My mantle is empty. The neighbors lights are gone. The melodramatic daily hum has filled up days. Christmas is over.
I looked at my mantle: a wasteland of disappointment.
“Guess I’ll be looking at this blank canvas for another 11 months.”
Then it hit me…MOM’S MANTLE!
I pick fun at my mother. Each season or holiday is welcomed with new decorations. Buckets line her storage with spring birds, summer flowers, fall leaves, wintery branches, and every holiday trinket imaginable.
“Why do you do this, mom? It is so much work! It takes so much time!”
I ask her the same question at the turning of each season or holiday.
“I don’t know,” she replies, “I just like it.”
My giggles are laden with “what a waste of time,” and “what a waste of money.”
The truth is she has tapped into a hidden power. The power to remind us of the hope and thrill of being alive. Like kids do! Her mantle decorations are a glimpse into why life is worth living, and why it is something to celebrate.
There is nothing hum-drum about a day. It is a new bright and shiny ornament. A rebirth of the mind and body. Mornings laugh with the reunion of the sun on one side of the sky and the moon on the other chatting like old friends. Evenings settle as the moon and sun, again facing, whisper their farewells.
Passing years lie to us. “Yeah…I’ve seen that before,” says our dulled adult heart. Sunrise, sunset, that tree loosing it’s leaves and growing them back…it has all happened before. No big deal. No miracle here, folks! Carry on.
The low hum of boredom returns.
Except for mom’s mantle. It winks at us and whispers truth:
“Don’t be disappointed! There is no such thing as the spirit of Christmas. There is only the spirit of life, joy, and wonder. Christmas just gives us permission to tap into it.
Don’t forget…there’s wonder right outside your door. Watch as the trees slumber and hold tight to life! See the chilly air and bright colored coats of the children as they play! Isn’t that worth a yippie? And what of spring? WOW! Look at all the flowers and birds and animals stretching their tired winter hardened legs!
Hop to it, now! You have permission! There is a child inside of you begging to be let loose! Strike up a chorus! It’s time for a party today!”
Giggling at and judging my mom’s decorating has proven to be a pie in my face. She knew a secret. She tried to tell me, but I was too daft to listen. Though I most likely will not go “all out” like she does, I will count this as a lesson learned.
Next week, I’m dressing up my mantle. It has much to say but doesn’t have the words. It’s my job to give it words. Life is worth celebrating…so celebrate!
My son needed new shoes. He didn’t want new shoes. He liked his old ones, but they were too small.
Miracle League had a bowling day, and I decided we would bowl for an hour and then shoe shop. Children with autism need to know what is happening and what comes next. For 2 days, I told him the plans…over and over… He was well advised.
Bowling was awesome! We made new friends, and my son even made a strike!
The game ended, and I, again, told my son the plans. No problem. He was fine. We headed to the mall.
We always go to the same shoe store. He is accustomed to the environment. It is quiet and well suited to children who overstimulate easily.
I knew I was in for trouble when he resisted taking off his old shoes to be measured.
The measurements spoke what I knew to be true. I showed him all of his options, and he said, “NO!” and ran to pick up his old shoes.
“DIS! DIS!” which means “THIS THIS!” He held up the old shoes. He pointed to the dirt on the bottoms. He liked that dirt. It told the story of the places he had been.
While taking off my son’s shoes, I had to get on my knees. It was a perfect time to pray. God was busy elsewhere. My boy wanted nothing to do with new shoes.
The clerk and I tried every trick in the book. Even a couple of customers chimed in.
Nope.
“DIS! DIS!”
“This child will NOT out stubborn me!!” My thoughts were pure stupidity. We were going to another store.
“OOO! MAMA! It so HIGH!” he said, peering over the rail to the floor below. Between our current position and the other shoe store was a video game of thrilling explosive fire geysers, loud trombones, and circus rides. At least, this is what I imagine it must have been for him.
By the time we weaved our drunken over-stimulated selves into the shoe store, it was all out spazorama. He ran the isles. I chased him. Brought him back to me. I tried to ask the shoe clerk where the little boy section was, and she ignored me. Maybe it was my own crazed look that shook her from her desire to neglect, but, she didn’t the second time.
The shoes were in rows up over my head.
“NO! NO! NO! DIS! DIS!”
God…seriously? I could use some help here.
He tore through that store like a tornado on cocaine. As we were walking out, the workers gave me a look. Oh, no you don’t. I saw what those grown women did to the sale isle. This kid knocked over a couple of boxes. Get over yourself.
