A daughter's perspective of "If Walls Could Talk"...

Brooke is on her way to Guatemala. She is working with City's Mom Blog to help stop poverty.  She wrote her recent thoughts on the plane this morning and sent this to me. Tears seeped out of my heart, into my eyes and ran down my face as I read her words. So poignant, so true that I wanted to share her thoughts with you.

These walls. It was only two and a half short years ago that you settled into your new house, ready to start life in a way that none of us knew what to quite expect. These walls were walls that had, three years earlier, heard us - the nervous talk of two expectant parents about to welcome their first, a high risk pregnancy. A young couple who had settled into our home not knowing what to expect or what was to come. These walls heard my silent sobs, the sobs of a mother ready to give birth but scared out of her mind. They bore the brunt of those 3am panic stricken nights when fear gripped it’s tightest on my heart. These walls heard the anxiety that reverberated off of them as well lead up to August 4. And then they heard relief, followed by the joy and laughter as our baby girl was born and her health improved.

These walls would welcome not one, but two precious babies into the world. They heard the happy coos and midnight mews of newborn babies, giggles, patters of footsteps as those babies turned toddlers. They heard excited visits of grandparents, and family members in and out, friendships formed, and lives started new. 

And then they heard worry as sickness returned and uncertainty once again took hold. One night, these walls heard the midnight phone call, the gasp of breath, the understanding that a precious life had ended as quickly as the lives it had seen begin. These walls saw transition as our young family moved out, and you got ready to move in.

These walls. For you, they were different than they were for us. You might now be questioning why this move was ever made, why only two and half short years in a home that never really felt like a home. But I know and I see so clearly. These walls were so very necessary. 

A big project was a necessity. It was a step that needed to be made to fill the void of this huge loss. These walls were a place to rip down, start fresh, create new. They needed to support the spinning energy of a long-time care taker who suddenly found herself without a spouse, without a husband, without a best friend. They became a place to dive into, an all-consuming step of taking your mind off of loss. 

They were a reason to simplify, a cause to purge, to scale down years and collections of a life together into the parts that were most memorable. Cleaning out those closets, that attic, that space was good for the soul. It your way of processing 20+ years of happiness, of purging the sickness that had crept in and the hard memories that had started to form like unwelcome calluses. That purge cleared the cobwebs of those last years where cancer had take over, and let you remember all of the good, so much good. 

These walls. They are walls that could hold the grief that you brought along, perhaps even heavier than the furniture that came with you. You settled into this new home, finding a place for each memorable piece but I watched as your grief moved in right beside you, taking up residence in this home. These walls heard aching once again. They saw your pain as you mourned. You mourned for the loss man you loved and the life you had. They saw you run away and they understood your need to run because these walls felt empty, hollow, lonesome, quiet. 

But they saw hope spring where you couldn’t yet see it at all. They saw you learning how to live life as one, when for so long you had known life as two. These walls watched you become strong, become not someone new, but someone with a better understanding of how to look back on a life that was so good and smile. Someone stronger They saw you start to take joy again in your surroundings. They became filled with the barks of a senior citizen dog, and once again welcomed the laughter and patters of feet of your grandchildren. These walls saw you delight in their little personalities taking shape. These walls watched as you thought, “Oh, if he could see them now!” They watched you become self-sufficient where you had so doubted yourself and your ability just two short years earlier. They watched as you learned to be content in life as it is now. And they watched as you came to understand your need to move on, but this time taking the furniture but leaving the grief behind. 

So no, these walls weren’t unnecessary. They were part of the process, part of the plan, part of the transition into the person you are today. They’ve been good walls, strong walls. They’ve seen us all through big change of the past six years, and now it’s time for them to welcome in someone new and lend their strength yet again.

Love you Mom and excited for this new step in your life and to have you so close. How sweet and special for these babies to have their Honey so near. 

Love, 
Brooke

Psalm 30:5 "Weeping my last through the night, but joy comes in the morning."

Listen to Your Mother...

There has been a great deal of Facebook publicity the past few weeks about the Listen to Your Mother show that was presented for the first time in San Antonio this past Saturday.

I was coerced by Brooke and Lynn to audition for LTYM months ago and was privileged to have been chosen, along with Brooke to read for this audience.

I was certainly the "seasoned member" of this cast of thirteen women and was honored to be included in this talented group of writers.

I loved sharing this experience with Brooke. I continue to be amazed by my daughter's abilities and talents, she never fails to blow me away.  For those of you asking to read Brooke's piece, she will publish it the week of  Mother's Day on Alamo City Mom's Blog. 

I was thankful to so many of you dear and precious friends for coming to the production and supporting this well deserving cast of moms. I was even more thankful to have Brent, Jared and Jennifer in the audience to lend their support and encouragement.

While I continue to say I'm only a writer by the grace of God, I will continue to state that I am not, nor ever will be a public speaker.

This said, I'm so thankful for this opportunity to leave my comfort zone and share the sweet love I will always have for my Minnie Mama.

This post will be followed by my repeated post from 2013.

For what it's worth,

Janet

My Grandmother's Hands...

