Ain't Never Gonna Be Another Mama Crick

The heavens triumphantly opened up Saturday morning to welcome one of the most precious souls I have ever met. Almost thirty years ago, I was introduced to Will’s grandma. This was a woman who owned every ounce of Will Rogers’ heart. HE. LOVED. HER. and SHE. LOVED. HIM. She was affectionately called Mama Crick by all her grands, and for the past thirty years, she has been my Mama Crick, too. 

Death is never easy. It could be a quick and unexpected exit or a long fade with years of preparation. It doesn’t matter which way someone is taken because IT. IS. HARD. Those long fades can sometimes take people away who are still with us, and that hard is a different kind of hard. No matter if it is dementia or just the aging process, the loss of knowledge or memories or understanding isn’t necessarily painful for the one living it but for the ones living beside it, it hurts.

As Mama Crick began to experience more extensive pulls of the aging process, my boys all were affected differently. Bo, oozing with compassion and a natural born nurturer, began being a nursemaid to Papa and Mama Crick. Poor Ben felt abandoned because during the quarantines and the pandemic scare, we avoided contact because of their age and health. Once we felt it safe and went back to visit, Mama Crick didn’t recognize Ben. She asked him who he was. In her defense, Ben grew a lot during that time and looked very different. Billy, the first great-grand, was hurt to see the degree of change  that age created. As the process really began to take a toll and Mama Crick ended up in the nursing home, Billy and I had a conversation about visiting her. His response was this: ”I am not being ugly, but I just don’t want to see her like that. I want to remember Mama Crick as Mama Crick. I don’t want to see her weak and feeble and not sure who we are. I don’t want that to be my last memories of her. I want to keep all of my good memories of her.”

Oh, I understood Billy on such a deep level. So, today, I decided to remember all the Mama Crick moments that gave me an extra grandma for so many years….

Hot Chicken Salad. If you know, you know. I was no stranger to good home-cooked meals. My people could cook, but the quantity of food placed on Mama Crick’s kitchen table on any given Sunday blew my mind. At my or my grandma’s house, we had ONE meat and 2-4 vegetables per meal with bread and possible dessert. At Thanksgiving or Christmas, we may have two meats, but Mama Crick would NEVER have just one meat. Ever. No matter what meats were available it seemed like there would always be fried chicken. You can be guaranteed that if she knew you were coming and she knew you had a favorite item, that item would be on the table as well. I LOVED her hot chicken salad. So. Flippin. Good. Everything she made was good. Heck, even though I stirred the cheddar cheese into her elbow noodles NUMEROUS times, I still, according to my children, can't make mac and cheese as good as Mama Crick. Will says it’s because I don’t put in enough love; Mama Crick’s special ingredient was always love he says. 

Blackberry Jelly. You will never find a jelly better than Mama Crick’s blackberry jelly. I guess because it was made with LOVE. And we LOVED every jar she gave us. 

Double Dates. Early on, mine and Will’s dating consisted of tagging along with his grandparents to eat followed by a visit to Bud’s or Walmart. I remember buying a pair of shoes at Bud’s and Mama Crick saying that I really must love shoes if I am buying shoes from Bud’s. Honestly, I am not sure I had eaten at Captain D’s before dating Will, but it was a fan favorite with the grandparents. 

Comfort Level. Our roles in each other’s lives changed over the years because our love, respect, and dedication to each other only grew through the years. From the first trip to “the country” with Will, I always felt welcomed. Mama Crick made me feel like family each time I was near her. After I produced her first great-grandchild, I was more than family, and she would do anything in the world for any of us. I can remember her wanting to cook for us after Billy was born. We piled up on many occasions and headed to her house on a weekday night for some spaghetti and fried okra. I never before had that combination before, but let me let  y’all in on a little secret, it’s good. As Billy got to an age to talk, he called it popcorn and loved it. That boy wouldn’t touch it with a 10-foot pole now. Want to know one of the reasons he’s so spoiled and picky…Christine Seay cooked him anything he wanted and that was all he had to eat. Lol! 

The dinner table was not the only place we held a bond. After her heart surgery and stroke, her driving days came to an end. She hated to be a burden to anyone, but she always felt comfortable enough with me and knew that I would do anything in the world for her, so she called me to come get her from the beauty shop or take her there or help her get to the bank so she could “get a little cash” or run her to grocery for a special sale. I loved those short little trips around town, but I loved more that she was comfortable enough with me to let me help her. She would always say to Tina or Papa or even Gail, “Lana’s gonna come take me.” She would spend the ride from the country thanking me for “doing this”, but you know doing that was only a smidge of a thank you I could give her for everything she’d done for my family for so many years before. 