Some folks looked at me in judgement, and others in sympathy. I’ll have none of either. Walk a mile in my shoes, and then we will talk. And for you others, I’ll have you know this is the best kid in the world. I don’t need your sympathy. He is having a moment. I made a mistake. Life happens. He is still fantastic.
I thought better of visiting another store.
He won the stubborn contest. I lost at parenting.
Autism, as I try to explain to others, is the world turned up to 11. The “go to” reaction for my kid is all out happy/crazed.
I know this.
He felt remorseful. Well, he felt sad he wouldn’t get a “surprise.” Even though I screwed up, I will not reward bad behavior. No need in adding more poor parenting to the stew.
It is difficult raising a child. In this day and age, parent shaming is all the rage. Listen carefully, to these words:
MIND YOUR OWN BUSINESS.
People screw up. Parents are people. We do our best. It’s all we can do.
My son still has his old shoes. I have post-tramatic stress. His teacher will be told of the dilemma. Between all of the adults in his life, maybe we can talk this kid into new shoes.
If not, I’ll be cutting a hole for his toes until we can.
My grandfather playing guitar on his 90th birthday
My paternal grandfather was one of the most well-rounded people I’ve known. He was charming, witty, well read, smart, talented, and, my favorite, funny. He was not stingy with his smile. It was one of those smiles encompassing the entirety of his face. It illuminated a room.
He loved a good joke or story. Even if his story was not particularly funny to anyone else, everyone would laugh at him laughing at his own joke. He was the cutest, sweetest person. I adored him…and still do.
I could write a book about the exceptional person he was, but, today, I am focusing on one of his stories that always had me in stitches. I hope I do it justice.
CHECK THE BACKSEAT
My PawPaw was a talented musician. Though he could play several instruments, he was best known as a bass player. Over his lifetime, he played bass in many gospel groups. This particular story revolves around a gig he played with a gospel quartet at a country church.
If you are not from “around these parts,” Alabama country churches are a breed of their own. Most times, there are less than 20 attendees per service…except when the gospel group came to town.
The pews would be filled, and folks would line the walls. Everyone from the county would show up to be entertained.The church would be well cleaned, there was enough food to feed a small army, and everyone was dressed in their Sunday best. It was a party!
It was at one of these events when my grandfather was put in a precarious situation.
The quartet had sung their first set and took a break. My grandfather, as he would often do, stayed on stage with his bass. He knew it would only be a 10 minute break. Plus, the man LOVED the stage. To this day, I believe his true home was on a stage.
During this break, the pastor asked the congregants for a“love offering.” This offering was taken up to pay the gospel group. To fill up the silence, the pastor invited one of the locals to sing a “special.” Paw Paw sat on stage and watched as a middle-aged, stocky built, finely dressed lady move towards the stage in a self-assured and proper sashay.
Paw Paw wondered why those sitting in the pews and standing around were snickering.He had never seen a pastor invite the lesser of the local singers up for the break. She had to, at least, be a half-way decent singer.
She made her way up the short set of stairs and smiled at my grandfather. He smiled back. She turned to move towards the podium. It was then my grandfather knew why all of those in the church were snickering.
Her dress was caught, by the bottom hem, in the top of her girdle. A majority of her back end was unveiled.
At this point, everyone in the church knew my grandfather, sitting behind this singer, had a bird’s eye view of the whole situation. They must have been wondering how he would handle his new vantage point.
A song, on average, lasts about 3 to 3 and a half minutes, and, for this 3 to 3 and a half minutes, my grandfather sat behind this lady looking at her behind.
How difficult it must have been for him to retain composure!
My Paw Paw said it took all the strength he could conjure to not reach up and pull the lady’s dress out of the top of her girdle. I wish he had. It would have made the story so much better.
Instead, Paw Paw sat there with his eyes trying desperately to avoid contact with the backside of this stranger. He had no help from the audience. He had to avoid them as well. They were too busy trying to keep a measure of self-control. They must have had to work tirelessly not to look up at my Paw Paw. I bet the pews were shaking with folks painfully swallowing laugher.
This had to be the only time in my grandfather’s life when the stage was exactly where he did not want to be. He said he picked at his fingernails, stared at his bass guitar, looked at his shoes, and, occasionally, glanced up to see if his reality was as he remembered.
