After his brief tour in WWII, my grandfather started a career as a sharecropper and would use his ten children as field hands. Life on the farm equipped the kids not only with agricultural skills but carpentry, auto-mechanic, plumbing and a host of other handy talents.
They raised cows, pigs and goats in a section of land called “Blacksville.” They made much of their money from their cotton and soybean crops, as well as corn, sorghum, wheat, okra and cucumbers.
As the eldest boy, my father started driving a tractor at 5-years-old when he was too small to see over the steering wheel. He’d have to start the tractor in gear, stand up to reach the pedals, and cut the gas to make it stop.
In 1966, the children helped to build their family home after my grandparent’s stopped renting from the farm owner’s land. The Lake clan could build whatever they put their minds to: deconstructing cars and tractors for fun, just to see whether they could put them back together again.
In 1982, the old house was moved to it’s current location on Highway 17 and totally remodeled. Most of the Lake siblings had moved to Minnesota by this time, leaving Jerome to do much of the work with the contractors. A second level was added to the house, as well as a den and attached garage. For 28 years, “The House” went untouched. The wallpaper, carpet and furniture remained the same.
After years of prodding from the Minnesota crew, my grandfather and Uncle Jerome agreed to allow the house to be remodeled again in 2010. My family put in new floors, bought new kitchen appliances and painted the first floor bedrooms. They hired a contractor to install new cabinets in the kitchen while they put in tile floors on their own. The bathroom was totally redone, with dual sinks added, a tile floor, new bathtub and toilet, and a sliding door separating the sinks from the interior of the bathroom.
On the morning after my grandfather passed, I limped to the bathroom to bathe and tame my fro for the day. The pain in my toe was so severe I couldn’t completely put on my left house shoe. I had to walk around with it only half on, making a shushing noise as I walked across the new floors.
I undressed, started the water and climbed into the shower. As the warm water hit my feet I felt a burn in my left big toe. At this point, I was blown away. “Really? WATER is hurting me?” So here I was, standing in the shower at an angle because I couldn’t take the burn but I couldn’t cut my shower short, as I needed to fully wash the previous day’s travel funk and grief away.
Monday, May 23, 2011
Thursday, May 19, 2011
The Road Trip, Part 4: Seeing Is Believing
Every single funeral or wake I’ve attended someone says, “They look just like they’re sleeping.” Every time I hear this, I think, “Um... no they don’t. They definitely look dead” I get that it’s supposed to be a comforting thing to say but most times I find it to be untrue.
When it was time to view my grandfather’s recently deceased body at the VA in Little Rock, AR, my Uncle Jerome refused to go. He was the closest to my grandpa in life and simply couldn’t bare it. They had a symbiotic relationship. My grandpa relied on him to maintain the house, drive him to his doctors appointments and care for him when he just didn’t feel like caring for himself. My uncle relied on my grandpa’s company and his income, as his disability kept him out of the workforce. The stress of grief and worry over what would now become of his life visibly wrought my uncle’s face as we left him sitting on a bench in the hallway outside ICU.
We had missed my grandfather’s last breath by a mere 20 minutes. His body was still warm to the touch. Despite my disagreement with the cliche, he really did appear to be simply sleeping. He was freshly washed and groomed by the nurses and looked quite dapper lying in the hospital bed. They had shaved his mustache away but it didn’t look odd. He still looked very much like himself.
There was a calmness about his face. He looked at peace. It may have been a delusion but I swear I saw a faint smile on his lips. He looked amazing.
This awe at how well he looked soon gave way to grief. I walked to a corner of the room, turning my back to his body and cried. My mind didn’t want to accept what I was seeing. A nurse came in, passing around kleenex. I took some from her hands and again found my way back to my father’s side. His once stoic face finally gave way to tears.
My Uncle Robert clasped my grandpa’s shoulder and shook him forcefully. I can’t recall what he was saying but it seemed to be an attempt to wake my grandfather. The hospital’s chaplain soon came in and prayed with the family. It was an awkward prayer but we took what we could get.
The chaplain advised us on where to make arrangements for the body to be picked up and other administrative tasks, then shuffled out of the room leaving us with to grieve. The nurse with the tissues remained in the room with us. She commented repeatedly on how much we looked like my grandfather. She told us how hard they had tried to save him. Then she began to cry.
I was mildly alarmed by this stranger’s tears but appreciated her empathy. She even looked shocked at her own tears. I can only imagine the toll it takes on one’s spirit to work in the ICU, watching people die daily and routinely witnessing a family’s heartbreak. She walked around the room, holding anyone who would accept her embrace. I gratefully accepted.
After the administrative business was taken care of, we left Little Rock for my grandfather’s house. Once we got there, it was time to figure out who was sleeping where. My Uncle Robert went home to his wife and daughter. My aunt and her husband were sleeping in my grandmother’s old room. My Uncle Jerome had his room on the second floor and my other two uncles occupied the double beds my father and I generally sleep in on visits. Where were me and my dad going to sleep?
“I can change the linen on Diddy’s bed and you can sleep in there,” my aunt said to me. “Diddy” is what my aunts call my grandfather (long before Puffy changed his name) and there was no way in hell I was sleeping in his bed that night! No, sir! No, ma’am! Not me! I politely shook my head and made the “No, ma’am” face.
