Mi Mama

My mom is 72. I know this because I'm 42 and she is always my +30. I noticed this weekend that her skin doesn't heal anymore like it should. I asked her about it and she says it's collagen. She could pay $10,000 per arm and have it "fixed." But time is time. And collagen cannot unwind time.

I've been asked a lot in my lifetime who I admire - who I aspire to be. My mind goes blank - no one has that status for me - no one is that amazing. Humans are humans. Even the best humans are just humans. And honestly, they all kinda suck, no matter who they are. No one is on a pedestal.

Except my mom. My mom is my hero. 

She sees herself as a no one, funny enough. A woman who stayed home with her kids and never finished college. A woman who never had the courage to step out or up, to tell her husband she's had enough of his shit. She sees a mouse. 

I see a warrior. 

I see a woman who fought all odds to survive. Every pen stroke on her story is one of survival. People ask me how I'm so strong - a single mom - a business owner.  I am not a victim of my circumstances, because my mama told me NO. My mama told me there's no victimization in our lineage. We fight. We stand up. 

Don't you *dare* feel sorry for me.

You might not know this, but my mama caught on fire when she was six, and they said she would never survive it. They gave her up for dead. 

And then she rared up and kicked death's ass.

This woman with age spots now used to birth pigs at 3 am, kick cows off the porch, knock the wind out of her 14 year old son, sew my clothes, and braid my hair. As a teenager she made my life miserable - I laugh now that she made her full time job knowing where I was at all times. She was a champion for my virginity. I was not thrilled about that at the time.

Now my friend's ADHD son makes her have to catch her breath just watching him.

And that will happen to me, too. I hate it. People continuously tell you when you have a child that it passes so quickly and to enjoy every minute of it. I don't think they know that I suck the very marrow of every single snapshot in my time. Every day. Every laugh. Every kiss.

I hate time.

I hate time. I hate time. And it's ever-marching.

I think the very best part of heaven shall be the lack of it. 

II Timothy 2:15

I'm sitting here in the First Baptist Church for the fourth time in a 2-3 week period. I do not attend church here. But like my own church, I've now memorized the ceiling. It's far more symmetrical than ours. The beams are spaced 20' apart and filled with 6" lap boards (38 between each 12" beam). Except the very rear section is only 15'. So the sanctuary is 135' deep, I think. It may be 130' - I was analyzing the very front section to see if it too was less than 20' and people started staring at me, like I'm weird or something. Anyway, the sanctuary is beautiful. And symmetrical. Soul soothing.

I've attended four funerals in this span of time, three of which were here. Two of the four I felt I knew the people pretty well; two of the four not as well, but I knew them. I do not think I cried at the two funerals of the people I knew better; I cried at both funerals where I knew them casually. Emotions are strange things sometimes.

When I was younger I used to pride myself on not attending funerals ever - I puffed up my chest and said funerals are just too sad, and I wanted to remember them alive, not dead. I was proud of my stance. Now, I liken it to people who don't go to church because it's full of hypocrites. I was a selfish sort sighted idiot. Now, I regret some funerals I failed to attend - my great grandmother's especially.

***Break***

***Funeral***

***Put the Phone Down***

***Grocery Shopping***

***Drive Home***

At some point I came to the realization that funerals are not about me. It is not about me. Nor is it really about the person who passed. This came as a huge sweeping revelation to me sometime in my late twenties. Funerals are for the people who WERE close to the person who passed. They need to see a sea of faces, some familiar and some not - they need to know that this person they are grieving - the hole left in their soul - had an impact. They mattered. They were loved. It is an outpouring of support, often for people you do not even know. And it trumps pretty much everything else in life in that moment – there is nowhere more important or sacred to be.

I started making funerals a priority. I'm not trying to be pretentious or self-righteous or holy - I think in some ways I'm trying to atone for the ones I missed.

That being said, I really deliberated about attending today. I deliberated about if I belonged there. See, last Sunday I was across the street from their home at a referral who came from them. I had dropped in the week before to speak my condolences to the family, specifically the widow wife Dianne who was left behind. I knew the referral had come from them, before the tragedy occurred that cost her husband Murray’s life. Sunday I was meeting the referral's insurance agent. It was the day after the funeral. I debated about dropping in, but my truck is bright red and smeared with my company logo - you cannot miss it even if you tried. It seemed wrong to just drive off without saying anything.

