Reflections From the Heart

Aside

Looking Back – My Reasons for Writing

One of my cousins from across the miles posed a couple of great questions, giving me food for thought. He asked:

Why do you write? And why do you write about the family?

My answer to him:

First of all, I write because I know I have a story to tell. As a kid, eventually, I discovered we were dirt poor. Looking back on my teens, I realize that I was neglected and forced to grow up too quickly. I was ashamed of my childhood and bitter for being my mama’s mother. As I “matured,” settled down, married, and had children of my own, along the way, I found I was a stronger person because of some of the things that I endured as a child. Once I embraced the God of my grandparents, I became a much better person as well. NOT that I had it all together; I still had a few things to learn. But I learned that it was much better to let go of the bitterness and forgive than to hold onto the junk. I also learned that I didn’t have to be a product of my environment! I could rise above the ashes like a phoenix and become so much better. That was my freedom — still is — and God has called us to liberty, not to be in prison. Yes, I made some mistakes along the way, but I also learned from them. It starts with a made-up mind! While I’ve managed to confront my past, I believe it hasn’t spoiled me, but has instead prepared me for the future. I may not be perfect, but whenever I stumble, I can wipe the crud off and walk on. I share my story that I might help one person, and if I have done that, then I have done a good thing, and God gets the glory.

I mention family because the little girl growing up — although she may have felt like she was all alone most of the time — was not an orphan and did not live on an island unto herself. There were others around who helped to nurture her in one fashion or another, even the antagonists in her story. And yes, some were heroes. She cannot tell her story without mentioning those she looked up to. To be truthful, she had to address some honest and raw emotions and mention the flaws — the good, the bad, and the ugly.

The story is not fiction. It is written about how she recalls the events that shaped her life as a child, a teenager, and into her adulthood. Not all the memories take her to a happy place. She has had to dig deep to find them. To some, those “happy” places may be simple and insignificant, but to her, they were her lifeline.

His response:

I am keeping this as a reminder of what it takes to be selfless.

Thanks

I did not expect THAT answer 🙂

What I Took Away and Then Some

I’m stepping out of my comfort zone here. I usually refrain from writing about politics, war, or conflicts between nations, states, or parties. But seeing Lone Survivor moved me so much that I feel compelled to share what I took away after watching the movie in tears with my husband and someone else (who has asked to remain anonymous).

The theater audience was silent during the entire show. The movie was tense, almost unbearable, while I squirmed and gasped, holding my husband’s hand tightly. These Navy SEALs were brave men, tough men, and man’s men. They lived hard, fought hard, and died hard. We can infer from the title that only one of these men lived to tell his incredible story. However, here’s what I took away.

At the end, as I watched the credits and some actual footage of these men, a stark reality hit me. The video featured segments of these real men interacting, laughing, and sharing tender moments. They wed, danced with their bride, and held their newborn. I witnessed a new bride kissing her husband over and over with crumbs of wedding cake on her face, mingled with tears streaming down. At that moment, she is living her dream.

These soldiers who died were someone’s son, brother, uncle, boyfriend, fiancé, husband, and father. I wondered about the women left behind and suffering in silence. We don’t hear much about them: Left behind is the torn heart of a woman who loved a soldier. Her heart aches and bleeds, paying the price of loving someone whom she has had to share with strangers while he fought for their country. I pray she finds comfort and strength knowing that her courageous soldier didn’t die in vain.

And lastly, while walking to our cars, the one who had joined us to watch Lone Survivor with tears in his own eyes said, “I learned a hard lesson tonight. I would’ve killed the goat herders originally. And then, when I saw what the man and the boy did for Marcus — even though it put their lives and the villages in jeopardy — I was convicted. It wasn’t an easy thing. But they did the right thing.”

And those very words moved me more than anything …

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Tagged as bravery, brotherhood, courage, heroisim, life's lesson, Lone Survivor movie, loss loved ones, Navy Seals, soilders

Aside

“Tout de Suite!”

Through half-drawn curtains, I watched the other children at play, chasing one another in a circle, chanting, “Duck. Duck. Goose!”

