Resting on the Same Pillows

Someone once said, "Marriage means commitment. Of course, so does insanity." Ask anyone you know, married or single, about-to-be-married or used-to-be-married, it doesn't matter: they will all have something to say about marriage. Thousands of books have been written about marriage, hundreds of seminars and workshops are held each year on the subject, contracts are written, movies are made, and therapists and lawyers make their fortunes off of it. Still, we are no closer to figuring it out than Adam and Eve after their disastrous rendezvous at the fruit tree which gave birth to 'he said, she said' and the beautiful madness of marriage.

Irving Stone's The Agony and The Ecstacy, published in 1961, is an amazing, masterfully written 'biographical novel' on the life of Michaelangelo. It is also a haunting and insightful portrayal of marriage. We see the contrast in the rich historical Renaissance era between Florence - a cultural mecca for artists, architects, musicians, and writers - and Rome, the political, religious, and educational benchmark for all of Italy.  Both cities brought their own unique value to their country, and to all of Europe as a result.  But not only in the culture where he was raised, we see Michaelangelo's own personal battles mirror that of marriage. The passion with which he pursued what he loved, the despair of rejection and/or failure, the very struggle necessary to create. And the glory of a life well lived, leaving behind astounding works of art that have touched countless millions of lives.

We've all heard 'men are from Mars, women are from Venus'. We are also from Florence and Rome. We are salt and pepper, dogs and cats, blue sky and deep green ocean, and velvet and steel. For all the ways we explore understanding and overcoming our differences, our contrasting elements are the stage of struggle on which we create things of beauty, works of art. Where would fried chicken be if seasoned only with pepper? How boring would a dog's life be if never given the opportunity to chase after a cat? Would the sky be as blue if it did not rest peacefully against a deep green ocean? And could we truly appreciate the strength of steel if we never cradled velvet against our cheek?

My husband and I will be married for 17 years tomorrow. There have been seasons of ecstacy and times of overwhelming agony. We have loved, laughed, cried, yelled, made promises, made threats, and bought and sold cars, houses, and furniture. We have three wonderful children. We've shared many more pets. We're learning to learn from others' mistakes and celebrate their successes. And we're learning what works for us. At the end of the day, for all our married ups and downs, he knows me. I know him. We draw strength, stability, and sometime arguments from each other. And at night, resting on the same pillows, there is comfort in knowing that Rome and Florence are learning to peacefully and productively co-exist.

The struggle to create something of beauty. The glory of leaving behind a work of art. The beautiful madness of marriage.

Happy Father's Day - Guest Blogger Jason Brooks

Dawn asked me to write a guest post for Father’s Day about three seconds after I asked her to write her guest post for my blog. Being her friend, and always looking for a chance to add a writing credit, I quickly agreed.

Then I started thinking about what to write.

Should I be funny? Should I be heartfelt? What could be written about fatherhood that hadn’t been written before?

Then my grandfather got sick.

The past couple of weeks my dad’s side of the family has been on high alert over my Pop Harold. He went into the hospital with trouble breathing, only to find out he had congestive heart failure and a heart rate just this side of deadly. The docs were able to get the fluid off his heart, but they weren’t able to isolate the cause of his heart racing, so that meant an extended stay in the critical care wing. Turns out it was a tiny valve malfunction and a blocked artery. They gave him medicine and sent him home on Tuesday.

They don’t expect him to ever really recover. We’ve brought in hospice to help out.

Being on the verge of losing my Pop Harold made think about the three main fatherly influence in my life, and I realized: if pedigree were all that mattered, I would be the world’s greatest dad.

Between my father, Rickey, and my two Pops - Pop Harold (my dad’s dad) and Pop Emmette (my mom’s dad) - I have the kind of patriarchal lineage one only finds when reading Biblical genealogies. Those three men represent the finest collection of fatherly wisdom ever assembled - a Daddy Dream Team - and it is my privilege to call myself their son.

I lost Pop Emmette eight years ago this August. I remember the day he died, how I stood over his body in a tiny ER alcove while the world went to hell around me. Doctors and nurses were rushing by outside the curtain that was supposed to give us privacy, and it was a weird juxtaposition to my feeling as if the world had suddenly stood still. Pop’s body seemed half its size; without his soul to fill it, the skin just sagged.

I spoke at his funeral. I told stories that he had told me, stories that were inappropriate for a funeral because they were designed to make people laugh their butts off. I think I may be the only preacher in the world who intentionally turned his grandfather’s funeral into a stand up routine and had the audience roaring with laughter despite themselves. I remember thinking, in that moment, how much of a gift Pop had given me through his stories. How much of me was bound up in him.

Now, with Pop Harold at home but simply waiting to pass on, I find myself planning to speak at another funeral. This one will be different, however. Not because Pop Harold wasn’t a funny man - he certainly could be - but more because Pop Harold’s life has been more of a mystery to me. Perhaps it’s because I was too enraptured in Emmette’s stories to ever ask Harold for his, or maybe it’s because Pop Harold never wanted to share his stories like Emmette did, but whichever it was, I don’t know nearly as much about Pop Harold as I did Pop Emmette.

But what I’ve learned is different. Not better, necessarily, but different. It’s like having silk in one hand and Egyptian cotton in the other - the texture is soft and wonderful for each, but for entirely different reasons.

