I don't know how you do it!

First of all, I cannot believe that I have not posted since July! Please forgive me. I shall do better going forward.

This is an entry I wrote at the beginning of the school year but I just did not feel ready to post it. I'm over it...here goes...

When people really grasp what my week actually looks like in terms of where my time goes, most of them shake their heads and gasp, "I don't know how you do it!"

I respond, "I don't know any other way to do it." There are choices that I have made along the way (which have been judged and forgiven already, so no need to rehash those here) and as a result, this is the life that I am living. This life includes an extremely long commute to a job that requires every ounce of my attention and energy. Some would not survive the commute. Others would not survive the job. The two combined on a daily basis are not child's play. When friends see my 4:30 am postings on Facebook, they whisper the prayer, "I don't know how you do it (and thank God I don't have to)!"

There are sacrifices we all make in the name of something and every yes to one thing is a loud NO to something else. One of the perks of this lifestyle is that it forces me to be crystal clear about my priorities. What things are important enough to take up whatever 'spare' time I may have? To the chagrin of my friends, these times are few and far between and often times, friends will ask (almost begging) me to make 'other arrangements' so that I can spend time with them. What we all forget from time to time as it pertains to other people's lives is that there is a butterfly effect that happens whenever we make a decision or choice. Changing one aspect of the present situation may have a huge and unforeseen impact on all of the pieces in the future.

I must also be a diligent watchdog of my own self-care habits. While it may serve others for me to go out on a Friday or Saturday night, the cost to my body is not worth it. Working to the point of exhaustion on a daily basis will make you reassess what things are worthy of your time. That is not to suggest that my friends are 'not worthy' of my time in some grand scheme of things but those who are my closest friends know that I don't love them any less just because I can't get out to play as often as I'd like.

This, of course leads to another issue that I face more often than I planned. It is very hard to build new relationships with people who think you are always blowing them off. It is a constant challenge to find the time required to love on someone who needs lots of face time. (Someone like a 14 year old girl who looks a lot like both of her parents.) It is also a challenge to find someone who can...well...love and be loved by me when all I know with any certainty is that I have time for deep and meaningful, albeit brief, conversations but that whole dating game looks very different for me. (Talk about priorities! This life will make you realize just how much of a luxury it is to have the TIME to flirt effectively!) I would love to hold hands and stroll in the park gazing into his eyes, but for real, I have papers to grade, lessons to plan, food to cook and laundry to wash. I do not have time for guessing games and the foolishness that passes for dating these days.

Another area of sacrifice is church. Bible study used to be the center of my week. It was a time to see the folks I didn't see except on Sunday and hug a few necks and slip in a few extra prayers with people. Some nights, I don't get off of the train in time to make it to Bible Study and other nights, I carry so much work home that I am not able to spare the 90 minutes that Bible Study asks of my week. The same is true for visiting other churches. I like to hear my colleagues preach and I am grateful for the podcasts and streaming services because some days I do not have the time for the commute, let alone for the service itself! So, I keep my commitments close to home and enjoy my own church family as much as I can on Sundays.

Some would suggest that I need to manage my time a little better. In this world where there's an app for everything, we still have to live our lives one moment at a time whether well planned or not. Everything cannot be farmed out nor should it be and even if I had a personal assistant, unless she could manipulate time itself, even that might not be enough. But I do give thanks for the speech to text software that has blessed my writing life! If only I could dictate dinner into the oven on my way home. Alas, some tasks must be done by hand.

