Category Archives: Bertha Pearl Witt Kendrick

Celebrating a Mother, Not My Own

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“I do not at all understand the mystery of grace—only that it meets us where we are but does not leave us where it found us.”

—Annie Dillard (b. 1945). American essayist whose work reflects the natural world as a mirror for awe and meaning, most memorably in her Pulitzer Prize–winning Pilgrim at Tinker Creek.

What on earth am I doing writing about motherhood in the dog days of summer—the hottest, most humid stretch, when snakes go blind until their molting skin slips over their eyes—especially when I’m celebrating a mother, not my own?

I keep saying to myself:

“This would be perfect for a Mother’s Day post in May.”

But you, my Dear Reader, know that I rarely write to match the calendar—and this post won’t match it, either. That’s not to say I’ve never done it—only that I’ve never done it by design. It’s simply that from time to time an idea collides with an occasion—Mother’s Day or Father’s Day or Thanksgiving or … Hmmmm. Maybe I’ve done it more than I realize.

Anyway, if you browse through my posts, you’ll see the pattern of how I write. When something grabs hold of me and won’t let go, I know I’ve been called to share it—maybe for the greater good, even if it’s just one person who feels the same tug while reading that I felt while writing.

That’s exactly what happened with this post. Memories washed over me from long ago and far away. They had surfaced before, but only as ghostly apparitions drifting in a paused wave. This time, though, I was nearly pulled under by the current.

It began when I uncovered a hand-painted pillow I hadn’t used in years. Bold crimson flowers and curling green leaves still popped against a soft beige background. The piping had faded, and the stuffing had settled into the easy comfort of something well-loved. It was a little worn, and it was a little wistful, but it was still a bright relic from when I was just beginning to find my way.

As soon as I saw the pillow, I started remembering my neighbor who made it. She was an older woman, maybe a few years older than my Mother, but not many. She dressed neatly, always in small-print floral dresses, and, when at home, she always topped her dresses with matching aprons. Ringlets of white hair framed a face that seemed stern at first, but softened the moment she spoke. She had the bearing of someone who kept things in order—herself, her home, her garden, and her place in the community. No one ever doubted that she would follow through on whatever she took on.

Her name was Nell. Nell Barker Harris, but I never called her by her first name. My Mother taught me better. She was always Mrs. Harris to me, though I swear I had the hardest time making Mrs. sound like MIZ-iz. It always rolled off my tongue as MIZ.

My memories of her stretch back to 1958, when my parents bought our home in the subdivision that bore her last name. I had just turned eleven, and I loved exploring the uncharted woods surrounding our home and beyond.

Mrs. Harris and my Mother were good friends, sharing interests in church, cooking and canning, and working the polls on election days.

My Mother thought the world of her, and, looking back, most of what I came to know about her came from my Mother:

“MIZ Harris this …” and “MIZ Harris that …” was a constant refrain, especially during summer and fall harvests.

Many were the days my Mother sent me to the Harrises—Nell and her husband Worthy—with fresh vegetables from our garden, or to fetch canning jars—the old timey blue ones with zinc lids—or to swap a recipe.

The Harrises lived close, but their house lay just out of sight from ours. All I had to do was cut across the garden, slip past the barbed-wire fence, run down a slope, and dash up a knoll to reach their faux-stone cottage. It was one of the finer ones in our small town, with more than a hint of upper-middle-class comfort. I’d climb the steps straight to the door, where Mrs. Harris usually met me, fulfilling the errand right there on the stoop.

From those errands and my Mother’s comments, I came to know Mrs. Harris well enough that one December, I went boldly to her house on my own. My sister Judy and I had decided to put up a Christmas tree while our Mother was shopping. I had long had my eyes set on a beautiful white pine—not for Christmas, but for love—growing in the Harris’s woods where I roamed. Off I went to ask if we could cut it down. She agreed, and though the tree seemed to shrink with every drag homeward, Judy and I had it lighted and decorated by the time our Mother returned. She knew exactly how to celebrate the surprise as a tribute to childhood ingenuity.

Another time, my parents sent me over with an idea that I’d dreamt up—again involving white pines. A dead-end dirt road ran between our home and the Harris’s land that we gardened, and we thought it would be beautiful to line its 200-foot stretch with pines. I asked Mrs. Harris if we could dig saplings from her woods. She agreed, though she thought fall would be a wiser planting time.

My parents insisted amongst ourselves that proper planting and deep watering would see them through. They were hardly more than spindly stems with a few scraggly needles, more like Charlie Brown’s Christmas tree than the giants we imagined. Pitiful as they were, they survived the July heat and, in time, grew straight and tall, rising with quiet majesty, as if they had always belonged there.

Later—June 1972, a few years out of college and working at the Library of Congress—I wanted more than the skyward-pointing pines. I wanted the land itself. I found myself in Mrs. Harris’s home, asking if she would sell me the very garden lots my parents and I had tended from pre-teen through early manhood.

I still remember sitting in their parlor that day—dress pants, crisp shirt, and a tie, as if I’d been summoned to defend my undergraduate honor’s thesis. I sat in an overstuffed chair in the corner, its armrests rising up to hold me accountable. The room itself seemed to echo their seriousness and my intent. Mahogany gleamed in the soft light. A large china cabinet dominated one wall, its shelves lined with Blue Willow dishes like the ones my oldest sister Audrey collected. Everything about the space spoke of order and permanence—qualities my Mother had always extolled in Mrs. Harris herself.

Across from me sat Nell and Worthy Harris, steady and composed, firing their questions in quick succession:

Why do you want the land?

Do you plan to build a house there one day?

How will you pay for it?

A bank loan? Do you understand that you’ll need a co-signer?

They had far more questions than I had answers. But a few days later, I rode with the Harrises in their blue-and-white Chevrolet to Raleigh County National Bank, a solemn drive dressed up in chrome and vinyl. I had made the appointment myself, though the banker’s name and face have faded. What remains is the setting: a huge walnut desk topped with thick glass, its surface spread with legal documents that seemed to weigh more than the paper they were printed on.

I signed, and Mrs. Harris co-signed—the literal and the metaphorical deed, both done and dated June 9. She was, after all, the owner of the land. The gleam on my face that day couldn’t have equaled hers, steady and satisfied, as though she had not only sold me a parcel of ground but had also planted me there, rooting me firmly to the very soil where those skyward pines had begun.

But the pillow dragged up one last memory of Mrs. Harris—a dim and shifting one, like an undertow I didn’t see coming.

One year—1965, just a month before graduating from high school—I nominated Mrs. Harris for “Mother of the Year.” She certainly was worthy of the recognition, although she never seemed like my Mother, not even like a mother figure, really. And now, looking back, I wonder whether it was my Mother herself who suggested the nomination. Or maybe it was my oldest sister Audrey. Both of them admired her immensely as one of the pillars of our community and the church that the three of them attended.

Whatever the springboard, I picture myself typing the letter—hunting and pecking as solemnly as if drafting a constitution—and then, with all the earnestness of seventeen, listing her many accomplishments.

I don’t remember a single sentence I wrote in that nomination, only that it won her the recognition we all thought she deserved. What I do remember is the aftermath: her picture in the newspaper, and maybe even a spot on a live radio interview, sharing her reaction:

“I’m just flabbergasted.”

Down through the years, I often found myself wondering how my Mother felt about my nominating Mrs. Harris instead of her. If she carried even a flicker of disappointment, she never showed it. And why would she? For all I know, she may have planted the idea in my head in the first place, speaking of Mrs. Harris with admiration the way she always did.

Years later, my parents came to live with me in DC after my dad suffered a stroke and needed more care than my Mother could manage alone. Audrey and I worked out a plan: summers in their own home, with her nearby to help; winters with me in DC. It was during those ten years that I found myself with a chance to do what I hadn’t done back in high school–nominate my own Mother for recognition as the remarkable woman she was.

The details of my Mother’s nomination are as vague in my memory as Mrs. Harris’s. I am fairly certain it was 1982—the year my parents celebrated their 50th wedding anniversary—and that DC’s “beautiful music station,” WGAY (99.5), sponsored the “Mother-of-the-Month” recognition. I nominated her by focusing on her long marriage to my dad, their six children, and the challenges she faced as an aging woman caring for her invalid husband, ten years her senior. Even though they lived with me, she was the caregiver during the day, and she carried the worry with her to bed at night. That, I believed, made her worthy of being honored.

I had been notified the day before that she had won, and that the radio host would call her live between 7:15 and 7:30 the next morning. I delayed leaving for work until the call came, turning on the radio to listen. The host told her about the award, and she responded in her plain, honest way:

“I am just flabbergasted.”

