i am from…

I am from the backseat of endless drives down interstates to the tune of “Strawberry Fields Forever” playing on the 8-track, rest stops and picking up hitchhikers in “Clyde” – the old Chevy van we’d helped to paint camoflauged, who “ran on dinosaur blood”. I’m from camping out with my sister and brothers in the back of “Bonnie”, the winged station wagon who carried us from Mississippi to the great NW, in search of something more. I am from canned mackerel on plain bread sandwiches passed back, which tasted so good to hungry children.

I’m from knowing that we’d always be moving soon and not thinking about it much, except that I hated new schools. I am from miles of wide open road, wondering over how the moon traveled with us always, and how the dew glistened on the spiders’ webs in the sparkling morning light as I stepped outside of our wet little tent, eager to discover what adventures awaited me… reminding my Mother of Alice in Wonderland, from freezing one snowy winter night spent on the lip of the Grand Canyon, forgetting myself as I took in the awesome morning sight…

I’m from feeling aloofly at home as I sat down to breakfast in the woods of Oregon, or dinner at our big rental house in mountainous Washington, with the wooden floors and hidden closets… the house where my Mom told me about boys, and I read The Chronicles of Narnia for the first time, in a week, wishing that I could escape to another world too…

I am from inside the walls of the rose bushes, where my sister and I stuck crayon pieces on all of the thorns to protect ourselves, and pretended to “keep house”, “operate” on stuffed animals and “have school”, forbidding our brothers’ entrance, lest they join the club and do as we said.

I’m from the warm sunshine in the apricots and hiding in the apple orchards, with their rows of trees and discoveries that never ended… where we children ran wild and free while parents worked endless hours high up on ladders, picking fruit for a living, oblivious of our make believe world and innocence lost. I’m from watching the Indian lady doing her bead work, fascinated by her dark beauty.

I’m from stained fingers, picking blackberries with my Mother, for a delicious cobbler cooked in cast iron, over an open fire… from learning to enjoy the solitude and privacy of leaving all of my troubles behind… Anonymity was my warm blanket… never knowing what scenery to expect next, taking each day without expectations… but hoping to stay sometimes.

I am from sitting around the fire at dusk, listening to Dad jamming on his guitar, seeing him hopping around to the happy tune he played on his harmonica, shyly watching all of the new, yet strangely familiar faces, amused by the hackey-sack circle, dancing with the children, but secretly wishing that my eyes were painted like the older girls’.

I’m from drawing fairy tales for hours, a dragon larger than myself painted on the cabin wall, eager to hear my Dad’s accolades. I’m from hours of reading and creative restlessness, from William Lee II, a vagabond known to his friends as “Hippie Bill” and from his ever faithful bride, gentle Mary Katherine.

I am from a Mother whose family had a strong Christian faith, loved by her war veteran patriot Father, a strong, tall man who would never leave, and who stands quietly beside his wife still, after 60 yrs. -she- his childhood sweetheart. They spent a lifetime planting and harvesting together, teaching others to do the same, hoping endlessly for their daughters’ futures, and now for their grand and great-grand childrens’.

I’m from my Mother’s long, white fingers walking me down a path alone, her thoughts distant… as she sketches pictures of her children huddled under the roots of a giant tree, and recites stories of princesses in castles… hoping for her own prince’s soon return. I’m from Grandparents up late at night, ready to receive us with open arms, expectant eyes, providing new toys, Raggedy Ann with a heart, lacey dresses, t.v., fancy nightgowns, and fresh sheets, fish frys with cousins to visit, and lives to wish for.

I am from a Father whose family worked hard for everything they have, his Father marrying his Mother to make honorable his arrival and striking it rich as an engineer because that sign-up line was the shortest at college. I’m from a Father who spent his life trying to appease the guilt of not living up to felt expectations, a Father who loved much, but ran from more. I’m from his lifetime searching for truth… from his wrestling with every bit he ever found… I am from his abrupt departure from this world… and from clinging desperately to the smell and feel of him, to the hope that he knew the Truth at the end…

I’m from “can’t never could” and “Children should be seen and not heard…”, from hearing “What’d you learn today?” when I got home from school and my Dad pouring suspiciously over my textbooks, eager to right all of the monotonous “brainwashing”. From Pink Floyd, Bob Dylan, Led Zeppelin’s Stairway to Heaven and “Why don’t you skip school today?” and “You can stay up and join us if you be quiet and listen, and you might learn something too.”

