My Heirloom Truck

The houses sat across from each other, a Texas farm-to-market road dividing their lonely skeletons.  My great-grandmother living with Aunt Ruby.  My great-grandfather gone to his home above.  Both grandparents gone to meet him.  Each house still possessed an expanse of lawn – grass growing despite the loss of tenants to mow.  It became my mother’s job to periodically shave the wild mane of Johnson grass and trim the bushes of my grandparents’ homestead and it was my chore to tag along and help.  It was a sad job because we still mourned their loss and the decay of their Victorian gingerbread house was an added sore spot.

Often, we ventured to the great-grandparents’ simple farmhouse across the way.  We peered in the windows and checked in the smokehouse as well as the outhouse and sheds.  It was not our job to care for this lawn, but it was our responsibility to check for vandalism.  I always went out to the carport because it was here that the old 1946 Chevy truck sat neglected.  I had fallen in love with its gentle curves, large round headlights, and grinning chrome grill.  I coveted this truck.  I wanted it for my own even though I was not yet of driving age.  Mother informed me that it belonged to her cousin.  That was that.

After the passing of my great-grandmother, my father asked Momma’s cousin if he wanted the old truck.  My ears perked.  I couldn’t believe that it could be that easy.  By the end of my father’s bold conversation, he was the owner of my truck!  Well!  I didn’t even know he was interested in it!

Daddy’s love must have run as deep as mine – deeper, really.  He spent his last living days pumping money, energy, and precious time into bringing the old jewel back to shine.  You see, he was dying and I think he knew it before the cancer was even found out.  Friends, old and new, came together to help him get it running.  And he did,  he got it going, bumping along in it’s ancient gears.  He tried to take me for a ride in it, pride oozing from his pores.  I was pregnant with my youngest daughter and all the jostling up and down on the old spring-cushion seat caused my stomach to cramp in pain, forcing us to return home.

Daddy died not long after.  I walked to his open casket one last time and my knees went weak.  Caught by my husband and my daddy’s best friend, I made it to lay my hand on his.  I sobbed like I knew how bad I was going to miss this man, though I didn’t really have a clue.

I watched for years as the old Chevy sat outside, neglected.  All my father’s hard work was going to waste.  It was like watching Daddy die another slow death.  I finally asked Momma if I could buy it from her.  She told me it belonged to me as well as my siblings. It was part of our inheritance.  If I wanted it for my own, I would have to buy my brother and sister’s share from them with their permission.  I made the calls, got permission, sent the checks, and picked up the truck.  It was finally mine!  It took many hours and lots more money to get her purring again.  I got to drive her twice when death hit again…the death of my marriage.

It is sad when a thing you love becomes the symbol of pain.  It sat again, unused.  I gave it to my daughter as a part of my inheritance to her – the same daughter I was pregnant with on that first ride.  She had no way to store and keep it so it sat once again at my mother’s house.  It is hard for me to describe what I felt every time I saw what was happening to the old girl.

Maybe it was not my responsibility any more, but I still felt the guilt.  I discussed it with my daughter.  Really, I told her.  “I’m going to take back the truck, get it running again, and you can have it when I die.”  What could she say?

Armed with Daddy’s manuals, all the tools I possessed, and all the products recommended by the auto parts store, I headed to Momma’s.  Momma hadn’t been feeling well, but she couldn’t help herself.  She came out and helped me. She instructed me how to hook the towing chain to the truck and her tractor.  She pulled and I steered.  Once out in the open, we took out the seat so that we could remove the gas tank that sat beneath it. (Yes, that’s where they put the gas tank!  Right under your bottom!)  I crawled underneath and removed all bolts holding down the brackets.  We cleaned out the tank and hung it upside down to dry out.  The next day, we put it back in the truck, filled it up, put in a new key switch because the original keys had been lost, and began our efforts to get it started.

Momma was in her element – glowing.  She told me how she used to watch her daddy work on the tractors; how she loved to help him.  She said this old truck wasn’t much different from those tractors.  It amazed me all that she could recall.