My dad spoke up, “You’ll sleep on the couch and I’ll sleep on the lay-z-boy in the den.” Now, THAT I could do! He could have abandoned me to sleep on the couch and went upstairs to sleep with one of his brothers but he knew I was too scary to sleep anywhere by myself. This was perfect. Just as long as I didn’t have to get up in the middle of the night to use the bathroom... I’d rather pee on myself than walk down that hallway at night by myself.
Pillows and blankets were gathered and we settled in to attempt rest. As I pulled the blanket over my feet, I felt a sharp pain. If I know nothing else, I know this for a fact: a blanket shouldn’t hurt you. Now, not only was I sad about my grandpa’s passing, I was worried about my health. My eyes widened as I thought, “What the HELL is wrong with my toe?”
When it was time to view my grandfather’s recently deceased body at the VA in Little Rock, AR, my Uncle Jerome refused to go. He was the closest to my grandpa in life and simply couldn’t bare it. They had a symbiotic relationship. My grandpa relied on him to maintain the house, drive him to his doctors appointments and care for him when he just didn’t feel like caring for himself. My uncle relied on my grandpa’s company and his income, as his disability kept him out of the workforce. The stress of grief and worry over what would now become of his life visibly wrought my uncle’s face as we left him sitting on a bench in the hallway outside ICU.
We had missed my grandfather’s last breath by a mere 20 minutes. His body was still warm to the touch. Despite my disagreement with the cliche, he really did appear to be simply sleeping. He was freshly washed and groomed by the nurses and looked quite dapper lying in the hospital bed. They had shaved his mustache away but it didn’t look odd. He still looked very much like himself.
There was a calmness about his face. He looked at peace. It may have been a delusion but I swear I saw a faint smile on his lips. He looked amazing.
This awe at how well he looked soon gave way to grief. I walked to a corner of the room, turning my back to his body and cried. My mind didn’t want to accept what I was seeing. A nurse came in, passing around kleenex. I took some from her hands and again found my way back to my father’s side. His once stoic face finally gave way to tears.
My Uncle Robert clasped my grandpa’s shoulder and shook him forcefully. I can’t recall what he was saying but it seemed to be an attempt to wake my grandfather. The hospital’s chaplain soon came in and prayed with the family. It was an awkward prayer but we took what we could get.
The chaplain advised us on where to make arrangements for the body to be picked up and other administrative tasks, then shuffled out of the room leaving us with to grieve. The nurse with the tissues remained in the room with us. She commented repeatedly on how much we looked like my grandfather. She told us how hard they had tried to save him. Then she began to cry.
I was mildly alarmed by this stranger’s tears but appreciated her empathy. She even looked shocked at her own tears. I can only imagine the toll it takes on one’s spirit to work in the ICU, watching people die daily and routinely witnessing a family’s heartbreak. She walked around the room, holding anyone who would accept her embrace. I gratefully accepted.
After the administrative business was taken care of, we left Little Rock for my grandfather’s house. Once we got there, it was time to figure out who was sleeping where. My Uncle Robert went home to his wife and daughter. My aunt and her husband were sleeping in my grandmother’s old room. My Uncle Jerome had his room on the second floor and my other two uncles occupied the double beds my father and I generally sleep in on visits. Where were me and my dad going to sleep?
“I can change the linen on Diddy’s bed and you can sleep in there,” my aunt said to me. “Diddy” is what my aunts call my grandfather (long before Puffy changed his name) and there was no way in hell I was sleeping in his bed that night! No, sir! No, ma’am! Not me! I politely shook my head and made the “No, ma’am” face.
My dad spoke up, “You’ll sleep on the couch and I’ll sleep on the lay-z-boy in the den.” Now, THAT I could do! He could have abandoned me to sleep on the couch and went upstairs to sleep with one of his brothers but he knew I was too scary to sleep anywhere by myself. This was perfect. Just as long as I didn’t have to get up in the middle of the night to use the bathroom... I’d rather pee on myself than walk down that hallway at night by myself.
Pillows and blankets were gathered and we settled in to attempt rest. As I pulled the blanket over my feet, I felt a sharp pain. If I know nothing else, I know this for a fact: a blanket shouldn’t hurt you. Now, not only was I sad about my grandpa’s passing, I was worried about my health. My eyes widened as I thought, “What the HELL is wrong with my toe?”
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
The Road Trip, Part 3: It's Gonna Be Alright
He had a pulse. It was faint but there. The doctors had revived my grandfather from cardiac arrest and urged us to get to Little Rock as quickly as possible.
He had been without a pulse for at least 20 minutes and the outlook for recovery was bleak. To have the brain go so long without blood was certain disaster. Somehow, I heard my dad recount what the doctors had told him over the phone but my faith never wavered. It wasn’t time for my granddaddy to leave me. He’d be ok. Of this, I was sure.
Hours earlier he had answered my Auntie Lois when she asked him if he could see her. “Yeah” he said, stretching both feet back and forth in the way he always did when lounging in bed. His eyes were unusually glassy so she wasn’t sure his vision was intact but his answer to the affirmative gave us all hope. The day before that he repeatedly pulled his feeding tube from his throat with his right hand; the hand that had been paralyzed just days earlier. He had regained 90% of the strength in his right hand and the doctors were making plans for physical therapy. He survived his ship being torpedoed in WWII and he’d surely survive this.
Taking two cars, the Lake clan made the hour and a half drive to the VA in the pouring rain. My expectation was to find my grandfather on life support. I’d get the opportunity to speak to him, hold his hand and will him to recovery. His spirit would recognize my presence and opt to stay on this side of eternity with his youngest grandchild.