They say, "I don't know how you do it!" Many of these are my overachieving friends whose lives make me wonder the same thing! They pastor and they parent and they spouse (Yes, that's a verb in case you were wondering), they work out, they work late, they coordinate outfits and accessories and shoes and shop at the same time! I don't know how you do it either. We all make choices that we must live with. I love teaching and I always choose school districts where resources are few and needs are great. I know what I'm getting into when I sign the paperwork in the Human Resources department. My reward is not always in the paycheck. Sure, there are days when I want to scream because it seems as if no one sees or notices my grand sacrifices and there are days when I wish that I were coming home to a wonderful husband, a dozen roses and a bubble bath instead of incomplete homework and a kitchen sink full of dishes that says, "a teenager was here!". There are times when I cry out to God and ask, "You couldn't find anybody else to do this?" And I hear the first few words of the answer, "to whom much is given..." and I realize that though my life represents a series of choices, I do these things because I can. I do this because I must. I do this because I have been blessed to be a blessing and as my life plays out, this is what it looks like right now. I may complain about the cost of my commute, but that is a luxury. I complain about my car, but that is a luxury. I complain when the subway is delayed by a whole 5 minutes...luxury! I complain that my clothes do not fit as I'd like them to but I have clothes to wear...clean clothes...nice clothes...LUXURY! I am painfully aware that there are parts of the world in which women still cannot wash clothes because there is no clean water. I am aware that there are parts of the world in which more than one article of clothing is a blessing. I am aware that though I complained about leaving a lovely pair of designer shoes on the train, there are women in the world (many in these United States) who walk barefoot on behalf of their children. These women have no healthcare. These women have none of the benefits which are the subject of my complaints and yet they do it...every day. With them in mind and choices on the table, I do it like people of faith have done it for centuries.

I do it by the grace of God!
So, I am asking those who know about the grace of God to keep me in your prayers!

Shalom!

Forgiveness, Part I

Have you ever had the opportunity to grant someone your forgiveness? How did it feel? How long did it take to get there? What was the price you paid? What did you charge the other person? I'm wondering about these things because I am being stretched and grown in the process of forgiveness. So, let's set the tone, shall we?

As a Christian, I have been taught and I believe, that forgiveness is essential. There are endless quotes and quips about forgiveness but I wonder how much we really know about the art and act of forgiveness. As I walk along my own life's path, I am learning that there are weeds that I have watered which are choking out my ability to really forgive and be free from the bondage of unforgiveness. Jesus tells us to forgive seventy times seven and I may have quoted that in a sermon or two - but what most people (including myself) struggle with is HOW to forgive. Many bible studies have been peppered with questions like - "If you forgive, does that mean you forget?" What I want to know is when will we look at the anatomy of forgiveness? When will we see that the sharp and witty comments that we so easily spew out often speak of a seed of unforgiveness? When that seed meets the egg of our deepest hurt and most vulnerable self, the cells split and the thing grows and now, there's more to this thing than just forgetting what was done to you.

There is a very specific seed that has been planted and nourished in the warm confines of my heart's womb.  The thing that I seek to abort is the lovechild of my divorce and my finances. Thoughtful optimists give me the platitudes and affirmations to put on my mirror and recite to myself every morning but there is a piece of my day to day reality that is missing. What you say to me is, "Oooh, girl. You need to let that go." But then when I can't go out with you because this thing has my money tied up, you shake your head and "help" me concoct ya plan for revenge. I don't need revenge. I need cat-like reflexes to help me move past the anger and resentment and move forward to the healing. I need to not have to open my checkbook to pay for yesterday instead of being able to save for my tomorrow. And that's where the biting sarcasm comes into play.  Oh, I'll write the check and do the right thing, but I reserve the right to be angry, catty, sarcastic, bitter and whatever else I decide along the way. Now, I am sure that Jesus did not have this in mind as he calls us to forgive 70 times 7 but perhaps the 70 times 7 is about weeding out the entitlements. Maybe what the 70 times 7 is really about is the need to catch myself slipping into justifiable and quasi-righteous anger that manifests in my cruel words...which are received with laughter because that's how we treat these things. We laugh and pretend they don't hurt or that the speaker is really just being funny and not expressing something that is a very real part of his or her daily existence. How many times have I stopped to "do the right thing" and said, "See Jesus, I'm doing what you asked me to but this fool is not doing his part and it's not fair." What kind of prayer is that? Well, some days, it's the most honest one I have on the road to deliverance from my own evil.  Do you have any idea how difficult it is to make that paradigm shift from using passive aggressive sarcasm into speaking the truth and praying for God to actually bless the one who harmed me instead of the simple prayer, "Get em, Jesus!"It is very difficult but it is also do-able. Anything is possible if you get out of your own way.