Finally, with her behind the wheel and me, spraying starter spray straight into the carburetor, the old girl coughed back to life!  I jumped up and down, shouting and clapping like a little girl.  Momma whooped and hollered as she gunned it with more gas.  I looked under the hood and a fountain of gas was shooting up.  “Kill it, Mom!”  I yelled.  “We’re spraying gas!”

Ok.  So we had to call in some professional help.  We still got it running and took if for a quick spin around the pasture and down the dirt road.  What a memory!  The old ’46 is still with the mechanic who is kind of old himself and taking his time.  I’m hoping it will be ready by spring when I can take it for a real drive…when everything will be coming back to life and not dying.

 

Cupid’s Busy Day

Her rosebud lips transform into a mysterious smile.

Eyes the color of the brightest heavens flash like a diamond.

One lash-fringed lid closes in a impish wink.

Angelic face, cheeks flushed fuchsia pink, suddenly loses its innocent mask.

She places nimble fingers in her mouth to moisten before pinching the string of her bow.

Quick as a flash of her wink, the crimson-hot arrow flies.

Tinkling bells of laughter escape her as she watches the arrow finds its mark.

The mortal flesh feels not the pain of infliction.

Only heart, soul, and pure emotion burn.

**********

Valentine’s Day,  that one day we as mortals celebrate a feeling so profound that words don’t seem able to describe.  For as far back as I can remember, it has been my favorite holiday – a day full of romance and the chance to feel special.

I recall as a young girl spending long parts of classroom afternoons crafting a special box.  This box could take on any appearance I chose, covered with construction paper hearts and my name printed plainly on its top.  It held a bit of magic to me.  Inside it, I might find my “true love’s” feelings written on the back of a pre-printed card labeled, “MY SPECIAL VALENTINE”.

For my own part, I carefully selected a box of these valentines.  Once I made it home with them, I spread them out before me on our multi-purpose kitchen table and began my sorting process.  These were suited for my friends.  These were marginal and noncommittal and could be assigned to classmates to whom I had no real connection.  And this one,  well it was unique and was carefully set aside to label for that special someone.  And yes,  I had a special someone (in my mind) every year.  It might be a different special someone every year, but I was young and didn’t see anything wrong with that.

Then, oh that special day!  Finally,  cookies shaped like hearts, candy with sentiments stamped on their sugary surface, red punch or kool-aid, and the colors of Valentine’s Day splashed on every wall of our classroom.  Moms watched from the edges to see the smiles their planning had evoked.  Teacher stood at her post, making sure the festivities moved to the ticking of the clock.

When the time came, I took my brown paper bag and began delivering my little white envelopes.  My face burned with nervousness.  Would he see me place my envelope in his box as I paused by his desk?

I waited until I arrived at home to begin pulling one valentine out at a time, searching for the handwriting that I knew so well.  When I held it in my hand, hope surged in my heart.  Would I be special?

Most of those moments ended in disappointment as I realized I had been given one of those noncommittal cards, the funny ones that made light of my feelings;  and yet, I still looked excitedly towards February 14th with the hope that cupid would strike his heart next year, as well as mine.

 

By His Stripes We Are Healed

photo: Holly Y. Smith

With all of the division in our country today, I thought it might be nice to take a pause and look at our flag like I did yesterday.  I was out for my walk on a beautiful spring-like day – the last day of January.  The sun spread out its blanket of warmth while the winds blew as if practicing for March.  I headed down the sidewalk and looked ahead and above.  This flag was not still for a second.  It twisted and turned as if to say, “Look at me!”  I did.  Then, I pulled out my camera and clicked the shutter several times.

When I got home and started editing my photo, I noticed that the stars had become obscured – barely noticeable.  Well, I thought, they represent the states, our division, and I don’t really want to focus on that, anyway.  The stripes stood out in the forefront where they belonged.

