This bracelet came up on a news feed of mine. I studied it. Not the bracelet, but the words. I’ve probably studied over it more than some people would study for a test. Well, not so much study, but ponder. The words are powerful. The words imply strength and courage and all the other positive feelings that are conjured up in these seven little words.
When I first saw these words I thought about the women in my life that intentionally took on a challenge. Chris Mac decided she wanted to have a healthier lifestyle and took on the challenge of losing weight the old fashioned way – by eating healthy and exercising. Hannah has taken on the challenge of going back to college to become an RN after having a child. Brenda G later in life chose to adopt three children that needed her. Amy made the decision to not only tell her adoption story, but posted it for all the world to read. To these women and others like you, I humbly acknowledge your courage.
Then there’s the rest of us – no less important, but our challenges more or less got dumped into our laps. We didn’t ask for them. We weren’t looking for them, but they happened just the same. Cynthia discovered she had breast cancer. Angela and Laura G found themselves in destructive marriages. Many of us were given widowhood. My Aunt Lois and cousins Pat and Tina face each day with the deterioration of their husband/father from Alzheimers disease. Heather battles the fear that comes with having a child with severe food allergies. Then there’s the many single moms I know that get up each morning to fill the shoes of both mother and father. My own sister Terri is synonymous with courage, tenacity, and strength (although sometimes she doesn’t see it).
So I go back to the words: She believed she could, so she did.
In all honesty, there were times when I didn’t know if I could overcome the loss of my husband and the avalanche of aftershocks that came with it. I feel sure that each person I have mentioned and all of the ones in this video have had the same feeling at one time or another in the challenges that have faced them. That doubt, that defeating feeling, that nagging in the back of your mind that says it’s too hard, it’s too much to bear. We fall. We cry. We doubt.
But herein lies the difference: We fell but we didn’t stay down, we wiped our bloodied knees and got back up. We cried, but we wiped our tears away and pushed forward. We doubted, but it didn’t consume us. We overcame. And that’s what I celebrate today.
So this is for you ladies: The women that inspire me, encourage me, and lift me up.
For the first twelve years of my life my mother was a housewife. That’s what they were called in the 1960’s. Today, we would refer to her as homemaker or a stay at home mom, but back then, it was housewife.
I give my mother credit for the love I have for a neat and tidy home. Keeping a clean home was important to her, and as children; we were given household jobs to contribute to the maintaining of a clean and orderly home.
My mother had the good fortune of having a dear friend Shirley that lived across the street. After her morning chores were done, my mother would put my brother John in a fresh diaper, grab her cigarettes, and head over to Shirley’s house for a time of talking, coffee drinking, smoking, and adult company.
Shirley had a daughter Lee Ann that was John’s age, which worked out great for the moms. All my life, I have chased after the hopes that one day, I could have a friend, neighbor, that I could duplicate that relationship that Shirley and my mother had.
I was around nine years old at the time and I loved to accompany my mom and my brother to Shirley’s house. I would play “teacher”, reading to the younger ones, drawing on the chalkboard, or coloring with them; basically being their boss.
Perhaps a year down the road, Shirley gave birth to a son. I remember the first time (possibly the last time) I was given permission to hold him. Of course I had to sit squarely on the sofa, getting instructions from my mother, “support his head”, “keep him covered up”, all the things nervous adults tell children.
For the first few minutes Billy peacefully laid there in my arms while I soaked in his sweet baby smells, touching his soft newborn hands, and stroking his downy soft hair. He then began to squirm, and shortly after, he began to cry. I looked squarely into his eyes and without any regard to my surroundings, in the company of my mother and Shirley, and said, “Quit crying you son-of-a-bitch!” In my defense, I had NO idea what a bitch was, let alone a son-of-a-bitch. I just knew that I had heard my daddy say it PLENTY of times out of frustration for one thing or another. My mother reeled in mortified disbelief and shock while Shirley grabbed her innocent son from my cradled arms. My mom in a desperate attempt to save some sort of face said, “Cathy Rhea, where have you heard that kind of talk?” To my mother’s embarrassment, I calmly replied, “Daddy says it all the time.”
Needless to say, I learned quickly that was not an acceptable thing to call a babe in arms.
I get a laugh when I think of this story, but keep in mind, my Daddy has always said that I would laugh at a funeral. I’ve always taken that as a compliment, because to me it shows that I look for the humor in life.
What is life without a few embarrassing moments, without a few experiences you would like to sweep under the carpet? I choose to hold on to those moments if for no other reason but to keep my humility in check.
