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.

Part 2: Of Voodoo Curses, Shamrocks, #blessed Theology, (and Shifted Bullets)

 

I published this the first time on my blog in February 2020, just a month shy of the world's awareness of just how big of a situation COVID would be.

 

I also published this just 8 months before my mother's sudden death from a reaction to chemotherapy for her stage 1 breast tumor----and  almost 2 years shy of my husband's suicide.   I had no idea how true these words of February 2020 would become for me.

Below are the original words with a few small parts added in regarding the past 4 years:

* * * * * * * * *

 

For the past two years, my sister and I have joked that we have a special type of sister bond---a shared voodoo curse.  We had seen voodoo curses back in an episode of Gilligan's Island and maybe with The Brady Bunch---or maybe that was just a necklace with a curse.  

 

Regardless, little did Kelly and I know when we were young, when we played the M.A.S.H. paper game of the 1970s that allowed us to dream about our future home, husband, and financial situation, that our lives would not turn out at all like we had thought it might. 

Our joke is a sisterly twist of Murphy’s Law.  For us, the Lewis Sisters’ voodoo curse is a matter of the two of us trying to find humor in some very humorless situations.  To continue our dark humor, we mutually own two little miniature voodoo figurines of Wonder Woman, and her ringtone on my phone states "voodoo jester.”  

 

When something goes wrong, as it often does, all we do is laugh, shrug, and blame the voodoo curse for her family's continued health issues and my family's continued relationship issues.

Although I have no real belief in voodoo curses or in magic shamrocks or in the colored rabbits’ feet I used to buy as a child, I do truly believe that the #blessed theology is dangerous.

From Christian friends of mine who claim #blessed when their kid’s Christian sports team wins a game (I guess because the other Christian team is not blessed) and from Christians who claim #blessed when their luxury boat is not harmed in a hurricane while others’ hard-earned trailers are demolished, I find it hard to swallow this #blessed theology.  If this theology is, in fact, true, then unfortunate situations prove that God does not love me, does not listen to me, does not protect my belongings, or have my team win.  He must not love me as much as he loves these #blessed people.

I would guarantee that those who landed on American shores to obliterate Native Americans by the thousands thought they were blessed as they ate their first Thanksgiving dinner provided by the Native Americans.  I am sure the pictures of that event would have been tagged with #blessed had Twitter existed then. This #blessed flawed theology states that because the Native American culture was completely demolished, God must have not cared as much for these people. 

Likewise, when people were rounded up to become slaves in this #blessed country, historical reports show that the white slaveowners told their slaves that God had allowed them to rule.  As a result, these African slaves were led to believe that God must love the white slaveowners who openly committed adultery with their female slaves and beat others to bloody messes more than he loved the small African boy.  What a twisted image of God this is!

 

Much more recently, I have heard many claim God's Anointing on one political candidate because a bullet barely missed his ear.  Yet, have we considered how this type of statement reveals a heart unaware of empathy because a Christian in the crowd did die.  How can God choose one but not the other?  Do we not realize that when we claim God's blessing on one and not on another this is not only hurtful but also suggests that we believe that one is more #blessed than another?

 

Even more, I have heard claims that this political candidate was "strong enough" to avoid being killed while apparently the same was not true for the 19 students and 2 teachers who died (and the 17 others who were injured) in the shooting at Robb Elementary in Uvalde, Texas, in 2022.  For the parents of the 19 students, if they believe this, God must not have been there----or their children and their teachers were not "strong enough" or "heroic" enough to live.  How can one person be seen as extra important, extra #blessed, and extra valued if God knows and loves each of us?  If you don't believe me that this type of thinking hurts the entire Christian faith, I am not the only one pointing out the hypocrisy:  https://www.texasmonthly.com/news-politics/trump-assassination-texas-christians/.  As the author of this article suggests, this type of #blessed thinking makes God's ways their own ways.  

When we use this type of talk, God becomes a tool to push one political agenda over another, to push one's wealth or importance over another, to value one life over another----and the only one hurt in the whole mess is God.

* * * * * * *

After all these years, we still treat God as if He is some rabbit’s foot.  If we rub the rabbit’s foot enough by praying the right amount of time, using the exact right words, tweeting #blessed enough times to witness to others, then God will provide all we dream and ask. 

I believe God is more than a rabbit’s foot.  This #blessed theology makes those whose loved ones die of cancer or have incurable diseases despite all types of prayers feel like they failed, that God must not love them enough.  This #blessed theology makes those whose marriage collapsed despite prayers feel like even God does not care.  This #blessed theology makes anyone whose “luck” is down, whose paycheck is not enough to pay the bills, or whose lives are not ideal question who they are in God’s eyes.

I have to believe that God is more complicated than any tweet or hashtag.  Just because I have belongings or a win for my kid’s team does not mean that God has blessed me.