And here I am, decades later, unsettled by the blur of my memories of the honors given my Mother and Mrs. Harris. I wanted the details to come alive again here, to loom as large now as they did then. So, I went looking for the scoops that might have been reported in the newspapers.

I looked and looked again, but I found no newspaper coverage of my Mother being honored as “Mother of the Month.” That’s fine. My Mother doesn’t need to live in print—she lives on in me. Besides, I know the details by heart. I listened as she heard the radio broadcaster announce her status for all the listening world to hear. The radio station hosted a dinner for her. I pinned their orchid corsage to her dress, drove the two of us to the restaurant, and sat across the table from her.

We dined at The Monocle, seated at one of its linen-draped tables where the Capitol dome seemed near enough to touch. The restaurant buzzed with the voices of staffers and senators, but none of that mattered to me. What mattered was not the food or the setting, but the way she sat taller than usual, radiant with the glow of being truly seen.

I don’t remember the menu. I don’t remember what we ate or drank. What I do remember is my Mother spotlighted there, savoring a moment that was hers alone. She wasn’t the caregiver or the dutiful wife and mother that night. She was the honored radio station guest, my celebrated Mother, and I was lucky enough to be her escort.

I fared better in my search for Mrs. Harris’s recognition. I landed on the newspaper article itself, published in the Beckley Post-Herald on April 15, 1965. I was mistaken about nominating her for Mother of the Year, yet the headline showed I wasn’t far off:

“Shady Spring Woman Is ‘Mrs. Homemaker’”

“Mrs. Homemaker of 1964 and 1965 is the title which was bestowed on Mrs. Worthy Harris of Shady Spring on Saturday afternoon at the annual Home and Sport Show sponsored by Beckley Jaycees.”

It’s a long, long article, taking up nearly a quarter of a page and featuring a full-length photograph of Mrs. Harris holding a silver platter, one of her many gifts, along with a litany of her many talents that left me nodding in remembrance:

“An active member of White Oak Baptist Church, Mrs. Harris teaches crafts such as quilting, copper and leather tooling, refinishing furniture, cooking, canning, silk screening, lamp making, teaches home demonstration club classes, judges community fairs, and does upholstering as a hobby.”

As I continued reading, I realized that I was wrong about something else, too, so wrong that I was beyond flabbergasted:

“In her letter Mrs. [Audrey] Bateman stated, ‘Variety is the spice of life, and truly Mrs. Harris can attribute her zest to living to her many activities which center around her home and community. Her most admirable quality is that she always has time for God, her family, and friends.’”

I read the paragraph three times. Even then, I could only mutter to myself:

“Impossible!”

Surely, I was the one who wrote the nomination—I’d always been the family wordsmith, and the memory still lingers.

It was then that I called Audrey. Surely, she would know. She recalled Mrs. Harris’ recognition, but she was adamant that she had not written that letter, echoing the same sentiment that I had worried about down through the years:

“I wouldn’t dare have written that letter and slighted my own mother.”

Who knows. Maybe I wrote it for her to sign.

The truth lies somewhere in the mix—me, Audrey, and my Mother. All the careful lines blur, all the edges soften, until what’s left is simply presence—fluid, unguarded, and enough.

But now, sixty years after Mrs. Harris’s well-deserved recognition, I suspect it was my Mother herself who lined things up. I’m sure she never dreamt that one day I’d be celebrating her grace—while also celebrating a mother, not my own.





For Mothers Everywhere: Glimpses of My Mother’s Hands

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Originally published last year, this remains my most-read—and most-shared—essay. I’m honored to bring it back this Mother’s Day weekend, just as I first wrote it—a quiet tribute to the hands that shaped us all, guiding, giving, and leaving their imprint long after they’re gone.

“Mothers hold their children’s hands for a short while, but their hearts forever.”

–Unknown

On top of my bedroom chest of drawers is a pair of studio portraits of my father and my mother. They’re hand-colored originals, each measuring 3 inches by 4 inches, taken a year or so after my parents’ 1932 marriage. The portraits are in hinged gold frames. My father is on the left. My mother is on the right. A lamp behind illuminates both.

Right now, as I lie in bed, I’m focusing on my mother. Even though her portrait is five feet or so away, she is as clear to my sight as if she were right beside my bed. I’m glimpsing into a distant past, where memories of her linger like whispers.

She’s seated on a bench, wooden, perhaps. The artistic backdrop transports me outdoors. Trees frame the scene, a tall one behind her, their branches reaching skyward, and shorter ones in the background, on the bank of a calm body of water, perhaps a serene river.

She’s wearing a dark dress with short sleeves and a deep-cut neckline, accentuated by a glistening leaf-shaped brooch.

Her finger-waved hair, parted in the middle, falls softly just below her ears. Her eyes are dark and intense, with a gaze that seems to pierce through the image. They are surrounded by her soft, light skin tone, which provides a striking contrast. Their depth and intensity draw me in and make me wonder. What secrets lie hidden behind them? What stories and dreams do they hold? Are they looking into the depths of the world, seeking answers and understanding? Are they inviting me to join in their quest for knowledge?

Her features captivate and mesmerize me, regardless of how often I look at her portrait. Somehow, though, I seem to see my mother’s hands the most. Their contours are soft and graceful, and the fingers curve delicately, one hand gently clasping the other hand.

I see my mother’s hands the most because I know her hands the best.

My mother’s hands are engaging hands. Her hands held mine when I was but a child, and we scurried down the path behind our home where two boulders stood sentinel on either side as colored snow fell down in green and pink and blue flakes, making me believe in magic. Her hands held mine when I was a few years older, and she led me outdoors when our world was covered in snow and showed me how to lie down in stillness, moving arms and legs left and right to create angel wings, making me believe in flight. Her hands held mine a few years later when our world was green with summer and led me to lie down in warm grass, eyes skyward, discovering cloud figures, pointing out the details to one another so vividly that each could see brand new worlds of our own imaginings, making me believe in sharing visions so that others might see.

My mother’s hands are cooking hands. Her hands could transform pinto beans, onions, cornbread, buttermilk, and sweet potato cobbler into a feast, making me want it weekly. Her hands could turn a 25-pound turkey into a bronzed Thanksgiving dinner that rivaled Norman Rockwell’s iconic oil painting Freedom from Want, making art come alive in our own coal camp kitchen. Her hands could measure out with perfection all the ingredients for any dish from any cuisine that she had tasted with no need for recipe and with no need for measurements, teaching me to trust my senses.

My mother’s hands are versatile hands. Her hands could make our clothing without pattern, simply by taking our measure with her hands, making me aware that some things are more felt than seen. Her hands could cut my hair using scissors, comb, and the soft stretch of her fingers, reinforcing in my mind the marriage of expertise and craftsmanship. Her hands could take a pastry brush and turn a greased baking sheet or cake pan into a perfect likeness of Christ, making me see Holiness in the everyday.

My mother’s hands are industrious hands. Her hands could transform a grassy field into a kaleidoscope of gladiolas or dahlias, bursting with vibrant hues, teaching me to see potential in the ordinary. Her hands could hold her side of a wooden pole stretched through handles of a galvanized tub, carrying water to the garden, making me realize that many hands can carry heavy loads. Her hands could hang wallpaper with finesse, demonstrating how effort can elevate even the smallest task to art.

My mother’s hands are inclusive hands. Her hands always opened wide the door, welcoming everyone as guests into our home, making me value open-heartedness and acceptance of others, regardless of differences. Her hands always set a place for them at our modest table, making me understand that meager becomes abundance when shared with others. Her hands always held theirs in loving celebration and thanksgiving, making me a witness to the genuine communion of mankind.

My mother’s hands are nurturing hands. Her hands cared for her father and her mother in times when they could not take care of themselves, impressing on me the importance of helping others. Her hands cared for my dad and me and all my siblings, even when our hands might well have lessened the weight that she carried in hers, showing me that strength comes with sacrifice. Her hands took pine rosin to hold tight and heal the gash in my foot, the scar on my sole still a reminder of what she had learned from her mother’s hands, helping me appreciate generational know-how and wisdom.

My mother’s hands are writing hands. Her hands penned sermons when she pastored a church, making me realize that the intellect can lead the heart to be slain by the Holy Spirit. Her hands sent letters out into the world to those she knew well and to those she hardly knew at all, making me see that the power of words reaches beyond the pulpit. Her hands discovered typewriter keys late in life, determined that hand tremors would not tame her self-expression, making me realize the strength of determination.

My mother’s hands are spiritual hands. Her hands joined the hands of other warriors, praying over me as a child with polio, making me–one of the lucky, uncrippled survivors–a believer in the power of prayer. Her hands walked their way through her Bible and her commentary books–from cover to cover–more than thirty times in her lifetime, making me know the richness to be gained through close readings and research. Her hands clapped, sending thunderous applause into the Heavens to show her thankfulness and gratitude, making me know the joy of praise.