Humpty-Dumpty, the daycare where Daddy dropped us off that morning, operated on a strict schedule. I knew I didn’t belong there. At lunchtime, they made me sit in the dimly lit kitchen to finish the tough, chewy meat on my plate while the others went out for recess. Just as I finished cleaning my plate, they announced, “Lights out.” I hated nap times, too.

By the time I was three, my parents had already been separated. My brother, Ruben, lived with Daddy, while I stayed with Mama. Daddy had started coming for me, but on one visit, he said I could stay and didn’t need to go back. I was perfectly happy. I didn’t know that Mama never agreed to him keeping me. Early one morning, determined to know where he took Ruben and me before he headed for work, Mama hunkered down inside a taxi and followed him to the daycare.

Later, parents came to collect their children. While my brother and I waited for Daddy, we played on the swings. That’s when the clunking sound of an engine caught our attention. We weren’t expecting them, but Mama and her boyfriend, Jimmy—my new stepdad—drove up in a gray jalopy. Mama stuck her head out the window and waved us on.

“Tout de suite!” My mama shouted in the single French phrase that she knew, her arm pumping for us to hurry.

Trained to move fast whenever we heard the phrase, we bolted in their direction.

Jimmy yelled at Mama, “Stay in the car, Ruthie. I’ll get ‘em.”

Jimmy hoisted Ruben over the massive stonewall and dropped him down the other side. Then he grabbed me by the arm and lifted me before sprinting toward that old heap. We clambered in and sped off. I glanced back to see the daycare worker running after us, screaming. Mama and Jimmy, cackling with glee, celebrated their successful kidnapping scheme. A strong odor of beer permeated the air inside the car.

I looked over at my brother, pretending to be brave but wide-eyed. I glanced down and noticed my scraped knees. A lump lodged in my throat, and a tear escaped my eyes as I thought, “What will Daddy think when he comes for us?”

(Intro to Running in Heels – A Memoir of Grit and Grace)

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January 9, 2014 · 10:22 PM

Aside

Circle of Life

Once upon a time, there lived a lonely girl. Intimately acquainted with an empty stomach, she carried hunger in her heart, starving for love.

Despite her destitute and inner turmoil, she grew up and broke away in search of love. Eventually, she’d marry and have a family of her own, never dreaming of how they’d fill the void in her heart.

In the circle of life, her little ones grew to have little ones of their own.

She felt young at heart again and couldn’t imagine life without them.

And the not-so-little girl wasn’t lonely anymore.

The end.

10 Comments

December 30, 2013 · 9:29 PM

Quote

Merry Christmas

Merry Christmas to all – from our heart to yours.

2 Comments

December 24, 2013 · 11:28 PM

December 19, 2013 · 10:17 PM

Farewell …

If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was peacefully napping.

In the hospital, time stood still as I gazed down at the man who had fought his demons since I’d known him. Vivid memories of our fifteen years of marriage before it ended many years ago churned in my mind’s eye: his dimpled smile, lilting voice, broad shoulders, bow-legged stance, the shuffling of his feet when he walked, his unselfish generosity. Recurring thoughts raced through my mind of all the what-ifs. At that moment, nothing else mattered. I remembered the good, not the bad, his strengths, rather than his weaknesses, and his triumphs, rather than his failures.

Anna Marie barged into the room, rushing to his side as if to wake him from sleep. “Dad! Dad!” she shouted, shaking him. “Dad!”

“Anna,” I spoke sharply and held her hand still. I softened my tone, “He’s gone.”

“But why, Mom? Why…?”

“Anna, I don’t know. It was his time; he was ready to go. He never wanted to grow old, become a burden…” My voice trailed off. I recalled what he had said, how he wouldn’t live past sixty, as if sixty was old, too old, and he never wanted to get “like that.” How soon the years pass.

“No, Mom!” Anna Marie shook her head in disbelief, her face red. “Not yet!” she sobbed.

I held her tight and cried with her.

