Dancing In Thanks

Giving thanks is not always as easy as it sounds especially for those who are suffering a terrible illness or facing difficult circumstances. Perhaps they've lost their jobs or even the roof over their heads. Others may be struggling just to put food on the table. Surprisingly, these are the ones who are fervent in their thanks and gratitude.

I was thinking about this as I was stuffing my face with turkey, and all the other traditional side dishes. It was easy for me to say a prayer of thanks for all my blessings. I was surrounded by loving friends and I was blessed again when my extended family including my son and his wife joined us for left-overs. Our dining room table was filled with love, laughter and perfect harmony.

There were also memories of those I  lost who were no longer physically sitting at my dinner table. But, I can still see their smiles; feel their spirit and remember all the prayers they said for me and my family. I believe they still are. After all, they've got Higher Connections now.

There's always an extra chair. It remained empty but I never stop praying that one day she will surprise us all with her beautiful smile and loving heart and say, "I'm back."  No matter where I am or what I'm doing I always miss her.

I'm in constant prayer for her and realize I'm asking for a miracle.I'm sure God has answered me over and over again and I refuse to listen to what He's telling me. For some reason He's telling me "NO. It's not the right time." But when? I ask with a desperation that threatens my faith.

Maybe it's the Italian in me and my stubborn traits come out. I'm just not willing to hear the music when things aren't going the way I want them.

I think this may be true for all of us. We get discouraged and even angry in not getting our prayers anwered immediately. We're not used to waiting for anything. We live in a society that doesn't even like to wait in line or wait for our dinner to arrive after a certain amount of time. I believe a very impatient person must have invented the microwave.

Maybe I've lost the KEY: To hear the music and listen to the song down deep in my heart and Hear ONLY His Voice. I suppose many would call this blind faith. A strong belief that no matter how things appear at the moment things will get better and work for our highest good. Believe and ye shall receive. My mother always said to give thanks BEFORE a prayer was answered. And she was so confident and so grateful even before it actually came to pass. She never felt discouraged and remained faithful. Her heart was filled with music and she heard a never ending supply of music only she could hear. I  vow to never stop searching for it; listening for it.

I understand that Giving Thanks isn't reserved for one day and instead of viewing all the things that I don't have or what's missing in my life I will focus on what is right in front of me. Yes, I give thanks for everything and everyone in my life. I'm humbled by all that He has given me. I marvel at the prayers He has answered and duck my head in shame when I hear my negative thoughts.

I believe that every person who has crossed my path has been placed there for a reason. And there must also be a reason for those who aren't beside me at this moment in time. I trust Him. He knows things I can't possibly understand.

So the next time you see me dancing, I'm trying to listen to the music that's buried in my heart; the one that likes to play hide and seek on me. I'm trying to listen to His Voice; His Will, nstead of my own.

Join me next time and if you can hear His music, we'll dance the gift of Thanks and Promise together.

ANGEL IN-LAW

In-laws have been the brunt of comical jokes; a source for songwriters and an easy target for movies like "Monster-In-Law.  Portrayed by Jane Fonda, she  gave the audience a vivid picture of someone who was unbearable and manipulative.

I've heard horror stories from friends and family members whose own mothers-in-law subjected them to ridicule and open hostility. I adore my mother-in-law. My special name for her is, Granny Mom.

Long before I fell in love with my husband, Dave, I fell in love with her first. I thought if he had only half of her many qualities, he'd be perfect. Of course, back then, I didn't realize he'd also have half of his father's characteristics. (Just kidding).

I've learned a lot from this genteel soft-spoken Southern lady. She never says anything unkind and has taught me tolerance and commitment. Her mantra has been: "I may not always like my husband, but I will always be in-love with him."  She is the personification of a devoted wife and mother; self-sacrificing and unselfish and placing everyone else's needs above her own. 

She can discuss sensitive topics with intelligence and tact. Even at 89 years old, she has an open mind and a desire to learn as much as she can. Her mind is as sharp as a tack; her heart still tender and though her body is now frail and weak, she finds strength to carry her husband's coffee to him every morning on a tray.

Because of her, our dinner table is filled with animated conversation and sometimes heated debates. You would love to be a fly on the wall, hearing her and her son going back and forth. She is a strong Democrat and my husband listens to Rush. Need I say more?