My mother’s hands are clasped hands. As she lay in her casket after her funeral, I removed her rings, took her hands and clasped one gently on top of the other, leaned in for a farewell kiss, and, then, closed the lid.

After her burial, my hands–strong from the strength of hers–released from their cage three white doves, flying upward toward the celestial realm, perhaps at that same mysterious moment when my mother found her way back home and celebrated her arrival with outstretched hands.

A Sweet Recipe for Life

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“Nothing great is created suddenly, any more than a bunch of grapes or a fig. If you tell me that you desire a fig, I answer you that there must be time. Let it first blossom, then bear fruit, then ripen.”

—Epictetus (c. 50–135 CE; Greek Stoic philosopher whose teachings emphasized the importance of self-discipline, resilience, and living in harmony with nature.)

Simple things in life make me smile: snowflakes kissing my face, the scent of fresh sourdough bread baking in the oven, and even the gentle symphony of Ruby’s snoring as she sleeps. However, of all the joys that I treasure—small and big—one that stands out is the straightforward act of sharing: ideas, consolation, time well spent together, meals at the table, breads, cakes, and yes, even recipes. Those moments of connection take me beyond myself toward something truly meaningful.

Recently, I shared my mother’s celebrated fruitcake recipe, and in the act of sharing, I savored an unexpected, sweet reward of my own.

I passed the recipe on to a friend exactly as my mother had passed it on to me.

It starts with all the ingredients. It’s a hefty cake with four pounds of cherries, golden raisins, pineapple, and pecans. For the batter, it has just enough to hold the fruit and nuts together, but even then it has a half dozen jumbo eggs, a pound of butter, and a magical blend of lemon juice, vanilla, freshly grated nutmeg, cinnamon, and allspice. All of those ingredients can be measured and weighed with perfect precision. But my mother put in another ingredient that knows neither measure nor weight: an extra dose of love.

After the ingredients, the recipe moves through all the steps. Lining the cake pan with parchment. Packing the mixture into the pan to achieve an even distribution of fruits, nuts, and batter. Baking at a low temp with a tray of water in the bottom of the oven.

Once the cake is done, it gets decorated with flowers made of pineapple wedges and cherries and returned to the oven for a few minutes, so the decorations will stick. When it emerges from the oven, another phase of the process begins. The cake cools on a rack until it can be turned out onto a towel, wrapped, and left to rest overnight, as if preparing for the transformative journey ahead.

The next morning, the ritual of wrapping and aging begins. A sheet of Saran Wrap is spread out on the counter, ready to embrace the cake. On top of it, cheesecloth soaked just right—not too wet, not too dry—with peach brandy is carefully arranged. The cake is placed at the center, a treasure waiting to be preserved. My mother’s instructions are precise:

“Fold the cheesecloth snugly around the cake, then do the same with the Saran Wrap, ensuring every inch is covered.”

Finally, the whole package is encased in heavy-duty foil, its armor for the weeks of aging ahead:

“Store in a cool room for two weeks,” her notes instruct. “Then carefully open, refresh the cheesecloth with more brandy, and rewrap.”

The process is repeated, patience layered upon patience, as the cake soaks in the flavors, deepening and maturing over time. Only then—after weeks of care and tending and extra doses of love all along the way—is the fruitcake ready for the refrigerator, where it will wait for its moment to be gifted or served.

Her final tip is practical, but it carries a poetic truth:

“The cake slices best when cold but eats best at room temperature.”

It’s a nod to the reward of patience—how time and care yield something truly remarkable.

If it sounds like a daunting recipe, it is. It’s not for the faint-of-heart baker. In fact, when I was getting ready to share the recipe, I was in the midst of baking fruitcakes myself. It occurred to me that perhaps I should take some photographs and include them beside the corresponding steps. I changed my mind, though, because my friend is an accomplished baker, and I figured that her bake would be as right as it could ever be for a first attempt.

After all, my mother didn’t get it right the first time. That’s why she spent decades perfecting her perfect fruitcake—a recipe honed with precision, patience, and a deep understanding of the process. Her fruitcake, like so much in life, wasn’t about instant gratification. It was about the slow, steadfast practice of doing something right, ingredient by ingredient, step by step, until it was as close to perfection as she could make it.

The lesson my mother’s fruitcake offers goes far beyond baking. It reminds me how patience and practice are at the heart of everything worth doing well. The recipe might call for precise measurements, but the same principle applies to so many aspects of life, where consistent effort, persistence, and time are the ingredients for success.

Take education, for instance. Mastering any skill—whether reading, writing, or ‘rithmetic—demands patience from both the student and the teacher. As an educator, I’ve seen firsthand how true understanding doesn’t come overnight. It’s built step by step, through trial, error, and those quiet “aha” moments that can’t be rushed. Teaching requires not only patience but also an extra dose of love: the care to meet students where they are, to encourage them when they stumble, and to celebrate their victories, big and small.

The same holds true in career paths. When I reflect on my time as a civil servant and later as an educator, I see how persistence shaped my journey. A fulfilling career isn’t something you stumble into—it’s built through detours and unexpected challenges that teach you resilience. Like fruitcake, careers need time to mature. And they need love: the passion for what you do, the commitment to make a difference, and the willingness to pour yourself into your work even when progress feels slow.

In personal goals, too, patience and practice are essential. Whether it’s pursuing health, creative aspirations, or even learning a new skill, success rarely comes in leaps and bounds. It’s incremental. It’s showing up, day after day, even when progress feels slow. And the secret ingredient? Love for the process itself—finding joy in the small victories, the moments when you feel yourself growing, and the quiet satisfaction of knowing you’re doing your best.

Relationships may be where patience and practice are most important of all. Building strong connections with others takes time, effort, and a willingness to grow alongside each other. Forgiveness, understanding, and communication are not one-time efforts; they’re practices we return to over and over. Like a fruitcake wrapped and aged, the best relationships deepen and become richer over time, with care, attention, and those extra doses of love that make them truly sweet.

Finally, spirituality. If there’s one area of life where practice and patience are truly a lifelong journey, it’s in connecting with something greater than ourselves. Clarity and peace often come in whispers, not shouts. Spiritual growth is about showing up—whether in prayer, meditation, or simply being present—and trusting that the sweetness will unfold when the time is right. I think of moments in my own life when answers came slowly, like the fruitcake aging in brandy, revealing their richness only after time and quiet reflection. And through it all, love is the thread: love for the journey, love for the questions as much as the answers, and love for the connection that binds us to the greater whole.

Each of these areas reminds me that, like my mother’s fruitcake, the things we cherish most in life aren’t created in a moment. They require steady hands, careful tending, and those extra doses of love that infuse meaning into every step of the process. Who would have thought that, all along, my mother was passing down a sweet recipe for life?

A “Viral” Post and the Power of Connection

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“The reader’s heart is the writer’s pen.”

—Rachel Carson (1907-1964; American marine biologist, conservationist, and writer, best known for her 1962 groundbreaking book Silent Spring.)

Something remarkable just happened, thanks to you! My May 11 post “Glimpses of My Mother’s Hands” has gone “viral,” already reaching over 1,000 readers—a milestone for me that touched my heart deeply.

As I reflect on why this post might have resonated so widely, I want to express my profound gratitude to all of you who read, shared, and connected with it. I can’t begin to thank you enough, My Dear Readers, whoever you are and wherever you are.

Let me share with you some possible reasons behind its impact and celebrate the universal themes that seemingly brought us together.

Emotional Connection

We all have someone whose hands guided us, comforted us, and helped shape who we are. Whether it’s a parent, grandparent, or mentor, the memories of their touch and care hold a special place in our hearts. It seems that my post captured the essence of this emotional connection, and it’s clear that many of you felt a similar bond. Thank you for allowing my intimate memories to remind you of your own cherished moments.

Vivid Imagery

Describing my mother’s hands and the memories tied to them in vivid detail perhaps allowed many of you to visualize and feel these experiences alongside me. I believe that this shared imagery created a bridge between my personal story and your own life experiences. It’s a testament to the power of storytelling, bringing us closer despite our different backgrounds.

Nostalgia and Sentimentality

Nostalgia is a powerful force that connects us to our past and to each other. The sentimental journey through my memories of my mother’s hands seemed to evoke a similar sense of nostalgia in many of you. It’s a reminder that we all hold onto pieces of our past, and sharing these pieces can bring warmth and connection to our present.

Timeless Themes

The themes of love, caregiving, and the passage of time are universal. They resonate across cultures and generations. Your engagement with these themes in my post highlights our shared human experience. By reflecting on these timeless elements, we honor those who have shaped us and acknowledge the ongoing journey of life.

