Frank: Love Deeper than Friendship

Thick black hair, chocolate brown eyes, and a warm full smile, Frank was the biggest tease I ever knew. He had exceptional skill in hitting my hot buttons, grabbing my attention, and getting me to look at him. At eighteen years of age, we sat in in the same model motorized wheelchairs in the same classes at Woodrow Wilson Business School, part of the Woodrow Wilson Rehabilitation Center in Fishersville, Virginia. However, I worked hard to keep a distance from him. It was my responsibility, remain focused on the academics. But something happened, something that turned my heart and life upside down: love deeper than friendship.

In class, Frank always completed assignments before most students– and got good grades. He was a nice guy, but I sometimes found his distracting behavior irritating (Is that the right word?). I was going to school to learn the nuts and bolts of accounting, not my favorite subject (but an available program at a wheelchair-accessible school), while Frank appeared to be sailing through to attain credentials–and not worry about a thing.

“Mary?” He called my name from several rows away.

I always responded to Frank the same way, twisting around to give him a dirty look and quickly returning to my attentive position, until our relationship changed.

The first week Frank sat in the back row and I sat in the front. The positions we chose to sit made statements about Frank and me. Frank, a confident student, never worried about a thing (on the exterior). He selected a relaxing place to occupy the classroom. But I claimed the second row from the front (on the end), never missing information–and a chance to get acquainted with the instructor.

By the end of the first week I rolled to class, filled the space I had chosen in the second row, and there was Frank. He pulled in next to my desk.

“Hey, aren’t you lost?” I asked him.

“No, I was just moved here. There’s more room. So you mind?” He smiled.

“Well, I don’t mind, as long as you’re quiet.” I issued to him a sarcastic grin.

The next day was Saturday. No class. I got busy doing homework. A girlfriend asked me to go to the movies–and so did an employee. But I didn’t go. I wanted to keep my nose to the grindstone and, yes, I wanted private time to think about Frank. He was so doggone different.

Sunday came. I went to church, bought a salad, and returned to my room.

Knock. Knock.

It was Frank.

“Oh! Hi. Umm, are you lost?” I asked him, with irony on my face and in my voice.

“No, Mary. I asked around, until I found you. I have something for you. It’s not much, but, well, here it is.”

I opened pink tissue paper and there was a beautiful rhinestone heart pin. I was speechless. I sat still and glared at him. Tears filled my eyes. He leaned forward, wiped my eyes with his fingers and placed those tears on his cheeks. Then he attempted to bend forward to kiss me, but lost his balance and fell on top of my upper torso.

I laughed and giggled and laughed some more. Then I helped him sit up straight.

“There. Are you more comfortable now?” I asked in a warm, tender voice.

“Not really.” Frank looked serious and I saw a tear in his eye.

I couldn’t look at him. I just couldn’t. So I gazed down to the floor and whispered, “Thank you for your h–. I mean the heart. Thank you.”

“Mary, please don’t slap me,” and he kissed me, softly, and passionately, and very long.

When we came up for air both of our faces shined brighter than the sun.

Frank and I both lived to the fullest, dating, and graduated in two years. We returned to our hometowns, wrote letters– up to twenty-five handwritten pages long, and visited every three or four months for years–until he died from terminal stage Muscular Dystrophy.

It was a love deeper than friendship.

You may have someone in your life and a love deeper than friendship. Allow it to turn your life and heart upside down, if only for a season.

Enjoy your blessing.

Hiding Behind a Smile and Why

Are you like me?  Do you sometimes hide behind a smile?

Trust me when I tell you I can be a real con artist. Do I get a thrill from the power of tricking other people into believing certain things about me? Absolutely not. In fact, the effects of me hiding behind my smile can be the opposite–negative. Behind the scene, the energy I have sometimes used to develop strategic thinking and put into effective action a smile has been a hardship more rigorous than what I’ve heard is experienced in giving birth without pain medication. Like a pregnant mother, I have carried in my heart a unique life substance that kicked its feet and threw its arms, protesting release from its imprisoned confines, but first checking all directions to make sure the coast was clear–less being chewed up and spit out.

