He wanted me to help him pick out a dress. It wasn't for his wife or girlfriend or daughter. It was for him. "Are you okay with that?" he asked quietly. "I'm okay to help you," I replied. "That's what I'm here for."
So, we chatted. Waist size. What's the occasion? Do you have a favorite color? We smiled. I made a few jokes. I talked about what I hate about shopping for a dress. He talked about what he hated when shopping for a dress. Finally, he took two selections into the fitting room. I took countless questions into the prayer room of my mind.
What happens in a man's life that he finds himself shopping for a dress?
God, what do you want me to do? to say?
How can I help?
Please, God. Use me.
Help me show Him that you love him by showing him love.
How do I do that?
Oh, dear Jesus. Jesus, Jesus, Jesus, Jesus.
Help me.
He came out of the fitting room.
"Do you have a winner?" I asked.
"No. They don't work."
"Is there something else I can help you look for? We have shorts in your size?" I offered.
"What about a shirt?" he asked.
So we chatted while we browsed the rack of men's shirts. Nothing we had in his size suited his taste. We talked about tastes. What are you looking for in a t-shirt? Comfort, I said. Bold colors, he said. A good fit, I said. He agreed.
"Well, nothing for me today. Thanks for helping me," he said.
"What's your name?"
"B****."
"It was nice to meet you. I'm Liz. If you're on Facebook--"
"Naw, I don't do Facebook. People don't need to know that I woke up each day, you know. Nobody would care if I died, so why bother."
My heart broke.
"That's not true. I'd care if you died."
Tears formed in his eyes. "No you wouldn't."
I looked right back at him, feeling my own tears. "Yes, I would."
He looked down.
"Your parents, they're glad you woke up today."
"No, they're dead."
"I'm sorry to hear that. Do you have any siblings?"
"Yes and no. They don't have anything to do with me. They took my mom from me, wouldn't let me around her when she got sick, wouldn't let me come to the funeral, they don't want me in their lives. I don't have anybody who cares."
"I care about you, B. Will you come back to the store some time?"
"No. I'm just in the area today. I live two hours from here."
"Well, I'm glad you came here today. I hope I get to see you again. I will be very sad if something happened to you. Someone does care. It's me."
He was crying. "Thanks."
He left. I wanted to say, "I love you," but I thought that might creep him out. But I know he felt it. I know he saw it. In my eyes, in my smile, in my authenticity. And that was all. That was all I was called upon to do. I don't know if he realized it, but I feel that God took B two hours away from home so he could meet someone today who cared that he was alive.
I prayed for B. Last night and this morning. And I will continue to call out his name before God.
I hope I see him again. I know that the next time, I will tell him I love him, even if he feels creeped out at first. He'll get over it. And the next time he feels abandoned, unloved, lost, and confused, he can remember that there is a little woman in the world named Liz who didn't preach him a sermon about his dress, who didn't call him out of his name, and who didn't give him physical signs and facial expressions of disgust and repulsion. She just cared. Cared that he was hurting. Cared that he missed his parents. That he never got to say good-bye to his mom. That his siblings don't acknowledge him. She cared that she had met another human being who was hurting, and she showed him some love.
Go, and do thou likewise.
*Pray for B with me.
Friday, June 22, 2012
Sunday, June 10, 2012
I Guess I'm Growing Up
My husband and I had an argument in the drive-thru at Chick-fil-A. Now, I know what you're thinking. What is there to argue about when there's Chick-fil-A chicken? Not to mention the banana pudding milkshakes? I know! I agree. However, it happened.
I'm not going to tell you what we were arguing about, because it was stupid. The way we handled it, however, and the argument whiplash are what I am going to share.