Perhaps this desire to believe this about God is selfish.  Perhaps my hope that God is more complicated than any #blessed concept is because of my "voodoo curse."  Otherwise, the only thing I can believe is true is that I must have sinned tremendously.  Considering how things have worked out in my life with my two marriages, my parents who died early, my sons-----I either have to believe God hates me or that boxing him in with #blessed is false.

Recognizing God’s blessing means that we recognize in private the many ways He has quietly stood beside us when life was falling apart.  Our lives may not be perfect, but He sat with us through the wreckage.  Recognizing God’s blessings is not connected to monetary successes or achieving the Pinterest house or having the Norman Rockwell life.  God’s blessings do not come in perfect houses, luxury boats, the proper clothing, the achievement of the American Dream, or the extravagant paycheck---or even perhaps, a shifted bullet. 

God’s blessings come in small ways---from the complicated spider web that shimmers in the dew, from an expected word of encouragement from a friend or stranger, from an extra long cuddle from a child, from a deep conversation with a special someone, or just a brief moment of peace in the midst of a storm of life.

There are so many watching those who claim faith.  They see when their life circumstances do not “match up” to those who call themselves #blessed.  I do not want to be the person whose #blessed theology makes others lose hope, believe less in themselves, or believe less in my God who is much more complicated than any hashtag I use.

A Poof at the Bottom of the Cliff: Lessons from Wile Coyote

 

The big heavy cube
With rabbit ear antennas
And a dial with only a few channels
Held the wonder of Saturday morning cartoons.

Scooby Doo and Hanna-Barbera favorites,
Hong Kong Phooey or Dastardly and Muttley, filled the screen.
The greatest of these was the Bugs Bunny and Roadrunner Show.
Although as a child I only got a portion of the humor,  there was nothing like seeing Bugs Bunny trick gangsters or hunters like Elmer Fudd,
Or seeing a little bird trick the big cat with the speech impediment, Sylvester.

Somehow out of all the conflicts in the Bugs Bunny and Roadrunner Show,
I never really appreciated the deeds of the Roadrunner and the Coyote.
They all ended the same with very little humor or suspense.
I only felt sympathy for this dogged coyote.
Wile Coyote was hungry.
He tried hard.
He purchased Acme products that were sure to work, like monstrous magnets, tunnels that were really painted rock, and rockets that would speed his travel to help him catch his target.

The Coyote pursued the Roadrunner as nature decrees,
But the laws of nature always were flipped,
The Roadrunner always defeated the Coyote,
And the Coyote ended up getting squished, falling off a cliff, or
Falling off the cliff and having a rock fall on top of him,
Or just being utterly defeated . . .

Until the next scene when his indomitable spirit—
Or stupidity—
Or unwillingness to stop–
Or hunger
Forced him to give it a try once again.

I always felt sorry for the Coyote as he opened a new Acme box
(while I also wondered who was paying for all this cool stuff).
I especially sympathized as the Coyote was in mid-air,
waving goodbye to the audience
Right before his body catapulted toward earth from a high cliff,
Landing in a “poof” at the bottom.

The part that was supposed to make us laugh was the taunting “beep, beep” at the end
As the Roadrunner smiled at the audience and took off in the distance.

What was the lesson in this?
Was this funny?
Did Hanna and Barbera want the audience to realize
That laws of nature don’t count?
That the Puritan work ethic doesn’t matter since a sneaky manipulator will always win?
That hard work and effort do not lead to success?
That his desire to satisfy his hunger does not justify killing the Roadrunner?
That Acme products should never be purchased?

* * * * * * * * * *

Now that I have grown up,
Now that I have chased after a few rivals, fought in challenges I should have won,
Gone up against those who wanted to destroy me or humiliate me or just get ahead,
I can definitely identify with the Coyote.

Sometimes it seems like all my hard work, all my effort, all my best ideas
End up in a rubble pile at the bottom of a tall cliff,
With me falling and landing with just a “poof” at the bottom
While the enemy goes by laughing with his little “beep beep”

What do you do when the “beep beep” is all you hear
While you sit at the bottom of the cliff?

Perhaps all that cartoon was doing (other than making a lot of money for the creators)
Was teaching each of us as children
That life rarely goes as planned.
The best-laid plans, the most wonderfully-idealized Acme designs, the hardest work
May all go “poof” and we may be faced once again with the realization that we are saying goodbye to all our efforts.

Perhaps like the Coyote,
We can take the falls,
Accept the failures,
And still pick ourselves up, all bent up and battered, all dusty and dirty,
A bit bruised and a bit puzzled at where it all went wrong,
And take one step after another.
Back to the drawing board.
Back to dream of the victory that eludes,

Determined that at one point, the victory comes to those who find a reason to
Keep on getting up,
Keep on finding a reason to face a new day,
Keep on fighting against the odds.

However, if I am completely honest, sometimes I just cannot do this.                                 
Sometimes I just want to sit at the bottom of the cliff, put some bandaids on my boo-boos, and cry.
Sometimes I want revenge on the “beep beepers” of life, those who celebrate my fall.
Like the image above, I sometimes ask “how” it has happened and try to learn how to avoid it in the future.
I know that sometimes I have given up the fight to chase after a specific Roadrunner and instead pursued another challenge.

