Belief, Choices, Down On the Farm, Faith, Food Justice, Hope, Music, Neighbors, Opal's Farm, Quotes, Responsibility, Serenity, Service Organizations, Social Justice, Songs, Spirituality, Texas Music, Thoughts From the Porch, Unity Unlimited, Inc., Urban Farming, What Can I Do

I Used to Worry…

My first year at Opal’s Farm was interesting to say the least. I’d never farmed. I’d had lots of experience with community gardens, but I had never farmed. I only had a few hand tools and a BCS two-wheeled tractor, a wide-open space to use it, and I was the only laborer to do so.  There was no money in the farm account and even what little seed we had was donated. That also meant I didn’t get paid unless some grant money came through or we had a huge harvest – neither of which appeared to be happening soon.

Fortunately, I had a great mentor come into my life, Charlie Blaylock, who owned Shines Farmstand, guided me through the process of becoming a farmer. A month into the project I received help from our first volunteer, Brendan, who stayed with me every day through that first growing season. He put that BCS tractor to work. Although our first growing season met with some moderate success it was nowhere near enough to get paid so I went without a paycheck for the first year.

I believed in the farm. My wife and I had a very small savings account to draw on, and although it wasn’t near enough to pay all the bills, I went to work each day. The money finally ran out in October, and I was so worried and stressed out to the point that I came home and told Margaret that I was going to have to go work elsewhere. My wife, who is one of the most spiritual and faithful people I know, looked at me and said, “Greg, we prayed for a long time about this, and I know this is where God wants you to be. Give it another month before you decide what to do”.

I exclaimed, “Baby, we’ll lose the house if we can’t make the mortgage payment!”

She smiled and simply said, “We had a roof over our heads when we moved in didn’t we?” Needless to say, I’m still there seven years later and the farm is thriving.

You see, I received a call from our Executive Director at eight o’clock the following morning. She told me we’d received a grant from Visit Fort Worth, and she’d have a check for me later that day. I called my wife and told her the great news and stopped to have a little conversation with God. “God, I’m stubborn and thickheaded. I know you told me not to worry about things like that. You have my back. It’s all yours from now on. I’m just going to do the work you gave me each day and you take care of the rest.”

I’ve told this story many times over the last seven years. I’ve even had to remind myself several times this year when funding cuts led to staff layoffs and irregular paychecks. Texas Health Community Hope and the Conservation and Environment Fund at North Texas Community Foundation stepped up to help us in enormous ways to continue the great work at Opal’s Farm.

I’d like to say that my life is free of worry, but that would be a lie. I just worry less about myself and more about others. It seems there’s a lot to worry about these days with all the chaos, hatred, and harm being directed at folks, but doing what I can to ease another’s burden, especially in food justice and serving the marginalized communities around us, there’s less worry and more action.

I don’t worry (well, most of the time anyway…) about results and just do the work. I also remember I spent way too much of life worrying about things that just didn’t matter. I have “enough” and life’s pretty damn good.

From another patron saint of Texas music and one of Fort Worth’s favorite sons – Delbert McClinton along with the great Francine Reed.

“There are two ways to get enough: one is to continue to accumulate more and more. The other is to desire less.” – G. K. Chesterton

“We make a living by what we get. We make a life by what we give.” – Winston Churchill

“Don’t judge each day by the harvest you reap, but by the seed you plant.” – Robert Louis Stevenson

“The world says, the more you take, the more you have. Christ says, the more you give, the more you are.” — Frederick Buechner

Birthdays, Children, Family, Generations, Grandchildren, Gratitude, Relationships

A Better Christmas

I was going to write my annual end of the year wrap-up from Opal’s Farm today, but I got a bit sidetracked – which happens a lot, especially this time of year. The holiday season is a mixed bag of emotions for me. I experience the joy of my grandkids and a deep sadness that their father, Jeremy, isn’t here to celebrate with them. It doesn’t help that Jeremy was born on Christmas Day either. Moreover, my father, who was our “Mr. Christmas”, has been gone for almost twenty years and Mom passed in 2017. My sister and her husband live in Georgia and I really miss her. There’s no one from my family to celebrate with except the grandkids and my daughter-in-law. Grief tends to hit hard this time of year. Holidays aren’t my favorite time of year, but my grandkids remind me there’s still joy in the season. Sometimes you have to find new traditions to move forward.