Personal Storytelling

Sharing personal stories can create a powerful connection. By opening up about my mother’s hands, I hope that I touched a chord within you. The wide reach of this post suggests that personal stories can transcend individual experiences and resonate on a much larger scale.

Broader Appeal

While the post was a tribute to my mother, the themes it touched upon are broad and inclusive. The experiences of love, loss, and memory are ones we all share. Thank you for finding your own reflections in my words and for making the story your own.

§   §   §

As I look back on the unexpected “viral” success of “Glimpses of My Mother’s Hands,” I am filled with gratitude. Your readership and engagement have shown me the incredible power of connection. Thank you for being a part of this journey, for sharing in these universal themes, and for reminding me of the ties that bind us all. Here’s to many more moments of shared humanity and heartfelt connection.

With deepest appreciation, I remain–

Your Wired Researcher

Glimpses of My Mother’s Hands

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“Mothers hold their children’s hands for a short while, but their hearts forever.”

–Unknown

On top of my bedroom chest of drawers is a pair of studio portraits of my father and my mother. They’re hand-colored originals, each measuring 3 inches by 4 inches, taken a year or so after my parents’ 1932 marriage. The portraits are in hinged gold frames. My father is on the left. My mother is on the right. A lamp behind illuminates both.

Right now, as I lie in bed, I’m focusing on my mother. Even though her portrait is five feet or so away, she is as clear to my sight as if she were right beside my bed. I’m glimpsing into a distant past, where memories of her linger like whispers.

She’s seated on a bench, wooden, perhaps. The artistic backdrop transports me outdoors. Trees frame the scene, a tall one behind her, their branches reaching skyward, and shorter ones in the background, on the bank of a calm body of water, perhaps a serene river.

She’s wearing a dark dress with short sleeves and a deep-cut neckline, accentuated by a glistening leaf-shaped brooch.

Her finger-waved hair, parted in the middle, falls softly just below her ears. Her eyes are dark and intense, with a gaze that seems to pierce through the image. They are surrounded by her soft, light skin tone, which provides a striking contrast. Their depth and intensity draw me in and make me wonder. What secrets lie hidden behind them? What stories and dreams do they hold? Are they looking into the depths of the world, seeking answers and understanding? Are they inviting me to join in their quest for knowledge?

Her features captivate and mesmerize me, regardless of how often I look at her portrait. Somehow, though, I seem to see my mother’s hands the most. Their contours are soft and graceful, and the fingers curve delicately, one hand gently clasping the other hand.

I see my mother’s hands the most because I know her hands the best.

My mother’s hands are engaging hands. Her hands held mine when I was but a child, and we scurried down the path behind our home where two boulders stood sentinel on either side as colored snow fell down in green and pink and blue flakes, making me believe in magic. Her hands held mine when I was a few years older, and she led me outdoors when our world was covered in snow and showed me how to lie down in stillness, moving arms and legs left and right to create angel wings, making me believe in flight. Her hands held mine a few years later when our world was green with summer and led me to lie down in warm grass, eyes skyward, discovering cloud figures, pointing out the details to one another so vividly that each could see brand new worlds of our own imaginings, making me believe in sharing visions so that others might see.

My mother’s hands are cooking hands. Her hands could transform pinto beans, onions, cornbread, buttermilk, and sweet potato cobbler into a feast, making me want it weekly. Her hands could turn a 25-pound turkey into a bronzed Thanksgiving dinner that rivaled Norman Rockwell’s iconic oil painting Freedom from Want, making art come alive in our own coal camp kitchen. Her hands could measure out with perfection all the ingredients for any dish from any cuisine that she had tasted with no need for recipe and with no need for measurements, teaching me to trust my senses.

My mother’s hands are versatile hands. Her hands could make our clothing without pattern, simply by taking our measure with her hands, making me aware that some things are more felt than seen. Her hands could cut my hair using scissors, comb, and the soft stretch of her fingers, reinforcing in my mind the marriage of expertise and craftsmanship. Her hands could take a pastry brush and turn a greased baking sheet or cake pan into a perfect likeness of Christ, making me see Holiness in the everyday.

My mother’s hands are industrious hands. Her hands could transform a grassy field into a kaleidoscope of gladiolas or dahlias, bursting with vibrant hues, teaching me to see potential in the ordinary. Her hands could hold her side of a wooden pole stretched through handles of a galvanized tub, carrying water to the garden, making me realize that many hands can carry heavy loads. Her hands could hang wallpaper with finesse, demonstrating how effort can elevate even the smallest task to art.

My mother’s hands are inclusive hands. Her hands always opened wide the door, welcoming everyone as guests into our home, making me value open-heartedness and acceptance of others, regardless of differences. Her hands always set a place for them at our modest table, making me understand that meager becomes abundance when shared with others. Her hands always held theirs in loving celebration and thanksgiving, making me a witness to the genuine communion of mankind.

My mother’s hands are nurturing hands. Her hands cared for her father and her mother in times when they could not take care of themselves, impressing on me the importance of helping others. Her hands cared for my dad and me and all my siblings, even when our hands might well have lessened the weight that she carried in hers, showing me that strength comes with sacrifice. Her hands took pine rosin to hold tight and heal the gash in my foot, the scar on my sole still a reminder of what she had learned from her mother’s hands, helping me appreciate generational know-how and wisdom.

My mother’s hands are writing hands. Her hands penned sermons when she pastored a church, making me realize that the intellect can lead the heart to be slain by the Holy Spirit. Her hands sent letters out into the world to those she knew well and to those she hardly knew at all, making me see that the power of words reaches beyond the pulpit. Her hands discovered typewriter keys late in life, determined that hand tremors would not tame her self-expression, making me realize the strength of determination.

My mother’s hands are spiritual hands. Her hands joined the hands of other warriors, praying over me as a child with polio, making me–one of the lucky, uncrippled survivors–a believer in the power of prayer. Her hands walked their way through her Bible and her commentary books–from cover to cover–more than thirty times in her lifetime, making me know the richness to be gained through close readings and research. Her hands clapped, sending thunderous applause into the Heavens to show her thankfulness and gratitude, making me know the joy of praise.

My mother’s hands are clasped hands. As she lay in her casket after her funeral, I removed her rings, took her hands and clasped one gently on top of the other, leaned in for a farewell kiss, and, then, closed the lid.

After her burial, my hands–strong from the strength of hers–released from their cage three white doves, flying upward toward the celestial realm, perhaps at that same mysterious moment when my mother found her way back home and celebrated her arrival with outstretched hands.

§ § §

Bertha Pearl Witt Kendrick (May 16, 1912–May 30, 2010)

From Stars to Soil: Embracing My Family’s Gardening Tradition

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“The glory of gardening: hands in the dirt, head in the sun, heart with nature. To nurture a garden is to feed not just the body, but the soul.”

—Alfred Austin (1835–1913; English poet who served as Poet Laureate of the United Kingdom from 1896 until his death.)

The love of gardening runs deep in my veins, pulsing and pumping from my father and my mother.

As far back as I can remember, we always had a garden, even in the coal camp of Cherokee (WV) where I was born. Most folks wouldn’t have been impressed by those gardens. They weren’t much to look at, and they were scattered all over the place. A patch of lettuce here. A patch of scallions there. Potatoes over yonder. Tomatoes somewhere further beyond. Yet, in the midst of the coal dust, the slate dump behind our house, and the rugged landscape, those humble patches of green were our oasis, our source of sustenance, and a testament to the resilience of our family.

We moved away from McDowell County when I was seven, marking a shift in our endeavors. Our gardens transitioned from scattered patches to full-sized plots, big enough to be tractor tilled in early Spring, big enough to lay out rows with a push plow, and big enough to raise high hopes for a bountiful harvest.

While gardening was always a family affair, my father and mother took the lead in deciding what to plant, where. But we all shared in the labor. My dad always headed out to the field after dinner, even though he had worked in the mines all day. He was there on weekends, too. But my mom and all of us kids who were home worked the garden as well. I believe my love for gardening surpassed my siblings. If anyone happened to be looking for me, they knew they could always find me in the garden. Putting in the seeds. Pulling the weeds. Hoeing rows of corn and green beans. Hilling potatoes. Strawing watermelons and cantaloupe. Sitting in the cucumbers, saltshaker in hand, having an any-time snack or watching the night sky fill up with stars.

I cherished everything that we grew in our garden: fiery banana peppers, ribbed bell peppers, towering broccoli, robust cabbage, beige-netted cantaloupes, lacy-topped carrots, creamy cauliflower, towering cornstalks, prickly cucumbers, English peas, slender green beans, curly kale, leaf lettuce, peppery mustard greens, thick pole beans, Irish potatoes, globed radishes, sprightly scallions, juicy tomatoes, and striped watermelons.