All I know is that it is not that easy to be the Coyote.
All of us at times have been Wile Coyote sitting at the bottom of the cliff. 

Most of the time, the only thing that has gotten me to start crawling again, start moving away from the bottom of the cliff
Is pure courage,
A tiny bit of hope,
And a helping hand from another coyote who has fallen.

Regardless of the motives of Hanna-Barbera, one thing I know:

The Coyote and Roadrunner cartoon has taught me I am not alone.  

Giggle--A Family Tradition

 

The Giggle Mattress was brought into existence when I was a child.
My parents slept in a double bed.  
Their mattress existed before memory mattresses, hybrid mattresses, or even firm mattresses.  

My parents rarely changed mattresses or furniture in their house.
If it worked, then, why get rid of it?  
I think they had the same bedroom suite and mattress from their first year of marriage until my high school graduation or perhaps college graduation.

A couple times a year, my parents decided we would have a special night.
They would grab their double mattress and drag it into the living room.
We would place the mattress on the floor and watch TV snuggled together.  

I don’t remember why these evenings happened,
Or what motivated these nights.
I don’t even remember if we all fell asleep out on the mattress.
These Giggle mattress nights usually lasted one night only, and then, the mattress would be put back in the bedroom where it “belonged.”

All I remember was the sheer joy of the oddity of this event—
Of pulling out the mattress and making a living room “fort.”
All I remember were the moments of hilarity as
Mom and Dad grappled with the mattress.
It was old and worn out.
It did not move easily.
It folded and warped.
Mom and Dad could barely grab hold of it and move it from room to room.
All 4 of us would end up in giggles as the mattress collapsed beneath one of us or
Folded in on itself, loosening its grip from a hand.

It quickly became known as the Giggle Mattress.

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

Years passed.
Kelly and I grew up.
The mattress did not get moved out to the living room any longer.
The mattress was sold.
Dad died.
I moved to Texas.
I had two boys.
I got divorced.
I lived by myself in a house ¼ of the size of my previous house prior to the divorce.
3200 sq. feet reduced to 800 sq. feet.

No income.
A strange house for my boys.
Surreal life for me.
I was all alone.
Depressed.
Loaded with anxiety.
Looking for work,
Redesigning my life.

All felt off, abnormal, out of control.
How could I keep doing life?
How could I keep being the mom I wanted and needed to be for my boys when I only saw them half the time?
Traditions associated with holidays would no longer work like they had with my family
Since I would only see my boys half of those holidays.

I felt like a failure of a parent.
I knew I could never provide them the safe environment that my parents provided me 24/7, 12 months a year, 365 days a year.
I was at a loss of what to do.

I lived in a small house,
Nothing like the house I used to own.
I had no money.
I had nothing to compete with the wealth, with the security our old house and the marriage had seemingly provided.

One Friday evening when the boys were with me,
I suddenly made a decision.
I wanted to make this ordinary night magical.

I pulled out the boys’ two twin mattresses since that was all I could lift by myself.
I put them side-by-side in the small living room, moving chairs and end tables to make the mattresses fit.
I had the boys grab every pillow we owned.
I grabbed blankets.  
We made popcorn and all sorts of treats.
Avatar:  The Last Airbender played.
The boys and I watched TV,
They played.
We cuddled with the TV on, and we fell asleep on our own version of the Giggle Mattress.

The Giggle Mattress continued its joy.

I didn’t do it every weekend,
But whenever it felt like we all needed a treat,
Whenever we needed encouragement,
Whenever we were tired,
Or when someone was sick, our Giggle Mattress got pulled out.
The three of us would enjoy the special treat of a mattress night.

Sometimes, when illnesses lasted, Giggle Mattress stayed out for days—or even a week.

Some of my best memories of the boys when they were little
Were on the Giggle Mattress.

Even when the boys were old enough to drag the twin mattresses in by themselves,
They loved these special moments.

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

It has been at least 15 years since Giggle Mattress has been formally put into practice.
Yet,
As much as life changes,
Some things remain.

My parents are no longer alive.
The rental house I lived in is now someone else’s.
The house here on Karma Dr. is still mine, but
The boys are no longer here.

It is just me.  
I have no twin beds, so there is no chance of moving the mattress by myself.
Things have changed,
But the floor beneath my feet
Still holds the giggles
Still holds the memories
Of moments watching Aing the Avatar, Gremlins, or any of the other movies we watched together
On the Giggle Mattress.

It is still real to me.
The Giggle Mattress took a moment of hopelessness and despair
And brought me priceless memories
Over a decade.

My daily goal right now is to regularly make something ordinary into a magical moment,
A moment that brings giggles,
Smiles,
Even tears,
A moment to remind me that life is magical even here in the living room on Karma Drive.