My grandkids and Uncle Adrian, my oldest son, have a Christmas tradition that started after Jeremy died. Every Christmas morning, at nine AM, we meet at Ol’South Pancake House – a Fort Worth Institution and one of the only places open – to have breakfast together. It’s hard to coordinate family time with all the in-laws (and out-laws) that we decided to start our own tradition and everyone can plan around us instead.

We headed to the cemetery to leave flowers and birthday wishes after breakfast. My oldest granddaughter, Baillie, was with us this year. Her relationship with her dad was strained due to his addiction. She neglected to go with us in the past but joined her brother and sister this year. The atmosphere at both breakfast and the cemetery was much lighter than in the past, leaving room for real Christmas joy.

Aside – We often go to the mural of Jeremy painted by his business partner, Jay Wilkinson. The mural is located on the outside wall of Hop Fusion Brewery in Near Southside (the brewery is also home to several of Jeremy’s murals). Sometimes I, or we, need to sit have a conversation with the twenty-foot-high Jeremy…

Life is like that – joy in the midst of grief, light in the midst of darkness. I thank God daily for both ends of the spectrum. It may not make sense to everyone, but this is the best Christmas gift I could receive.

Bad Weather, Children, Christmas, Events, Generations, Gratitude, Parents, Relationships, Stories, Storms, Storytelling

Christmas Stockings

I don’t know how long it took to get to Swedish Medical Center. I’d never been there before but I knew that on a normal day it was only six or seven minutes from the house. This Christmas Eve night it took hours. It didn’t, but it sure felt like it.

Our arrival turned into a blur though – out of the car with the paramedics grabbing Jennine to steady her across the snow and ice then through the ambulance bay doors and me holding a bundled-up Adrian in one arm and Jennine’s go bag and a diaper bag in the other. Suddenly we were in Labor and Delivery.

I vaguely remember the flurry of activity around Jennine as they got her settled into the labor room. A nurse said something about the labor pains coming much quicker and telling us that it shouldn’t be long now. Someone popped their head in to tell me that my Mom and Dad had a friend bringing them to the hospital in his four-wheel drive. Adrian could stay with them for the night. One problem solved anyway…

The doctor entered the room. Keep in mind that this doctor was a total stranger in a hospital we’d never been to before. He grabbed one of the labor room nurses and asked for an update, never looking or speaking to Jennine or me. That was already two strikes against him. When he groaned and walked back out of the labor room it was strike three. Jennine grabbed my hand and cried out, “Who is this guy? I don’t like him. I want my doctor. It’s all your fault we’re here”.

“It’s going to be okay. I’ll find out what’s going on”. I was a little perturbed to be assigned all the blame for the whole situation. I was pretty damned sure she was present when this whole thing started. After all, it takes two to make this process work. I didn’t ask for the blizzard either.

“Stay here, she barked about the time the latest contraction came on full force. I was thinking no problem as my hand she was gripping went numb. I wasn’t going anywhere.

The nurses finally got Jennine settled in. The monitors were all hooked up and the initial examination was over. The contractions were only three or four minutes apart and our nurse informed us she was almost fully dilated. She was a Godsend. She seemed to be the only one taking the time to pay attention to us. I wish I could remember her name. Back then I would’ve sent her a bottle of twelve-year old scotch and a thank you note.

We had been through La Maze birth classes before Adrian was born and had a refresher course back in October. We had wanted a natural childbirth – at least that’s what I reminded Jennine every time she hollered for drugs as her labor became more intense. I tried to be a calming voice of reason and help her with breathing through the contractions. Apparently, a calming voice of reason wasn’t needed nor appreciated in this situation. They finally came in to do an epidural block.

Our nurse came in and, sensing the tension, she let me know I needed to go downstairs with Adrian; that my parents were almost here. How she knew that I’m not sure as cell phones were still science fiction in 1982. She also mentioned that the doctor had been here since the night before because of the storm. “She’s in good hands.” I thanked her, grabbed Adrian, his diaper bag, and headed downstairs.

I vaguely remember giving Adrian to my mother, hugging my parents – who I hadn’t seen since they got to town – and thanking our friend Mark for getting them here and back home with my son. All I could think of was getting back upstairs. I stayed in the lobby long enough to watch them all drive off into the falling snow and ran for the elevator.

I returned to the labor room and the nurse informed me I better “gown -up”. They were taking her to the delivery room right away. We had been there maybe an hour or so. I said a silent prayer of gratitude for the guy who volunteered his Jeep, the paramedics, nurses, and even the doctor Jennine didn’t like. The time it would have taken an ambulance to arrive would have meant a home delivery. I’d like to think I could’ve done it, but I was so glad I didn’t have to find out. It was going to be okay.

