The Gaze

 

 I can still feel his eyes on me—

I somehow knew even before I cracked my eyes a small bit.
I knew he was watching me intently.

Drowsy, but now awake,
Pretending to be asleep,
I barely opened my lids and saw him—
Staring at me contemplatively.

As a child, when my grandfather studied me while I slept on the sofas in their hot living room,
An un-air-conditioned room in Florida with just a fan blowing,
His long-lasting gaze at both my sister and me made me wonder,
What is so interesting about us when we are asleep?
Why watch us?

I now know why.

He loved.
He loved me.
He loved me enough to be enchanted by my breaths,
By my face,
By my fingers and hands,
By my curled figure,
To be mesmerized by my innocence and potential,
By my blond hair splayed on the pillow,
By my stillness.

I was his blood.
I was the daughter of his daughter.
The apple of his eye.

If what they say is true,
If eyes are the windows to the soul,
His soul was awakened by me—the center of his soul.
 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Decades after he left this earth,
I still feel his gaze,
His love.

Grandpa’s presence was beside me
when I gazed at my sons’ faces,
As I sat in the chair beside the crib,
Listening to their deep breathing,
now knowing why he gazed.

I hope my sons know beyond a shadow of a doubt
Even decades later that
I was enchanted by their breaths,
By their faces,
By their fingers and hands,
By their curled figures.
I was mesmerized by their innocence and potential,
By their blond hair splayed on the pillow,
By their stillness.

They were my blood—
The sons I longed for,
The reason my blood thumped in my body,
My essence.

Rocking back and forth,
I felt their heaviness on my chest,
As I grasped their tiny fingers in my hand,
As I tried to comfort their fears and remove tears,
As I held them and sang in the darkness,
Reminding them I was there—-

I wanted them to know they were the center of my soul.

Oh, to be loved like this.
To be the enchantment of someone’s soul,
To be loved so much that decades later there are no doubts. 

My Personal Folk Hero

 

 

Dad loved history—-and he loved sharing his passion with others.
You couldn’t listen to him and not want to know more about the past.
He took us to Vicksburg, Gettysburg, Williamsburg, Jamestown, and Fort Ticonderoga.
Civil War battles and early American life came alive in his eyes,
as Kelly and I could imagine Grant and Lee signing the papers as we stood at Appomattox.  

In addition to historical visits,
Dad shared tales of Wild Bill Hickok and Annie Oakley,
And female heroines like Amelia Earhart and Harriet Tubman.
We even had coonskin caps like Davy Crockett.

He read us folk tales about Johnny Appleseed, Pecos Bill in the tornado, and Paul Bunyan and Babe the Blue Ox.
We were astonished at the deeds of a man who planted apple trees wherever he went,
And the thought of an ox who “grew so big that 42 axe handles plus a plug of tobacco could fit between his eyes.” 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

When your dad dies when you are 24–
And when he is at the height of his professional career
And has taught and served as a principal in the same area his whole life–
And when he had over a thousand at his funeral at age 52—

When all those are true,
It is easy to somehow transform your views of your dad
Into someone larger than life—
As a sort of folk hero–
As someone who did no wrong and had a perfect life.

Now, at age 55, three years older than he ever was,
It is much more obvious that Dad was not a folk hero.  
Dad was a normal man who loved big, did all he could to make his students know they were loved, and did all he could to tell his three females at home that they were amazing.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

In thinking how to describe my dad to my sons who never met him,
I could tell of his folk hero-type achievements—
His Teacher of the Year awards for Polk County two different times,
His transition from history teacher to assistant principal to principal,
His crazy antics to motivate his students on the football field (as he wore his Lake Gibson Braves Indian outfit and ran up and down the sidelines)
To his decision to walk 20 miles from Lake Gibson to Bartow to take their test scores to the district office,
To several nights spent on the roof of the school to celebrate state scores.

I could tell of the ways he, like Johnny Appleseed, changed the landscape of Central Florida by planting “seeds” of hope.
I could tell of the times I had to share Dad even when I was little
With the students who ran up to him, hugging him,
With the students who wanted to share their awards and achievements,
And with students who needed a father figure in their lives.
I could tell of his motivational talks, of his encouragement that his students fly with the eagles.
I could tell of his decision to name the eagle as the mascot at his new high school, George Jenkins,
And of his pure joy of dreaming of the new campus and of the way students would enjoy the courtyard.

I could tell my sons of his never-ending energy,
Almost supernatural like the strength of Paul Bunyan.
He moved constantly from 5 a.m. until 10 p.m., eating a meal a day by grabbing small bits of food on his way from one event to the next.
I could tell of his Barney Fife figure, of the power that lived inside that tiny physical frame.
I could talk of his involvement at church, from Sunday School teacher and superintendent, to board member, to choir member.
I could talk of all the help he provided my mom as we set up for children’s events.
I could talk of his solos and of his role as Psalty, a blue songbook in a children’s musical.


