Naming Myself

IMG_7834
Hey, there – it’s Sue. My typical greeting, I name myself whenever I use it, shortening my name, Sue Ellen, to Simply Sue.

In preparation for saying goodbye to Mom and participating in her memorial, I have started practicing again, going to a local Methodist church to use their piano/s while we continue to look for our new home where my piano will take up space again – physical space and life space.

When I start playing again, the familiar stories resurface, asking for another rehearsal and perhaps an invitation to be fully seen, gently cradled, and kindly honored as deep spaces of naming. Perhaps it is Mom’s imminent departure that calls me back to the depth of the place where I have experienced exquisite joy and wonder, as well as heartbreak and shame. The ambivalence – not of music, never – but of naming music’s place in my very life has gotten very old, very worn, and very tired, like Mom looks right now.

When I come here, the question arises, but how? How did this happen? How do I honor the stories while I also pick up the name of musician, composer, creator, and look the shadow of “pride”, “selfishness”, and “worthless” in the face, and say, But of course! You are welcome here, too! Please come into this bright space. I don’t know how long you will be able to stay this time, being welcomed and all. You all look a little naked, honestly, and the light is getting brighter.

Multiple stories of “no” – no, you can’t play for the Coconut Grove Playhouse at 13, even
though you are good enough and your teacher thinks you are ready. No, you can’t go to that songwriting workshop in Colorado. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.” No, you can’t get that music because it doesn’t have Jesus’ name in it. Yes! You can do a senior (high school) full length recital. No, you can’t go to a school of your choice, even though you could have your pick of multiple universities. “Why do you want to transfer? It’s just as good as any other school.” “If I am going to pay for you to live, you are going to move home.”

“Sue, your composition is one of the best in the class. I’d like for you to get a group of singers together to present it to the class.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Why?”
“Well, I’m new here and I don’t know anybody.”
“Aren’t you in A Cappella Choir?”
“Yes.”
“I think a lot of people would be glad to help you.”
“I can’t do that.”

“Sue, I’d like you to be the Assistant Instructor for Jazz Vocal 2 next year. What do you think?”
“I can’t do it.”
“Do you mean you aren’t available or you don’t want to?”
“Even if I want to, I can’t do it. I just don’t know enough.”
“Well, I’m asking you and I’m the head of the program, so I think you know enough.”
Basically I tell him, vocal jazz director at the University of Miami, I don’t trust you. Because I say no. Again.

“Sue, you are a part of the group invited to Chicago to work in the studio with one of the top jingle producers in America.”
“Well, I’m pregnant, and I’m not going to do anything like that anyway.”
“Are you sure? I think you would really enjoy it.”
“No, I’ll just give that opportunity to Erin……….. (who has recorded albums)”

It was a mash-up of no’s – sometimes Mom where content and religiosity reigned, and sometimes Dad who engrained each of us with a dependency that would stifle life and hope and joy. Art? Eh. It’s a mostly worthless endeavor. Music? It’s nice for church. We can get visibility with you up there. “Who do you think you are?” “You don’t know what you want.” When the messages are consistent, the brain has no other option but to remember them. Doubt yourself. Minimize what has happened here. Worship me. When anger and fear are the primary emotions exhibited, the young child imprints them and cowers, waiting for the next gust front.

So I learned to say no. In saying no, I leaned into hiding. Those who have heard me play or sing know that I don’t hide there. But within myself – isn’t this tricky? – I hid from me. So the shadows of names called in the fundamentalist, legalistic, religious world – pride, selfishness, worthy or worthless – struck my center again and again. I held the blows because I didn’t know that they could blow through with the gust front.

So now, those shadowy nothings, welcome as they are, find that without power, they just float, and that doesn’t work so well. I’m leaning into the space and taking the names, musician, composer, creator. I’m coming out of hiding from me.

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Mother

Mom, Sydney and Tova second wedding

Mother

 

Six letters carry a sack of expectations, regrets, hopes, disappointment

so heavy you think she collapses

But she carries this sack and the next one and the next one with the greatest

hope that someday, the sacks will be weightless

 

She dances the jitterbug, limbs askew, body energy jumps out, sensuality,

limbs play basketball when “girls don’t play games like that”

She learns early she has power and pleasure to put in her sack but she

doesn’t know how that will feel after she adds religious rightness to the mix

 

She dreams of joining the armed forces, ready to nurse sick soldiers to the health

she imagines

She leaves the dreams behind for a soldier who shows up on the steps at the hospital,

engaged but not engaged

In her mind and heart, but in the bag of expectations and the haze of dreams

 