Sometimes I regret not being able to remember all the details of our time in the delivery room. It went so quickly, for which I was appreciative. Jennine had the hard work, but it’s hard to see your wife in pain. The only thing I remember is the doctor saying,” It’s a healthy baby boy”. The nurse took him and cleaned him up. I’m sure they went through all the post-birth baby and mother checklist before he announced, “Here’s your son”.

The one thing I remember quite clearly is that Jennine didn’t want to take him, and the nurse handed Jeremy to me. Her reluctance to take Jeremy was, in hindsight, a red flag but more about that later. I cradled Jeremy in my arms and burst into joyful tears as I saw another beautiful son.

The nurse that had been with us all through labor and delivery took Jeremy back. She told me they were moving Jennine to the maternity ward and taking Jeremy to the nursery. Then she said, “You should try to grab some sleep until we bring Jeremy to your wife’s room. Go into the Nurse’s Lounge and there’s a couch in there to lay down on. I’ll come get you when it’s time.”

I said thank you and felt a wave of exhaustion wash over me. The adrenaline coursing through my body had suddenly shut off and left me drained. It was all over and I had a new son.

I’m not sure how long I got to sleep but when our nurse returned to wake me up, I was suddenly alert and full of energy. “We’re going to bring Jeremy to her room so they’ll both there”, she said as we waited for the elevator. My excitement level made for the longest wait time ever recorded for elevator doors to open – maybe not?.

The nurse opened the door, motioned me in, and closed the door behind me. I entered the room and went to hug Jennine. I was sitting on the bed holding her hand when a maternity floor nurse entered the room with Jeremy. He was stuffed into a little Christmas stocking with a Santa cap on his head.  The nurse picked him up and handed him to Jennine. I still have the picture from all those years ago of Jennine as she held our son for the first time. Her smile radiated love and beauty filling the room as she looked into Jeremy’s eyes. A small joyful tear rolled down her cheek.

I can’t recall the rest of Christmas Day in 1982. I know my parents came back to the hospital to visit and take Adrian and I home. We planned to celebrate Christmas when Jennine and Jeremy came home the next day. My sister had spent Christmas Eve at the DFW airport before they finally cancelled all flights to Denver so she wouldn’t be with us that year and spend Christmas alone. Everything else is stored in memory sections of my brain that I no longer have access to.

I can say that it took a week-and-a-half to dig my car out and the alleyway so I could even get to the street where snowplows had left a huge pile of snow. I used my cross-country skis to get to the nearby Seven Eleven only to find bare shelves. The local media had a hay day with the “Hundred Year Blizzard of ‘82”. Everyone had opinions about the city’s response to the storm and the time it took to clear the streets; most of them beyond negative. Blame was heaped on Mayor Bill Nichols, who had been the only Mayor I’d known since moving to Denver in 1969, costing him his re-election later that year.

None of it really made a difference to me. We had another son. Every parent sees their new child as the most beautiful baby ever. The truth is, if it’s a vaginal birth all babies look like little aliens, but they appear much differently to the parents that waited so patiently for them. I had just received the best Christmas present ever and life would never be the same.

Bad Weather, Birthdays, Children, Choices, Christmas, Love, Marriage, Parents, Thoughts From the Porch

Christmas 1982 – The Beginning

It was Denver two days before Christmas in 1982. The due date for the birth of our second son was the twenty-third. I was on Christmas break from classes at the university and Jennine (my first wife) had just started her maternity leave. We put Adrian, our twenty-month-old son, to bed and put the final touches on the gifts being wrapped as we watched a holiday movie together.

Jennine went to get ready for bed and I stepped out onto the front porch to check the weather. The forecast was for a couple of inches of snow. My parents had flown in from Texas the day before and I was hoping for a white Christmas together and to celebrate the birth of our second son. The air was cold and crisp, but only partly cloudy. I didn’t put much stock in accurate weather forecasts and the coming snow. I’ll believe it when I see it.

Jennine and I had married two years before and neither of us were ready for such a major step on life’s journey. She was nineteen. I was twenty-two. We had met at work and dated a short while before she was to leave for college in California. A couple of weeks before her departure she informed me that she was pregnant and not to worry, she had already scheduled an abortion with a clinic in Boulder. I reacted with what I thought was the most honorable way I could – I asked her to marry me. She didn’t say yes right away, but after a couple of days we both decided that’s what we were going to do.

