Finding Our Own Voice

"To be nobody but yourself in a world doing its best to make you everybody else means to fight the hardest battle any human can ever fight and never stop fighting." 

~ e. e. cummings ~

Finding our own voice in a world that is pushing and pulling at us, and shouting loudly over us, is often like finding a rare coin at the bottom of your purse. You'll delight in its discovery, aim to keep it forever, and you will make every effort to tend carefully to its safety. And someone else will want that treasure too. If they have found it first, then it's something we believe must have ourselves. In the discovery of finding our voice comes some level of abandon, and with that we find beautiful inspiration. What do I have to say that fear denies it a voice? It's always okay to stand out in a field full of conformity. I believe it is essential to let our own color shine, and maybe even showoff a bit. If we are to live freely and on purpose, we must uncover the bonds that keep us in the stranglehold the world chooses to call average. It is more than ok to be a white tulip in a sea full of pink ones. It is our calling. It is our privilege. And in this, we give the Creator glory. Besides that, we'll be so much easier to find.  

"Before you were formed in your mother's womb, I knew you, before you were born I set you apart." ~ Jer 1:5

~Susan Renée

Hershey the Horse

Dear Sissy, 

Remember the horse that lives behind my rear fence? The brown one with the cracked hooves and the lonely look on her face. The "pet" I adopted and feed apples to. I named her Hershey because she looks like milk chocolate. But in reality, she is unkempt and in dire need of a bath. And her real name is Sugar. 

me feeding Hershey my first apple

I met her owner. He told me he had to sell her because he couldn't afford to take care of her anymore. I know that's a good decision. But she's gone now, sissy. I miss looking out the kitchen window and seeing her head reaching over the fence. Waiting for her apple. I hope the person who bought her has trimmed her hooves and has given her a bubble bath. I hope they have stocked up on apples. I'm happy for Hershey. But it's a sad day for me. I think I need to borrow Ladybug for a day. I wish you lived closer.

I love you, Squeezie

Are You A Grammar Nazi Two?

Do you mentally correct other people's grammatical errors the way I do? Is that bad? No worries. I won't email you anything but good.. ~Susan

When the Corn's Done Poppin'

After writing my last blog about my father I didn't realize how cathartic it would be. I didn't feel badly about writing it. It was factual and it was accurate. At least for me. As they say, "Feelings are neither right or wrong... they just are." But I did feel like I'd finally, truly, buried my father. Then something happened.

Some other memories started to present themselves. It was kind of like how popcorn works. Deep inside the kernel of dried corn is the slightest drop of moisture. As the heat rises the moisture begins to boil which causes it to explode, turning it inside out. A little butter and salt and you're ready for a good movie. Or, in my case, a dreary drama. But when the explosion happened for me and when all the popcorn was gone from the bowl, there were several unpopped kernels remaining, as there usually are. For me, those kernels were the good memories. The things I remember about my father that were once fond memories, but now... now they felt warm inside and tangible enough to hold. These weren't going to pop.  And I felt these good memories every bit as strongly as I felt the painful ones. So I wanted to share a few of them here.

my folks were avid  Dodger fans

Once, while watching a baseball game on TV, I was sitting right next to my dad on the couch. He suddenly, for some unknown reason, put his arm around me and gave me a big hug and squeezed me tight. Then, he went right back to the game. I remember it now as if I'm sitting next to him on that couch. I can hear the sound he made too. It was a great hug.




At dinner one evening the three of us girls, as I recall it anyway, were talking about cute boys. I think Cathy may have been teasing Sherry about having a crush on Don Grady (may he rest in peace) from My Three Sons. That sounds pretty much like how it would have gone down. But the rest of this memory is crystal clear in my head now. I piped up saying that I thought my dad was the handsomest man in the world. And I meant that. Next thing I remember is him reaching into his pocket and pulling out a quarter. He slapped it in front of me with a big grin on his face. Even now it makes me smile. Everyone immediately started back-peddling, agreeing that Dad was, indeed, the best looking man alive. Too late. He pushed back his chair and got up, still wearing that sly grin on his face, and he left the table. When I left the table I was a little richer and felt a little happier. It only cost a quarter, but that memory is priceless. 