According to USFlag.org, “The colors of the pales (the vertical stripes) are those used in the flag of the United States of America; White signifies purity and innocence, Red, hardiness and valor,…”.  This information reminds me of how our country looked to Jesus when it was still in “knee-pants”…before it became “educated” and in my opinion, too big for its britches!  I don’t go around shouting my political views, but today, I want to shout out my patriotism – my love for a country that allows me to follow my first love, Christ.

Think of the color white.  Think of how it was put in our flag to remind us of purity and innocence.  Jesus was pure.  He was without sin, also and therefore, innocent; yet he bore the stripes on the fabric of his flesh.  Those stripes ran red with blood.

Red.  Hardiness and valor.  Strength.  Think of the strength it would take to restrain yourself and your inborn human instinct to fight for your innocence; to allow yourself to be willingly nailed to a rough board like you were a human sign to all who passed by – a sign that you deserved this.  Webster’s Dictionary (yes, I still use the paper kind!) says valor is: to be strong.  Courageous.  Worthy of Honor.  This also reminds me of my Saviour.

You see, once (I believe) our country, our patriots and forefathers looked to Jesus as a guide and for inspiration.  I also believe that if we would stop, reflect, and remember our history and our heritage, using Jesus and His Holy Word as our inspiration, our country might come together again…each star shining in its field of blue.

The Storm

Three months.  Maybe, a little more.  No pen to paper.  No journaling.  No additional chapters to my current novel.  Nothing.  Empty.

It’s not that my life has been boring.  It’s not even that I didn’t have ideas or material to work with.  The thing is:  I’ve been frozen.  Shut up deep inside myself.  My world spinning around me, faster, faster.  I became so dizzy with all that I kept inside that I became literally unbalanced.  Sitting in the passenger side of my husband’s pickup, I would feel myself falling and would jerk myself upright.  The sensation was so real.  The panic I felt scared me.  Days later, after sitting through a class, I rose to walk but my legs felt numb from the waist down. The gravity of my world was pulling me to it and I had to grab hold of James’ arm to stay upright.  I was tired.  So tired.

I got out my tablet and began my research.  Using clues as search words, I found one article after another that pointed towards vitamin deficiencies.  Monday, I made a call to my physician.  I walked through her door with my list in my hand. “Here.  These are my symptoms.”  Dr. Mulupuri looked at me with concern in her dark, exotic eyes.  She agreed that some of my symptoms pointed toward my diagnosis, but she concluded that together, they didn’t make complete sense.  “Have you been under a lot of stress lately?”  She asked.  “Yes.”  I nodded to affirm my answer.  “Is it something that will go away anytime soon?”  I wanted to simply say, “No”, but instead burst into a flood of tears.

I left with a prescription in my hand and shame in my heart.

All this time, I had felt my world spinning out of control.  I prayed.  I read book, after book, after book, trying to free myself from my own drama by getting lost in someone else’s.  I pushed myself.  Made my body go against its inclination to remain still.  I filled my days, my time.

Poor James.  The only stable thing in my unbalanced home.  He watched me yo-yo.  He must have been scared to call me, and yet he still did.  He must have dreaded getting out of his truck to come inside, but he came.  He let me storm around him with a look of sad desperation in his eyes, and yet there was love as well.

All those feelings are still within me.  The storms are still raging around me… Mom’s cancer and loneliness.  My business failure.  Two dear friends with breast cancer.  A grandson with Autism.  Secrets shared that weigh heavy on my heart.  Illness in James’ family.  World devastation in the form of earthly storms with people I love affected.  The child who lives the closest to me is now moving further away.  My father’s last surviving brother’s unexpected death…And through all this, no tears.  I can’t cry.  The hurricane is just off the shore but the waves are just playfully lapping at my feet.

My energy returned.  I made lists and gloried in marking through each entry.  I even felt a little happy.  I knew that storm was still out there but the sky above me remained lit by an eternal sun.

I spoke to one of my daughters.  I told her, “I feel like everything is just falling apart around me…all these terrible things…and yet, the worst is still out there.  It hasn’t hit yet.  I don’t know what it is.”  “Mom!”  She said.  “That’s terrible!”  I nodded and looked down.  “I know it is.  But that’s how I feel.”

