Category: Writing

Animal Shelters, Connection, Courage, Dogs, Events, Faith, Gratitude, Grief, Horses, Identification, Love, Pets, Prayer, Quotes, Relationships, Spirituality, Stories, Thoughts From the Porch, Writing

Dogs, Horses, and Maddie

gregoryjoel

I went to the farm Sunday afternoon to water the newly seeded beds. It may have rained a lot of last week, but new seedlings require consistent water to germinate well. Besides, I like Sunday afternoons. I enjoy the solitude of the day. It’s quiet except for the occasional bicyclists whizzing down the Trinity Trail, encouraging each other as they ride past.

I noticed a grey compact car parked toward the back of the empty lot in front of our barn. It’s not unusual for people to park in the vacant lot and walk down to fish or walk the trails so I paid it no mind. I drove down to dump compost before returning to open the barn and getting the generator out. As I unlocked the barn, I caught a glimpse of an older man sitting in the grass next to the tree in the vacant lot. He grabbed my attention because he didn’t look like most of the folks going fishing or the homeless people that frequent this part of Sylvania Street and the Trinity Trail. He was dressed in a sport shirt and jeans, his hair neatly combed, and gave off a fatherly aura, if there is such a thing.

It was then I noticed who he was talking to. It was a beautiful black and brown German Shepherd. I looked back at the barn door quickly as if my eyes had intruded on a very important and precious moment. I don’t know anything about that man or his dog, but I do know about something about men and their dogs (no offense to my wife or all the other female dog lovers). There was something deeply personal and tender about what I had seen. There was a sense of sadness in the picture. It was as if he were saying goodbye to an old friend. Could it be that he was spending his last day with his faithful friend? I have no reason to know this was the case except for the feeling in my gut. A tear blurred my vision as I opened the door and stepped into the barn.

I hurriedly loaded my truck with the generator and some tools and left as quietly and as quickly as I could. I went about my chores but couldn’t shake the image I had just witnessed.

I’ve always had a special relationship with all the dogs who have graced my life. I’m convinced that the world needs more dogs (and horses but that’s another story…) and less people. It’s no surprise to me that dog is simply “god” spelled backwards. They share the unconditional love quality of the Creator. I needed to be around such unconditional love more than ever. That’s when Maddie, and a couple of months later Missy, came to live with me.

Maddie was half Dachshund and half German Shepherd. I’m not sure which one was the father, but I’m convinced it was not the Dachshund. I can’t figure how that would’ve worked if it was. She looked like a Dachshund with a semi-German Shepherd head. My first thought was that she was so ugly she was cute. That changed soon enough.

 Maddie was eleven years old when she came into my life. Her owner had lived at Samaritan House, a transitional housing place for homeless folks with HIV/AIDS, and been the caretaker for the house dog, Maddie. The two became inseparable. When her owner moved into her own place Maddie went with her. Unfortunately, her owner passed the same year I found myself at Samaritan House and getting clean from too many years of addiction.

Her owner’s sister brought Maddie back to Samaritan House because the only other alternative for her was the shelter. I volunteered to keep her, and we bonded immediately. She became my dog.

Three months later Missy came into our home. I was doing some landscape work for a friend. She had two dogs: one a Boston Terrier and the other a Sheltie named Missy. She had taken Missy in from a breeder and then discovered she was incredibly allergic to Missy’s long hair. She asked if I would like to take her. I said yes without hesitation even though I wasn’t sure if I was allowed to have her in my little apartment. Moreover, I wasn’t sure how it would work with Maddie. I’d figure it out. When my friend said her good-byes to Missy, I opened my truck door and Missy jumped in. She never looked back.

I finally moved from Samaritan House to my very own place. It didn’t have a fence, but I didn’t have to worry about the dogs. Missy kept Maddie safe and would always herd Maddie back to the house when she wandered off. She got along well with Maddie, but Maddie made sure everyone knew she was the alpha in our little pack. Maddie would stand at the food bowls, while Missy waited patiently for Maddie to finish eating. Maddie would empty her bowl, walk over to Missy’s bowl, and lick the top and sides of the food bowl just to show she could.  She wouldn’t eat any mind you, but she made it quite clear who was in charge. When bedtime came Maddie slept by my head and Missy slept at my feet.

