I’ve realized he never placed his faith in men of the pulpit. He would call that “religion.” His faith was placed in his Heavenly Father and he didn’t need the doors of a church building to remind him that God did exist.

Dad went to Heaven ten years ago after a battle with colon cancer. Those last few months were difficult on all of us but him! Not one complaint about his disease or pain. Not one time did he ask, “Why me?” Just Dad hanging on with a tight grasp in the soil until God knew it was time for him to be at peace and no longer needed to be the tough weed standing tall. He did his work as a father. He grew a daughter, while most of the time a difficult daughter, she “gets” what it means to be the lead weed.

All my life it’s been my passion to fight for the underdog – to never be afraid to speak for those in need – even at the expense of knowing it might not be popular – at the expense of knowing it could cost me career advancement – I used to consider this a flaw. Many times I’ve left meetings hitting myself in the forehead telling myself to “STOP.” Just stop caring – stop fighting. Stop bringing to the surface topics no one wants to hear or face as truth. But I wasn’t raised to be the weed that was easy to pull from the soil. The ones Dad described as weak.

As I sit on my back porch in my Dad’s wooden rocker, the one he sat in outside for thousands of hours just talking to his brothers or friends -or not talking and just soaking up the peace of the silence, I have realized being the “lead weed” is who I am. And that’s ok. The preparation began many years ago and knowing that my Heavenly Father has planted in me a deep-rooted strong moral and ethical compass which was passed down through the quiet wisdom of my Earthly father, adds a smile to my tears.

As I sit, write, and smile, rain has begun to fall. I see this as God’s blessing of watering the weeds. They must grow because Dad said weeds are necessary as they grow fast, build up soil, so when we plant healthy grass the soil is prepared. God prepares his soil and he’s prepared me to hold on until my work is done.