Although every garden that we ever had was my most favorite, ever, the one that we had the summer before I turned ten was my favorite of them all. It’s the one that I remember most. To my childhood eyes, that garden was huge, and even now, it looms large. I would say that it was a whole two acres of rich loamy soil, open field, without too many rocks, large or small, woods remaining on one side, reminder of things past.

Besides its size, I recall the mathematical precision in how my father laid it out. After it had been tilled, the garden magically turned itself into a checkerboard of stakes and strings that my dad and I, working together, spaced equally apart, declaring what vegetables belonged where. Then, day by day, sections of stakes and strings came down except for the perimeters defining places that specific vegetables could call home. Each vegetable had its own plot, with the largest reserved for potatoes. Next came sweet yellow corn, all twined and tangled with Kentucky Wonder pole beans reaching for the tasseled tops. And so, it was. Every vegetable had its own place, based not only on our family needs but also on its soil and light requirements.

Adding to the garden’s charm were the meticulously planned paths, a good three feet wide, separating the interior vegetable plots and hugging the garden’s outer edge. My mother and I bordered all the paths with flowers. Most were annuals–zinnias, four clocks, nasturtium, cosmos, and marigolds. Two were perennials–dahlias and gladiolus–boastfully standing sentinel in square clumps on the four corners.

Occasionally, I’d steal away to the garden, finding solace amidst the rows of corn. Lying between them, I’d watch birds circling overhead, imagining how our garden appeared from their lofty perspective. To them, it must have resembled a patchwork quilt with neatly arranged squares against the backdrop of greenery. Paths crisscrossed the landscape, separating plots, while vibrant flowers added bursts of color along the way. The orderly rows of crops, interspersed with flowering plants, spoke of meticulous planning and dedication. In my youthful innocence, I believed the birds were admiring our garden—a harmonious blend of practicality and beauty, a testament to our family’s care and effort.

By mid-summer, when the crops were beginning to peak and the flowers were showing off their heads of brilliant colors, word spread, and people came from miles around to take in its beauty. That summer, our potato harvest was the best ever–thirty bushels or so–most shared with neighbors or admiring passersby. That summer, one potato weighed in at five pounds, caught the attention of a local reporter, and a photograph of my father, proudly holding the potato, found its way into our local Raleigh Register newspaper. That summer, my father put up shelves in our basement so that my mother could proudly display the 3,000 or so quarts of garden harvest she canned not only to meet our needs but also to share with others in need.

Apart from the care we lavished on our gardens, I’m uncertain why they yielded such abundant harvests. However, I thought then–and I think now–that it might have been because my parents always planted according to zodiac signs, moon phases, and long-standing traditions. Regardless of the signs, my father always planted potatoes on Good Friday, believing that it would ensure a bountiful harvest, and it did. But with other crops, I have fond recollections of him and my mother discussing at considerable length the best signs for planting. Cabbage, in the head. Corn, in the arms or thighs. Cucumbers, in the fingers and toes. On and on it went, always piquing my curiosity and making me wonder: Could there be something to this age-old practice that they followed almost religiously?

All of my family’s gardens linger in my mind as fertile fields, ever growing, ever growing. And the spirit of those gardens has followed me wherever I have lived. I have always had my own garden patch. It might have been as simple as a potted plant in my college dorm rooms. It might have been a larger patio patch in the city apartments and homes. Now, it’s my mountaintop, patchworked with specimen evergreens and iris and peonies and hardy banana trees and bamboo. Regardless of the garden’s size and location, the soil has always reached out to my soul just as lovingly as my ungloved hands have reached down into the soil.

Aside from my own love of gardening, I have harvested so much more from those fertile fields that sustained us so joyfully from one summer season to the next when I was growing up. Lessons learned in the fields have sustained and nourished me for my entire life.

I learned all about patience and perseverance as I waited for seeds to sprout, nurtured plants as they grew, and dealt with setbacks such as pests or weather. What an impact that lesson had on other areas of life, including my education and my career.

I learned all about responsibility and commitment. Watering, weeding, and caring for garden plants taught me the value of follow-through, dedication, and fulfilling obligations and commitments.

I learned about teamwork and collaboration as I worked with my family, planning, planting, and maintaining our gardens. Those communication skills and cooperation skills remain among my strongest assets.

Perhaps more important than those invaluable practical lessons, I learned about hope and optimism. Witnessing the cycle of growth and renewal in our gardens taught me that even in difficult times, there is potential for growth and transformation. It fostered my hopeful outlook on life and my perpetual belief in possibilities for positive change.

Above all, this. Gardening as a child and now as a man on the other side of childhood taught me to honor the Divine presence that’s all around us. Gardening connects me to the creative forces of the universe and gives me a sense of reverence for the sacredness of all life. Gardening is a form of prayer that deepens and enriches my spiritual connections and anchors me to a certainty of purpose.

For me, my childhood gardening transcended the mere act of planting seeds and tending crops. It served as a powerful crucible for forging my character and cultivating values that have endured well beyond the gardens that I once knew and still know. Embracing the earth beneath my feet, I learned patience, responsibility, and resilience, laying the groundwork for purpose and meaning. The tender shoots of my childhood gave me a profound appreciation for the interconnectedness of all life, a steadfast belief in the power of hope and renewal, and a deep-seated reverence for the sacredness of the natural world. The seeds sown in my childhood have illuminated my path all along the way, and I am confident they will continue to brighten the paths I have yet to trod.

Memories of Christmas in the Country

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These Christmas memories were recorded on tape by my mother, Bertha Pearl Witt Kendrick, as part of a larger oral history project that she and I undertook. What appears in today’s blog post retains the integrity and the flavor of her spoken word.

These memories preserve a small part of the Christmas customs of Patrick Springs, Virginia, as they were practiced there just after the turn of the twentieth century. My mother was born there, and her family was established in that region well before the turn of the American Revolution. It is possible that some of these customs are observed there even today. More likely, though, they belong to an age that exists no more except in memory.

“The love they showed each other is what the world needs now.”

Bertha Pearl Witt Kendrick (1912-2010; wife, mother, and homemaker; teacher of humility, honesty, hard work, and forgiveness; embracer of diversity; demonstrator of endurance; giver of unconditional love.)

The Christmas Season, as it was celebrated in the rural area of Patrick Springs, Virginia, where I grew up, actually started about a month before Christmas. Children were told that ole Santa Claus was watching them to see if they were good, and if they weren’t, he might pass them by. Boy, were they good! They didn’t have to be spoken to but once, and they were as quiet as mice and willing to help out in any way they could. They were told that when Santa was ready to bring his gifts, he would leave the North Pole with his sled and reindeer, come sailing through the air, make his stop on top of the house, and come down the chimney with his sack of toys and goodies.

About two weeks before Christmas, Mama would start baking pies and cakes. Country people didn’t make traditional fruit cakes in those days. Instead, they made an ole timey, layered fruit cake, using a buttermilk biscuit dough, sweetened with a little bit of sugar and with enough molasses to turn the dough’s color. After the dough was lightly kneaded, it was rolled out rather thin, cut into rounds the size of a dinner plate, and baked in a skillet. Mama would have a stack, oh, I don’t know how high. She would put one layer on a plate and cover it with home-dried apples that had been stewed, mashed, and flavored with spice. Next she would add to that another layer and cover it with sweet potatoes that had been cooked, mashed, and flavored with freshly grated nutmeg and with vanilla. She would continue stacking the layers, alternating between the dried apple and the sweet potato fillings. The top layer would be covered with the dried-apple mixture, I think. Then, where the apple and sweet potato mixtures had filled out all the way to the edges of the cake, Mama would take a knife and go around and smooth the sides. It was pretty, and it was good, too. I’ve always wanted to make one of those fruit cakes, but I can tell you one thing: the store-bought dried apples of today wouldn’t be good like the home-dried apples.

But Mama would make two other cakes at Christmas which I especially liked. I just wish you could have seen one of those cakes, and I wish you could have had the privilege of tasting one of them. One was a large white cake made from twelve egg whites. (The twelve egg yolks were used to make a large, golden pound cake.) It wasn’t an angel food cake, and while it had the texture of a white wedding cake, a wedding cake couldn’t compare with it. Mama would put white icing on it and would decorate it with boxwood leaves, sort of in a flower design. It was beautiful, and it would just about melt in your mouth, too. The other cake I especially liked was a large coconut cake made from fresh coconut milk and freshly grated coconut.

Mama used the fireplace to do most all the cooking and baking during the winter. She baked most of her cakes in a three-legged, iron skillet with a lid. Coals of fire were put under the skillet and the lid was placed on it after being heated on the coals of fire.