Pool Visits. I told you all earlier that Will loved his Mama Crick, and his Mama Crick loved him. Everyone always joked that he was the favorite. So, when the favorite has kids, get ready for them to have all the spoils. Will’s parents moved to the country several years back, and when multiple grandchildren became a thing, they decided to put in a pool. Well, the Will Rogers’ crew didn’t have a pool or daily access to a pool, so we were over the top excited about getting to go swim at Nan and Pop’s pool any day we wanted over summer break. Now, when I tell you the second I would pull up Nan’s driveway that Christine Seay would be out her side door and on her way up the lane to Nan’s with treats in hand, I am not exaggerating, even a little bit. I honestly believe she sat by the window daily waiting for us to pull up. She loved watching those boys swim. I will never forget the grocery bags filled with WHATEVER she could find that they would eat. Ritz crackers and cheese. (Like she’d bring a knife with a block of cheese to the pool.)  Popsicles. (If you know Bo and his affection for pop ice, just know she instilled it). Dr. Peppers. So many Dr. Peppers. Chips .Ice Cream Sandwiches. Leftovers. It didn't matter; if she thought they’d eat it, she brought it. Now if we somehow “slipped in” without her seeing us, once she did see us and made her way up there, she would be mad at me. “Why didn’t you call me and let me know y’all were up here?” she’d snap at me. I can’t even estimate the number of hours she sat at that pool watching us splash around, and she never got in. She wasn’t a swimmer and didn’t care one bit about getting in a pool, but she adored watching my boys enjoy their summer days and yearned for us to come every day. 

Babysitter Extraordinaire. It didn’t matter if I needed her for 20 minutes, 2 hours or everyday for 2 years. She was ALWAYS willing to help me and did. I would bring the boys to her or she would come to me. Whatever I needed, whenever I needed, she was there. And my babies loved her. My babies still love her. All my boys will always cherish their Mama Crick. She set the bar pretty high for what a grandmother should be. They always knew she loved them because she showed them with her presence, her gifts (never forgot a birthday or holiday), her food, her touch, and her words. When kids get older, they begin to recognize and see the world differently. I pray as my children continue to grow that they will always use Mama Crick’s selfless love and affection as a guide to mature into the best version of themselves. She always loved to stand back to back with my boys to see how close they were to outgrowing her, which they all did a good while ago. Now it’s their turn to measure their hearts and their capacity to love next to their Mama Crick’s. I pray that one day their love for their family will be even half of that of hers. 

As memories will continue to flood our thoughts over these next few days, it is not a single memory that will stand out for me. Instead, it is the impact that her life had on mine. She welcomed me when I was just a kid and loved me dearly for all the years that followed. When asked about another girl once, she said, “Well, she ain’t no Lana!”  She may have not been me, but I can say this with certainty now, “There ain’t never gonna be another Mama Crick!” She loved fiercely, and for a time, we will be lost without her love here on this earth, but the great thing about a grandma’s love is that it is part of who we are. Each of us will carry her with us in some special way for the rest of our lives and into our own grandparent era. 

Rest easy, MC. Come Wednesday, all the boys will all be able to drive. You almost made it to let that baby boy drive you around. You helped me raise these boys, and I will forever be grateful. I love you so much, and I will miss you always. Give Papa Emory a little hell when you see him….

Feelings Are Non-negotiable

 When you are a prisoner of your own feelings, you realize the significance of perception. The problem with perception is perspective. Our perspectives change how we perceive what is real. The bigger problem with reality is YOUR perception does not change MY reality. Too often, we dismiss others because we don’t believe how they see things is accurate, but can you really disagree with a reality that you can’t perceive? Feelings should never be dismissed simply because you disagree; your agreement doesn’t change the realness of those feelings to the other. 

A past co-worker turned friend introduced me to a saying, “Feelings are non-negotiable.” Whether you agree or disagree with another person’s feelings. Whether you meant or didn’t mean to hurt another person’s feelings. Whether you think the other person is acting childish or irrational. IT. DOES. NOT. CHANGE. HOW. THEY. FEEL. Your opinion doesn’t change another person’s emotional viewpoint. How they feel is not up for negotiation. Their feelings are REAL.

