Change seems to be the only constant in my life.  Maybe change has always been a constant, but it usually happens so fluidly that I rarely notice it.  Change is necessary to prevent monotony and boredom with life.  Change keeps me aware that I am alive.  Change exists on a sliding scale like a spectrum of color.  Most of the time, I transition smoothly along the spectrum.  However, there are times when the change feels layered within the boundaries of the spectrum like the chords being manipulated by the fingertips of a guitarist.  When I hear colors from the distant ends of the range, my senses are jolted by a foreign sound caused by the figurative palm of the guitarist on the body of the guitar.  That thump, or slap, on the wooden body of the guitar changes the melody with a solid reverberating beat.

As I reflect on my brother’s recent death, I sit with the jolt of change.  His death brings to life the color of sadness that abuts the color of pain on the far right side of spectrum.  His death makes me wonder if I will ever again hear the blended chords of excitement and joy from the far left side.  Whenever I find myself at either endpoint of the spectrum, the other seems far away.  I don’t even hear a hint of sound from one when I’m listening to the other.  The abrupt thump of his death instantly changed the cadence of my day and the melody of my life.  How can the band play without a beat? Can we compose a movement without beats to give depth and strength to the piece? Until recently, I didn’t have to imagine life without his sounds.  I had only known life with him as a constant beat to urge me forward.

My brother set a standard of excellence in his life, personally and professionally, that made his name synonymous with music itself.  I never spoke of or listened to music without having thoughts of him.  I admired him for knowing that the way in which he chose to use of his gift had the ability to give more power to the music.  He respected the power of the music to influence internal and social change.  He honored the power of the music to invoke any number of emotions and responses.  As a result, he thoughtfully crafted musical arrangements that would meet the needs of his audiences.  He would often ask me to seek the advice of my children about the latest, hippest tunes.  He wanted his bands to be relevant, spirited, well-rehearsed, and technically accurate whenever they performed.  He was concerned about the “young folks” remaining engaged at sporting events.  He was also concerned about his students preparing themselves well to be successful in their endeavors beyond the band.

His former students created a social media page in his honor to encourage him in his end of life fight.  The messages clearly demonstrate how much he meant to so many.  The former students posted comments stating that he changed their lives for the better and that they always knew that he cared about them and that he used music to teach them about life.  He taught them that taking chances had the ability to enhance their lives when he forced them to learn about all genres of music.  Through his anecdotal stories, his student saw transparency that made them trust him and respect his gift and the music.  I loved that the list of things that spoke about his integrity, his character, and his compassionate spirit did not end with him.  He lived life with his heart on the outside of his body.  His heart provided a strong, steady beat for a lot of people.  His heart beat, like a metronome, lived in the shadows of many lives influencing the movements of their lives.

I saw his heart every time I saw him or spoke to him.  Selfishly, I saw a place carved out in his heart and preserved just for me.  Interestingly, all who experienced him believed they too had a special place in his heart.  Well, we were all right.  As the world made room for his gift, his heart made room for all of us.  His heart beat ended but the music yet plays in our memories of time spent with him.  Each person who owned a piece of his heart territory cherished a testimony about our beloved Butch.  Each person held tight to a story about how he taught them life lessons.  In his role as a musician and director, he modeled passion, compassion, hard work, resilience in the face of challenges, and attention to details.  Music carried his soulfulness into the minds and hearts of so many people.  His passion and his visions of excellence for himself and others meant understanding that showing up on time was a necessary step in accomplishing any goal.  He would say, “If you’re early you’re on time.  If you’re on time, you’re late!”  He also had an unforgettable call and response engrained in the minds of his students that reminded them that consistent and repetitive preparation and follow through were keys to success:

“There are no shortcuts to success! Repeat!”

Butch, I love you and miss you.  The Heavens are rejoicing because the music just got really good because you are there! You fought a good fight! Now, rest well, good and faithful servant.

**Read more about my brother at http://wp.me/p6L8u0-ki

Yesterday, I went to do a little self-care at a local nail salon.  The young woman who checked me in was so courteous.  She was so hospitable that I took notice of her and I paid close attention to how she interacted with other folks in the salon.  Her grace and kindness came as easy to her as the “Yes Ma’am’s” she coupled with her smiles.  After observing and praising her in my head, I asked the nail technicians in earshot, “Where’s she from?”  I was not surprised when they replied, “Um, somewhere in the South.”

I couldn’t say that everybody from the south addressed folks with a handle, or title, but I was reminded of my paternal grandmother, Big Mama, who demanded that the answer to any questions she asked of a child end with “Yes Ma’am,” “No Ma’am,” “Yessum,” or “No’um.”  There was no exception to that rule and I haven’t been able to think of one child who dared not follow her directive.  The young technicians in the shop became interested in the southern practices because the young woman and I had a few similar experiences.  One of them asked what would have happened if I had chosen to address Big Mama without a “Yes Ma’am” or similar phrase.  I laughed and said, “I have no idea.” I don’t think any child was brave enough to ignore her “request.”  It would have been interpreted as disrespect.   So, I proceeded to tell them about Big Mama.

Big Mama’s real name was Ora Lee.  She was a “pleasantly plump” woman who was closer to short than she was to tall.  Her flat forehead and long, straight dark hair spoke of her blended heritage.  Big Mama said she was Black and Native American.  I had no reason to doubt her because she believed in the power of the things born from the earth and she devoted her life to healing people through the spiritual compass within her.  She believed in becoming one with the land and listening for the voice of the Lord.  Little was known about her past because she hid that part of her someplace and she kept that place securely locked.  However, she overcame her sorted past and gained wisdom on that journey.  Her journey fortified her to stand as the matriarch for our family and the community.  I wish I could remember all of the home remedies and wives’ tales Big Mama practiced.  Yesterday, I laughed as I recalled a few memories of time spent with Big Mama.