By Christmas Eve the cupboard would be full of cakes and pies. Did they look good! But we didn’t ask for one piece. In the meantime, Mama would be telling us the Bible story about Christ’s birth, and I recall that she said that at midnight on Christmas Eve, all the cattle would bow down on their knees.

We would be very excited by the Christmas story, all the baking, and the belief that Santa was watching us. At last Christmas Eve would arrive. We would hang our stockings over the mantle. Mama would put a couple of cakes on the table so Santa could eat some if he was hungry. Then everybody would go to bed early so the fire could go out and Santa wouldn’t get burned as he came down the chimney. Of course, we children slept upstairs, and it seemed we would never go to sleep. But at last it would be morning, and Daddy would be calling for us to get up and come see what Santa had brought. Down the steps we would run to the fireplace! There in the ashes would be the footprints made by Santa as he had come down and had gone back up the chimney. (So we thought, at least. When we were older, we learned that Mama or Daddy had pulled their shoes off and had made footprints in the ashes!) One slice of cake had been cut from each cake. We thought it was grand that Santa would eat some of our cakes, but we were glad that he hadn’t taken them with him. We would grab our stockings. The girls would have a doll, sometimes a dress and hood, an orange, English walnuts, Brazil nuts, and raisins-on-the-vine. The boys would have cap-busters and caps, Roman candles and firecrackers and sparklers, plus the orange, candy, nuts, and raisins-on-the-vine.

Afterwards Mama would start breakfast and Dad and the boys would go outside to celebrate. Dad would take the shotgun and shoot straight up in the air. After hearing Mama tell the story of Christ’s birth, the Lord seemed so real and so close to me that I was afraid Dad might accidentally shoot Him! But Mama reassured me there was no danger. Then she would finish breakfast. Dad would come back inside and make a ginger stew by boiling pieces of ginger in water and then by adding a little whiskey and sugar. Or he would make a coffee lace, usually by adding some apple brandy and sugar to hot coffee. Each of us would be given a drink.

It was the custom then that the first person to visit a neighbor and holler “Christmas gift!” would be given a drink of whiskey, ginger stew, or apple brandy. I remember that Mama’s father, my Grandfather Adams, had real large cedar trees in his back yard, and the chickens roosted in them. I recall Mama telling about an episode that took place there when she was single. One Christmas morning about four o’clock, the chickens woke the family up, making the most noise. Grandfather thought a weasel was after them. He jumped from bed, grabbed the gun, and went running out. Two young men were up in the trees, holding a couple of chickens. As soon as Grandfather ran out, they hollered, “Christmas gift!” Grandfather told them to get down and come in, and he made them a ginger stew.

Country people in those days didn’t have lots of elaborate store-bought decorations. Things were handmade. Coat hangers and ground pine would be used to made wreaths, and the leaves of laurel branches would be pinned together to look like bells. Sometimes holly and mistletoe could be found, and, of course, whoever stood under the mistletoe got kissed. It was only after I grew up that Christmas trees were put inside homes. People just didn’t put up trees when I was a child. The local store didn’t sell tree ornaments and such things, so people didn’t know anything about that custom. One year when I was older, we had a Christmas tree. I recall it well. It was a large black pine. We didn’t have fancy ornaments. We simply decorated it with strings of popcorn and with bunches of candy–five or six sticks of peppermint candy tied together in each bunch. The sticks of candy didn’t just hang straight down. They would sort of go in different directions and stick out. They looked beautiful on a big tree. That year, our gifts were tied on the tree instead of being placed in the stockings on the fireplace.

People also celebrated by having dances in their homes. Some people moved all the furniture out of one room so that there would be lots of space to dance. When I was a child, people mostly square danced. After I grew up, they still square danced, but they also waltzed and did the Charleston.

For the Christmas dinner celebration, most people had ham or chicken instead of turkey. I don’t remember everything else they had for dinner, but most people had potatoes, turnips, and cabbage put away for winter. The potatoes and turnips were put in a keel, which was a large hole dug in the ground, lined with straw, covered with boards, and finally covered with dirt. Usually, the cabbage was pulled up in the fall, and then put in deep furrows, heads down. It would keep all winter. Plus people had all kinds of canned food, dried apples and peaches, and dried green beans on strings which were called “leather breeches.” So it wasn’t any trouble to prepare a good dinner any time.

I remember one Christmas after I grew up that Mother, my brother Mallie, and I went over to Preacher Sam Koger’s. He and his family didn’t live very far from us. Of course, we had already eaten, but Mrs. Koger had a ham baked, and I don’t recall what else. Preacher Koger made a coffee lace and passed it around and had us all drink some of that, and nothing do them but what they had to fix us a biscuit with ham in it. It was very good. During that same Christmas, Mother gave Mrs. Koger some fresh turnip greens because we had a large turnip patch with pine branches over top of them. Mother could go and remove the pines and get fresh greens practically all during the winter. Mrs. Koger thought that it was wonderful to have fresh greens for Christmas time. I think that she gave Mother a piece of material to make an apron or a dress. I don’t recall which one.

To me Christmas was a very happy time. People were satisfied with what they had, and they made the most of it. Then people didn’t tire themselves with hectic Christmas shopping, and they spent very little money. I think that’s one reason why they could enjoy Christmas the way they did. Also, they would visit each other and show their love in a way that people seem to have forgotten these days. The love they showed each other is what the world needs now. It doesn’t cost us anything to love people, and Jesus has told us to love one another as He has loved us.

When I think of Christmas and what it meant to me, I would like to be able to spend one more Christmas just like I had then back in the country.

“You’re Going to Be Okay.”

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“And once the storm is over, you won’t remember how you made it through, how you managed to survive. You won’t even be sure, whether the storm is really over. But one thing is certain. When you come out of the storm, you won’t be the same person who walked in. That’s what this storm’s all about.”

Haruki Murakami (b. 1949; internationally acclaimed Japanese writer. The quote is from his novel Kafka on the Shore [2002])

Sometimes, the greatest enigmas in life unfold right before our very eyes, revealing themselves to us gradually like pieces of a puzzle falling into place, not through anything monumental but rather through minor moments that fill our days and propel us forward. We may not even be aware of the significance of what is happening until one day, something triggers a momentary flashback, followed by a quick return to the present. In that instant, we know that we have been brushed by a condundrum and that we now kneel before a new truth.

For me, such revelations are rare. When they take place, they are heralded by the subtle realization that pieces of my life are falling into place more smoothly and more effortlessly than expected. In those moments, I reflect, and in my musings, I come to realize that maybe–just maybe–other aspects of my life are mysteriously falling into place, too, like an intricate riddle being solved.

Last weekend, I experienced a succession of such events that made me sit up and take notice. I didn’t know what was about to unfold, but every fiber of my being felt the shroud of mystery. The events seemed to have started with my post, “Packin’ Up. Gettin’ Ready to Go.” I finished it on Saturday, September 23, a full day earlier than expected, just as remnants from Ophelia brought dark clouds, a steady rainfall, and winds high enough to cause the trees to sway almost beyond their bend, but not high enough to elevate my concerns beyond my enjoyment. My big decision, as I sipped my morning coffee, was whether I would read the post to my oldest sister later that day or wait until Sunday as usual. This decision felt like a cipher in the grand scheme of things.

I put the question aside and started checking emails. I had one from a former student, Brian McKee, whose poetic voice is as fresh and original as any new American poet I’ve read in recent years. He shared a poem that he had penned that morning. Its beauty touched my inner being just as I know that it will touch yours.  Perhaps more importantly, it will linger with you and with me and make us wonder, “How?” and “Why?”

Desert Wind

It doesn’t have the lisp of leaves impeding
on its smooth trajectory over stone
and scrub. A place of helpless hook and barb,
of toothy undercarriage biting for an
overhead swoop. A highway of hawk and owl
and bats taking hook-shots in the current
around a soft ball of moon.

It’s hardly its own thing as a foreigner knows it.
A dry eddy of stir in the harshness
of the river I’ve yet to notice wading in.
Carrying the cinder and spark of cookfire
off in a rapid of oar-splash and air.
Holding in some endless canopy
a handful of lightning and stars
with the same weightless disregard.

It presides over a court of long shadow,
pizzicato of sound and the bow song
of echo long dispersed. Low clouds in
late light, lilting in the orbit that it blows.
The tiny thorns of its worshipers
dragging fissures in the ground,
sweeping my bootprints by morning.

Brian’s poetic gem made the clouds and the rain glisten even more, revealing hidden truths about the beauty of the world.

As I finished my emails and my coffee, I felt mysteriously compelled to go to Starbucks. I rarely go there, but thoughts of a pumpkin-spiced latte with a slice of pumpkin bread rose up in my head, so off I went. The storm and the earliness of the morning found me outnumbered by Starbucks staff, cheerful and chattering amongst themselves and with their occasional customer, including me.