She escapes to her dreams as he returns, flies solo to Florida, to sunshine, easy days,

starting a new life in a new place with sacks

Holding hiding things – the loss of a mother, the loss of a brother, another brother shot out of the sky over France

Taking her innocence, leaving his purple heart

 

He finds her, convinces her to never leave him, he sees the sacks and imagines

himself the answer, imagines her in love with him

She imagines that her sacks will be safe in his keeping, unaware of his sacks,

imagines herself the healer once again of the soldier

home from the war

 

So the war heads indoors, conflict embodies in bodies,

and the sacks gain weight when she takes them to church

To be filled with more warheads that launch across

the arc of her children’s lives without even knowing it

 

This beautiful mother, a woman of grace and vigor, Grace her name,

and life and art

Stronger than she knows, more hopeful, even as the sacks remain

full, my mother whom I love, fierce, full, free

Where I’m From

Miami palms

I am from the yellow cinder block house
on the street with all of the other cinderblock houses,
hibiscus blooms and palm fronds,
houses painted colors that speak Miami native

I am from the grassy backyard succulent mango
and the tall loquat, perfect for climbing,
first picking, then sucking, then spitting out the dark, nutty pit,
juice and fruit still favored tastes

I am from Fred and Eleanor –
from silence and rage, never quite sure
which would show itself and how, and when,
from laughing and crying, storm surge and light breeze

I am from “You’re the baby” – meaning, you are alone

From “Uncle Clarence said you were the prettiest
baby he had ever seen”, from short haircuts I never
wanted and clothes chosen for me,
from beauty thought dangerous, hidden and suppressed

Church every Sunday morning, afternoon, night
Every Wednesday night
Every revival night
Every Thursday night, possibly Tuesday morning
Every Saturday morning

From the old painted upright against the eggshell living room wall,
dark green patterned carpet under my feet,
across from the record player with stacks and stacks
of “only music with Jesus’ name,”
antique white with a swaying bench,
that sheltered me from the tumult inside and out
gifting me the place to feel
whatever I could feel
and took me to countries, over oceans
beyond boundaries

I am from performing, appearance,
hoping and dreaming
frightened and forceful
daring to love what I wanted to love

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And What is Love?

me at two

Love.

Unconsciously, we bring stories – some true, some not as true, some false – that form our meaning. Every person has a different bodily reaction to the word, a unique pathway through the limbic system. Wandering through those stories and sensations can invite newness and openness, rather than defining and prescribing one right meaning. Inner work embraces feeling every emotion, regardless of its perceived importance or “rightness”. Anger and rage show up as they are, speaking the truth of what they saw and experienced. Shame and rejection receive invitations to the table so they may lay down what they have carried for endless years.

Love is an action, but it is not only an action. Emotions attach there, or they have for me, and the untangling of those has taken years of work, allowing the emotions to speak rather than denying or judging them as less worthy, as “sinful”, or any other number of choices that came to me from both home and church. Crying and sadness were banished to another room until I could “control myself.” Anger, though a constant companion to everyone with whom  I lived, needed to submerge itself, swimming underwater until it could come up for air in some solitary spot. Fear heard Bible verses that admonished it to remain hidden because it obviously did not trust in God. Anxiety shivered in the corner. Forgiveness meant silence, another twisted message. Whatever you do, don’t speak. In cooperation with the systems in place, I denied, judged, and controlled those consummately uncontrollable feelings and I joined the systems in passing judgments on others. How could she, how could he, how could they, etc. It didn’t feel good and it didn’t happen all of the time, but it fit.

Wanting to love my father as he was, not as I wished he would be or as others thought him to be, guided me over rocky cliffs and through surging waters that coursed within my body. Having come to the conclusion from years of exposure that the body, MY body, was suspicious, unruly, untrustworthy, shameful, and full of betrayal, imagine my surprise to find that my body holds everything I have ever experienced with great honesty, honor and kindness. The trinity of me – body, self, mind – lives in concert unless. Unless I learn to cut it off, which is actually impossible. But the mind can hold on for a long, long time, pretending that the body doesn’t know what happened, where the blows landed, how the scars lay. Piecing together the lives of my parents constitutes an act of love because love no longer means silence, complicity or denial. Love holds all – anger, peace, envy, fear, anxiety, kindness, hope, laughter, sadness, every single thing is held in love.