Big Mama took seriously the Biblical directive to walk around Jericho to demonstrate the power of the Holy Spirit.  Big Mama once ran circles around a church congregation to seal them in the Spirit.  Nobody said she was speaking in tongues, but I am pretty sure there were words coming out of her mouth as she ran laps around the sanctuary “covering” the place with the Spirit.  I wrote a blog about that special moment at a church in Montgomery in a post entitled “Spirit Filled.” (See http://wp.me/p6L8u0-5W ) That story made me laugh then and I laughed yesterday while telling it.  Big Mama caught those folks off guard and their response was priceless.

There was another time when Big Mama came to our house and Mama started talking about the garden in the backyard.  Mama usually grew tomatoes, cucumbers, bell pepper, and okra.  That year, the okra crop must have been lagging behind the growth of the other crops if Mama was concerned.  Big Mama, a strict disciplinarian, heard Mama’s concern and offered a solution.  Big Mama was so strict that she told me that I would be committing a sin if I played a game that required cards or dice.  So, no card games and no board games with dice when Big Mama was around.  She also stressed that secular music was of the devil so you dared to play any music other than a church tune when Big Mama was present.  Big Mama had a strict interpretation of Biblical principals.  She expected people and things to obey her.  She interpreted the Bible to mean that humans were in charge of the earth and the things that dwelled on the earth.  When Big Mama heard about the scarcity of Mama’s okra crop, Big Mama marched out of the house and into the backyard.  On her way to the garden, she broke a switch off of one of the trees and proceeded to spank the okra.  As she whooped it, she chastised it and told it to grow.  Initially, there was shock.  Then, there was robust laughter.  That story made all of us laugh in the salon yesterday and I giggle every time I think about Big Mama in her ankle length dress with her crucifix hanging from her neck giving the gospel to the okra.

I loved Big Mama.  She called me “Tim” instead of “Kim” my whole life.  I have no idea why she never pronounced my name correctly.  I always answered to “Tim” and I never challenged her on the pronunciation of my name.  Big Mama had the belief that once “You put teen on their age they think they grown.”  As a result, I didn’t get a birthday present from her after I turned thirteen.  Big Mama fascinated me because she didn’t complete grade school, but she could read the Bible and count money.  She had a gift of healing and her instincts about people were generally on point.  She told me when I was about twelve or thirteen that I would do something special.  I often wonder if I have done that “special” something yet.  I wish that I had been mature enough to sit with her more often and for longer periods of time to listen to her talk about natural cures for all sorts of illnesses, and to hear her talk about how she seasoned the food she cooked, and to hear her laugh with her whole body when she recounted funny stories about other people she knew.  Big Mama always told me that I was smart and she made believe that I was teaching her how to compute simple math equations.  One of my takeaways from my time with Big Mama was to be respectful to God and to my elders.  Big Mama also taught me to be true to what I believed in and to share my faith with others through prayer and giving.  Big Mama taught me to encourage young people to believe in themselves and to believe in the power of the village.  I hope that we can all walk in the legacy of my Big Mama and bless people with transparency, humor, and compassionate hearts.

Daddy used to say, “Ooowee, Lola, Buddy made that horn talk!”  My daddy called my brother Buddy and almost everyone else called my brother “Butch.”  Although my brother answered to at least two nicknames, the name Mama gave him was Charles which made my brother a junior.  People called my brother “Cooper, Jr” in order to distinguish him from Daddy. Butch and Daddy didn’t look just alike, but but they had very similar names and very similar professional paths. It made sense that the folks added “Junior” to my brother’s name when they spoke about him.

Butch and Daddy both graduated from Alabama State University in Montgomery, Alabama.  My father played baseball there and my brother’s claim to fame was being the head drum major of the Marching Hornets in the late sixties.  When Butch graduated from college, he went to work at a high school about thirty miles from Montgomery where Daddy was the vice principal.  Daddy and Butch went to work at  Autaugaville High School in 1970 to begin the process of integrating public schools in that rural Alabama county.  Daddy had a master’s degree in administration, my brother had a bachelor’s degree in music, and their new principal had a degree in agriculture.  In my opinion, their working relationship enhanced their relationship as father and son.  In addition, they grew to respect each other as professionals working in a challenging environment.  Daddy had the chance to mentor Butch as a young educator who wanted to use his gift of music to change the lives of the young people at the school.

Daddy was very proud of the fact that my brother was the first band director at the school.  Daddy was also proud that my brother was well-prepared for the role of band director.  Daddy supported my brother’s passion to be a musician from the time that Butch was a young boy.  Butch, our sister, and me took piano lessons from the same piano teacher, Ms. Black.  At some point, Ms. Black told my mother that Butch had a natural gift for music, but she didn’t think the piano was the instrument for him at that time in his life.  Apparently, boys teased him about playing the piano so Daddy bought him a horn.  As I recall, Daddy found someone in the neighborhood who had an alto saxophone for sale for $40.  My dad paid the man ten dollars that day and gave the man the balance when he got paid.  I really think my brother used that horn to get him out of years of chores like cutting grass, making beds, and doing laundry.  Daddy often boasted that he made the statement that, “As long as Butch was practicing that horn, I would support him.”  (Let me just say that by the time I came along the level of expectation changed and practicing a horn was not enough to eliminate a chore list.)  Butch practiced, found his passion, and his voice through music.  He loved music and invested himself in music to become one with everything that generated sounds.  He became an amazing musician who blessed the world for many years with musical abilities.  His first love was the alto saxophone, but his heart made room for many instruments over the years.  He was not a classically trained musician, but his delivery was classic.  He hit minor chords in a major way and the sax could make runs and scat like the best vocalists.

Mama, like Daddy, recognized the that the boy had talent so she would “invite” him to play or sing at every church program Old Ship A.M.E. Zion Church sponsored. Once the planning committees announced the themes and the dates of the annual events, Mama would call Butch and “ask” him to put the dates on his calendar.  She made sure to tell him what selection she thought most appropriate for each event.  Butch would oblige and the audiences were never disappointed.  Most of the time he played a hymn my mother liked on his alto saxophone.  When he had a pianist to accompany him, he would integrate smooth tenor vocals into the performance.  In recent years, we have joked about him being the oldest kid slated for the church programs.  He laughed about how Mama never saw it as odd that her really grown son was on the same program as the youngest members of the church family.