Soon, the others arrived. We gathered around. My baby girl, Angela, was nine months pregnant with her first child and due to give birth any day. Naturally, I was concerned for her well-being. But when she gently placed Donny’s immobile hand over her swollen belly, I broke down.

As always, Mark — my husband of eight years — was there by my side to comfort me.

(A short excerpt from Running in Heels – A Memoir of Grit and Grace)

Note: Eleven years ago today, the father of my children sadly passed away. It was just six days before Christmas. Ten days after bidding him farewell, the cycle of life continued as we celebrated the birth of our grandson.

I am reminded of this passage of scripture: “To everything, there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven: a time to be born and a time to die …” Ecclesiastes 3:1,2

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Tagged as death, fairwell, grieving, life and death, memoir, personal

December 11, 2013 · 10:36 PM

Through the Eyes of a Child

I’m ready!

So for my post this week, I celebrate my granddaughter, Grace, turning seven years old. She is a miracle, a bundle of pure joy with a remarkable outlook on life. She can make my husband’s heart melt and she still makes mine skip. Her bubbling personality and radiant smile beam brightly. She teaches us about life, and we celebrate the beauty of living through her eyes.

My birthday gift to Grace was taking her to see the Nutcracker Ballet Show. Now, I’m not much for heights, but our seats were in the nosebleed section. As I white-knuckled the guardrails and gingerly walked down each narrow step, fighting vertigo, Grace didn’t have that problem as she bounced along ahead to our seats.

With every squeal, giggle, and clap, watching the show through the eyes of a child is magical in itself. But for those who don’t realize just how much of a magical moment spending time with Grace is, you will need to go here – Amazing Grace

This was indeed a special time. And I wanted to share this moment with my readers.

Going to the “Nutcracker” 2013

“It’s taking too long.” zzzZZZzzz

…
…
…

Snack time

New Friends

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Tagged as ballet, birthday, fun, granddaughter, Nutcracker

Aside

She Was Me

Alone in my own world, I sometimes pretended to be Shirley Temple. Her dimpled smile and blonde curly locks got her noticed. I imagined if I pouted like her and smiled like her, that I’d be pretty like her. But in the bathroom mirror, a brown-eyed, freckled-faced girl peered back. She had straight dark hair and dingy clothes that hung loosely over scrawny legs. She looked plain, clumsy, and insignificant. She was me.

I didn’t know we lived below the poverty line. I knew the hunger pangs that clawed at my belly. I remember eating cold pork and beans right from the can; it tasted really good with bread. I remember surviving for a time on government surplus with tins of soft butter, brick cheese, powdered milk, and creamy peanut butter. When we had it, smearing slabs of mayo over bread was a slice of heaven.

Food was scarce. Even after Daddy started sending money to Mama, I saw little food on the table. Liquor bottles and empty beer cans reeked and saturated the air. The constant bickering between Mama and my stepdad punctuated the tensions in our rodent-infested, cockroach matchbox. I’d see those creepy-crawlers on the walls, tables, and dirty dishes on the counter. I’d hear them scratching behind the walls or running across the linoleum floor. I could even smell them. Those pests were our relentless, unwelcome guests.

(Excerpt from Running in Heels – A Memoir of Grit and Grace)

Note: “What happened to your bangs?” I am asked this question countless times. You will have to discover the answer to that question … but not until my book is published. 😉

15 Comments

December 4, 2013 · 11:52 PM

November 29, 2013 · 10:22 PM

He Was a Great Man

Provided by Linda Flowers – Nov. 25, 1963

The week before Thanksgiving at my grandparents’ house, I enjoyed the peaceful ambiance where I always felt loved and cared for. My grandparents showered me with attention. I looked forward to the upcoming holiday, especially Grandma’s stuffed pavo with tons of mashed potatoes, gravy, and cranberry sauce.

On that particular day, I lay on their living room floor, watching the crowds on TV who stood in respectful silence observing a funeral procession. The clopping sounds of horses’ hooves echoed as they pulled a carriage carrying a coffin draped with the Stars and Stripes. I knew the world lost an important man. As I studied the sorrowful faces of my grandparents and peered into their misty eyes, my heart broke, too.