You should not dismiss a person’s feelings because you don’t see the situation the same way as they do. Honestly, I need to remember this myself. I get lost in my feelings and circumstances, and in turn, I don’t interact with others in a way that honors their reality. As a teacher, I can be quick to dismiss a student because of their behavior or attitude in my class. I don’t always stop to think through why they are acting out; I instead act in response because of MY personal reality.

As an empath, I get drawn to others through their feelings. I can literally sense their pain or anxiety or hurt. Those are the days when feelings and realities are easy for me. Those days, I’m not completely overcome with my own feelings and can absorb the feelings of others, particularly my students. This allows me an opportunity to actually experience their reality. Sounds hokey, doesn't it? I know, but it’s a legit thing. My intuition allows me to know and feel things I shouldn’t necessarily have access to.

Now, I am not saying I am an all-star at feelings. I am certain I hurt feelings frequently. I know I’ve personally dismissed others because I disagreed with how they said or handled things. I’ve also been dismissed because another person was unable to see the world from my view. I’ve been ignored because someone just made assumptions about my thoughts and feelings. 

Many times, we are so quick to believe others are like us. They respond like us. They understand like us. They react to the same things we do. They need the same things we need. They want the same things we do. However, people are different, even similar ones. Each one of us interacts based on our personal experiences, knowledge, histories, as well as current situations. We can’t know or assume another person wants or needs what we do. Instead, we must be prepared to stop and get to really know and understand the other person. 

As teachers, coaches, co-workers, friends, parents, bosses, preachers, counselors, siblings, spouses, or simply as human beings, we must be aware of feelings. How our actions affect another person’s feelings. How our responses affect another person’s feelings. How another person’s feelings determine their reactions and responses. 

The older I get the more I wish we had a clear and easy way to understand and SEE each other. Sometimes, our incessant need to be right clouds humanity’s desperate cry for understanding. I challenge you to seek understanding, particularly of a misunderstanding. You may be missing out on truly knowing a person and all the wonderful things they have to offer you because you don’t feel or see the world the same. What if their viewpoint is the key to greater understanding?

Death Is Hard

When death strips away a child from a parent or a parent from a child, the earth seems a little bit duller. Death is hard. My heart hurts a little deeper when I learn of a kid, particularly a high school-aged kid, losing a parent. It hits very close to home for me. Last week, one of our students lost his mother. For a brief moment, when I heard all of my personal memories flooded over me. I watched and felt his grief unfold on the football field. Death is hard.

Losing a parent while in high school is a different kind of hurt. Oh, your friends are there; they try and comfort you, but the majority of them wake up the next morning with their familial unit intact. Nothing changes in their daily lives. However, your daily life is never whole again. Your literal day one sees no more of your days. No ball games. No plays. No graduations. No weddings. No births. No nothing. All of these thoughts permeate your psyche off and on during the coming days, months, and years, not to mention the initial shock of their death cripples you. No voice. No laughter. No smiles. No Nothing. Gone. FOR.EVER. All of that is a LOT for any teenager to handle. It was a lot for me. I cried every night for weeks. Cried until there were no more tears. I remember Will telling me he was worried that I may try to kill myself. I never considered that, but I did retreat from being social, outgoing, wanting to be-around-ALL-the-people to being around the bare minimum, if that. I was sad. I was angry. I was so confused. If it wasn't enough to lose my Daddy at 15, two weeks later (to the day) my granddaddy died. One month later (to the date) my dog got run over. The ole trite adage, "When it rains, it pours," never felt more accurate. 

Lucky for me, my faith was strong at a young age. I relied on it. I deemed it necessary to even begin to make sense of it all. Not all teenagers have that faith. And NOT all teenagers should be expected to gracefully carry the heaviness of such a burden. As weird as this sounds and as much as I'd love to have my daddy here with me, his death provided me with an empathy and compassion and vision that can only be earned through the grief journey. The lessons and love overcoming his death provided me turned me into ME. The greatest gift given to me is the insight of being a vessel for the greater good. 