And then,  it hit.  That storm that could bring me to tears…at least just a little.  I sat in a waiting room with my mother and my sister.  It was my mother’s birthday.  My brother came out with his wife.  Both shaky like they had walked away from a wreck.  “It’s throat cancer.”  He said.

My little brother.  The one that I spent so many childhood days playing with, fighting with.  The one who was Tarzan to my Jane.  The one who was Batman to my Batgirl.  The one who took me aside and told me his darkest fears and secrets.  The one who was a storm in and of himself.  Who spent his life bouncing off one rocky cliff to another, never quite able to stay in between the lines on life’s curvy road.

I’ve been down this road.  This cancer nightmare.  I can’t help him, though.  I love him.  I pray for him.  I listen to him.  The choices are his.

Now, I still take that little pill every night even though it doesn’t numb me quite enough.  I wish I was stronger.

A dream comes to me.  One that I dreamed so long ago.  I was in my mother’s back yard.  We all were there, the living and the dead.  A tornado came.  I grabbed hold of a nearby pecan tree.  Just a sapling, really.  I held on to it while the wind blew me like a flag.  If I could just hold on.  If we could all just hold on.

A Word to the Wise: Prioritize

Those first golden moments of the day – you know, right after you wake up and the possibilities are endless.  God has just granted you a fresh start.  Now, what to do with those early morning hours!

It used to seem so simple.  What I remember most about my early childhood mornings was crawling out of bed and making my way to the hub of our home: the kitchen.  Curiosity was what got me going.  I wanted to see what was going on in the world and everyone in my world was in the kitchen.  I can remember lying in bed trying to eavesdrop on conversations already taking place and then, padding bare feet across linoleum floors to get to the heart of it all.

As I grew old enough to attend public school, my morning routines changed.  Instead of being woken by my inner stirrings, I was blasted out of dreamland by my father’s version of Reveille.  The bedroom door would bust open and if you opened your eyes quick enough, you would see his eyes twinkle with mischief as he sang, “It’s time to get up, it’s time to get up, it’s time to get up this mornin’……You better get up, you better get up, you better get up right now…..!”  Then, he would raise his fake bugle to his lips (his hand) and play the melody in his best, most irritating, bugle voice until we waved the white flag and tumbled out from under the covers.

Then, ahhh, my teen years!  I was growing up and I was all modern because my brother, Brady had gotten me a flip alarm clock for Christmas.  In case you don’t know what that is, it’s a clock that has little plastic numbers on a rotating rod.  Each minute would “flip” the number to reveal the next highest number.  It made a nice whirring sound as well as the sequential flipping of plastic plates.  The slumbering soul would hear that final heavy click that signaled the pre-set alarm to sound.  I would slap the button; stare at the ceiling wishing I could finish that dream; and then head down the stairs to find Daddy sitting alone at the table drinking his coffee.

“Why do you get up so early, Daddy?”  I would ask.

“It’s my alone time.  I like to sit here and drink my coffee while everything is quiet.”  He would say.

I wondered what was so great about that?  I would rather be dreaming about that boy at school!  I didn’t say that to him, though.  I just went to the cabinet and poured myself a bowl of cereal before joining him at our round kitchen table. (In case you are wondering where my mother was, by this time in my life, she had learned to stay in bed as long as Daddy would let her.  We were old enough to fend for ourselves.)

We make it to my senior year:  the year I actually started caring how I looked.  It took all these years to persuade my tomboy self that boys don’t appreciate you for being able to throw a football or ride a horse.  Before the sun could even start flushing the sky, my alarm would sound and I went straight to the bathroom to plug in my hot curlers.  Then, I descended the stairs, ate breakfast, went back up, put in the curlers, took a shower, dressed, put on make-up, and finally took out the cooled curlers and fixed my hair.