When I was in the seventh grade, I wanted to enroll in band class.  Although I knew that he was a band director, it was then that I first appreciated how much he knew about musical instruments.  I learned that he could play more than one instrument. He played the flute, the guitar, the saprano sax, the bongos, the keyboard, and all of those random percussion instruments I didn’t know had a function in a band. I began to understand the breadth of knowledge he had about music.  I realized he was a master of music and that his commitment to the sound was deeper than the pitch or tone made by a person playing one instrument.  He spoke about balance between the horns, woodwinds, and percussion and the need to produce a harmonious product for the audience.  He was concerned about the details in the music and the heart of the musicians.  Conversations with him about music turned the space into a laboratory and he was the head chemist in charge.  Most of the time I didn’t really want to know the science behind the sound.  I just wanted to hear the sound.  My brother taught me to make the effort to hear the heart of the artist when I listened to music.  Hanging out in his makeshift laboratories taught me to appreciate the ability of music to reach the heart of a human soul then  influence emotions, thoughts, and actions.  It seemed that his goal with every performance and in every composition was to create a moment that would allow his love of the music and his hope that the music would meet the heart of a listener and transfer his passion and the pureness of the spirit he invested into the sound.  My brother loved the sound because it carried his expressive messages.  He loved the fact that he could mix chords, blend instruments, write lyrics, and deliver all of it in a perfectly timed melody intented to empower folks to love the sound and be made alive because of the sound.

My brother was seventeen years old when I was born.  He graduated from high school two months before I was born.  He was old enough to be my father and that made for an interesting relationship between us.  I looked to him to shelter me like a big brother, yet I hated it when he wanted to protect me like he was my dad.  Because of the age gap, we never really lived in the same house so I looked forward to the announcement that he would be stopping by the house or to his surprise drop in visits.  Because of the age gap, I didn’t have the privilege of hearing my brother play gigs anywhere except in the garage at the house when his band, the “I-85 Express” practiced.  They would play hits from the rhythm and blues chart and the pop chart.  One time he gave me the microphone and let me sing the female vocals with the band.  That was cool and scary at the same time.  Until then, I was used to him singing lead or leading family sing-a-longs. It was also common for him to sing happy birthday to family members on their special days.  Once, when I was a freshman in college, he did the unexpected and he called me early one morning to sing Stevie Wonder’s song, “I Just Called To Say I Love You.”  That was one of the sweetest things he had ever done.  The funny part of the story was that he later admitted that he dialed the wrong number the first time he tried to call me and he woke up some girl down the hall from me.  I loved that he called me “kiddo” and always wanted to know what I had going on in my world.  He was the big brother who wanted to make me laugh.  He aimed to impress upon me the need to own my intelligence and to think of myself as “pretty.”  He would tell me that he was proud of me and end conversations with “love you girl” and his infamous “virtual hugs.”

My brother’s name became synonymous with music.  He took pride in the science of the sound and he worked his craft with great discipline.  He wanted his family, friends, and students to appreciate music beyond the notes on the page.  He wanted his audiences to love the sound and appreciate the artistry and science that produced the sound.  There were times when I just wanted the answer to the question, the short version of the tale from the band room, or for him to just sing the song, but got a lecture or demonstration to make a point about the methodology behind the tune.  My brother believed that there was no substitute for hard work and that musicians should not make excuses when they fell short on reaching a task or goal.  When he wasn’t playing, he was thinking about playing or arranging the next band drill.  He stayed in planning mode orchestrating the next thing for the band he was directing, the church choir, or gig that was on his radar.  My brother spent his time away from work working on music.  I know that because he took me with him to the music store downtown to pick up instruments that he left to be repaired, to look at refurbished instruments that he could afford on the meager high school band budget, or to select sheet music for the upcoming marching or concert band performances.  My brother loved music shops like my technically driven Daddy loved stores that sold picture tubes and radio parts.  At the time, it seemed like his extra effort was too much and unnecessary.  Now I know that without his extra effort some kid might never have had an instrument, his high school band would not have been invited to play at two NFL games, and a lot students would have missed out on college scholarships.

Butch expected excellence from himself as a musician and from musicians he performed with and those he taught.  He led bands with pride and competence.  He expected hard work, precision, and passion in performances.  My brother has been fighting a good fight against a vicious opponent for about three years.  He has fought gallantly and with resilience and pride.  Even with chinks in his armor, he has continued to hold his ground and reestablish himself when his footing was challenged.   I love my brother and the lessons he has transferred from his years as a musician to this life challenge.  He has lived out one of the messages to his students over the years to never quit and to give your best in whatever you do.  Recently, he told me that he continues to believe that he will “get better before [he] gets worse.” Even now, he has shown himself a resourceful leader who in the face of a challenge made a new way; he took new paths when needed to overcome the adversity in his life.  In addition to the lessons on hard work, accountability, pride, passion, resilience, resourcefulness, and strength he has taught over the years, that statement taught me the benefit of believing in yourself and the mission and the benefit of maintaining a proper perspective while you show up to deal with whatever your challenge might be any given moment of any given day.

His heart lived in his music.  The sound of his music delivered his heart to me. I am thankful that I will always have the sound of his love for me in my heart.  I wrote this so that he and everyone else would know how much I have always cherished him and his gift.  I want him to read this and know that I heard all of the love he has for me in every sound he blew from his horns and in every melody he sang.  I want him to know that I love that he shared his love with me.  To my brother, with love!

When I was a child, I heard that Santa Claus lived at the North Pole with Mrs. Claus.  Reportedly, Santa had a workshop in which elves made toys.  I thought the elves lived at the North Pole with Mr. and Mrs. Claus until events of recent years gave me reason to doubt my theory.  A few years ago I began to see people posting pictures of elves in their houses the entire month of December.  Are children so gullible these days? How do they think the elves can build toys at the North Pole and engage in mischief in the homes of thousands of kids every night?  Honestly, I love and admire the boundless imaginations of children.

