I’ll Have a Blue Christmas

I don’t want to brag, but I used to be quite the impersonator. My flawless portrayals of Elvis Presley and Steve Urkel were highly requested by family members. At the drop of a hat, I would snarl my lip, shake my hips, or hike up my pants to the amusement of all those around. Let me point out I was probably 5 or 6, so I’ll admit some of it might have just been pity laughter at my adorable attempts, but I reveled in it. I learned at a young age that making people laugh was the best thing in the world. That revelation has led to years of ridiculous Halloween costumes,  silly performances, and a constant search for a good joke to lighten any room.

I mean look at that ornery face in the middle!

Ironically, the one person I would not do my impressions for was possibly the one person who enjoyed them the most, my aunt. For some reason, I was afraid of my aunt when I was little. When she came into a room I would hide under tables. If she was around I changed from the non-stop talker to a shy mute cowering behind my mom’s legs. I don’t know why I reacted that way toward her because even then I idolized her and thought she was one of the most elegant ladies I had ever seen. I have been told when I was a baby my aunt thought it was hilarious to pretend to cry causing me to cry, so maybe my fear stemmed from those experiences. That said, she used to beg me to do my impressions. Everyone else would encourage me to do it for her. Yet no amount of bribing would get me to open my mouth and cut loose in front of her.

I wonder if I was afraid she would make me cry again. I obviously don’t have any memories of her making me cry, but I think somewhere in my subconscious I associated her with sadness or fear or intimidation. Thankfully I grew out of my aversion to her, however, I was always just a little shy or reverent when it came to talking to her.

As I have written before, I hate awkward/sad/uncomfortable moments and am usually the person cracking jokes in an attempt to break the ice or lighten the mood. The more serious the situation, the more desperate I become at finding something to laugh at and make others laugh too. Laughter is one of my ways of masking my true feelings. It’s hard to shed tears and show your true hurts when you are telling jokes. I have been laughing a lot the past few months.

The problem is, for me, laughter and my other diversion tactics (see: My Confession) allow me to hide from the reality of things that are happening. Lately, I have been in major avoidance mode. I change the channel on the radio because a song holds too many memories. I avoid emotional TV shows because I don’t want to allow my own emotions the chance to come out. I turn away from God because accepting His love and comfort means working through the pain and hurt I don’t want to deal with. Like I used to do with my aunt, I have been hiding from the things that might make me cry. One of those things is writing this blog.

I didn’t do well in keeping up with posting for most of the last year. There were about 3 months of regular posts, but then I let life get in the way. As the 1 year anniversary of starting this blogged grew closer, I planned on doing something like a review of the past year. I wanted to brag about all the great things I had done and how much I had grown in my relationship with God. As that date grew closer though, the reality of the last few months began to set in.

Not only did the 1st anniversary of this blog coincide with the 17th anniversary of  my dad’s death, something I did intentionally last year (see: Busted Mustard Seed), it was also Thanksgiving day. The first Thanksgiving day without my aunt and uncle. The first Thanksgiving day in many years my family didn’t gather at their house to celebrate the holiday. A few days before we had a family gathering, but it just wasn’t the same. I saw their headstone that week. Everything I had been able to pretend was a bad dream became a harsh truth I couldn’t ignore anymore.

Some of the stuff I thought I had dealt with came rushing back. Some of the peace I had about things seemed to slip away. Old wounds from years past began to reopen. Instead of dealing with all that though, I just ignored it some more and retreated into my usual hiding places. I get distant from those I should be holding close. When I do have to face the world, I slip into my carefully controlled mask that perfectly hides my emotions. I turn into the happy-go-lucky cut up everyone expects me to be. At this point, it is an automatic response I have no control over.

So, what is the point? Why am I once again talking about sad and depressing things? My goal for this blog has always been to honestly share my experiences and how they affect my spiritual growth. I also believe that in being transparent with the things I am going through, I might be able to help someone else. So with that in mind, and true to my early Elvis roots, I am having a blue Christmas this year. I wrote a post last year about how going home for Christmas to me means living in memories of Christmases past (see: Home for Christmas) and this year that statement is even more true. Once again, our holiday traditions are changing. I am sad. There are two more people who are deeply missed this time of year. I will be so blue just thinking about them.

Now that I have been a total downer, let me also say I have continued to see God moving in these tough times. This past year I joined a church, began hosting a small group in my house, and joined a bible study group. All of those steps have helped me to grow spiritually in so many ways. Had it not been for the work I have done on my faith and relationship with God this year, I don’t know how I would have overcome the last few months. God has constantly provided me with sermons, scriptures, songs, signs, and so much more as reminders of the hope that can be found in Him. Even when I am trying to hide from it all, He finds a way to show me He is with me through everything and simply waiting on me to just be held by Him.