Maddie was eleven years old when she came to live with me. I knew when I took her in that I may not have her long. Despite the tendency of Dachshunds and Shepherds to have hip and back issues as they age, Maddie never had those problems.  She may have slowed a bit, but she was full of energy, bringing joy and love to my home.

\When I moved in with my “adopted brother” Craig a couple of years later, she wormed her way into his heart. The dogs who would “have to stay outside” still slept with me and often took on the role of service dog to Craig. He had severe diabetes and both Missy and Maddie warned me when his blood sugar dropped too low. He often told me how special they were to him.

It was 2011 and the morning was unusually hot and humid for the early Spring. I began my morning ritual of letting the dogs outside and making the morning coffee. Missy bound out the back door, but Maddie stayed in her bed. She had given up sleeping with me a few weeks earlier. She could no longer jump up on the bed and preferred her little mattress on the floor next to me. She had been sleeping more than usual, but at the ripe old age of sixteen she was entitled to take her time waking up.

I finished my morning ritual and headed off to work. Missy was at the door when I returned. She was running back and forth to my bedroom, baking for me to follow. Maddie was still in her bed. I reached down to love on her when I noticed she had messed on herself. I gently picked her up, cleaned her off, and placed her on the bed next to me. Missy sat at attention with a concerned look on her face. Maddie hadn’t eaten in a couple of days and now she even refused the dog treat I offered her. I knew it was her time. I began to sob uncontrollably, hugging my sweet Maddie as she laid her head in my lap.

I agonized over the decision I knew I had to make. Maybe she had caught a bug, or it was something she ate and she’ll be better in the morning. I knew it was simply wishful thinking. She had lived a long full life, loving those of us who God put in her path – at Samaritan House, with her caretaker, and with me. She was a rescue dog who really the rescuer. I had been given time with her I never expected and now couldn’t think of life without Maddie. Even Missy could sense that the end was near and come over to love on Maddie and I.

I didn’t sleep much that night. I checked on Maddie frequently through the night to make sure she was comfortable. When morning came, I told Craig what I had to do. He sat down with me in our morning coffee spot – his garage wood shop – and asked if he could pray for us. We prayed together; both choking back the tears. He shared my pain and knew he couldn’t fix the problem. He could be there for me. I’ve been blessed by the people God has put in my life as well. That point isn’t lost on me.

I got showered and dressed slowly. Every moment felt like a weight keeping me down and struggling to just “be”. I wrapped a blanket around Maddie and gently picked her up. Missy followed us to the truck and stopped short. She knew that it would only be Maddie and I leaving today. I think she knew that only I would be returning.

I drove to the Humane Society shelter – the same one Maddie had come from all those years ago – and explained our situation to the receptionist. I couldn’t afford a veterinarian, but I couldn’t let Maddie suffer any longer. She was so kind and said to simply donate what I could at another time. She called the veterinary tech while I left to bring Maddie from the truck.

We went to a private room behind the office. There the tech explained to me what he was going to be doing, that Maddie would simply go to sleep, and asked if I wanted to stay with Maddie. There was no question. I had to be there to love her until the end. He then brought out the syringe and administered the shot. “It might take a few minutes”, he said, “because her metabolism has slowed so much.” I wasn’t sure if it was good or bad. I didn’t want to leave Maddie, but I felt myself breaking down. Maddie’s breath began to slow. She looked at me one last time as I held her.

Maddie took her last breath and died in my arms. The tech said to take as much time as I needed. The receptionist brought me a note, thanking Maddie for her years of service to the HIV community and with it a note about the Rainbow Bridge:

“Just this side of heaven is a place called Rainbow Bridge.

When an animal dies that has been especially close to someone here, that pet goes to Rainbow Bridge. There are meadows and hills for all of our special friends so they can run and play together. There is plenty of food, water and sunshine, and our friends are warm and comfortable.

All the animals who had been ill and old are restored to health and vigor. Those who were hurt or maimed are made whole and strong again, just as we remember them in our dreams of days and times gone by. The animals are happy and content, except for one small thing; they each miss someone very special to them, who had to be left behind.