I married right out of high school. (I guess the hot curlers did their job!)  Ten months later, I had my first child.  A year and a half later, my second.  My third, after about the same span.  My morning routines changed along with my fast-expanding family.  This is when I discovered the magic of coffee.  This is when I began to understand my father’s ritual.  Alone time, I learned, was something precious, something stolen if needed.  The golden hours swung between getting children fed and dressed; wiping chubby cheeks; and brushing out tangled, tousled hair.  My attire didn’t seem to matter.  My own hair could be pulled back in a ponytail or hang in a mangled mess until time permitted a better arrangement.

Looking back, mornings may have been busy, but they were simple.  Now, these hours are riddled with decisions and guilt over whether or not I am making the right decision.  I blame a lot of this on Pinterest.  Ever since this app was introduced to me, I feel like Martha Stuart has invaded my every morning insisting that I am not making the best use of my time!

Want to lose weight?  You should get straight out of bed and do 20 push-ups, 50 jumping jacks, 20 crunches, 20 mountain climbers, and a 30 second plank.  Excuse me!  Is this before or after I have had my first-thing-in-the-morning glass of hot lemon water?  Or, wait, was I supposed to drink that full bottle of water that I’m supposed to leave on my night stand?

Do you want to be a writer?  You should get up while you are still in your “dream state” and get all that good creative juice on some paper!

Want to be more spiritual?  Spend this quiet time reflecting on how grateful you are for all the good things in your life.  Try to sit in a cross-legged position (oh, sure!) with your spine straight, eyes closed, and hands on knees while you keep your mind quiet.  Try not to think.  (This, my people, is near impossible if you are in pain from sitting in this position!)

did read a book once that told how a lady got up straight out of bed and fell to her knees, thanking the Lord for letting her wake up.  The older I get, this seems like the best way to start the day for each day is a blessing.  Maybe, that’s why I feel such guilt.  I’m scared I’ll be like the servant Jesus talked about that wasted his talents, or the virgins that didn’t have oil for their lamps.  I seem to wake up so torn and confused.  By the time I’ve finished my coffee, I’m jumpy from nerves and caffeine.  My list is long, but half my morning may be gone before I’ve got my plan in place.  I think to myself that I should have done this before I went to bed, then I would have already known what to do.  Or, maybe I should have slept in my workout clothes so I would have been ready to workout like that article suggested.  Or….maybe….I’ll just roll over and go back to sleep!

It seems that in order to know the best way to start your day, it is imperative that you prioritize what is most important to you.  If doing it first, instead of putting it off, is what makes you successful in that endeavor, then you need to know what you want; because it is a fact of life that if you procrastinate and say to yourself that you will do it later, chances are that fate will hand you something else to fill your time.

So, sweet dreams or productive mornings, whatever you choose, I hope those golden hours are blessed.

“I come to the garden alone, While the dew is still on the roses,…” IN THE GARDEN by C. Austin Miles

The Art of Being Alone

 

The strings of the bow stroke the strings of the violin until their cry soothes the plucking vibrations of the Spanish guitar.  Smooth.  Sounds of another world – a fantasy life – bouncing off cream-colored walls.

Candles flicker and dance in appreciation to my music and give off romantic scents and dreams of their own.

I participate in this world by adding the beat of heavy jeans in the drum of my dryer; the swish of sheets rotating in my washer.

I am proficient in the art of being alone.

 

On cloudy, rainy days such as today, my defense against the gloom is the flipping on of too many light switches.  I pick a surface to scrub, knowing I am the only one who will notice my effort.  I comfort myself by sinking my hands in hot, soapy water.  I ignore the dust in the corner that keeps the spider company as she expands her web.  Today, I’m tired of fighting with both of them.

I will sink further into myself and put pen to page.

I will extend my world by scanning the lives of others displayed in full color on a bright computer screen.

I will read the works of other writers, amazed at their skill in saying what is in their heart.

I’ll formulate lists, assemble supplies, cook a meal, and wait.

Later, someone will ask what I did today.  I will struggle for an answer.  Busy?  Yes.  Although, does anyone really want to hear about a day like mine?