Total transparency? I have never known one soul who is totally open. To me, few people brave it out in the raw, without using some sort of smile as their armor.

“My, you have a beautiful smile!” This is what I used to hear all the time, until I chipped my front tooth’s crown. Now I still smile, but my armor is cracked–and I feel that all the time.

Maybe you don’t see yourself with a pretty smile (like feeling that My smile is ugly). Maybe you use something else as your smile, like your nice shiny car (Thoughts such as What a beauty! People will think I’ve got it together), divorce and available marital status (Feelings may include I’ll have sex with her/him in my head–or maybe mess around, but I don’t dare get tied down, though I really love her/him, because I’m staying safe and never loving again), educational credential (I have a PhD, so someone will certainly hire –desire, want, value me–), or maybe getting into the workaholic mode (My life circumstances are so painful that I have to stay busy–or I will crash, crumble, shatter inside).

What is your smile? Is it your car? Your marital status? Your education? Your time commitments and accomplishments related to your work? Do they serve you well? Do they help you tolerate the things you can’t change and give you the boost you need to address and choose what to do with those issues and elements that rip your insides to pieces? Or does your smile give more space and time to drag out your pain?

I’ve hidden behind my smile more times than I can count. Sometimes my smile has won for me favor from others, and opened doors to new friendships and business relationships. But other times my smile has been a disservice to me, delaying/prolonging the inevitable–issues I needed to face and choose what to do with, so I could move on with my life.

I had a very close friend who chose suicide. I sat beside her open coffin, gazed at her, and held myself back from screaming, “NOOO!” Believe it or not, she smiled more than me. Serious. But her armor lost its effectiveness. She saw no other options, but to “throw in the towel.” Unfortunately, the “towel” was “her.” My wonderful friend who I loved so much chose to throw herself away. A lot to discard.

I still weep about my friend’s violent act against herself–and me.  She was especially close to my heart, because her arms looked like mine–deformed. She had Arthrogryposis, too. And she was brilliant and successful and beautiful, but secretly lonely for love. And now I turn to look at me. My problem? My stress? I had to accept her suicide as her choice. Secondly, I had to accept the fact that I was very angry at her. I was enraged. It occupied my heart and often tormented my waking and sleeping hours for a long time (yes, years–though I’m saddened to admit this truth about me). And maybe I was secretly afraid that I would, one day, do what she did.

Hiding behind a smile? Does your smile serve you well? I hope it does, moving you toward your aspired goal. Do you know why you hide behind your chosen smile? I hope so, empowering you with understanding and personal growth.

Do I hide behind a selected smile today? Yes. Laughter is one of my most used armors.  Do I understand why I hide behind my smile? Yes. It places my pain in the palm of God.

“Here I am, God.”

Abuse?

Whether you’re a big person or a little person, it is likely that you have been abused sometime in your life. Physical, emotional, or spiritual abuse? One can be just as harmful as the other. Ask a victim from each of the three major area which type of abuse is the most painful and damaging. Most will respond that there’s no way to really measure it. Pain is pain, destruction is destruction, and memories are memories.

Several obstacles often face the abused, but three major ones are:

(1) Disbelief in it really being abuse that happened to them.

(2) Determination to keep it a secret.

(3) Willingness to take the blame for the abuse.

Disbelief in it really being abuse that happened to them:

Disbelief that it’s real abuse, but is instead “just part of life”  is a common position taken by the abused individual. The person does not want to admit they have been abused by, perhaps, a person they love–or one they have depended on for either financial support, physical assistance, or whatever is regarded as important to them.

I had a friend many years ago with a disability who desperately needed a home to live. The home owners (a married couple) provided for my friend one blanket to wrap in and sleep on the floor, one meal a day (cheaper food than the couple ate), and sexual favors required by the man.  My friend had nowhere to live, so they put up with the mistreatment for a while. To clarify, my friend NEEDED a home to live and no one wanted her, because she was born with no arms and no legs, and a very, very low Social Security check. Not even her family wanted her.

