real strength

I never considered myself physically strong as a kid. An athlete, I was not. I couldn't hit a softball very far. I wasn't a fast runner. I was a lousy arm wrestler. I also never considered myself to have a strong personality either. I wasn't popular in school with a grand following of friends, and when I tried to boss my siblings around they never listened to me. I know. I know. But it was all very frustrating anyway. I hated feeling vulnerable and powerless. I hated feeling weak.

There was a season of time though, in my 30's and 40's and early 50's when I was physically strong and mentally determined to do whatever necessary to handle whatever task was set before me. I had a husband and younger children that needed taking care of and I did it. During those years I worked part time jobs, taught children's church, took painting classes, volunteered full time at our church's food pantry, went to Vo-Tech and earned a certificate in Data Processing, and then earned my BA in English, with honors. I didn't strut around like Wonder Woman thinking I was invincible and able to leap tall buildings in a single bound, it's just that when I had a project or job to do, the necessary strength and energy to do it were there. They were always available for the job.

One benefit of accomplishing some of these things is that during that time I became more confident in who I was...who I am--enter more 'strength.' But, as the birthdays pile up, I find myself feeling more and more physically vulnerable. I still can't run worth a flip and I'm still a lousy arm wrestler. At nearly 58 yrs old, I doubt that's going to change much. There was a split second that I considered going on to earn my MFA in Creative Writing but I think that window is closed for the time being. I don't have the desire...I don't have the energy to do it right now. I need my go-get-em for other things, other projects, other dreams to reach for before my time here is through.

That's another thing I think about because of my age. I wonder how much time I have before the Lord calls me home. Now, don't get all goosey on me. I'm not being morbid. The fact is, I know a lot of people my age and older who are still thriving and doing well, but I have already read too many obits of classmates, acquaintances, friends and family who were about my age not to notice it. I'm just being practical. I want my years, however few or many, to be about the important stuff. I want to be walking in fellowship with the Lord so close that I don't make foolish missteps that cost precious time with Him. Enter real vulnerability.

Lately, I find that when I let down my guard and allow myself to be genuinely vulnerable with my Father, peace flows like a powerful river in my heart, steady and sure. Trust grows. Prayers become less of me telling Him exactly how I'd like Him to fix something and more of me bring my concerns to Him and asking Him to do what is best--in His own way. My confidence is still there, but it's confidence in my Father and His wisdom, not in my own. My resources are still available but they are in Him. Our bodies are made to grow up, be strong, grow old, then weaken. Our spirits are made to mature and discover our true strength is not in ourselves, but in the Lord, and our vulnerability, our powerlessness, and our weakness all show His strength. For when I am weak, He is strong.

Jesus loves me this I know. For the Bible tells me so.

Little ones to Him belong, they are weak but He is strong.

I love being one of His little ones.

Lord, let me always be weak--be vulnerable--with you. I need your strength, your wisdom and your direction. Thank you for caring about me...about us, your children. You are good. I love you.

Suzanne

the continuum

This is the last of the posts on my dad for a while. Though not nearly perfect, he was our family's champion. He was a loyal man and generous to a fault with acceptance and tolerance of others. I hope you have enjoyed meeting him.

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I've written a few stories about my dad but there are many more interesting things about him. For example, he was a TV repairman when sets had tubes and he was also a meat cutter. The TV repairman job didn't work out as well as he had hoped, so he was mostly a meat cutter. When he'd cut himself at work, which was often, he'd take himself to the Dr's office, get stitches then come home early. Then, when it was healed he removed his own stitches. Ewww. I was grossed out, but I still loved to sit at the kitchen table and watch him clip the threads and pull them out of his hand. His white shirts were always bloody from the meat market but that was just the norm for our house.

He wasn't much of a hunter but once in a while he'd go with Uncle Bill. One time he got a pheasant and brought the foot home to me. He showed me how to pull the tendon at the top, so the foot would close and grasp. I brought it in for show and tell.

I was a hit.

My classmates were amazed. I kept the foot in my desk in a Whitman's Sampler candy box with my other treasures the rest of the school year.