By the grace of God, I am able to maintain a budget that allows me to afford today and yesterday. I can maintain my lovely middle class existence with relative ease. I can still tithe to my church and occasionally treat my colleagues to lunch. However, as my garden continues to grow and bloom, I must be ever vigilant against the weeds that crop up when I am not paying attention. How many is 70 x 7? 490. So, as I see it, I have at least 490 weeds to pull up out of my garden.  Weeds of anger, resentment, bitterness, exhaustion, entitlement, sadness, longing, self-deprecation, violence (physical, spiritual, verbal - shoot, that's at least 250 right there!). As I don my gardening gloves and kneel down to tend to the garden, I am reminded that anyone can do right by someone who has done right by them. It takes a real leap of faith to do right by the one who has somehow earned your harbored unforgiveness. It takes faith to believe that God really does know what to do and is waiting to see if we are trusting enough. We are not called to hold grudges. We are called to hold our hands out to others and to hold our heads up and look to the hills for our strength. It will take me a minute to pray ever so sincerely for God to bless those who have despitefully used me but I must also humbly remember that this was modeled for me in the words, "While you were yet sinners, Christ died for you." I'm not being asked to die. I'm only being asked to forgive...and it won't kill me...but it will take me a minute because forgiveness is that work that always calls for overtime!  But the reward is priceless!

No Shame Day

Today, I'm doing something similar, but different...tread lightly, it's under constant revision...

Please take a moment to visit and support my friend's website http://thesiweproject.org/. She has the courage of a million survivors, the brilliance of a million stars and the love of a million hearts...and she is one in a million! (And I love her!) Because of her courage and professionalism, there is a place for us to gather as a community of fighters and supporters. There is a place where we can be ourselves with no shame. Thank you to all who have helped me along the way and my heart goes out to all who have been touched by mental illness of any form.


No Shame Day

July 2, 2012

My name is Carla Jones and I have no shame.

I am a teacher, preacher, mother, sister, writer, personal chef, caregiver and woman who loves fiercely…and I have no shame about my diagnosis of and struggle with clinical depression.

I was diagnosed with clinical depression more years ago than I care to remember. (Or perhaps I’ve lied about my age for so long that I can no longer do the math accurately.)  When I was a teenager, I had what can graciously be called mood swings but it wasn’t until I found myself crying inconsolably and self-medicating for an undiagnosed illness that I realized that this was not just typical teenage moodiness.

Part of my story includes a memory of relentless and incurable anger coupled with a string of failed relationships. It wasn’t until a failed relationship led me to attempt to overdose on pain medication– which I quickly regretted and attempted to undo by calling 911 and inducing vomiting – that I realized that I was losing the battle. The mandated ‘pre-release from the hospital therapy’ was telling. The unprepared white woman looked at a writing sample and said, “Oh, you’re quite angry aren’t you?” In the moment that I wanted to return home and show her just how angry I was, I realized that if I did not get real help soon, I would destroy either myself or someone else…because I was not merely angry, I was deeply depressed yet still able to finish college and secure a great job and manage my multiple roles. 

I found the right therapist – a compassionate, yet tough black man whose office was in a lovely suburban setting that allowed me the simple pleasures of free parking and a stroll down “Main Street” as part of my therapy. He held my feet to the fire and never wasted my time or copay.  Rather, he asked me what was at the root of all of this anger. He helped me to face the demons of the past and set goals to keep them (the demons) out of my future... or at least at a distance. It would be years before I would seek him out again, only to find that he had moved on but he referred me to another man who would also work to keep me here.

I met Dr. L. when I was in my last year of seminary and the lights grew dim. I was unable to get off of the couch after taking my daughter to daycare. I was a mess but I was able to smile at least one hour of the day, so most of my friends were kept at bay. I was always angry or moved to tears in class or chapel, so my outward expressions did not draw any attention. Until the day I met J. She called me out on my stuff one day and I was shocked. I believe that’s what we mean when we say, “Game recognize Game!” She saw in me what she saw in the mirror. Again, I returned to a regimen of regular therapy sessions and the demon was again held off for a while.

The reason I speak publicly about my illness is that I managed to hide it so well for so long. My friends accepted me for who I was – even if that meant quirky highs and lows.
Even when I pretended that being an only child was the reason why I preferred solitude.
Even when I would weep over things that seemed so insignificant.
I was a single parent.
I held a job while in grad school.
I was the go-to girl who took care of everyone else, so no one suspected anything or if they did, no one dared to say anything, because black folk don’t talk about that stuff…especially those of us who are God fearing, bible thumping, Jesus loving Christians preparing to be someone’s pastor. 
I quietly took medication and continued therapy until we managed to manage the illness for just a little while longer.