As her friend, I felt angry, and ready to be her advocate. No one else wanted the job and my friend was not equipped to help herself.

My friend was intellectually challenged and I knew I had to help her. In retrospect, we had had a great day. I coached her to use public accessible transportation in Baltimore City. We had covered a lot of territory, just being slowed down by a set of rail road tracks we had to cross to get to the mall. This super big mall was on the other side of the city. We laughed the whole day. It was so much fun! But when we headed back to her house she teared and tried to hide her tears from me.

I asked her, “What’s wrong?”

She freely told me about her harsh conditions, but constantly said, “But it’s not their fault though.”

I could see she was scared to death. So I asked her if she would like to move in with me (I had a large apartment–two bedroom–two bath– and was single).

“Yes and I’ll sleep on the rug.”

“No, you’re a human being and I love you and there’s a bed with a nice mattress in your bedroom.”

Her eyes gleamed. She readily took me up on the offer.

The next step was to tell her landlords that she was moving out. So all of us gathered in the living room and I waited for my friend to open her mouth.

Suddenly she rolled her motorized wheelchair up close to me, leaned over and whispered in my ear, “You tell them.”

I spilled the beans in a factual manner. The high and mighty landlords became angry and the man told her she had to stay until the end of the month.

I turned, looked straight into his eyes and said, “No! She is coming with me.”

The man grabbed my wheelchair, towered his body over mine and yelled “You shut up, NOW!”

I looked toward the entrance, signaled to my friend to follow me out, and we both left, while the “man” continued to romp and rave. As we left the house, the female landlord bragged, “You’ll miss the hot meals and good treatment you got here.”

My friend and I shared the apartment for months, until she met an older lady who lived on another floor and was retired–home all day. I worked full-time. So her next move was even better for her with a roommate who loved home-cooked stuff, instead of microwave entrees and quick and easy things.

Wow! This story makes me smile.

Determination to keep it a secret:

Every person with a disability, especially women, eventually bring up the topic of abuse sometime in conversation at seminars, workshops, support groups, etc. It’s not a topic that waves its hand a lot, but if a person’s heart carries the subject around in their soul, like a campfire it bursts in more flames each time kindling is thrown in.

The kindling may be discrimination in the workplace, because of a wart on their face,  or whatever the employer deems a legitimate reason to turn them down. This time I’m pointing to myself as a victim. BUT I must tell you that in spite of all of the rejections not making sense, I know God has never left me.

Have I tried to keep the discrimination problem in my life a secret?

Yes, when I believed it would negatively affect the outcome, I said nothing about the pattern I saw.  I earned a PhD –highest honors– 98.7% average–but it didn’t matter. For three reasons I tallied over three-hundred no’s:

(1) Job market is flooded with applicants

(2) The job was fazed out

(3) Discrimination because I am physically “challenged.” They don’t want me around, because they don’t think I can do the job. OR they are not comfortable with me, because my “handicap” is no big deal–except to them. The problem is the handicap is an attitude problem of theirs. My motto is Test-drive me, instead of rejecting me.  This test-drive approach clarifies reality and puts the truth under a bright light.

Willingness to take the blame for the abuse.

Remember my friend in the first section of the story? “She freely told me about her harsh conditions, but constantly said, ‘But it’s not their fault though.'” That says it loud and clear.

A second illustration follows:

“Please, mommy. Please! Stop. Please. It’s my fault. I was clumsy. It was an accident, Mommy, but please,” the little girl screamed.

I heard her from outside the bathroom at a local shopping center and had to use their facilities, but was not exactly excited to enter the lion’s den to go to the bathroom and what would i find in there and what would i do and what could they do to me if the abuser felt the need to wipe me out?

i took a quick moment to ask God for his protection and sailed in to find a little girl picking up puzzle pieces from the floor.

“And you get every piece from the floor, ” the mother watched as her apparent daughter obeyed.

“But mommy, I’m tired,” she cried.