“Yep. The curtain was still pulled back. Time to pick my fingernails, stare at the guitar, look at my shoes, and keep it together.”
Once the song was over, the lady pridefully made her way back to her seat. For the rest of the gig, my grandfather had to look out at the audience and see the eyes of this lady who still had no clue she had essentially mooned my grandfather for, at least, 3 minutes of his life…in church.
Bless her heart…and his.
My grandfather, the humorist he was, took this story and created the following joke:
The other day, a man asked me why I had 2 black eyes. I told him I got them in church.
He said, “You got them in church? What did you do?”
I told him that as I was sitting in the church pew, awaiting the service to start, a lady walked past me with the bottom hem of her skirt securely folded inside the top of her girdle, exposing her rear end. So, being the gentleman I am, I reached up and pulled it out. She turned around and slapped me.
The man laughed and said, “Well, that explains the first black eye, but how did you get the second?”
Well… I figured she wanted it that way, so, being the gentleman I am, I reached up and put it back.
My Paw Paw was a comedian.
From the very first time he told the real story, and to this day, if I am in a dress, I check the backseat. I would recommend you do the same.
If not, just roll with it. Some day, somewhere, someone’s granddaughter might well turn out to be a writer and provide a chuckle to the world.
She was an acquaintance of mine. We were once friends, but time and distance separated us from building our close friendship. Even so, knowing she was on this earth, walking around and smiling, gave me great peace.
When she died, the emptiness I felt was curious to me. She was not a part of my everyday life. We barely spoke, except through facebook. But, there I was, crying my eyes out.
It was then I knew I had to make sense of these feelings. I needed a story to tell. I needed a visual to explain it.
If you have endured the loss of someone dear to you or someone you barely knew, I hope this story will aid your ability to cope with death and the sorrow of an empty chair.
THE BANQUET TABLE
Imagine your life as a banquet table. All of the people you know or have ever known have a place setting.
You are the host.
Your banquet hall may look like a royal room with golden chandeliers, exquisite plates and silver. It may look like a long picnic table in the woods. It is your room to create.
At your table, there is a chair for each of those people you have known. Sitting the closest to you are your most valued of loves: your spouse, child, parents, siblings, grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, friends. Those sitting further down the table are acquaintances. The one girl you worked with in your 20’s. The guy you knew from church. The lady who always had the peppermint candy…and shared. There are those whom have hurt you sitting at this table, too. The guy or girl who cheated on you, the person who stole your money, the person who was mean to you…everyone you have ever known sits at this table.
The table is longer than you first thought.
Some of those sitting at the other end cannot even be seen anymore. They are part of your banquet, and, if you pull out your telescope, you can see them there. You may feel the emotions tied to the memory of this person: good or bad. It doesn’t matter. They sit at your table.
Each place setting has a tiny card with the name of the person who is to sit in the chair. It will always be there. Though, they may be moved down the table, their chair, and their setting, follow them.
At my table is a place setting for my Granny and Pawpaw. They no longer sit at my table, but their place setting and name remains. When I gaze upon their empty chair, I remember the joy and the sorrow. These people sat so close to me for so long. I remember their laughter, their shortcomings, their love.
They have moved on to a bigger and better banquet table. But, somehow, they are still with me. Their absence leaves an empty chair in my life, but the fact they once sat at my table brings me great joy.
Their empty chair is not empty. It is full of memories.
No matter how one feels about the afterlife, what we all know for certain is how death affects us in this life. It leaves space…a void.
Death is unavoidable. We will all have empty chairs at our tables, and, at some point, we will be the empty chair at someone else’s table.
The experience of loosing Juneko helped me see. I did not know her well, but I was thankful she sat at my table. I was thankful for her life.
I was also thankful I had a table to share.
Now, when I look at those chairs filled with those I love most, I embrace the moment. I make more memories. I appreciate the gift of being able to share the meal of life with beautiful people.
Until their chair is empty, I will smile and be glad they they accepted the invitation to my life. And, when their chair is empty, I will have memories to fill their seats. The image of their presence will not fade as long as I have a banquet to host.
I have never been arrested. I have never had a speeding ticket.
I am a rule follower.
Careful is the best way to describe how I act and react to most situations. This all changed yesterday.
I began to notice the difference between “careful” and “courageous” in the leaders we all hold in high regard.
Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. was not a careful man. All of his movements were strategically planned and discussed with those whose values he held to be wise. With the information he needed, and the drive for justice he held dear, he courageously ventured out into a dangerous world. He was not careful. He was courageous.
