Reflections From the Heart

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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Filed under JFK, Memoir

Tagged as Grandparent, JFK funeral procession, John F. Kennedy, memoir, rambling

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.

6 Comments

November 21, 2013 · 10:01 PM

Aside

Love Spoken Here

Visiting Daddy in the early seventies, on weekends and during summertime, I remember how he loved to watch Lucha Libre. His favorite wrestler then was Rocky Johnson (the father of Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson). Also a die-hard Yankee fan, Daddy loved his baseball team.

“¿Vite? You see dat?” Daddy shouted and pointed to the TV, asking no one in particular. “Man, dat Mickey Mantle can hit dat ball sooo hard . . . !”

Daddy and my stepmother, Gloria, were raising my brother Ruben. Yes, I was a bit jealous. Although Daddy spoke both languages to me, I never became as fluent in Spanish as my brother had. I understood the language more than I could speak it.

Daddy enjoyed many hobbies. He knew his fruits and vegetables, having worked on his father’s land in his prime. He loved gardening and showing off his avocado and gandules (pigeon peas) plants that he had planted himself, just as much as he loved chewing and sucking the juice from raw sugar canes.

Although Gloria hardly spoke English, we managed to communicate well enough. She treated me like her own child, showering me with loud smooches and tight squeezes. When she talked to me in Spanish, I responded to her in English and my broken Spanish. In the mornings, she’d asked if I wanted “Con Fley” because she knew I liked cereal, and then asked if I wanted her to fix me a huevo frito, too. She was such a great cook; we all loved her comida. Seeing her work in the kitchen, preparing mouth-watering delicacies, was a common sight. Meals were her priority. She often cooked wearing rollers under a hairnet, sometimes in a floral house dress, and always chanclas on her feet.

Back then, feathered friends scurried about in the backyard, and a number of them were nesting on eggs. I liked feeding the ducks and watching them swim in the pond. Not so much with the chickens, though, I knew they were for consumption. But I couldn’t keep from watching in agony whenever Gloria ran after one, caught it, and then wrung the poor creature’s neck. It gave me the creeps. Then I’d stay clear of the messy job of plucking feathers. Gloria also chose whatever Daddy planted in the yard to complement any of her flavorful traditional entrées, whether her arroz con pollo (rice and chicken), arroz con gandules (rice and pigeon peas), or pernil (roasted pork). Each dish was first sautéed in sofrito (a mixture of bell peppers, garlic, onions, and capers blended into a paste) in a deep caldero. The aroma alone made your mouth water. Gloria served side dishes of fried sweet plantains, large Florida avocados, simmering red beans with new potatoes, and always with a big pot of yellow rice.

One Sunday, after a tasty meal of chicken stew, we drank café con leche, a strong espresso made with hot milk and sugar.

“Mary, did you like Mami’s pollo guisado?” Daddy asked, sipping from his cup.

“¡Si!” I answered, practicing my Spanish. “Muy bueno.”

“Oh, yeah? You wanna know somteen’?” Daddy’s eyes twinkled.

“¿Que?” I asked, blowing on my cafesito, too hot to drink.

“Dat’s no chicken you ate . . . dat was un pato.”

A duck? I stared at Daddy, and then at Gloria, then at the leftovers in the pot. I didn’t feel so good. My stomach felt queasy. I raced to the bathroom without a moment to spare when my entire lunch came up.

Gloria helped wipe my face in the bathroom and pleaded, “Ay, Marí. Perdóname.”

I knew she felt terrible about what happened. But when I looked out the window, I couldn’t quit thinking about how I fed those cute, adorable ducks. And I had eaten one!

With no hard feelings toward anyone about the duck incident, I enjoyed being at Daddy’s house and forgetting my troubles back home with Mama. I noticed the way Gloria fussed and cleaned house; the same way she enjoyed cooking: fast, thoroughly, and con mucho gusto. She didn’t like dirt. She had every chair in the house, even the couch, covered with plastic! When it was time to clean the bathroom, she poured a bucket filled with soapy water on the floor, walls, and tub, scrubbing, mopping, and drying until everything was squeaky clean. She never relaxed until the evening when one of her novellas came on TV. Daddy and Gloria were affectionate and called each other pet names. Because Daddy’s skin was brown, Gloria called him, “Negro.” While many knew my stepmother as “Pita,” Daddy called her his “Mamita.”

Seeing their love in action made me smile. Although Gloria didn’t speak English, her hugs and warmth said more than the words of my own mother.

And she could cook.

Gloria making her famous pasteles.