That's another thing. For every birthday, holiday and anniversary, Dad brought Mom a Whitman's Sampler. She loved it. We did too because she always shared with us. Of course, she always got to choose her favorite piece first.

When he left early for work before we got out of bed, he wrote poems to Mom and us with his red meat marking pen on the laundry cards that came out of his shirts. They went something like this:

Good morning to you, my beautiful wife
and my darling daughters three.
I have get out and go to work
so I'm not here, you see.
So have a good day
while the sun shines bright,
it won't be too long
and I'll see you tonite.

He was also given some pigeons which he kept in our large garage out back. He wasn't much of a keeper though--not very tidy--and the whole mess turned into a 2 1/2 car bird house. Yes, it's as bad as you imagine it was. ICK!

For each of several, icy Michigan winters Dad spent one freezing cold night making us an ice skating rink out of most of our backyard. He'd carefully bank the snow for the rink. Then he'd fill it with a layer of water, wait a couple of hours till it froze and fill it again. In layers. He explained if it was frozen in layers, there would be no pockets of water to pit and it would be stronger and smoother this way. Layer after layer, it would take him all night to complete it. We were the only kids in our neighborhood with our own ice skating rink in our back yard.

In the nearly 20 years since my dad died I have recognized some similarities between us. Curiosity, a quick temper and a mischievous gleam in my eye have gotten me into trouble more than once, and when I feel that golden itch to understand or learn something new, or I speak too sharply or I tease my granddaughters until they laugh at me, he's there. And sometimes, when the weather cools and the holidays hover, I walk outside at night and I see my dad sitting on top of the picnic table waiting for me to return home from a date. He's smoking a cigarette, looking at the stars in the clear, black skies, listening for the panther's scream.

my dad and cars

I was fourteen when we moved from the suburbs of Detroit to sixteen acres in rural, central Florida. We went from walking to school and neighborhood stores, to school buses and needing a car for every activity away from home. Instead of a gang of kids in our neighborhood around for play we had two teenage girls as our only nearby peers. There was a huge culture shock for my younger siblings and me but my dad had been raised in the north Georgia mountains and was in his country-style element. There were orange trees and two small lakes on our property and the undeveloped area was populated by possums, raccoons, snakes, hawks and even a Florida panther. My dad spent most of his off work hours exploring fields and back roads in his 1960-something red Chevy Bel-Air.

Mom always said when my dad got his hands on a car that no one else could ever drive it. When anything broke, he fixed it, but his way of fixing it was to rig it. The trunk didn't have a keyhole. It used to be a key hole. Now it was just a hole. He had a pair of vice grips in the floor of the back seat that he used to open it.

Groceries never went into the trunk when Mom used it to go shopping. They were lined across the back seat and in the floorboard because even if she could have maneuvered the vice grips to open the trunk, it was loaded with one of every tool my dad owned. There were also rolls of electrical tape, pieces of wire, tins of grease, quarts of oil and brake fluid in there. Just in case he needed it.

My dad wasn't known for being a particularly focused driver. He liked to 'sightsee.' One afternoon I saw him walking down our long, sandy driveway toward the house. He had to walk home because his car was in a ditch just down the road at the s-curve. He'd been chasing a snake across the road with his car and hadn't noticed where he was headed. His car was soon nose down in a small ravine on the side of the road.

One night after Byron and I returned to my house at my midnight Saturday night curfew, my dad met us at the door.

"B. You in a hurry to go home?"

"No, Mr. Bryant. What do you need?"

"I was driving around in the back by the lakes while a go and got stuck. It's up to the axle. Can you go with me to help me get my car out?"

Looking for any chance in the world to stay later at my house, Byron said he'd be glad to help get it out.

My dad, Byron and I went trekking out into the darkness with a flashlight and a shovel. We started walking down the path toward the lakes in the back and discovered we didn't need the flashlight because the moonlight shone nearly bright as day. I was sixteen and desperately in love so I held tightly to my guy as we traveled into the night. I stumbled, tripped and complained, making Byron also stumble and trip as we made our way off the trail into the high grasses to my dad's car.

