An invitation to Black History

When I draw a pencil portrait, there’s often a connection with my client.  I hear precious stories about the portrait subject – love, pain, regret, joy.  Those stories are what this blog and my job are all about.

Yesterday, the history of a portrait became more meaningful, on more levels than I ever could have expected.

When Steven Small called to ask if I would draw the pastor of his church in time to surprise him for Christmas, I groaned inwardly.  I was already overbooked.  They wanted a BIG portrait – the largest I’d drawn of a single subject – and they wanted it fast, neither of which was welcome at that particular stressful time for me.  But there was something about Steven’s warm, friendly voice and the way he described the Apostolic Church of God and their beloved pastor. 

 
“We’ll be presenting Dr. Brazier with the portrait in two services of about 3,000 people each,” Steven told me, encouragingly, hopefully.  Charmers like Steven are what get me in trouble.  I wavered – partly because of the business sense of that kind of exposure (when have 6,000 people seen one of my portraits at once?) – and partly because it just felt right.

I gave in, and I was rewarded in so many ways. 



Dr. Byron Brazier

I often receive poor quality source photos, but Dr. Byron Brazier’s photograph was perfection… crystal clear and full of wonderful expression.  I loved drawing him and finished it promptly. Steven came to my home to pick it up and I hugged him when he left.  He was that kind of guy.  His team was thrilled with the portrait and later he sent a photo of the beautiful framing they chose. 
 

Knowing what I know now, how I wish I could have been there to see the Christmas presentation. 
 

A couple of weeks later, Steven told me that Dr. Brazier liked my work so much, he wanted me to draw the previous three pastors, including his adored predecessor who had led the church for fifty years.  That one would be a particularly important portrait, Steven explained to me, because not only was the previous pastor beloved to the church, he is also Dr. Brazier’s father. 



District Elder Walter M. Clemons

I began working on the portraits of ACOG’s first two pastors, emailing my progress.  Choosing the photograph of Bishop Arthur M. Brazier took a little longer as he was so very important to his congregation.   He’d passed away in 2010 at the age of 89, leading his church even through illness.  The quality of the photograph was a little dicey, and we needed to tweak the portrait to get it just right.  Steven was apologetic in asking for adjustments, explaining its importance.  “He was like a grandfather to me,” Steven told me, “and I wasn’t the only one.  It has to be just right.”  We were very happy with all the drawings in the end.  

 

These were large portraits of men whose dignity and integrity showed on their faces.  I did my very best to capture each man’s strength and wisdom.  When Steven picked up the portraits, I wondered again if that would be the end.






Elder Ahart F. Medders



Instead, it’s been the beginning.  I was welcomed into their history.

My family was invited to attend the presentation of the portraits. Again, there would be around 3,000 people at each of two services.  “You’ll be my guests,” Steven said with his usual warmth.
 

Unfortunately my husband and sons had sports and travel commitments.  I asked my mom to come with me instead.  I had a feeling that I needed a witness to what was about to happen.
 

The first service was at 9 am on the south side of Chicago.  My mother and I are NOT morning people.  One of the joys of being my own boss is sleeping until I wake up.  But we managed to pull ourselves together and drive an hour or so to the beautiful brick church on Dorchester.  Steven had assured us there would be plenty of parking, but it was PACKED.  An ocean of cars in every direction, parked in several lots, on side streets… and we were a half hour early.  We wedged ourselves into a hidden, skinny space and walked through the doors.

This lot was full.  And the one across the street.
And the one across the other street.

I have deep respect for faith.  My parents taught Sunday school when I was young.  Our Lutheran pastor infused his sermons with personal stories and laughter.  He came to our house for dinner.  When he left our church, his replacement was more stern, less engaging.  My father was working so hard at growing his small business, that Sunday became another full work day.  I lost touch.  My questioning, critical, skeptical mind never found a spiritual place to call home.  More than anything, I believe in love.  That’s how I think of God.

“Praise the Lord!”