The stories of my father’s life are limited because he did not tell them. Some people believe that it is natural for a person to not speak of his life, that it was just a generational thing, that this was humility, that this was normal. I disagree. I believed that for a long time because it was said so many times, but as I became friends with older folks including my friend Mary, I realized that some people don’t speak because they don’t speak. Generally, if we don’t speak, we don’t want anyone to know. From my religious background, speaking could be considered selfish or self-centered or vindictive. For me to speak, I needed to notice all of those internal spaces that told me what I could expect from others who wanted me to say something different, what I was, what I intended. It has taken time and others’ presence to accept wanting, desiring, hoping, speaking, needing, feeling, a continuing work in progress. So I tell the few stories of my father in tribute to him, in gratitude for what he gave me, in sorrow and anger for what he took, in hope that he is well, in reality of what was, knowing that love is holding.

Dad was born in New London, Connecticut, in 1920, the oldest child and son of his parents, Marion and Priscilla. Priscilla’s family lived in Connecticut, so I imagine that they were there to be surrounded at the time of his birth. No stories exist of this time, only a photograph of Dad and Aunt Frances, my favorite, around the ages of five and three. The picture is packed away after moving, but the two children sit silently for the portrait, with little expression on their faces, an accepted practice at the time.

Childhood. I know that Dad was a choirboy – yes, he really was – at a church they attended. Whether this was in Connecticut or New York City – I don’t know. He was a good student and a favorite child. When he was young, his maternal grandmother, Priscilla’s mother who had moved from England and married Priscilla’s father, tied him to a tree for some minor mishap. He was not a hell-raiser. He was a little boy. From what I sense, he felt terror. Since these stories come again through my mother, the emotions remain at bay, a guessing game from the telling. Needless to say, there was no great kindness in his grandmother, so there are no stories of picnics or playing or reading. His father, Marion, hailed from South Carolina, the same county that gave the world Pat Conroy and Prince of Tides. According to family lore and lingo, he was the proverbial black sheep of the family so there are no stories of Dad’s paternal grandparents. The Hyrne family, a somewhat rascally group, bought Medway Plantation near Charleston, SC, in 1705 or thereabouts, only to lose it in debt, but the family name remains and continues in coastal South Carolina.

There are no love stories, no tales of how Priscilla and Marion met, but there are numerous tales of violence and terror. Marion was a violent alcoholic. The most commonly told story by far of Dad’s childhood revolved around Marion’s drunken rages. Priscilla, Fred, and Frances rode the subway in New York through the night to remain safe while Marion stormed the house. They would return in the light of morning, and according to Mom, the job of determining whether it was safe to enter the house fell to Dad. I don’t know how many years this happened, how old they were, how many times, what was the result if Marion had not sobered up, nothing. This is the nature of trauma. It is timeless. It is eternal – that is the sense in the body. It is no surprise to me that my father, who avoided and disparaged all external help that was essential to his growth, would not tell the story himself. I am grateful that he told Mom, and I am unclear why he did.

After Dad died, I took Mom to Long Island to see Aunt Frances, a dear, kind soul. Frances did not travel to Florida for Dad’s funeral because she suffered numerous health issues throughout her life, a fragile, bent body that endured much. I sat in the room with them both, Aunt Frances seated in an easy chair, Mom on a sofa, and me across the room, listening to the conversation that followed while the girls played outside in the yard with the dog. Mom had the ability to be intense. Understatement. She zeroed in intently, quickly, and with a certain ferocity on a story that Dad mentioned to her but had never quite had the courage to tell her. Sometime during their childhood or early adolescence, the family took a trip, possibly to Connecticut, definitely intended for pleasure, but horribly gone awry. As Mom described what little Dad had said – that there was a trip in a car, that they got lost, that something bad happened – I watched Aunt Frances. Her back that had been bent for years from health issues and general weakness, hunched over further. She sank into the chair, her eyes drifted to the floor as the memory returned to the present, her face held an incredible amount of pain, like a writhing knot had arisen in her stomach and she said, “It was very bad. It was very bad.” She shook her head. Mom pressed, but Aunt Frances did not relent. And that was it. The story died when she died a couple of years later, immediately followed by her only child, my cousin Priscilla. But the trauma continued, has continued and is in the process of being resolved by the generations who can name it for what it is.

Dad supported his family financially since his father would disappear for days, weeks, and possibly months at a time, leaving them to try and figure out how to make ends meet. Now, it appears odd to me that Grandma never went home to be with her family, though perhaps not surprising. I never connected with her – the peculiar relationship that she had with my father always made me feel uncomfortable in her presence. Whenever we went to visit Aunt Frances and Grandma in the summer because they lived together, Dad would enter Grandma’s room, close the door and spend hours in there with her while we did….whatever we did. It wasn’t a normal grandma situation – I had friends with stories about their grandparents, going to the house, playing games with them, listening to them, but not this family. That is my story of my grandmother, Grandma, the woman who raised my father. I never knew her.