The drive was mostly quiet with occasional lamenting of my grandfather’s refusal to take care of himself in his old age from my father and Uncle Robert. He’d rather lay in bed and be waited on. He thought it his right to be totally taken care of despite having relatively good health. He didn’t think he needed to walk to the mailbox or fix his own bowl of cereal. Sometimes it seemed he was searching for sympathy or attention with phantom illnesses. He’d been blessed with remarkably good health for almost 90 years and it seemed he was in a “use it or lose it” situation. He refused use it so it seemed he was finally losing this battle with his body.
Together, all seven of us boarded an elevator and headed to the Intensive Care Unit. My aunt picked up the phone to alert the doctor we were there. There was silence. No one said a word. We all stood in the hallway waiting what seemed an age for the doctor to let us in.
Finally the doctor walked out. She was a short white woman with glasses. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail and I was shocked that she looked to be about my age. She looked my aunt in her face and said, “I’m sorry. You’re father has passed away.” Silence. We all just stared at her. “We tried everything we could. We revived him three times but the last time he just faded away.”
My aunt seemed to try to protest in disbelief. “But he spoke to me today! He was moving his feet. They were setting up his physical therapy.” Behind her and to my left, my 6-foot-4 Uncle Robert let out a guttural cry of anguish. My Uncle Grozzel walked away to weep. I moved toward my father to hold his hand and to cry on his shoulder.
My dad wouldn’t move; not even to hold my hand. His hands remained in his pockets as he stared straight ahead. I interlocked my arm with his and rested my head on his black leather jacket. My tears ran warm and fast and he finally spoke: “It’s gonna be alright.” I wasn’t so sure and neither was he, as we stood in the hall and waited to view the body.
He had been without a pulse for at least 20 minutes and the outlook for recovery was bleak. To have the brain go so long without blood was certain disaster. Somehow, I heard my dad recount what the doctors had told him over the phone but my faith never wavered. It wasn’t time for my granddaddy to leave me. He’d be ok. Of this, I was sure.
Hours earlier he had answered my Auntie Lois when she asked him if he could see her. “Yeah” he said, stretching both feet back and forth in the way he always did when lounging in bed. His eyes were unusually glassy so she wasn’t sure his vision was intact but his answer to the affirmative gave us all hope. The day before that he repeatedly pulled his feeding tube from his throat with his right hand; the hand that had been paralyzed just days earlier. He had regained 90% of the strength in his right hand and the doctors were making plans for physical therapy. He survived his ship being torpedoed in WWII and he’d surely survive this.
Taking two cars, the Lake clan made the hour and a half drive to the VA in the pouring rain. My expectation was to find my grandfather on life support. I’d get the opportunity to speak to him, hold his hand and will him to recovery. His spirit would recognize my presence and opt to stay on this side of eternity with his youngest grandchild.
The drive was mostly quiet with occasional lamenting of my grandfather’s refusal to take care of himself in his old age from my father and Uncle Robert. He’d rather lay in bed and be waited on. He thought it his right to be totally taken care of despite having relatively good health. He didn’t think he needed to walk to the mailbox or fix his own bowl of cereal. Sometimes it seemed he was searching for sympathy or attention with phantom illnesses. He’d been blessed with remarkably good health for almost 90 years and it seemed he was in a “use it or lose it” situation. He refused use it so it seemed he was finally losing this battle with his body.
Together, all seven of us boarded an elevator and headed to the Intensive Care Unit. My aunt picked up the phone to alert the doctor we were there. There was silence. No one said a word. We all stood in the hallway waiting what seemed an age for the doctor to let us in.
Finally the doctor walked out. She was a short white woman with glasses. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail and I was shocked that she looked to be about my age. She looked my aunt in her face and said, “I’m sorry. You’re father has passed away.” Silence. We all just stared at her. “We tried everything we could. We revived him three times but the last time he just faded away.”
My aunt seemed to try to protest in disbelief. “But he spoke to me today! He was moving his feet. They were setting up his physical therapy.” Behind her and to my left, my 6-foot-4 Uncle Robert let out a guttural cry of anguish. My Uncle Grozzel walked away to weep. I moved toward my father to hold his hand and to cry on his shoulder.
My dad wouldn’t move; not even to hold my hand. His hands remained in his pockets as he stared straight ahead. I interlocked my arm with his and rested my head on his black leather jacket. My tears ran warm and fast and he finally spoke: "It’s gonna be alright." I wasn’t so sure and neither was he, as we stood in the hall and waited to view the body.
He had been without a pulse for at least 20 minutes and the outlook for recovery was bleak. To have the brain go so long without blood was certain disaster. Somehow, I heard my dad recount what the doctors had told him over the phone but my faith never wavered. It wasn’t time for my granddaddy to leave me. He’d be ok. Of this, I was sure.
Hours earlier he had answered my Auntie Lois when she asked him if he could see her. “Yeah” he said, stretching both feet back and forth in the way he always did when lounging in bed. His eyes were unusually glassy so she wasn’t sure his vision was intact but his answer to the affirmative gave us all hope. The day before that he repeatedly pulled his feeding tube from his throat with his right hand; the hand that had been paralyzed just days earlier. He had regained 90% of the strength in his right hand and the doctors were making plans for physical therapy. He survived his ship being torpedoed in WWII and he’d surely survive this.