“Stop that crying right this minute. You hear me? You know what, girly, you’re useless!”

The child finished gathering all of the pieces in a puzzle box and the mother emptied the entire box of pieces out on the floor again.

But what is the mother doing? Why is she doing this to her little one? I wondered.

“Now you’re going to pick the pieces up three times, until you learn your lesson to be neat and clean–always, and when we get home you’re going to clean up your toy box, just like you are doing with this puzzle and when you’re all grown up your life will shine like a star, instead of being such a damn slob.”

i was stunned. why would a mother treat her child like this?

i rolled up to the toilet and noticed no toilet paper, but remembered i had kleenex in my purse. so i used them, deciding not to ask the hateful woman for some. if i had spoken with her she would possibly yell at me and find something about me to pick on.

i hurried in the bathroom and flew from the scene, looking for a security officer to tell them what happened.

“Well, you know, we can’t get involved,” the officer said.

Uunless someone is killed, I thought.

Abuse lingers. It can grow, infect, and do serious damage.

The effects of abuse can last a lifetime.

Some things can be done. I know that to be true.

Don’t believe the lie. Stand up.

Tell them You Love Me, Mommy

We sat in private (a hospital waiting room years ago), talking. Painful. So painful I couldn’t speak.

Her little girl was visiting the most important person in her life. Tears filled her eyes and flowed down her cheeks. She fell into her stoic mother’s lap, wrapped her arms around her mother’s waist, reached for her mother’s hand, and begged her to “Tell them you love me, Mommy.”

I felt so out of place and wished I could have ran away, but I was a patient there (dental surgery at a major university hospital). So no such luck. I had to hear the little girl’s plea, feel her desperation, and want to shake the selfishness and hatred from the mother’s soul.

“Honey, you know I love you. Now get down–and stop it!” Dear mommy’s insincere tone of voice, with its intentional elevation to suggest a righteous emphasis, attempted to downplay the unspoken truth that she didn’t want to be bothered.

I fumed with anger–but it was none of my business. I had no right to butt in, yell at the mother, and carry the little girl home with me. I wasn’t even a relative.

“Mommy? Tell them you love me,” the child asked a second time.

I was feeling pretty rough after sitting from 9 a.m. to 4 p.m. in a dental chair while the team of three poked needles in my upper and lower gums, cut back the gum lines, shaved down the bone holding six upper and lower teeth, and poured in permanent glue to anchor brand new crown plates over my teeth. The surgery was finally over. The team had recommended two appointments to get the job done, but I didn’t want to have to look forward to another surgery and pushed for a one-time deal. And now it was over, except for the pain. But I was numb for now, not thinking about the agony ahead. Trust me, your mind would not have been on yourself, if you had seen and heard this poor child.

I left the waiting area and headed for the cafeteria to attempt to sip on some warm (per instructions from the dental department) coffee, realizing I was on liquids for the next day, then soft food for twenty-four hours and finally real food from that point on. I took a detour to the restroom, flipped on the light, and looked in the mirror at myself. Horror! I tried to open my dumb mouth to peek at the results of twelve brand new crowns, but all I could see were black threads, swollen gums, and blood.

Creepy! I looked like a monster.

Then I attempted to join the upper and lower crowns, but, unable to feel, a strong sense of powerlessness and helplessness suddenly ripped through my heart. Someone wanted the bathroom, so I washed my hands, scooted out the door, and decided to stop by the gift shop to buy the little girl a doll. I didn’t know if the child would even be there, but I took a risk, worrying as I raced from the gift shop to the elevator to head one floor up if the mother would even object.

My head was spinning as I got out of the elevator and zoomed into the waiting room. And there they were.

“Excuse me, miss, but I was wondering if I could give your little girl this doll?”

“Oh?! Why–sure.” The mother tried her best to smile, but appeared surprised–and speechless.

The little girl looked at the doll. And then she looked at me. A slow grin came on her face.

I kissed the doll on the forehead–and slowly handed it to her.

She reached out, took the doll, and she, too, kissed it on the forehead. Then she ran to me and kissed me on the forehead, stood close and let me kiss her on her forehead.