My heart is constantly dreaming.  I get tired just from thinking of all it plans; wondering how much this middle-aged woman can accomplish in what time she has left.  “Follow your heart…”, they say.  I would, but my heart is filled with wanderlust and can’t seem to make up its mind!

So…another day of alone; another day dancing like no one is watching…because no one is; of singing loud because no one is listening; of talking to myself while dreaming of conversations I hope to have later with someone else and in those dreams, I won’t stutter or cast down my eyes like I do in real life…a result of spending too many years perfecting the art of being alone.

Big Sister

Saturday evening.  I receive a text from my one and only sister, my older sister by four years, Tina.

“I was thinking about you.  There are 2 little sisters that live down the street and they were running around the yard with their panties on their head just laughing their heads off!!”

I text her back that I love her…because I do.  I love that she takes the time to share something like that with me.  She keeps us connected.  Our relationship is safe in her hands.  She knows what a loner I am and reaches out to keep us going like she has done for as long as I can remember.  I can’t imagine what my childhood, my life, would have been like without her.

Tina was the “big sister”.  She was more than that to me.  She was my entertainment chairman, my teacher, my second mom, my guide, my chauffeur, my own personal comedian, my partner in crime, and my best friend.  Her imagination knew no bounds, nor did her energy.  She came up with things for us to do and saw to it that I did them.  There were no questions between us; only telling and obeying.  I don’t ever think it even occurred to me that I had any choice.  I was happy to have someone who knew how to create the perfect childhood activity; to guide me from one blissful day to the next.  I looked up to her and wanted to be everything I believed she was, everything that I was not.

On our swing set.

Memories…

*Tina stands on the see-saw, gliding back and forth, seeming to rock the skies back and forth as well.  I ask for my turn.  She was there first and I will just have to wait until she is through.  I watch her nimble body and just know that she is having the best time ever!!!  Finally, she tires of it and heads into the house.  I jump aboard like there is someone else that could take my turn even though I am now the only one outside.  I attempt the same rocking motion, applying pressure to one foot and then, the other.  Awkwardly, the swinging begins and the hornets that had built their nest in the top of the swing set decide they have just had enough!!!  Barely started in my coveted activity,  I am forced to jump and run while countless stingers are being injected in my tender skin.

*My sister and I share the same bed.  Her legs and arms are long and skinny and demand a good portion of the mattress.  Tina’s energy is not quite played out and so she shows me how to make a good “fart” noise on the fleshy part of my upper arm.  We both practice and laugh hysterically at our expertise in this finer art.  Ha!  The art of fart!!!  We are laughing so hard that tears are coming from our eyes and suddenly I am thirsty.  I stick my head out into the living room where Daddy is watching television before heading to the kitchen.  “What are you two doing in there?”, he laughs.  “Farting…” I giggle.

*We are camping at Lake Texhoma.  It is early evening and Tina decides it is time to teach me how to look for grapevines.  “We are going to smoke them,” she informs me.  How she knows these things, I don’t think to ask.  We find some because she knows what she is looking for and we take a section back to the campsite.  She hands it over to Daddy and he shows us how to break it, light it, and then, laughs while we choke on the smoke.  I don’t quite understand how burning the back of your throat and coughing is supposed to be fun, but what do I know?

*We are playing in the garage, which has become storage for all of the things our family doesn’t know what else to do with.  It is hot because it is summer time.  There is my old drum set in the corner that my brother, Brady has beat the tops out of with old soda bottles that Mama is saving for a rainy day to be cashed in for the deposit money.  Tina has a brain storm.  We are going to have our own haunted house right there in our garage.  She orchestrates our respective jobs.  I watch in awe as she takes one of our old baby dolls with its ratty hair, dirty plastic body, and bitten-off fingers and begins pouring ketchup all over it.  “It’s blood,” she informs me as she ties a rope around baby’s neck and ties it from the garage door hardware.