When he'd heard enough of my complaining my dad said,

"If you'd let go of the man's arm, you could walk, Suzanne!" Patience wasn't exactly his strong suit when he was focused.

We reached the car and the two of them worked together in the bright moonlit midnight to free the thing from its sandy trap. Our ride home was jubilant and wild. We bounced all over the car as my dad drove us through the field to get us back to the house.

my chameleon

Pets weren't welcome and never fared well in our home when we were kids. We had a few kittens and I vaguely remember a couple of dogs way back when. The kittens developed a fatal affinity for hiding behind or sitting on top of our car's wheels and my mother routinely backed over them. My dad always buried the dead animal quickly and we children never saw them. If we cried when we "lost" another cat, we were sternly admonished by Mama.

"Stop it. It was only an animal."

My mother lashed out to cover the painful feelings that overwhelmed her. She never opened up very much and hid her vulnerability well. So, as a good daughter, I accepted her declarations, hid my sadness, and stifled any affection I might have had for pets. My mother once stayed upset for a long time after being the accidental executioner once again and declared that none of us kids would ever have another pet. And, we didn't--until my chameleon.

My dad bought it for me at the Michigan State Fair. He had taken us kids to the fair to give mom a break. The lizard and a small box of meal worms for food cost $1.25. The 4-inch creature had a thread tied loosely around his neck which, at the other end, was attached to a tiny gold safety pin used to secure him to my clothes. A leash and collar combo. He wasn't furry and cute like a kitten and I wasn't sure I wanted the little reptile attached to my shoulder. I didn't know anything about them. I wondered about biting and peeing. Sure, his ability to change colors to match whatever I was wearing was interesting, but it was my dad's excitement about the little guy's talent that sealed the deal for me.

After my initial hesitation, I proudly wore him around the fair that evening while his hue ranged from the bluish-green of my sweater to the red in the plaid of my blouse. I delighted in the stares and comments of the other fair-goers when they noticed him on my shoulder. I felt special. I felt brave.

Dad hadn't said anything to me but we both knew my mom wouldn't like it. The animal was too slithery and snakelike for her and she was terrified of snakes. When we got home that night, as my dad's co-conspirator, I proudly showed my mom my new present anyway. She had then what she called a "blue-nosed hissy" when I showed her my little green lizard.

She jumped back in fright, glared at me and through clenched teeth said,

"OH GOD! Get that thing out of here!"

The she went after Dad.

"MACK! What's the matter with you?"

I thought she was going to kill him. He tried to calm her down.

"C'mon, Bobbie. Just look at him."

He smiled, cajoled, and tried to sweet talk her into it. With his every ounce of boyish charm he worked hard to win her over. He cupped my lizard in his hand and tried to coax my mom into seeing how harmless it was. His eyes were full of mischief when he said,

"Look at his cute, little, pointy face and his cute, little, pointy tail."

She wouldn't have any part of it. Even with our smiling, sincere assurances that her fears wouldn't be realized and he would not "get loose in her house and scare her to death," she came completely unglued about the thing. She didn't want any creature surprises.

After much pleading, begging and even a few tears from me, she gave up and said she'd let us keep him if we promised her he'd stay in a cage down in the basement. Out of her sight. Which we did until he died 6 weeks later of natural causes. Or neglect.

As parents, Byron and I had various pets for our children in our home over the years; several dogs (including a pitbull), cats of various types such as a pregnant calico and huge male Siamese, and a little parakeet that was passed around from our house to my mother-in-law's to Holly's house because he was a very messy bird. Fun, but messy. Each one has been without emotional ties for me until eleven years ago. That's when one Christmas I deliberately determined to unpack my stifled affection for animals and learned to lavish it on a feisty, chocolate brown Chihuahua named Treasure.

my black patent leather shoes

I wore the black patent leather Mary Jane dress shoes to church every Sunday when I was eleven years old. I loved those shoes. I had gotten them for Easter, but it wasn't too long after I got them that the sole came loose from the top of the shoe and the side of my foot started sticking out of them. I knew we couldn't afford more new shoes right then, so I showed them to my dad on Saturday night before church the next morning.

