Category: Emotional Health

Advent, Bible, Birthdays, Children, Choices, Christmas, Courage, Depression, Emotional Health, Faith, Family, Generations, Grace, Grandchildren, Grief, Hope, Love, Parents, Peace, Prayer, Recovery, Relationships, Service to Others, Spirituality, Stories, The Holidays, Thoughts From the Porch

Christmas 2023

gregoryjoel

Time goes by far too quickly these days. It’s difficult to believe that December is here. It seems like I was planning Spring crops just a short while ago. It’s almost time to do so again. The seventy-five-degree high predicted is a reminder of that. Just so you all know, we still have tomatoes at Opal’s Farm. The first freeze hasn’t hit us yet. We get the “heat island” effect from being so close to downtown…

Today is one month since my last cigarette so I guess I can’t really call this “Thoughts From the Porch”. I’ve stayed away from the front porch and concentrated on the back yard outside my office. It helps with the cravings. The main thing that helps with the cravings though is the near-constant praying to stay smoke-free. So far, so good, and so much for the news updates…

The holidays are tough for me. My son, Jeremy, was born on Christmas Day. I’ve had difficulty with the holidays since his passing – so much so that my wife started calling me the Grinch last year. I try to show some Christmas spirit but I’m not successful at faking it. I’m hoping I can do better this year.

I’ve been especially blessed to be far more involved in my grandchildren’s life this past year. I’ve been able to spend more time with them than ever before. I’m not always sure they appreciate it as much now as they’re both young teenagers – why is it teenagers rarely give more than one-word answers?

Spending time with them is such a gift and sometimes, a curse – at least where grief is concerned.

They are both very much Jeremy’s children. Lucas looks so much like him that it brings tears sometimes. His mannerisms are – a constant reminder of Jeremy. Izabella, or Simone as Jeremy called (her middle name is Simone after Nina Simone) has every bit of his wit and often, sarcasm. Together they are amazing. My daughter-in-law, Amber, has done an amazing job raising them and getting them through losing their dad. She and I can share our grief that still comes in tidal waves at times.

But back to Christmas…

I’ve had a lackluster approach to Christmas since my parents passed away, especially Dad. He was Mister Christmas. It was his favorite holiday. He made the season special; especially where my boys were concerned. Much of that had to do with my parenting or lack thereof and my addiction had a lot to do with that. Still, he was my Christmas light and I enjoyed participating each year.

After his passing, Christmas was not as big of a deal. My mom moved to an apartment in a Senior Living Center so big celebrations rarely occurred. The last years before she passed in 2017 she moved to Atlanta to be near my sister. I always hated the idea of trying to find a gift for Mom. She was extremely hard to buy for and her body language often revealed her disappointment in my gifts. (***side note – she told me that my sobriety and my relationship with God were the best gifts I could’ve ever given her.)

When Jeremy died, the best thing about Christmas became January 2nd as it would be in the past and I had survived what felt like unbearable grief. I’ve shared that with my wife (as if she couldn’t tell) and she’s always been understanding. This year has been different. I came home from work the other day and she told me that I needed to become Mister Christmas. It was my turn. Dad and Jeremy were no longer there, and the tradition shouldn’t die with them. My grandkids needed me to be that very thing. I think my wife needs that too.

Christmas was never a religious holiday for me. I grew up in the Church of Christ and they didn’t celebrate it as Jesus’ birthday because that’s not in the Bible – which begets the question why they didn’t celebrate Easter because we know what that date is, but I digress… It was significant to my wife though and now the holiday needs to be special for my grandkids as well.

When I finish writing this, I will climb the attic stairs and pull down the Christmas tree and decorations. I’ll rearrange the living room to accommodate the tree and place it where Margaret, my wife, can enjoy looking at it. It’s likely I’ll shed a few tears as I place Jeremy’s ornaments – both the ones he made and the ones we were given over the years – on the tree. I’ll brave the tangle of lights and let Margaret direct the decorating. Afterwards, I’ll turn on the lights for all of us and pray that I can be Mister Christmas this year. I’ll swallow my sadness and allow the grief to come when I’m alone. Christmas is about everyone else anyway and I’ll not deny them that.

I won’t lie about my feelings. God made sure of that. I was at a recovery meeting recently and met two other people for whom grief is all too real. One gentleman lost his wife. The other lost her seventeen-year-old son to an overdose in May. I can seriously relate, and I can offer support and an ear because I’ve three years of experience to offer. I don’t have any answers, but I can be present for them while they search for their own. God has a way of turning tragedy into something – I don’t want to say something positive – but an opportunity to show His love and grace – to love others better.

