I have frequently referred to the effects of my mother’s and grandmother’s favorite behavior control phrase which was, “What will people think?” As far as I could tell and as I recall now, Mom took that phrase to heart in her own life, but Granny was another story altogether. While she was obviously concerned with appearances she was a dedicated woman of propriety. In other words she was far less concerned with physical appearances than she was with behavior.

If we were observed engaging in less than absolutely normal, acceptable protestant behavior those words, “What will people think?” were the first words out of the mouths of both women. Being what I think was a normal child of the ‘40s and ‘50s I heard the phrase with consistent frequency.
Living in a world consumed with appearances, made the effects of that upbringing an integral part of my decision making processes for most of my life. It never occurred to me to make even the most modest effort to address the possibility of what life would be like, if every act was not predicated with that thought. And then change became mandatory. It became mandatory because there was no way I “Georgia” was going to be able to live anything resembling a normal life.

In “Dear Mom and Dad” I wrote about those experiences of leaving the house for the first few times and the sense that everyone in the world could see me and were laughing uncontrollably at the sight. It was horrible. On those occasions my heart nearly exploded from the flood of fear induced adrenaline. I managed to overcome the fears by sheer force of will power fueled by the burning desire to be “real.” The problem of fearing the opinions of others still existed. I just overcame the fear enough to have some life of my own.

As time passed, and I spent more and more time in the company of others like me, I began to see them as a mirror of me. Fear of being discovered was rampant. True, not everyone exhibited the fear, but those who didn’t were rare. The fear of what others thought was masked by statements like, my neighbors, my boss, my family “will never understand.” I hated that fear. It permeated every relationship, every act, it even marred the stolen moments of self-expression our gatherings were meant to facilitate.

I knew the fear and I knew its source, but try as I may to ignore it, stifle it, kill it, I couldn’t.

I don’t remember when or where I arrived at the notion that I was in essence disputing the way God created me, but that’s what finally occurred to me. I’ve heard some people call that kind of idea or awareness a come to Jesus moment; an Aha moment. Whatever you choose to call it, I got it and eventually realized that it was that very idea that Isaiah was talking about when he wrote, “Does a jar ever say ‘The potter who made me is stupid’?”

Like most everything else Abba does, or at least has done in my life, He is the perfect father and he sneaks ideas into our heads in a way that makes us think the ideas are ours. Then He waits to see if we recognize the ideas as coming from Him and if so do we have the presence of mind to thank Him? It took a while but I finally did.

I still wasn’t “there” yet. There was still one element of understanding I didn’t have, and looking back now I wonder why I was so slow to reach that critical juncture in my life. Once again I can’t tell you when or how I finally realized what was missing, but when I did my life changed in ways I never would have dreamed of.

I had spent my entire life looking at myself through the prism of what I thought other people saw when they looked at me. It was a subconscious image of someone who had everything going for them but somehow still managed to fail at everything attempted. I put up a magnificent front for others to see, but deep down there was this nasty voice which repeatedly pointed out, that they really didn’t know me. They didn’t know how flawed I was and if they did they wouldn’t want to have anything to do with me.

It was one of those moments when I was wallowing in the fear of what others might think that it finally occurred to me … What does God think of me? Asking Him what He thought of me didn’t seem like the right approach. I guess that question as well as the solution was out of some sermon that I didn’t really hear, or some scripture I really didn’t absorb.

At last, I asked Abba to let me see myself, the person He created me to be, through His eyes.

Did I have an immediate vision of that person, that soul? Not hardly. One day I suddenly realized that I was really happy, and for the first time content with the way, and who, I am. Does that mean that I don’t give a whit about what people think about me anymore? No it doesn’t. I does mean however, that if I sense that they don’t like me or the way I am, it doesn’t affect the way I feel about me. You see, I do want people to like me. How else am I ever going to be able share the message that Abba has assigned to me, which is … if I can find peace and happiness at my age by accepting and seeing myself as Abba intended all along, anyone can. But first you have to ask the same question I did.

“Please Abba, Let me see myself, the person You created me to be through Your eyes.”

I can’t help but reflect on the gifts I have received over the years as I’ve left the gift giving season of 2014 behind. There were rare occasions when I received a gift that I really wanted. Christmas of 1951 I received a horse. I wasn’t expecting a horse, I hadn’t even dreamed of getting a horse, but never the less there she was. When I think about the way I discovered the gift it reminds me of the way Ralphie found his treasured Red Ryder BB gun in “A Christmas Story”.

After all the gifts had been opened, Dad said, “I think there’s one more back behind the tree, there in the corner. It was a bridle, wrapped without a box, and when I opened it my first thought was “oh whoop ta dee” a store bought bridle for Merrylegs, Nick’s Shetland pony. The bridle we had, up to that point, had been made entirely by Dad, including the bit which he fashioned out of very heavy gauge copper wire he undoubtedly scrounged from the scrap heap at the refinery. But when I held it up for further examination I realized it was way too big for Merrylegs.