He looked at my shoe and we went to the basement to fix it. I watched and asked questions at every step. He talked while he worked cleaning off each side of the opening in my broken shoe. He mixed the epoxy with its catalyst, explained catalysts to me, and carefully spread the mixture thinly over the openings. Then he placed a piece of cloth around the shoe before putting it into the vise so the vise wouldn't mar the shoe. The vise would hold the joint securely overnight until the glue could set.

The next morning while I was getting dressed for church he brought me the repaired shoe. It looked as good as new to me. My shoe only stayed together for a few hours while I was at church but I wasn't worried about it anymore. I knew he'd fix it again for me the next week.

He fixed it every Saturday night until I got a new pair.

the storm

Once in a while I dream about my dad and he's always well and happy. When I wake up I feel cheerful. He had the same effect on me when he was alive. He'd tell me a joke or an interesting animal fact he'd read or he'd try to poke me in the ribs because he knew I was ticklish. I depended on my dad to help me with my algebra homework in high school and he was the one who waited up for me when I went on a date on Saturday night. He was a peaceful man and he liked to sit outside after dark and just be quiet. Sometimes I'd sit with him and we'd listen to the night.

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The Storm

I was eight years old and it was a Saturday at the turn of autumn in Michigan. It had been a drippy gloomy day but the weather turned worse in the early afternoon with strong winds, sharp lightening and lots of thunder. Passing my dad in the hallway of our small tract home, I made myself tell him I was afraid. We weren't supposed to give into our fears. Mama said it was silly and I didn't want to be a baby.

Dad stopped, thought for a moment, and ran his hand through his receding black hair. He looked at his own closed bedroom door. He knew then and I found out years later that my mother was lying across their bed with her arms over her head and her face buried into the bedspread, trying not to give into her own stormy fears.

"Come with me, Suzanne. I want to show you something."

He led me to the tiny bedroom I shared with my two younger sisters. He sat down on the edge of the roll-away bed I shared with six year old Karla and I sat on four year old Kathy's twin bed. He raised the wooden sashed window over the book laden table. I leaned on the table with my elbows toward the open screen and felt the cool breeze and rainy mist whoosh across my small, round face.

"Feels good, doesn't it,? he asked.

"Yeah."

Lightning flashed, thunder boomed, and I jumped. He looked at me through his thick black framed glasses.

"Did you see the lightning bolt? Did you notice how crooked it was when it flashed and then how it trailed across the sky?"

"It was real white, too," I said. I was very helpful.

"What about the thunder? Did you hear how full the rumble sounded? It was like it wrapped around the whole world. It sounded like drums," he said.

He pointed toward a large Maple tree in the center of our postage stamp sized front yard.

"Watch as the strong older tree stays straight and lets its branches whip around in the wind. Now, see the flexible young maple by the street bow down as the wind passes through here?"

I didn't say much as we watched. His voice was low but enthusiastic about the scene in front of us as he fed me child-sized bites of the storm.

The rain started coming down harder in great sheets across the small porch and sidewalk in front of the house.

"Suzanne, see the patterns of the rain over there on the street?"

I watched traveling sheets of water move from our yard to the street where they collided with other sheets of rain., Then they bunched up and disappeared down the drains under the curb of the street. When the next lightning flash lit up the sky and the next roll of thunder crashed, my eyes flew to Dad's face. His contented gaze didn't change as the storm raged. Taking my cues from him, I didn't jump at the next flashes and rolls. I now asked, "Daddy, did you hear that?" and said, "Oh, Daddy. Look at that one!"

I don't know how long we sat there as he pointed out the ragged, earthy beauty of the day's storm and I don't know where my little sisters were. I can't say how long my mother hid out on their bed, but I do remember my utter lack of fear when he closed the window.

my dad

I've been thinking about my dad a lot because today, August 7, is my dad's birthday. Had he lived he would have been 84 yrs old, but he died in 1990. John Mack Bryant, Jr., was not a perfect man. He was not a perfect dad--but he is the father that the Lord gave me. I have his genes in my body and despite his imperfections and because of his qualities, I am grateful to the Lord for him.