I got confused. I was off balance. I was not myself. I felt like an intruder once we got in there. I remember now that I told her that I loved the flag ceremony. See, Murray was a Marine. I had never seen a flag presentation in person and it was …. I have no words. I was telling her I was sitting in the very back row and so I could not really see, but I saw one Marine’s little white hat if I looked just right. During the ceremony I cried – I cried for her and I cried for them, but I also cried because I was awed by the idea that this man had served his country selflessly and years and years later these men arrived who did not ever even meet him, and they honored him because they came from the same tradition. I’m not sure I’m putting the right words to this – but I compared it to being a Girl Scout. No Girl Scout is going to come to my funeral and present a patch to my family. No random student from Iowa State University Marching Band. But the Marines do. My soul ached to be a part of something with that rich of a tradition and history. I was proud of this Marine – of all Marines.

Overall though, I left her house feeling like I should not have stopped. I was filled with shame. I can’t explain it all, nor do I want to even if I could, but that’s how I felt. I could not shake the feeling – it hung over me like a storm cloud on an August day, and the feeling would not go away.

In our roofing conference that immediately followed during one of the sessions they asked us to list three people that we could take actions this week to protect – and I listed Dianne. I vowed I was going to write her a letter, just to tell her that no, I did not know her well, but that yes, I authentically cared. And then on Wednesday as we were leaving the conference, I was speaking with the referral across the street, and he told me that Dianne was gone. It knocked the wind out of me.

There was no letter to write. There were no words to say.

A friend told me this morning that the day after her mom’s funeral she didn’t want any visitors. She also gently wondered out loud why we always remember our short comings when it comes to death – how we failed that person. What we could have done different or better. If we could have stopped it. If we maybe even caused it. And that would not be what they would want. It’s a disservice to them.

I decided to go. I went. Walking in I was telling my parents on the phone about the Marine presentation and my dad told me that during high school he used to play “Taps” at such presentations. I never knew that about my dad. I laughed and told him the Marines don’t do Taps – the Marines do silence, except one little baby that was babbling away during the whole thing.

Dianne was in the air force for 20 years. I got goose bumps as I realized there was going to be another flag presentation. My second ever. Before the presentation their pastor, Pastor Brad, asked that everyone remain seated during the presentation and not rise until the first notes in “Taps.” It was then the conversation in the kitchen flooded over me – how I could not see. In this presentation I got to see everything - it was like the curtain was drawn back, just for me. It was in that moment that I knew I was supposed to be there.

I was supposed to be there. And I am not to feel ashamed.

The front portion must only be 15'. It must be, because if it were not, it would not be symmetrical. So it's 130' deep. I'm sticking to it.

1038 Segovia Circle

I’m not sure that I can remember the first time I came here. I am pretty sure it was 2004. We had moved to New Braunfels in 2003 and about the 2^nd person we met in town that stuck was Kevin Christesson – this eclectic soul combined with nuclear engineer nerd that cooked at the Tavern in the Gruene on Sundays and did not charge people to eat. The first night we met him he’d brought gumbo, and we never stopped coming after that.

Months later we met his sister Mona, playing games on the “crack machine.” She was a bit of the introverted sort, but once you dug around for a bit you found a heart of gold. We would all mash in – about 15 people gathered about the crack machine – and shout trivia answers or where the hidden picture was.

Time passed. Chuck and I got married there. We bought a house near Kevin’s house. We started having weekly poker games. It was Kevin and Mona, Mark, Sean, Chuck and I, Katy – others I’m sure I don’t remember. Katy had the cutest little girls – Sadie and Kylie – they were like 6 and 7 and came out to say good night in their darling nighties. And then a few years later Katy was pregnant again.

The cops showed up one time and everyone was petrified – while we were stuffing cash down our pants, they told us we had to move the cars because we were illegally parked, never mind the gambling.

I remember the first time I met Rhonda Allen – Mona brought her to play poker. She was about the most hilarious person I had ever met ever. And sad too – she’d lost the love of her life I think close to that time. But she always saw the humor in everything. And shared it with us, just in case we missed it.

I think the hardest I ever cried in laughter was when Rhonda told me about trying to take care of her first dead patient in hospice. I cannot retell this story. You just had to hear her tell it.

I remember during poker I had this horrible demanding job and my husband was impatient, so I missed hands. I also remember my “tell” – if I ever had a good hand I shook from head to toe like a vibrator. All my friends would fold, much to my chagrin, and all the new people would stay, and shakily, I crushed their souls.