Two years ago…the demon returned with brand new superpowers. The darkness crept in like a summer storm. It was unexpected and violent. I put my affairs in order and in a sort of out of body experience, attempted to write the ending to my story. (Thank God for rewrites and edits!)
I survived that storm.
I wrote about that storm.
I bravely blogged that storm and shocked my friends and loved ones.
I did not seek to shock. I sought to educate.
That’s why I write.
I write so that we can stop being shocked and so that we can see the signs and get the needed and available help.
I write and speak about it because if I don’t tell my story, it will appear in some poorly written and largely circumstantial unauthorized posthumous biography.
I tell my story because my story is not unique.
I tell my story so that some little black girl doesn’t spend her life thinking that she is weird or ‘bad’ or just sad.
I tell my story because some people still don’t get it.
I tell my story to keep from cussin' people out when they say, “Cheer up!”
I tell my story because silence almost killed me.
I tell my story for every student who has ever come to me and said, “Miss Jones, I need to talk to you…” 
I tell my story for the woman who wept on my robe after I preached about depression…on “Youth Day.”
I tell my story because it demands telling. 
I tell my story because it is still writing itself.
I tell my story because I have no shame!

My name is Carla Jones and I have NO SHAME! This is my story…

Prayers from the Edge

Today I am writing from a place of realization, recognition and repentance. It is a place that I will describe as the “edge”.  The edge of what? Could be the edge of my sanity. Could be the edge of a breakthrough. Could be the edge of my anger or the edge of my patience.  All I know is that I am on the edge of something and this narrow place has a dangerous air about it. One false move and the edge becomes razor sharp and slices me with the clean cut of a surgeon’s scalpel. One right move and the edge leads to the plateau where I can relax for a moment as I work my way to its edge as well where the cycle will repeat itself because there is always another edge…

In the process of being moved to the “edge” I have learned a few things about myself that I want to share with you. If they are peculiar to my life, then pray for me but if they sound remotely familiar, then I invite you to pray with me.

Deliver me from entitlement.  The view from the edge includes a mirror that reflects back to me the ugly entitlement that robs me of my joy. My pastors are in the midst of a sermon series on giving and as I listen with some sense of smug self-satisfaction (because I am just so generous in my own eyes), I am also reminded that much of my anger and resentment comes from the expectation that I am supposed to get an immediate return on my giving. I tithe but admittedly with some hesitation as I calculate how much money I will have left on the week that I pay rent and tithe.  I feel entitled to a life in which I can write checks without having to do quick math to make sure that there’s enough left over for food and gas for the week.  I feel entitled to some relief because of the ‘sacrifices’ I make. But I tend to forget that there are small graces each day that money can’t buy and there are ‘sacrifices’ that I have never had to make. At the edge, I am forced to remember that giving is not about what you get back but rather, it is about what is in your heart when you decide to give. Either do something for someone because you love the person or just keep your little 'gift' and attitude.  For me, it is about remembering that if indeed, ‘my cup runneth over,’ I’m only ‘giving’ out of the overflow area and not from the bottom of the barrel like the widow did for the prophet. With that perspective, I ask God to deliver me from entitlement. Deliver me from self-centered concern and deliver me into a place where I can give freely because I am clear about the Source of any and all of my giving. Deliver me from holding people hostage in my mind as I remember what I have done for them…in their time of need.  (That’s what I’m supposed to do!) Deliver me from the expectation that there should be someone who gives to me like I give to others because that’s good logic and good math. Faith, love, and hope are not about logic or math. Deliver me from the narrowness of entitlement and into the largesse of Faith, Hope, and Love.