Days later, I shall never forget a serious Grandpa gazing out the window, deep in thought. With a sad but loud voice, he bellowed, “He was a greaaaat man! He was a greaaaat man!” I would come to realize that Grandpa referred to none other than President John F. Kennedy.

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Image

Thanksgiving 1976

I stared at the TV, hearing the drone but not paying attention to the program. Earlier I had eaten to my heart’s content, wishing I hadn’t stuffed myself the way we did our turkey.

Before too long, I felt a strong urge. Alone and frightened, my heart raced.

I pressed the button.

And pressed again.

I shouted.

No one came.

In desperation, I banged on the wall, yelling, “Hello, anyone out there? I have to push! I have to push!” Doesn’t anyone hear me? I . . . have . . . to . . . push!

I pounded on the wall, about to put a hole through it. At last, a nurse ran in. Much to her surprise—and my anguish—she found me fully dilated and ready to pop.

A lot of activity happened at once. Oddly enough, at the same instant, I felt like an ice cube. The nurse noticed me trembling and threw three blankets over me. She fetched Mr. Wonderful from the lounge, already stretched out half-asleep. After waking him, they gave him a hospital gown, a cap, and a mask. After he followed them to the delivery room, they instructed him where to stand.

With my knees bent and feet in stirrups, an assistant leaned me forward.

“Now push,” my doctor instructed. “Push, hard.”

I took a deep breath and held it, managing a couple of pushes, one or two deep grunts, and a long groan, feeling the blood rush to my brain. “I . . . can’t!” I gasped. “No more. I’m tired.”

“Come on. Keep pushing. Bear down. A little more.”

“Arrrrgh!”

“Shush. It’s okay, honey,” Mr. Macho-turned-coach drilled. “Stay calm.”

“YOU stay calm! IT HURTS!”

“Humph,” Donny snorted.

“All right, now give me one big, long push.”

“It . . . b-burns!” God, I feel like I’m tearing!

“Okay, now stop. Stop pushing a moment.”

Push–Breathe–Bear down–Don’t push–Breathe! My mind zoomed from ninety to zero. Oh, what am I supposed to do? Why hadn’t Donny and I completed those Lamaze classes? Finally, the answer came to me: To refrain from pushing, I had to do a series of shallow breaths. Pant. Like a dog.

Pant. Pant. Pant. Pant.

Donny watched the whole process bug-eyed and ashen-faced.

Some macho man he turned out to be.

2:56 a.m.

Gorgeous. Chestnut hair. Almond-shaped eyes. Rosy cheeks. Ten fingers and ten toes. I was in my teens and just delivered a beautiful, healthy 7 lb. 6 oz. baby girl. My baby girl! Thank you, God. With the ideal name for her—in memory of my beloved grandma and my deceased sister—I named her Anna, with Marie being her middle name.

Once home, I savored the miracle before me: An innocent life at peace in her crib. A life I had only known as bittersweet; a life filled with much adversity from being alone, cold, hungry, and frightened. My mind twirled with unanswered questions. Could I protect this child and keep her safe? As her mommy, I wondered if I’d always be there for her, and not fail or disappoint her. Would we have a close relationship? Would she always feel my love?

(An excerpt from Running in Heels – A Memoir of Grit and Grace)

# # # #

My firstborn’s birthday is just a few days away. About every four years, her birthday lands on Thanksgiving Day. From day one, she is a reminder of all I am thankful for. She is bone of my bone and flesh of my flesh. When she came into my life, she began a circle of three.

As I watched her grow, she taught me the rhythm of a mother’s heartbeat for her child.

A shout out to my beautiful daughter:

Anna Marie, there’s a lot more to the story that had transpired before this excerpt about you posted here, as well as a lot more that occurred afterward. I suppose your curiosity is piqued right now, but I’m afraid you’ll have to remain patient and stay tuned along with the rest of the audience until my book is published.

I love you.