They all run and play together, but the day comes when one suddenly stops and looks into the distance. His bright eyes are intent. His eager body quivers. Suddenly he begins to run from the group, flying over the green grass, his legs carrying him faster and faster.

You have been spotted, and when you and your special friend finally meet, you cling together in joyous reunion, never to be parted again. The happy kisses rain upon your face; your hands again caress the beloved head, and you look once more into the trusting eyes of your pet, so long gone from your life but never absent from your heart.

Then you cross Rainbow Bridge together….”

Author unknown…

I don’t know if the man I saw was going through these same feelings or the same situation. What I do know is that whatever he was going through his faithful companion would be there until the end. That’s what dogs do.

One of my favorite author, Brennan Manning, tells a story of watching a dog being dumped on the side of the road. As the car sped off, the dog ran down the road chasing the car, pursuing his owner with all his might even though he was rejected and abandoned. God is like that with us. Regardless of how much we have rejected and abandoned Him he pursues us with His unwavering love and forgiveness, wanting to be with us every no matter what.

I guess that’s why Dog is God spelled backwards…

Bad Weather, Christmas, Family, Generations, Relationships, Stories, Writing

Christmas Eve 1982

gregoryjoel

I watched the snow fall outside my study window as I enjoyed my coffee and wrote in my journal. No cars could be found on the street. That was highly unusual on Logan Street, even for Christmas Eve. The cars that were parked out there were virtually covered by the falling snow. An occasional gust of wind piled the snow even higher so they couldn’t be seen from our side of the street. “She probably is in labor”, I muttered to myself. I had no idea how we’d get to the hospital.

I heard Jennine in the back of the house. A few minutes later she was at my study door. Her “good morning” was sidetracked when she looked out the window. “Where did that come from? It was only supposed to be a couple of inches”.

“More like a couple feet is more accurate. I’m going to turn on the news”, I said as I got up from my chair and headed for the living room. The television came to life as I went in the kitchen. “What do you want for breakfast? I’m not fixing any burritos”, I chuckled. It was a long-standing joke that my famous green chili burritos had been responsible for Jennine’s labor with our first son, who was now well awake in his crib. “I got him “, I told her as I turned and walked downstairs.

Coffee mugs were filled, Adrian’s breakfast served, and a plate delivered to my wife in the living room. The TV caught my attention. All the news was about the Christmas Storm that started in the wee hours of the morning. A list of business and government office closures ran across the bottom of the screen. My traditional Christmas Eve half-day and lunch weren’t going to happen. I said a silent prayer that Jeremy, the newest addition to the Joel household, would wait until the snowplows could do their job. I would find out after the fact that it wouldn’t really matter, but more on that later.

We were definitely in for the day, so we sat together in the living room, sharing coffee and hot chocolate, and doing last minute gift wrapping. The news had been replaced by VHS tapes – we’d bought a VCR and that was serious high tech in 1982 – and we watched a Christmas movie together.

Photo by Colin Lloyd on Pexels.com

Jennine called her parents who lived up Lookout Mountain to the west of Denver. They wouldn’t be able to get out until the snowplows arrived either. My parents were staying with friends while they were in town and faced the same situation. My sister was flying in from Fort Worth for the birth of the new addition to the family and to celebrate Christmas together. Unfortunately, the Denver airport was closed – no flights coming in or going out. She sat at DFW Airport for several hours waiting for the weather to clear until it became obvious that reopening wouldn’t be happening anytime soon.

It was great to have time together with just us. Family Christmases are wonderful but somewhat chaotic. We weren’t going anywhere, and no one was coming over. It was quite peaceful except for the persistent sense of anxiety about getting to the hospital should the need arise. The news was now putting out an appeal for anyone with four-wheel drive vehicles to help shuttle paramedics to emergency calls. The ambulances were having trouble getting anywhere in the blizzard.

Jennine had gone throughout the daylight hours without any more contractions. I was holding out hope that Jeremy would be content to make his entrance to the world under better weather conditions. However, from the very beginning, Jeremy always had his own ideas, and they were usually counter to mine.