 Children generally have no preconceived notions or history by which to define life experiences.  The naiveté of children allows them to believe in possibilities.  Children even believe in those events and occurrences that are unsubstantiated by logic or science.  Is it wrong for grown folks to take advantage of the innocence of children?  I am not sure if it’s right or wrong, but it is entertaining to watch.  Engaging children in the fantasy of the holiday season gives us all an opportunity to embrace at least one moment of joy and merriment during the course of a year. 

 This year the holiday season arrived and I had difficulty getting into the holiday spirit. But for the family traditions, I probably would not have worried about gift buying and decorating at all.  The truth is that I still have not completed my shopping and there are no decorations up yet.  Life for me during this holiday season has been different because the people who influenced the traditions I practiced are not around to influence the continuation of the traditions.  I have also found it tough to maintain traditions when the children for whom the traditions were created are no longer living at the house.   Since I have struggled so this holiday season, I have appreciated the mischievous elves pictured on social media pages.

 As funny as some of the picture and stories have been that document the shenanigans of the elves who invade homes and make mischief.  The parents who have adopted this tradition can absolutely have it and the night work that comes with it.  Having to do the work of the responsible elves for many years by putting together toys and wrapping gifts, I can’t understand why anyone would add the labor of the sneaky, mischievous elf to their list of things to do during the month of December.  I have heard of parents using the elves to influence positive behaviors from children too.  This is ironic because these little stuffed elves engage in so much mischief themselves.  Why would a child believe that Santa would accept any report from the naughty elves?  I have wondered which member of the house becomes responsible for cleaning up the messes left behind by the elves.  However, I have never spoken in great detail to any friend or family member whose home was randomly selected by the elves as an off site elf location. 

 While I am excited and grateful for the entertainment value I have been afforded by elf madness, I am equally as thrilled that this phenomenon did not exist when my kids were younger.  Congratulations to those folks who are so dedicated to this elf mission that they use their creative energy to stage events for the elf and then use their time to explain the things done in the secrecy of the night.  I wish I could create something or think of some new fade that would get folks to focus on something fun for their families too.  I love the fact that holiday season traditions like this one can draw family members together. 

Gift purchasing and elf madness encourage parents to think about things the kids in their families really like. These holiday traditions also give parents opportunities to take their minds off of the more serious aspects of adult life.  The grown ups get to repeatedly complete tasks that can bring some healthy laughter to the home.  Sometimes parents need to be forced to find ways to relax and play.  All of the parents I see managing these mischievous elves seem to be having fun and that is a good thing.  Although gift selections and creating elf mischief may not be the optimal depth of communication needed to prevent dysfunction in a family, nonjudgmental interactions between kids and grown ups generally leads to more good outcomes than negative ones. 

A few months ago on a first Sunday morning I sat on the pew in church marveling about the innovation of the communion cup.  So, I took a picture of my communion cup because I knew that I might explore this wondrous moment further at some point in the future.  As I sat looking at the cup, I acknowledged the innovation and practicality embodied in this creation.  However, I couldn’t figure out why it was so dang hard to get to the “bread.”

I know some folks, especially those in my childhood church, might say that using a camera phone in church during any part of communion service is a violation of the unstated eleventh commandment, but I own the fact that I am not the best church lady.  The artist in me overpowered the church lady and the next thing you know the cell phone was coming out of the mid-sized tote sitting on the pew next to me.  I never really understood the strict rituals as a child and maybe this picture taking moment was a repressed need to rebel against formality and expectations to preserve a moment.  My disclaimer for such behavior has been to label myself as a not-so-good church lady.  In general, I am not the one to ask about the topics one should expect to be discussed in Sunday school class or week night Bible study.  I am not the one who will be following the pastor or the choir to other church services every Sunday afternoon.  I will take notes during church and reference those notes during the week.  I will even share my notes with others.  I will pray with and for others in the church and in my community, but I probably will not be that church sister who responds that I am “blessed and highly favored” when asked how I am doing.  So, when an artist-writer sits down in church whoever decided that the combo “wine” cup and “bread” holder was an excellent idea should have known that the creative mind of a not-so-good church lady would direct her to pull out her cell phone and preserve the moment for a later discussion.  I don’t think anyone saw me take this picture except my daughter who still loves me in spite of my shortcomings and misdeeds.  As I recall, she gave me a head shake and smile.

It seems that a lot of churches use these cups because I have used them in churches in various parts of the country over the years.  I am sure there are reasons that churches opt for this method instead of passing the shiny silver trays.  Instead of the silver trays sectioned to hold small glasses for the “wine” and the flat trays for the crackers, my current church uses the dual purposed plastic cups.  My experiences with communion services and practices are rooted in the traditions of my childhood church and seasoned by the experiences of the many churches we have attended over the years since we left Alabama.

In my childhood church, we had a communion day ritual in which everyone who wished to partake in that part of the service came to the alter in the front of the church to be served.  We would line up down the outer aisles of the church, go to the alter, kneel when directed to do so by the pastor, then cup our hands, right over left, to receive our “bread” and “wine.”  I put the words bread and wine in quotes because most churches don’t actually serve real wine or real bread.  I remember when a pastor at my childhood church created a situation with the leadership and the membership after he made a decision to serve real wine on a first Sunday because he said “Jesus didn’t turn water into grape juice.”  I still laugh when I reflect on that pastoral insight.  I don’t remember how many first Sundays he convinced the leadership to stand with him, but I don’t think it happened too many first Sunday’s before we were back to the grape juice.  At my church, the adults always went first, the children went second followed by the choir and the musicians who would skillfully keep the melody flowing from the organ and the piano while they supped with the choir that was kneeling at the alter.  I often watched the organist play the foot pedals that were a part of what looked like a keyboard on the floor as she played the keyboard with her right hand and took communion with her left.  I don’t think she ever knew that I was amazed by her abilities every first Sunday.