And then I was pregnant. And life shifted a bit. Kevin fell in love and got married. There were too many hens in the hen house and Mona moved in with us. We needed help getting the baby to day care because we both had early morning jobs. Mona was our roommate.

Then the wheels came off the truck. Mona left town and I knew there were no witnesses. I remember calling Mona while I was in hiding and begging her not to leave me – I was so scared and so alone and I knew that my drama was insurmountable. I knew she would leave and should leave. I knew it was too much.

But she stayed. She was my only friend that stayed. She didn’t just stay – she picked me up when I was collapsing. She came along beside me. My world was caving in and she held it up. She took my daughter to daycare every morning. She never left my side.

I remember going up to Kevin’s house. I was so lost, I was in such turmoil. I went out on a motorcycle ride with an old friend, and Kevin’s new wife’s daughter made the best YouTube video ever of my daughter saying she likes chips and bread.

Link to the Cutest Video Ever

Mona stayed with me. We were very close friends. It hurt Rhonda, I won’t lie. I do not know what I would have done at that point in time without Mona, and Rhonda let me feel her wrath. It hurt my feelings. A lot.

I remember January 2^nd. My friend and neighbor’s husband Bill passed away after a long bout of illness and Mona got the phone call that her son, Josh, had unexpectedly passed in his care home. I remember the phone call. I remember the loud wailing, and holding her while she cried. I remember Katy calling and jumping in the car and driving down. January 2^nd felt like the entire world fell out from under everything. Too much on one day. Too much on one life.

Six days later it was Josh’s birthday, and also my daughter’s – they share a birthday. It felt like a betrayal, but I had to honor her birthday. Elvis’s birthday too, mind you.

Mona held fast.

After carrying me through what I had to get through, Mona had to move out. She had to move out because her Aunt and Dad were in failing health, and Kevin sold the house at 1038 Segovia Circle to his dad. This move was years and years in the making, and it finally happened.

It hurt my soul, but I understood, and I was also at the time that I had my own wings, albeit small ones. Her dad and her aunt came here. She worked, she provided, and their health deteriorated. We expected that from her Aunt Betty, but not her dad.

Time passed. The time came. I took Hannah up to the house and we sang hymns, even though I was a new fresh guitar student and I was probably completely awful, but we sang hymns to a dying man fully deserving of all honor. Hannah was brave. He tapped his fingers - he heard us. It was holy ground.

We went to visit Kevin in Alaska. We made memories at Denali and in Anchorage. We grew apart. But yet you always stay together.

Things happened in this past week that hurt my soul so badly I can’t even talk about it. I do not want to talk about it. My heart hurts. It’s national news, so everyone in the country knows about it, but I’m left with the chilling fact that I was mad at Rhonda because she thought I stole her best friend. Time closed the wound, but it was still there. I’m left knowing when I saw her at Little Women and sat by her, not knowing that it was the last time I’d see her, that I’m not sure I was even super cordial. I think I was cordial, but my mind goes in rewind and I plague myself with what happened. We were 4 seats down.

I think, if every time you saw someone or spoke to someone and knew it was the last time, you’d do things differently. But if you lived every parting like it was the last parting, they’d put you in an asylum.

Lauren is coming home from her race. My dad doesn’t even know Lauren, and it made him cry. My dad does not cry easily.

I didn’t even know why Lauren’s dad was at First Baptist, but he comforted Hannah while I comforted Mona. I should have comforted him. Now I know. We had it all ass backwards.

I stopped by Murray’s house on Friday because I was across the street and I just knew it was a referral from him. I saw the flag at half-mast and I died a bit inside. Now he is gone. My soul shook as I rung the bell and lamely made the excuse that I’m the neighborhood roofer and I just care for their souls. And then I hugged his wife and cried with her, and remembered the last time I spoke to him he said he needed Christmas lights hung and I said I couldn’t really help him with that.

Do you always remember in the aftermath that you were a failure?

Everything in life is such a spin. My heart hurts so badly. I went up to 1038 Segovia Circle tonight, and I sat with my friend. My friend lost her best friend, but I know that I’m a good friend, and I come along aside my good friend. She sobbed, and she felt like she could have done it better. I held her and assured her she did it the best she could.

I don’t really know what else there is for me at 1038 Segovia Circle. But I know there is more.

I realized looking around that it’s just another chapter, at the same place, in a different time. Another generation. I’m part of a family I have no blood investment in. We laughed and we cried and we barricaded the fence so the new puppy won’t get out.  There is more to come, and we cannot do it better – we live every day and we live it well and we have to know that we do it the best we can.