As I headed for the back door toward the horse lot I imagined a gleaming Black Beauty would be awaiting me at the barn. But unlike Ralphie, who would have suffered similar disappointment had he found a cork gun in the box he opened, I found a skinny red speckled white mare which looked as though she was soon destined for the dog food factory. We named her Ginger, after the nasty tempered grey mare in Black Beauty. Thus began a long term love/hate relationship that actually lasted into my late 20;s when I was present as she breathed her last in a barn near Uncle Jelly’s farm, where she had spent the last 20 years of her life bringing in the milk cows every evening.

I believe that almost everyone has received at least one gift like this one at some time or another in their life. Gifts are generally associated with either a birthday or Christmas, which when you think about it is a birthday celebration, though today I don’t think that a majority of people associate Christmas with the term “birthday.” But, however you think of gifts and the reason for them, we all have to acknowledge that there are gifts we have little appreciation for. For some people a gift is accompanied by a receipt, so the recipient can exchange it for something they like better, something that fits better or that is preferred over the original.

Gift giving didn’t originate in that stable 2000 plus years ago, but it has become the primary reason for the season whether people like it or not. That particular gift did not come with a receipt that we could use to redeem for something more to our liking. It did come with the option of being opened or left under the tree. The idea of gifts at that time of year has become tradition because of the Magi and the gifts they brought to the stable. They were visible, tangible usable gifts and thus we tend to think in those terms when we think about gifts. But, what about intangible gifts, the ones we tend to ignore or overlook?

Each one of us has “gifts”, natural abilities, talents and passions. These things are often ignored, and they’re ignored just as often because we don’t appreciate them anymore than I appreciated that speckled old mare, because she wasn’t what I wanted. Just as often we put those gifts on our “Aunt Lizzavie” shelf. You know the one, the top shelf where it can be ignored like the purple glass grapes or the ugly tie that “Aunt Lizzavie” gave us last Christmas, which we only take out when she’s in town and then quickly put back on that shelf as soon as she leaves so we don’t have to look at it, or think about it again until she returns.

We all have “gifts”, abilities, talents and passions that Abba has given us. But, all too often we treat those gifts like purple glass grapes and ugly ties which we put away on our mental and emotional “Aunt Lizzavie” shelves in our mental and emotional “Aunt Lizzavie” hall closets or worse yet our mental attics where they do nothing but gather dust over the years.

How do I know this tendency so well? I know it because I spent so many years of my life doing everything I just described; either leaving gifts unopened, failing to appreciate them because they weren’t exactly what I thought I should have, or taking them out only occasionally when my mental “Aunt Lizzavie” put in an emotional appearance.

I spent most of my life feeling sorry for myself because I hadn’t received the gifts I wanted, beauty, brains, the winning lottery ticket. In short, I was seldom a truly happy person, and by truly happy, I mean someone who awakened each and every morning with the sense that life was good, that I would spend that day secure in the knowledge that whatever came my way would be for the best, and would be what Abba intended for me at any given moment.

Today I am delighted with the gifts I have received because I finally took them down from the “Aunt Lizzavie” shelf of my mind, opened them up and set those purple glass grapes out on the coffee table of my life for all to see.

Have you considered what the moment will be like when you are face to face with Abba at last, and how you’re going to account for the gifts He gave you? How about it? What’s on your “Aunt Lizzavie” shelf?

Reality is a sneaky bitch. Reality is totally undependable. At times reality comes at you like a mad elephant, bent on skewering you with its tusks first, then stomping the bloody remains into the earth with no emotion, and topping it off by triumphantly trumpeting its victory for all the jungle to hear. At other times reality sneaks up on you with deadly intent and takes its sweet time; announcing its arrival in the quiet of the night. Worst of all, when you want some reality in your life it simply declares a game of hide-and-go-seek.

In the last 3 weeks I have been subjected to every one of reality’s whimsical personalities. It started with a 10 day stretch at work so I could take the time off to return to Utah without losing any pay, in order to do my part in packing up the equivalent of nearly 200 years of family history. This last week was the most aggravating mix of tears and laughter I have ever experienced.

Ever since my last real visit with Mom the end of July, I’d been aware that she might be declining at a more rapid rate than before. However, it wasn’t exactly an awareness that seemed “realistic”. It all seemed academic somehow; totally void of emotion. In my experience, emotion of some type always accompanied reality, which is not to say that emotion can’t coexist in a reality void. I don’t know about you, but when reality is unpleasant, I for one tend to live emotionally in a bubble of sans-reality. But it’s not for reasons you might expect.

If I’m ultimately faced with reality, an unpleasant reality, in order to avoid painful emotions I tend to “look on the bright side” so to speak. I imagine some form of personal advantage to me as a result. When I realize what I’m doing I feel terribly guilty and immediately seek to detach from the reality. The Scarlett O’Hara in me comes out and I say to myself, “I don’t want to think about that right now.” That’s when the “sneaky bitch” reality begins to sneak around.