She has been such a comfort to me;  tolerant of my faults and sincerely loving me in spite of them. Without fail, she is gracious and compassionate and always makes me feel appreciated.

The truth is, whatever I've given her, she has given it back ten-fold. I've been blessed in having this beautiful soul in my life. 

I don't know many people who can claim to have an Angel-In-Law.

UNTIL WE MEET AGAIN......

When my Nanna died of cancer in October of 1977 I had too much on my plate to deal with losing one of the most influential people in my life. Though the pain was staring at me like a plate full of disgusting Brussel sprouts, rather than eating it and digesting it, I shoved it all around my plate and separated it in a little compartment. I locked it up. I covered it without giving myself the time to heal by placing a napkin over it. Like Scarlett,

My Nanna on the far left with my Momma and my son David as an infant.

"I would think about it tomorrow". I would cry my eyes out tomorrow.

Tomorrow never came and I robbed my Nanna of something she deserved: My undivided heart. I was numb and I moved on with my life like a robot because the grand-daughter she loved more than life was too self-absorbed in her own personal problems; a pregnancy; a pending divorce; a custody battle and a search for a job without a penny to my name, not to mention having to buy a car.

On the day of my Nanna's funeral, I wasn't allowed the dignity of mourning her passing. A process server found me by her gravesite and handed me my divorce papers. But that was no excuse. How self-centered of me! She deserved more from me and it's past time for me to make amends. I have no doubt that she forgave me.  I'm the one who never forgave myself.

I've been told that I take after her. I hope so. Maybe there is something to be said about that old gene pool. She was always ready to go anywhere at any time in a moment's notice. Despite the generation gap, she was the one who went with me to the USF campus to hear Mark Lane speak about his book and the assassination of JFK. My Nanna is the one who marched with me through downtown Tampa in protest of what happened at Kent State.

This woman had no fear; no reservations in speaking her mind and more importantly in following her heart. She enlightened my definition of truth because it isn't always absolute. She didn't follow; she liked to lead. She wasn't a Democrat or a Republican; she voted for the man she felt would make a great leader; one who would be strong enough to carry through on promises that were made and one who would fight to preserve peace. If she was alive today, who would she vote for?  I would venture to guess that she wouldn't vote for either candidate. She would have probably initiated her own campaign, organized a different party and would have promoted a new voice in government. And she would have won. Yes, she was that powerful and yes, I'm exaggerating.

She didn't particularly like to cook but loved to entertain and could set a table fit for a king as long as it was understood that she was the queen that reined. She loved to travel and attended the opera and plays on Broadway; She could discuss politics and make a politician break out in a sweat with her brilliant mind and sharp wit. I witnessed it myself. Her free time wasn't wasted on trivia. She read all the literary classics. Once I saw her take an encyclopedia and read it from cover to cover. She taught herself how to read, write, and speak French, Italian and Spanish. She spoke English as if she were born in America without a trace of an Italian accent.

If I have an ounce of courage or any small measure of her intelligence I consider it a direct blessing from her. If I am an avid reader it's because of her. If I write anything at all, it's because of her encouragement and her faith in me and my ability. Her unconditional love definitely overrated me and my talents. I lack her ambition and her perseverance. I am neither a leader or a follower. I am disorganized and rather scattered where she was neat, organized and highly motivated. Taking action was her mantra.

But, I do have her passion for life; her quest to seek justice and truth by listening to both sides of an argument and to keep an open mind.  No matter how old I am, I still have a desire to learn new things and explore different avenues. What would I have done without this amazing woman who helped my mother raise me? Yes, we are a dramatic lot, us Italians and in our case slightly dysfunctional. But, we knew how to love and laugh and even fight without losing respect for each other. She got so mad at me once, she cut up my Indian moccasins with a pair of scissors. But, the next day, with tears rolling down her face, she patched them together again. Would you believe those shoes became even more special to me? I wore them with pride and a little humor accompanied each and every step I took. How many shoes have a story to tell? That would be an interesting avenue to take. Maybe on another blog.