There was a lot of mystery about the preparation of communion at my childhood church.  When we got to church there was a white skirt on the altar and the silver trays were perfectly stacked in front of the pulpit podium and centered just behind the altar.  The stewardesses were all dressed in white and the choir wore white robes.  It was a very formal ritual.  While I respected the formality, I wondered how everything in front us came to be before anyone arrived in the sanctuary.  Somehow these cups with the tricky plastic remove the mystery and tradition from the service for me.  It doesn’t change the importance of communion or the purpose for the service, but it’s just not the same and the process is not smooth and seamless for most of us living the struggle of the tricky plastic “lid” that covers the “bread.”

I just need to know one thing: why is it so dang hard to get the “bread” out of the top of that special cup?  Every first Sunday at least one person and possibly two on my pew work to peel that piece of light weight plastic covering back in order to expose the “bread.”  Who would ever think that a little piece of plastic could capture the thoughts of parishioners and remove them temporarily from the communion experience.  I know when I am struggling I am so worried that somebody is watching me and observing the rise of my level of frustration with the manipulative cup.  I also worry that I won’t get the plastic off of the top of the cup before the communion leader starts the scripture reading and gives the instruction to eat and drink.  There is really no way to look cool when you are in a battle with a piece of plastic on a communion cup.  I get so distracted watching people try to separate the plastic from the paper tab used to open the bottom of the cup holding the liquid.  Most of the time I am laughing inside and visibly shaking my head as I watch people struggle with those cups.  They are not vacuum sealed or anything, but I am certain there is a scientific explanation for this phenomenon.  It reminds me of the struggle to open those plastic bags in the produce section at the grocery store (which can be opened easily with a little moisture from the sprinklers used to keep the produce fresh).  I must also admit that I am entertained by the first timer who appears to have never used this type of innovative creation.  Those folks generally look surprised that the cracker has no yeast and the “wine” tastes a little stale.  Most parishioners have probably never been asked to give an opinion on the offerings at communion, but I am fairly certain that I am not the only one with this question and this struggle.  If someone has the solution to this communion cup riddle, please feel free to share.

As I continued to engage in this conversation about my life with a sister living with a mental illness, I was reminded that my understanding was limited with regard to the science of mental illness.  My perspective always came from the point of view of a family member forced to play a real-time game that melded elements of a game of chance, a brain teaser, a history lesson, and a comedy show.  It became clear to me later in life that the practice of interacting with my sister and my family like an agent on a secret spy mission or a high roller at a craps table was not normal, but necessary.

My decisions and choices in this high stakes game either promoted a manageable outcome and existence or resulted in an emotionally charged, verbally explosive mean-spirited rant.  I never received any rush from games of chance and maybe that is because I grew up gambling on my sister’s temperament on a momentary basis.  What I did learn, however, from watching those who were often successful gamblers is that there is a science to what appears to be a game of chance.  There are numbers and data that drive the machine.  The trick for me became one of focus like the effort it took to watch the objects of the illusions of a magician or the ball under the moving cups on the table of a street hustler.  I learned to compartmentalize my emotional self and my scientific self so that I could be the master player my family needed in order to for us to be included in the masterful exhibition of a mental health challenge lived out in front of us each day.

My sister was a genius with what I believed was a photographic memory.  Clearly from the standpoint of intelligence quotients we were not evenly matched.  However, I worked hard because I had to work hard at almost everything and my work ethic and my competitive drive paid great dividends in this not-so-fun game I never volunteered to play.  It was my experience that a family selected to participate in this mental health challenge must recognize the need to separate from the bright lights, the music, and the emotion of the game and designate a scout whose job it was to gather information and maintain data for the team.

One of the elements of my sister’s diagnosis was manipulation.  She was a master manipulator.  The fact that she was dang near a genius enhanced her capacity to direct the outcomes of her situations and her communications with her subjects.  In addition, she studied issues related to the emotionally disturbed in college so she knew the science of mental illness, the terminology and how to produce expected outcomes in interactions and conversations with my family and friends and with the mental health professionals with whom we associated.  Again, we found ourselves outmatched.  We were living the crash course in mental health for dummies with her as the facilitator.  Believe me that was not the optimal learning environment or strategy.  Initially, I felt overwhelmed and confused because everything seemed to go her way all of the time.  Everybody reacted to what they heard from her and what they saw in her behavior based in their guilt, pity, and fear.  Most of the time there seemed to be no logic or consistency in the decisions when she was involved.  So, I decided to indulge her genius and to lift her intellect onto the highest platform in an effort to affirm her and to encourage her to teach me.  I didn’t really care to know it all.  I just needed to know “just enough to make me dangerous,” as my daddy would say.  She had too much control and our reliance on her decision making as a family unit would likely leave us busted – financially, socially and emotionally.

As much as I respected my sister’s intellect, I respected her skills as a thespian.  I smile now because in retrospect I can see that there was beauty in the lyrical compositions she orchestrated that always led to an end that favored her.  She was a college educated, beautiful young woman who had traveled abroad and been exposed to the arts and the sciences.  Being separated from her now by distance and time has enabled me to learn more from our journey.  I have learned to appreciate the challenges and complexities of what I used to simply describe as dysfunctional.  I used to say that in the midst of all that seemed chaotic and crazy was some truth.  I still believe that to be the case in situations whether it’s a mental health issue or just life in general.

When I operated in the role of investigative specialist, I could decipher coded language and decisive moves authored by my sister.  Her moves were often more challenging than a find the word search and her strength was in her genius which led me to the conclusion that the beauty of her game was the game.  Like one who rhythmically solves crossword puzzles, there was a euphoric energy that rose within me when I began to collect pieces of the puzzle that could level the playing field with my sister.  One irony of gaining some level of understanding was that we had a wicked, twisted connection that separated us from everyone else in the house.  I understood her in a way that nobody else in the house could because they were too emotionally driven or because it took too much energy and she knew it.  Her behaviors with most people reminded me of the two-year-old phase of resistance and pushback known to break the will of the exhausted adult being begging for compliance and acceptance of the boundaries.