So, if you have been married any period of time, you know that it is work! Really. Forget Ward and June Cleaver. Marriages in 2012 have so many dynamics and factors that you often feel like you are trapped in a vortex. It can be challenging. Early on, my husband and I could dig our heels in about disagreements and not speak for days. There would be tears, raised voices, "whatevers" thrown around like grenades, ultimatums tossed down like the duel-challenging white glove, and other asinine things that young 20-something year olds who are newly married do when they are "fighting." It was brutal...and emotionally exhausting. That's how the stupid arguments played out in the first 5 years.
So, when the Chick-fil-A spat played out, I was pleasantly surprised that the whiplash was so short-lived. We drove home in silence, but once we got to the apartment, I put the 5 year old in her room and I approached my husband about what went down in the drive-thru. I made "I" statements and spoke about how it made me feel. He explained himself and his statements, apologized for how I felt, but still held his ground about his opinion. Fine. I let that go. I stated, "We just agree to disagree on how the situation was handled. Thank you for apologizing for how your words upset me." That was it. Done. We sat down and watched a movie, and the day unfolded beautifully from there.
It wasn't until the next morning that I began to reflect on that moment. I don't know when it happened, but it did. We had grown up. All the minutae we used to spend so much time and energy fussing over finally just dimmed. We now see the big picture. We see each other with an assumption of good faith, not with a scrutinizing side eye. Next month, my husband and I will celebrate our 13th wedding anniversary. For superstitious people, that might make them feel nervous. We aren't superstitious at all. I'm excited about my 13th anniversary, because there was a point in time when I doubted that we would make it to 13. But here we are. Not all grown up, but well on our way.
'Til death do us part? Yes. I think that's what it will take.
I'm not going to tell you what we were arguing about, because it was stupid. The way we handled it, however, and the argument whiplash are what I am going to share.
So, if you have been married any period of time, you know that it is work! Really. Forget Ward and June Cleaver. Marriages in 2012 have so many dynamics and factors that you often feel like you are trapped in a vortex. It can be challenging. Early on, my husband and I could dig our heels in about disagreements and not speak for days. There would be tears, raised voices, "whatevers" thrown around like grenades, ultimatums tossed down like the duel-challenging white glove, and other asinine things that young 20-something year olds who are newly married do when they are "fighting." It was brutal...and emotionally exhausting. That's how the stupid arguments played out in the first 5 years.
So, when the Chick-fil-A spat played out, I was pleasantly surprised that the whiplash was so short-lived. We drove home in silence, but once we got to the apartment, I put the 5 year old in her room and I approached my husband about what went down in the drive-thru. I made "I" statements and spoke about how it made me feel. He explained himself and his statements, apologized for how I felt, but still held his ground about his opinion. Fine. I let that go. I stated, "We just agree to disagree on how the situation was handled. Thank you for apologizing for how your words upset me." That was it. Done. We sat down and watched a movie, and the day unfolded beautifully from there.
It wasn't until the next morning that I began to reflect on that moment. I don't know when it happened, but it did. We had grown up. All the minutae we used to spend so much time and energy fussing over finally just dimmed. We now see the big picture. We see each other with an assumption of good faith, not with a scrutinizing side eye. Next month, my husband and I will celebrate our 13th wedding anniversary. For superstitious people, that might make them feel nervous. We aren't superstitious at all. I'm excited about my 13th anniversary, because there was a point in time when I doubted that we would make it to 13. But here we are. Not all grown up, but well on our way.
'Til death do us part? Yes. I think that's what it will take.
Thursday, June 7, 2012
Liberation (poetry + reflection)
I want to be
like a babe in the womb
like the soft, free wind above the galaxy
but I'm me.
Any moment, I'll rise
high above my life.
I'll overcome the monotony
like a host of heavenly angels.
REFLECTION: Ever feel trapped within yourself? Like there is a larger YOU confined inside? Searching for a way out? That's how I feel. Like bursting out of myself, my life, my circumstances, my walls.
But there is no burst. Just a slow creep. A steady striving. Like the drip,drop drip,drop of a faucet that cannot completely be turned off.