I could do all that . . . .
And obviously, I could tell of his almost unnatural end—
Of the sudden heart attack on the way to the football field of the first football game at George Jenkins.
I could talk of the grief,
Of the suddenness of the loss of this life, this man who seemed larger than life.


* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ** *

I could do all that. . . .
But to introduce my personal “folk hero” to my sons, I wouldn’t focus on that.

I would focus on these details of his life:

• He treated everyone with the utmost respect, from the repairmen who worked at the school to the custodians who barely spoke English.
• He loved to sing along with music, regardless of whether he knew the words.  The music itself was more important than getting everything right.  He made up words that Kelly and I called “Slippy Pippy” words.
• He loved to watch things grow—his students, the grass, the trees, the plants.  He loved his yard and having it look just right.  We spent so many hours with Dad out in the yard, mowing, raking pine needles (in Florida) and leaves (in North Carolina).
• He didn’t mind sweat and hard work.  Whether it was cutting down a pine tree that needed to come down, or working an extra job doing construction work during the summer, Dad worked hard.  He wore out the soles of his dress shoes each year from walking so much.
• He loved to teach.  He was passionate about public education and his students.  He was rarely angry, but when he was, it was when his students were hurt or when someone (including loved ones) criticized teachers.
• He loved to encourage others.  He wrote small notes each morning that he would deliver to people he wanted to thank.  I have some of those notes he gave to Mom.
• He loved my mom.  Beyond doubt.  They were true partners, taking part equally in each other’s endeavors.  I still have all their love letters to each other.  It might be expected that she kept his, but true to form for him, Dad kept all her love letters, too.
• He loved Kelly and me.  Each night I was in his house, I got a hug and a kiss from him, and each morning, he kissed my forehead while I slept and wished me a good day.   He was so proud of both of us and was at each of our events.  He never missed a day telling us that he loved us.  And always would.
  
• He loved soft-serve ice cream, and his nighttime treat was vanilla (or chocolate) ice cream with salted peanuts on it.  
• He did not watch sports 24/7, but he always knew the scores so he could converse with others.  I can remember being super excited about Joe Montana and the 49ers and the Pittsburgh Steelers.
• When he got up in the mornings, his ankles and toes popped.  We would tease him with “Snap, Crackle, Pop.”
• He loved making French toast on Sunday mornings for us, and we would read the comics.  He also loved washing dishes.  
• He taught me that real men help clean the house, fold laundry, vacuum, and dust.  Real men also cry at The Waltons and at any other small thing that is important.
  
• He loved going down snowy mountains on a sled, making snowmen, and making snow angels.  However, if you ever got on a toboggan with Dad in the snow, you could plan going backward and falling out.
• He sat with one leg draped over the arm of chairs when he was comfortable.  He loved Christmas Vacation and other Chevy Chase humor.  He loved his Christmas train (he purchased it as an childless adult, and when the toy salesman asked about his little boy, Dad admitted it was for himself), tinsel deliberately laid on branches, and the butter cookies that came in a metal tin.
• He loved sitting on the front porch of the Maggie Valley home, drinking coffee and reading a book.  He voraciously read and had the unbelievable ability to remember characters and plots of books he hadn’t read in decades.
• He loved imagining retirement, something he never reached.  He frequently talked, though, of never sitting on the porch and dying.  He wanted to “run into the grave,” words he said the week he died.  He and Mom drew plans of the expansion of their Maggie Valley home.
• He loved walking in the woods, seeing inspiration in nature, and seeing beautiful natural sights.  He enjoyed watching the chipmunks (Kelly called them "chinkminks") scamper. 
  
• He always had a pad of paper and pen with him.  When we shopped, Dad would sit in a chair or stand at a clothing rack, writing down thoughts for future speeches or a list of tasks he needed to do.   He frequently was mistaken as a manager and was asked how to find an item.  The funny part is that Dad would go along with it and would help the customer find what he/she was looking for.
• We never went anywhere without someone knowing my dad.  We could go out of state, and it seemed like we always saw someone who knew him.
• He was so tired he would fall asleep any time he sat down.  He fell asleep at train crossings, waiting for the train to pass.  He fell asleep in the dentist chair while he was undergoing dental work.  But, he wouldn’t slow down.
• He rolled up his pants and would walk in rivers (and would often slip).  He often mowed his front yard in shorts and dress socks, trying to get the grass mowed before it got dark outside.  He wasn’t afraid of looking like a fool—dressing up for his students, rolling down the hill at Biltmore Mansion, riding a kids’ tricycle at church, and crawling around on the floor with toddlers.  
• He felt like he had a mission—a world he wanted to make better.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * **

My kids may never have met my father.
However, I hope they have seen a reflection of him in me.