As the youngest family member, I had time and the feisty, mouthy edge of the frustrated sibling to stay the course in the figurative chess match with my sister and she knew that too.  Most of the time she resented my consistency and the fact that I had learned to confront and often outsmart those voices that guided her behaviors.  As I reflect on some of the experiences with her, I realize she respected my game as much as I respected her game.  I am reminded of athletes and teams like my Crimson Tide football team and Peyton Manning speaking about upcoming matchups in a way that shows that they respect the competitor’s level of competence and mastery of the game.  Listening to the athletes talk about wanting to match up against the best sounded rather cliché to me until now.  I honestly think that at some level my sister enjoyed the game.  I believe it entertained her and satisfied her need for mental exercises.  The more I write about this the more fascinated I become about how simplistic such a complex journey with mental illness can be made to appear.  Is a master manipulator driven by the love of the game or by the end product?

Throughout my childhood, I believed her sole motivation was the deliverable.  I believed my sister enjoyed the fruits and deliverables of her game, but that foxy grin of hers and that memorable chuckle told a different story.  It is clear to me now that her motivation and satisfaction were rooted in playing the game itself and that she respected me because I took the time to compete and proved to be strong competitor.  I have often wondered why I received phone calls over the years from people delivering messages for me to call my sister.  The callers have said that she needed to speak to me, in particular.  Now, I am thankful that I took the time to keep writing about my family’s mental health journey because I have written myself into a tear filled warm moment of bonding with my sister.  I bet she thought I got it a long time ago because I continued to engage myself in her game and spend time decoding her riddles.  This exploration into our relationship has taken my attention from the noisy crowd and bright lights to a narrowed sightline that allowed me to focus on the special bond I have always had with my sister.  Knowing that the big sister I remembered before the break still loved me after the break makes life better.  As weird as it may sound, today I understand that my sister was communicating her love for me and her need to bond with me through some rather unprecedented methods of communication.  I guess it was better to figure out this relationship riddle after an almost forty year journey than to have never known how hard my sister worked to bond with me and show me that she loved me.  I dedicate this moment to my sister, with love.

When I made the decision to write the first blog post about my experiences dealing with mental illness, I thought that single blog post would be the alpha and the omega – my beginning and my end.  I also thought that I would be able to maintain my plan to post one new blog entry every Sunday morning.  Well, while writing about my family and mental health, I remembered the multi-faceted and multi-layered complex nature of mental illness.  That fact, along with the critical need of villagers in crisis, mandated more sharing of my story.  It dictated an urgent requirement to deliver help to an audience in need.  Writing about mental illness was helping me and the pinned up desire to help others pressed to be unleashed from my heart and my soul.  I aimed to enable myself and empower others to find a way to unravel the tangled web of emotions, events, and diagnoses that define mental illness.  Hence, that blog was my alpha and there will likely be many more before I write the omega.

I have read and reread my blog in an effort to decide just how many topics of discussion existed in the alpha post.  It was interesting to examine how I dealt with the varied topics related to my sister’s mental illness for many years, but how sharing the story with the world stirred up some old, quieted emotions.  Sharing, with my outside voice, made me cry, but not in a pitiful, sorrowful way.  I cried tears of remorse and compassion for my sister and other families of those with a mental health diagnosis who found themselves, like my family, hijacked by an unexpected assailant preying on the unarmed, the unprepared, and the often unevenly matched.  Mental illness swarms the innocent victims, families, friends, and loved ones without warning and steals their present moments of calm replacing them with extreme, undefinable and unimaginable chaos.  Mental illness forces the subjects to ponder their past and how their decisions and habits “caused” their present condition while planting seeds of fear of the future.  My experience was watching the instantaneous evaluation of not only my sister’s psyche, but also her social practices, her childhood behaviors, her history of injuries and/or trauma, her friendships, her career and educational pursuits, and her family.  In sorting out my sister’s illness and trying to help determine the how and the why, the family went through a strip search of a sort, individually and collectively.

Now as I look at this situation through more mature lenses, I see that the challenge was how to explore every aspect of my sister’s life without judgment, guilt, shame, regret, or abrupt adjustments that might cause the unit to derail.  The challenge was how to prevent isolation of the individuals and how to encourage open dialogue among people who were all in shock by the sudden onset of the break.  As a child in the midst of this type of chaos, I found myself often the most capable and clear voice.  That truth frustrated me for years, but now I believe it was our truth because my thoughts and understanding were not tainted by life experiences.  I didn’t know enough to be afraid of anything I heard about experiences of others or the possibilities presented by health care professionals.  I didn’t have the fear of failing my child if I made the wrong decision related to her care or the guilt or fear that something I said or did in the past “caused” the illness and therefore the break.  My thoughts were pure and solely based in my journey from the tremors to the quake.  There was something about not feeling responsible that made me the perfect authority to speak directly to that voice within her when I felt a tremor.  Surviving those hours in the house, as I held on for dear life, empowered me to stand up to the voices that now found residency in my house through her.  I was empowered to stand whenever those voices frightened my older family members or manipulated them with guilt or pain.

I know that my comments make me sound like a very strong and mature eleven-year-old kid.  I was mature for my age; however, the truth was some of my strength and need to speak emerged from a place of anger and resentment.  I was angry that my childhood was gone and that I had become like “Cinderella” (or at least that’s how I felt).  Instantly, I was tasked with ALL of the chores because any other option that included asking or demanding my sister perform a chore might “put too much pressure on her” and cause another break.  My parents dared not ask her to empty her ashtrays or wash her dirty dishes or take her shoes to her room or clean the tub after her baths and most certainly there would be no ask for her to help me cut the grass. This approach by my parents only fed my sister’s huge ego that thrived on attention and submission of others to her will.  As a result, she began to believe that I was born, not to assist, but to serve.  She figured out quickly that she could tattle on me and receive pity from Mama and Daddy to will the results she wanted.  To me she was a master puppeteer.  My husband once called her “a master chess player.”  These types of manipulative calls coupled with the empathetic responses by my parents motivated the “baby sister” to begin the process of sorting out the line that separated the mental illness symptoms from the innate personality traits of my sister.