So I search for the opening. With every new step, new choice, new attitude, I slide my fingers across the circumstantial walls and rap with my knuckles, looking (and listening) for the weak spot. The spot where I will have to pick at in order to make that small break. A place where I can slide in one fingernail and begin to pry an opening for myself. From a slit to a dent to a crack to a hole to new freedom.
I've got to wiggle my way. I have to contort myself. Fold some parts in. Stretch other parts out. Reach. Reach. Reach. Always with the reaching.
I've got to get out of me.
Because....
I want to be
like the soft, free wind above the galaxy
Because...
Any moment, I'll rise
like a host of heavenly angels.
Whom the Son has set free....
(c) Copyright 2012 by E C Jones
like a babe in the womb
like the soft, free wind above the galaxy
but I'm me.
Any moment, I'll rise
high above my life.
I'll overcome the monotony
like a host of heavenly angels.
REFLECTION: Ever feel trapped within yourself? Like there is a larger YOU confined inside? Searching for a way out? That's how I feel. Like bursting out of myself, my life, my circumstances, my walls.
But there is no burst. Just a slow creep. A steady striving. Like the drip,drop drip,drop of a faucet that cannot completely be turned off.
So I search for the opening. With every new step, new choice, new attitude, I slide my fingers across the circumstantial walls and rap with my knuckles, looking (and listening) for the weak spot. The spot where I will have to pick at in order to make that small break. A place where I can slide in one fingernail and begin to pry an opening for myself. From a slit to a dent to a crack to a hole to new freedom.
I've got to wiggle my way. I have to contort myself. Fold some parts in. Stretch other parts out. Reach. Reach. Reach. Always with the reaching.
I've got to get out of me.
Because....
I want to be
like the soft, free wind above the galaxy
Because...
Any moment, I'll rise
like a host of heavenly angels.
Whom the Son has set free....
(c) Copyright 2012 by E C Jones
Tuesday, June 5, 2012
I Am From (poetry)
I am from the Men-Riv Navy base cul-de-sac and Evening of Prayer Church of God in Christ;
From the old oak tree, the E-Z Bake Oven, and the brown swing set;
From evening bike rides, sun-brewed tea, the brown leather belt, and Sulfur-8;
From loud laughter, soft whispers, and sexy breezes.
From California, South Carolina, Long Island, and Alabama.
I am from Daddy's blackberry dumplings, peach cobbler, candied yams, and sweet potato pies;
From Hamburger Helper, hot dogs and baked beans, Vienna sausages, and Chef Boyardee;
From Aunt Cat's roasted corn ears, Katrena's caramel cake, and Mama's sweet peas.
I am from "Fix your face!" and "Reach out!"
"Did you hear what I said?" and "Who do you think you're talking to?"
From "If I told you once, I told you a thousand times..." to
"When you've done your best, the angels in heaven can't do no better."
I am from Morris and Theresa, Gran'ma Liz and Grandaddy Crockett, M'Dear and Pop;
From Betty Ann and Mary Sue and Big Sister
From Rosemary and Ang, Stevie Ray and Frankie Lee
From Uncle Pete, Uncle Ed, and Jimmy
From Cheri to Nicole to Godmom BJ
I am from
and
I am going
and
I am here
and
I am
From the old oak tree, the E-Z Bake Oven, and the brown swing set;
From evening bike rides, sun-brewed tea, the brown leather belt, and Sulfur-8;
From loud laughter, soft whispers, and sexy breezes.
From California, South Carolina, Long Island, and Alabama.
I am from Daddy's blackberry dumplings, peach cobbler, candied yams, and sweet potato pies;
From Hamburger Helper, hot dogs and baked beans, Vienna sausages, and Chef Boyardee;
From Aunt Cat's roasted corn ears, Katrena's caramel cake, and Mama's sweet peas.
I am from "Fix your face!" and "Reach out!"
"Did you hear what I said?" and "Who do you think you're talking to?"