He showed me how to love my children.
He showed me how one person’s passion can power a life and can motivate others.
He showed me how to love big—
And how to live with respect for all and with appreciation for the small things of life.

He wasn’t a folk hero.
He was just MY hero.

 

 

Life with a Narcissist in 7 Short Chapters (inspired by Portia Nelson's piece)

inspired by Portia Nelson’s “Autobiography in Five Short Chapters”
located below

I.
I walk down the street.
He has prepared a red carpet for me to walk on,
Strewn with roses.
He puts a crown on my head,
Telling me he would do anything for me and only wants the very best for me.


II.
I walk down the street, with him beside me.
He pushes me out of the way in one spot, saying,
“Watch out for that big hole.
Aren’t you fortunate I saved you from falling?
I’m your hero!”
He leads me onward.
I look back and see no hole.  There is no hole.
But I am so grateful he saved me.


III.
I walk down the same street in the same spot, with him beside me.
He sticks out his foot in front of my legs.
I fall.
I skin my knee, I twist my ankle.
He stands above me, looking down with contempt,
“Wow!  You really are clumsy.  You are lucky I put up with you.
If only you were like me, you wouldn’t have fallen in that hole.
What a shame.”
I pull myself out of the hole,
Watching the blood drip down my shin,
My head hanging low in shame,
Hobbling along,
Watching the back of his head disappear ahead into the crowd.
This happens every time we walk down this street.


IV.
I walk down the same street in the same spot, all by myself.
When I get to the hole in the sidewalk that now is so apparent,
I tiptoe on the curb,
Thankful, so thankful for his warning and wisdom.
I look back and see a shadow of the hole.


V.
I walk down the same street,
my friend walking beside me.  
When I go to tiptoe on the curb, she tugs at my arm,
And she asks, “What are you doing?”
When I reply, “Avoiding the hole,” she stares at me and asks, in a completely serious voice,
“What hole?”
She reassures, “There is no hole, and I would never let you fall in one.”
I look at the sidewalk and wonder.


VI.
Much later, I walk down the same street, all by myself.
With scarred knees and a permanent limp,
I walk assuredly on the sidewalk,
Looking back to see the sidewalk that was whole all along.


VII.
Much, much later, I walk down the same street, all by myself or with others.
My scars on my knees have lessened.
But, if I am truthful, I still sometimes walk timidly in that spot,
Still hoping that I won’t fall.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *


Original Piece “Autobiography in Five Short Chapters”
 by Portia Nelson:
I
I walk down the street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk
I fall in.
I am lost ... I am helpless.
It isn't my fault.
It takes me forever to find a way out.
II
I walk down the same street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.
I pretend I don't see it.
I fall in again.
I can't believe I am in the same place
but, it isn't my fault.
It still takes a long time to get out.
III
I walk down the same street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.
I see it is there.
I still fall in ... it's a habit.
my eyes are open
I know where I am.
It is my fault.
I get out immediately.
IV
I walk down the same street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.
I walk around it.
V
I walk down another street.

The End of My Cleaver Life

 

My world at the age of 11 revolved around
My home in the country with my parents and sister,
Two sets of grandparents,
A church and church family where I spent a half-dozen hours a week (at least),
My dad’s school where I spent half of every summer,
And my own school, Medulla Elementary.

To say my life was idyllic would be an understatement.
I knew little of the harshness of the world.
My parents never argued in front of us—and we never even heard anything resembling conflict through the walls.
We knew of no verbally abusive language,
No hateful actions,
No divorces, no one accused of a crime, no one out to hurt others.

The worst thing I can remember happening during the time was the death of one of our cats who escaped and got run over.

And I can remember no time I was ever truly scared
With the exception of two different nights when we came home to discover our home had been burglarized,  
the scary German shepherds that ran loose in the neighborhood,
the dark hallways where the boogeyman lived,
and the wildfires down the road.

Mom and Dad always said they loved us.
They read stories to us,
they tucked us in at night,
And we always knew that they would be there for us.

Leave it to Beaver may have been primetime television before I was born,
But I lived it.
However, instead of Ward doing all the “male” tasks while June awaited Ward’s arrival home with dinner ready,
Mom helped Dad outside and supported his interests,
And Dad was one who would help wash dishes, do laundry, and vacuum.
Mom was one mean ax chopper, and Dad could wash dishes with great joy.

The real world—the ugliness possible—was unknown to me.
I had no awareness of the Vietnam War and only knew that the Russians had scary nuclear weapons.
My only awareness of the news was through re-run episodes of You Are There, told by Walter Cronkite in black and white on a film projector.

This all changed in the fall of my 6th grade year.
Because I was bumped ahead a grade in reading each year throughout elementary school,
When I entered my final year at Medulla, they had no idea what to do with me.
I became a library aide and put together book displays for other students.