My dad was a good provider for his family. Not always well, he went to work anyway to supply food, shelter and clothing for us. He was humorous and good hearted. He looked for the deeper things in our everyday experiences. He loved nature and living things and he had reverence for our ancestors. He respected the rights and feelings of others.

He loved us and he loved my mama. Oh, how he loved my mama! It makes me smile just to think of them together. My mother was frazzled--a lot. A mostly stay at home mother with 4 children under 10 years old, I'd be frazzled too. She was often cranky but Daddy didn't pay it much mind. He'd love on her, tease her, hug her or even give her a good natured goose once in a while. I can still her her cry out, "Mack! Stop that!" We'd all laugh, even Mama.

As I thought about him today I couldn't help but wish I'd taken more time with him. He had so much to tell me about himself, our family, about life, but I was young and way too busy with my family and my little girls. I thought little about those other things. I thought I would have lots of time with him. It didn't work out the way I'd expected.

I do have some wonderful memories with him though. I wrote them down a few years ago and will post them one at a time for the next few days from my other memoir blog, Suzwrites.blogspot.com. The posts will start out of sequence because it's Byron's and my 40th wedding anniversary tomorrow so I am going to post the one about our wedding day first. The others will be in order.

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Our Wedding

It was a hot, Florida Saturday night in August 1970. Byron was twenty-one years old and I was almost eighteen. The small town Church of God was comfortably full with nearly a hundred people the night we married--more than we usually had in our regular Sunday morning service.

White wicker flower baskets overflowing with daisies were placed near the two cascading candelabras at the front of the church. The glow of candles and dimmed lights softened the harsh angles of the rectangular sanctuary.

My sparkling white wedding dress with long sleeves, chiffon and lace inserts at the neckline and intricate beading , sequins and lace flowers interspersed over the length of the dress--all for $99.00 plus tax, at JC Penny--was the most beautiful dress I'd ever put on in my life.

As an adult, I now understand that despite our family's lack of saying "I love you," or telling one another our deepest feelings, that for my dad, when he calmed my fears, explained catalysts, fixed my shoes, or bought me lots of beautiful, but affordable daisies for my wedding he was showing me concrete expressions of his love.

The minister stood at the front of the church with the groomsmen all in place as my attendants promenaded down the center aisle. After my girlfriends and my sisters found their places, the organist's majestic-sounding music signaled everyone to stand and watch me walk down the aisle with my dad.

My parents had been surprisingly easy about our decision to marry at such a young age. When I told my mother what we were planning, there were no shocked reactions or arguments and only one requirement; I had to graduate from high school. The night Byron asked my dad for permission to marry they talked a long time about jobs and money and places to live. Both my parents had confidence in Byron to be a good husband to me.

Marrying at only seventeen should have scared me, but it didn't. Maybe I wasn't scared because I was seventeen and thought I knew everything anyway. I know now that marrying so young is the boldest and at the same time the most naive thing I've ever done.

I was sure I wanted to be with Byron and maybe it was because I saw some similarities between him and my dad. Opposites in most ways, they both displayed fierce loyalty to family and held great respect for the feelings of others. Despite my desire to marry him that night, queasiness overtook my stomach and my dry lips stuck together. My knees wobbled at the thought of being the center of this huge amount of attention.

The double doors opened.

It was show time.

Panic-stricken I looked into my dad's eyes, slipped my arm into his and we took a step together into the church. I said,

"I'm scared."

He smiled his crooked smile, comically raised his bushy eyebrows over the black glasses frames and said,

"Let's go, Suzanne."

We went.

As we took another step or two he bent his head down near mine and whispered into my ear,

"Look around to the left side of the church and then to the right. See all the people you know?"

I smiled and nodded to him.

"They're here because they want to see you and Byron tie the knot."

