Tag 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.

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)

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.

The Cake Stops Here

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“Family traditions counter alienation and confusion. They help us define who we are; they provide something steady, reliable, and safe in a confusing world.“

–Susan Lieberman (AUTHOR, LIFE COACH, END-OF-LIFE CONSULTANT.)

When my Father turned 80, he and my Mother were living with me in DC, in my Capitol Hill home. His birthday struck me as a momentous occasion. After all, it’s not every day that a West Virginia coal miner who worked for fifty years without missing a day and who breathed heavily with third-stage black lung becomes an octogenarian.

In my mind, his birthday rose to the level of a historic event. And so it was.

I shared the good news with the White House. My father beamed with pride brighter than proud when he received a birthday card from President Ronald Reagan. I had it double matted in dark blue with a gold fillet and a walnut frame. When I was home the last time, it was still on the wall, positioned precisely so that he could see it from his bed.

I reached out to Senator Robert Byrd (D-WV) and requested that a flag be flown over the U.S. Capitol on the April 8 momentous occasion. When I got home from work that day, I drove my Father to the Capitol. Looking up toward the blue sky, he capped his hands above his glasses, breaking the sun’s glare so that he could catch a better glimpse of the red, white and blue fluttering in the gentle breeze in his honor. I still have the authentication certificate. The flag flew proudly for many years until it was no longer fitting to be flown. Then,  consistent with the U.S. Flag Code, I burned it.

To add a Royal touch to my Father’s 80th birthday, I even contacted Queen Elizabeth, asking that she send birthday felicitations. Doing so seemed fitting to me, considering my family’s British roots. My Father was astonished when he received a two-page typed letter from the Queen’s Private Secretary, explaining in great detail why Her Majesty could not send official birthday greetings to a non-British citizen but nonetheless wishing him a happy birthday. My Father was amused and shared the letter with all who visited him. I have the letter filed away as a keepsake.

Of course, you can’t have a birthday without cake. My Mother ordered one from Sherrrill’s Restaurant and Bakery, an iconic landmark on Capitol Hill. The cake was three vanilla layers, with lemon curd between each layer, lavishly frosted with white lemon-flavored buttercream, and topped with a breathtaking arrangement of yellow frosting roses, their petals delicately unfurling, intertwined with vibrant green leaves and vines. It was a masterpiece.

After we savored several slices of the cake, I decided to gently lift a few of the roses, hoping to preserve them. I placed them on a flat plate and covered them gently with Saran Wrap. For the longest time, I kept them in a kitchen cupboard. Over time, they hardened as beautifully as I had hoped they would. Then I put them in my desk along with extra copies of the birthday napkins, cream-colored with ivy trailing around the inner square, embossed in gold in the center with:

Happy 80th – April 8, 1982

JOHN SAUNDERS KENDRICK

Those treasures took on increased significance when my Father died the next year. Afterward, when waves of grief and nostalgia would wash over me, I’d look at the treasures and reflect on the joyful occasion. At the same time, I sometimes thought about throwing them away, but I always changed my mind immediately. After all, they weren’t taking up that much space in my desk, and my Father’s roses defied time and age and held on to their beauty.

Not long after his death, my Mother–Bertha Pearl Witt Kendrick–returned to their West Virginia home and decided to stay there year-round. When she turned 80 on May 16, 1992, I visited and made the 12-layer strawberry-stack cake that her mother always made on her birthday.  To make it super special, I placed my Father’s roses on top. My Mother was ecstatic. She didn’t know that I had held on to them. I didn’t leave them on the cake for long. After I patted them dry, I rewrapped my Father’s roses carefully, took them home with me to DC, and put them back in my desk for safe keeping.

Seemingly impermeable to time, they stayed in my desk until 2013 when my oldest brother John was approaching his 80th birthday on October 17. By then, my Mother had died, and my brother’s wife had died. My oldest sister Audrey was his caregiver. I decided that the roses I had cherished and used on my parents’ 80th birthday cakes could be turned into some kind of family tradition. I hand-painted a wooden box to hold and protect my Father’s roses, and I shipped them off to my brother, with the following note inside.

17 October 2013

Dear Brother,

Happy 80th Birthday!

Perhaps Audrey will put these decorations on your birthday cake.