My whole world broke open when I was called to Mr. Hollingsworth’s office.  
He introduced me to a young lady who was 5 years older than I was—I was 11, and she was 16.
Her family had just been sponsored by the Lutheran church in town,
And she had just arrived in America from a refugee camp for survivors of the conflict in Cambodia.

Just like I had no awareness of the Vietnam War, I knew nothing of any war in Cambodia,
And I knew nothing of Pol Pot or the Khmer Rouge.
If I am honest, I doubt I even knew a country called Cambodia existed.
I had no idea 1.5 to 2 million Cambodians had been killed from 1975 to 1979 while I rode my bicycles and played school at home with my stuffed animals.  
I knew nothing of Pol Pot’s attempts to create a Cambodian “master race.”

All I knew was my life—
But that morning I saw before me a young lady who looked scared to death as she faced me.
Her name was Huoy.
She was new to the U.S.  She was new to Florida.  
And she knew about 10 words of English.

My new task in the fall of 1980 at the age of 11 was to become her personal tutor,
Helping her learn English,
Helping her figure out life in America,
Assisting her with schoolwork.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

That first day all we did was walk around campus.
I pointed at an oak tree and said, “Tree.”
She looked at her Cambodian-English dictionary, looked at both words, and repeated “tree”
Before we moved on to “car” and “door” and “sky.”
She took notes so she could study the words and memorize them.
She knew Cambodia could no longer be her home.
She had to learn English for her new life.

That day began a daily routine where we spent an hour or more together.
We added more words to her English vocabulary,
and she learned how to write in English,
and she and I worked on math.

She drew me pictures of flowers I had never seen before.
She gave me notes with her new English vocabulary beside.
Cambodian words on the sheets of paper she gave me,
Beautiful written Cambodian characters that were artistic pieces all by themselves.
Prior to the days of the internet and varied food options, someone like me did not have experience with other cultures.  My only experience with Asian food was La Choy’s Chow Mein in a can.

I shared my culture with her when she came to church events with me, flying kites,
Hunting for candy in field thrown by Mr. Wilson during our Easter event,
And she shared her Cambodian culture with me, providing me homemade egg rolls her dad made and teaching me a few words in her language.

We became friends.
That spring she shared her story—or part of it.
She told me with tears in her eyes of journeys through the jungles,
Of running for her life,
Of Pol Pot’s men hunting her and her family,
Of the deaths of her mother and brother in the jungles.

Her stories challenged me, terrified me, and broke my heart for her.
Her life experiences were more than I could even imagine at that age.


* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

In addition to the world crashing into my elementary school that fall with my new friend’s arrival, ,
the world crashed into my living room later that year—during the spring of 1981– as I saw Secret Service agents whisk away President Reagan, barely escaping an assassination attempt.
Real-world events suddenly became real.
This event was the first news event that brought the dangers of the world into my home.

Followed soon after was the landing of the Columbia space shuttle in April of 1981, as seen by my classmates and me in our portable classroom.  Five classes crowded around one TV that must have been using an antenna to get the footage.

That year, that friendship, and that experience of hearing of her life story, of the horrors she had experienced—
All of this revealed for me a whole new world.
A whole new reality.
A world I could not even imagine, but a world that was happening outside of my experience.

Through her friendship and her stories,
she provided me with an awareness early on that horrible, ugly things happened outside of my idyllic life.
However, through her love and her smile, I also learned that this type of hate did not guarantee destruction.

Huoy was a model of strength, of goodness, and of friendship.
She showed me how to live through my own hardships that would eventually come—and how to keep on loving.

I may have taught Huoy the basics of English,
But she taught me all about life.




Afterword:  Huoy and I went to the same junior high, but our classes were never together after that sixth grade year.  When I moved across town to another high school, prior to social media, it was hard to stay in touch. I saw her one additional time after college, and she told me she had graduated with honors from University of South Florida.  I have looked for her for years on social media and on the internet.  I may have finally discovered her address.  I plan to send her this, along with a letter, hoping that perhaps I will reconnect all these years later.  To learn more about the Cambodian genocide, check out the fabulous movie called First They Killed My Father or the documentary called The Killing Fields.

My Monkeys, My Circus: A reflection on monkey mind

 

I know the phrase is “Not my Monkeys, Not my Circus!”

The problem is . . . what if they ARE your monkeys?  
What if they make up your circus?

For me, moments are often filled with my monkeys,
Swinging back and forth,
Jumping from rope to rope.
They cackle and call to me, scratch at themselves and at others,
Pick at each other to pull off bugs.
They make faces, and oh!  The noise!
The high-pitched calls—
It is all a girl can do to think straight.

These are MY monkeys.