I didn’t want to think about life without Mom, but the reality that she wasn’t going to be around much longer begin to slowly seep into my conscious. I used to call her every night, or nearly every night and that first night that she wasn’t able to talk to me, though she was awake and conscious, I shrugged off as the effect of her new meds. The next night was no better. And then the night when she couldn’t hold up the phone or speak. The next night there was no response at all. I just couldn’t admit that I’d had my last conversation with her. It wasn’t real. It wasn’t happening. The sneaky bitch wasn’t so sneaky now.

Then came the phone call from my sister Sally telling me that she was making plane reservations for me for the next morning. Next the memory of the same call I made to Peter a week before his mom died welled up in me, but I still couldn’t grasp the reality of what lay ahead. In spite of it all I wasn’t prepared for what I found when I arrived. All the memories of Marilyn’s last few days rolled out for review. Both of me said our goodbyes and I returned to my home and work. A day and half later the call came from Sally that Mom was gone.

Time off from work was arranged, the trip planned and made, funeral attended. When the time came before the funeral itself and I arrived at the church I couldn’t bring myself to view her body. The memory of Marilyn in her casket made it impossible for me to see Mom in hers in spite of what others said about how good she looked. “How good she looked?” A voice inside of me screamed, “She looks dead.” No, I/we had said my/our goodbyes when she could still acknowledge it and there was still an ember of life in her eyes.

I had been the last to leave the house a few days after the funeral. And I had purchased and posted a “For Sale” sign in front of the house then left for home again after one last walk through the house stopping a moment in each room to lock in the memories.

Then the return trip to pack up the house when it sold. That’s when the mixture of tears and laughter occurred. When it came time for me to leave, Sally asked me if I wanted some time alone in the house. I said no, I’d had that on my last visit. I did take one last walk through though, but the chaos of the packing left me with an empty feeling so it was a hurried tour. Still no real emotional pain; no reality consciousness.

I was exhausted from lack of sleep but left for home with my car packed to the roof with cherished memorabilia around 8:45 the evening before Thanksgiving. I felt a tightening in my stomach as I left Sally standing alone in the driveway with her dog. I stopped to say goodbye to Kim on my way out. She had been a God-send for most of the last 8 years; paying the bills, looking after the needs of Mom and her house faithfully. And still no reality consciousness.

Our brother, his two sons and his wife’s nephew showed up just after Sally left the day after Thanksgiving to begin loading it all in a truck, 2 trucks and a big trailer actually. They emptied the house and left Kim to hire people to clean it before the closing. Still no reality consciousness.

Then came the text message from Kim with a last picture of the front door, but this time it was dark, inside and outside. Kim’s only text was, “I can’t stop crying.” And then … I cried. I sobbed. I wept at last as the reality of what was lost forever finally hit me.

There are, and have been a lot of “things” going on in my life and in my mind lately. Trying to pick out one of those “things” as important enough to share with my blog audience has kept me from my duty here. The most likely thing; the most important thing is something that I’m just not willing to share with many people … so, I won’t. Beyond that one thing, however, is the simple issue of, now that Mom is gone, how do I direct the remainder of my own life?

Obviously there are many things in my life, many paths trod, that she had nothing to do with, generally because I knew what her opinion would be if she knew, and therefore avoided making her privy to them. But that didn’t mean her opinion wasn’t an influence in those trails trod. I can’t think of a single instance where her opinion wasn’t at least considered for a moment or two. When I was much younger I was more likely to put her likely opinions out of my mind so I could proceed with whatever course of action I, read that “George,” was embarking upon. At those times there was inevitably, somewhere in the background, Granny’s voice reminding me that she would “jerk me bald-headed”.

When it came to “me” and my life, Mom’s opinions became far more critical to my thought processes. And that … is where conscience meets the dividing line between reality and imagination.
The imagination is whispering that she is hovering over me, watching every move, hearing every word and worse yet … reading my mind. But the reality is that she is no longer here to judge my actions, and that is an unfamiliar feeling. I feel as though for the first time in my 70 years I am finally, truly emancipated. I’m not sure how to handle that unfamiliar feeling. On one hand I want to explode with sheer unrestrained joy, but on the other hand I’m saddled with the old, all too familiar sense of guilt because of the joy.

If I’m totally honest, I know that the former emotion will win out over the second because the sense of emancipation is a powerful influence. The question is, where will that spirit of emancipation ultimately lead me? In line with being totally honest … I really don’t have a clue because I don’t know what the future holds with respect to possibilities. I know some of what I want to do, but each of those options has some prerequisite conditions over which I either have no control, or no knowledge of, at this point in time.

When I was in my early teens there was a television show called The Millionaire. In each episode a certain fictitious millionaire named John Beresford Tipton assigned his assistant to deliver a check for one million tax free dollars to an individual Tipton had selected previously. I used to dream endlessly about what I would do with a million dollars. Always in the back of my mind were the various unhappy results of the unearned fortunes depicted in the show.