Each and every member of the church enthusiastically greeted us with the church’s official hello, “Praise the Lord!” reaching out to clasp our hands in welcome.  It almost felt like a wedding, a celebration.  Everyone was resplendent in three piece suits, sparkling jewelry, high heels, beautiful dresses, fedoras, furs.  Steven hadn’t arrived yet, so we waited for him and watched the joyful parade of fashion.  This was an EVENT.  We watched as people embraced and kissed and laughed together like an enormous family. 

We were the only white faces in a sea of color.

All day, the face of each person who saw my mother and me brightened in welcome.  We were obviously different, but they were so happy to see us.  It was humbling.  I wasn’t quite sure how to respond to each “Praise the Lord!”  I said hello and good morning and squeezed the friendly hands extended to me.  I looked into each set of eyes and prayed my own prayer of hope that they’d know my heart was full of love, even if I didn’t know quite how to respond the same way.

Steven took us to meet Dr. Brazier and to see the framed portraits.  When I draw someone, I spend hours and hours examining every line and nuance of a face.  When I saw Dr. Brazier, I felt like I knew him and he treated me like an old friend.  My mom and I were seated on the feather soft couch in Dr. Brazier’s spacious office while the portraits were unwrapped… they’d been delivered from the framer just that morning.  The photo had not done them justice.  The beautiful silver carved frames with grey and red mats took the 19x24” portraits to an even grander size.  I’d never seen my work in such elegant framing.  I was speechless.  Just kidding, you know I never shut up, but it was dazzling.  Dr. Brazier sat down and chatted with my mom and me for a bit, then we were ushered to our seats like VIPs. 

Later, Steven wondered at how easily Dr. Brazier acted as if he had all the time in the world to visit with us, when he was actually incredibly busy.  The Apostolic Church of God has 20,000 members.  There’s a lot going on all the time and Sunday is big.

When we walked in the church, I gasped.  It was like a theater, with grace.  Soaring wood ceilings, impossibly high brick walls, enormous beautiful birds carved above words of praise.  This was worship on a level I’d never seen.  A huge main floor was overlooked by a balcony full of happily chatting people.  The congregants sparkled and hugged and the energy bounced around.  Mom and I kept looking at each other with our eyebrows raised.  I mean, wow. 

We had reserved seats right in front.  The praise began in song and on a professional level I’ve only bought tickets for in the past.  Singers, musicians, choirs, soloists… 3000 people swayed in worship and joy.  Dr. Brazier spoke with passion, reminding each and every soul present that they were never alone.  Worries and pain and loneliness may make them feel differently, but even if they were alone, returning to an empty room, Jesus was already there waiting to lift them up.  He spoke to all as if speaking to one.  I cried.  A young, lovely soloist sang as if she were borrowed from heaven, closing her eyes and letting her voice soar to a place of grace I’ve never witnessed in person.  I cried again.  We were welcomed into this beautiful world of history and culture and hope and redemption, when we’d normally just be at home watching TV.  An elderly woman wearing an ivory brocade suit, pearls and a pretty hat repeatedly got up to dance for most of both services.  Her joyful, rhythmic steps reminded me of dancing with my grandmother in her kitchen.  I had to restrain myself from jumping up to hug her.  During a piano and organ duet, one of the choir members leaned back in her seat, arching her back as she moved her arms high in the air, gracefully interpreting the music with gentle hands.  It was lovely, as if it was flowing through her. 

In Catholic and Lutheran services, we’ve said to our neighbors, “Peace be with you”.  At ACOG, the people turn to each other and say, “You’re important to me.” 

My portraits were brought out on large easels, each draped dramatically in red cloth.  The crowd hummed with interest.  Dr. Brazier asked me to stand to be recognized, and my heart pounded.  He told all of God’s people in the room, “This is black history month.  But black history does not have to be only about slavery or struggle.  It can be about our history right here; the history of our church.” 