To make a long story short, we were married in August of 1980 and had our first son, Adrian, in April of 1981. He was such a joy, and we were blessed as new parents to have a son with an easygoing personality and demeanor. However, we weren’t planning on a second one so quickly. We had moved to Texas before Adrian was born and back to Denver afterward. I had been laid off. Jennine hated Texas: probably because my job with the railroad kept me away so much. I went back to work for my old company in Denver. The first couple of years were rough. They’d started to smooth out when she found out we were expecting number two…

We lived in a small stucco house in the Washington Park section of Denver. While the surrounding homes were built in the twenties and thirties and far larger, ours was an old farmhouse built in 1890: well before Denver grew farther south. We sat on two lots of land and even still had the old sidewalk to what was the outhouse. I’m told indoor plumbing didn’t come until later. I always thought it gave the backyard a bit of character. It was definitely a talking point.

The first floor was our kitchen, living room, my study, bath, and what would have been the one bedroom originally. We had converted it to a playroom and had two bedrooms in the half-finished basement. The stairs were at the back of the house with a long picture window across the back wall. We had purchased the house the year before and had great remodeling plans, but that would be a lengthy process. Jennine and I both worked full-time – her at a bank and I at a Trust company – but I was finishing my degree and had little time to work on the house. I often joke that I went to college on the ten-year plan.

It had been a long day for both of us, so falling asleep quickly wasn’t a problem. The bed was warm and comfortable. I kissed Jennine good night and curled up for a long winter’s night. At least I thought so…

Now before I tell you the rest of the story, please know that I really am a caring, loving husband. However, it takes me a while to wake up and get my bearings when awakened from a deep sleep – even in extreme situations. So, when I was shaken awake, and Jennine said she thought she was in labor I grunted and rolled over to look at the alarm clock. It read 4:12 AM. I mumbled something about a false labor, told Jennine to time the contractions to be sure, and rolled back over. That probably wasn’t the smartest thing I could’ve done. Jennine shook me again and yelled “you time the contractions”. I was awake then!

“Okay, okay. I’m sorry. I have to go to the bathroom first”. I climbed out from under the soft warmth of our goose-down comforter and started toward the stairs. “When was your last contraction?”, I queried as I walked out of our room. I didn’t wait for the response.

I went to the restroom and started back down the steps, and I noticed it wasn’t very dark outside. The cloud cover and the falling snow reflected the city lights and I could clearly see the chain link fence around our backyard – or at least part of it. The snow had begun falling sometime after we went to bed and all I could see was the top foot of the fence. She probably is in labor, I thought to myself. The idea of shoveling snow felt like a major inconvenience at 4:30 in the morning.

Photo by Colin Lloyd on Pexels.com

I took care of my business, drank a big glass of water, and returned downstairs to the bedroom. Jennine turned away as I crawled back into bed. “I think it’s just false labor”, she grumbled as I pulled the soft comforter around my neck.

 “Well, let’s time them just to be safe”. I was a tad more awake and far more empathetic than I had been just ten minutes before. Sure enough, we timed her next few contractions, and they were extremely erratic. She wasn’t in labor. She drifted off to sleep. I couldn’t now that I was fully awake, so I eased myself back out of bed so as not to wake Jennine and went back upstairs to make coffee and spend some quiet time alone.

Christianity, Citizenship, Communication, Consequences, Courage, Culture, Domestic Violence, Emotional Health, Faith, Family, Grace, Grief, Jesus, LGBTQ, Listening, Marriage, Recovery, Relationships, Sexual Trauma, Survivors, Thoughts From the Porch, Uncategorized, Wellness, What Can I Do, Writing

I Can’t Remain Silent

“Silence in the face of evil is itself evil: God will not hold us guiltless. Not to speak is to speak. Not to act is to act.”—Dietrich Bonhoeffer

 

It’s probably a good thing I’ve been too busy to post anything this week. I’ve struggled over today’s post and it’s been on my mind since last weekend. It’s hard to write and even harder to put it out there on social media and in the blogosphere. You see, as much as I enjoy writing of God’s infinite love, grace, and mercy, there are times when I fall far short in extending the same to others. This is one of those times. Please allow me to explain.

Margaret and I each had grown children when we wed nearly six years ago. Our daughter, who has come out as transgender and changed her name to Gael, moved in with us a couple of years ago so it would be financially easier to complete her college. I only mention her identification as Gael, so you’ll know who I’m talking about. I’m still new to speaking and writing of our kid in the third person, but that’s the accepted means by which to refer to transgender individuals and what they have requested of family and friends. Moreover, I’m not sharing anything that Gael hasn’t already made public their self.