When I was in my mid thirties, investments Dad had made along with some of my own meager investments paid off handsomely, but I subsequently lost all of it through pure unadulterated ego and ignorance. Now, at 70, by means of Mom’s death and the resulting dispersal of her estate I will have a small sum coming to me and I find that I’m filled with trepidation at the memory of my past handling of money, earned and unearned. In recent history I have done a much better job than in the past and that fact encourages me.

The aforementioned sense of emancipation coupled with the impending windfall is what creates the greatest sense of optimistic anticipation for my future. I am keenly aware that I must be careful and wise in my choices. I remember all too well previous foolishness and bad judgment.

Bottom line? As I enter my 24th year of sobriety I know that I can only live one day at a time, and that the outcome of each of those days is completely in the hands of God. However, as much as I would like to say that I’m completely at peace with His decision, whatever that brings, there is a part of me that wants to stomp my feet like a small child, pout and whine if the outcome is less than I hope for.

Seventy!

I don’t feel seventy and people tell me I don’t look seventy. My response to that is, “Just keep blowin’ in my ear and I’ll follow you anywhere.” Or “it’s because I refuse to grow up, since I noticed years ago that when people grew up they started growing old.” I feel like I used think I would feel when I reached forty.

The first thing in the morning for every one of the previous sixty-nine birthdays I heard Mom’s voice, usually on the phone wishing me a happy birthday and telling me what a wonderful day that was on October 20, 1944 … but not this year; and not ever again.

And to tell the truth, I don’t know how I feel. Every evening at around eight or nine o’clock find myself thinking, “Time to call Mom.” And then, “Oh yeah, she’s not there anymore” and the tears well up. At the same time there is a sense of freedom that I’ve never felt before. My entire life, what Mom thought about me, what I was doing, about to do, thinking about doing, always had an impact on my life and the way I lived it. Now, even though, on a certain level I feel as though she’s watching, on a very gut level I sense a freedom to continue without worrying about Mom’s opinion. Confusing? Yeah!

On a purely practical level, I come from a gene pool of long lived individuals. Dad was 92; Mom nearly 97, her mother 91. My other grandparents came from similarly long lived individuals but unfortunately died of causes that overrode that genetic propensity. So, what do I have to look forward to? I have no idea, beyond today, what reality will produce, but I can tell you this, I have a laundry list, a bucket list if you prefer, of things I want to accomplish, sights to see, sounds to hear and emotions to emote. Like my current Facebook icon states, “God put me on this earth to accomplish a certain number of things. Now I’m so far behind I will never die!”

My senses produce two levels of feelings. On one level I feel, Mom’s, Dad’s, Marilyn’s and Granny’s presence watching everything I do. On the other level, the level of reality I now live in, for the first time in my life I feel a sense of freedom from their opinions about what I do with my life and that is exhilarating. I actually feel free, totally free for the first time in my life; free from everything that created a sense of guilt, except the lingering guilt for feeling free of guilt.

If I didn’t have a solid sense of what Abba created me to be and do, that silly “guilt” would probably be the end of me and anything I was placed here to do. If I didn’t have a solid sense of His approval and love, that too would probably be the end of me and anything I was placed here to do.

So, here I restate what it is that I was placed here to do. State clearly and simply that Abba, God to Methodists, Presbyterians, Catholics, Mormons, Baptists, etc, etc. etc. … doesn’t care what you wear. As He told Samuel when Samuel thought He would select one of David’s more handsome elegant appearing brothers to succeed the disappointing King Saul, “Don’t judge by his appearance or height, for I have rejected him. The Lord doesn’t make decisions the way you do! People judge by outward appearance, but the Lord looks at a person’s thoughts and intentions.” What He cares about is that we accept the package He created in us and use the talents and abilities included in that package to help others understand how important it is for us to appreciate our diversity and love Him first and everyone else He puts in our lives second.

Not one of my best efforts here but what can I say? This Georgia, Over and Out.

I started this post on Sunday evening September 21st knowing the next day would be the last time I would see my mother.

It hasn’t happened yet. Mom hasn’t left us yet. But I was awakened this morning with thoughts that I wasn’t expecting; namely, will this mean that I will be an orphan? Can you be considered an orphan at 70 years of age? I know, it seems absurd to have a thought like that at a time like this, but there it was. Mom has never not been there for me … Never! But, sometime in the next few days that will be the reality of my life and I just can’t imagine what it will be like.

I realize that we all feel that our mothers are unique, and they are. After all they are the mothers of uniquely individual human beings, but my mom is uniquely … unique. Would that we could all go this way. And what way would that be? Would it be in your own home, in your own bedroom with family coming and going? Would it be peaceful and without pain? Would it be with a balanced life ledger; owing life nothing and life owing you nothing? That’s the way it will be with Mom.