Pop Harold has shown me the challenge and majesty of aging. That when people seem to have outlived their usefulness, they still have purpose: to teach those around them about the power and necessity of love and family. Pop’s life has become one final lesson from the Good Book - something he spent years studying - and it’s a lesson that we have learned fitfully, painfully even, but one we’ve learned well. When he is gone, there will be no laughter. There will be tears and plenty of them because such is the depth of our love.

And through all of this has been my own father, Dad, as I call him. In some ways we are polar opposites - he’s quiet, good with money, not artistic in the least - and in other ways we are almost carbon copies of each other. I look in the mirror and see where my hair is going gray in the same places his did, at the same age. I see his brown eyes looking back at me through my glasses. Our hair even parts on the same side (when I part mine).

We’ve never been talkers, the kind of father-son duo that can sit up late into the night swapping stories and telling tales. When we do talk, it’s usually to-the-point conversations, even when we’re just shooting the breeze. I’ve never thought it odd or abnormal because what my father says is so packed with wisdom and meaning that it simply doesn’t take more words than he uses.

Unlike me. I can take more words than three people need. But that’s just what makes him so interesting to me. It’s part of why I respect him.

He leads by quiet example, almost by sheer force. Not as a bully forces, mind you; more like Gregory Peck in To Kill A Mockingbird. When my father sets a course of action, his integrity almost compels other people to choose that same course. This explains how he was able to become a vice-president in a major bank without his college degree: he learned everything he could, choose what was right, and got others to do the same.

And then there’s me.

I’m a father now - my daughter, Ella, is 5 and my son, Jonathan, is 2 - and one would think that given the examples I’ve had, I’d be a flawless father.

I’m not.

But even as I make major mistakes, I’m learning that perfection is not required of a father. Nothing astounds me more than when I screw up and my kids look past it. Not in a “we’ll remember this later and use it against you” way, but in a genuinely forgiving way. The more I am with my children, the more I begin to understand things like grace and love and mercy - not just from me to them, but from them to me. I can look into their eyes and see how much they truly love me, not because I’m perfect but because I’m daddy.

That’s a lesson that no one but your kids can teach you. And it’s the best lesson in the world.

Happy Father’s Day to all of you fathers out there, wherever you are.

My Memaw

I come from a long line of strong Southern women, one of them my maternal grandmother.  She is 96 today, my only living grandparent.  I feel extremely blessed to have had a close relationship with all my grandparents and have wonderful memories that span from my childhood well into adulthood.  But Margaret Louise Shigley Crowe, known to me and my nine cousins all our lives simply as "Memaw" is especially dear to me.  Born the youngest of 12 children, she developed a crush on my grandfather in the third grade - and her hooks go deep and long.  After graduating from high school (as salutatorian of her class in 1932) she and my Papa were very much in love.  My great-grandmother didn't care for my grandfather and didn't want them to marry.  So they eloped!  And kept it a secret for three months, my grandmother still living at home with her parents and my grandfather with his.  Finally, my Papa decided their arrangement was for the birds.  He went to Mamaw Shigley's house to tell her he had married my grandmother, stated his intentions for them to 'set up house' together, and held his ground.  My great-grandmother responded simply, "Well, what's done is done.  I guess I'll learn to love you."  And love him she did.  It wasn't long before Papa was her favorite and everybody knew it.

Memaw and Papa raised five children, four girls and a boy right in the middle.  They lived in a small house and managed with only one bathroom between the seven of them.  My grandfather never failed to start the day with all his children kneeling for prayer around the kitchen table.  And very few mornings passed that my grandmother didn't prepare a full Southern breakfast of scrambled eggs, bacon, sausage, gravy, made-from-scratch biscuits, and grits.  As a pastor's wife my grandmother was expected to be the perfect wife, the perfect mother, raise perfect children, keep a perfect home, coordinate and organize church events, weddings, funerals, baby dedications, and teach Vacation Bible School.  She did it all with grace, beauty, and excellence.

Papa was a preacher for 57 years before his death in 1992 and my grandmother was undeniably his biggest fan.  He struggled occasionally with feelings of inadequacy because he never attended seminary.  My grandmother would pat him gently on the arm and say, "now Charles, you are a student of God's word and He never fails to give you a strong message.  Don't you ever let anyone tell you otherwise."  My grandmother never denied that her family had its faults and shortcomings, but God help the person outside the bloodline who brought it to her attention!  She is fiercely loyal and it wouldn't surprise me if her picture is listed in the Encyclopedia Britannica next to "Bear, Mama".

Memaw was a school teacher for 32 years, receiving her teaching degree in 1934 and many years later her BS in Education from Berry College at the age of 50.  Around that same she also learned how to drive, instructed by the calm and gentle guidance of my grandfather.  She stopped driving barely two years ago and only recently gave up her condo to live with one of my aunts in south Georgia.  Strong indeed.  I've watched her hands prepare countless meals, fly across the keys of a piano, and gently caress many a loved one.  I've chuckled as she washed a piece of tin foil, dried it, folded it squarely and returned it to the drawer for later use.  When I think of her I visualize crossword puzzles, reading voraciously, and going to the beach. 

And when she prays, I am convinced God raises His hand and says, "Listen, it's my Margaret."  My grandmother.  My Memaw.  My hero.