13 Comments

November 14, 2013 · 9:15 PM

November 7, 2013 · 7:54 AM

This Language On Love

So, in reading “The 5 Love Languages” by Gary Chapman, he describes in great detail how the concept of love can be very confusing. We love activities, objects, animals, nature, and people. We even fall in love with love. He points out that we use love to explain behavior. “‘I did it because I love her,’ says a man who is involved in an adulterous relationship. God calls it sin, but he calls it love. The wife of an alcoholic picks up the pieces after her husband’s latest episode. The psychologist calls it co-dependency, but she calls it love. The parent indulges all the child’s wishes. The family therapist calls it irresponsible parenthood, but the parent calls it love.”

Now I’m not by any means of the imagination, a psychologist, a professor, a clergywoman, or a counselor. I am just an ordinary woman. I’m a girlfriend, a daughter, a cousin, a sister, a wife, a mother, an aunt, and a grandmother. But like many, I think we all too often speak the wrong love language. I definitely have.

In my youth, I did some stupid things out of “love” for a guy. And because I loved him, I thought, surely he will come to my way of thinking. He would love me in return, enough to change his behavior and better himself. After all, hadn’t I bent over backward for him? Worshipped the ground he walked on? Become his doormat? In order to gain his undivided attention, I forgot who I was.

In my teens, I covered my husband’s transgressions. I hid his secret, sin, and shame. My way of thinking was: This is why I exist, right? That’s my job, isn’t it? His wish was my command. Barefoot, pregnant, and in the kitchen – if only I knew how to cook then. My smile hid the pain in my heart, as well as makeup hid the bruises on my face. I hid the grocery money and emptied the liquor bottles, refilling half with water, hoping he’d never notice. I’d called his boss to say he was sick in bed after another blackout episode. I told myself: I protect my interests. I do it all in the name of “love.”

I was tired. But because I loved my children, I eventually allowed them the freedom of choice. They started listening to the “hip” music their friends were listening to, and watched certain movies. Oh, yes, I knew they were old enough and wise enough not to repeat negative behaviors. Yes, I was inconsistent, worn-out, and haggard. I practiced tough love, church activities, rules, and schedules, but then lost the victory in my own personal life and tossed responsibility to the wind. I got lazy. It became every person for himself. I started doing my own thing. I felt defeated. Cold-hearted. Bitter. Since I had lost the battle as a wife, for a moment, I had also forgotten that there was still a war to fight for: motherhood.

That was many moons ago. And I’m happy to say, although far from perfect, I continue to strive to communicate this language in a healthier way.

Just some rambling thoughts today, as I reflect on Gary Chapman’s point of view about the language of love.

What are your thoughts?

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Filed under Gary Chapman, Love Language

Tagged as behavior, co-dependency, Communication, Gary Chapman, love language, marriage, motherhood, Musing, parenthood, relationship

November 2, 2013 · 2:47 PM

She’s Not Tough, She’s Tenacious

At my grandparents’ home, weekends were our shopping days at Pantry Pride. Grandma pulled her two-wheel cart behind her, and Grandpa and I carried the rest of the groceries, chitchatting along the way.

“You know, young lady,” Grandpa said, “You’re going to have long legs when you grow up.”

“Are they going to be as long as yours, Grandpa?” I asked, trying to keep in stride.

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Will they be as long as Grandma’s?”

“Well, I’ll say there’s a good chance.”

“What about Mama’s?”

“Yep. I think they’re going to be longer than your mothers are.”

“Then I’ll be taller than her.” I skipped along thinking about it.

“Yes, yes, I think you’re right,” Grandpa chuckled.

We couldn’t walk at a fast pace on account of Grandma’s bad feet.

But one morning, we left for church later than usual. Grandma insisted that Grandpa and I run on ahead to stop the bus when we saw one. We took a shortcut along the sides of the railroad tracks. Trotting over the loose gravel became tricky, but we hurried on, determined to catch that bus.

“Papa,” cried a small voice. We didn’t hear that first call. The cry came again, followed by a moan. When we turned, we never imagined seeing Grandma lying facedown over pebbles and rocks. Grandpa moved with surprising agility and helped her sit up.

Grandma’s forehead bled from the fall. I cowered at the sight of so much blood. I felt sorry for her and helpless. Why couldn’t I have stayed close and given her my arm to hold onto?

Together, we walked back to the house. When we arrived, Grandma limped into the bathroom, and Grandpa helped her clean her face with a washcloth. To our surprise, she then insisted that we go back out.

“We are goin’ to church even if we are late,” she said.

“Aren’t you going to at least change your blouse?” Grandpa asked.

“¡No señor!” Grandma said with finality. “I’m goin’ just as I am.”