“I love you,” I said to her.

“I love you, too,” she responded with a smile, watching her mother turn her back against both of us.

She and the doll sat in the floor out of the way of traffic, embraced.

I rolled by her mother and whispered, “Thank you.”

“Thank you, too,” she responded.

I can’t explain the situation between the mother and daughter, but I’m glad we met– even if it was in painful circumstances.

After the Rain

Black clouds rolled over Beechwood Apartments, spilling a steady, gentle rain on the lawn. The dry Earth welcomed the moisture from the sky, open and waiting for more. I could smell the soil in my nostrils, and almost hear the flowers and grass laugh with pleasure of being bathed by the heavens’ soft water.

After the shower emptied its moisture on the nature’s tender surface, the bright sun gifted our flowers and trees with the warmth from the sky’s yellow rays, and dried their wet faces.

Suddenly, wet, soggy, non-picturesque floras, beaten by the wind and rain, burst into a beautiful bouquet. Surprise, I gazed at the clear pink blooms and thought about my life. I thought about the many miraculous gifts placed by God in the pathway I had wheeled, places loomed with darkness and pain. God had protected me from potential car accidents, rescued me from being froze to death in two snow storms, and, amidst danger, placed my feet on higher ground. Like the rain nourishing these precious plants, enhancing their color richness and growth, I had often been guarded and fed by my Holy Father.

Have you ever looked back on your life after the rain and thought, “Circumstances turned out better than I could have imagined?”

Isn’t it easy to look at the storm, get scared, and miss God’s presents to you and me?

The bountiful presents come, like soft rain and warm sun.

Feelings of thankfulness and a deep sense of peace swell in our hearts.

No One would Believe It, Even If I Told Them

I was so scared. How can I ever forget that day in the 80’s at the University of Maryland, a social work graduate student–and stuck. The snow was falling fast, sticking to the ground. It was the last day of the semester and I had to be there.

The ramp. Where was it? This was my first attempt to enter this particular building and all I saw were snow-covered steps. So I rolled around to the back of the large administration building and spotted the wheelchair access entrance. A sigh of relief came upon me, until I realized there was no one around–not even in hollering range. I was tempted to panic, but knew God saw everything.

I lifted my head to the sky and asked God for His help. Lord, there’s no one around and I’m freezing cold sitting out here, alone, in this snow storm. Please help me. I’ll die if you come. So please, Jesus, help me. I beg You. Please!

I spotted two security guards leaving an adjacent building, but knew I had to yell pretty loud  to be heard.

A deep breath, and then ” Hello! Would you please help me?”

One kept walking, throwing the heavy hood up over their head. But the other man with a stocking cap pulled down over his ears heard me calling and stopped to look at me. Realizing I  needed assistance, he left his partmer and rushed through the thick snow flurries to come to my rescue.

“Yes, sir, I need to enter the building through this doorway, but need help to open the door.”

The security officer tried the door, but it was locked. So he walked around to enter the building in the front and would unlock the door from the inside.

The wind had become gusty. My arms and legs were freezing. Now I was losing sensation in my feet ad hands. It seemed to take forever for him to open the door.

“Miss, there’s only two of us on duty and there has been construction going on. Of course, the workers are off for the holiday. The double doors have two pad locks on them and even if I had the chains and pad locks cut you would still have to be careful where you rolled with nails and boards laying on the floor.”

“Sir, I will freeze to death if I roll away from this building and seek shelter at another place. Most of the buildings are locked up.”

I trembled.

The security guard and I heard a loud sound coming from the direction of the door I desperately needed to enter.

POW! BOOM!

The power of God blew the door open with no one in sight to explain what happened.

“How this happened I cannot explain. Ma’am, all I can tell you it’s a miracle.”