Until that moment I'd only seen faceless bodies--a nameless crowd--and it had unnerved me, but when I saw my Sunday School teacher, Mrs Bowman, my best friends from school, Rose and Alice and my sisters Kathy and Karla as my bridesmaids and all my family smiling at me, trying to catch my eye as we walked, I knew I had nothing to be afraid of. These people were my friends and family. They liked me. I returned my smiles and beamed at my dad. He only knew our immediate family there that night yet he basked in the moment proud to escort his eldest daughter to be married. We both enjoyed our stroll down the aisle.

Dad whispered to me as we walked,

"Look at Byron down there. He looks scared."

I saw Byron at the altar as he watched my dad and me walk toward him. I leaned in and whispered ,

"He's not smiling, is he?"

Byron wasn't smiling but time has proven that what we'd called fear wasn't fear at all, but solemn commitment. Dad and I shared another smile and walked a few more slow steps.

We reached the rest of the wedding party and my dad fulfilled his role of,

"Who give this woman to be married?"

He took his seat next to my mother in the pew. The ceremony proceeded, we promised to love and honor, I promised to obey, and Byron and I were pronounced man and wife. Forty years ago today.

We attended the same church for many years afterward so I know the building is small and I'm certain the aisle is short--perhaps only forty-five feet to the front--but that night, walking and talking with my dad, it was exactly as long as I needed it to be.

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Tomorrow: The Storm

reunions

There have been lots of talk and email communication about reunions lately. It's the year of my fortieth, read the big 4-0 year high school reunion. Good grief! I can't even type it without holding my breath a little. I absolutely cannot fathom that I've been out of anything for forty years. (We won't even mention Byron's and my 40th wedding anniversary this Sunday. It's a wonderful thing but there's NO WAY I'm old enough to be married 40 years! I must've been promised at birth. But that's a whole other post :)

All this reunion stuff has allowed me to reconnect with people I knew way back when. Some I knew well and some not so much, but I'm finding out that many that I didn't know are very nice people. Facebook has allowed sharing of current and past photos and quick comments and notes that we might not have had the opportunity to share with one another. I'm liking this reconnecting thing. It makes the world seem just a little cozier and the past not so very far away.

I like reunions of all sorts. There are the formal, planned-for get togethers with family and friends and there are also those little ones that sneak up on us at Publix or the mall when we run into someone we knew from a very long time ago. There are also those that happen at the funeral home when someone dies. Each type is sweet, or bittersweet, in its own way. We get together. We reminisce. We cry. We laugh. We reconnect with the past and one another.

All this recollecting and thinking about what 'was' makes me think about the best reunion of all--the one after this life is over. There are times now when for a split second I think I'll phone my mother--but before the thought is complete, I realize it's impossible. I want to sit down with my mom and talk with her again. I can't believe she's gone and I miss her terribly. Then, there's my dad and Uncle Bill whom I also miss so much. I'd love to visit with the grandmother I never met or introduce myself to Hannah who, in the Old Testament, gave her little boy Samuel to the priests to be raised for the Lord.

What about the best one ever...Jesus! To sit at His feet without a tear in my eye, a pain in my body or a care on my heart will truly make it Heaven. What a time that will be! I don't know how I'll behave. Will I sit still and bask in His presence? Will He put me at ease and let me ask Him questions? I have no idea except that it will be amazing!

I can hardly wait! To be free from this sad, sin sick world, loosed from this frail, human flesh and in the presence of the Lord forever is the best thing I can think of! I get excited about Heaven when I realize that even though I can imagine Heaven, I have no idea of the depth of the the Lord's creativity there. What we do know for sure is that the Lord is preparing us a place with Him.

John 14:1- 3 Do not let your hearts be troubled. Trust in God, trust also in me. In my Father's house are many rooms; if it were not so, I would have told you. I am going to prepare a place for you. And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come back and take you to be with me that you also may be where I am."

Where Jesus is, so will Heaven be! I can't imagine it good enough! Now, that's something to think about!

"What a day that will be,

when my Jesus I shall see.

When I look upon His face

The one who saved me by His Grace,

When He takes me by the hand

And leads me to the promised land.

What a day, glorious day,

That will be."

Father, thank you for who you are--our kind, loving Father who takes good care of His children. I love you.

Suz