In This Photograph

In this photograph, you are my beautiful, little girl pretending with the blush brush as the photographer captures the two of us. What a fun day to mark your birthday, a must-do annual event for this Mom who doesn’t have pictures or memories of her own such as these pixels encapsulates. A pink miniature house sets the scene with you in a pink dress up skirt and chunky beads around your neck. Your blush stained, chubby cheeks and soft pink painted lips cause me to caress the glass and to smile at all you’ve become and will be. You are light and love. You are living proof that generational curses can be broken. Oh the moments that take my breath away, the moments I tried to capture, that I continue to soak in. By God’s grace, I am your momma, and as you stare at me, blush brush held by tiny nails painted pink, I close my eyes and bask in your presence that heals my heart and fuels my soul. You are making me whole, baby girl, and you are only three years old.

My Childhood Bedroom

My first bedroom I remember was at the age of five. Born to teen parents, my mom Dianne had married man number two of her eventual five, and thinking back on it, this house was the nicest of the many houses or apartments we lived in, so it must have been my nicest bedroom. However, a nice house and bedroom do not a home make. These walls, painted with screams, were supported by ceilings of addictions that enclosed a suffocating air of toxicity. One night, as lightning crashed and thunder roared, I clutched my white and pink bunny for courage and ran to their bedroom for safety, but instead of comfort, I gained my first glimpse between lightning flashes of what I quickly learned was sex. Not brave enough to interrupt, I ran right back to my first childhood bedroom I can remember and tried to soothe my fears and protect myself from the storm and from the images I just saw.

After that failed marriage, my memory weakens and struggles to envision the bedrooms of all the many places we lived or I was left. Oh, but wait, I do remember the last childhood bedroom under the supervision of Dianne. It was an old white farmhouse, and I had a white canopy bed. It is in that bedroom that I made my Kenny Rogers poster for a school project, and it is in that house, in her bedroom that I found my childhood crush.

Not long after that, Daddy came back to me. He rescued me from the nightmares of my childhood bedrooms, and I Oh the joy of walking into my childhood bedroom at their house–complete with a pastel comforter that my stepmom made to welcome me. It is in that first childhood bedroom at Daddy and Julie’s house that I began to feel safe and eventually never fearful of being left or wakened by the addictions of sex, alcohol, drugs or the hand of a stranger.

The Palette of a Place

“Come get this kid.”

And so he did.

And once he had me and all the papers were signed and notarized, we headed south for eight hours–away from the loudness, the business and the heaviness of the place where we were born but could not stay.

At 10, I remember arriving in a town I now claim as my hometown and wondering why everyone smiled and waved as we drove down the two-lane road of main street, that was void of stop lights but lined with brick store fronts and cement pigs. Then, we turned off main street onto the south road laden with huge green trees and fields and farms, sometimes with crops and then with animals. I saw houses and trailers and churches.

“Daddy, do you know them?”

“Nope.”

“Why are they waving at us?”

“That’s what they do here.”

I soon learned that the people, the town, the county, loved people and land and Jesus. They worked hard, went to church, rarely locked their doors and embraced “slow time.” They took pride in living in a place rich with history and thick with kindness. Here, in my new hometown, I could talk to a stranger and not worry about the consequences. Here, I could go rock climbing on cliffs that lined a lake that made up a state park and be in awe of the contrast to that of the concrete city I had left behind. Here, we lived on much less. We shopped at yard sales and ate many leftovers, but here, down at the Methodist church by the boat dock, I said “yes” to Jesus. I fell in love with Him and this place that over 40 years later I still call home. There may be more dollar stores than churches here now because the world has changed, but slow time is still the time, and kindness is still the language.

Details and images of the place I live

concrete pigs painted with

logos, alma maters, family names and colors beyond the rainbow

boats and floats filled with waves and

coolers filled to the brim with ice for sips and snacks

hills for hiking

trails for walking and biking

antique shops two blocks long and 

a post office turned into a museum

flags of veterans line the lamp posts

Saturday farmers’ market with Amish flowers and produce

homegrown families and city folk who needed a break

breezes cool and warm

porch sits and sleeps

bonfires

fishin’ and giggin’

huntin’

and relaxin’