Deliver me from other people’s ICU areas. Everybody has flaws and areas for improvement. Some people, however, spread their contagious germs of negativity everywhere they go and should probably come with a spiritual CDC warning label.  The trouble with communicable diseases is that we often come into contact with them and don’t realize we’ve been infected until we see the symptoms and by then, it’s too late.  By then, the germs have made a home within us and have mutated into a unique strain that resists treatment.  From the edge, I find that I must pray to remember who I am despite the company I am in.  It is endlessly frustrating, not to mention futile, to try to change other people into what we think they should be. So, from the edge, I shift from victim to visitor. The other person is no less in need of ICU care but I will not be a roommate in someone else’s ICU. I will don the appropriate protective gear and come and go as needed.  So with hospital scrubs and a mask, I pray that God would deliver me from other people’s ICUs.  Deliver me from a weak immune system that is susceptible to other people’s illnesses and deliver me into a place of prayer and faith and good spiritual health.  Deliver me from the trap of thinking that being in the same physical location means being on one accord.  Oh, and deliver me from the desire to be the Potter when I am really just a lump of clay. I can’t fix broken people but I don’t have to smash myself up just to be in their presence either. So, deliver me from becoming caught up in other people's illnesses...and deliver me into a space of self care so that I don't become a carrier of the same poisons.

Deliver me from my own attachments. Lord have mercy. This one is related to the first one, I suppose. I recently left a FAVORITE pair of shoes on the train because I was too exhausted to remember to pick them up when I arrived at my stop. I am not a clotheshorse or a shoe fanatic but this was my 'go to shoe'.  I was seriously grieving these shoes for days. Why? Because they represented something to me. Those were my ‘big-girl’ shoes. Those were my interview shoes. Those were my church shoes. Those were my special birthday dinner shoes. Those were my public poetry reading shoes! Those shoes were 70% off!! But, what I realize from the edge is that those shoes cannot take me where I need to go. Ironically, I preached a sermon about being dressed for the occasion and how women who want to serve God must have the right footwear for their calling.  Those shoes are for show and it appears that I need something more durable and stable for this piece of my journey.  As I wrestle with a sense of entitlement, I must also wrestle with my attachments. What must I give up to move from the edge to the plateau? Everyone and everything cannot make the journey and how much further along would I be if I would just lay aside these weights that so easily beset me? (Hebrews 12:1)  I lost my shoes but I still have my feet so I can still move forward. Deliver me from those things and people who cannot make the next leg of the journey with me.  And please deliver me from the heartache that accompanies the goodbyes.

Those are just a few of my prayers from the edge today.  Maybe something resonates with you and maybe you’ll just shake you head and say, “Help her Lord. She has issues!” Either way, I appreciate your stopping by to take this portion of the journey with me.  If you need me, I’ll be praying from the edge.

Until next time...Shalom!

Why I Made My Students Read The Alchemist

If you have not yet read The Alchemist by Paulo Coehlo, I do not know what you are doing with your life! This phenomenal book has the power to change your life if you allow it! I discovered this gem in 2006 and refer to it frequently. In its simplicity, it is deeply profound. It inspires a return to our true selves and to our dream life that we have left behind in pursuit of something more stable and sensible...and probably boring! What happened to following the dreams of our youth? What thief came along and stole our dreams? When you travel alongside Santiago, you may find yourself reclaiming your dreams as you and he pursue his Personal Legend.



The Alchemist is the story of a young shepherd who decides to follow his dream to see the Pyramids. Being a shepherd allows him the luxury to travel freely. He meets several characters along the way but each one is important to his journey. Each character has an important role to play in teaching him something about himself or about the journey.  How often do we forget to notice the people who travel with us - and how often do we forget to notice that there are lessons that we could never have learned without the help of another? How many lessons have I learned from the students I've met in my 14 years as an educator? How many babies have taught me a deeper theology than all of the books in the library?

This story is bracketed by a prologue and an epilogue which provide meaningful keys to understanding the shepherd's story. The prologue includes a retelling of the myth of Narcissus as understood by the Alchemist. This window into the Alchemist's soul sets a tone for the rest of the book. My take on the prologue is that one must never be so self absorbed as to fail to SEE (really see, notice, pay attention to) the beauty in all creation. The epilogue confirms for the reader that though the last line of the story indicates that Santiago knows where his treasure is, we still want to know that he actually finds it. In the last line of the epilogue, he whispers on the wind that he will return to the woman he loves. (And I swoon!)