The Buddhists talk about monkey mind.
It “describes a state of restlessness, capriciousness, and lack of control in one's thoughts”
In which the mind jumps from one topic to another,
From one task to the next,
A sense of scattered thinking, a feeling of being unsettled.
For me, my mind jumps from personal tasks to work tasks to interpersonal tasks—
A to-do list that is always running and reordering.
For me, my mind jumps from past to present to future to present to past.

There is an inability when the monkeys call to stay present.
To sit.
To be.
To live in the moment.

Monkey mind gets worse when my anxiety rises.
Just this evening while sitting in my stocktank pool, within a few minutes,
I worried about Millie chasing the bumblebees on my salvia.  That led me to worry about vet visits and bills, and how could I go to the vet with school starting this week.  Oh, and that reminded me that I still hadn't done the rewrite of my quiz in my freshman composition class.  In the meantime, the crape myrtle looked a bit odd, and I wondered if it needed water or fungicide.  Then, I thought about the water bill, and wondered if the dogs needed water in their dog dish, which then made me think about the heartworm medicine—and the air filter I needed to change because I do the air filter when I do the heartworm medicine.  Mixed in with all of this was a sense of being overwhelmed—and a feeling that I was failing at it all.

The noise!
The monkeys distract with their swinging and calling.

When I  feel the sway of the ropes as they begin their play,
When I feel the uptick of my heartbeat and blood pressure,
When their vocal decibels rise,
I have learned a trick.
I stop and talk to myself, “It’s okay, baby girl.”

I know I am not a baby.
However, there is very little that calms the monkeys as much as this simple phrase
Said in loving kindness by grown-up Kim to the little Kim who still lives within.
Regardless of how big we get, how large our shoes are, how many wrinkles we wear like corduroy ridges on our faces, and how gray (or absent) the hairs become,
We are still basically little kids within, little kids who want to be seen and loved and cared for.

I started the “baby girl” phrase with my female dogs.
When Millie got scared when the thunder rumbled, I sat beside her and told her the same thing I now tell myself when the monkeys cackle: “It’s okay, baby girl.”
I patted her and rubbed behind her ears.

Much the same way, I used to hold my sons close when the noise of the world became too much for them.
I used to rock them and sing to them, reminding them, “It’s okay, baby boy.”

I am much too big to rock and sing to.
I am much too old.
However, even the simple acknowledgement of the fact that life can sometimes be too much,
Too loud,
Too scary,
Too unsure—-this simple acknowledgement silences the monkeys.

When I rocked my boys and told them it was okay, I honesty wasn’t sure it was.
I couldn’t fix Jonathan’s colic or the ear infections.
I couldn’t make the pain go away or make the bad dream disappear.
All I could do was acknowledge my presence and unwillingness to let them down.

“It’s okay, baby girl” is perhaps my new way
To take a deep breath
To figuratively acknowledge that life has become too much,
To figuratively acknowledge that it is okay for me to stop—-
To sit.
To cry if I need to.
Or just to listen to myself.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * 

Stilling the monkeys is a new goal for me.
Learning how to be—and do nothing--is a new reality.
However, this evening, while the monkeys swung on their ropes as I worried about heartworm medicine and crape myrtles,  
I was able to calm the monkeys enough to realize that their noise had almost made me miss:

The green hummingbird dipping its beak into the salvia blossom,
The hum of the bumblebees on my vitex tree,
The joy of Millie as she hunted for life along the fence line, hoping for that random squirrel to cross her path,
The warmth of the sun on my face,
The stillness and quiet that comes as a joy after a long, busy day filled with schedule making and hiring.
The feeling of my leg and foot gliding through the water,
The Summer Chill mix list on my Spotify playlist beating through the air, making my heart thump in rhythm,
The female cardinal swooping down over my head, bringing me to say, "You go, girl!"
The little lizard gliding along in the shade beside the house,
And the joy of the moment—--that single moment.

When the monkeys calm down,
I can finally take a deep breath and sigh in relief and just
Sit.
Be.
Live.

A Mighty Tree Has Fallen: A Tribute

 

 

As a small child, Jeff Brock was a giant.
He was taller than my dad, and he was taller than any other man I knew.
His slim figure only added to his height.

As a small child, Jeff Brock was a giant—
Not just in stature,
But in wisdom and knowledge.
There seemed to be nothing he did not know.
Woodworking,
Electronics,
Computers (when they were just being developed),
House repair,
World events,
Subjects galore.

I was in awe of him.
I wanted to be just like him—and just like my dad.
When we shopped with the Brocks in the Westshore Mall or in North Carolina malls,  we tended to divide up with Mom, Kelly, and Mrs. Brock looking at other stores,
With the guys—my dad and Mr. Brock–followed along by me
Making a beeline for B. Dalton’s and Waldenbooks—yes, both bookstores on the same trip.