Mother Teresa was not a careful woman. She moved so powerfully into the world of poverty that we all now know her name and respect her work. With God as her guide and her own sense of justice, she courageously marched against the cycle of poverty. She was not careful. She was courageous.
Mahatma Gandhi was not a careful man. Through non-violence, he moved powerfully against injustice. He used his own body through fasting to demonstrate his opinion of justice for his people and religious harmony. Gandhi was not careful. He was courageous.
Whether you agree with these people and their opinions or not, you have to admit their commitment to justice and peace was admirable. Why is it these people found a way through the noise into our common history?
I believe it was their drive to improve the quality of life for all who found themselves in a place of injustice. They were not fearless. They were courageous. They were not careful. They were wise.
I am a rule follower. I am careful. However, I have a son who needs his mother to stop being so careful and to start being courageous.
I ask you to do the same. Do not let your fears lead you into a place of commonplace. Allow your inner courage to find a home in the power the people of Alabama have placed upon your shoulders.
My son no longer needs you to be careful. He needs you to be wise. He needs you to seek justice. He needs you to be courageous!
Approve the original Leni’s Law without amendment. Allow my son to be a part of “justice for all” with his debilitating conditions. Please, do not force our family to move away from parents and grandparents and aunts and uncles and friends because he is unable to get the care he needs in the State of Alabama. Please. Do not force us to move to a new state without even knowing if this medical therapy will work for our child. Please, fight for justice for our son and the many other sons and daughters and grandsons and granddaughters in the State of Alabama.
The time has come to stop being careful. The time has come to be courageous.
The little girl who spoke these words was not some stranger’s child. It wasn’t a kid from school or church. The little girl who spoke these words has my heart. She has since before she was born.
Cristine (a.k.a Cris) and I met many years ago when my husband and I had a small group/church ministry. We became fast friends. Both of us somewhat weirdo hippies but smart, capable, and funny as hell. Yes. This was to be a lifelong friend.
I called my friend the first of April, 2009, to tell her the big news.
“Guess what? I’m pregnant!!”
“Guess what? Me too!,” said Cris.
The next 9 months resulted in nausea followed up by (or during) ravenousness hunger. Neither of us could take looking at the word “egg”, and, on one occasion, her husband emerged from the car carrying a bag of throw up. We proceeded to take out the food bar at the restaurant where we had met. Ahhh…good times.
We delivered 4 days apart. Asher, my son, was born first. Cris brought me cookies. (I had to return that favor when she had her son.)
As our children began to grow, no words were necessary for the differences in development. Ivey began to talk and walk and sing with ease. Asher required physical, occupational, and speech therapy. The challenges began to mount for Asher as Ivey soared. It was a bittersweet script.
Fast forward to the day my friend proved to me that she was the wonderful person I thought her to be, and I was reminded of how important one little girl can be.
“Autumn, why does Asher talk so funny?”
Ivey stood before me with her inquisitive eyes. Obviously, it irritated and confused her that Asher could not speak like her.
I had no idea what to say. As I sat, mouth agape, stunned and absolutely terrified of a 4 year old, Cris says, “Ivey. Asher and his mommy have a secret language. They only teach their language to the people they love the most.”
My cue, “And Ivey…you are one of those whom we love the most, so I will help you learn our secret language.”
I vowed my eternal friendship to her that day. A fantastic mommy is raising a gifted young woman to be kind, loving, and unafraid to have a big heart.
Thank you, Cris, for loving my son. As I always say: The best way to show me your love is to love my son. Plus, you taught your child to love my son. Truly, the most precious gift I could ever receive.
Thank you, Ivey, for being honest and just plain wonderful. I remember the world before you were born. It was boring and absolutely no fun. Then, this little sparkly girl who can do anything blasted her way in and changed everything. You and Asher made your Mommy and me smile bigger and brighter than ever.
Yes. It was inevitable, but with a dash of love, a giant amount of wisdom, and a sprinkle of sheer goodness, I was shown something beautiful: acceptance. This was not just your everyday, ordinary acceptance. It was not the kind of acceptance people like to throw around to seem like they are good people. It was real. It was true. It was beautiful. In a world where I fight daily against the onslaught of judgmental people, that day, I was able to breathe. My son was loved exactly as he was. No changes necessary.
Give the gift of acceptance to someone today. You may be the only person who will. It might just change their life. It may just change yours.