World War II shook the country, and Dad enlisted. He had moved to Washington, DC, to work for the government, and went straight into the army, heading overseas. Officers noted his intelligence and chose him to be in officer’s training though he had not attended college. One of the few stories he would tell exhibited that he wasn’t as respectful as he was supposed to be. He ended up having to repeat some part of training or go someplace else because he had a smart mouth. I can admire that, and I think it was a point of pride since he was willing to tell the tale, an indication of the acceptable stories. I use the word exhibited intentionally versus exposure. The parts of him that were on display were accepted but the parts that were full of shame and self-loathing burnt a hole through him as he refused to allow the exposure of the wounds.

As an officer, he learned to give orders by going out into the forest and yelling. Again, for people who knew him, that might be surprising, but I believe it. After everything he endured throughout his life, being silent had saved him more than once. Whatever happened with his father, he took it and did not fight back. Learning to yell was a task he could handle. In the letters he wrote to my mother that she destroyed after his death, he told Mom about taking his beer rations and throwing them into the middle of the men boarded on the ship to watch them fight over it. I imagine he told her as a way to convince her that alcohol had no hold on him, with both of her parents killed by drunk drivers. He didn’t tell her about his rage, though, and she didn’t notice that that was an odd thing to do.

Dad never told stories about World War II. After he died, a man who had been in his unit under his leadership came to visit Mom. He brought with him a small book he had written years before that described the capture of the unit that Dad commanded in northern Italy. We only knew that he had been captured, that he had escaped, and that he credited his faith in God to an experience during that time. Of course, this is also through Mom, who had her own filters and needs in the telling.

Dad commanded a group of about twenty men, ready to take a hill in northern Italy as a new station for the troops to move forward and gain ground. As they advanced and took their places in an empty barn on an exposed hill, the enemy, Germany, cut the communication lines, leaving the unit without support or further assistance from the larger battalion. Discord within the unit about what to do, where to station themselves in the barn, how to approach the coming attack left Dad out of control, the control he rightfully should have had, and ended with several men killed and the rest including him captured by the Germans to be taken as prisoners of war. Some of them wanted to go out with guns blazing, taking as many Germans as they could with them; Dad wanted to surrender. The writing left me feeling gutted, something I am sure Dad felt at the time. In his mind, I imagine that he failed. That people died because of him. That he had been cowardly. That he could not save them. That he was helpless. In a telling dream that we would laugh at around the dinner table, Dad would describe something from his more current world, driver’s education. He repeatedly dreamed that, while teaching high school students to drive onto a ferry, each car would turn the wrong way and drive into the water with Dad yelling, “Turn right! Turn right!” only to watch them plunge into the cold, and he couldn’t stop them.

Dad did not suffer at the hands of the Germans. Treated with respect and according to accepted norms of battle at the time, as an officer, he received better treatment and was separated from the men in his unit, not to be seen again by them. He recuperated, healthy enough to escape with a passing group of Russian soldiers as the Germans prepared to move the prisoners to another location towards the end of the war. He hid among the Russians using the very little Russian that he knew, and used his survival skills gleaned from a lifetime to make it back to the United States, ready to marry the woman he had met before he left, Eleanor.

Today, we know and accept that veterans returning from overseas duty frequently deal with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Dad married Mom in Miami, no family present on either side, no one that they knew, and suffered consistent nightmares from all that he saw and lived. Mom asked him to see a psychiatrist, a therapist in the late 1940s, but he refused. She knew that great problems lay ahead in their marriage and asked for help with that, as well, an amazing recognition for that time period, but he refused. He suffered, and so did everyone else.

More stories exist, more ways that I experienced Dad’s intense shame over his body, his extreme fearfulness one time when we missed an exit in New York and needed to consult the map at night, another enormous reaction when we went through an area that he considered unsafe, his profound and utter silence in situations as a leader in church and in school where a courageous man would have spoken and acted. Reality requires that I acknowledge its existence. More important than more stories, though, is my feeling that, though I do not feel that I know my father personally and though he worked to put out my eyes, I have a growing sense of him. I have a sense of the child who endured more than I can imagine, who grew to be a stunted and limited yet gifted man, and a man who longed to be worthy. And most importantly, I love him and I thank him.