Ask yourself these questions about your own life. “Have I ever indulged in self-pity?” I have … way too often. I’ve never heard Mom express anything resembling self-pity. It just hasn’t been who she is. The closest she’s come to that is her stock answer when each evening in our daily talk I would ask how she was. Her answer was inevetably “Oh, old aurther (meaning arthritis) has been botherin’ me today.”

She was born on Christmas Eve 1917 in the Panhandle of Oklahoma, the eve of The Roaring ‘20s, but by the time she was old enough to appreciate the good times, they were gone; swallowed up by The Great Depression and The Dust Bowl. As if that wasn’t enough to dishearten a young girl about life, her father died when she was 14. And yet, I never heard Mom utter one word of self-pity about her youth, or any of her life for that matter.

The fact is that Mom has lived a charmed life. I don’t mean that she has had fortune and fame, not in the least, but that her life has been charmed by graciousness and sufficiency. I’ve known many women that have married men who provided an abundant life for them who seemed to think that it was because their uniqueness dictated it. That Dad provided an abundant life for himself and Mom was to Mom a blessing, not a debt owed to her because of her uniqueness, and that has been a part of her unique, uniqueness.

Mom has never kept a blessing to herself; at least not that I’m aware of. Every one of her blessings has been shared with others. Her home was often more of a guest residence than anything. Anyone who has ever known Mom has known that if they needed a place to rest their head on their journey it was there behind that Dutch door. And that brings me to another facet of her unique, uniqueness.

Every home that she and Dad built had one pre-requisite feature. The front door was a “Dutch Door” and for most of my life the top half of that door was open, meaning, “Welcome!” That feature save her life once.

I have known people who were, what I would call generous to a fault, but not Mom. She was very generous, but not to a fault. I cannot remember a time when she shared with someone she felt was not genuinely in need. Her personal blessings were far too precious to her to share indiscriminately with those who created their own misery.

September 24, 2014

So, today Mom left us. I don’t feel like an orphan yet; not yet. I was able to say goodbye to her on this past Monday, the 22nd. In fact both of us said goodbye. The night before I left I sensed the importance of her son saying goodbye to her and I’m so glad I did. In some ways her response to seeing her oldest son sit down next to her bed, was painful. She was more loving and alert to his presence than she was to mine. I can’t tell you why he cried as he did in her presence, but the fact is that he was totally overcome by grief. I, on the other hand, was far more reserved in my reaction, a fact that I find both disturbing and curious.

Frankly, I’m fearful of the gathering of the family and friends for her farewell. My brother has made his absolute hatred of me quite clear. As a result, in the interest of avoiding a scene, I have made the decision for George to attend the funeral and subsequent gathering … but that’s it. It leaves me with a lump of resentment. If our brother chooses to take issue with that he will have to deal with the fallout. It saddens me that on this occasion there is such an unpleasant undercurrent and I’m certain that from Mom’s current view that she is not happy about it.

There were occasions when we were growing up when brother and George were fighting that Mom would set us down at the kitchen table facing each other and make us sit there until we were laughing at each other’s antics. I would love to have that happen now … with me. Of course it’s not going to happen and that is so sad.

At this moment my head is filled with scenes from numerous movies where one half of a couple has crossed over previously and then, at last, the remaining lover makes the final journey. The scene is one of the couple in their youthful bodies greeting each other in a scenario that is meant to convey what heaven might be like. I can see Dad, the Long Tall Texan, I know from the pictures of him in his youth. He’s has his signature Stetson like the ones LBJ wore, a plaid shirt and his beloved bolo tie. His hat is in his left hand as he reaches out with his right hand to take the hand of his bride, our mom.

She is dressed just as she was in the picture taken of her at the time of their wedding. It’s a dress I don’t know how to describe because I’ve never had one like it, though I think Donna Reed was usually dressed in one in her television shows of a similar era. She takes Dad’s outstretched hand and they turn and walk slowly off into eternity … Together again forever at last.

Goodbye my Dear Mom and Dad …

I have been fortunate in life to have to deal with a very limited amount of death. Marilyn’s death was the first death of real consequence that I was forced to confront. The aftermath of that death lasted for what seemed an eternity.

When Dad passed away I felt an odd sense of relief. I believe the relief came from the feeling that I no longer had to face the shell of a man that he had become and as a result didn’t have to deal with ghosts of our past relationship. A short time after his death I wrote that I felt there were two possible reasons for God inflicting him with Alzheimer’s.

The first reason was that it was so all the people he had cared for all those years would be forced to care for him for a while. The second reason was that Dad had, for years, been a cyanide carrying member of the Hemlock Society as a means of controlling the time and place of his own death. That led me to believe that Alzheimer’s was God’s way of wresting that control away by removing that thought, and the cyanide from Dad’s memory … he simply forgot about it.

All that aside, even though Dad’s passing was sad, it was also a relief and easier to live with because he had lived a long and successful life. Marilyn’s death was anything but that. It was tragic. It came way too early. She was supposed to outlive me, grow old and live in the basement of Peter and Heather’s home and teach her grandchildren dirty words.