Forward:  Some of you have asked me to repost the piece that I read on Saturday at 
Listen to Your Mother. I posted this in 2013 and it is one of my all time favorite posts about my precious grandmother, Minnie Mama. 

For what it's worth...one more time...

A few evenings ago, I was reading to my granddaughter, Harper.  As she sat in my lap, my hands laid on top of the oversized book I read to her.  My concentration was in the words of the book. Trying to allow my voice to emote the feelings of the characters, I wanted the book's story come to life for Harper, as it had for me so long ago. 

It was a few minutes into reading that I felt Harper’s small, delicate fingers softly outlining the tops of my hands.  No longer was she as interested in what I was reading as she was in studying my hands...her grandmother’s hands. 

Harper’s fragile little fingers traced my thin skin, the veins that I suddenly noticed, caught the attention of her tiny fingertips. The wrinkles and age spots, that appeared overnight, were circled by her sweet touch.

She was gentle, curious, memorizing these hands that she loved so much,  hands that were so different from her own, so different from her younger mother’s.  She said nothing, I kept reading but in that moment, in that scenario, I was poignantly and vividly swept back to my own childhood.

I loved my grandmother dearly.  If she were still alive today Minnie Mama would be around 145 years old, but I always thought of her as old, and old was a good thing in my child's mind.

Minnie was a woman of meager means, who had nor needed much.  She grew up a country girl, in the piney woods of  East Texas in the late 1800's. Minnie was well acquainted with hardship, sorrow and loss. Her own mother died when Minnie was 8 years old. Her husband died of tuberculosis at age 42, and only ten short years later my grandmother lost her eldest daughter to the same disease that had taken her husband's life.  

Minnie had a tough life. As a young woman, she was forced to managed a failing family farm and provide for her two surviving, younger daughters. Life finally proved too difficult on the farm and the family moved to Houston, where a living could be made.  

Minnie never drove a car, never painted her nails and she never wore a bra... a full slip under her dress was ample for Minnie. She was soft spoken and kind, a woman of strong faith, yet she had her had her opinions and she would speak her mind when the time was right and we listened.

As a small child, I would spend a week at a time with Minnie Mama in her small unassuming home.  Oh how I loved it there.  She had no air conditioning. Open windows framed in crisp white crisscross organza curtains, coupled with box fans blew warm humid Houston air through her little home.

Living right by railroad tracks, the sounds of slow moving trains with their long whistles would sing us nighttime lullabies.

Mrs. Baird's Bread operated a large factory only blocks from her home and that distinct aroma of baking bread drifting through her open windows still wraps my senses likes a child's favorite, warm security blanket.

I loved sitting in my grandmother’s lap, snuggled beside her in her oversized rocker.  She would sing hymns, read to me and we would quietly talk to one another..  I have a strong picture in my mind of her holding her hands in mine as we sad so still. 

I remember her hands...her thin fragile skin, almost translucent.  I remember thinking how different, how special they were from anyone else’s hands. The tips of her fingers, soft and pillowy and when I pressed their tips they would stay indented for just a moment too long.    

She wore two small diamond rings that hung loose on her slim finger. She had a habit of twirling them unconsciously between her small delicate thumb and ring finger.  Even today, I can close my eyes and see us sitting together, the warm air blowing through those wispy white curtains, the long, lone train whistle, the smell of freshly baked bread and my grandmother's hands.

When I think back and picture myself as that small little girl sitting in my beloved grandmother’s lap, her voice has fallen silent in my mind and her face has become dim over the years, but it’s her hands that are so vivid to me. I can see and feel Minnie Mama smoothing out my dress, running her soft gentle fingers through my hair, ever so gently caressing my shoulders, my back and holding my hands in hers.  

It was here, between her loving hands, that I was confident that she would always do everything possible to protect and encourage me.  I will never forget my grandmother’s hands, they taught me much.  

I am a far cry from the humble, unassuming woman that Minnie Mama was, but I pray that in my own way my grand children may find the same legacy she left me.  I pray that as Harper looks at my aging grandmother’s hands, she feels all the love that I have in my heart for her.  

I know that as she grows older she will no longer have the desire she does now to crawl up in my lap and allow me to hold her, to run my fingers through her curls, pass my hand up and down her little back. Nor will she want to sit and play with my hands as she does now.  

Perhaps someday, in the far distant future, as she is holding one of her little grandchildren in her own lap, she too will find the legacy that lies in the amazing warm and tender touch of a grandmother’s hands.

“When we honestly ask ourselves which person in our lives mean the most to us, we often find that it is those who, instead of giving advice, solutions, or cures, have chosen rather to share our pain and touch our wounds with a warm and tender hand.” Henri Nouwen

Psalm 90:17 “May the favor of the Lord our God rest on us;

    establish the work of our hands for us—yes, establish the work of our hands.”

An addendum to “If Walls Could Talk”…

I have to chuckle when something I write gets feedback. I never know what will strike a cord with someone. As I was writing my last blog piece, “If Walls Could Talk,” I questioned whether or not anyone would be able to identify with the binding ties and curiosity I have with my past homes. I was blown away by the number of responses I received about this post. Whether texts, phone calls, emails, face book comments or running into friends in the grocery store, I have loved your responses. It seems many of us have this connect with past homes we lived in and memories that continue to have a hold on us.