It seemed that I was often the only one in the house who could exercise objectivity and clarity of thought where she was concerned.  Again, my innocence and the natural bend of the sibling rivalry made me perfect for the role.  I can remember my mother becoming especially aggravated with me for forcing some issues with my sister and not just “keeping peace.”  I remember once when Mama told me to clean up the den and I decided to deliver all of the dirty dishes left in the den by my sister as well as the ashtray filled to the brim with butts from the Virginia Slim Menthol’s she smoked to her bedroom dresser.  She plead with my mother to make me take the dishes to the kitchen and empty the ashtray.  I refused.  It seemed like a minor request to my mom, but it was my belief that she could have walked each item to kitchen every time walked to the kitchen to grab another treat or drink just as easily as I could have walked ALL of them there at one time.  I am not sure to this day who actually got those dirty dishes to the kitchen and I honestly cared less who emptied the ashtray since I was allergic to nicotine and cigarette smoke.  Although the health care providers were rarely speaking to me directly during my childhood, I listened as my parents recapped and debriefed after their sessions with therapists and social workers.  I heard them say that they had been advised to “set firm boundaries for her”, “give her responsibilities,” make her “accountable” for those responsibilities, for herself and her decisions.  Discussions about my resistance always included me reminding my parents about the advice of the professionals and of course it was my position that my juvenile and arguably rebellious behaviors supported those recommendations.

My personal experiences have shown that like a child in early stages of development, families at the birth of a mental health crisis are in the infancy of a developmental process with no foreseeable end date.  Each family member must trust the village of health professionals like the toddler trusting the grown ups guiding their first steps with outstretched arms.  I think the challenge for those learning to live with this new diagnosis is that the health professionals are strangers, not loving, familiar faces like those in the toddler analogy.  Thus, the unit, individually or collectively, resists the advice of those with more expertise in the field.  They sometimes begin a series of experimental efforts based in emotion, instinct, and sometimes religious practices that can hinder or interfere with the medical treatments and counseling already implemented.  In my opinion, every person or family in a mental health crisis needs the supervision of trained health care providers.  It is also my opinion that it is equally important for the family to have access to that health care team.  Within the family unit or non-medial support team, there must be at least one objective voice willing to be the project manager of what I will call “the tough love team.”  I was the project manager of the tough love team for my family starting at age eleven and I continued to serve in that capacity for the next three decades.  If you are that person for your family, you, like I, probably expect to be the target of your mentally ill family member’s rants and venting.  I hope that you will find, as I did, that the village will respect your role and your consistency.  Respect, in this context, feels more like a remarkably heavy load weighing down your body.  You will be surprised about the challenges of the co-dependency relationships that also form and add to the already heavy load.  It doesn’t feel as honorable or heroic as it sounds, but your role is valuable and necessary.  The village and the person battling the illness will call upon you to bring calm and order to the chaos more often than you can imagine or desire.  Be strong. Be consistent. Be informed. Take deep breaths often.  Have a short memory in the management of the rants and manic behaviors.  Forgive the targeted behaviors and manipulative actions while remaining objective in the decisions you will make aimed to keep your loved one healthy and safe.  Finally, I recommend that you build a good relationship with at least one mental health care provider who can support your efforts to support their plan of care for the person you are working so hard to help discover how to manage and master the illness.

Find people and practices to encourage yourself in this process of caring for and supporting your loved one.  Find positive, healthy ways to empower yourself to stay the course.  Surround yourself with folks who can enlighten you about how to support your loved one and how to maintain your own emotional, physical, and mental stability.  I lived in the shadows of my sister’s illness for most of my life.  My life as a SisterintheShadow of mental illness is no more and I pray that my decision to speak about my experiences with my outside voice will encourage, empower, and enlighten someone else in the shadows of a mental health challenge.

Since my book was published in September 2015, some people have read the introduction and asked when I would write more about growing up with a family member living with a mental illness.  I assured them that I would write about it at some point, but I needed to sort out how to do that in a respectful way.  While I recognized that my experiences had the potential to offer support and encouragement to other families and friends struggling to support someone in a mental health crisis, I hesitated to speak because my words had the power to portray my sister negatively.  Even though my experiences with her have frustrated me beyond belief at times and made me sob in the shower and cry out to God about my anger for being the one with the mission of being her first call, I did not want other people to judge her, be afraid of her, or call her “crazy.”  She did not choose this station in life and I don’t think anyone would choose to live a battle for mental stability every day.  It was a daily struggle for me so I know it must have been a daily battle for her too.

She was the middle child and I was her “baby sister.”  She was eleven years older than me and I trusted her with my innocence and my life.  And by life, I mean that I entrusted her to keep me safe, to guide my decisions, and set the example of the direction of my life.  To the world outside of my house, I appeared to be the spoiled baby of the family who lived a life of privilege.  I learned to resent my sister because her illness changed our family dynamic forever in December 1977 and very few people knew the impact that living that life had on the baby in the family.

My sister had her first break of many one evening in December 1977 just before Christmas break.  (In 1977, it was still called Christmas beak and not winter break.)  The morning began with the normal anticipation of the end-of-term holiday programming at school: my safety patrol was having a Christmas party in the lunchroom after school and Autaugaville Elementary School was having the annual Christmas program.  As usual, my parents, who worked at the school left money for my sister and me to pick up our dinner on our way to the program which was being held in a rural town about thirty miles from our house.  Although I awoke excited and the plan seemed to be set for a very festive day, something felt odd and weird to me.  As I walked out of my room and past my sister’s door, I realized her lights had seemingly been on the whole night and the same Natalie Cole album that I heard when I went on a middle-of-the-night bathroom trip was still playing.  That was odd and not her normal behavior.  I think that my young mind just thought she was being a strange, eccentric big sister.  It never occurred to me to tell my parents that her behavior had been a bit out of character over the three prior weeks too.  I am not certain why I never told anyone that my sister had become a predictor of future events.  For example, she told me that I would break my new watch and when I dropped it running to the car one morning and it broke she said, “See, I told you so.”  I did not recognize or understand the building of her psychotic break was rooted in paranoia also evidenced when she gave me “secret” advice not to drink the milk at school because people were trying to poison me to “get to her” because “they” knew how much she loved me.  Days later, she sternly directed me not to eat food at school because “they” were trying to kill me.  Without question and with the innocent and reliant trust of a “baby sister,” I obeyed and never told my parents.  Well, at least I didn’t tell until after the diagnosis of paranoid schizophrenia found a home at our address that late night in Decemeber 1977.