But now I’m faced with the impending death of my mother. Her health has deteriorated dramatically in the last 2 week and precipitously in the last 5 days. While it’s true that, like Dad’s death, it will be at the end of a long productive and comfortable life, it means a final end to the longest relationship of my life. There are so many facets to a relationship like that of a mother-child, especially one as old ours. Considering gestation, we’ve been a part of each other’s lives for well over 70 years.

I have no idea what to expect when she’s no longer here. That thought serves up a cocktail of emotions that is difficult to swallow. Since Dad’s death eight and half years ago, I’ve spoken with Mom nearly every day. We’ve talked about what our day was like that day; what was going on in our lives. I wonder how long it will be before I stop looking at the clock each night at eight or nine and thinking, “Oh gosh, it’s time to call Mom.” I didn’t feel that way when Dad died, but I will when Mom is no longer there answering the phone with, “Hello, Phoenix A Z!”

What will the remainder of our family become? As siblings, my brother, sister and I have never been close. In my sister’s case, she was so much younger that by the time she was four, I was out of the home. In the intervening years we have developed a comfortable though not close relationship, but close enough to list her as my next of ken on any documents requiring that kind of information. The reality of our mother’s death has had an adhesive effect of sorts. At the close of our last conversation this evening she said something to me that she has never said, not verbally anyway. She said, “I love you.” The closest she has ever come to that is “Love, Sal” on the humorous birthday cards she is known for.

When I was writing the original draft of Dear Mom and Dad I realized that the memories I had of our brother were for the most part unpleasant. We fought frequently long into young adulthood, and they weren’t all just verbal altercations either. Our personalities were nothing alike. The original draft of Dear Mom and Dad contained detailed descriptions of those altercations, but I elected to delete them because I felt they added nothing of value to narrative of my life. In addition I hoped that by deleting those portions I would keep open the possibility that someday in the future we would be able to live in harmony and love as siblings should. Sadly that has not happened.

Last week our sister sent an e-mail to “me” and him about our mother and her deteriorating condition. I replied to “all”. The following day I received a nasty and vicious reply telling me that I was a “perverted figment” not fit to be a part of our family. All the feelings of the past, the anger, the disappointment, the hurt came in a flood of emotion.
So … I realize that with our mother’s passing there will be nothing left of hope for a family united in love. I don’t know what the future holds, but I’m left to believe that when that time comes it will be the end of our family unit and our parents would be grief stricken to see it. My brother would be quick to say that all I have to do is to live according to his parameters for a “brother” and all will be fine. I of course would reply that , “all he has to do is live according to my parameters for a brother and all will be fine.” The difference is that I have lived with his nature and loved the good, discounted the bad but still accepted him the way he is, “full of bullshit, but lovable in a strange sort of way.” In keeping with his character, he will love you only as long as you are what he thinks you should be and only then.

I’ve tried to justify and accept that I am partially to blame, but in the face of that nasty tirade I simply cannot. Short of a complete repudiation of his attitude this is the last time I will speak of my brother. The time has come. As our sister responded when she saw his e-mail, “That’s so sad.”

Someone close to me; someone who is gay, told me once that I didn’t understand what it was like to be gay because he had no choice about being gay, whereas I had a choice about whether to be George or Georgia. He may be right about being gay. I assume he is, but he is only half right about our choices … in both cases.

We always have choices. Frequently we don’t like the choices that we’re faced with. So what else is new? I believe my friend was correct when he said that he had no choice about being gay and he was correct when he said I had a choice as to whether or not I was George or Georgia, but what he totally missed was the fact that we both have a choice about our visible expression … what we share with the world.

Being trans- or dual-gendered or gay is not a choice. We are what we are. But, we all have a choice about whether or not we express it visibility. We all have a choice when it comes to when, where, how or if ever, we express on the outside what is on the inside. If you could ask one question of anyone in my corner of the world, that question should be, “When are you happiest?” You might think the answer would be, “When I’m expressing who I am.” But, you would be wrong in most cases. The answer would most likely be, “When I’m accepting of who I am.” And it’s always visible in the fortunate few who are able to reach that level.

They’re happy … and it shows in their smile.

How many times have you seen someone who exudes happiness? Happy people smile … a lot; in fact nearly all the time. You want to be around them, to be in their circle. On the other hand people who are unhappy are like social porcupines. They walk around with personality quills sticking out all over their beings. When I see people like that I want to run, but then I’m nearly overcome with a desire to walk up to them and say, “I’m sorry all of your puppies died.” Or more the point most likely … “I’m really sorry life didn’t turn out like you wanted it to. Did your lover leave you for someone who smiled a lot?”

Dad was fond of saying that when life gives you lemons it’s lemonade time. Early on in our lives sexuality and or gender identity is like a whole bushel basketful of lemons. It’s our choice as to whether or not we choose let them sit there and first get moldy, then rotten, then dry up into a hollow shell like the lemons on the roof of my carport which fell from my lemon tree. That bushel basket full of lemons still on the tree has the potential of making gallon upon gallon of very tasty lemonade if we will just take the time to squeeze them, and add a bunch of sugar and lots of water.