Jennine and I lived in Fort Worth when Adrian was born. We were part of an HMO so the only hospital we could use for delivery was in North Dallas. When Jennine went into labor with Adrian, I flew down the freeway with emergency flashers on as I darted through Dallas traffic to get her to the hospital. I needn’t have stressed. Jennine ended up being in labor for thirty-one hours before Adrian was born. I silently prayed that if Jennine did go into labor, it would be a long one even though I didn’t want to see her in pain. I didn’t know how Iwas going to get her to the hospital. The idea of delivering a baby scared the daylights out of me. I could do it if need be, I told myself but I didn’t want to find out.

It continued to snow throughout the day. The chain link fence in the backyard disappeared under the blanket of white. My car in the driveway soon followed suite. We thought we’d be spending the rest of an uneventful Christmas Eve relaxing in the comfort of our living room and being generally lazy. I fixed an early dinner, washed the dishes, and Adrian and I retired to the living room. Jennine came in later looking concerned and stated the “we may have a problem”.

“What do you mean?”

She calmly said, “I mean I think I’m in labor” as she slid back on the sofa.

I’m not sure how long I sat in stunned silence as my brain began running hundreds of scenarios; all of which pointed to delivering a baby at home. “How far a part are the contractions? Never mind, tell me when the next one starts and ends.” I went into manager mode. “It’s quite obvious we’re not going to be able to get to the hospital. Hell, I can’t even find my car under all the snow. I’m calling 911”.

I tried to be as calm as possible even though I was totally terrified. Jennine told me her contractions were starting. She finally sighed they were over, and I started to count. I gazed at my watch for what seemed an eternity and then another one started She sighed and said, “another one started. How long?”

“Seven minutes. They’re at seven minutes” as I dialed 911. Jennine still had several hours to go when she was in labor with Adrian. I prayed for similar results, but I knew deep down it was not going to be anything like that. Everyone warned me about second births – they go much quicker. The mother’s body says let’s get this over with as they learned from the first time around.

“911, what’s your emergency”. At least the phones worked!

I explained that my wife was due on the 23rd and just started labor. Our doctor was at St. Joseph Hospital. What were we to do?”

The 911 operator ran down the list of questions all 911 calls receive. Yes, she’s still breathing. No, she’s not bleeding, and her water hasn’t broken. Her contractions are seven minutes apart. After answering all her questions, she told me in a very calm and composed manner that we would have to take an ambulance to the nearest hospital with labor and delivery and a maternity ward – which wasn’t going to be St. Joe’s.

“Okay, okay, but how long until the ambulance gets here?”

“Right now, it looks like it will be four hours until we can get someone out there.” I greeted the news with stone-cold silence. “Sir, are you there? Did you hear me?”

“Yes” I mumbled with a mix of anger and fear. She wasn’t going to last four hours. “Thank you. We’ll be ready”.

“What’d they say?”, Jennine asked.

“Four hours before we can hope the see an ambulance and we have to go to the nearest hospital with a maternity ward”, I declared flatly. “Let’s keep track of the contractions for now”. Concentrating on the time between contractions might hold off some of the terror I was feeling. I thought of that classic line from Gone With the Wind, “I don’t know nothing about birthing no babies”…

I called my parents and told them what was happening: we were waiting for an ambulance, and we’d have to take Adrian to the hospital with us when it got here. Was there any way for them to get to the hospital to get him? Dad said they didn’t know how, but they’d start making some calls to all their friends. I made other calls to friends and family to let everyone know what was going on. Adrian’s diaper bag was ready, and Jennine’s “Go Bag’ was sitting by the front door. Now we wait.

We didn’t have to wait long. It had only been thirty minutes when there was a loud knock on the door. I opened it to find two paramedics in insulated coveralls and a middle-aged gentleman in a heavy coat and a cowboy hat. Apparently, he had volunteered his four-wheel drive Jeep Waggoneer to shuttle paramedics about. I invited them in a they began the same barrage of questions the 911 dispatcher had asked earlier. They finished checking Jennine’s vitals and told us we were going to Swedish Hospital. It was the closest one with a maternity ward. I grabbed Adrian, they grabbed the bags, and we headed out across the snow-covered yard to the Waggoneer on the street.