I am from a Mother’s songs of faith sung over me as I tread into slumber… a woman whose voice was the one constant in my world, wrapping me in blankets of peace. I am from her stories, her dreams… filling me with hope, promises of a future planned for me by a Heavenly Father who had no beginning, and has no end, He Who has always been and sees even me… I am from trusting that He IS, and dreaming of growing up to be a wife and a mother.

I am from going to church with my Grandparents, and falling asleep on my Papaw’s arm, from Grandma sending me to VBS Southern Baptist style – she even put my hair up in ponytails with fancy ribbons. I’m from slipping into church together with my parents only a few times, before Dad gave up, proclaiming that “they all put me in a box because of how I look with my long hair”… only to realize that he put them in a box too.

I am from confusion… hearing the preacher man that came to our house to talk with my Dad… Why wouldn’t Dad listen to him? I’m from wanting to go to church, but wanting to honor my Father’s wishes that I would not… my Father who claimed to love the Lord and be a Christian, but twisted the Scriptures to justify his drinking and drugs in the same breath… when I asked. I am from discontentment, and wanting to get away, but sorry when he left… which was often.

I’m from Okies and Southern Belles, beans for dinner again and peanut shells on the floor, the big jug of red, red wine (remember that song?) with rationed *green* brownies and Grandma’s homemade ice-cream and famous comfort food; home-made biscuits and tomatoe gravy with bacon.

From the Mississippi family that grew all of their food and built their own home, from little Mary Katherine who was teased by her uncles and spent days alone in her room until her parents worried over her… who loved to pray to Jesus, and soon grew up and gave her innocent, trusting heart to William Jr. only weeks after they’d met. He’d certainly swept her off her feet, with his dreams of the future, Father’s business and private jet. After marrying they moved right into communal living in a “Jesus house”… the beginning of promises unkept… Dad rushing dutifully to serve and support everyone else, forsaking us, those to whom he owed his life… his allegiance.

I am from a wounded family whose precious memories are stored mostly in our hearts alone, from a long line of artists and dreamers held up by their pragmatic counterparts. I’m from my Dad’s telling me to “Look real hard at what you see… Now close your eyes, and take a picture, so that you can remember this, and see it later.” I am from wishing that we had more photographs to help me retrieve so many lost memories, forgotten places and moments, buried treasures and a childhood mostly forgotten. I’m from siblings scrambling over a couple shoe boxes worth of pictures triumphantly discovered at Grandma’s that document all 5 of ours childhoods, bargaining over who gets which ones…

I’m from a childhood memorialized by the trinkets left us when our Dad departed, meager portions from his hitchhiking traveling adventures… from years wasted in confusion and anger afterwards, from forgetting the songs that had been planted in my heart… from sinking down to the depths of despair -yes, my middle name is Ann(e) *lol*- for years… from which I looked up… and remembered that He IS. I’m from the prayers and efforts of others… from finding the hope of NEW LIFE in a Book… His Word… from meeting a Father who will never leave us.

I am from Redemption… ashes turned to beauty, from Restoration and all things made new… from Deliverance, freed from controlling addictions, from His putting into me what I cannot give myself, Forgiveness. I’m from His mending all of the broken places… one by one, year by year. I’m from His Promises for a hope and a future Fulfilled, from my prince, my knight in shining armor showing up at just the right time and taking me to build a castle for our own children.

I’m from running and hiding under the table at the sound of thunder, only to realize that He resides in the midst of the storm, and that His Mercy Seat is my covering. I’m from realizing that I’m now the vagabond, on a pilgrimage still ~ adventuring to another world afterall, the Celestial City of Zion.

I’ve been meaning to do this for some time.

me & my lil sis… so long ago~