From "If I told you once, I told you a thousand times..." to
"When you've done your best, the angels in heaven can't do no better."
I am from Morris and Theresa, Gran'ma Liz and Grandaddy Crockett, M'Dear and Pop;
From Betty Ann and Mary Sue and Big Sister
From Rosemary and Ang, Stevie Ray and Frankie Lee
From Uncle Pete, Uncle Ed, and Jimmy
From Cheri to Nicole to Godmom BJ
I am from
and
I am going
and
I am here
and
I am
Gran'ma's Switches (poetry)
green and pliable
with stinging strength
smelling of sap and new-born bark
smooth like her skin
nice to touch
not nice when the touch is returned
quickly slicing the air
you hear it
before you feel it
as the switch slipped up on you
with only a soft swish in the air for warning
her hands were quick
like her temper
ageless--the switch never wilted
it's strength never waned
Hers did.
so sat the switch
still in the corner
where gran'ma sat
still in the chair
one growing rigid, weak, and worn
while the other remains--
still
In memory of my grandmother, Mary Lois Gauntt--affectionately known to all simply as M'Dear
with stinging strength
smelling of sap and new-born bark
smooth like her skin
nice to touch
not nice when the touch is returned
quickly slicing the air
you hear it
before you feel it
as the switch slipped up on you
with only a soft swish in the air for warning
her hands were quick
like her temper
ageless--the switch never wilted
it's strength never waned
Hers did.
so sat the switch
still in the corner
where gran'ma sat
still in the chair
one growing rigid, weak, and worn
while the other remains--
still
In memory of my grandmother, Mary Lois Gauntt--affectionately known to all simply as M'Dear
CANDY! (memoir)
Snickers. Baby Ruth. Reese's pieces and the timeless Hershey bar. You know what I'm talking about.
Candy.
When I was a young girl growing up on the Navy base in Goose Creek, South Carolina, I could never get enough candy. My sole motivation for getting up each and every day was the opportunity to consume more candy. The money I earned for getting a good report card or doing all my chores or helping with my little sisters all went towards one chief financial purpose--candy investments.
At home, the BX (base exchange) was my candy shop of choice. First on the buying list, I'd select ten cent Jolly Rancher sticks. Watermelon, sour green apple, pink lemonade, and strawberry were my consistent favorite picks. A handful of mini Reese's cups (five cents each) were purchased to be eaten as I walked back home. The three packs of Now n' Laters (which were always for "Now" and never made it to "Later") I habitually bought were always grape, cherry, and apple flavor. This would "tide me over," as we Southerners say, at least until Sunday.
On Sundays, getting a sugar fix required a little more craft and effort. We were supposed to be in Sunday School, not traipsing off to a strange woman's house to spend our offering money on candy. But how much could we really focus on Jesus when there was candy down the street waiting to belong to us? So, we asked to be forgiven for sins we fully and happily intended to commit, too young and too sugar-addicted to even care if we were idolators.
I know I was.
I worshipped the candy. Boston Baked Beans, LemonHeads, Mary Janes, Kraft caramel squares, Sugar Daddy, Sugar Babies, Milk Duds, York Peppermint Patties, and Cherry Clans. They were all my idols. It's a miracle from God that to this day, I have never had a cavity. That amazes me.
Now, at age 38, I could almost vomit just thinking about all the candy I consumed. Don't misunderstand me. My sugar taste has not at all diminished; it has merely been refined. I still submit to the occasional Snicker bar, and I ate all four sticks--okay, four sticks plus one--of Reese's sticks just last week. But for the most part, I've turned into a cake and pie miester. Yeah! Give me my sugar in three layers or nine inches deep, and I will tear it up! You hear what I'm saying? Apple pie, cheesecake, birthday cake, blueberry pie, and strawberry shortcake. They all call my name. And I answer. Oh, yes. With a fork in my left hand and a smile on my face, I answer.