If I had to select just one quote from this awesome book that explains why I made my students read The Alchemist, it would be from page 76 of the HarperOne edition: "We are afraid of losing what we have, whether it's our life or our possessions and property. But this fear evaporates when we understand that our life stories and the history of the world were written by the same hand." Regardless of what else they may learn from me over the course of our time together, if they can learn and grasp that we are part of time and eternity, then they will have what they need to succeed in life. Although I would love to see them all earn an A in my classes, there is something bigger than an A in Miss Jones' class. Although I want to see them go off to college and become productive citizens (smile), there is something bigger than that as well. I want them to be fearless when it comes to losing "things" that can be recovered. I want them to live fearlessly and to pursue their Personal Legends with the confidence that the Soul of the World knows and waits for them. I want them to learn to read the omens and learn the lessons along the way. Most importantly, I want them to find the treasure that lies within them, for that is the one thing that no one can take away from them. I want them to always remember that though I am a clearly confessing Christian, I entrust them to God's care and grant them the combined blessing of Amen and Maktub!

OVER the Rainbow

Today is the first day of 2012 and I am just glad to be here! I am also working on my commitment to write one entry each month! (Reminders and encouragement are welcomed!)

 I named this blog for the tremendous impact that Ntozake Shange's Choreopoem had on my life. Little did I know that it would take me on a journey through my own battle with depression. Little did I know that so many of my friends and loved ones were on the same journey and needed me to speak for all of us. Today's blog entry "OVER the Rainbow" is more of a testimony than a title. Please don't think that I took a pill (every day at the same time for several months) and the depression magically disappeared. No, silly, it was and is not that easy...and don't you forget it when you're trying to love on those of us who often suffer in silence and solitude.  It's a long, arduous process...more like a battle that just never seems to end though it may die down into what feels like a cease fire sometimes, depression always comes back well rested and well armed.

On December 20, 2011, I was on my way to work and felt a sudden and overwhelming grief and sadness. I wept in my car and on the train and could not figure out why. My life had turned around in miraculous ways. I was no longer holding my breath in anticipaiton of an unemployment check. (Now, I anticipate my direct deposit from my employer! *insert crazy praise here*) My daughter was no longer struggling as she once had in middle school. I had found a place to worship and call 'home'. So, where did this grief come from? The body remembers...

On December 18, 2010, I wrote a blog entry that was my confession of having considered suicide...because the rainbow had indeed been 'enuf'. As I tried to work through my tears and sadness, I realized that I had actually almost taken my life a year ago. I realized that I was my enemy's best weapon...for my demise. Depression had seduced me to the point of deepest intimacy and I had the perfect opportunity to consummate our relationship. I was weeping because I realized that instead of fluffing the winter blankets for my bed, my parents might have been buying a grave blanket this Christmas. Let's be clear, those who know me...really know me...already know that I have perfectionist proclivities. I was not trying to be bruised, maimed, or disabled. I was shooting for "Lazarus before Jesus arrived" dead.  I researched the methods. I checked the doses. I put my affairs in order. I was not waiting for or clinging to the hope and promise of the rainbow. All I wanted was to be released from the pain that I felt in my mind, heart, and body. I prayed for forgiveness the thoughts and the premeditation of it all. As a Christian and especially as clergy, I was supposed to be seeking the Kingdom of Heaven and all I wanted to do was hide!

Many who know my 'ridiculously joyful side' find this to be incredible hyperbole but for the sake of those who are suffering and unseen, I have to tell you my story again and again until you hear me. You may have someone like me in your home. You may have someone like me in your life. You may have someone like me in your heart. You may have someone like me in your congregation, on your job, in your carpool, in your child, in places that you would never imagine. For the sake of the silent ones, I need for you to realize that there is a place like this where many of us congregate...but it's not joyful, it's in lonliness and seclusion. Shange's poem was and is for those Colored Girls like me. The rainbow was enuf.

But...

By the GRACE of God I'm still here, so...

Until Colored Girls stop considering suicide,
     I'm going to keep writing.
Until Colored Girls stop considering suicide,
     I'm going to keep praying.
Until Colored Girls stop considering suicide,
     I'm going to keep loving.
Until Colored Girls stop considering suicide,
     I'm going to keep watch over them.
Until Colored Girls stop considering suicide,
     I'm going to keep LIVING!