I sat at my table, enjoying my enticements, daydreaming, thinking of this and of that, of nothing and of everything. In the midst of my mindlessness, the power went out mysteriously, with no warning: the sky was clear at that point, and the sun was shining. Silence followed, but it was replaced by humorous panic as the staff realized that without power, they were powerless to fulfill orders being placed by drive-through and walk-in customers.

The outage didn’t bother me at all. I was having fun watching staff negotiate with one another about the best course of action. Besides, I had my smartphone and could give “Packin’ Up. Gettin’ Ready to Go” a final and leisurely proofreading.

After twenty minutes or so, the power came back on, and everyone shouted a loud huzzah. I decided to return home and start preparing some Maryland Crab Soup–fitting, it seemed to me–to celebrate Ophelia, a storm that had moved up the coast and had blown in from the Eastern Shore. The day before, I purchased some jumbo lump crab meat, brought over from the same banks by our local fishmonger.

When I got home, I threw some logs into the kitchen fireplace, and before long, I was enjoying a crackling, roaring fire as I prepped.

Usually, when I’m in the kitchen, I play Gospel music, but I was in the mood for something a little lighter.

Brent: Alexa, play relaxation music.

Alexa: Here’s a station just for you–Acoustic Chill.

As I continued making my soup, I was listening but not listening, that is until some lyrics grabbed me, pulled me in close, and wouldn’t let go:

You’re gonna be okay
You’re gonna be okay
Oh, the sun will keep on risin’ in that old familiar way
And every little thing is gonna be okay

You’re gonna be all right
Darling, you’re, you’re gonna be all right
‘Cause the stars will keep on shinin’ through the darkest night
And you can know you’re gonna be all right

The song was powerfully gripping, and I knew as I listened that a mystery was being unfolded. Everything was falling inexplicably into place.

Brent: Alexa, what’s the name of that song?

Alexa: “Be Okay” by Lauren Daigle.

I know other songs by Lauren Daigle, an American contemporary Christian music singer and songwriter, known especially for “You Say” and “Thank God, I Do.”  She has a way of writing/singing Christian songs that cross over to the top-ten pop charts. I was surprised, though, to hear her on Acoustic Chill, a station that I listen to all the time, yet I had never heard her there before. I liked the song so much that I wanted to hear it again.

Brent: Alexa, repeat.

I let the first two verses slip into my soul once more, and then I let verses three and four slip deeper still:

Lift your eyes to the hills
Remember where your help comes from
Lift your eyes to the hills
You’ll never face a valley alone
‘Cause even when your heart is breakin’
And you’ve gone and lost your way
You’re, you’re gonna be okay

You’re gonna be okay
I know that you’re, you’re gonna be okay
Not a care in this whole world can take that truth away
You’re, you’re gonna be okay

And when the song ended, I wanted to hear it again and again and again.

Brent: Alexa, loop.

As I listened, the final verses settled deeper and deeper into my spirit.

You’re gonna be all right
Darlin’, you’re, you’re gonna be all right
Oh the end of our last breath, when we’re beckoned onto the light
Love will meet you there, you’re gonna be all right
Oh the end of our last breath is the beginning of new life
You’re, you’re gonna be all right

“Be Okay” kept right on playing while I kept right on cooking. It kept right on playing while its message kept right on trickling deeper and deeper into the depths of my soul. It kept right on playing as its truths kept right on bubbling back up.

I started thinking about death, the mystery that marks our ending. Or does it mark our beginning? I started thinking about grieving. Does it ever end? And how? And when?

I started thinking about my father’s death. When the evening of his wake arrived, I walked with my mother toward the open casket where he lay. Even from the far end of the chapel, we could see something on the lining of the raised casket lid—a design. Drawing closer, we were both taken aback as we looked inside the casket lid. It was not what we had ordered. It was not a solid white silk lining without tufting or design. Instead, we witnessed—together—a pair of praying hands. To the right of the hands, the words, “May God hold you in the palm of His hand until we meet again.” It was not what my mother and I had planned. It was not what we had ordered. And, yet, the praying hands were there, holding for me—and I believe for me alone—a lasting message.

Grieving my father’s death, I thought, would never come to an end. One day, however, when I least expected it, I had an awareness that it had been lifted.

I started thinking about my mother’s death. She had been paralyzed and flat on her back for six years. Two nights before her death, I had three dreams in quick succession. In the first dream, she got up out of bed and walked out on the porch, her arms reaching up toward a blue, blue sky, smiling and laughing and twirling—around and around and around. For the first time in six years, she’s out of bed—walking and dancing. She’s ecstatically happy. In the second dream, she was costumed as a white mouse, performing. Her audience, amused by her antics. Their reward? An encore—more frolics, much laughter. She’s freed from the journey, freed from the maze, blissfully celebrating her new path. In the third dream, she entered a softly lighted room where my father sat in his recliner. My mother sat down in the chair beside him and turned off the lamp. The room slowly—ever so slowly—fell into warm darkness. My mother and father are reunited.

When I awakened, I felt—no, knew—deep down in my soul that my mother came to me in those three dreams to prepare me for her death. Two days later, she died.

Grieving my mother’s death was entirely different. Being closer to her than to my father, I feared that her death would be my undoing. Instead, the faith lessons that she taught me down through the years comforted me and gave me peace.

I started thinking about my late partner’s death. Was it yesterday? Or was it the day before? Or was it an eternity ago?

As I reflected on Allen’s death and my grief, “Be Okay” kept right on playing, transporting me to the night before he died. It kept right on playing as I heard Allen reassuring me then while I stood beside his hospital bed just as Lauren Daigle was reassuring me now while I stood in my kitchen.

Allen clasped my hands and looked deep into my eyes:

I’m going to be okay.
You’re going to be okay.
We’re both going to be okay.

He knew. I knew. But that night neither of us wanted to know.

Allen died the next morning, just minutes after each of us looked at one another, saying one last time, “I love you.”

I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt as I closed Allen’s eyes and folded his hands prayerfully across his chest that he had been beckoned back into the Light and that he had crossed over into a new state of Being. I knew that he was all right, just as he had said that he would be.

Now, 968 days after his death, it was as if Allen stepped out of his own light, entered our kitchen, put his arms around me, and waltzed me out of the storm of my grieving into my own light. It was as if I was mysteriously convinced that the sun would keep on rising, that the stars would keep on shining, and that everything would be okay.

What makes the unveiling of the mystery even more mysterious and even more beautiful is the simple fact that I had done nothing with an eye toward grief-healing. It happened just as it had happened with my mother and with my father: the grieving lifted itself in my moment of readiness.

How ironic that it all came to pass on a day when I felt that something was brushing against me, but I knew not what. A more mundane litany of events for that day could hardly be imagined. I finished a post early. I heard from a poet friend from long, long ago. I went to Starbucks simply because something called me there. I came home, started a fire in the kitchen fireplace, and made crab soup to celebrate a tropical storm. I played acoustic chill music and heard a song that grabbed my heart and wouldn’t let go.

How ironic that when the storm within me passed, peace washed over my soul, and Allen’s love ushered me to the altar of truth that he foretold: “You’re going to be okay.”

Lifted Up When I Am Down: The Power of Paradox in Gospel Music.

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“Gospel music is nothing but singing of good tidings — spreading the good news. It will last as long as any music because it is sung straight from the human heart.”

–Mahalia Jackson (1911-1972; widely considered the most influential voice in twentieth century Gospel music.)

I fell in love with words when I was four years old or thereabouts, listening to my mother preach. Magical things seemed to happen in that little coal camp church. It was not uncommon for one or more women in the congregation to get slain in the Holy Spirit. They would jump up on the back of a wooden pew–not nailed to the floor, by the way–and then hop to the back of the next pew, continuing pew by pew until they reached the pew in front. Still standing on the back of the pew, they would pirouette gracefully and continue their pew-hopping journey to the last pew in the back. They were called pew-hoppers.

At that tender age, I did not understand fully what was happening, but the halleluiahs and the weeping and the speaking in Unknown Tongues always seemed to be filled inexplicably with an abundance of joy and with an equal abundance of mystery. I was certain that whatever was happening was because of the words coming from my mother’s mouth.

I became convinced that words had power. I became convinced that words changed lives. And so it was that my love affair with words began right there in that little Pilgrim Holiness Church.

It was strengthened through the Gospel hymns that we sang. One of the earliest that I remember is “I’ll Fly Away,” especially the chorus:

I’ll fly away, Oh Glory
I’ll fly away; (in the
Morning)
When I die, Hallelujah, by and by,
I’ll fly away (I’ll fly away).