Excuse me? What's that, Reese's? Oh, no, Pieces! No. You've got it all wrong. I'd never leave you. Get on over here and let me show you some love!
Candy.
When I was a young girl growing up on the Navy base in Goose Creek, South Carolina, I could never get enough candy. My sole motivation for getting up each and every day was the opportunity to consume more candy. The money I earned for getting a good report card or doing all my chores or helping with my little sisters all went towards one chief financial purpose--candy investments.
At home, the BX (base exchange) was my candy shop of choice. First on the buying list, I'd select ten cent Jolly Rancher sticks. Watermelon, sour green apple, pink lemonade, and strawberry were my consistent favorite picks. A handful of mini Reese's cups (five cents each) were purchased to be eaten as I walked back home. The three packs of Now n' Laters (which were always for "Now" and never made it to "Later") I habitually bought were always grape, cherry, and apple flavor. This would "tide me over," as we Southerners say, at least until Sunday.
On Sundays, getting a sugar fix required a little more craft and effort. We were supposed to be in Sunday School, not traipsing off to a strange woman's house to spend our offering money on candy. But how much could we really focus on Jesus when there was candy down the street waiting to belong to us? So, we asked to be forgiven for sins we fully and happily intended to commit, too young and too sugar-addicted to even care if we were idolators.
I know I was.
I worshipped the candy. Boston Baked Beans, LemonHeads, Mary Janes, Kraft caramel squares, Sugar Daddy, Sugar Babies, Milk Duds, York Peppermint Patties, and Cherry Clans. They were all my idols. It's a miracle from God that to this day, I have never had a cavity. That amazes me.
Now, at age 38, I could almost vomit just thinking about all the candy I consumed. Don't misunderstand me. My sugar taste has not at all diminished; it has merely been refined. I still submit to the occasional Snicker bar, and I ate all four sticks--okay, four sticks plus one--of Reese's sticks just last week. But for the most part, I've turned into a cake and pie miester. Yeah! Give me my sugar in three layers or nine inches deep, and I will tear it up! You hear what I'm saying? Apple pie, cheesecake, birthday cake, blueberry pie, and strawberry shortcake. They all call my name. And I answer. Oh, yes. With a fork in my left hand and a smile on my face, I answer.
Excuse me? What's that, Reese's? Oh, no, Pieces! No. You've got it all wrong. I'd never leave you. Get on over here and let me show you some love!
Monday, June 4, 2012
door slammed shut (poetry)
the door slammed shut behind you
as you stepped through my eyes
to enter my soul
a fresh door opened on the other side.
You stood in the threshold--
between my eyes and soul--
trapped in the glass
until it shattered
then my soul, a long-held breath released,
fled from my eyes
and the shards of glass sang small, high notes
drowning you
as they drove my soul to freedom
where the door doesn't slam
but S W I N G S
(c) Copyright 2006 by E C Jones
as you stepped through my eyes
to enter my soul
a fresh door opened on the other side.
You stood in the threshold--
between my eyes and soul--
trapped in the glass
until it shattered
then my soul, a long-held breath released,
fled from my eyes
and the shards of glass sang small, high notes
drowning you
as they drove my soul to freedom
where the door doesn't slam
but S W I N G S
(c) Copyright 2006 by E C Jones
Daddy Sounds (memoir)
People describe my dad's hands as "country hands." They seem merely gnarled and meaty to me. Some people wouldn't imagine sensitivity to be a trait of a military veteran with broad, muscular shoulders and gnarled, meaty "country" hands, but there is rich, healing honey in my dad's voice and mischievous laughter in his brown eyes and straight smile. His small, perfectly lined lips conceal the immeasurable size of his laughter, his smile, and his spirit. Although he stands only 5' 8", my dad has a commanding presence. He is a stout, straight-postured man with a stride and carriage full of confidence. His round, cherubic face is the perfect cover for the mischief which resides in his heart, frequently peeking out from his kind eyes and always escaping through his free laughter.