Taking two cars, the Lake clan made the hour and a half drive to the VA in the pouring rain. My expectation was to find my grandfather on life support. I’d get the opportunity to speak to him, hold his hand and will him to recovery. His spirit would recognize my presence and opt to stay on this side of eternity with his youngest grandchild.
The drive was mostly quiet with occasional lamenting of my grandfather’s refusal to take care of himself in his old age from my father and Uncle Robert. He’d rather lay in bed and be waited on. He thought it his right to be totally taken care of despite having relatively good health. He didn’t think he needed to walk to the mailbox or fix his own bowl of cereal. Sometimes it seemed he was searching for sympathy or attention with phantom illnesses. He’d been blessed with remarkably good health for almost 90 years and it seemed he was in a “use it or lose it” situation. He refused use it so it seemed he was finally losing this battle with his body.
Together, all seven of us boarded an elevator and headed to the Intensive Care Unit. My aunt picked up the phone to alert the doctor we were there. There was silence. No one said a word. We all stood in the hallway waiting what seemed an age for the doctor to let us in.
Finally the doctor walked out. She was a short white woman with glasses. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail and I was shocked that she looked to be about my age. She looked my aunt in her face and said, “I’m sorry. You’re father has passed away.” Silence. We all just stared at her. “We tried everything we could. We revived him three times but the last time he just faded away.”
My aunt seemed to try to protest in disbelief. “But he spoke to me today! He was moving his feet. They were setting up his physical therapy.” Behind her and to my left, my 6-foot-4 Uncle Robert let out a guttural cry of anguish. My Uncle Grozzel walked away to weep. I moved toward my father to hold his hand and to cry on his shoulder.
My dad wouldn’t move; not even to hold my hand. His hands remained in his pockets as he stared straight ahead. I interlocked my arm with his and rested my head on his black leather jacket. My tears ran warm and fast and he finally spoke: “It’s gonna be alright.” I wasn’t so sure and neither was he, as we stood in the hall and waited to view the body.
He had been without a pulse for at least 20 minutes and the outlook for recovery was bleak. To have the brain go so long without blood was certain disaster. Somehow, I heard my dad recount what the doctors had told him over the phone but my faith never wavered. It wasn’t time for my granddaddy to leave me. He’d be ok. Of this, I was sure.
Hours earlier he had answered my Auntie Lois when she asked him if he could see her. “Yeah” he said, stretching both feet back and forth in the way he always did when lounging in bed. His eyes were unusually glassy so she wasn’t sure his vision was intact but his answer to the affirmative gave us all hope. The day before that he repeatedly pulled his feeding tube from his throat with his right hand; the hand that had been paralyzed just days earlier. He had regained 90% of the strength in his right hand and the doctors were making plans for physical therapy. He survived his ship being torpedoed in WWII and he’d surely survive this.
Taking two cars, the Lake clan made the hour and a half drive to the VA in the pouring rain. My expectation was to find my grandfather on life support. I’d get the opportunity to speak to him, hold his hand and will him to recovery. His spirit would recognize my presence and opt to stay on this side of eternity with his youngest grandchild.
The drive was mostly quiet with occasional lamenting of my grandfather’s refusal to take care of himself in his old age from my father and Uncle Robert. He’d rather lay in bed and be waited on. He thought it his right to be totally taken care of despite having relatively good health. He didn’t think he needed to walk to the mailbox or fix his own bowl of cereal. Sometimes it seemed he was searching for sympathy or attention with phantom illnesses. He’d been blessed with remarkably good health for almost 90 years and it seemed he was in a “use it or lose it” situation. He refused use it so it seemed he was finally losing this battle with his body.
Together, all seven of us boarded an elevator and headed to the Intensive Care Unit. My aunt picked up the phone to alert the doctor we were there. There was silence. No one said a word. We all stood in the hallway waiting what seemed an age for the doctor to let us in.
Finally the doctor walked out. She was a short white woman with glasses. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail and I was shocked that she looked to be about my age. She looked my aunt in her face and said, “I’m sorry. You’re father has passed away.” Silence. We all just stared at her. “We tried everything we could. We revived him three times but the last time he just faded away.”
My aunt seemed to try to protest in disbelief. “But he spoke to me today! He was moving his feet. They were setting up his physical therapy.” Behind her and to my left, my 6-foot-4 Uncle Robert let out a guttural cry of anguish. My Uncle Grozzel walked away to weep. I moved toward my father to hold his hand and to cry on his shoulder.
My dad wouldn’t move; not even to hold my hand. His hands remained in his pockets as he stared straight ahead. I interlocked my arm with his and rested my head on his black leather jacket. My tears ran warm and fast and he finally spoke: "It’s gonna be alright." I wasn’t so sure and neither was he, as we stood in the hall and waited to view the body.
Monday, May 16, 2011
The Road Trip, Part 2: Toe Jam and Tragedy
I never sleep much before a trip. That’s what the plane ride is for. The night before a trip is usually spent doing the packing and cleaning I’d put off all week. It’s Easter Sunday and I’ve only gotten about two hours of sleep and the Supershuttle driver is outside waiting. I threw on my flat black combat boots that I’d worn all winter and literally dragged my bag out to the curb to meet the driver. I couldn’t roll the dang thing because Delta airlines had broken the handle on a previous trip and it was far too heavy to carry. I wouldn’t be returning to DC until May 10th and I’m pretty sure I packed half my closet, plus a couple dresser drawers.