Don’t Judge So You Won’t Be Judged: A Story of Divorce

wedding pics Jerry me 1985

A fire has burned recently regarding words that the president of Southwestern Baptist Theological Seminary spoke in 2000 regarding divorce and abuse. As they were recorded, what he said was horrific and his continued avoidance of addressing those words causes harm to the church, in general. Sadly, these attitudes and words ricocheted through me, reminding me of those that surrounded my own divorce and the judgment that falls on any woman who has been divorced, whether she remarries someone else, never remarries or reconciles with her husband.

Some people feel very free to offer opinions on anyone else’s life, regardless of whether they know them or not. As I have grown and gotten older – they aren’t necessarily the same – I have seen that I have absolutely no business questioning anyone else’s life decisions because I am not she and she is not me, though it sounds ridiculously obvious. Growing up in the Baptist church was often an invitation to judgment. We were taught to be “fruit inspectors” – that we were to look for the fruit of someone’s life. Discernment functions as a key factor in moving forward in any situation, but I was not taught to discern but to come to a conclusion about the life of another person. This can also fit under the verse; Don’t judge so you won’t be judged.

I sustained words of judgment from many people, some closer in and some farther away, some who felt the freedom to call me and tell me what I was doing wrong while not asking about what was happening in my heart. Some people felt very protective of Jerry – they were hurt, yet they weren’t tracking what was happening over a long period of time in a very tumultuous period in my life. They were seeing something, but it wasn’t me and it wasn’t Jerry.

Any woman from any church who has been divorced – and I speak here for women because I am one – knows what it feels like to be judged. One of the main conclusions in these judgments is that God is so very displeased and you are “outside the will of God.” I confess that I no longer know what those words mean. Some friends knew that I should be reminded, “God hates divorce.” The hammer felt heavy every time it fell.

Here is what people didn’t know and what they didn’t ask, though dear friends stayed in it with me, walked through the holy ground that so often appears as a swamp or a pigsty. We miss a lot of holy ground that way because it just isn’t as disinfected as we would like for it to be.

Our marriage had been full of discontent, of disappointment, of confusion. We saw that in our own families, so it makes sense that we would carry it with us. When I could no longer carry the weight of the expectations that I felt or the confusion of mistaking Jerry for my father, I decided that I was finished. I couldn’t do it anymore without continuing to do harm to myself and those around me. Confusion reigned in my heart, not knowing whether Jerry shared characteristics of my father that had harmed me deeply or whether his wounds and mine compounded to make a minefield out of the simplest interactions. The control that had been exercised over me throughout my life stifled my every breath, and I could not discern where it started or where it ended. Since I had no real boundaries – I was not allowed to close my bedroom door as a child and teenager and all of my interactions were closely watched by both parents in very different ways – finding my space seemed like an insurmountable task, complicated by the needs of a husband who sometimes explored his own inner landscape. My stint as Atlas had come to an end – I could no longer hold the world on my shoulders.

What did happen when I decided to divorce Jerry continues to humble and inform me, even now. The judgment of God did not fall and I was not abandoned. In fact, the smallest of details fell into place effortlessly. God blessed me greatly, even as others assumed I had fallen, into sin, but they didn’t know it was into grace.

When I had finally made the decision to divorce, I didn’t know how I would make it financially in the very expensive market surrounding the Washington, D.C., area. I was trusting at a time that I was told I didn’t deserve to trust, I didn’t deserve anything because God is like that. It’s payback time. Yet I was literally banking on grace. Any woman who has made the decision to leave a husband who has a decent job has counted the financial cost. Please don’t be naïve and think that there isn’t one. I had no desire to bleed Jerry dry – I refused alimony, asking only for child support because I wanted my daughters to know that their father would care for them.

I called my lead professor from my graduate days at the University of Miami and told him what was happening. I hadn’t seen him in five or six years, but I needed a recommendation for a job. He told me that one of his dearest friends from his time on faculty at Penn State happened to be the music supervisor in Montgomery County, where we were living. He told me he would give her a call. The next thing I knew, in a matter of a day or so, I had a job in Montgomery County guaranteed, I just needed a location. Gift.

We needed a place to live. I had decided to leave the house – that I would not ask him to find someplace else. It would be a good place for our daughters during their times with him and they would remain at their school. We went looking for a rental, someplace that was close enough to be near home and to remain somewhat familiar. After several attempts at finding a rental, one came open that was ten minutes from the house, for the exact amount of child support. No more, no less, never increased over the two years that we lived there with a decent landlord who helped me care for it. Gift.

Jerry gave me the better car, knowing that I would be transporting the girls more than he. I never had to change a flat tire, and I had more than one. Every single time, someone would drive up in a matter of minutes and volunteer to change it. I’m pretty sure that angels showed up one time.