*Some of Tina’s friends have come to our house to visit.  Of course, I am hanging around because that is my job and I’m waiting for further instruction.  Tina’s eyes light up and I know she has just had the best idea ever!  “Holly, we really need a D.J.   Why don’t you take this walkie-talkie (which happened to be my walkie-talkie) and we will keep this one.  You can play records for us on the record player and we can listen to them out here in the yard.  You will be a good disc jockey!”  Praise.  She picks her weapon well.  I go into our bedroom, joyful.  I will be the best disc jockey!  I professionally announce each tune before I carefully set the needle on the precious vinyl.  I hold a death’s grip on the transmitor button as the table spins and the tunes play.  Eventually, I decide to look out and see how the girls are enjoying my efforts.  They are gone!  I’ve been duped!!!  Duped and dumped!

* Momma’s crabapple trees have produced a bumper crop.  Tina has turned into entrepreneur.  We are instructed to gather, wash, and mash the hard fruit.  Tina then takes one of Momma’s Kool-aid pitchers and mixes the bruised fruit with sugar and water.  She tastes it from the mixing spoon and then, hands her efforts over for me to taste.  “Mmm…good!” I lie.  Out come the crayons and paper.  She makes signs.  She and the neighbor girl, Kim will stand there by the Crabapple Water Stand she has set up.  I will go up and down the street, advertising our new “product” by singing at the top of my voice this song that she has come up with as our advertising promotion.  “Crabapple Water…good for the tummy!!!  Crabapple Water…yummy, yummy, yummy!!!!”  I learn the song quickly because I’m just that good and strut off with my very important sign, singing in my very best voice the tune that my clever sister has devised.  I walk; I sing; I turn; up and down our middle class street.  I return, wore out and thirsty, to find that our business has been shut down due to unhealthy sales.  No one bothers to let me in on our failure.

I could go on and on, for the memories are stacked deep in my mind where I can take them out and treasure them.  I feel sorry for any child who didn’t have an older sister or brother to “boss” them around.  They miss out on so much!

I recently told Tina that I was thinking of doing a story about having her as a big sister and all the creative things she came up for us to do.  She laughed, pleased,  and began telling me the stories I should tell.  Some things never change!

We’ve been through so much together.  We were both baptized on the same evening.  We laid in our joint bed that night, wishing that God would take us as we slept, while we were fresh and clean.  We cooked and cleaned our house together.  We swam.  We dreamed of boys…the men that would carry us off and marry us.  I studied the way she dressed; the way she danced; the way she told a joke.  I wanted to be just like her.  Today, we shop and forage for treasures in antique shops.  We pray for each other’s children.

The day that I received divorce papers in the mail from my first husband, I called Tina.  I heard the tears in her voice as she announced she would be there with me as soon as she could get there.  She came and held me while both our bodies racked with sorrow and grief.  She spent the night, making sure I would not be alone.

A sister is a forever friend.  I’ve read this somewhere and it is true.

I love you, Tina!

 

Me, Momma, and Tina~propbably photographed by my father, Richard Crowell

What Lies Beneath a Smile

Veiled behind the lovely lace of her smile lies torrents of pain that only she is aware of.

 ‘Tho the veil may shift with the winds of change, she holds it in place.

 Her eyes are traitors that betray buried secrets… so she diverts them, casting their gaze to the ground; the only control she has over the windows to her soul. 

You behold her.

Her veil intrigues you like a mystery untold.

Indeed, it is a mystery how she keeps it in place when her world quakes beneath her feet.

It is a skill she has honed.

This smile is the only fortress she has.

Behind the facade, her soul is screaming.

One moment, she is longing for an escape; someone to carry her far, far away, lift the tender lace, look into the wells of her eyes, and embrace her with tenderness.

The next, she will gaze upon the garden she has planted within her fortress walls.

The veil acts like a kaleidoscope, shifting the colors in her mind’s eye until she sees the beauty in her soul and knows that one day, the veil will be lifted, her true smile will be set free, and her spirit will levitate beyond her walls to see all that is good.

 

author’s note:

I dedicate this to all who are carrying a secret pain.  I know that sometimes you smile to ward off questions that you would rather not answer.

It is my prayer that you would see the hope that you carry within yourself…that lovely garden.