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

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Filed under family, Tenacious

Tagged as fall, Family, Grandma, memoir, rambling, tenacity

Aside

This Lesson About Life

The lesson about life with its many twists and turns has been an amazing journey. I often think: What legacy will I leave behind when I’m finished with this race? What I do today, will it count for something tomorrow? When I’m long gone, will I merely be a faded memory or a burn in someone’s heart? Will my deeds be forgotten? Lost? Or buried?

I’ve read about some incredible women. These women did not allow age, status, limitations, or even imprisonment to deter them from their destiny. As fleeting as it is, they knew their self-worth and value in this life. Women like Mother Teresa gave 50 years of service to the poor, the sick, the orphans, and the dying in Calcutta, India. Women like Corrie ten Boom, who spent 10 months in a concentration camp at the age of 53, began a worldwide ministry that took her into more than 60 countries in the next 33 years of her life. I didn’t know them personally, but they were admirable, inspirational women.

They made a difference.

Many endearing women have entered my life, not only as friends, but also as mothers, sisters, grandmothers, and mentors. While each embodies unique gifting, each holds a special place in my heart.

One such individual is Elizabeth. She loves people. She is full of life, charm, and wit. She believes in having a 90% attitude and 10% circumstance. She loves to laugh, crack a joke, watch the Kentucky Derby, share about her travels around the world, read anything that takes her miles away, watch The Lawrence Welk Show, and go right on dancing if only she could.

I’ve known her for over thirty years, but within the past couple of years, she has been unable to use her walker. She doesn’t walk anymore. Yet her mind is still intact; her wits still sharp, as well as her tongue. My husband, daughter, and I take care of her. While we attend to her daily needs, she is teaching us about life. Oh, and did I mention a horse and buggy rushed her to the hospital, and that she was one year old during the Titanic?

That’s right, Elizabeth was born in 1911. You do the math.

To know Elizabeth is to have your life enriched.

As I age, may I emulate her love and passion for living.

22 Comments

October 24, 2013 · 10:26 PM

October 17, 2013 · 6:34 AM

This Thing Called Tears

I consider myself a tough cookie. After all, aren’t I a survivor? I’ve lived through more than my share—broken home by age three, poverty, hunger, homelessness, neglect, loss of a sibling at nine, violence, abuse in its many forms, and more than a few close calls with death.

BUT God!

However, there is a softer side to me as well. This thing called tears. Yes, a family member has even called me sentimental.

I cry over a lot of things. Losing a pet, or even an insect. A newborn’s first cry. A book, a song, a dance, a wedding, a movie. Sometimes even opening a gift or saying goodbye catches me off guard.
Mountains, rainbows, oceans, hummingbirds… they move me more than I care to admit. And when my grandchild called me “Mimi” for the first time, I completely lost it.

And yes, sometimes I cry when I’m hurt, scared, tired, or angry.

I don’t always want people to see that side of me. I’m supposed to be tough. Not weak. Remember?

Now I’m not much of a horse person, but I know enough to know that a horse is all grace and strength—every muscle, tendon, and ligament working together to carry a rider at full speed. Yet even that kind of power is guided by a bit in its mouth, moving where it is led.

When I read about Moses, I’m struck that he was described as the meekest man on earth. And when I read about Jesus, I see power beyond measure, yet fully restrained. His meekness was never weakness.

So, I say: It’s okay to let our guard down at times and reveal our softer, sensitive selves. It doesn’t mean we’re a softy, a weakling, or a pushover. Power under control means self-control, and that is a virtue. After all, we are human with God-given emotions. Besides, God bottles our tears.

And because God loves us so much, sometimes I wonder if God cries too.

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Filed under musing, virtues

Tagged as horses, Jesus, life, Moses, Musing, personal, social, tears, tough, virtue

October 12, 2013 · 6:32 PM

She’s My Mama

Mama lives alone. She enjoys a contented life. She loves playing Bingo and the group outings on the Metro-Lift with Charles, her traveling companion. They attend church together. Mama has a provider who cleans, cooks, and provides assistance. I have reached a point where I can let go and allow her to live her own life. While Mama has learned not to rely upon me as heavily as before, she knows I will be there whenever needed.

This past week, we celebrated Mama’s 79th birthday at an Italian restaurant. She doesn’t like her pictures taken and has always been shy in front of the camera. Rest assured, she enjoyed her day, having no problem dining out and opening gifts.

Initially, when I shared with Mama that I was writing my memoirs, she laughed and squealed, “Mary, what kind of book is that going to be?”

I chuckled, answering, “Stranger than fiction, of course.”

Later, with a more serious tone, Mama asked, “So, you’re going to blame me for everything that has happened?”

While our relationship and communication continue to require work, I assured her that I don’t blame her for all the bad.