Father's Day, and every other gift-giving holiday, was always a challenge for me with my father. I don't recall ever getting him a gift that he liked enough to comment on it besides saying "thank you". Ever. I don't know if any of us kids did. But one year, as an adult, my husband, kids and I went to see my Dad on Father's Day. He was outside walking around checking out his lawn when I walked up and handed him a small bouquet of tootsie pops saying, "Happy Father's Day, POP!" Emphasizing the POP. (guffaw) He took the candy bouquet from my hand and threw his arms around me and gave me a big warm hug. Score! That was a great day. My dad didn't care about gifts. I think he preferred to feel endeared. Cathy, btw, has an awesome story about some of my dad's old shoes. I hope she shares it sometime. It's a good story.

Over the years, these have been some childhood memories that I have recalled now and again. But they have never, ever tugged at my heart or brought tears to my eyes like they do now. I'm so grateful that God saw fit to finally allow me to bury my father, and now remember some happy times with my dad.

Dear God, Don't Let Me Miss It

Last month (August 26th) was the 21st anniversary of my father's death. He was never a protective presence in my life.  He was neither encouraging nor affectionate. As a teenager I remember well feeling so vulnerable in my relationships with boys and feeling I owed them something for giving me the simplest attention. That was always on my part, not on the boy's. As I got older I did not trust men, and knew nothing about guarding my heart or saving myself for the man who would be worthy of me, in my father's eyes. I felt ill at ease if ever a boy showed an interest in me and I think I knew I would disappoint them in some way, and that scared me. Years later I still could not identify the boundaries that could have kept me safe from too many bad choices. I felt I owed things to men in order to be noticed. And being noticed was the closest I came to knowing love. Nowadays, there's so much written about the importance of a father's role in the life of his teenaged daughter. But we didn't know that stuff back then. And I'm not so sure it would have mattered to my father even if we did. He was an amateur radio enthusiast and most of his time and attention went to complete strangers over illusive airwaves sent through larger and taller towers he kept inate of the art condition every year. My father was head smart. But his heart was a mystery.

W6CRE. We all knew his call letters early on.

So this year, when sissy tagged me in a photo of my dad to share on my Facebook wall as a remembrancer of his passing I felt, for the very first time, that I had the choice to acknowledge all the hurts and the yuckiness I have felt and mourned since he died. Sissy  has my mother's strength and her deep sense family loyalty. It is strong and rich in her blood. She wants us all to be happy, and her heart will never rest until she has done her utmost to bring peace where there is hurt or misunderstanding. I love my sister for that. It sometimes irritates me, but she's usually right so I most often defer to her in these things. But this year I declined that "tag" on Facebook. I didn't want to acknowledge the anniversary my father's death. It seemed pretentious and contradictory to me. But I couldn't tell her about it because I didn't exactly know how. I didn't have the words. And I felt badly that I couldn't explain it. All I knew was that I felt angry. After 21 years, all the stuffed feelings of neglect and abandonment I'd experienced from my father had come to a head. Out of nowhere. All I could recall was being so hurt by the man that I had, 21 years earlier, secretly prayed for God to let me be with as he withered away from the cancer that killed him. And God answered that prayer. I was with him when he died. Just him and me. Alone. I didn't plan on that. But afterward, I did think there should be some sort of special bond or some kind of a connection I'd feel between us because of my being there. It was perhaps a lofty hope. I wanted it to count for something. And I think I had convincing myself into thinking I finally did something special for him and wasn't that wonderful? 'Did I do good, dad?' I wanted an answer. Or even an acknowledgement that I'd asked the question. But he was dead now. There would be no hope of an answer or a nod. Now it was permanent. So I hadn't really done anything all that great at all.