I watched Dad and Mr. Brock repair things around the house,
Watched them work in the yard,
And neither of them seemed appalled to allow me to participate, including reshingling the house on Ewell Rd. in the 6th grade.
Just a few years ago, when Mom moved into her condo in Gainesville, there we were again,
Mr. Brock and me at work on Mom’s repair list.

If you didn’t guess already,
The Brocks were a second pair of parents.
I count myself so fortunate.  I had two amazing, passionate parents—
and then ended up with another set of bonus parents.
We vacationed together—in Maggie Valley, Lake Junaluska, Boone, and Daytona Beach.
We sliced peaches, made preserves, slid down snowy mountains, fished for trout, and so much more.
Childhood pictures frequently show the Brocks with our family of four.
They were family.

The Brocks attended all of the major events in my life and in Kelly’s—our high school graduations, the births of our children, our marriages, both of the funerals of my parents.
Mr. Brock married Anthony and me in 2009 in a small church service in North Carolina, and he cried with me on the phone when I shared news of Anthony’s unexpected suicide.  
He held Kelly’s children and my children as babies,
And he lifted them high onto his shoulders as youngsters, helping them reach the skies.
The Brocks visited Mom in North Carolina and then came to visit her in  Gainesville when she moved back to Florida, supporting her and being loving family  for the 27 years of her life after Dad died,
(And Mom never hesitated to have a list of repairs waiting for their arrival.)

Having a good parent means having someone who thinks the world of you,
Who loves hearing all your stories,
Who loves celebrating your victories and crying with you over your losses,
Someone who believes you are capable of anything.
To all of my Texas friends, the Brocks are known as my bonus mom and bonus dad because they both did all of these things.
Their deaths have felt like the loss of my parents all over again.

I was a teacher of adolescents, but Mr. Brock was the one who pushed me to teach adults by turning over the Sunday School “podium” to me when he was out of town.  Little did either of us know that this was a beginning of a decade of preaching occasionally.

Every time I saw or talked with the Brocks, we laughed and cried.
They loved keeping up with the craziness of the lives of the Lewis girls.

A very personal story I will share with you that happened in 2004 is one that lived in his memory for dozens of years—and will forever live in mine.
I was going through an unexpected divorce.
I was a full-time minister at the time, but the divorce and all the gossip associated with it
Led to many people telling me that I was not worthy—-in fact, telling me those exact words,
Led to many church people refusing to be alone with me,
Led to many people blaming me for everything.
I was lower than I had ever been.
I had lost 25 pounds in a matter of months, and I was only sleeping because of medication.
I was 20 hours away from my family, and I was so, so, so alone.
Mom and I talked every day, but there was no one beside me.

After visiting family, the Brocks took a detour that late summer or fall to meet me beside I-35 in the asphalt parking lot of a Jack in the Box restaurant.
The second they got out of the car, I stood there crying.  It was so good to see someone who loved me.
However, a part of me was so sure that I had disappointed them and everyone at home.
A divorce—how could that be?
I remember Mr. Brock stating as he approached me, “I just have to give you a hug.  It is so good to see you.”
I replied, “Are you sure you want to?  Are you sure you want to be seen hugging me?”
He grabbed me, and the three of us just stood crying and hugging for about 15 minutes.
I am sure I cried most of the time, squeaking words out between sobs.
Their sorrow over my sorrow was palpable.
Their whole-hearted love over broken little me made all the difference.
They loved me no matter what.
They saw the best in me 24/7.

Just this past December I came to Florida for the express purpose of visiting Mr. Brock.
I know all too well how the grief over the loss of a spouse can be overwhelming,
And my goal was just to sit with him and cry and talk, much as he had done for hundreds of others over the years.
We did just that.  Both of us sat and laughed, talked, cried, and reminisced.
These two days will forever live in my memory.

When I heard that Mr. Brock, Jeff Brock to most of you, had passed away,
The first words that came to mind were, “A mighty tree has fallen.”
And then the tears fell.

If you don’t know about this, and I didn’t until I heard this recently in an audiobook, the trees in a forest are interconnected through underground fungal networks, humorously referred to as a “wood-wide web.”  Apparently, “trees share water and nutrients through the networks, and also use them to communicate. They send distress signals about drought and disease, for example, or insect attacks, and other trees alter their behavior when they receive these messages.”  The older trees provide additional tools to protect the younger trees from attack.

“For young saplings in a deeply shaded part of the forest, the network is literally a lifeline. Lacking the sunlight to photosynthesize, they survive because big trees, including their parents, pump sugar into their roots through the network.”

The young trees who may suffer from disease and insect attacks more easily than large trees rely on the large trees for survival.  The large trees literally provide food and protection for the young ones.