Despite the shuttle driver getting lost on the way to the airport (with the GPS sitting pretty on the dash) and questioning me as to why I was traveling on this holy day, I made it on my Sun Country flight with no trouble. I sat in my aisle seat, closed my eyes and prepared myself for the pre-takeoff slumber I’d experienced numerous times before. It didn’t come. I just KNEW I’d be sleeping on the second leg of the flight from Lansing, MI to Minneapolis. Nope. Not a single wink for the entire flight. It was almost as if my spirit was on edge. Something inside me just refused to let me rest.
After an uneventful, and sleepless, flight, we landed safely at the Humphrey terminal of the Minneapolis/St. Paul airport. When I got up from my seat to disembark the plane, I felt a pain in my left big toe. It felt like I’d stubbed it. As I made my way to the baggage claim, I found myself limping. I didn’t remember hitting my foot on anything so, I was mildly alarmed but blamed it on the shoes. I thought maybe I’d worn them out over the winter and needed to retire them.
I forced myself to stop limping and met my dad and big brother out at the passenger pickup area. Hugs, kisses and much laughter were shared on the short ride to the Northside of Minneapolis to my childhood home. We ordered take out from Red Lobster (Yes. On Easter.), watched some basketball and prepared for our trip the next morning. But even that night, as I lay in my room surrounded by Allen Iverson posters and stuffed animals, my body refused to rest.
When I woke up in the morning, I found my dad’s youngest brother, my Uncle Grozzel, sleeping on the couch. My 88-year-old grandfather had a stroke the previous week and was in the VA in Little Rock, AR. My dad and I didn’t have to be in Atlanta until the 27th, so, we had plenty of time to stop in Arkansas to visit with my recovering grandfather and my uncle decided to hitch a ride. Despite the chill in the Minnesota spring air, I put on a pair of open toe sandals and left my traitorous boots in the house.
We were met with rain almost as soon as we crossed the Minnesota state line. By the time we reached Arkansas it was a full out storm. On the 14 plus hour trip, I slept for about two hours. My father drove the entire way, with me keeping close watch from the backseat. The rain wasn’t the reason I didn’t sleep much, I just couldn’t. I tried to force it because, honestly, what else is there to do when it’s too dark to read and you’re tired of listening to your dad’s eclectic mix of Luther Vandross, Lyfe Jennings and random Kappa Alpha Psi songs?
We made it to my grandfather’s house in Newport, AR at about 9:30 PM. The three of us run from the rain into my grandpa’s garage and into the house. As soon as I crossed the threshold, I’m met by my 10-year-old cousin, J.T., whose arms are outstretched to hug me. He’s an adorable, well-mannered little brown boy with the mannerisms of a senior citizen. When he’s not at school, he spends most of his time at my grandfather’s house. J.T.’s grandfather is my dad’s brother and my Uncle Jerome, who lives in my grandfather’s house and has taken care of him in his elderly years. All this time around his elders shows up in J.T.’s gait and even in his conversation.
My Uncle Jerome had a stroke of his own over 10 years ago and hasn’t been able to work since. He is fully capable physically but his speech is mildly delayed and it takes him a little while to understand some things. He mixes up words and numbers sometimes, saying things like, “What your dad?” rather than “Where’s your dad?”, but we all understand him just fine. Because of this slight impairment he’s a bit shy in front of non-family members.
As soon as I loosen my embrace on J.T., Uncle Jerome hastily requests his grandson to put his coat on and get his homework. I give my favorite uncle, Uncle Robert, a hug as Uncle Jerome rushes past me out the door, muttering something that sounded like “Old man gone.” I didn’t quite hear him but I notice a frenzied confusion on my uncles faces. My dad, the eldest son of 10 children, had gone upstairs where my Aunt Lois and Uncle Kenny were. When I got upstairs to the room, I saw my dad on the phone and my aunt kneeling on the floor in a prayer position. I froze. My Uncle Kenny just sat there, staring at the wall.
I walked back downstairs to the kitchen where my Uncle Grozzel and Uncle Robert are assembled, sitting in silence. “Ok... what’s going on?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” my Uncle Robert said. “All I know is Jerome said something about the Old Man being gone.” The “Old Man” is what they call my grandfather.
Despite the shuttle driver getting lost on the way to the airport (with the GPS sitting pretty on the dash) and questioning me as to why I was traveling on this holy day, I made it on my Sun Country flight with no trouble. I sat in my aisle seat, closed my eyes and prepared myself for the pre-takeoff slumber I’d experienced numerous times before. It didn’t come. I just KNEW I’d be sleeping on the second leg of the flight from Lansing, MI to Minneapolis. Nope. Not a single wink for the entire flight. It was almost as if my spirit was on edge. Something inside me just refused to let me rest.
After an uneventful, and sleepless, flight, we landed safely at the Humphrey terminal of the Minneapolis/St. Paul airport. When I got up from my seat to disembark the plane, I felt a pain in my left big toe. It felt like I’d stubbed it. As I made my way to the baggage claim, I found myself limping. I didn’t remember hitting my foot on anything so, I was mildly alarmed but blamed it on the shoes. I thought maybe I’d worn them out over the winter and needed to retire them.