I was out alone on a Sunday evening, not my weekend, and I had gone to a movie several miles away. As I returned home, I thought that I would try another route, a possible shorter way back, but my choice led me into some uncharted and not particularly safe territory. These things don’t frighten me, but the sound of my car did, so I turned around. I realized that my tire was flat as I pulled into a service station that appeared to be closed because it was on the later end. Crap. I thought something else, but I’ll leave it at that. I didn’t know what to do. I was not at the point of magically believing that someone would show up, so I worried a lot. These were the days before cell phones, before instant access to a plethora of assistance. In just a few minutes, a small white car drove into the parking lot of the closed gas station and came to a stop in front of me. Four large black men unfolded and emerged from that little car and started walking towards me, where I sat and wondered what I was going to do.

I would be dishonest if I said I felt no fear because I did. I didn’t know them, and I was alone. I rolled down my window, and the one in charge asked, “Do you want us to change that tire?” Gathering all of me that I could, I said, “That would be awesome.” They proceeded to change the tire quickly and efficiently while I got a $20 bill out of my wallet, hoping to make amends for my really bad decision. I offered and he, of course, refused, but as he walked away with his three strong friends, he pointed his finger in my face and said, “Don’t ever do this again.” And I said, “I won’t.” And I haven’t. Maybe they weren’t angels, maybe they were, but their appearance reminded me of the portrait of angels Madeline L’Engle paints. I believe we are protected more than we know, and I have experienced that so many times, I don’t have space to doubt that anymore.

I went to bed every night for months, listening to tapes by a man named Clay, weeping as I fell asleep. I began to realize that I was facing a deep father wound that got twisted and turned around while trying to be married and build a family. The baby grand piano that I have came into my life at this time – bought from a woman who had endured immense pain of her own and who was now moving to Europe to begin again. Gift after gift after gift, even as my family endured so much pain and loss, and I was facing the cavern inside my soul.

And what was Jerry doing during this time? He rebuilt his life. He spent time with Bill, friend of Dan, over the years that we were apart, communicating with me only to coordinate about our children’s lives. He nurtured friendships with other men, men who would pour into his life as he would pour into theirs. He lived in a house without a TV or much furniture, not only so that we could have those things, but also so that he could descend into the silence. In other words, he grew.

I remember the moment when I knew that he was different, when I knew that things were shifting. I was getting the girls ready to go to school and to go to my job when my car would not start, the newer car that he had given to me. I did not know what to do, but I knew that I needed to get them to school and that he would be willing to help. I called and told him that I needed help, something that felt both vulnerable and necessary, and he said he would be right over on his way to work. As he approached the townhouse, he asked, “Would you like for me to see what’s wrong with the car?” I could tell that nothing was attached to that statement – no need for me to be exceedingly appreciative, no need to bolster any insecurity of his, basically, no need. But I did need, so I said yes. He got out the jumper cables, started my car, and told me that I needed a new battery. I said thank you, and he said, you’re welcome, and that was it. It was the cleanest, clearest, most beautiful interaction I had had in a long time. There was no anger, no regret, no expectation, no need, nothing but simple kindness and a gentle smile. Something monumental lifted, and I saw him.

So when you know a woman who has been divorced or who is going through it, please pause a moment as your mind takes you to wherever it is accustomed to taking you, whether from experience or a church’s teaching. Please know that this was not her original plan, and that whatever has brought her to this place, she doesn’t deserve a black eye or a distant, angry man or any kind of abuse or neglect and she doesn’t deserve judgment from anyone for any reason. She is making the decision that she is making and it is hers alone. And God can bless her in that because grace, regardless of what anyone else thinks.

The Gardener

The Gardener2

He drove past in his golf cart, shovel, rake, and hoe leaning from the back to the front right in the middle of the seat. I have seen him with the bonsais, and his work fills me with wonder and peace. My heart jumped to my throat for a second as I thought about expressing my gratitude for his service to the garden, for the kindness he exudes as he tends the plants. I thought it was going to end there as he drove up the sidewalk towards the camellias, but a school group was coming out from the arid garden, so he waited patiently, no rush, no turmoil, no impatience.

I passed the golf cart that he had parked off to the side, thinking of how much I love his work, how I drink in the beauty, then I thought, well, this is the moment. I almost didn’t even enter the garden today because it was crowded, and I wasn’t quite in the mood for crowds, so I walked back and forth outside; but I love the garden so I decided to stay.