The issue that most us of deal with is trying to explain ourselves, especially to people we love, people who share our lives on a daily basis in hope that they will understand. The fully accepting family is rare. A wife, for instance wants the man she fell in love with, not some wanna-be girl with a five o-clock shadow. Children want a dad; a dad who protects his princess and comforts her when Prince Charming turns out to be a gremlin. A boy wants a dad who can pitch a ball, throw a pass, or enjoys a rodeo. It’s really hard, if possible at all, to make lemonade out of that bucket of lemons.

When I’m speaking to a college class about what life has been, and is like for those of us who are gender-variant, the closest I can come is this: For the boys in the class I draw attention to their natural likes and dislikes. I point to the clothes they wear, the beards on many faces, the shaved heads in just as many cases and the fact that they can sit there like slugs, slouching in their chairs and feel perfectly comfortable. Then I ask them how they would feel, if in spite of possessing all these natural traits society said, “We don’t care how you feel inside we don’t care what makes you feel whole and comfortable. You have to shave your legs, your armpits, wear makeup, skirts and high heels because that’s what our society dictates.”

Then for the women I turn the table and ask them what life would be like for them if society said, “We don’t care what makes you feel whole or feel inside. You cannot wear makeup, cannot shave your legs or armpits, wear makeup and let your hair down. In short, you have to be a slug, drag your knuckles, burp and belch, because that’s what our society dictates.”

If you can put yourself in that frame of mind for even a moment, you might have some notion of what it’s like for gender-variant individuals most of their lives. And … that is where our experience differs greatly with the gay and lesbian community. You see, who they sleep with is not a visible part of their lives. They can go about their lives unaffected by their sexual preference because for the most part, gay men especially, is not vividly apparent in their appearance. In other words, it doesn’t take as much sugar to make lemonade out of their predicament.

There was a point when I was transitioning and it was looking as though I may have to make 4-5 day visits to Mom’s every other week to help out when I said. “Okay, it will be Georgia, not George who is there helping. If there are brief occasions when Mom really needs her son, okay.” My openly lesbian sister called to tell me that maybe that would be okay but she didn’t want to see Georgia at Mom’s funeral when the time came. My response to her was, “Fine. In that case I will expect you to show up in a black dress accompanied by a loving man.” The subject hasn’t been broached since.

The bottom line to this diatribe, which some will see as belly-aching, is that yes, life has planted a lemon tree in our yards, what we do with the lemons is entirely up to us. Personally I like mine with an extra slice of lemon, a sprig of mint and lots of ice, kind of like the ice tea my neighbor is drinking.

My life has had its share of successes and disappointments. I’m fortunate enough to be able to feel as though most of the disappointments are behind me. That being said, however, there is one disappoint which persists and does more than annoy me. It hurts me. In the movie “City Slickers” Curly refers to “that one thing.” It’s “that one thing” disappointment which drags on in my life and I wonder if it will ever change.

Dad was a generous soul; in many cases to a fault. Whenever he found something he liked, something which he considered an opportunity to improve life he exerted impressive energy in attempting to share his good fortune with anyone who cared to take part. Some of the ideas were total shots in the dark and stood little chance of success, but that never fazed him. He would dive headlong into the process of sharing his latest discovery. I’ve often felt that had he committed that missionary like zeal to sharing his Christian beliefs he could have rivaled Billy Graham. But, of course that didn’t happen. Looking back at Dad’s life, I can’t remember a one of his “projects”, aside from his professional life, that succeeded. But it never kept him from diving headlong into the latest new thing.

Every time I see a couple of young men in dark slacks, white shirts and ties, riding down the street on bicycles with backpacks I see a form of dedication that most of us wouldn’t think of embracing. I’ve often wondered what their closing ratio is. In today’s social and political climate it can’t be good. They and the Jehovah’s Witnesses seem to thrive on rejection. Personally, I don’t enjoy rejection of my ideas or beliefs.

I know full well that as a Christian I’m called to do more than sit in church every Sunday and put 10% in the plate. I do make an honest effort to follow that instruction, but when I do I inevitably run smack up against “that one thing” disappointment … and it breaks my heart.

With the exception that the love of my life is no longer here to share life with me, I’ve never been happier in my life. I am my father’s child. I want to share that happiness that discovery which led to it with everyone who is willing to listen. Most of all I want to share it with people I care most about who have never experienced what I do on a daily basis. When I see the sadness and disappointment in their lives I want to fix it. That’s what Dad always wanted to do for anyone who was hurting. He wanted to fix it for them. But he couldn’t, and I can’t, fix it for them.