I loved the song’s uplifting melody and rhythm, but I could not comprehend the song’s depth. In fact, it perplexed my four-year old mind. I knew the concreteness of death, but I knew not the abstraction of its sting. I had seen death once when I walked up the road to buy some candy from Mrs. Cory, a Black woman who had a little building, hardly bigger than a closet, where she sold candy and soft drinks. As I walked across the wide-planked bridge spanning the creek, I looked on up the knoll past her store toward her house. An ambulance was there, and men were carrying a large-framed Black man on a stretcher. He was covered with a sheet, but he was so tall that his feet were showing. In my innocence and curiosity, I walked over and touched his soles, knowing neither fear nor apprehension. I have never forgotten their softness and their tan whiteness. It was my first encounter with death.

Little wonder, then, that I was perplexed when we sang “I’ll Fly Away.” I had seen a dead man who could not move, and I could not for the life of me figure out how he could fly.

Even without understanding, I liked the song’s happy, handclapping rhythm. More, the song got me to thinking, and it kept me thinking. It didn’t matter that I had no answers.

Other songs confounded me, too. Most of them were songs that the Black congregation sang in their church. Their services, lasting for hours, were filled with lots and lots of singing. After we finished our service, I’d go sit on the steep rocky bank high above their church, enjoying the powerful, thunderous singing of choir and congregation.

It was on that bank that I heard them singing “Jesus Gave Me Water.” As I swayed to the song’s rhythm, I was perplexed by lines repeated over and over again:

Jesus gave me water,
Jesus gave me water,
Jesus gave me water,
And it was not in the well.

We had a well at home, so I knew all about drawing water from the well. I had done it myself. But if Jesus gave water and it was not in the well, where did it come from? What was its source?

Once again, I did not understand. And, once again, it did not matter that I did not understand. The song had a soothing, comfortable melody, and it gave me something to think about long after the singing ended, long after the church windows lowered, long after the entrance doors closed, and long after I rose up from the bank to retrace my steps back home.

As I grew older and my intellectual abilities developed and my life experiences expanded, I gradually understood and appreciated the deeper meanings of the songs that we sang. I came to realize that “Jesus Gave Me Water” is about finding spiritual nourishment and fulfillment through faith in Jesus. I came to realize that “I’ll Fly Away” expresses the belief that one day we will leave earthly challenges and struggles behind when we enter a better place, presumably heaven, filled with eternal peace and joy.

Over time, I came to grow into a heightened awareness of all the nuances of language–imagery and metaphor and paradox and symbolism–that had tugged at my heart and soul through my mother’s preaching and through Gospel singing when I was but a boy of four, too young to understand but not too young to be drawn to the power.

Over time, I came to grow into a heightened awareness of the power of paradoxes that make up the grand tapestry of human existence.

Paradoxes–those statements, situations, or concepts that seem contradictory yet reveal unexpected underlying truths, like the ones that I witnessed in “I’ll Fly Away” and “Jesus Gave Me Water”–appeal to us because they invite us to go beyond surface assumptions and to think deeply. They:

● help us see the nuances of the human experience fraught with emotions and connections that define our lives;

● challenge us to reflect on philosophical matters such as time, existence, truth, and identity; and

● foster rich and robust conversations because they are open to interpretation.

In the Gospel music tradition, paradoxes are as important as they are in their corresponding scriptural passages from the Bible. They:

● invite us to explore the mysteries of faith and spirituality;

● help us find joy in sorrow, strength in weakness, and power in surrender; and

● pump energy into our souls and lift our spirits.

They leave us with memorable and poetic lines that are silently humming deep in our psyche, bursting forth in song sometimes when we least expect them to burst forth, just as “Never Grow Old” did this morning when I awakened to the fresh vitality of a brand-new day:

I have heard of a land
On the far away strand.
‘T is beautiful home of the soul.
Built by Jesus on high,
There we never shall die.
‘T is the land where we’ll never grow old.

I didn’t go looking for “Never Grow Old.” It came looking for me the same way that “He Saw It All (The Blind Man Song)” found its way to me shortly thereafter, a song celebrating the story that a worker heard when he stopped a young man and asked why he was running through town:

I was trying to catch the crippled man.
Did he run past this way?
He was rushing home to tell everyone
What Jesus did today.
And the mute man was telling myself
And the deaf girl he’s leaving to
Answer God’s call.
It’s hard to believe but if you don’t trust me,
Ask the blind man he saw it all.
Ask the blind man he saw it all.

There we have it: one simple stanza from a Gospel song, packed with four monumental paradoxes. It matters not whether we can walk the crosswalk from the paradoxes to the Biblical accounts of Jesus’s miracles, four among many. The paradoxes stand on their own just as they are, and they provide us with a PAUSE BUTTON FOR THE SOUL, beckoning us to be silent and to reflect.

I’ve been cradled in the comforting snares of Gospel songs for more than seven decades. These days, their number is so vast that counting them seems an impossible feat. Nestled within my own dedicated Gospel playlist, they multiply day by day. While pedaling indoors on my bike or journeying through the hours, their melodies shuffle like soothing whispers to my soul. The paradoxes woven into these songs sometimes align me in unwavering belief, and, at other times, they leave me in a corner, wondering and doubting. Yet, always, they provide a wellspring of spiritual convictions from which I can draw. Through every note, they offer solace, always lifting my spirits higher and higher.

My Mother’s Dress

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“The art of mothering is teaching the art of living to children.” 

–Elaine Heffner (Private-practice psychotherapist and parent educator.)

My mother loved clothes. Her wardrobe of dresses was small, but they were always fine quality.

One dress stood out from all the rest, not because it was the finest but rather because it was the plainest.

It was a dress that my mother made. An excellent seamstress, she made clothes for all of us–including dress shirts for my dad–without ever using a pattern.

So it was with this dress. She created it without a pattern. It was a straight cut, knee-length, short-sleeved, shirtwaist dress with large brown buttons going down from the Peter Pan collar to the buckled belt made of matching fabric. It was perfect for my 45-year-old mother, thin-framed and erect.

Obviously, since she made the dress herself, she would have selected the fabric, too, and she would have ordered it from Sears Roebuck Catalog.

The fabric was cotton percale. The background color was a soft tan. But what I remember most about my mother’s dress was the pattern. The word “if” was stamped all over the fabric–just as it is printed here: both letters, lowercase and bold. The word was diagonally positioned no more than an inch or so apart. From afar, the ifs looked like little flags of color ranging from midnight black to deep brown to burnt red to marigold orange to olive green. Up close, though, it was an explosion of ifs.

I was fascinated by my mother’s dress. As a 10-year-old child who loved words, it was fun to gaze upon. I am still fascinated by my mother’s dress. As a 75-year-old man who loves words, it’s still fun to reflect upon.

I wonder now, more than I did then, why she picked a fabric with that pattern. What might the if’s have been that she dwelt upon?

If she had ifs in her mind–and she surely did–she never voiced them.

Some ifs, of course, are anchored to regrets. I’m thinking of all the if onlys that shadow our lives and tarnish our joys. Without doubt, my mother had regrets, but she would never have dignified them by letting them parade around publicly in brightly colored ifs on one of her dresses.

Other ifs are anchored to fears. I’m thinking of all the what ifs that keep us from moving forward because we don’t know what the consequences of our actions will be. Without doubt, my mother had her own share of fears, but by the age of 45, she realized that whatever was to come could no more overwhelm her than what she had overcome already.

Other ifs are programmed to a gazillion if-then thoughts, hard-wired to our daily lives. Without a doubt, my mother had those too, as she processed her own binary language code, whirring around cooking and cleaning, saving money to make ends meet, teaching her children strong religious values, and building healthy relationships with neighbors.

While all of those various if-scenarios no doubt played out their little dramas on the backstage of my mother’s mind, I imagine that she chose that particular pattern for other reasons as well.

I imagine that my mother’s dress was just a simple and playful testament to her own vivid imagination and creative spirit.

I imagine that my mother’s dress heralded, in an understated way, her unique sense of style and her boldness of expressing herself in unconventional, homespun ways.

I imagine that my mother’s dress reflected her engagement not only with the significant changes of the 1950s–a decade known for its affluence and alienation–but also with the major adjustments my family had to make in the new town where we had moved two years before she made her dress.

I imagine that my mother’s dress manifested her willingness to embrace uncertainty and to grapple with potential choices.

I imagine that my mother’s dress may have been inspired by Rudyard Kipling’s “If–“, the poem that I memorized in school that year and, with my mother’s encouragement, recited aloud at home over and over again.

But far greater than any of those imaginings is this one. I imagine that every time my mother put on her dress, imprinted with what seemed to me to be all the ifs in the world, she wore it with a palpable awareness that her hopes, her visions, her aspirations, and her dreams would impact positively both her family and her world.