It’s important to note that it had snowed more than three feet in the previous twelve hours. Jennine was only five foot three and very pregnant (Jeremy was a big baby). This made the seventy-five-foot journey from the house to the car interesting to say the least. I held Adrian with one arm and Jennine with my free hand. The gentleman driver held her other hand as we navigated the path left by the paramedics. We all plowed through the snow until we got to the car. Jeep Waggoneers are larger than a regular Jeep model and can seat four people comfortably unless, like our entourage, there were heavy medical bags and six people. Jennine sat in front and the paramedics, Adrian, and I squeezed in the back. We finally managed to get the doors shut when the driver announced that the windshield wipers were no longer working, and he would have to have the windows down as he and Jennine reached outside to keep the windows clear enough to drive. So, off to the hospital we went with the driver and a very pregnant and in labor Jennine scraped the windows as best they could in the falling snow.

Children, Choices, Consequences, Emotional Health, Family, Generations, Grandchildren, Grief, Recovery, Relationships, Storytelling, Thoughts From the Porch, What Can I Do, Writing

The Way It Was…

gregoryjoel

It’s hard to believe September is already here. Labor Day is the unofficial beginning of Fall so the temperatures here have dropped to the nineties instead of the triple digits and we might even celebrate Labor Day with some rain. I’m hoping but it is Texas after all…

I haven’t written much lately. The heat and oppressive humidity dulled the thinking, and work has taken all the energy I may have. Getting out of sweat-soaked clothes and laying in front of the air conditioning has been norm the last month or so. It’s also the end of our fiscal year at work so evenings are filled with year-end reports and audits. It’s rare to stay awake through the ten pm weather report but that’s okay. The forecast doesn’t change in August. It’s just going to be hot and dry.

My youngest grandkids started school in the middle of last month. Things have changed since I was young. The school year started the day after Labor Day and ended the day before Memorial Day. We didn’t have Monday holidays, so we celebrated them on whatever day of the week they fell on. It seems a bit cruel to send kids back to school while the swimming pools are still open, but I digress…

I have had the privilege of picking my grandkids up from school for a couple of years now. My oldest, Baillie, is working in Alaska, but both of the others are in high school, although they attend different schools. Lucas is close enough to walk to and from Pascal High School where he’s a freshman this year. I get to pick him up on the days he stays late.

Izabella was accepted into the Visual Performing Arts program at I.M. Terrell Academy, which is only two minutes away from the farm. I.M. Terrell was the black high school for many years in Fort Worth when schools were still segregated. Moreover, it’s Ms. Opal Lee’s alma mater. She’s thrilled that Iza is there. It hasn’t hurt Iza that her grandfather works for Terrell’s most famous alumnus.

I’m reminded daily how much I love my grandkids and how much I miss their father. He would (and I’m sure that on another plane he is) be so proud of them. I hope he would be proud of me as well for being there for them. I often wasn’t there for him when he was that age. Addiction has stolen so much from us. It stole both my son’s father and my grandkid’s father. The only difference is that I get the opportunity to make living amends. Jeremy, my son, lost that opportunity on May 29th, 2020.

It’s been four years since he passed. His car still sits in my driveway: another daily reminder that I keep meaning to get to someone else, but still find hard to let go of. Grief has its own timeline. While the daily intensity of the emotion has lessened to a point, there are still days when I retreat by myself to the end of the farm to have a good cry. I don’t feel as overwhelmed as I did in the months after his death, but I still grieve. I know grief’s a process and I’m told by others that have lost children that it doesn’t ever go away. It simply changes.

I have a fellow blogger friend, Mitch, who shares his real memoirs from time to time. I enjoy reading them. I’ve often thought I should share my own stories in some way. Jeremy once told me that he and I should write a book. “Dad, no one would believe that crazy shit”, he’d tell me. Life was certainly not dull, at least outwardly. As my own addiction progressed, life became an extremely dull routine of using, finding ways and means to get more, and repeating the process over and over with greater consequences and self-hatred.

Jeremy and I found a way out and shared that path for several years until he ventured down his own path that included relapsing into active addiction. I stayed on the recovery pathway and prayed that Jeremy would join me once again. He did from time to time but couldn’t seem to stay. I miss him terribly.

I thought that maybe I too, should share some stories – crazy as they may be – in hopes that someone relates and maybe, just maybe, it can make a difference in their journey as I’m sure it will in mine. I still don’t know what to call them. It would be inappropriate to call them my “real memoir” – don’t want to step on anyone’s toes – but they are real and definitely a time of remembering. Maybe writing will ease the grief and make some sense out of the craziness.