I forced myself to stop limping and met my dad and big brother out at the passenger pickup area. Hugs, kisses and much laughter were shared on the short ride to the Northside of Minneapolis to my childhood home. We ordered take out from Red Lobster (Yes. On Easter.), watched some basketball and prepared for our trip the next morning. But even that night, as I lay in my room surrounded by Allen Iverson posters and stuffed animals, my body refused to rest.
When I woke up in the morning, I found my dad’s youngest brother, my Uncle Grozzel, sleeping on the couch. My 88-year-old grandfather had a stroke the previous week and was in the VA in Little Rock, AR. My dad and I didn’t have to be in Atlanta until the 27th, so, we had plenty of time to stop in Arkansas to visit with my recovering grandfather and my uncle decided to hitch a ride. Despite the chill in the Minnesota spring air, I put on a pair of open toe sandals and left my traitorous boots in the house.
We were met with rain almost as soon as we crossed the Minnesota state line. By the time we reached Arkansas it was a full out storm. On the 14 plus hour trip, I slept for about two hours. My father drove the entire way, with me keeping close watch from the backseat. The rain wasn’t the reason I didn’t sleep much, I just couldn’t. I tried to force it because, honestly, what else is there to do when it’s too dark to read and you’re tired of listening to your dad’s eclectic mix of Luther Vandross, Lyfe Jennings and random Kappa Alpha Psi songs?
We made it to my grandfather’s house in Newport, AR at about 9:30 PM. The three of us run from the rain into my grandpa’s garage and into the house. As soon as I crossed the threshold, I’m met by my 10-year-old cousin, J.T., whose arms are outstretched to hug me. He’s an adorable, well-mannered little brown boy with the mannerisms of a senior citizen. When he’s not at school, he spends most of his time at my grandfather’s house. J.T.’s grandfather is my dad’s brother and my Uncle Jerome, who lives in my grandfather’s house and has taken care of him in his elderly years. All this time around his elders shows up in J.T.’s gait and even in his conversation.
My Uncle Jerome had a stroke of his own over 10 years ago and hasn’t been able to work since. He is fully capable physically but his speech is mildly delayed and it takes him a little while to understand some things. He mixes up words and numbers sometimes, saying things like, “What your dad?” rather than “Where’s your dad?”, but we all understand him just fine. Because of this slight impairment he’s a bit shy in front of non-family members.
As soon as I loosen my embrace on J.T., Uncle Jerome hastily requests his grandson to put his coat on and get his homework. I give my favorite uncle, Uncle Robert, a hug as Uncle Jerome rushes past me out the door, muttering something that sounded like “Old man gone.” I didn’t quite hear him but I notice a frenzied confusion on my uncles faces. My dad, the eldest son of 10 children, had gone upstairs where my Aunt Lois and Uncle Kenny were. When I got upstairs to the room, I saw my dad on the phone and my aunt kneeling on the floor in a prayer position. I froze. My Uncle Kenny just sat there, staring at the wall.
I walked back downstairs to the kitchen where my Uncle Grozzel and Uncle Robert are assembled, sitting in silence. “Ok... what’s going on?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” my Uncle Robert said. “All I know is Jerome said something about the Old Man being gone.” The “Old Man” is what they call my grandfather.
Sunday, May 15, 2011
The Road Trip, Part 1: Freedom Papers
My father decided he wanted to DRIVE from Minneapolis to Atlanta for my godsister’s wedding. I couldn’t let him make that drive alone, so, I flew from DC to Minneapolis to take the road trip with him. While many of the events that followed were unexpected and heartbreaking, there were many blessings in disguise along the way. In this blog series I’ll recount these events and the lessons I learned from them. I hope you’ll stick around for the ride.
I got fired from my job in February. I sat in the HR director’s office along with my manager who said, “I’m sorry, Sarah. I really wanted to work things out with you but unfortunately you’re position is being terminated immediately.” I have never smiled so hard in my life.
This woman had made my life hell for months and I was finally free. This was cause for celebration and a trip to the unemployment office. After having worked as an Editorial Assistant for three years, I was beyond ready to move on. I was able to pay my bills but I’d become complacent and my dreams were starting to fade. I looked at this termination as an opportunity to reboot and force myself to stop coasting.
Now, my time at that job hadn’t always been hellish. My previous manager was awesome and my coworkers were the best. We worked well together, had fun and were an efficient bunch. But it all changed when the best boss I’d ever had took another job with another company. The woman hired to replace her was horrible. That’s really the best way I can say it. I’m not going to blast the woman on here but to say she was a horrid manager is nothing short of the truth. I hated every second of our interactions and so did everyone else forced to work with her, everyone except upper management.
It was so far beyond “my boss is an idiot and I hate her.” It was to the point where the thought of going to work the next day gave me panic attacks. I once cried ON THE BUS during my commute to work because I was so miserable. I’ve worked for a lot of different types of people in a variety of industries. Never have I had such an intense experience as this.
Every single day I was tempted to write my resignation letter and p-pop on a handstand on that hussy’s desk. EVERY SINGLE DAY! And every day I’d call my dad and tell him how horrible my day was. He told me, repeatedly, not to let “that woman” make me quit. If she wanted me gone, so be it. Apply for jobs in the interim, he said, and if I got fired, collect my unemployment like a boss.
When I got my freedom papers (during Black History Month, I might add) I was truly overjoyed. This feeling soon turned to my being overwhelmed: overwhelmed with possibility and overwhelmed with uncertainty. I’m still in that place, randomly applying for jobs with no real plan but at least I don’t have to deal with Medusa everyday. I’ve gotten a chance to recharge but I still haven’t gotten it all figured out quite yet. I’m working on it, though, y’all.