My sponsor and friend Jim told me a long time ago that helping others and being there for others was the best way to find peace. Maybe that’s what comes this year. I hope and pray it comes for all of us.

Merry Christmas everyone…

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Adoption, Depression, Emotional Health, Events, Generations, Gratitude, Grief, History, Parents, Relationships, Songs, Stories, Thoughts From the Porch, Writing

The Prodigal Son…

gregoryjoel

I was enjoying some time on the front porch last night before going to bed. It was still warm at 9:30 PM here in Texas so I didn’t intend to spend too much time, but grief had other plans…

I lost my mother a couple of weeks ago. I returned to Kentucky last weekend for the funeral. I visited with my brothers at Momma’s house for a while on Saturday. The general consensus being we were all simply trying to process that Momma was gone. The air was filled with sadness and the emptiness was an oppressive reminder of why we were there.

My little sister arrived and promptly ignored any of the things Momma and I had talked about concerning my brother Danny who is deaf. She made it clear that Danny wasn’t coming to visit, and they had it all under control. My other brother voiced his support as well. I guess I felt a little blind-sided. It dawned on me that things were going to be far different with Momma gone. The events at the funeral were further confirmation of this fact.

I know we all have a different grief process. Funerals are not for everyone. The grief is far too raw and mostly keeps the family in a numb state. There are things to be done in preparation for the event and the choreography of remembering one’s loved one requires some degree of detachment from the one lost just to make it to the day of the funeral.

The funeral (or the politically correct term – “celebration of life”) followed the pattern of most such occasions – the viewing, the family reception line, and the line of friend of the deceased walking past the family to pay their respects. I chose not to stand in line until my son insisted that I go up there and stand with the family – my family. I wasn’t in line long before it became apparent (at least felt like) I wasn’t welcome in the reception line. I returned to my seat (which was in the family section) and spent the remaining time talking to Margaret and my cousins who had come from Texas to send Momma off.

When the funeral was over, we followed in the procession to the cemetery. There was a brief graveside service and my brother-in-law, Adam, who is the go-to expert on family history (he’s an amazing wealth of knowledge) told me about all the folks and relatives buried around Momma. We then went to Flint Ridge, the family farm, and ate a meal provided by Momma’s church. Afterward, goodbyes were said, and we all left to return home and begin the full process of grieving.

I returned to Fort Worth the next day and the hours of the return drive were mostly filled with silence and occasional conversation about the feelings I had. My wife Margaret and I are both in recovery and one of our mantras is “feelings are not facts”. Just because I felt isolated and uncomfortable doesn’t mean that my brothers and sisters tried to make me feel that way. By the time I got home the farm had so many things going that I was lost in trying to play catch-up. Maybe that explains last night’s flood of sobs.

Suddenly, I felt a loneliness I haven’t known in a long while. The losses hit with the force of hurricane winds – my momma, my mom and dad, my son Jeremy, my dear friend and mentor, Jim, my best friend David, and my friend Eduardo. It didn’t seem to matter that my life is still full of people I love dearly and that love me – my wife, my oldest son, my step kids, my sponsor and confidant, Edgar, Ms. Opal, Dione and my Unity family. It just felt cold and alone. The tears welled up and when the dam broke, I couldn’t stop crying and slinging snot. I wanted to hold my grandchildren (teenagers probably wouldn’t like that) and call my son, Adrian, right away.

The last few years have seen unimaginable loss for me. It shouldn’t surprise me. My family, good friends, and I all qualify as senior citizens (young senior citizens I might add), and these things happen as we get older. It’s how life is. I don’t know what the future holds. I’ve learned to live in the moment, one day at a time, so I don’t have to figure out my Kentucky family right now. I simply need to feel my feelings, love my family and friends, and carry on the work God has given me to do each day. Amid it all I need to find the things for which I’m grateful.

Some days will be easy. Some days will not. I’ve walked this path before, and each loss affects me differently. I simply need to let it be until the feelings are more stable. Grief is a rollercoaster and while the ride finds its end, the memories (and the scars) remain.