Look for them from time to time and pray to keep me honest. One of my favorite lines from a recovery book I read frequently is that “Honesty is the antidote to our diseased thinking”.

Maybe the stories will reflect that…

Children, Choices, Consequences, Emotional Health, Family, Generations, Grandchildren, Grief, Recovery, Relationships, Storytelling, Thoughts From the Porch, What Can I Do, Writing

The Way It Was…

gregoryjoel

It’s hard to believe September is already here. Labor Day is the unofficial beginning of Fall so the temperatures here have dropped to the nineties instead of the triple digits and we might even celebrate Labor Day with some rain. I’m hoping but it is Texas after all…

I haven’t written much lately. The heat and oppressive humidity dulled the thinking, and work has taken all the energy I may have. Getting out of sweat-soaked clothes and laying in front of the air conditioning has been norm the last month or so. It’s also the end of our fiscal year at work so evenings are filled with year-end reports and audits. It’s rare to stay awake through the ten pm weather report but that’s okay. The forecast doesn’t change in August. It’s just going to be hot and dry.

My youngest grandkids started school in the middle of last month. Things have changed since I was young. The school year started the day after Labor Day and ended the day before Memorial Day. We didn’t have Monday holidays, so we celebrated them on whatever day of the week they fell on. It seems a bit cruel to send kids back to school while the swimming pools are still open, but I digress…

I have had the privilege of picking my grandkids up from school for a couple of years now. My oldest, Baillie, is working in Alaska, but both of the others are in high school, although they attend different schools. Lucas is close enough to walk to and from Pascal High School where he’s a freshman this year. I get to pick him up on the days he stays late.

Izabella was accepted into the Visual Performing Arts program at I.M. Terrell Academy, which is only two minutes away from the farm. I.M. Terrell was the black high school for many years in Fort Worth when schools were still segregated. Moreover, it’s Ms. Opal Lee’s alma mater. She’s thrilled that Iza is there. It hasn’t hurt Iza that her father works for Terrell’s most famous alumnus.

I’m reminded daily how much I love my grandkids and how much I miss their father. He would (and I’m sure that on another plane he is) be so proud of them. I hope he would be proud of me as well for being there for them. I often wasn’t there for him when he was that age. Addiction has stolen so much from us. It stole both my son’s father and my grandkid’s father. The only difference is that I get the opportunity to make living amends. Jeremy, my son, lost that opportunity on May 29th, 2020.

It’s been four years since he passed. His car still sits in my driveway: another daily reminder that I keep meaning to get to someone else, but still find hard to let go of. Grief has its own timeline. While the daily intensity of the emotion has lessened to a point, there are still days when I retreat by myself to the end of the farm to have a good cry. I don’t feel as overwhelmed as I did in the months after his death, but I still grieve. I know grief’s a process and I’m told by others that have lost children that it doesn’t ever go away. It simply changes.

I have a fellow blogger friend, Mitch, who shares his real memoirs from time to time. I enjoy reading them. I’ve often thought I should share my own stories in some way. Jeremy once told me that he and I should write a book. “Dad, no one would believe that crazy shit”, he’d tell me. Life was certainly not dull, at least outwardly. As my own addiction progressed, life became an extremely dull routine of using, finding ways and means to get more, and repeating the process over and over with greater consequences and self-hatred.

Jeremy and I found a way out and shared that path for several years until he ventured down his own path that included relapsing into active addiction. I stayed on the recovery pathway and prayed that Jeremy would join me once again. He did from time to time but couldn’t seem to stay. I miss him terribly.

I thought that maybe I too, should share some stories – crazy as they may be – in hopes that someone relates and maybe, just maybe, it can make a difference in their journey as I’m sure it will in mine. I still don’t know what to call them. It would be inappropriate to call them my “real memoir” – don’t want to step on anyone’s toes – but they are real and definitely a time of remembering. Maybe writing will ease the grief and make some sense out of the craziness.

Look for them from time to time and pray to keep me honest. One of my favorite lines from a recovery book I read frequently is that “Honesty is the antidote to our diseased thinking”.

Maybe the stories will reflect that…

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…