The day I got fired turned out to be a blessing for a very different reason. Without it, I’d more than likely wouldn’t have been able to take enough time off to make the drive from Minneapolis to Atlanta with my dad. We didn’t know we were embarking on an epoch-making journey but we were and there’s no other place I’d rather have been than right there with my dad. Please stay tuned for part two as we travel together on The Road Trip.
I got fired from my job in February. I sat in the HR director’s office along with my manager who said, “I’m sorry, Sarah. I really wanted to work things out with you but unfortunately you’re position is being terminated immediately.” I have never smiled so hard in my life.
This woman had made my life hell for months and I was finally free. This was cause for celebration and a trip to the unemployment office. After having worked as an Editorial Assistant for three years, I was beyond ready to move on. I was able to pay my bills but I’d become complacent and my dreams were starting to fade. I looked at this termination as an opportunity to reboot and force myself to stop coasting.
Now, my time at that job hadn’t always been hellish. My previous manager was awesome and my coworkers were the best. We worked well together, had fun and were an efficient bunch. But it all changed when the best boss I’d ever had took another job with another company. The woman hired to replace her was horrible. That’s really the best way I can say it. I’m not going to blast the woman on here but to say she was a horrid manager is nothing short of the truth. I hated every second of our interactions and so did everyone else forced to work with her, everyone except upper management.
It was so far beyond “my boss is an idiot and I hate her.” It was to the point where the thought of going to work the next day gave me panic attacks. I once cried ON THE BUS during my commute to work because I was so miserable. I’ve worked for a lot of different types of people in a variety of industries. Never have I had such an intense experience as this.
Every single day I was tempted to write my resignation letter and p-pop on a handstand on that hussy’s desk. EVERY SINGLE DAY! And every day I’d call my dad and tell him how horrible my day was. He told me, repeatedly, not to let “that woman” make me quit. If she wanted me gone, so be it. Apply for jobs in the interim, he said, and if I got fired, collect my unemployment like a boss.
When I got my freedom papers (during Black History Month, I might add) I was truly overjoyed. This feeling soon turned to my being overwhelmed: overwhelmed with possibility and overwhelmed with uncertainty. I’m still in that place, randomly applying for jobs with no real plan but at least I don’t have to deal with Medusa everyday. I’ve gotten a chance to recharge but I still haven’t gotten it all figured out quite yet. I’m working on it, though, y’all.
The day I got fired turned out to be a blessing for a very different reason. Without it, I’d more than likely wouldn’t have been able to take enough time off to make the drive from Minneapolis to Atlanta with my dad. We didn’t know we were embarking on an epoch-making journey but we were and there’s no other place I’d rather have been than right there with my dad. Please stay tuned for part two as we travel together on The Road Trip.
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
I Cried!
This is hands down one of my favorite scenes from Martin. Angry Man FTW!
Head over to my fellow Bison's spot for another classic moment with ol' Marty Mar.
Sunday, July 4, 2010
A Tithing Tangent
In churches all across America today, the pastor undoubtedly stood in the pulpit and encouraged the people in the pews to give a tenth of their income to the church. Some folks sat and thought to themselves, “Why should I give 10 percent to the church? Why should the pastor drive a Benz while the parishioners are on the bus?” These folks either reached in their wallets and gave anyway, or they passed the bucket without contributing and continued to participate in the service. This seems to be a popular sentiment among non-believers and believers, alike. People who give their hard earned money to the church are looked at as gullible fools, paying for some robed crook’s lavish lifestyle. So, what’s the deal here? Is tithing a gimmick? Are preachers pimping their congregations?
Tithing is specifically mandated in the Old Testament (Leviticus 27:30; Numbers 18:26; Deuteronomy 14:24; 2 Chronicles 31:5; Malachi 3:8-11) but is not mentioned in the New Testament. It is made clear throughout the New Testament that giving is important and that the needs of the Body of Christ should be met by believers. (2 Corinthians 9:6-12; 1 Corinthians 16:1-2; Acts 4:34-37) If we aren’t bound by the Old Testament law as Christians, specifically giving 10 percent isn’t necessary, right? Doesn’t it count if I volunteer or give money to my brother? Why should we give anything to the church at all?
Paul said to give “in keeping with your income” to benefit the Body of Christ. (1 Corinthians 16:1-2;) This says to me that you are to be consistent in your giving and a percentage of your weekly earnings should be given to the community of believers to which you belong (i.e. YOUR CHURCH). If you can’t give 10 percent without taking food from your children, use the common sense God gave you and give less, but give what you can. If 10 percent is just a drop in the bucket to you, it is your duty to give more.
Ok, so I know some of y’all clenched your booties at that last sentence, so, let’s get away from the bible verses and look at practical reasons why you should give generously to your church AND your pastor.
1) It’s not your money anyway - We get really uptight about material things that aren’t even ours to begin with. God has provided you with the skills and the favor to earn a living. Whatever you make on your job belongs to Him. Who are we to complain about giving a portion back to Him?
Some would say, “But you’re not giving your money to God, you’re giving it to the church.” The church was established to fulfill God’s purpose, therefore, when you provide for the church you are giving back to God.
Others would say, “But you’re giving money to the Pastor and he’s not doing anything with it but buying fancy suits.” This leads me to my next point.