Bishop Arthur M. Brazier

He went on to captivate everyone with the story of how the church began, when the first two pastors, Elder Clemons and Elder Medders, lived in the same six flat building in Washington Park.  Later, Dr. Brazier’s parents rented a room from Elder Medders, and Dr. Brazier and his sister were born there.  He unveiled each portrait as he spoke about the church’s history and the passion and integrity of each of its leaders.  When he removed the drape from the face of his dear father, 3000 people leapt to their feet and applauded.  Chills.  He modestly revealed his own portrait that had been presented at Christmas time. 

 

Gesturing to each of the men’s wonderful faces, he said, “So… all four leaders of our church once lived in the same building, at the same time.”  There was a palpable surge of delight – don’t you love a family story you haven’t heard before? 

As the unveiled portraits stood in a proud row in their regal frames, beaming toward all those eager faces, projected on the large video screen above our heads, in that beautiful place… I knew I’d never have another moment quite like it in my career. 

 

And that was the first service.



We have great taste.

Afterwards, many of the church members greeted my mother and me.  One told me my hands were anointed. Another told my mother she was a holy vessel.  Each wondered at the talent God had given me, thanked me for the portraits as if I’d offered them as a gift.  (I was paid well for them.)  We were embraced and our cheeks were kissed over and over.  One woman was wearing the exact same dress as me.  After giggling over it, we posed for photos together.  I told her she made me feel like I fit in.  She told me if she was wearing the same thing as me, she must be doing pretty good.  I mean… oh my. 

Never in my life, have I had a day of love like this, a day of welcome, a day of acceptance and invitation.  The closest thing would be a big family gathering, but never with this kind of power.  The energy was unlike anything else.  It didn’t ebb, but grew.

Between services, we were guided into a private formal meeting room with delicious fruit, pastries, coffee and juice served on a gleaming, polished table.  A beautiful room meant for important visitors.  And today, it was for mom and me.

“You know,” Steven confided over our pastries with a smile, “You might be sitting in the same seat where President or Michelle Obama once sat.” 

Did I mention that Steve found me online when he saw a portrait I’d drawn of Barack Obama?  Politics can be as personal and passionate a subject as religion.  People have different views for private reasons.  Personally, I love our president and believe in his hopeful heart with all of mine.  Like him or not, you have to admit that there was just a flow to all of this.

The second service was more passionate, more energetic than the first.  How???

When it was over, after we accepted nonstop invitations to come back and worship with them again, Steven took us to lunch at a favorite nearby Italian restaurant. I tried to grab the check – I mean, he’s my CLIENT, for Pete’s sake – but Steven said that the pastor would be mad if he hadn’t taken good care of us. 

It’s Black History Month.  I was invited to be a small part of what it means to one beautiful church.  

And as I write this, I’m crying again.

Apostolic Church of God, 1931

 

With love,

 
Wendy
www.pencilportraitcards.com
www.facebook.com/pencilportraitcards.com
 

High School Hero...

When I was 12, I loved Donny Nelson.  I wasn't the only one.  He was funny, charismatic and ridiculously handsome in that sudden, surprising way that some boys were in junior high… manly and confident while the rest of us were flopping around in a confused pile of hormones. Donny strode through school hallways with his shoulders thrown back, booming voiced, never doubting that things would go his way. I didn’t know then what Don had gone through as a child with his alcoholic mother.  Later I heard through the grapevine what he endured as an adult. 




Hang in there, baby.
Curly hair products are
coming in 10 years.

With my bad glasses, hair that refused to feather like Farrah’s and my loud, hopeful laugh, I was star struck when this larger than life boy chose me for a friend.  Donny was an equal opportunity lightning bolt, striking up friendships with an interesting assortment of kids.





Didn't mind hanging out
with frizzy haired nerds.

We drifted apart in high school when Donny became Warren Township High School’s star quarterback, surrounded by athletes and prom queens.  We were still friendly and I cried on his shoulder when his father died our freshman year.  Our bond had been forged as kids, singing dopey old songs for hours – me on piano, Donny on guitar.  We sang “My Blue Heaven” at the top of our lungs while walking from my house to his grandparents.  We threw a rock through a neighborhood window and hid in the woods from the angry victim.  At 13, I got into some serious trouble with Donny involving alcohol, a beach and the hospital.  He always deflected any blame, regardless of it being all his idea.  He wasn’t interested in a quiet life; he wanted action.