Let me be clear: I do not hate Mama. I NEVER hated Mama. I hated her behavior. I resented everything and everyone that took her away from me as a child! Though my mind may still remember the neglect, I realize that nothing I did or did not do could have changed her then. Or now. I can only change myself and aim to become better.

Several years ago, someone recommended Irregular People, by Joyce Landorf, which helped me tremendously. Nearly everyone has a difficult or “irregular” person in his or her life. They can be emotionally tone-deaf and not really hear you. They may be emotionally blind and not see you. They may even have a speech impediment and struggle to express themselves adequately to you. You cannot please that person; you cannot change them, no matter how much you wish to.

I can be at peace and know that the way Mama—or anyone else—chooses to live their lives isn’t a reflection of me.

Yes, writing is therapeutic, but if I can show just one person that they are not alone in their struggles, then I have done something good. Through it all, one can have purpose and meaning and overcome.

In the dynamic of things, I felt Mama did her best.

As we all try to do.

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Filed under Mama, parenting

Tagged as Family, Irregular People, Mama's Birthday, memoir, parenting, personal, rambling, Relationships, struggles

Aside

“Mrs. C”

We affectionately call her Mrs. C.

In her sixties, with remarkable zeal, she carried a charismatic and gregarious personality. She was a Bible teacher, an author, a missionary, a powerhouse, and a woman of great faith. She exuded genuine friendship in a Godly persona and took me under her wings. She held many prayer meetings in her home and often prostrated herself on the floor, face down, interceding for others. She became my lifesaver, my spiritual mother. Throughout the years, I frequently relied on her for spiritual guidance and much-needed counsel.

On one dreary afternoon, the sky grew overcast along with my hope and faith. Suffering from battle fatigue, I sat in Mrs. C’s den. I told her I was sick and tired of being sick and tired.

“I can’t take it anymore,” I confessed, wringing my hands.

Patiently, unassuming, and non-judgmental, Mrs. C handed me a tissue and gave me time to release the dread and pain in my heart.

“I’ve tried everything. Done all I know to do. Yet nothing seems good enough.”

“Has he stopped hitting you?”

I sighed, much relieved that he had. “Oh, yes.”

“Mary Ann, in his own way, you know he loves you,” she began, “but you have become ‘weary in well-doing.’ In your mind’s eye, you’ve conceded it’s not worth it.”

She honed in on my sentiments. I hung my head in shame.

“You know,” she insisted, “it is worth it all.”

At that moment, I wished I were stronger and smarter, and Mrs. C wasn’t so wise and read me so well. “But shouldn’t this be a two-way street?” I suggested.

“Are you and the kids better off without him?”

I figured she knew the answer before I did. “We . . . we have nowhere else to go.”

“Are you better off without him?” she repeated, handing me the tissue box.

“Money is tight. I can’t afford to do anything else.”

“Are you better off without him?”

No,” I whispered and wiped my nose.

I felt weak and inadequate as a Christian wife, struggling to maintain a measure of peace and sanity in my household with four children and tending to a man struggling with his demons.

“Then, go home and be the best wife and mother you know how to be,” she said.

Sometimes, it’s easier to talk the talk than to walk the walk.

“But first,” she added, “I want to pray for you.”

That woman knew how to enter the Throne Room of God in her prayers. Electricity surged through my entire body when she touched me while praying. Before I left, she handed me her book, Wives, Unequally Yoked. I figured reading couldn’t hurt, plus the title intrigued me. I’d already devoured The Total Woman, by Marabel Morgan. The pages were worn and underlined with a yellow marker, much like my own Bible.

“PRAY HARDEST WHEN IT’S HARDEST TO PRAY”

I didn’t leave Mrs. C’s company the same way I arrived. Resolved in my heart not to become bitter, I determined to be better and left strengthened, with a made-up mind.

Mrs. C suggested that I study a passage in the Bible that read: “In the same way, you wives, be submissive to your own husbands so that even if any of them are disobedient to the Word, they may be won without a word by the behavior of their wives, as they observe your chaste and respectful behavior.”

I had to admit this wasn’t easy. I’d used my tongue as a weapon more times than I cared to count, and didn’t know if I could keep my mouth shut. But with renewed determination, I worked on dropping the holier-than-thou attitude and praying for my husband more. This time, I prayed–not that my life might become easier–but that he might become whole: physically, spiritually, and emotionally.

Note: Has anyone outside of your family meant the world to you? Made an impact? Enriched your life?

Throughout the years, many have come into my life, for which I am eternally grateful. Mrs. C recently celebrated her 87th birthday. Although not as active as once before, Mrs. C has touched and helped countless lives that are still going strong today. Because of her, many have realized their true potential and reached their purpose.