I came in and the stereo was playing “The Funeral” by the Turnpike Troubadours. God must love irony because He couldn’t have timed a better song to hear. It’s how I felt at Momma’s funeral. Maybe you get what I mean…

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Too Late to be a Good Samaritan

gregoryjoel

Fall is normally my time for self-introspection. North Texas summers usually keep that habit away – one can only think of finding air conditioning! It’s been above one hundred degrees for most of the summer with constant excessive heat warnings. Nights have stayed above eighty degrees since the first week of July so there’s little relief when evening comes. Most of North Texas is in severe drought. I suspect the media is right when they refer to this as the “new normal”. The sad thing is that everyone seems to accept it and do little to mitigate the problem, but that’s another blog post…

Back to reflection…

It was 111 degrees according to my truck thermometer when I left the farm. I cranked the air conditioning and headed to the house for a Zoom meeting. It was a brief hour break on a hot summer day to enjoy the AC, grab a snack, and change out of sweat-soaked clothes. I headed towards the turn to Interstate Thirty and there he was – lying next to the entrance ramp – sun beating down on him a mere three feet from the shade of an overpass. He was on his back and his arms outstretched slightly to the sky above. He was in the direct sunlight with shade only a couple of feet away. It was obvious he wasn’t merely sleeping. He was dead. His arms were stiff, rigor mortis had set in, and his body bloated from the afternoon sun.

One officer from the Fort Worth police came followed by the Tarrant County Medical Examiner’s van. I stayed long enough to give a statement and notice all the cars going by. How long had he been there, and no one noticed, or cared enough, to stop and call 911? I remembered the parable of the Good Samaritan. I guess I wouldn’t qualify here. I didn’t get here soon enough. I wondered what I would’ve done if I did…

The crime scene tape was never put up, no investigation made, and the ME loaded the body to take back to the morgue. The whole affair was over in about thirty minutes. The police seemed put out that the ME was taking so long. Just another homeless guy. No signs of violent trauma so time to get on to more important things like the comfort of air-conditioned squad car.

The scene has been seared on my brain ever since. I can’t help but wonder who the man was – what was his name, where was his family? Few people are totally alone in this world although many feel that way. He was somebody’s son, maybe a father, or maybe a brother. Would they find his family and report his death? Would he be missed? Would anyone grieve over his passing? Would anyone care? The news came on that evening. No one talked about the passing of another homeless person. I wasn’t surprised. Anonymous dead homeless guys simply aren’t newsworthy.

The farm is close to the night shelter and Union Gospel Mission. The city has worked hard to isolate the homeless (or more PC – “unhoused”) population to the “mission district”. Still, there’s far more homeless people than there are beds. Around the bend in the river there are several acres of thickets between the old drive-in and Gateway Park. There you’ll find several homeless camps and their number is growing every year. If you look closely, you find camps all around the city – under bridges, wooded areas, abandoned houses. The Tarrant County Homeless Coalition reported that “more than 5,000 households experienced homelessness throughout 2022 in Tarrant County” (Fort Worth Star- Telegram, February 13th, 2023).

We often have some homeless folks who make their way along Trinity Trail above the farm. They will occasionally ask for a bottle of water or rest in the shade of the farm’s only tree. Sometimes they carry on loud, and sometimes angry conversations with people unseen by us. Mental illness accounts for a significant portion of the homeless population. Panhandlers covered all the main intersections from the freeway to the farm. It’s easy to look past them; to avoid eye contact and hope the stoplight changes before they approach the car. I know. I’m guilty at times.

I’ve been praying about that a lot the last couple of weeks. I’ve been in their shoes and yet I forget all about them when my life got back on track. Suddenly, I’m too busy “doing good things with the farm” to notice them, to really see them, or to have a kind word. I become the priest or the Levite in Jesus’ tale of the Good Samaritan. It’s not that I don’t care. I’m just in too big of a hurry and don’t want to have any distractions from the day ahead. I have important things to do – at least in my own mind – and I fail to see Jesus right in front of me (see Matthew Chapter 25…?). Nothing is too important to not to see and acknowledge the divine in each of God’s kids.

Joan Osborne recorded a song in 1995 that resonates with me today especially. It reminds me that I can see God everywhere. He might even be panhandling on the street corner.

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Celebrating Juneteenth and Freedom

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Happy Juneteenth to you all! Ms. Opal’s Walk for Freedom starts at 9:30 this morning. I hope you can be there. I will be at Opal’s Farm irrigating since veggies don’t like the hundred-degree heat. It is June in Texas!

I hope you all take a moment to reflect on the celebration of emancipation and what that means for all of us. I keep hearing Bob Marley’s “Redemption Song” in my head this morning – “Emancipate yourself from mental slavery none but ourselves can free our mind”. Freedom from racism, from hate, from all the isms and ways of thinking that hold us all in bondage. As Ms. Opal Lee always reminds us, “If someone can be taught to hate then they can be taught to love” and “No one is free until we are all free.”