No matter where he finds himself, my dad always brings the laughter. One year, my dad and mom were celebrating their wedding anniversary with our family friends, the Greene's. For some unknown reason, we kids accompanied them to dinner. For a large group of Black folks to appear in Bushy's Restaurant in downtown Charleston was already an eyebrow-raising situation; furthermore, the noise level my father brought to the room attracted the additional, predictable attention. He told a story which I couldn't hear quite clearly from my seat at the children's booth across the aisle. All I remember hearing was his laughter. My dad let loose his trademark guffaw which was normally the precursor to his cyclical "Ah huh huh huh! Ahhh! A huh huh huh!" This time, there were no huh's afterwards. Just silence. My dad's face was in a full scrunch--eyes squeezed, mouth taut, cheeks dimpled, nose wrinkled, teeth bared, faint eyebrows furrowed. He looked like a clenched fist. A wheezing sound, like an open radiator with no more water inside, was emitting from my dad's throat and tears were fleeing from his eyes to hide in his salt-and-pepper moustache. Slowly, his body began to lose its upright position. He was sliding down. In his specially tailored, pin-stripped navy blue suit and light blue tie, my dad--Morris O'Neal Crockett--was losing it in the middle of Bushy's. When his body reached a complete parallel with the restaurant booth, my highly-embarrassed, exasperated mother Theresa and Louis's mortified wife Farrell, got up and marched out. They left him and Louis there, coughing and crying and not caring at all if everyone in the restaurant was watching them.
I loved it when my father made a scene.
Whether he is passionately singing an old Baptist hymn my gran'ma Liz taught him or fervently preaching a sermon that God gave him, my dad brings the sound. When I call him on the phone, and I hear that click and then the boisterous "Lizamo!" which follows, I cannot keep myself from smiling. There is a vibrancy of life that dwells in his spirit, and no matter how much he dresses himself up and ventures out into the world, he is still going to be himself--the laughter, the smiles, and the sounds.
No matter where he finds himself, my dad always brings the laughter. One year, my dad and mom were celebrating their wedding anniversary with our family friends, the Greene's. For some unknown reason, we kids accompanied them to dinner. For a large group of Black folks to appear in Bushy's Restaurant in downtown Charleston was already an eyebrow-raising situation; furthermore, the noise level my father brought to the room attracted the additional, predictable attention. He told a story which I couldn't hear quite clearly from my seat at the children's booth across the aisle. All I remember hearing was his laughter. My dad let loose his trademark guffaw which was normally the precursor to his cyclical "Ah huh huh huh! Ahhh! A huh huh huh!" This time, there were no huh's afterwards. Just silence. My dad's face was in a full scrunch--eyes squeezed, mouth taut, cheeks dimpled, nose wrinkled, teeth bared, faint eyebrows furrowed. He looked like a clenched fist. A wheezing sound, like an open radiator with no more water inside, was emitting from my dad's throat and tears were fleeing from his eyes to hide in his salt-and-pepper moustache. Slowly, his body began to lose its upright position. He was sliding down. In his specially tailored, pin-stripped navy blue suit and light blue tie, my dad--Morris O'Neal Crockett--was losing it in the middle of Bushy's. When his body reached a complete parallel with the restaurant booth, my highly-embarrassed, exasperated mother Theresa and Louis's mortified wife Farrell, got up and marched out. They left him and Louis there, coughing and crying and not caring at all if everyone in the restaurant was watching them.
I loved it when my father made a scene.
Whether he is passionately singing an old Baptist hymn my gran'ma Liz taught him or fervently preaching a sermon that God gave him, my dad brings the sound. When I call him on the phone, and I hear that click and then the boisterous "Lizamo!" which follows, I cannot keep myself from smiling. There is a vibrancy of life that dwells in his spirit, and no matter how much he dresses himself up and ventures out into the world, he is still going to be himself--the laughter, the smiles, and the sounds.
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