I turned around, walking back to him, knowing I had seen him working but wanting to be respectful. He is a slight man, deeply tanned skin, accented voice, calm. I said, “Are you the one who cares for the bonsai?” He said, “Yes, I am.” I put my hand over my heart – words weren’t working for me but my eyes spoke. He said, “Do you want to see something I made this week?” “Sure! I would be so honored.” He patted the seat next to him, motioning to the other side of the tools and said, “I will show you.”

He drove through the garden, on walkways and down paths to the nursery, where I had never been before. He talked about another lady who comes every day to walk – how she likes branches and shapes and leaves that have fallen. We talked about living in Orlando and how I’m a member so I can walk to the nursery now if I like, how he has worked there for 25 years and people ask him about retirement, but why should he retire? He likes what he does. Yes, he says, it is peaceful here.

We pulled into the nursery, and he took me over to a garden in a pot – to be specific, in several broken pots. He told me that he had seen the pot and thought how he could build a small succulent garden using many broken pots, how they fit into each other in just the right way, in a lovely way. He said there was no reason to get rid of broken pots – that they are beautiful in their own way and can be used again, not discarded.

Just wild. I don’t use the word, broken, to describe anyone anymore, including myself. It just doesn’t fit the picture for me, although it might work well for others. I think of the gardener – patient, kind, taking me to the arid garden to show me more of his work. It’s about the way he sees. He doesn’t see broken. He sees possibility. He reimagines beauty and order, and places things right where he wants them. He told me, “You don’t just snip, snip, snip. That doesn’t work. You must work carefully.”

Starting at the Ending

Dad and me at 3

I do things backwards sometimes; for some reason, that works for me. When some people begin to deal with the roots of dysfunction in their lives, they hesitate to bring their anger, disappointment, grief to their parents because they expect to be met with some kind of disheartening response – disbelief, dissociation, and often, resistance. Some parents own the stories, can embrace their children and ask for forgiveness, and the relationships begin again. I decided to go head to head at the beginning.

It is hard to tell stories of Dad because he hid. My mother, who, in her storytelling, crafted the version that she most wanted to believe, passed on the few stories that remain of his childhood. Yet the truth that lay in between the words and silences crept out into the world through his living, as it does for all of us. So my stories of him begin with his response to me, at a pivotal point of my life. Everything that I say here, I said to him, everything that I thought, that I felt – I did not want to hide, I do not want to hide, and I was tired of that hiding life. So I start at the beginning of the ending.

I worked for a man named Steve at a local Presbyterian church, a place where I wept at the age of twenty-seven because I thought that forgiveness was actually possible. I had been in church all of my life, but from my observations of the people around me and the sermons I heard, forgiveness came when you did something right, when you gave up whatever you needed to give up, or you changed whatever needed to be changed, but there had to be some effort on your part. Forgiveness was not full and free; it was limited and restricted, it was tit for tat.

Kathy invited me to a book study by a woman named Nancy from this church. She wrote a book entitled, From Bondage to Bonding. I didn’t know what the heck that was talking about, but since I had just burst into tears for some unknown reason at a rally where I played and sang that very night, I thought, Seems like a good idea. A few months before at our daughter’s first birthday party, Patricia came to celebrate with both sets of our parents and a few other friends. Our friendship began when I was pregnant, after she moved from Indiana, where she studied with Larry and Dan, and then came to the same church where forgiveness was normal. After the party she would tell me that what she experienced there with my parents was nothing like what I had described. She wondered why that was. I wondered, too.

As I walked up to the house in the Redlands where the study would be held, Nancy walked up at the same time. I had my hands full, literally. I had a little girl who was fifteen months old, a diaper bag, some food, some books and a notebook and my purse. Nancy asked if she could help me, and I said, “No. I can handle it, but thanks.” She smiled gently and walked away. As soon as we sat and opened to the first chapter, I read about what I had just done. I don’t need help, but thanks. I can do this all by myself. I can carry every burden easily. Watch me. But this little girl had already stirred the ferocity in me. She had gone through surgery at ten weeks old, and she had my heart and my will. I had already gone toe to toe with doctors; don’t even start with me when it comes to her, I thought. I will go right over you and not shed a tear. I did not have that experience as a child – rather, I have picture after picture, memory after memory of being left to survive on my own. My mouth never went hungry, and my heart starved.

While in that study, one chapter asked us to peruse pictures from our childhood, and two odd photographs struck me. I landed in counseling with a woman named Lottie, a woman with her own ferocity, who listened to me, held my space with me, and invited Jerry to be present. She suggested that it would be beneficial to me to have a break from my parents for six months. Some people shrink from this suggestion, but I was ready. I had been shaken to my true core, a heart-stopping jolt, and I needed and wanted the freedom to no longer be responsible for my parents’ happiness. Jerry stood in there for me, taking phone calls and asking my mother to please respect my request. It was my mother who called, not my father. It was my mother who went to a place in herself that harbored the most harsh, demanding, disrespecting and accusing piece of her, and probably, the most desperate.

