Notes From A Broken Heart

With certainty, I assert that I am a woman "of sorrow, well acquainted with grief." Many of you've read my skittish pronouncements about the angst and agony of mourning and loss.  Simply, grief's panache may well have rivaled an amusement park's scariest ride.  Or a House of Horrors named G rief Refined, that distorted physical, emotional, and spirit-wrenching pain.  I remember Ms. D, our beloved teacher, introducing eager "cub reporters" to journalism 101.   To a person, prescient Pulitzer Prize winners-to-be, we cut our teeth on the "5Ws and H" of news reporting.      We feasted on "Who, What, When, Where, and How delicacies essential to producing first-rate, cut-above-the-rest, "lead"(first) paragraphs.  A strong news article. even in a monthly, high school newspaper, demanded adherence to rules.  We learned always  to follow the rubric, even when the "H" might stymie us.  Subsequently, I presented this technique to

For weeks, even months after Courtney, my younger daughter, died, I'd awaken in a darkened room and just lie there. No thoughts, words, or other stimuli pierced the blackness, just the thud of my heart's beat as I listened to my breathing.  Alive? I guess. So? On a rare morning, when I'd muster the energy from somewhere (the strength of ancestors?)  finally, to sit up and swing my legs to the floor, exhaustion enveloped me.  Just like that.  I'd sit there, shoulders hunched as if awaiting the next punch or the deluge of drenching tears.  I'd sit. An old wall poster, framed in the office of a university president I knew, just flashed across the mirror of my mind.  A three-legged stool stood in its center of a wall.  At the very top, words declared "Sometimes I sits and thinks," at the foot, they affirmed "And sometimes I just sits."  That declaration moored my days.  Sometimes, most of the time, I just sat an hour or so.  Oftentimes, I'd alte

It amazes me how with no warning, songs from childhood revisit and insinuate themselves with pulsating awareness into my consciousness.  What am I to do with them? Most are from my Grandmother's generation.  I never know how they arrive or from which deep pocket of the mind they emerge.  Truthfully, I can't remember when I heard most of them.   In my parents' church, of course! From LPs (what are those, you ask): from Memphis (TN)-based late-night radio stations, and rocking church choirs! I acquired a storehouse of songs---and not just Christian genre---but R&B (Rhythm and Blues), the Mississippi and Chicago Blues, Rock n Roll, Jazz, Soul, and even Broadway musicals (Oklahoma!, Hello Dolly, West  Side Story). This night, I'm getting ready for bed and "Remember me, when tears are falling down..." Where did that come from? Why, while I'm brushing my teeth, would my mind implore, "And, oh down at the river of Jordan,m when calling the roll, O Lord,

"I must tell Jesus all of my trials, I cannot bear these burdens alone.  In my distress He kindly will help me; He ever loves and cares for His own."  I must tell Jesus: I must tell Jesus! I cannot bear my burdens alone; I must tell Jesus! I must tell Jesus! Jesus can help me, Jesus, alone. Believe it or not but I find comfort in lyrics that greet me in a songbook.   While I decried my tone-deafness from second grade on,  music majors always pooh-poohed my "I can't carry a tune in a bucket," explanation.  Nevertheless, just reading the song lyrics comforted me.  Solace greets me in songs, gleaned from forced attendance at Sunday worship and Wednesday night prayer meetings.  I had  no idea how deeply songs had permeated my spirit, evidently to comfort an eight-year old's innocence and isolation.  To this day, I can recall the songs I learned decades ago.  The subliminal; peace and problem-solving living in hymns, anthems, and gospel lay dormant for years, esp

God. Does. Not. Punish. Never, ever! "God is Good!" first announced Sunday by a kind primary Sunday School teacher, became an early imprint. I learned that He is love.  We'd recite, "God is love!" as our teacher nodded approval.  A tough concept to accept unless  you're a five-year-old who believes everything the teacher pronounces.  Years later, probably during 11 A.M., worship services, the picture of God changed: He became a "Fire and Brimstone" mean man, breathing out fiery flames and stinking, sulfurous bonfires of punishment and vengeance for slight and heavy offenses alike. This profile of God would as easily send me to the burning pit for fighting or fibbing.   Now, I realize that, subtly, I internalized Him as a cruel and firebreathing Gandolfo, exacting revenge, indiscriminately. I didn't know it as a preteen,  but the God introduced to me in Sunday worship had become the Great Arbiter I must take care not to cross. No wonder I came t