Don’s college football career ended abruptly when a neck injury left his right arm numb.  When he recovered, he joined the Marines.  During boot camp, an accidental blow to the head left him with the same numbness and he was discharged.  Determined, he joined the police force. 

He married Sheryl Corder, one of the loveliest girls in school whose shiny hair was a feathered masterpiece. She planned our ten year high school reunion - a perfect three day extravaganza that cost us relatively little because of Sheryl’s tireless fund raising.  In the book of alumni bios that she compiled, hers was the longest… a small town Hollywood fairytale about marrying the football star turned police officer, a new baby boy, and happily ever afters.  I was a little jealous that she’d been chosen by the boy who had been a comet in my life, that she was so amazingly perfect. 

Just months after the reunion, when Sheryl and Don’s son, little Donny, was six months old, Sheryl was diagnosed with breast cancer.  Shortly after, she underwent a double mastectomy, then ovarian surgery.   Just days after her surgery, Don pulled his squad car over to assist a fellow officer with a routine stop.  A passing driver dozing at the wheel veered, striking Don as he stood next to the stopped vehicle.  The impact broke both Don’s legs and six ribs, bruised his lung, separated his shoulder and sent him flying 55 feet into the middle of the road.  He was flown to a hospital in Milwaukee on a Flight for Life helicopter.  Don’s frightened sister, Kim, picked up his recovering wife and took her to the hospital to wait through his seven hour surgery.

After he was out of danger, Don’s doctor told him the difficult news that he wouldn’t walk for six months.  Within a year, he might be able to overcome a limp. 

Don told them he was leaving, that day, with crutches.  And did.

Neither of the recovering new parents could care for little Donny, so Sheryl’s mother took the baby home with her each night and brought him back in the morning, caring for all three of them.  Don worked relentlessly on his rehabilitation and walked without crutches within two months. 

As they were fighting their individual fights, Don and Sheryl traveled to California to visit friends.  Before the trip, Sheryl had shaved her remaining hair and was wearing a wig.  “In the land of fruits and nuts,” Don joked, “Sheryl could go ahead and walk around bald.”  Pausing, he added, with pride, “She had such a beautiful head.  She could pull it off.  She looked great.”

Don ignored the advice of his doctors, pushing limits, and returned to work as a dispatcher.  Unhappy on the sidelines at a desk, he insisted he was ready, and returned to active duty only four months and 12 days after he was told he wouldn’t even walk for six.  His legs were never right, but boredom was worse than pain.

Four years later, things were looking up.  Sheryl had been healthy and little Donny was growing like a weed, the spitting image of his mother.  Don had a mole removed from his chest that indicated melanoma.  The next day, Sheryl’s cancer was back.

“You always have to one-up me,” Don accused her.  “I get hit by a car, you get cancer.  I get cancer, you get it twice.  Knock it off.”

Don’s brush with cancer was over quickly after a minor operation.  Sheryl’s road was steeper and they prepared again for battle.

On the 4th of July, Don was golfing with a group of detectives.  He drove his golf cart down an incline approaching a tunnel and started to slide.  Trying to regain control, Don braked hard and when the golf cart hit dry ground, it flipped.  Don tried to bail out and the canopy of the cart struck him in the back of the neck. 

“That was The Crippler.”  Don told me, using his favorite term to distinguish between his accidents.  “The moment it happened, I told the guys I knew my neck was broken.  It hurt and I couldn’t move anything.  So that was my second Flight for Life helicopter ride.  I have Flight for Life frequent flier miles.” 

Between rounds of chemotherapy, Sheryl visited Don during his four months of hospitalization. 

He was paralyzed from the shoulders down. 

“After my legs were broken,” Don told me, grinning, “Donny would jump on me and Sheryl would freak out.  But I’d tell her, hey, it’s not like he can break them again.  There are steel pins in there.  After I broke my neck, there was a bracket in there.  Let him jump. It won’t break again.”