They are from Dad’s birthday cake when he turned 80 in 1982. Then ten years later–1992–when Mom turned 80, they spent a few moments on her cake.

You keep the decorations and pass them on to Audrey when she turns 80, and she can continue the tradition until, eventually, they will find their way back to me when I turn 80 in 2027!

Happy 80th!

Much love,

Brent

Since then, my Father’s roses have been passed down from one sibling to the next.

Audrey Jean turned 80 on September 16, 2015, and she was still Brother’s caregiver. Since her fiancé was dead, she ordered a cake for herself from the local bakery, placed my Father’s roses on top, and she and my brother celebrated her 80th birthday together. Brother died two months later.

In 2020, the roses journeyed to Richmond for Janet Arlene’s birthday on May 24. Arlene’s husband was dead, and COVID was beginning to show its ugliness. She thought it wise to celebrate her birthday without her two daughters. I ordered a decadent cake for her with four luscious chocolate layers and chocolate cream cheese frosting. Then, it was covered–top and sides–in red vanilla buttercream roses for a perfect finishing touch. I imagine that my Father’s roses ascended to their place of honor, even if for a fleeting moment.

Traveling once again, my Father’s roses made their way back to West Virginia in 2022 for Stanley Winston’s 80th birthday on February 7. He and his wife celebrated together.

Stanley passed my Father’s roses to Judy Carolyn, who lives just a mile or two up the road next door to my parents’ home. Next to it is Audrey’s home, and just beyond is what used to be Brother’s. I have no idea what kind of cake Judy will have, but I imagine that her family will come up with something fun and festive for her 80th birthday on December 13.

After her birthday, Judy will send my Father’s roses back to me. I will put them in my desk in the same spot that has remained empty, waiting for their homecoming.

As for me, I know exactly what I will do when I reach my 80th birthday on November 20, 2027. I will circle back to the beginning. I’ll have a flag flown over the Capitol in my honor, and I’ll drive to DC to watch the flag return my wave. I’ll keep the certificate of authentication, and I’ll fly my flag daily right here on my mountaintop.

If you’re thinking that I’ll reach out to King Charles III asking for his felicitations, you’re right. That’s exactly what I plan to do. I’ll be eager to see whether protocol across the Pond these days is up to snuff with past Royal standards. I suspect that it will be. I’ll be eager to read the response that I am certain to receive.

As for the cake, I would love to order one from Sherrill’s Bakery and Restaurant, but it no longer exists. Perhaps I’ll watch for the umpteenth time the 1989 Oscar-nominated documentary “Fine Food, Fine Pastries; Open 6 to 9” that captures the essence of Sherrill’s. Some things outlive themselves.

But rest assured. I will have a cake. I’ll bake it myself. It will be three vanilla layers, with lemon curd between each layer, lavishly frosted with white lemon-flavored buttercream, and topped with a breathtaking arrangement of yellow frosting roses, the original ones that came back home to me. It will be a masterpiece.

Every time that I savor a slice, I’ll celebrate my Father’s roses on top. They will have survived for 45 years. They brought joy to my Father and to my Mother, they brought joy to each of my five siblings, and they will have brought joy to me, as each of us in turn celebrated our 80th birthday. I’ll sit in the solemn silence of that sobering moment, adding up all of those 80s in my head. I’ll grin, reflecting on the grand sum: 640 years, well-lived and well-celebrated, all memories swirling in my head–alive, well, and treasured.

After I eat the last slice, I’ll give my dog the scrumptious final bite, just as my partner always did and just as I have continued to do since his death.

Then I’ll put the roses back in their box, along with my original note to my brother, and I’ll return my Father’s roses to their home in my desk.

The cake stops here.

Happy Birthday, Me! Celebrating My Journey from Machines to Artificial Intelligence

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“Computers are incredibly fast, accurate, and stupid. Human beings are incredibly slow, inaccurate, and brilliant. Together they are powerful beyond imagination.” 

–Slightly Modified Quotation by Albert Einstein (1879-1955; known for His monumental contributions to physics and our understanding of the universe with his theory of relativity, E=mc², and numerous other discoveries.)