I hope you all celebrate release from bondage today in the spirit of Juneteenth and freedom for all. Ms. Opal says we should celebrate from Juneteenth to July 4th. I can do that and hope you all will too!

Side note – Taste of Juneteenth will be on July 1st at Panther Island Pavilion. There will be BBQ pitmasters competing in the BBQ cookoff and delicious sides. Come for a day of celebration and great food!

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kOFu6b3w6c0

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Enough is Enough

gregoryjoel

I sat on the porch this morning drinking coffee and soaking in the morning. It’s been sprinkling off and on all morning but not enough to keep the mockingbirds and the doves from their vibrant singing and cooing. It’s been unseasonably cool and overcast this morning, but the birds reminded me Spring is really here.

It’s times like these I see how blessed I am. I most certainly don’t deserve it. I spent most of my life making poor choices and living the way addiction dictated how I live. It wasn’t until almost twenty years ago that I finally surrendered, choosing life, and living in the Spirit as best I can. I haven’t been wealthy – this is not another “Prosperity Gospel” tale – but I’ve always had enough. Enough truly is enough…

I was speaking with a friend the other day. They have lived a life of escaping poverty. They grew up in the rural Midwest where the average income was less than ten thousand dollars a year (substantially less) and they didn’t even have electricity for many years of their young life. It’s still difficult for me to remember that there were (and are) people who lived like that in the twentieth and twenty-first centuries. As a result, they spend time worrying about never having enough and the fear of losing what they have.

I have also lived in poverty in the past, but mine was of my own making. It was something I never imagined growing up in an upper middle-class home in the suburbs. The fear and constant looking over my shoulder and harming the very ones I loved was something I never intended, but it became more real as my addiction progressed. I often fail to understand the trauma that comes with poverty forced on someone by birthplace and circumstance. I can’t pretend to know the fear that comes with falling back into such a state. I can, however, be present to the reality of my friend.

I believe that has led to so much introspection over the last few weeks. Most of the fear has been removed through my years of recovery. I’m no longer confused. As Brennan Manning says, “Everything is grace.” I have what I have, not because of my own efforts, but because God has graciously provided enough – enough of life’s necessities so I can share and be of service to those around me. I work hard because I have something to offer the world around me. As such, it’s become much easier to live in the world and to be present.

Photo by Hugo Magalhaes on Pexels.com

Saint Francis said, “Above all the grace and gifts that Christ gives to his beloved is that of overcoming self.” It constantly amazes me when I find joy in driving in rush hour traffic because the bluebonnets and other wildflowers are in full bloom along the side of the freeway. When I let go of who I think I am, both when I have an over-inflated ego or tell myself I’m the scum of the Earth – I’m free to acknowledge what a loving God thinks of me. I see the God lives in everything that surrounds me.

“We have very little, so we have nothing to be preoccupied with. The more you have, the more you are occupied, the less you give. But the less you have, the more free you are.”

– Mother Teresa

As I sit at my desk writing this morning, I have four dogs sleeping all around my feet. Ricky and Lucy – the “twins” have exhausted themselves playing together. Jameson is laid across my feet, most likely keeping me working (I’m afraid to move but my foot’s going to sleep!). Sadie is gently snoring by my side. I’m not sure life will get any better. They remind me constantly that I’m important to them and somehow, it’s a constant reminder that God loves me unconditionally. They remind me that “everything is grace” …

If you decide for God, living a life of God-worship, it follows that you don’t fuss about what’s on the table at mealtimes or whether the clothes in your closet are in fashion. There is far more to your life than the food you put in your stomach, more to your outer appearance than the clothes you hang on your body. Look at the birds, free and unfettered, not tied down to a job description, careless in the care of God. And you count more than birds.

Has anyone by fussing in front of the mirror ever gotten taller. All this time and money wasted on fashion – do you think it makes much difference? Instead of looking at the fashions, walk out into the fields and look at the wildflowers. They never primp or shop, but have you ever seen color and design quite like it? The ten best-dressed men and women in the country look shabby beside them.

If God gives such attention to the wildflowers… don’t you think he’ll attend to you, take pride in you, do what’s best for you. What I’m trying to do is get you to relax, to not be so preoccupied with getting, so you can respond to God’s giving… Steep your life in God-reality, God-initiative, God-provisions. Don’t worry about missing out. You’ll find all your human concerns will be met.”

Matthew 6.27-33 (The Message – Jesus quoted by Eugene Peterson)