Jeff Brock was the giant I saw as a child.
And he was a giant not just to me–-but to many.
He was a large, mighty tree, with deep roots,
With a love for people,
With a love for his family and his God.
I think he would love that all I can picture when I think of him is a huge Florida oak tree,
The kind with limbs touching the ground,
With Spanish moss hanging,
With a tire swing attached to a lower branch,
The type of oak tree seen in many places in Bartow.
The type of tree that did not waver over the years, did not fall due to harsh weather, the type of tree that provided life for so many others.

He was a large tree who for years was a minister, feeding those who would be susceptible to dangers, helping them find the lifeflow that comes from faith.
He was a mighty tree for years as a guidance counselor at Bartow High, caring for and nurturing adolescents through one of the more traumatizing times of life.
He was a giant who ministered again at Highland Park, doing all the behind-the scenes ministry that involved one of his gifts—
Seeing people in hurt and sitting beside them.
Crying (yes, giants cry) and laughing.
He sat in hospital waiting rooms, beside hospital beds, and with the retired who were alone in their homes,
Being present in great moments of need.  

Many young trees, like me, are who we are today because of this giant,
This man who loved others and gave.

I may have grown older and taller,
And I may have a bit more wisdom under my belt now than I did when I was 5.
However, I was correct about one thing  back when I was 5—
Jeff Brock was a giant.

And a giant tree, a mighty tree has fallen.
However, as Maya Angelou wrote in her poem “When Great Trees Fall,”
 this act of nature—the falling of this mighty tree–encourages us to focus on what we “can be” and aspire to “be and be better” because he existed.


When great trees fall,
rocks on distant hills shudder,
lions hunker down
in tall grasses,
and even elephants
lumber after safety.

When great trees fall
in forests,
small things recoil into silence,
their senses
eroded beyond fear.

When great souls die,
the air around us becomes
light, rare, sterile.
We breathe, briefly.
Our eyes, briefly,
see with
a hurtful clarity.
Our memory, suddenly sharpened,
examines,
gnaws on kind words
unsaid,
promised walks
never taken.

Great souls die and
our reality, bound to
them, takes leave of us.
Our souls,
dependent upon their
nurture,
now shrink, wizened.
Our minds, formed
and informed by their
radiance,
fall away.
We are not so much maddened
as reduced to the unutterable ignorance
of dark, cold
caves.

And when great souls die,
after a period, peace blooms,
slowly and always
irregularly. Spaces fill
with a kind of
soothing electric vibration.
Our senses, restored, never
to be the same, whisper to us.
They existed. They existed.
We can be. Be and be
better. For they existed.                                                                     

Maya Angelou. "When Great Trees Fall." Family Friend Poems, https://www.familyfriendpoems.com/poem/when-great-trees-fall-by-maya-angelou


Information about the Interconnectedness of Trees:  https://www.smithsonianmag.com/science-nature/the-whispering-trees-180968084/

A Confused Wanderer in the Wilderness (I Am From--Church Edition)

 

Children's Church, Mom and Dad in front.  Fabulous memories of Aunt Eunice and Uncle Bill (not family, but they were family!)

I am from nightly devotions, of Noah and his big boat and of Zaccheus “the wee little man”,
From Jesus in my living room, white skin, downcast glance,
From Jesus knocking at my door,
And I opened it at age 5.  
I know I was unsure what it all meant, but I knew it was something that should happen.
I am from tears, from a sense that if God really knew “what a worm was I”
That perhaps I might miss hearing the trumpet from heaven and
“Wish We’d All Been Ready.”

I am from parents giving me over to God,
From prayer jars,
From “Stop and Let Me Tell You What the Lord has Done for Me,”
And “When We All Get To Heaven” with shouts and “hallelujahs,”
From Homer screaming salvation prayers over someone at the altar,
And who can forget the “Just As I Am” calls where some believers again and again
Found their way down that long aisle to the “blood of Christ”
And the mediation of the Holy Spirit.

I am from gospel tents, hot in the sand, paper fans moving the air,
I am from revival nights, after a long day at school,
Only to have Dr. K, the evangelist, scream about Jesus, making us little kids jump,
I am from six straight weeks of Bible School in people’s hot Florida summer backyards,
So often, my sister and I repeated the lessons word-for-word “for fun” afterwards.
From weeks of Vacation Bible Schools, day camps, and campouts.
From Caravan badges and perfect memorization of scriptures.
Miss a word in 25 verses and Mrs. S would make you do it all over again.

Knock.  Knock.  Knock.  Are you going to keep Him out?
Slide.  Slide.  Slide.  Are you really thinking bad thoughts?  If so, “Just As I Am.”
Don’t forget He is coming.  (Surprise!  You won’t know when)
Don’t be that woman whose husband flew into the sky and “wish we’d all been ready.”
Are you sure you are ready?
6-6-6.  You aren’t ready.  Are you?  Make sure.  
Beg God each night just in case.
“Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord  my soul to keep.  If I die before I wake . . .”
If I die—-wait, are you ready?  Make sure.