My sister and I never made it to the Christmas program because the break happened at our house.  We never ate dinner at all because the break happened.  Those hours alone in my house with my older sister, who I idolized and trusted with my life, brought fear, confusion, and anxiety riddled with mental and verbal pleas for help.  Living those moments with my sister ironically established a bond that linked me to her mental and emotional health for the rest of our lives.  I witnessed what felt like the aftermath of a natural disaster.  It began with subtle tremors and rose to the clamor and violent shaking of the fault line that served as a catalyst for the overwhelming tidal wave of a Tsunami.  Subsequently, she relied on me to deliver the love of a parent, the supportive prayers of the clergy, the comfort and care of first responders, and the feisty, resistance only present in a healthy sibling rivalry.  Instantly, my life changed.  Perception by those outside of my house did not match my reality.  I became the baby with an amazing responsibility to provide support and guidance for the family and be the informant the mental health providers needed to sort out the complexities of my sister’s new diagnosis.

In writing this blog post, I realize there is so much more to tell.  The brain is such a complex and intricately designed organ and my sister was and is a complex human.  She was and remains a funny person who could have worked as a stand up comic.  She was so smart that she could have been a successful doctor.  She was so artistic that she made clothes, painted portraits, and offered up her singing voice to all who would listen.  She was such an extrovert that she convinced disc jockey’s to give her shout out’s almost daily on the local radio station.  Yet, she had the ability to escape to an isolated place where she could use her college course curricula and other readings to try to understand the voices that lived within her and she never divulged her scientific, self-study to us until after the break.  Unfortunately, her mental illness operated like a magician melding her positive attributes, character traits and known talents with her insecurities, resentments, and short comings producing a magical potion that engulfed her every fiber presenting her to me as an emotionally challenged person who faced social, medical, financial, and relational problems the rest of her life.  My family and others worked as often as she would allow us to find the place where she felt peace and control of her world.

While my post is not a complete story, I hope that it addresses what my eleven-year-old self experienced:  loneliness, pain, and hopelessness.  Shortly after the break, my mother told me that I should write about what I was feeling if I couldn’t talk about it.  At that time, there was no discussion about counseling for children.  It wasn’t popular or recommended, as I recall.  I began journaling because of mental illness and it seems that I will continue to journal because of it.  Writing has always been a good thing for me – my catharsis and my quiet place. If you or someone you know survived an encounter with mental illness, I hope that my post will help you believe what I found to be true in life with my sister:  There is a nugget of truth and goodness even in the situations that looked really crazy to me.  I hope that my decision to use my outside voice on this subject will encourage, empower, and enlighten others.

As I consider spending part of spring break traveling with my grown children, I had reflections of times when I prepared for travel with them when they were young children.  Traveling with young children often proved to be quite the adventure.  And when the person in charge of packing the family for the trips was me, a self-diagnosed type A person with an obsessive compulsive disorder, there were certainly added stressors related to planning the details of the trip coupled with my attempts to prepare for every possible situation.  The “what if’s” consumed my thoughts and directed the packing for myself and the rest of the travel party.  In my opinion, my relationship with the “what if’s,” made me the better travel coordinator of the adults in the house.

The young ones needed so much gear – the stroller, the diapers, the medication, the wipes, the clothes, the toys, treats, food, and of course a book.  I don’t recall receiving much adult input about the packing when the kids were babies.  However, as they got older, the voices of guidance about the process of planning and packing got louder: “Are you sure we will need that?” and “Why so many changes of clothes in the carry on for such a short flight?” and “They are old enough to help with that.”  It’s a good thing that thought bubbles are invisible because mine read, “Yada, yada, yada.  I got this already!”

One time we were traveling with our kids and the reason for the change of clothes became apparent.  The other grown up on the trip decided that it was not necessary for him to have a change of clothes in the carry on bag so I followed instructions and took his change of clothing our of the carry on bag and I packed it in the suitcase we planned to check.  During a layover at an airport, the only person without a change of clothes took the baby for a diaper change. This person who does not believe in buying novelty items at high prices in airports came back to the waiting area shaking his head, modeling a t-shirt with the smiling face of a popular mouse from a theme park in Florida.  If I hadn’t been laughing so hard, I probably would have said, “I told you so.”  I must admit that I did enjoy the teaching moment.

At about age three, I started inviting my children to collect the things they wanted to take with them for a stay away from home.  Then, we would sort through the often large collection of valuables to get to the most special possessions that would make the packing list.  When they were five or six years old, I would give them the kid friendly suitcase and instruct them to pack the bag for the trip.  We would discuss where we were going, the length of the stay,  the weather during our stay, and the kinds of things we would be doing while were were away from home.  After the kids announced that they were finished packing, I would return to their rooms to inspect the bags and make recommendations.

Once, my son proudly announced that he was all packed and ready for travel.  I knew that he was done because his suitcase was zipped closed and standing near the door of his bedroom ready to be carried to the car.  With an outward display of excitement and an internal nervous anticipation, I unzipped the bag.   Upon inspection, I found the usual suspects – the favorite toys, the favorite shoes, the favorite shirt, and the favorite book.  It became obvious that his packing list did not include things I believed important for overnight stays away from home like underwear, socks, changes of clothes for each day of the trip, a hair brush, toothpaste and a tooth brush.

I think that I sometimes forgot that every moment around young people had the opportunity to be a teaching moment.  My children were learning about packing and preparing for travel by living through each travel experience with me, their type A mama.  My kids are now skilled travelers who can roll items and then pack lightly and efficiently.  With all of the teaching and excellent instruction given to my kids, my bag is likely to be the most difficult to zip and the heaviest.  Unfortunately for me, the lessons I lived out in front of them also conditioned them to expect that they could travel lighter when they travel with me because I would have the “what if’s” for me and for them covered.