" I know the Lord will make a way somehow when beneath the cross I bow. He will take away each sorrow, let Him have your burdens now;  When the loads bear down so heavy the weight is shown upon my brow; There's a sweet relief in knowing the Lord will make a way sonehow." I'm loading the dishwasher and a song my mom and (grand)mama sang half a century ago rose up from somewhere deep within and inserted itself in my head.  As I kept loading the dishwasher, it stayed in my head (meaning I didn't open my mouth to sing), because for years I've known how tone-deaf I am.  Instead, I busied myself wiping counters and rinsing the sink, thoroughly and efficiently Finished, I took a break, thinking I had left the lyrics in the kitchen. But no, like a 30-year mortgage, the song reasserted itself, which gave me pause.  Where had that childhood church song come from? Why did it say "a" way" and not "the way?"   Could it be that "the" is a

"Ask the Savior to help you, Comfort, strengthen, and keep you.  He is willing to aid you.  He will carry you through." I asked God for patience.  He gave me Kai.  What! Who? A long-haired Dachshund, about six dog years old, splotchy black with gray undertones, obese according to the Vet, aptly describes Kai.  I accept responsibility for his obesity; he was so  cute and certainly a novel looking family addition.  I went on an unchecked shopping spree that resulted a cornucopia of goodies: chicken, beef, and lamb entrees; treats whose sources I couldn't verify; and all kinds of seasonal male- clothing.  Kai loved the meals and desserts; he wouldn't tolerate the outfits, though.  He divested himself of sweares and onesies faster than a cat could wink his eye! Well-trained. Kai came with papers and seamlessly merged into the family.  When he first moved in, most of his days began in the yard.  Later, he would run up the stairs and frolic in my office until nap-time.  We

"Oh give thanks to the Lord, for he is good; for his mercy endures forever!" (Psalm 118:1) I cannot forget even now, a voice from my earliest memories urging, "Say Thank You, Baby.  Say Thank You."  Expressed gratitude could be gauged by the inflection in the voice and loving face that instructed.  Even, of course, when the words carried minimal meaning to a kid.  Soon, however, I made connections between a gift and the proper response.  Thank You, with an upper case "Y" identified God from a relative, close friend, or well-wisher.  Recited with proper reverence and respect. "Give thanks in all circumstances, for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus for you"  (1 Thessalonians 5:18). Proper "manners" ranked high in expected behaviors during childhood, until expectations insinuated themselves in the warp and woof of life.  Sunday School classes reinforced gratitude, along with bedtimes stories vividly recounted by my

Asking 2 "The Lord will make a way somehow When beneath the cross I bow, He will take away each sorrow, Let Him have your burdens now;  When the load bears down so heavy, The weight is shown on my brow, There's a sweet relief in knowing, O The Lord will make a way somehow." Like an ice compress on a fevered brow or a cool breeze wafting through an open window, songs bring solace.  Songs assure respite.  They record history and repeat excerpts from a scribe's journal.  Yet, since childhood, worry has been my closest, most dependable friend.  More than songs.   My BFF.  Ruefully I'll admit, if I didn't have anything to worry about, I'd worry about its absence.  Despite my Mother's lived-in advice: "If you worry, don't pray.  If you pray, don't worry," I seemed unable to quiet those fits of anxiety.   If "Acute Distress" had held a seat on the Stock Market, I would've been comfortably ensconced in it.   Yes, I'd read vo

"Ask the Savior to help you, comfort strengthen, and keep you; He is willing to aid you, He will carry you through." In retrospect, I learned two things about my burgeoning relationship with Father God: To actually open my mouth and ask Him for whatever I wanted.  On my 70 mile roundtrip commute to work, I'd mused, "I ought to ask God for this-or-that."  My wish list, though long, never morphed from thought to action.  "I ought to ask God for...", but somehow I never made my "requests known to God," so that "the peace that passes understanding" never materialized. I don't know when the bulb of enlightenment flickered and then stayed on, however dimly.  No. I can't remember the day or hour when I actually asked "God, please fix this Internal Revenue Service (IRS) mess I've gotten myself into."  I didn't shout it out, nor did I whisper.  Yet, He heard! He answered! The problem? Doubting Thomas(ina) th

When (the late) Bill Withers crooned, "Grandma's hands clapped in church on Sunday morning, Grandmas's hands played the tambourine so well Grandma's hands used to issue out a warning, She'd say Billy don't you run so fast Might fall on a piece of glass,"  Grandma's hands." he could've been describing Velma Beatrice (nee Lambus) Taylor.  Except everyone---blood relatives, neighborhood kids, adults, merchants, even medical professionals---all knew her simply as "Granny."  A self-made Southern woman from the Mississippi Delta, Velma couldn't finish high school.  For us, though, she came closest to fitting our definition of a Renaissance Woman that the Near North Side of Chicago could produce. We believed she could do anything .  We wondered where she got it from.  Yes, her  mother, "Mama," personified strength in the face of untoward obstacles. And for certain, the "acorn doesn't fall from the oak tree." Yet,