Don's buddy



Don gave motivational speeches for patients treated by the Rehabilitation Institute of Chicago.  “It doesn't matter how you got here.  It may not feel fair, but pissing and moaning isn’t going to make anything better. You can sit around feeling sorry for yourself, or you can start thinking about what you’re going to do next,” he told his fellow patients.  Don was selected to give a private showing to Christopher Reeves of their new robotic therapy developed for spinal cord patients.  Don and his sister were able to meet Christopher and spend some time with him just days before he died.  Don’s tough love approach inspired spinal cord patients and his sessions were full of laughter.  He was paid multiple times to speak to therapists in training.



 Don and Sheryl fought their battles valiantly side by side.  Two years after Don’s crippling accident, Sheryl died, at 34 years old, leaving her quadriplegic husband to take care of seven year old Donny. 

Don felt that his son had been as well prepared as possible for the loss of his beautiful mother after so many years of hospitals.  Every word Don spoke about his son was with pride in his toughness.  And yet it is hard for any father, let alone a severely injured one, to replace a mother’s tender touch.  “Sometimes he wants his mom,” Don told me in a rare vulnerable moment. “And all he has is me.  We do the best we can do and most of the time it is enough.”

When little Donny began playing his father’s beloved football, Don considered coaching but figured he couldn’t until he saw a documentary of Knute Rockne coaching from a wheelchair. “So I figured, what the hell?” Don laughed.  He volunteered to coach his son’s football team.  For ten years, Don was the heart and soul of our home town youth football organization, serving as president and resident hard ass.  He asked me to draw a portrait of his son and himself in their Warren uniforms.



“I do feel that everything that happens is a necessary step to the next thing,” Don stressed, “but I don’t know why Sheryl’s death had to be a part of the mix.   As far as the shit I’ve gone through, now I’m a stay at home dad.  I don’t have to work anymore.  I’ve been to Vegas a bunch with good friends, traveled more than I ever did before I was injured.  I figure I owe it to Sheryl, to Donny and myself to live every day to the fullest.  I’ve always seen my brothers and sister saving, waiting to enjoy life in retirement.  You just don’t know how much time you have.  You shouldn’t be reckless, but you need to live for now.” 

As our 20 year high school reunion approached, I had heard bits and pieces of Don’s story, but I’d lost touch with him.  I had thought about trying to reach out.  But what would I say to my lost friend in his wheelchair?  What would I say about Sheryl after all these years? 




Beautiful Sheryl

In her honor, Don planned the reunion and we reconnected as if no time at all had passed.  He invited my family to his big parties, full of all the friends he’d kept from our childhood.  I was floored at how little he’d changed, despite everything he’d been through.  He held court as always, telling stories in his commanding voice peppered with loud guffaws.  Don suggested that I draw memorial portraits of Sheryl's yearbook photo and a few other classmates who we’d lost for the reunion book.  I had just lost my job and he wanted to give my brand new portrait business some exposure.  Over the following years, he was always promoting me, ordering portraits, recommending me.  He supported his friends fiercely.


Yet Don is an acquired taste. 


When my husband first met him, he found Don to be a bit of a know-it-all.  Don states his opinions as fact, loudly debating any disagreement.  It can be abrasive, but there is always an edge of affection and humor there.  I was touched that such a large group of high school guys would stay so close, like family, for more than 25 years - vacationing together, hanging out weekly.  The more time I spent with them, the tighter their bond seemed.   Don doesn’t let you in deep, but he shows you in many ways that he cares.  He’s heroic with a little devil thrown in… on the football field, in his commitment to his family, in his arguably courageous attitude to not let anything get him down.  I can’t imagine going through the shit storm that Don has and still wake up each day, eager to make it a great one.  He’s a smart ass, he’s arrogant, he’s bossy.  He’s also unwaveringly loyal and passionate about making the most out of life. 


Don believed, with all his heart, that he would walk again.  He believed that everything happens for a reason.  When the reason continually evaded him, when his body repeatedly betrayed him, his positive attitude began to flicker, to fade.  After such a long, long battle, wouldn’t you feel angry?  Wouldn’t you just get tired? 