Moving forward, I am hoping to do better about writing blog posts. They are painful at times, but they are a great way for me to get out some of the stuff I have been holding inside for far too long. I’ve got some serious work to do in dealing with my hurts and continuing to grow in my faith. This blog is going to be a part of that process. I will continue to ask God to give me the words to write and before I hit submit I pray God allows it to reach whoever might need it. I’m thankful for those who have been reading my posts and I hope you will continue on this journey with me. Merry Christmas.

We’ll Talk to You Later

Mornings used to be my favorite time of day when my family visited my grandparents’ house. Early mornings while most people were still sleeping. I would wake up to the smell of coffee and hear muffled voices in another room. Instead of rushing out of bed to join them, I would quietly crawl toward the kitchen shielded behind the breakfast bar. I would sit there and listen to the two men quietly make small talk as one of them busied himself preparing to make breakfast once everyone was awake. I don’t know what lead me to spy on Dad and Grandpa Cole on those mornings, but something told me to take it all in and relish the special quiet times.

From an early age, I seemed worshipped the ground my Grandpa Cole walked on. Visits to my grandparents’ house usually involved me following him around like a puppy wanting to “help” him with his daily tasks. I remember waking up early enough to watch him do his daily calisthenics, a routine left over from his days in the Navy. I loved any opportunity to accompany him to his woodworking shop to see all the projects he had going. To this day, I can’t see or smell sawdust without being transported back to that shop.

“Helping” move some wood.

“Helping” move some wood.

After my dad passed away, Grandpa seemed to step in and try to fill the gaping hole that was left behind. Though he had always been a big part our lives, he became an even larger presence in my dad’s absence. At least that is how it felt to me. After Mom, Grandpa was the first person I would show report cards, tell about accomplishments, and go to with problems. He attended every band concert, awards banquet, and special event he was invited to. I had lunch with him the day I got my driver’s license and he happily escorted me when I was in high school homecoming. He was always there.

My favorite thing to do with my grandpa was go fishing. I would venture to say that was a hit with all the grandchildren and probably the entire family. Grandpa took a lot of pride in the pond he dug and stocked with his own two hands. I think he took just as much pride in the time spent around it with his family. I can’t count the number of summer days that were spent around that fishing hole. Looking back, I don’t remember much about actually catching fish, but I can see the countless life lessons we were taught: patience to sit and wait for a bite, responsibility in taking care of all the equipment so it could be used over and over again, communicating with others so lines weren’t crossed and tangled, respect for the land and animals…even the snapping turtles. Most importantly though, we were learning how to simply spend time with loved ones.

Every year on my birthday I knew who would be the first to call me. It was usually very early in the morning, but even if I didn’t answer he would leave the same message as if he were talking to me. His froggy singing voice would croak out a verse of Happy Birthday followed by something along the lines of, “we love you girl and wanted to wish you a happy birthday. We’ll talk to you later.”

The walls of my grandparents’ den were covered in photographs. Every school picture of each grandchild and great-grandchild were proudly on display. I don’t think I have ever seen anyone take as much pride in their family as my grandpa did. His devotion to my grandma throughout her battle with alzheimer’s was the most remarkable testament to his strength. The fact that they passed away within six weeks of each other left us with a beautiful story of true love. The legacy he left behind is a daunting one to try to fill, but one in which I take immense pride.

Grandpa’s face in the background says it all

Perfect capture of love

Homecoming

Watermelon time!

Playing with Shawn

Sadly, we seem to never know how much we appreciate something until it’s gone. My first birthday after Grandpa passed away I remember sitting in my car around 9 a.m. trying to figure out what was missing. Something didn’t feel right, like I had forgotten to do something. It hit me hard and fast that I hadn’t gotten my birthday wake up call from Grandpa. I never realize how those short calls used to make my special day seem all the more special.

With another birthday quickly approaching, I miss my grandpa. I think about the phone call I won’t be getting. I think about wanting to learn one more life lesson down at the pond. Thankfully, another aspect of Grandpa’s life left me with the wonderful solace of knowing that one day I will see him again. That man loved Jesus. I have absolutely no doubt about that. His dedication to church, prayer, and reading the bible were always present in his everyday life.

I would give anything to spend another morning having breakfast with my Grandpa Cole. His eggs were always cooked just right, the bacon fried to a perfect crisp, and his biscuits reliably burnt on the bottom. Watching that man cook breakfast was like watching a painter create a masterpiece, made even better because it was all done out of the purest of love.

Maybe, if I were allowed a peek into heaven, I would once again see my dad and grandpa sipping coffee around the breakfast bar waiting on everyone else to get there. Waiting to be reunited with the loved ones they had to leave a little earlier than they would have liked. If heaven is as simple as seeing Grandpa’s smiling face asking me how I would like my eggs, I can’t wait to go. Until then, I will continue to use the lessons that great man taught me and strive to live a life of which he would be proud.

Grandpa never ended a conversation with goodbye. He always simply said, “talk to you later.” I’m thankful by following in his footsteps and seeking to live my life for Christ, I will have the chance to do just that, talk to him later.