After writing this post, I discovered a friend living in Houston actually knows the family who now lives in my childhood Valley Forge home. The next time I visit Houston, instead of being a drive-by voyeur, I have high hopes of walking the halls of my childhood memories. I can only imagine feeling like Dorothy and friends as they walked the long passageway leading them to the Wizard of Oz. I will be as wide-eyed as Dorothy, the Scarecrow, Tin Man and Cowardly Lion taking in, with great awe, all that surrounds me.

On this subject of drive-by voyeurism, there is a little story to tell. It was probably 12-15 years ago that Steve and I were visiting my mother in Houston. As always, I would drag Steve with me to drive down my old block. (Steve understood, as he was also a drive-by voyeur and also enjoyed seeing all of his old homes.)

The stories were always the same as I pointed out each house and gave a brief synopsis of their history. Susie lived there, she was Catholic, adopted and her mother’s laugh sounded just like a machine gun. Next was Mary, her parents were divorced, making her quite exotic. Mary’s mother taught school, so cool, oh, and their house burned to the ground. Across the street, lived Nancy. Her mother was from Venezuela and spoke better Spanish than English, very flamboyant...and they had a swimming pool. Nancy was always allowed to do things the rest of us were forbidden to do, I wanted to be Nancy. 

Next door lived the older Nancy. She went to live with her grandmother for nine months. How fun would that be? I realized much, much later that being the older Nancy and “living with her grandmother for nine months” was most likely a very painful time for this young girl.

Then there were Dot-and-Levi. That was how we knew them, one name was never mentioned without the other. Dot-and-Levi had no children and were rather orchidaceous. Dot wore a proverbial french twist, capri pants with matching flats and a thin sweater draped her small shoulders. Levi, was the only “old man” (probably around 35 years old) who had a crew cut. They always had the most perfect house on the block. Sometimes I wondered what it would be like to be their little girl. I bet it would have been magical.

Next was Susan. Her father had a woodworking shop in their garage and behind a cabinet door he had pin-up calendars of scantily clad women. We would sneak into their garage and flip through the months of pinups, deciding which one we wanted to look like. Susan’s dad smoked, so she would snatch cigarettes and we would smoke them behind her garage. Susan taught me to inhale and blow smoke rings…thanks Susan! 

On my side of the street lived Fred, who cried and told on us when we demanded he pulled down his pants, along with his sister, Margie, who always dropped her popsicle money in the storm drains...prompted by my encouraging. Patty was my next door neighbor and my very best friend in the whole wide world. Her family was my second family and I can still recall every square inch of that house as well as my own. Patty’s mother always wore dresses, never raised her voice and had fresh grapes on their breakfast table's lazy Susan.

So let’s go back to 12 or so years ago, when Steve was coerced to drive me, once again down Valley Forge. This drive-by voyeur day was no different from any other of my zillion drive-byes with one exception. As we ever so slowly approached my old home, Steve and I suddenly saw a girl of about 16, slightly skinny, with long dark hair, leaving her house/my old house, bouncing down the sidewalk. I was looking in a crystal ball. Seeing myself at that same age, bounding down that same sidewalk, all skin and bones, long dark hair trailing behind me. The film reel in my brain froze in that second. I could see myself at 16 sitting in the bay window of our living room waiting for friends to pick me up. I can hear the quick honk, notifying me of my friends arrival. Yelling to my mother that I was leaving, I can remember running down the sidewalk, jumping in the car. Off we would go. My breath must have audibly caught in my throat and I felt Steve’s hand close over mine. Watching the car full of teenagers drive away, I looked at Steve. I knew we were on the same page. “Well, that was weird!” Weird yes, but what a serendipitous moment, a happy little pearl of my past to hold on to and best part, Steve got it.

A year ago, I was in Midland. I had a little time to kill before I was expected at a friend’s house. Naturally, I used the time for a Sinclair drive-by. Compelled, I stopped the car, took a deep breath and walked to the front door. Not knowing what I would say to the unknown homeowner, I rang the bell and waited. No one answered, so I actually cupped my hands to the glass door to peek inside. Oh, it was still much the same. How I wished my eye could have taken me farther into this old home of mine, but it wasn’t meant to be.

I can now confess my voyeuristic tendencies to all of you because I know there are many of you also long to go back and peer into those rooms, those old, dear, never forgotten friends and pay them a brief, but meaningful homage. 

For what it’s worth,

Janet

Ecclesiastes 3: 1-7

 “There is a time for everything, 

    and a season for every activity under the heavens:

    a time to be born and a time to die,

    a time to plant and a time to uproot,

    a time to kill and a time to heal,

    a time to tear down and a time to build,

    a time to weep and a time to laugh,

    a time to mourn and a time to dance,

    a time to scatter stones and a time to gather them,

    a time to embrace and a time to refrain from embracing,

    a time to search and a time to give up,

    a time to keep and a time to throw away…”