He began to push family and friends away, lashing out in anger, then trying to joke it off.  He moved to Vegas with his son in late 2013, living the last days of his life in the place he loved with the boy who had become a young man, and who, like his father, has faced far, far too much adversity.


At Don’s memorial, he wore our high school’s Blue Devils jersey.  I should have expected it, but I didn’t, and it tore every one of us up.  It took us all back to those swaggering days when he was so very alive.  I was overcome with guilt for letting him push me away.  I loved him and I always had.  Why didn’t I understand that he was angry and lonely?  Why didn’t I reach out to him more?



I remember nagging Don about his biography for the 20th reunion book.  Stubborn as ever, he refused to write anything. 


“You’re planning the whole thing!” I argued with him.  “You need to put something.  Besides, who has more interesting stuff to say than you?”


“Okay,” he smiled, “just write, ’You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.’”



So we did. 



Hey soul sister, justify my blog

Man, I can't seem to make time to write in my blog.  Have you missed me?




How embarrassing.
How did Housewives of DC get on there?

I'm also having trouble finding time to run, shower, grocery shop, watch the 500 educational shows on my DVR, call my wonderful friends (you know I still love you, right?), etc. etc. etc.   People often interrupt my complaining by saying, "You're lucky to work from home doing something you love." And I am. I am.  But it's sort of like college. There were things about college that were off the charts fun-tastic. And yet, while I was knee deep in the fun stuff, there were so many other things that I should have been doing. Like homework or finding my ID or not pushing anyone into the bathroom to drunkenly make out. And then feeling guilty and procrastinating more.
 


 
Having your own business means that whenever you are laying around drinking wine and eating cheez-its, you probably shouldn't be; and not just because of the calories/hangovers/inappropriate texts.  You should be drawing, marketing, fixing your broken website, putting layouts together, preparing for art shows.  I can sort of justify writing this blog because it loosely falls under the marketing category.  Even if I'm complaining about Facebook or confessing my marathon 50 Shades sessions, as long as I also mention the fact that I can draw your kids, pets, or belongings, then presto... marketing!  I do have a degree in advertising, you know. 

 
But really, I just want to tell stories, preferably in a bestselling book.  Although that's rather unlikely, as only my friends on Facebook and a few artists from my favorite artist websites (artfairinsiders and the corner booth) read this blog.  Getting discovered is even less probable than working hard enough to make it happen on my own.  It's hard to justify this rambling blog when I've got drawing to do, plus it's past dinner time, RIGHT NOW. Listen closely and you'll hear the Zumpano men sighing and snacking in the background.
 

Thank goodness this time, Beth will help me justify my blog. 
 

Out of the blue, I got an email from someone who had been reading my Pencil Envy posts.  Not only did Beth order a chunky sized portrait, she wanted a story.  A story about her sister.  Hey!  That's almost like getting paid to write stories, only she's not paying me to write, she's paying me to draw.  But I'm making it a package deal.

 
My first thought about the portrait and story about Beth's sister, was that I don't have a sister, because I'm rather self-absorbed that way.  I wonder what it would be like... would I be close with a sister?  Fight with her?  Would she love me despite all my many flaws?  Would I love her beyond hers? 

 
I assumed that Beth's story would be about sisterly love, a Walton's hair-braiding slumber party childhood with some eventual grown up wise advice with wine.  But it wasn't.


"Saying my sister and I have never been close is an understatement," Beth wrote me.  "We hated each other growing up.  The only thing we're close in is age; for six weeks every year we were the same."  She said her sister could be mean, choosing exactly the right words to form the kind of word weapon only the most familiar family can wield.  The kind that cuts you to your core. 

 
As adults, they had an uneasy relationship, going months without speaking. They lived less than an hour apart, but only saw each other a few times a year. "We are polar opposites," Beth explained.  "She's a minimalist, I collect everything. Her house is sparsely decorated, mine looks like a gypsy’s den. She has a firm sense of right and wrong. I have often been described as having no moral compass.  She's successful, I was always just getting by. We just never meshed. I often said if she wasn’t my sister we would have never been friends. But still, we're family."