A few years after my daddy's death, I ended up counseling at a conference where a young boy found out days before that his father had pancreatic cancer. Pancreatic cancer is a death sentence. He came to that conference knowing within six months his father would die. This is the moment when a purpose greater than myself existed through me. I sat with this broken kid on the front steps of his cabin into the wee hours of the morning discussing how death would invade his life in the coming months and years. We laughed and cried and hugged away as much pain as we could. Before my daddy died, I wouldn't have had the tools needed for that moment. "For such a time as this…"

Little did I know, this encounter would be the first of many. Thus far within my life, my path has aligned with so many teenagers who have experienced the death of a parent or loved one. I've also stood in front of a classroom full of students who are hearing for the first time their classmate and friend has died. Oddly, I've felt prepared to handle each situation that I've been placed in with an intuitive spirit. 

Living through hell, whether it be the death of a loved one, alcoholism/addiction, job loss, cancer, infertility, depression, or any number of devastating crises, can equip you to be the light someone else needs in their darkest hour. As hard as it is to embrace and love your hurt, your healing will heal others. Trust and believe.

For those of you who haven't experienced loss or hurt or uncertainty, count yourself as lucky. Or maybe not because you haven't been forced to grow into a more compassionate and empathetic individual. 

For those of you who have experienced loss or hurt or uncertainty, use your experiences to better the world and the people around you. Those people need YOU and everything you have to offer. 

Willingness Breeds Opportunity

A week has passed and I didn't sit down and make time to blog, even now I'm typing on my phone in bed before I fall asleep instead of on a computer at a dedicated space for a given amount of time. Writing for me tends to be something I do out of passion or raw emotion. If I haven't been moved by something, I don't necessarily write. Yet, I feel like writing is a call to ministry in some way for me,  and if I'm not writing then I'm failing to fulfill a purpose in my life. This week I debated about writing about suicide and then contemplated writing about teenagers losing parents because both of those happened in our tiny community this past week. And both of those things did move me in thought. However, the nudge I'm feeling right now has more to do with notching out time to focus on our purpose. 

I kept telling myself this week that I needed to write, but I just didn't feel that I had anything to say. I never made time to actually put words or thoughts onto paper to see if inspiration would flow. I never sat at my computer with the intention to write. How many times have I wasted words because I didn't give them space to be released? God can't speak through me if I'm not speaking. God can't give me words or vision if I'm not allowing myself to enter a space to receive it wholly. 

I too often believe that God comes as the burning bush instead of the quiet whisper. I know better, but it doesn't make it any easier for me to slow down and intentionally listen for the whisper of the wind. I allow mindless scrolling to infuse my days instead of renewing my mind with knowledge or wisdom or activity worthy of inspiration. 

So, maybe today's blog is more about me waking up and making some changes to my daily habits. Maybe I need to stand firm in personal commitment to myself and God. Maybe writing this tonight is God's way of telling me to make the space and offer the time because willingness breeds opportunity, and opportunities open doors, and open doors lead us to places we are destined to go. Do you have any doors that need to be opened? Is God nudging you toward an intentional commitment in your purpose?

Pass The Salt

Vulnerability lends itself to transparency, which creates a clear heart for open and honest communication. Years ago, a friend told me my voice was the strongest when writing from a place of vulnerability. Last week, I blogged for the first time in THREE years. There was some vulnerability in those words. Before last week, I had the desire to write, but my voice had been silent. Legitimately, not certain of what I should write. No purpose. There were times when I wanted to create an open dialogue for the reconciliation of differences but didn’t have the energy to deal with the repercussions of people. Today, I decided the repercussions, judgment, and opinions no longer mattered to me. 

I walked away from the church for a little while, not necessarily God or Jesus, the church. During Covid and the aftermath of the pandemic, I was tired, physically, mentally, and emotionally. Some days, I simply was too tired from the pandemic/virtual school week to physically go anywhere on the weekends. Some days, it was the divisiveness that was occurring over a vaccination. The division was UGLY. Some days, it was just me questioning theology. During that time, I was teaching World Literature and we were reading Elie Wiesel’s autobiography, Night. If you have really thought about the Holocaust, how can you not have questions? 

Questioning the church’s theology should not cost us our faith or our friends. However, early on we are trained to trust blindly and not question the Bible, the preacher, or the universal church. This doesn’t sit well with me because what if, our personal questioning is where the Truth is revealed for our lives? I don’t feel we are allowed to openly have questions nor is there a safe space to have hard conversations about religion. Our unbelief and uncertainty should be discussed openly with freedom, acceptance, and understanding. However, these conversations lead to being shunned and ostracized. We don’t feel there is a place for us at the table anymore. 