Mask Off

 

 

 

 

 

All my life I had been looking for something, and everywhere I turned someone tried to tell me what it was.  I accepted their answers too, though they were often in contradiction and even self-contradictory.  I was naïve.  I was looking for myself and asking everyone except myself questions which I, and only I, could answer.  It took me a long time and much painful boomeranging of my expectations to achieve a realization everyone else appears to have been born with:  that I am nobody but myself.  ~Ralph Ellison, “Battle Royal”

 

So who am I? I thought.

Thought? Only once?

Well…

Okay, tell the truth. You’ve wondered that more than once. Right?

* * *

In the wee hours of the night, when morning is due to shine its bright face, I hide under my warm, cozy blanket and search for the mask I want to wear today.

It’s here, somewhere. Oh, there you are. Let’s see. Yep. I’ll take you. Everyone loves seeing you. They can continue feeling comfortable wearing their masks and I’ll continue feeling comfortable (Oh, really?!) wearing mine, and we’ll be one happy family, for another day.

I run in the bathroom to brush my teeth with a whitener, through on some clean clothes, pop on the mask, and head on out to play dress-up.

No time to fix coffee at home. I’ll run through a drive-in for coffee.

“Welcome to Quick fix. May I take your order?”

“Yes, uh.” I adjust my mask. It’s been wearing sores on my face. “Uh, yes, a strong coffee, please.”

I adjust my mask while I’m waiting, trying to loosen the worn rubber band that holds it in place.

POP!

The rubber band breaks.

Now what am I going to do? I wonder, and panic.

“Your coffee will be right out. Oh, I’m sorry. I thought you were a different customer. You’ll have to go to the back of the line.”

“No, you’re all wrong. I am me. Honest, I am!”

Like Ralph Ellison, “I was naïve…It took me a long time and much painful boomeranging of my expectations to achieve a realization everyone else appears to have been born with:  that I am nobody but myself.”

 

Sunshine on my Shoulders

It’s summer here in Tennessee, which reminds me of the song by John Denver with words “Sunshine on my shoulders makes me happy…” For me, it isn’t the sunshine that actually makes me happy, but what the warm, comforting rays make me think about. What a blessing to be encouraged by nature to ponder the goodness God has given me.

God has given me another day, people to love and be loved by, enjoyable work to serve Him through writing, art, and teaching–and I could go on. But the sunshine mostly reminds me of the most powerful blessing I’ve ever encountered: a solid, everlasting relationship with Jesus. Jesus, the assurance of everlasting life with the Lord. And for here and now? The courage to walk daily with Him on rocky and often scarey turf with a smile on my face, because all is truly well. Not to be haughty or pompous about being a Christian, but I must say I feel privileged to know our living God.

I’m glad God gave me the sunshine. The warm rays on my shoulders is one of the thousands of ways He continues to share His goodness.

Plenty Room for Excuses

This is an excerpt from my book, LETTERS IN MY CASKET, a novella set in World War II. A main character, Salena, serves in the military.  If you’re interested in reading more you can find this book by clicking on the link on my books page.

CHOICE: EXCUSE

Mother, I am proud of you! You made no excuses for yourself!

Daddy often bragged about you taking homemade pies and cakes to soldiers in the hospital, at a time when patriotism was low. God called you to comfort and cheer, an inmeasureable service you gave without limit.

There was plenty room in our family for excuses — just look at your health, the worn out dinnerware, and our leaky roof. We were poor, but our spirits sure were rich.

I know God gave us His son, Jesus Christ and that means we need nothing. You lived out that faith, but where was your struggle in all of this? You could have made some allowances. Everyone is entitled to a bad day!

Now, I am an adult who finds it tough to cry. Feelings that plead for expression are never given a chance. Sometimes I get frustrated with being unable to validate my own pain.

Look what you did to yourselves, first — Daddy with nightmares and you with all that nervous energy. I love you both with tears of sorrow, seeing what trying to be good Christians did to you. God knows you did your best. I do not mean to be critical.

I love and honor Christ, too. But weeping is part of trusting Him with all of us.

Thank you for being so great. I admire you both.

Your daughter,

Salena

“You are always righteous, O Lord, when I bring a case before you. Yet I would speak with you about your justice….” Jeremiah 12:1