Wayne and Trish Wolfenbarger (along with their three doppelgänger children, Ashley, Brooke, and Gunnar), came into our lives in the late 1990’s. There was only one condo that separated our large families (apologies to Mr. & Mrs Casey.) Michael and I were still practically newlyweds and adjusting to our blended family when our families were introduced.
I remember when they moved in. Truck after truck, load after load kept being delivered and unloaded. I watched with curiosity. Just how many people and just how much stuff can fit and live in this small three bedroom condominium?
Michael, being the social butterfly that he was, just had to make a beeline over to meet the new neighbors while all of the unloading and unpacking was taking place. I, on the other hand, wanted to leave them in peace and allow them to move in, get settled, and perhaps one day, get acquainted. But that was always a difference between Michael and I. He was more “in your face” – I was more.. well, not. And in true Michael fashion, everyone seemed to appreciate his approach.
I am proud to say that Wayne & Trish and three of the most adorable children you ever laid your eyes on became our dear friends. Our children became fast friends. Our homes became hubs to children going in and out, laughing, screaming, seemingly always hungry for snacks. There was always a child spending the night with another child. It was busy, it was chaotic, but looking back, I wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.
Ashley, Brooke, and Hannah (Grigsby) performing the Macarena. The parents were constantly being treated to performances)
If you don’t mind, stop and listen to this song. I believe with all of my heart if Wayne ever had a song for his loving wife Trish, it would be this song.
Let me tell you about this amazing couple. When I met them, honestly I can’t tell you how long they had been married. At that point in time when we first met, they had already fused together as one. I don’t mean that didn’t have separate personalities, they did – clearly, they did. Wayne was soft spoken. His style was slow, it was easy, it was well thought out. And Trish, well, Trish was more like me. She felt things stronger, more powerful, and in truth (for both of us), more exaggerated. But they conducted themselves as one unit. They ebbed, they flowed. One didn’t make a move without the other. And oh, how they loved one another! I can close my eyes and remember the many, many times I caught them gazing into each other’s eyes – the love, the devotion, the respect, and the commitment was clearly evident. Theirs was a love to pattern a relationship over.
And one more thing, all of “that stuff” that went into that small condominium – well, Trish turned it into a home for their family. Everywhere you looked, it was home. It was comfortable, it was lived in. She loved Americana, and those touches she added to their home made it more special than any professional decorator could’ve done.
We spent several years in that community. We watched our children mature. We experienced great times, and we endured troubling times. But through it all, we managed to raise up some really great kids and still have strong marriages to show for it.
I can’t recall now if Michael and I moved away first or if Wayne and Trish moved away first, but in the end, each family went their own way. We got busy, we lost touch.
You all know that Michael unexpectedly took his life in 2009. Not long after that (through Facebook) I was reacquainted with Trish and her children. We swapped stories, we caught up, promising to visit soon. Time has a way of getting away from us. We have good intentions, really we do. It seems the next thing I know I hear that Wayne is sick – with cancer.
Personally, of all the words in the dictionary, I hate the “C” word almost as much as any other word I know. And when I heard how serious this monster had attacked Wayne’s body, it made me sick. Although no one “deserves” to have cancer, no one “deserved” it less than Wayne. By the time I got over to the Wolfenbarger’s house to bring a meal, I had waited too late to see Wayne. He was too sick for visitors. However, I did get to visit Trish and her amazing children. They were just as I had remembered (although the children were grown adults now). They were the family Musketeers – all for one, and one for all. This family has never wavered in their devotion to one another.
One year ago tomorrow will be the first anniversary of Wayne Wolfenbarger’s passage into heaven. I have in some ways dreaded this for Trish and her family as it will conjure up the memories of the loss of this wonderful man. Quite frankly, these kind of anniversaries suck – I can’t think of a more poignant way of expressing it.
But what I hope, and what I pray, is that this anniversary will highlight for this family all the love, and all the warmth, and all the special times that Wayne brought to this world and our lives. He loved his wife beyond measure, he treasured his children beyond compare. What greater legacy could a man leave behind? Nothing… nothing.
Wayne Wolfenbarger you are a man to be remembered. A man to be respected, and a man that we will never forget.
Years ago… many years ago, I found myself starting over in my life. It wasn’t the first time, and unfortunately, would not be my last time. I was fresh out of a broken marriage. The decision to end my sad, oppressed marriage was not an easy one. It took me two years to gather enough belief in myself that I could make it on my own. But when I finally did find the courage, it was like a rebirth.