 
If you've ever told me a story, you probably enjoy how I immediately butt in and relate the story back to myself, even though I've read Don't Sweat the Small Stuff and I know I'm not supposed to.  I told Beth how I've struggled in my family relationships, too; how my closest family friendship has deteriorated and how terribly painful it's been.  How I could relate all too well to those mean missiles that leave such deep, gaping wounds.  Here, I thought, is someone I can understand; I'm not the only one.  I've counted each month of silence with a pit in my stomach.  It wasn't supposed to be this way.  

 
"I know," Beth told me.  "My sister got mad at me in June and she didn't speak to me or my mother until September.  The next time we spoke was when she called to tell me in her matter-of-fact cold tone that she was sick, probably dying." And Beth was forbidden to tell their mother.  "I was as close to my mother as you are to yours," Beth stressed, "maybe closer.  It devastated me not to be able to tell her, but I knew if I did, my sister would never ever speak to either of us again."  It was excruciating for Beth, fearing her mother would hear from someone else, until her sister was just too sick to hide it anymore. 


"My sister told me she wouldn’t have done the same thing for me, wouldn’t have taken me in and cared for me as I was dying, cared for my family, pets, my belongings, my affairs. I told her I knew that. I wish we had shared that moment much sooner. It seemed to bring some peace to her to know that I wouldn’t change no matter who or what she was. That’s when she finally got me.


"She thanked me for making her watch Fight Club. She forced me to watch Eight-Legged Freaks. The last movie we watched together was Man on Fire. She loved Denzel and really wanted to see it. I begged the Blockbuster guy to help me locate the last copy in the store, a needle in a mountain of movies haystack. It took over two hours but we finally found it. As I was checking out, he said they could’ve ordered it, it would only take about a week to come in. I remember thinking we probably didn’t have a week. She died four days later."

 
"My sister's death haunts me, much more so than the deaths of my mother and father," Beth told me. "I am guessing it’s some form of guilt I just can’t let go of. Some sort of ‘it should have been me, not her’ thing."

 
This summer, her nephew told Beth he can't remember the sound of his mother's voice. She tries to keep the memory alive, knowing that the hardest part about dying for her sister was losing her kids. Not being there to see who they will become.  The best photo the kids had with their mother was when they were quite young and Beth's niece hated her hair.   Funny thing about death, there are no more "through the years" pictures, no more do overs.  Beth asked that I combine recent photos of the kids with their mom, taking extra care to make sure I got her niece's hair just right.  A Christmas memory for two wonderful kids who can't yet fully realize what they've lost.

 
 
There are children in my version of Beth's story too, and I worry about them.  At first, I listened to Beth's side, thinking, yes, yes. I get it, I can relate. Up until the cancer. Then I'm a puddle thinking about it. I'm torn up. I'm thinking how maybe my family member would probably take me in; but I don't know if I could do the same. I don't know if I can be as forgiving.  I shared more about my own family experiences with Beth, eager to connect, telling her about our long struggle of distance and disease and pain and tough decisions and judgment.  That the hardest part is how we'd always loved each other like crazy and now neither of us can get past old wounds far enough to have a healthy relationship. I know I have some terrible faults that have made things worse between us - I'm too critical, I'm too sensitive.  And now I'm too scared.


Beth shared that she's had many of the same struggles. But not the same as me. The same as the person who has hurt me the most.


And then I realized, this whole time I'm rooting only for Beth, thinking I'm in the Beth role... But I'm not. I'm the cold one. I'm the judging one.  And I don't know if I can be the one to forgive and open my arms, and my home and my heart again. I'm too closed off and I'm just so hurt.  But people make mistakes.  Does it really take something so catastrophic to build that bridge?


Beth owns her part of her story and I own mine.  I do.  Writing this entry about a client's family has caused me to do more soul searching than any that I've chosen to write on my own. 

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