I am from making gallons and gallons of orange drink, vacuuming carpets,
Cleaning urinals, unlocking church doors,
Turning classroom lights on in the dark tunnels of hallways by myself.
I am from picking up bulletins left in pew pockets,
From paper cuts folding and stuffing the bulletins,
From setting up nursery toys, chairs, rooms, and tables.

I am from Gaithers, Speers (“a chip off the old Brock”), and Cathedrals.
Who knew of Journey, Fleetwood Mac, or Bread?  
Played backwards, and Satan Himself will steal your soul.
Amy Grant is as far as you can go.
From dresses, pantyhose, and heels—Sundays or Wednesdays or any other day,
From no movies (unless on vacation, and even then, Herbie or Don Knotts are the limit),
From no dancing, no drinking, no swearing (even Jiminy Cricket, because, you know--JC),
From no running in God’s House, from no thought of ever missing a holy day or a service,
From “thou shalt nots” running through my head.
And P.S. “others are watching you, so make sure you are always a good example.”
And “You don’t want others to miss Heaven because of your behavior.”
And “Go to a movie, and you may tempt others.”
And “Take a drink, and you may become an alcoholic or tempt others.”
After all, “My Body is a Temple of the Holy Spirit”--
And because of that, no thoughts of intimacy before marriage,
That holy sacrament and institution that always works if you pray hard enough
And hold your husband up and allow him to be the moral leader of the house.

I am from all of this—and yet more.
I am from after-church potlucks,
From caring for people without your shared DNA as if they are your own family,
From flying kites together, making smores over the fire, lighting sparklers on the 4th,
From vacations taken together with “family”--to the mountains, to the beach, to Epcot,
From shared birthdays and weddings,
From helping each other out, whether it meant wallpapering or painting, moving, re-shingling, cooking, or just being there.
From hugs and offers of prayer,
From people who helped you celebrate and stood beside caskets,
From people who loved me
And still do.

I am from stories of Zaccheus “the wee little man” who was called down from his hiding place, forgiven and accepted by Christ,
From David who was called God’s own despite adultery and premeditated murder,
And from Jonah who disobeyed God and yet was still saved by God’s whale-taxi.
I am from stories of Christ’s amazing grace,
And Christ’s acceptance of all those whose lives were messy.

HOWEVER . . . . . . this same origin story,
The same “I am from” that developed so much of my childhood story—and the one that determined so many of my values and principles—the one that provided me love and support and a sense of security—
Often reveal themselves as “whited sepulchres,”
the source of thrown stones of accusation and exclusion and cliques.
This “I am from” that loved me with open arms is also
the source of closed doors and turned backs for so many I know,
the source of silence for many when life got messy.

This same Christ who loved
The prostitute,
The bleeding, unclean woman,
The lepers,
The crippled man—-

The same Christ who saw the crowd and felt his heart go out in pain for others
Is supposedly (according to my “I am from” crowd) also the same one who doesn’t fully love gay people, Democrats,
Women whose husbands filed for divorce, mothers pregnant outside of wedlock,
Or ministers who happen to be female.
According to them, He is the same One who upholds the institution of marriage
Over the welfare of women and children in abusive households,
The same one whose will is to make young girls pregnant from their incestuous families (and the same one who will not help her find a way out of this situation).
To them, He is the same One who shames people for mental issues
Because “Let Go and Let God.”

The same “I am from” background
Has allowed the world to seep into their beliefs,
Pushing them to intertwine politics into their religious beliefs,
Thus closing the doors on anyone who doesn’t believe like they do.
Some of their ministers (who I know) openly ridicule political leaders who don’t carry an R.
Their leaders post cruel posts about those D people,
Those LGBTQIA+ gay people,
And suggest God’s special touch on some,
While those gays at the Pulse club were punished by God, suggesting God loves some more than others.

AS A RESULT, I am from confusion,
From a perplexed and lost mind.
From former every-day churchgoer, from licensed minister, from pastor,
to the one wandering in the wilderness,
Hearing the Voice,
Hearing the Heart,
Seeking the Truth,
But only hearing it and finding it—for now— outside of four walls.

The place that provided me those glorious potlucks where all ate and were welcomed now appears to be the place where the tables are shrinking, the seats are reserved, and some are asked to leave.

In my search in the wilderness,
I have found so many searching with me,
So many wanting to sit, talk, and be heard.
So, I am setting up a huge picnic blanket, and I have brought along snacks and drinks.
Who knows?  
Maybe a stranger will come meet us out there in the wilderness and multiply some fishes and bread.

I am not sure where I am going,
But I am not alone.