“That one thing” disappointment was on vivid display a few nights ago. My neighbor, a woman who is nearing middle age, is single and claims to want to stay that way, sent me a text on Tuesday evening asking how I’d been, how work was going. I got preoccupied and didn’t respond until the next evening. When I did, she asked me if I had time to talk and I replied, “Sure, what’s up?” She came over and we sat down at the bar. She had been diagnosed with a brain tumor. After explaining everything that had been done and what the future held she said, “I’m not afraid of dying. I just don’t want to be incapacitated.”

That’s what she said, but she wasn’t able to hide the fear of the future. It was on her face and especially in her eyes. She knows my faith. I shared it early in our friendship but like so many people, too many people, she told me she wasn’t “into religion;” she didn’t need it. I don’t know if she came to me the other night as a way of obliquely asking for me to pray for her or not. Of course I will pray for her, but in spite of my sincerity or dedication to praying for her, my prayers will never have the impact that her own prayers would have … if she would only let go and ask.

“That one thing” disappointment in my life is the fact that I have, and continue to, fail in my effort to effectively share the incredible sense of peace that comes from my faith on a day to day, minute to minute, moment to moment basis. There are so many times that I just want to grab people, and in Granny’s words, “shake ‘em til their teeth rattle, in an effort make them accept what I try unsuccessfully to share.

My neighbor is not the only one. She’s just the most recent example. In some ways it’s just heartbreaking. People who are dear to me and have turned to me for solace and understanding reject any mention of my faith and what it’s done for me. They don’t seem to want to hear about the peace I’ve found and I think it’s because they think the cost to their goals and their hopes will be too high. And I search in vain to find a way explain in an understandable way that when I finally and completely turned my entire being, every single facet of the spirit and soul that are me, over to the care and direction of God, that I was in fact finally free; free of everything that had plagued me my entire life. I didn’t become a Jesus clone. I was set free to be completely the me that is made up of all the gifts God gave me to use.

I still love all those people as does God, but it hurts when I attempt to share the gift I received and it’s rejected. The fact that I’ve shared my faith with them and they’ve made the choice to not accept it for their own lives, which according to scripture means I’ve done what’s expected of me, is of little comfort to me. Maybe someday it will be. In the meantime I will just keep on a keepin’ on and maybe someday I’ll realize “that one thing” is no longer a part of my life.

Don’t say it … I know, it’s about time I said something. So here goes.

One would think that maybe I had writer’s block or some similar excuse for being silent for so long, but that’s not the case … at least not entirely. If there’s been a block it’s been in not knowing where to start. When it comes to things that interest me I am definitely not a one trick pony. Yes, of course I’m interested in gender identity issues but that’s just a small part of my life.

The biggest part of my life is my church, the people in the church, my faith in what God has set me on this earth to accomplish. Recently I’ve alluded to discontent and disappointment with many of the facets of my church and some of the things that were transpiring. Two weeks ago I felt that it was about time to move on, but to where? I had no clue, and furthermore I didn’t want a clue, because I didn’t want to move on. Finally my frustration spilled over into a series of text messages that I was certain would be the death knell the relationship. However, the result was a totally new relationship with the cause of my frustration and a renewed since of mission there.

Of the Ten Commandments, the first four deal with the “dos” in our relationship to God; the last 6 deal with “don’ts” our relationships with our fellow man. So, one necessarily has to conclude that God’s intention for us is to get along with one another. Since I have a great deal of difficulty in getting along with some people, and I’m relatively certain that God is keenly aware of that potential in His creation, I have to assume that it’s for that reason they are called the Ten Commandments and not the Ten Suggestions or the Ten Possible Courses of Action.

If they had been called the Ten Possible Courses of Action it would be so much easier to consider some of the possible courses of action in relation to one of my other major interests … world and national affairs. In the current state of affairs it would really be convenient to think in terms of possible courses of action, especially when considering the events in the Middle East. The possible course of action or suggestion to not kill, when it comes to defending of millions of unarmed citizens who happen be in the path of the devil’s brigade known as ISIS could be dismissed as an unacceptable “possible course of action”.

But it isn’t a “possible course of action” is it? No! It is definitely stated as a command. So then we have the question of what is the real meaning of the commandment. Are we really supposed to stand idly by when innocent people are dying? Are we also expected to sit on our hands and do nothing to defend our own immediate families? Somehow I just don’t think that is what our Creator had in mind. Did he say something else to Moses that clarified the conditions of that commandment that Moses neglected to get on the tablet? Well, no, it wasn’t Moses taking dictation according to the bible. They were written by God’s own hand, so we can’t blame Moses for being lazy. What did God mean?

Some interpretations state the 6th commandment this way: “Don’t commit murder.” Well now that puts things in an entirely new light. The dictionary defines murder as “killing unlawfully.” I want to know if all this means that I am to use the brain, and moral inclinations which God blessed me with to draw an intelligent and justifiable conclusion on my own. Given that there is no ultimate earthly authoritative answer to that dilemma I will just have to wing it in the meantime. With that said, I think you can draw your own conclusions about what I think the solution to the current world situation.

Yes, I realize that this may be something of a disappointment after weeks of silence, but it’s a start. I’ve said something … and all that.