My handsome father during WWII

Over the years I could never put my finger on what it was I felt whenever my father's name came up. I could never find the words to express what it was that I felt toward him at all. The man who was never my “daddy”, but was always my father. My mom had always taught us to accept him for who he was and not to think about the things that he wasn't. She didn't put it that clearly, but that's what we knew she was saying. I had been taught to believe that it was wrong to give room to any thought of my father that was less than the "good provider" that he was. And he was. Whatever needs I may have had beyond that simply weren't as significant as they felt to me. So that's how we lived. And as long as my mother was alive, I never let my heart even go there; to a deep hole that held the question mark to a question I dare not ask. I mustn't. I would not hurt her by suggesting that her husband was less than the wonderful man she had married. Even though she knew. She knew. 

Then about a month ago I was following a link posted by one of my favorite bloggers which led me to a post entitled, Nella Cordelia, A Birth Story. It was not what I had expected in the least. It is a precious and beautifully-written story from a mother about the birth of her daughter. It was also the most difficult thing this woman had ever had to write. I encourage you to read it with a box of tissue and a heart full of joy. You will need both. You can fink it here. The story relates the birth of what was expected to be a healthy baby girl who, right after delivery, was detected with Downs Syndrome. No one even noticed. No one. Except for the new mom. She knew something was wrong right away. And eventually they all did. But until then it was just her. Alone. Not expecting to see what she saw, or feel what she felt. And as she looked at her precious new baby and their eyes locked, she could almost hear her little girl say... "Love me. Love me. I'm not what you expected, but oh, please love me." And that is what I wish I could have said to my father years before he died. 

My siblings in 2002. L-R, Cathy, me, Tom, and Sherry.

I envisioned myself sitting next to him as he lie in the rented hospital bed that now shared space in his "ham shack" During his final hours I mentally asked him to acknowledge his children. To notice that he wasn't just leaving his wife. He was leaving four of the greatest achievements of his life. I wished I could have understood why he could only give what little he gave and understand all the excuses my mother always made for why he was the way he was. Absent and intolerant in so many ways. He detested questions. And I was a very inquisitive kid, but I learned early on not to ask questions. Why was he broken? What did we lack that he so wished for? Mostly, I felt like he'd missed the chance to fully participate in my life and he'd misspent the time he'd had with all of his kids for so many years. And now, finally, I let myself be good and angry. Why had it taken so long for me to allow myself to feel this stuff? I cried for the girl I had once been, who wanted to fill a daddy's empty lap so very badly. I embraced the teenager who needed a father's arms around her to protect her from the ugly things some young girls should never have to experience or endure or  lies that they believe about themselves. I let myself feel it all, and mourn it all, and get the poison out. And I did. Then... I was done.

My dad's last Christmas with us. He sat for the photo. Nice.

Today, I don't feel any of that pain. It's gone. It's been grieved over and worked out. I almost feel a sense of loss for my dad because he did miss so much. But the lesson I will never forget, the one truth that God has shown me in the midst of this  emotional spillage that had to happen, is this. In some way I think I see people through new eyes now. Everyone has a bit of that lovable Nella Cordelia in them. And with it comes the challenges and the heartbreak we are all destined to endure if we are to live. Mother Teresa once said, "everyone is going through something" and isn't that the truth? I see how God loves His kids and wants us desperately to love them too. So now I  wonder if my father ever thought Nella Cordelia's thoughts. "Love me. Love me. I'm not what you expected, but oh, please love me." I'll never know. But I can say with certainty that I have thought these very thoughts in my own life. And what about my kids? Do they ever think like that? It's especially important now that I don't miss the chance I do have, here and now, to love them and acknowledge them and protect them from some of the hurts that they don't need to experience. But I'm determined to not miss the chance my father did. Am I what they expected? I don't know.  I know that I am not alone is my experience. But, I don't want to miss the chance to change things. So dear Lord, please don't let me miss it.

~ Susan Renée