Those who know me well–and even those who know me, but not well–know that I always gift myself on my birthday. I purchase my gifts in advance, I have them wrapped in over-the-top paper with ribbons and bows beyond glitzy, and, without fail, I include a note reminding myself of how special I am. Well, I am. If I don’t celebrate me, others won’t celebrate me either. Right? Right. (You’re special, too. Gift yourself when your birthday rolls around.)

I’ve written at least one essay about a gift that I gave myself for my birthday. Who amongst us does not remember last year’s “Celebrating the Gateway to Who I Am”? In that blog post, I shared with you my 75th birthday gift: my decision to not let others diminish my identity by calling me Sweetie, Dearie, or Honey, instead of calling me by my name. I shared with you what I planned to do whenever those well-intentioned terms of endearment grated my ears and pierced my being. Simply put, I decided to rise up to the full height of my politest best and do my utmost to turn those ageist comments into learning moments.

I am pleased to report that I have done just that for the last year, and it has brought positive results, particularly in my doctor’s office and at my local pharmacy. I’m now “Brent.” My name. My God. My name. Who would have believed that one word could be so symphonic?

I thought that last year’s birthday gift might have been my best, ever.

Maybe so. But this year’s gift might be even better. Once again, it will be a blog post–today’s actually–made up of ideas lounging lazily midst glamorous and glitzy spaces.

But only the ideas will matter. Nothing else ever matters, really. Only ideas.

The idea that I want to explore as my 76th birthday gift is simply this. How can it be that I am hyped beyond hype about Artificial Intelligence (AI) and its potential? I am, and candidly, it might just be the greatest technological thrill of my entire life. I’ve written about its potential in “What If We Use Artificial Intelligence (AI) to Become Even Better than We Are?”

But here’s what I’m trying to figure out. How can it be that I am so turned on by AI? After all, I’m the guy whose entire being screams, “Humanities!” It strikes me as rather strange, so much so that I’m beginning to think of myself as an oddity, peculiar even to myself.

Doesn’t it strike you as strange, too, especially when I tell you that in all the standardized tests that I’ve taken down through the years, I have always scored substantially higher in math and science than in English?

I mean, those test results would have had me marching right on down the STEM side of life, focusing on science, technology, engineering, and mathematics.

You certainly wouldn’t have expected me to sashay down the liberal arts aisle, having endless affairs with literature, philosophy, history, languages, and everything else that focuses on human culture, creativity, and critical thinking.

But that’s just what I did! I think my mother started it all. While I was still in her womb, she was reading a novel with a protagonist named Brentford. She fell in love with the name and decided that she would pass it on to me. I don’t think my mother read novels after that, no doubt because she was preaching and shouting the Gospel’s good news in the little Pilgrim Holiness Church that she pastored until I was five or so.

During that time, I fell in love with language, listening to my mother and watching others as they were slain in the Holy Spirit while she preached. I also saw that my mother valued the beauty of diversity. Even though it was not politically correct to do so at the time, everyone in our multiethnic coal camp came into our modest home through our front door and dined at our steel-framed, Formica-topped kitchen table. I saw my mother stand up time and time again for what she thought was right. She never compromised her convictions. She believed in forgiveness and taught us to never let the sun go down with an ought in our hearts. She embraced positive thinking: if you think you can, you can. She was the epitome of steadfast cheerfulness and optimism.

In addition to my mother’s influence was the impact of living in a multiethnic community made up not only of Blacks and Whites but also of Greeks, Hispanics, Hungarians, Italians, Jews, Poles, and Puerto Ricans, many of whom were first generation immigrants. I appreciated the rhythm of diverse languages, the symphony of cultures echoing through every corner of my little coal camp. I learned how to have conversations with passionate hand gestures and animated facial expressions. Black gospel music and spirited conversations in Italian became the backdrop of my days. The rich aroma of soulful collards and pintos, garlicky Greek beans, savory Italian pasta sauces, and Hungarian goulash wafted through our community. Our dinner tables were a melting pot of international flavors. Hands of varied textures united—Pole with Greek, Jew with Black—and danced the hard dance of shared labor and celebrated the simple things in life that forged our coal-camp community.

Such were the ordinary threads that made up the fabric of my early childhood, yet they were sufficient enough to help me understand how people think and feel and yearn, and they were ample enough to make me feel at home in my future educational pursuits that encompassed language and literature and philosophy and religion.