I'm extending my hand to help Colored Girls make it OVER the Rainbow!
I am OVER the Rainbow and there is peace here.
I am OVER the Rainbow and there is love here.
I am OVER the Rainbow and there is healing here.
I am OVER the Rainbow and there is life here.
I am OVER the Rainbow and there is laughter here.
I am OVER the Rainbow and there is joy here!
I am OVER the Rainbow and GOD is here!

Some of you are going to thank God for a new year and another chance.
Today, I am thanking God for bringing me and others like me OVER the Rainbow!

Shalom!

My Aunt Daisy

 Last night, my phone rang after 10 pm and although that is not unusual, the picture and name on the screen of my so-called-smart phone caused my heart to race.  When I glanced over at the phone with the intention to let the call go to voice mail, I saw my father's name and number. I grabbed the phone and tried to hide my concern as I said hello. My parents (and I) tend to avoid phone calls after 10 pm...because we usually fall asleep in front of the television around 9 or 9:30!

He shared his usual greeting, "Hey! What are you doing?" followed by "Where's Maya?" (As if he didn't know the answers!) He asked what was new and after I said, "nothing at all" he said, "Well, I have some news." I held my breath and waited for him to share his news. He solemnly said, "Aunt Daisy died today."  This came as a total shock because I knew that other relatives were older and sicker but I did not know that she had been in the hospital for two weeks. So, my cousins are making arrangements for a Saturday funeral down in Georgia, where dad and his siblings grew up...and got in more trouble than the law allowed!

 I was looking through my photo albums but could not find a picture of my Aunt Daisy. She was a card! She reminded me of Eartha Kitt with her wonderful laugh, wide smile, and her unique voice. She lived in New York and the trips to her house were always fun even though I was the baby cousin and was not allowed to go into the basement with my older cousins.  She let me cook the rice once...long before I knew how to cook anything...and proudly told everyone "Carla made the rice" which was code for, "It's sticky because she stirred it instead of letting it cook undisturbed!" This would not be a crime in most households, but these folks were from Georgia and messing up the rice is a cardinal sin! (I have since repented and made amends...and made better rice, too!)

I remember my crazy cousins who used to hang out in the basement, probably listening to Parliament Funkadelic records and doing what older teenagers do in the basement without supervision...draw your own conclusions. I'm not telling all of the family business, but that's only because I have no firsthand knowledge because they never did let me hang out with them. I guess they thought the girl from Jersey didn't know what was going on. Hmph! Even if they didn't let me hang with them, I knew they loved me. We still sat at the table and cracked jokes and my cousin Lena would take me to the store. (This was a big deal for me. Remember, I lived in the suburbs, so walking in the streets of NY for a bag of chips and a soda was HUGE!)

I also remember hot summers in Dover, Georgia where my Aunt Daisy had a beautiful brick house built across the street from the one my grandparents lived in. There are pecan trees in the yard and a shed with a bunch of broken down trucks and cars waiting for the Grim Reaper to tow them away. Next to her house is the "shop" where my grandfather sold pickled pig's feet, candy, sodas and God knows what else. There were pool tables and a jukebox and I remember putting money in so my mom could hear the Manhattans singing "Honey you, are my shining star, don't you go away..."  I liked Aunt Daisy's house because she had air conditioning and a television with cable so we could watch more than three channels.  I could dash from the shop to her house to the yard and then back to the house only to be scolded for "opening and closing that door"! Ah, the good old days. Now, I am among those who warn the little ones about trafficking in and out of the house. My last memory of that house is walking past it holding my father's hand after his mother died. Of course, there was drama about who would ride in the limousine (all the way across the street to the church that was less than a mile away!) and there were all of the other emotional markers of grief like fussing, fighting, and crying. It was a quiet moment of tenderness that I will always cherish. It was a moment of calm in the storm of grief all around us.  That beautiful brick house will always be a symbol of the complexity and beauty of what it means to me to be a Jones.

This weekend, the family will once again gather in that house and tell stories and share memories and shed tears. Aunt Daisy's life will be celebrated and her loss will be grieved. Our lives were made richer for having her with us. I pray that God will comfort my family with happy memories, kind words, and loving embraces.

Shalom