Perhaps because our children were young adults when we married, blending families went a bit smoother for us. Margaret and I have no ‘step’ children, just our kids and grandkids, and we love them to death. So, when Gael asked about moving home to finish school there was no thought of saying no. I’ve become closer to them as a result.

Margaret has been open about Gael having been sexual assaulted by their uncle when they were twelve years old. What I didn’t know until the last couple of years is how deeply that affected them. The confirmation of Brett Kavanaugh to the highest court in the land after sexual assault accusations probably triggered Gael’s Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) last weekend. As a result, we had an emotionally volatile weekend. I saw, and see daily, the lingering results of emotional pain caused by perpetrators such as their Uncle Phill. Although he, and people like Mr. Kavanaugh, go on about their lives without a care in the world, victims like Gael and their families live with the consequences of such heinous acts for a lifetime.

Needless to say, I’m angry: so much so that I want to lash out in revenge. I have a special place in my heart for women and children, but especially when it’s my kid. I wasn’t part of the family when it happened, but I am now and I see their lingering pain regularly. I see the tears and pain of remembrance. They, like all survivors, bear the scars of their trauma daily. Their uncle, like so many abusers, has never shown remorse and prefers to sweep it under the rug, ignoring the harm he has caused. Unfortunately, that happens in families and society as a whole. Part of me wants to make sure he pays a consequence, and quite frankly, I’d like to ‘kick his ass’, but that isn’t the answer. My first thoughts about anything like this are usually wrong…

It’s not my place to act as judge, jury, and executioner. God has freely granted me grace and mercy, not justice. I’m so glad I didn’t get what I deserved. So, who am I, having been lifted from the depths of addiction and self-centeredness, to withhold grace and mercy from others? That isn’t how my life works today. Revenge and ill-will only lead to resentment and bitterness, neither of which are appealing to me.

That being said, an acknowledgement of the wrong would allow some healing to take place, and that is what Margaret and I want for our kid. I’ve learned the importance of taking responsibility for my actions, acknowledging the harm done to someone else, and being willing to go to any lengths to make it right. Such an admission made it possible to receive the love, grace, and mercy waiting for me. I have no illusions that it’s not the case for men like their Uncle Phill or Brett Kavanaugh. Ironically, much can be forgiven when the crime is acknowledged. That’s when the healing begins…

So, what am I to do? Three things come to mind. First, I will love my kid through this and, though I wasn’t able to protect them then, I will do my best to protect them now. That means keeping my kid away from their perpetrator even if he shares DNA. That, too, has lasting consequences for others far beyond my kid or their uncle. They affect family get-togethers and holidays. Even when forgiveness is involved, it doesn’t mean forgetting. I will not allow my kid to be victimized over and over, placing them in the same room as their assailant and acting as though it’s all in the past so it’s okay re-traumatizes them.

Secondly, and probably more importantly, I can pray and seek God’s guidance through this whole mess. I truly believe in Jesus’ teaching. When he said that there is a better way than “an eye for an eye”, I believe him. I trust that his is a radically different view of the world than anything I’ve ever seen. It’s uncommon sense that leads me to live and love better, to be a better human being, and to be there for my kids, especially Gael.

Finally, I need to listen. I need to put aside preconceived notions about someone and listen to survivors of sexual trauma. I need to be empathetic and be there. Trevor Noah said that,

“People struggle to understand that two things can be contradictory and true at the same time. You could know somebody as a great person, and they could also be doing something that you don’t know about that makes them someone who you wouldn’t recognize. With Bill Cosby, people were like ‘that’s not the Cosby I know,’ and yeah, it’s not the Cosby you know. Unfortunately, it’s the Cosby somebody else knows.”

Just because somebody puts on a good guy image doesn’t exempt them from scrutiny when accusations are made. The past year and the emergence of the #metoo movement reminds me that ignoring the issue of sexual assault and harassment is to sanction it. To sanction it is to be a part of the problem. Like Dad used to say, “Son, you’re either part of the problem or part of the solution…”

Last weekend, Gael used social media to speak out against her perpetrator. The week before Christine Blasey Ford spoke to the world about her abuser. I applaud their courage and unwillingness to remain silent. Sexual assault, harassment, and, in Gael’s case, the assault of a child, is not a once and done crime. It has long lasting effects that plague survivors, their families, and society as a whole. Thank you Gael for speaking out and being an example. I can no longer be silent either. I hope you, gentle reader, won’t either.