I found myself raising my three children in the tiniest of a rental house that consisted of two small bedrooms and one bathroom. The house was constructed in the mid 1940’s. It had charm. The covered front porch was perfect. All it lacked was a porch swing and you would be taken back to days gone by of lazy Sunday afternoons, sipping lemonade, and watching the neighbors drive by. The screen door still had the time stamped “B” (for Beeler) in the center of it. There was a large picture window in the living room that hosted as a frame to the beautiful mature trees outside. But along with that charm also came some drawbacks. The lack of electrical outlets, the little boxes they called closets, and the spookiest dirt basement you could imagine. But it was home, right from the beginning.
Our Freedom Home (1994)
I left my marriage with very few belongings. Not because they were refused to me, but I wanted a fresh start. Money was tight, very tight. But thanks to easy payment plans, I purchased a new (and very inexpensive) bedroom suit and a dining room table. Back in the day, painted hunter green furniture was quite the rage, and that is exactly what I purchased for both rooms. My oldest daughter, Heather, was with me when I picked out the dining room table, and no two people could have been more excited over a table and four chairs than we were. She was in her late teens, and wise beyond her years. Heather named our table, “The Freedom Table.” Eventually, our tiniest of a house became our “Freedom House.” We could breathe again. We could leave every light on in the house and no one would have harsh words (and we did, on purpose I might add). My children once again could feel the luxury of not being judged, or worse, ignored. That table, that house, represented our independence, our resurfacing into the world.
With the inspired energy that comes from renewed strength, I set out to turn that little house into a home for me and my children. My artist friend Denae taught me how to stencil with paints. I personalized the kitchen with stenciled chili peppers. Stenciled ivy crept along the walls in the living room. When you walked into Heather and Robin’s bedroom, you were greeted with an array of stenciled sunflowers as a border in their tiny room. As you can see by the photo above, I painted the outside shutters carnation pink.
Our chili pepper kitchen
The door you see goes into that scary basement!
That’s Shane “hiding” in the corner
That was early spring of 1994. My heart sang. My joy overwhelmed me. I discovered simple pleasures again; getting my hands dirty in the soil of newly planted flowers, dancing in the kitchen with my daughters, watching my son climb his first tree.
One particular joy that I encountered was going to our local Farmer’s Market every Saturday. My son Shane would generally be with his father, my daughter Robin (Miss Independence) would be doing, well, God knows what, so that would leave Heather. She was always as thrilled as I was to get that early start and see what the market had to offer that day. We loved the fresh air, we loved the time together, and we oh so loved the slow pace. Our Farmer’s Market not only had the finest of fresh fruits and vegetables, but also local artisans would be showing their wares. There was an eatery that served pinto beans and cornbread.
Heather and I found ourselves in the familiar pattern of checking out the arts and crafts first, always inspired, but sadly, money was rationed too tightly for such extravagance. Next, on to the fruits and vegetables where we carefully picked what would be cooked and served to the family. We would work our way around throughout the market where the potted plants were sold. The allure of the flats of petunias, begonias, and marigolds would reel us in. Almost always, something that needed to be planted later would end up in our cart. Because money was so very tight, I would keep our future purchases mentally calculated….$3.00 for the beans, $2.00 for bananas, $4.00 for flowers..etc. Then came the fresh cut gladiolus. There they were, long stemmed, colorful, seemingly beaming with pride. Buckets of them, calling out to us.
The first time Heather and I saw them, we both fell in love. I wish that I could recall how much a dozen cost back then, I want to say maybe $6.00. Could we really afford them? Could we really afford NOT to take home such beauty and vitality? No, on both counts. Ignoring the budget, carefully, we picked out a dozen of our very first, freshly cut gladiolus. With only pennies to spare, we checked out at the register. Neither one of us could wait to get home to plant our new flowers, snap our green beans, and pull out the vase from under the kitchen sink and place our beautiful freshly cut flowers in the center of our Freedom Table.
That season Heather and I made it a point to visit the Farmer’s Market every Saturday until it closed for the winter. We filled the front porch with colorful hanging baskets in the summer, and in the fall, mums and pumpkins populated our surroundings.
But always, no matter what the budget, a dozen of freshly cut gladiolus stood proudly on that silly little green kitchen table. That image became my symbol of hope, of new beginnings, fresh starts, and faith that everything was going to be just fine.
So, in the end, I have learned to fill your soul with what makes you happy. Be good to yourself, and always, always, keep a vase handy.