At the end of six months, I arranged to go with Jerry to see my parents and speak with them briefly about why I had closed communications with them for that time period. I did not know that during that time, they had made an appointment with Lottie without telling her who they were. Dad had been a school counselor – he knew the ins and outs of what was ethical, even though he sometimes felt himself to be above those ethics. In fact, he was quite taken with Jay Adams and his methodology. His counseling included a time when he told a student at the Christian school to throw out the psychiatric meds that he was using, that he really didn’t need them, and the student did. He was rather proud of that when he told us at home. I thought that was normal. My therapist had trained with the same two men, Larry and Dan, way down in Florida at the very beginning. My parents had no idea what was coming. Later, my mom would tell me with a quiver in her voice that Dad was so upset when they left the office that he had to sit down on every stair of the flight from the office to the bottom floor. And only a couple of years ago, this same mom would tell me that Lottie had turned to her at the end of the session and said, “I think I can help you, but I don’t think I can help him.” Mom said, “But I never went back.” Such is the schism that is Mom – two very different reactions from the same woman, depending on time and space.

I didn’t know what to expect when I saw my parents. I grew up accustomed to rage, so I had vowed early that I would not subject myself to what I had seen happen to my older siblings. Jerry stood with me after standing for me, sheltering wobbly me. My parents, as well as some other people in the Church, had been concerned when I first started dating him. The youth pastor, who was dating Jerry’s ex-girlfriend, went so far as to ask me if Jerry was treating me OK, that he was worried. She wasn’t the most honest person, but he was the youth pastor and Jerry, well, he didn’t care. If Jerry is anything (and he is a lot), he is a truth teller, a greater gift than I knew at the time, starved as I was. Yes, I said, he is very good to me. My parents called me into their bedroom one evening – always weird now that I think about it, all of the missives delivered in the bedroom – and told me that they were concerned that Jerry would never be in a position of leadership in the Church. Thank God. That’s all I can say. It wasn’t about what he believed or who he was or what he offered – it was about power and authority and appearance. And he was failing. Thank God. So I married him. Twice.

We went to sit inside, two couches at right angles to each other at one end of the room, and another couch at the other end of the room where we sat, with Dad ensconced in his easy chair that faced the television. His elbows rested on the wooden arms of the chair, hands folded together, fingers intertwined and positioned in front of his mouth, covering any potential expression, his two index fingers creating an upside down V. He leaned back in the rocker position, looking as cool as possible. Mom sat with pursed lips and a dark brow in a rocking chair, her feet in shoes touching the carpet below. Take note – she is on guard.

After I spoke to them about the nature of our home as a child and how it had impacted me, I had the opportunity to observe the three consecutive defenses that always presented themselves in the same order. The first was derision. His lip would curl up at the edge, and the snarl would commence. Anything and everything you thought, believed or were would be called into question. If you made it past the first stage, rage showed up. Blasting past obstacles and attempting to level anything in its path, rage worked to destroy what had already been potentially seared. The six months had done their work, though, so rage it was. The final stage was self-pity. As I was able to be at a distance enough to watch what was happening, I recognized this. I recognized this from the time in college where I had sat on another couch with Mom, telling Dad that the way he treated her was horrible. She leaned into me with her feet tucked under her like a child at that time, and again I watched those same three movements, predictable. There really wasn’t anything after self-pity – just a weak kind of silence. Nothing else to say, nothing to address, no questions, no apologies, no ownership, no denial. That was it. We left, and I sobbed. I asked Jerry to drive for a while before we went home, so he drove down the beach, singing Jesus Loves Me, as I asked.

A month later, Dad would call to ask about Christmas. I couldn’t understand. Did you hear anything that I said? I would not expose my daughter to these people without some honest recognition of their lives, of my life, and I would not set her up to fulfill them as I had done for so long. In early February, Dad would have his first in a series of strokes that would end four years later at his death. I would give him a blanket near the end of his life, blessing it and asking God to keep him warm. That was what I could do. There were never any conversations, nothing. No denial and no ownership. Over a year later after the first meeting and at least one stroke, Mom would set me up again for some sort of meeting with my dad, without my consent or knowledge, guerrilla warfare. When I heard what Al Franken said about the accusations against him – “I can’t say it didn’t happen” – I went in to Jerry and said, “Remember? That’s the same thing my dad said.”