So, this is for You, my beautiful Nanna - a dedication long over-due. My anguish and guilt; my tears of pain have been replaced with tears of joy and gratitude for having you in my life. I remember your words of wisdom and can hear the sound of your laughter. I can still see the twinkle in your eyes as well as the love behind them. That's a blessing in itself. What I've written today is embedded in my soul; it will travel beyond to other dimensions so that you can feel my love, devotion and respect.  I LOVE YOU NANNA with every beat of my heart. Until We Meet Again...

HOW WOULD YOU PAINT YOUR MOTHER?

Despite my longtime love affair with words we’re now having a tug of war.  I am seriously considering a divorce.  Yes, my mother was patient, understanding, and loving.  But, those don’t adequately describe all and who she was. The words sound flat even to my own ears and don’t touch any part of my soul.  She deserves better than that.

 My memories of her are as vivid as the colors on a palette.  Oh, If only I were an artist.  But, I’ve been told I’m lethal with a brush.  I get paint in my hair and in-between my toes.  Worse, I go outside the lines.  I blame everything on my “free spirit”.
  

Determined, I envision a blank canvas.  I close my eyes and see an explosion of colors. That’s what my momma was, spontaneous and electric.  My fingers twitch as I see splashes of reds and burnt oranges across a magnificent blue sky.  It mirrors her bold and beautiful spirit. Her gift in understanding people made her appear more streetwise than what she was and it hid her innocence and vulnerability.

  I’ve sheathed her frame in a shimmering light green for her ability to put herself in other people’s shoes and having a compassionate and forgiving heart.   Her presence offered tranquility and peace; Courage and strength.  I feather a touch of gold to her aura for her unwavering faith.  The sun glows on her raven hair, softening her features. Her eyes the color of a midnight sky sparkle with intelligence and humor.  

 My excitement builds as I discover the textures and the layers that compose her identity and her true essence.   She looked like a goddess, but had physical flaws and human imperfections.  There’s a beauty mark on her chin and eye teeth that were never straightened.  The swirl of her sarcastic tongue could slice the air once her Italian temper flared.  But no matter what I may have done to cause her anger, she was quick to offer me a kiss of forgiveness to replace it.  Her devotion and her desire to protect made it difficult for me to explore independence until my rebellion in my early twenties.   Her fear of my getting hurt compounded my own insecurities until I was able to recognize and feel comfortable with who I was and who I wanted to be.   Ironically, I raised both my children the same way.  I suppose in the end, I trusted her judgment more than my own which says a lot about her influence on my life. Good, bad, or indifferent, her heart and her motives were always in the right place. She could dance around most with her wit and charm, but truth and integrity molded her life.  Her daily challenges were given to God and she embraced Him with humble gratitude for the blessings in her life.

Throughout her journey, stars were always in her eyes, but there was also a touch of sadness in them too.  The songs she wrote remained hidden in a dusty closet never to be heard; there were words unspoken of dreams that were never fulfilled and loves that were lost.  Yet, there was always laughter in her humble home.  My children and I could tell you quite a few stories but two will have to suffice.

My mother did not mix well in a kitchen although when she was in the right mood she loved baking cakes.  But, no matter what kind of a cake she made, they all tasted the same in the end. She solved the issue by using food coloring.  She called them her rainbow cakes.   

Although she was blessed in having many friends, she created one of her own and when she’d visit, she’d tell us stories about what Sarafina did that day. She’d roar with laughter and if anyone else would have heard her they would have insisted she be put away.  Being a little off-center myself and guilty of creating my own characters, I thought her to be quite normal if not a little eccentric.

She didn’t want me to worry about her in her later years; she insisted she was happy and content, though I felt she deserved so much more.   I wish I had the power to go back and change some things and my heart cries out, “I didn’t have a magic brush. “ 

Now, as I add the final touches to her painting, I feel compelled to sprinkle it with Angel dust.  My tears involuntarily spill on her canvas because I still miss her so much. I watch transfixed as my tears merge and melt on a mouth that suddenly explodes into a megawatt smile.  She offers me a sly wink, shakes her shoulders and flutters her new found wings.  She turns her head and blows me a kiss before flying away.  In the distance, her sweet voice echoes my name:  “Jeanette…Jeanette, I’m Home.”