Notes From A Broken Heart

Fear, naked fear, ranks as one of the most ( if not the most ),  constant,   struggles I've attempted to overcome.  As a preteen, and before I truly understood their impact, two Scriptures attached themselves like vines in my spirit.  While designed most likely to allay trepidations, I  really didn't know what to do with them.  At any rate, Jesus declared one verse while St. Paul shared the other.  In speaking to crowds of seekers, Jesus advised followers to "Ask and receive." Later, the Apostle Paul prescribed "love" as fear's antigen or cure.  Their advice sat like half-digested snacks eaten too close to midnight for years. I still didn't know how to handle fear. My only other refuge derived from pulling a slew of other scriptural recitations out of my grab bag of "go-to's,"  much like retrieving multiplication tables from the back pages of memory lane.   The fears rarely abated, they didn't leave, even for recess.  No, like Topsy

D "How can I say thank you... Dear Jean, Shirley, and Mona: The urgency to pen this kind of retrospective narrative still startles me.  Thankfully, its infrequency eases my discomfort because, as the lyrics intone, "It's so hard to say goodbye to yesterday."  Metaphorically,  this farewell began decades ago when I first met Cleola Burns Crawford, Cousin-in-Law.   "Cleo," as I came to call her, and my cousin, Alex grew up in Mississippi, where they met at a church service.  Theirs represented quite a love story.  She was a teenager; he'd just enlisted in the Military.  That didn't stop him from expressing his forever love, however.  Alex asked Cleo to wait for him until she was of age and he'd completed his military service so they could marry.  She agreed. Years later, they reunited in Chicago, subsequently wed, and lived happily thereafter.  Thousands if not millions have wondered, "How can I thank you..." after a tragic event occurs.

I thought I'd achieved detente with death.  Generally, I'd learned to greet news of the demise of well or lesser-well-known person with a philosophical shrug of the shoulders, and a back-to-business-as-usual. determination.  Almost half a decade later, I'd even been able to call Courtney's name in casual conversation, albeit not often.   I measured feelings based on years of muteness.   No, I hadn't accepted Courtney's death well enough that I could open boxes friends and family had taped and stored on shelves high up in the garage.   Most likely, I'll never do that. Then, almost overnight, I noticed a change in Kai, my beloved long-haired Dachshund Best Friend Forever.  Peaceful, stable, and easygoing has always marked Kai's demeanor.  Except, he had the loudest, strongest voice of a dog his size I'd ever heard!  He and Alexia, my daughter Tracey's "Maltese Baby Girl," easily and harmoniously lived together for years.  Kai simply allow

  The Warrior King David, who  knew both greatness and sorrow, wrote in Psalm 30:5, "Weeping may endure for a night, but joy comes in the morning." When you read the King's lament, you may be confused at best or angered at worst by my choice of that Scripture  And I wouldn't blame you! I understand both the emotion and range of feelings that may separate them.  Each response carries the "right"  sentiment for the grief you're experiencing.  They might mirror the feelings I suffered when Courtney, my younger of two daughters, died with no warning on a chilly April Sunday morning five years ago. You may feel like I did because the anguish and agony never seem to lessen, much less fade away. You may agonize for years over the multifaceted "whys" that torment relentlessly. Dear Friends, I don't know how to try to console you, much less anything approach answers that aid healing.  I still wrestle with numerous questions and speculate about "

 Oh Lord, Have Mercy! "Oh, Lord have mercy," a venerable hymn hums softly in my spirit and carries an irony that glares out at me.   I wondered, can irony "glare"? Does irony,  representing as it does"my truth," appropriately serve my lament? Maybe "stirs up" more appropriately captures childhood memories of  Mother's early morning prayer and what it portended.  I intuited the day's hurdles or promises in her choice of opening hymn.  Interestingly, the "Blues" dared not escape from Mother's mouth.  Only hymns, gospel, and praise lyrics occupied her playlist.  She knew the historic, "Old One Hundreds," which testified to her faith and God's preeminence. I recognized staples like, "Father Alone, He Knows All About It," "The Old Rugged Cross," and  "Up Above My Head" as they flowed forth effortlessly. Any song on Mother's playlist served as her North Star; they eased unexpected di

Today's blog marks the second round of announcing, "I'm back!"  I'd started "Notes From a Broken Heart," mid-year, five years after Courtney, the younger of my two daughters, died suddenly on a second Sunday in April.  Although she didn't know it then, my dear friend Sherry, assumed life-saving guardianship to my just-about-drowned soul. Her "jacket" turned into lessons in "How to Write Blogs," as this clueless, drowning, Mama (that would be me) was sinking for the third time. Unannounced and unexpected, Sherry rang my doorbell about a month after Courtney died.  Sherry and had known each other for some time before Courrtney's abrupt (for me) departure to Heaven.  In fact, Courtney and Sherry had met when both visited me at the same time.   My mother, a Southerner,  would say they were "nodding" acquaintances. After Courtney died, I'd resigned myself just to make it through each endless day, only then to summon t