I think this is where I have been sitting for the last three years, alone and uncertain. I can remember teaching children to question everything and not blindly conform to things just because their parents or preachers told them. I quickly noticed these children and their parents stopped interacting with me as much. See how quick questions can cause you to be alone.  

This morning, the focus of the sermon was on salt and light. The preacher discussed how salt loses its flavor because of impurities or because it’s been diluted. My initial question was: What happens when the church becomes the impurity in your life? I’m betting that will be considered a very unpopular question, but my heart hurts when I watch the people of the church hurt others. When the people of the church have an opportunity to stand up for someone in their time of need, but those upstanding church folks stand by and watch as that person’s life implodes. 

I’ve felt my flavor fade over the last three years. When it was said this morning, “If salt loses its taste it has lost its purpose.” I haven’t felt anything so deeply in quite a long time because I have questioned my purpose on a continuous loop for the last few years. Once so determined that writing was a divine gift that God brought to me, I no longer have the words or the desire to find them. Once absolutely certain that teenagers were my reason, I now contemplate leaving education over and over. Once faithful in seeing past the unfortunate and trusting in the direction it would lead, I cry uncontrollably with complete rain clouds blocking the view of where to go next. 

The significance in all this is that I have been BEGGING God for months to help me feel something. ANYTHING. For someone who had an absolute certainty of the divine’s touch on her life, living in unbelief has been debilitating. Today with conviction and trust,  I sang the words, “I sing a hallelujah louder than the unbelief.” Tonight, I have words and the desire to type them out again. God is moving and just maybe isn’t done with me yet. Though my heart and soul still struggle with questions and my mind still carries some unbelief, I did feel the presence of God today. I do feel that spark and pray that it will fan into a flame. Even if I am not as salty as I once was, may my light have the ability to grow brighter and be a safe and encouraging space for all those who question yet seek. May my light mimic the love of God.

45 and counting...

Birthdays much like the new year offer a time to reflect on your personal life. Forty-five seems like a significant number to truly reflect. So, I've been spending some time doing that. I mean most likely, I've crossed the halfway point of my life. I feel like I need to make some priority changes and revive some lost ideas and beliefs.

At 40, I remember having so many plans and goals that I wanted to crush, particularly in that 40th year. Heck, I started writing a whole novel, and it was actually pretty good. However, I abandoned all my goals because somewhere along the way life became too hard for me. I doubted all my gifts and talents. The world became ugly and hateful. I found myself retreating from people and institutions that I once clung. The flame of my desires withdrew into darkness, and the darkness seemed to take up more and more space in my mind. 

The last few years I've struggled to maintain even a semblance of myself, but this past year life almost broke me and when I thought I was putting myself back together, I crashed. Life literally picked me overhead its head and slammed me onto the ground. I shattered into a million pieces. Pieces I don't think I can ever put back together the same way. I've changed too significantly. I haven't decided if it is for the better because I'm still attempting to form the shards back together. I'm hurt and bitter and confused.

At Forty-five, I thought life would be on cruise or at least on a downhill slope, but nope. NO. WHERE. CLOSE. When I'm not pedaling up the steepest hill, I feel like I'm rowing backward all alone in a raft in the middle of an endless sea. It's honestly been horrible. I'm a broken version of myself, and it is painful to live out because I'm unsure if I can return to the strong and faithful person I was for so long, and I desperately want to be her.

I envy people who say you can just choose happiness or joy. They intentionally choose that for their life. I promise you I want that. I want to make that choice. I want to make a proclamation over my life, but my brain makes that choice so much more difficult than just "choose joy." My brain is ruled by depression.

Depression grips the scale and tilts it in the direction of darkness and despair. Depression surrounds you with loneliness and uncertainty. Depression strips away motivation and confidence. Depression assures you joy isn't a feasible choice. So, as much as I want to choose joy, I have to wage a war against myself daily in order to make that choice. The battle is endless. 

Now, I'm not writing this as a woe to me plea for all of your pity. I. Do. Not. Want. Pity. I'm writing this as a declaration to myself. In order to seek out the goals I once made and in order to rebuild myself in a way that I'm recognizable, I must be transparent about my place in the world and the battles I face. One of my goals years ago was to blog frequently. What better way to be true to my 40 year old self than to blog to start off my 45th year? Here's to rebuilding myself and my faith while crushing my goals and finding a peace that dissolves my bitterness.