2) Don’t worry about what the pastor is doing with the money - Does the person in charge of payroll at your job ask you what you do with your paycheck on the 1st and 15th? Your pastor is doing a job and deserves to be compensated. If you don’t think your pastor is doing a good job, find another church. You are not obligated to support a pastor that is not sowing into your life but it is unfair for you to sit in the pews every Sunday and be blessed by their labor without giving back to the pastor and the church.
Have you ever noticed how the heat is turned up on your life when you decide to seriously commit yourself to Christ? Can you imagine how much hotter it gets in the spiritual kitchen when you’re responsible for bringing souls to Christ and being a shepherd to God’s own flock? That’s no small task. Ministers of the Gospel go through untold turmoil on our behalf. Can a monetary value be put on the work they do? Souls are at stake when they get up to do their jobs. If anyone deserves to be paid well, wouldn’t it be them?
Once again, if you are not being fed spiritually at your church, find someplace where you can grow in God. You are doing yourself a disservice by staying in a stagnant place. Move! When you find the right church, you should want to give generously to your pastor because you will see the value they have added to your spiritual life.
3) The church has needs - The physical church is a building like any other, with a light bill, gas bill, etc. You sit under the lights and central air every Sunday but don’t think it’s your responsibility to financially contribute to the church? How do you think they pay the bills every month? You complain about them not doing enough for the community but how can they do so without any money? It takes money to run HIV/AID prevention and support programs. It takes money to run food banks and job training centers.
If you can honestly say your church isn’t even trying to positively impact the community outside it’s four walls, you need to find a church that is. It really is that simple.
Lastly, don’t complain about what a church is or isn’t doing in the community if you don’t know. Especially, if it’s not your church. It’s easy to throw stones at mega churches but you may be surprised at the good they’re doing in the community if you took the time to go inside and find out.
Tithing is specifically mandated in the Old Testament (Leviticus 27:30; Numbers 18:26; Deuteronomy 14:24; 2 Chronicles 31:5; Malachi 3:8-11) but is not mentioned in the New Testament. It is made clear throughout the New Testament that giving is important and that the needs of the Body of Christ should be met by believers. (2 Corinthians 9:6-12; 1 Corinthians 16:1-2; Acts 4:34-37) If we aren’t bound by the Old Testament law as Christians, specifically giving 10 percent isn’t necessary, right? Doesn’t it count if I volunteer or give money to my brother? Why should we give anything to the church at all?
Paul said to give “in keeping with your income” to benefit the Body of Christ. (1 Corinthians 16:1-2;) This says to me that you are to be consistent in your giving and a percentage of your weekly earnings should be given to the community of believers to which you belong (i.e. YOUR CHURCH). If you can’t give 10 percent without taking food from your children, use the common sense God gave you and give less, but give what you can. If 10 percent is just a drop in the bucket to you, it is your duty to give more.
Ok, so I know some of y’all clenched your booties at that last sentence, so, let’s get away from the bible verses and look at practical reasons why you should give generously to your church AND your pastor.
1) It’s not your money anyway - We get really uptight about material things that aren’t even ours to begin with. God has provided you with the skills and the favor to earn a living. Whatever you make on your job belongs to Him. Who are we to complain about giving a portion back to Him?
Some would say, “But you’re not giving your money to God, you’re giving it to the church.” The church was established to fulfill God’s purpose, therefore, when you provide for the church you are giving back to God.
Others would say, “But you’re giving money to the Pastor and he’s not doing anything with it but buying fancy suits.” This leads me to my next point.
2) Don’t worry about what the pastor is doing with the money - Does the person in charge of payroll at your job ask you what you do with your paycheck on the 1st and 15th? Your pastor is doing a job and deserves to be compensated. If you don’t think your pastor is doing a good job, find another church. You are not obligated to support a pastor that is not sowing into your life but it is unfair for you to sit in the pews every Sunday and be blessed by their labor without giving back to the pastor and the church.
Have you ever noticed how the heat is turned up on your life when you decide to seriously commit yourself to Christ? Can you imagine how much hotter it gets in the spiritual kitchen when you’re responsible for bringing souls to Christ and being a shepherd to God’s own flock? That’s no small task. Ministers of the Gospel go through untold turmoil on our behalf. Can a monetary value be put on the work they do? Souls are at stake when they get up to do their jobs. If anyone deserves to be paid well, wouldn’t it be them?
Once again, if you are not being fed spiritually at your church, find someplace where you can grow in God. You are doing yourself a disservice by staying in a stagnant place. Move! When you find the right church, you should want to give generously to your pastor because you will see the value they have added to your spiritual life.
3) The church has needs - The physical church is a building like any other, with a light bill, gas bill, etc. You sit under the lights and central air every Sunday but don’t think it’s your responsibility to financially contribute to the church? How do you think they pay the bills every month? You complain about them not doing enough for the community but how can they do so without any money? It takes money to run HIV/AID prevention and support programs. It takes money to run food banks and job training centers.
If you can honestly say your church isn’t even trying to positively impact the community outside it’s four walls, you need to find a church that is. It really is that simple.
Lastly, don’t complain about what a church is or isn’t doing in the community if you don’t know. Especially, if it’s not your church. It’s easy to throw stones at mega churches but you may be surprised at the good they’re doing in the community if you took the time to go inside and find out.
Leave me a comment and let me know your viewpoint. I'd love to hear from you!
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