Little wonder that I’d go on to earn my bachelor’s degree in the humanities with a concentration in English and allied fields in philosophy, religion, and speech. I had the luxury of studying the parts of life that meant so much to me. Later, I would earn my doctoral degree in philosophy with specializations in American literature and British literature.

But here’s what’s remarkably beautiful and equally strange. An education–especially in the humanities–prepares and empowers us for many undertakings, ironically not always related directly to what we studied in college. To my surprise, after I earned my bachelor’s degree, I was hired as an editor at the Library of Congress (LOC). For someone who grew up in a home with three books, it was staggering for me to be working in the world’s premier library, the place with all the books.

It was in that position–going all the way back to 1969–that my love of the humanities started to intersect in silent and seamless ways with my love of computer technology and my current fascination with Artificial Intelligence (AI). Looking back, it’s clear to me that my first editorial job at the LOC allowed both hemispheres of my brain to work together and complement one another even if I was not aware of the tight interconnections.

In that editorial position, I worked under the leadership of Henriette Avram, a computer programmer and systems analyst who developed the MARC format (MAchine Readable Cataloging) that revolutionized cataloging and libraries. (Computer technology had begun in the late 1930s, but when I started working at the Library of Congress, computers were still referred to as machines.) As an editor, I identified the various bibliographic data fields on conventional 3 x 5 catalog cards, and those tags–signposts, if you will–allowed Library records to be converted into online catalogs. The MARC format became the standard for most computer programs and for cataloging books worldwide.

At the same time, the LOC launched its Retrospective Conversion (RECON) project to convert older cataloging records into machine-readable form. On January 1, 1981, the LOC stopped filing cards into its main card catalog: online cataloging of its collections officially began.

As I moved into other positions at the Library of Congress, my background in online cataloging was among my key assets. I would go on to serve as an editor of the Catalog of Copyright Entries, making final determinations for automated cataloging, editing, and publishing activities constituting the bibliographic and legal record of works registered for U.S. copyright protection.

After I left the Library of Congress and crossed over into academe, fulfilling my third-grade dream of becoming an English professor, my new career path provided other notable intersections that would integrate my knowledge of computer technology and my love of the humanities. When Laurel Ridge Community College (formerly Lord Fairfax Community College) launched online learning and teaching in 2000, I was among the first faculty to embrace the initiative and to offer classes using Blackboard as the delivery platform. Years later when the college wanted faculty to use Open Education Resources (OER) to lower the textbook costs for students, I volunteered and within a year I had designed and developed my own OER courses in American Literature, College Composition, Creative Writing, and Leadership Development.

Now, we are at poised at another historic milestone as Artificial Intelligence (AI)–specifically ChatGPT–offers us new learning resources that will revolutionize classrooms and lives. As an educator and as a human being, I embrace these technological advances fully. For me, it’s perhaps the most exciting moment in my entire life.

In tracing my path from my coal-camp beginnings to the vast landscape of Artificial Intelligence, I am reminded that life’s narrative is a complex dance between the humanities and technology. As I reflect on the unexpected turns, from my early days influenced by my mother’s sermons to my involvement in pioneering work at the Library of Congress and now my fascination with the marvels of AI, I find a harmonious integration of seemingly disparate worlds.

Just as the humanities laid the foundation for my understanding of the human experience, technology provided the tools to amplify and share that understanding with others. My journey from machines to Artificial Intelligence mirrors my own evolution, from a coal-camp kid fascinated by language and diverse cultures to a lifelong learner who eagerly embraces the next chapter of technological marvels.

As I celebrate this milestone year, I am grateful for the intersections of the humanities and technology in my life. It’s a testament to the ever-expanding possibilities that come to fruition when we allow these disciplines to not only coexist but also enrich each other. With a heart brimming with gratitude and a mind ignited by curiosity, I step into the AI future, ready to explore the uncharted territories where the humanities and technology continue to move in a captivating rhythm.

I hope that sharing highlights of my journey from my birth year of 1947, marked by the invention of the transistor, to the present day of Artificial Intelligence, serves as a testament to the enduring power of embracing change, fostering innovation, and finding harmony in the symphony of human and technological progress. Today, I see a dazzling future where the humanities and technology intertwine, creating a narrative that transcends the boundaries of what we ever deemed possible.

“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.”