When A Grandmother Calls

My maternal grandparents helped shape my thoughts, values, and paved paths for me even when I was not aware of them doing so. They gave me the audacity to dream and prepared me to take giant leaps in life by being loving and supportive. Now that I am a grandparent, I want 'Grand Prince' to have that same confidence to dream big and know he is loved. Being a grandparent has taught me a love that I would have never known existed and helps me appreciate the relationship I have had with my grandparents all my life. The love of a grandparent is like no other.

Being a card carrying member of the grandparents' club now, I know from first hand experience, when a grandmother is deeply involved in a child's life, the sky is the limit. The child is going to soar because a grandmother can will it to be. Or at the very least, try to pull the sky closer for her grandchild to reach it. Do not believe a grandmother  would not grab a corner of the galaxy to make things happen? Keep reading.

I received an urgent call from a dear friend who has a grandchild who has sickle cell. She said in a very determined voice, "I need you to get the word out about the petition on White House.Gov to declare sickle cell a national priority. We must let others know more about sickle cell disease. We can not let any more funding be cut from research. Nor can we let any more clinics be closed. This is very important!" In the next breath, she reminded of the power of a grandmother's love. "You know my grand-baby has sickle cell. This is not an issue or cause, it is my grand-baby's life we are talking about."

My friend, a grandmother of a young free spirit with sickle cell, was prepared to organize a ride to moon if that was what it was going to take to get enough signatures to get the attention of the President. On the day of the call, the petition had around 22,000 signatures. The petition needed 100,000 and the deadline was looming a few days away. With sickle cell affecting 90,000 Americans and 3 million individuals are trait carriers of the sickle cell disease, this petition was important to many families.

Sickle Cell Disease is a group of inherited red blood cell disorders. Normal red blood cells are round like doughnuts, and they move through small blood tubes in the body to deliver oxygen. Sickle red blood cells become hard, sticky and shaped like sickles used to cut wheat. When these hard and pointed red cells go through the small blood tube, they clog the flow and break apart. This can cause pain, damage and a low blood count, or anemia.

Sickle Cell Disease is a major public health concern causing critical healthcare impacts in the nation. After talking through a strategic grass roots plan with my friend, I promised her that I would share her message and the information she had sent me with others. Within a few hours of us working our Rolodex, emails, and social media accounts, there was a noticeable increase in the numbers. Two days later, every Bam Mom, Big Mom, Gramma, Grammy, Grams, Grandma, Grandmama, Grandmother, Grandma, Grannie, Ma, Maw, Memaw, Mom-mo, Nanas, and one Grand Diva were contacted to sign the online petition. If they were not internet savvy, we suggested getting a grandchild to walk them through the process.

Alaira with her mother and grandmother.

 

Two days before the deadline and three days after the call, the Sickle Cell Disease Petition to the White House had met the required numbers and then some. It is amazing what happens when a community comes together for the greater good and the effectiveness of social media. It is even more amazing to see the love of a grandmother in action. It is a beautiful site to behold.

Thank you for signing the petition!

The little angel above thanks you as well as her grandmother (and the rest of the family) who loves her dearly!

A Grandfather's Note From Heaven

One of my greatest struggles in life has been overcoming the loss of my maternal grandfather, Joe Jackson. It has been several years since his passing, but there are times when it feels as if his passing was yesterday. I can remember his laughter; I can see his smile; I can repeat most of his stories verbatim; and quite often, I feel his suffering as he fought a hard and painful fight against cancer.

Often, I wondered what could have been done differently, especially to ease his pain. The first couple of years after his death, my dreams were filled with his moans, and I would awaken in the middle of the night with tears streaming down my face. I could still fill the grip of my grandfather’s hands as I held his at night, trying to comfort him to no avail.

I remember the careful planning of his final arrangements and the great pride my family took, especially my Aunt Henrietta, in making sure that every final detail was impeccable and benefiting the home-going of a patriarch and his meeting with the King.


As I learned to manage the heartache and sadness of the loss of my grandfather, I found respite by helping others by volunteering with organizations that mirror my grandfather's values. What started out as a way to deal with this difficulty became a mission—a mantra—and helped me to grow as a person. I now volunteer weekly and often find a “Mr. Joe’s story” in every venture and use these anecdotes to help others overcome difficulties or to meet an underserved need in the community.

On Christmas morning 2013, Clarence "Pop"Holmes left us. He was my father-in-law whom I loved like a father. His kindness and enduring ways were like Velcro—sticky on both sides. Pop often reassured me that he understood my quirky nature which seemed to be in stark contrast to the rest of his family of sportsmen who talked sports and more sports.

When I had something exciting to share or was in the midst of a dream deferred on the verge of fruition, Pop would be the most likely go-to-person to share the possibilities or the good news. He would become just as excited as I was. And when my bright idea or dream turned out to be just a hair brain notion, he never voiced ridicule and would only find words of encouragement. He would give me that look, “We’ll get it next time.”

Like my grandfather’s death, Pop’s death was a great loss. Unlike my grandfather’s demise, I had not braced myself for or strangely welcomed Pop’s final exhale like I did my grandfather. Pop was a strong, healthy man—a young man—who left all too suddenly. My grandfather's body was ravished by cancer and death was his escape. As I cried for Pop, the pain of losing my first hero in life began hitting me at the same time. I found myself mourning two men.

While packing to head to Memphis to prepare for Pop’s final arrangements, I rumbled through my closet to find an appropriate hat and pulled down a few hat boxes. As I reached for a hat box that possibly contained a black hat, a large box containing some of my grandfather’s fedoras fell and opened from the impact. Seeing my grandfather’s fedoras that were given to me by the family literally took away my breath.

After regaining my composure, I began examining the box. As I pulled out several hats, I put them close to my heart and recalled fond memories of my grandfather wearing each. But when I returned the last head wear taken from the box, I noticed a note card on the floor.

 This note card was created by Aunt Henrietta who mailed several hundred of them to me to give to friends and customers from Nashville and other places as acknowledgment of their acts of kindness during our bereavement. I believed that I had given out or mailed them all and definitely did not think I had any left. But there it was—a note card, appearing out of the blue, that I had not seen in seven years and at a time when I once again was filled with grief. However, after reading the carefully thought out message that expressed the goodness of my grandfather and how much he loved his family as well as how much his family loved him, I believed it was truly a message from above.

My sadness was replaced with gladness, for I believed that God was letting me know that my grandfather was alright, and that he was welcoming a new friend into heaven—Pop Holmes. I will always cherished this reminder of my grandfather's life, his note sent to me from heaven.

Photos: Genma Holmes 

Celebration of Life for Clarence J. "Pop" Holmes

Clarence Jones Holmes, known affectionately as “Pop”, was on born June 13, 1942 in Watervalley, Mississippi to the union of Connie Holmes and Lueisa Baker Holmes who proceeded him in death. Pop passed away December 25, 2013.

Pop accepted Christ at an early age and was a proud member of Greater Community Grace Temple COGIC. He served faithfully on the deacon board and sang in the male chorus. He was passionate about attending service and sharing the word of God with others, visiting the sick, working in the community and serving his neighbors wherever possible.

Pop's love for his family was front and center. He was devoted to his wife Vera whom he loved dearly and married in 1962.  He was the proud father of Clarence, Michael, Roger, and Eric. His sons often turned to him for advice and sought his perspective on living a good life. He was a doting grandfather and was prominent in his grandchildren's live. Pop would often travel to their elementary, high school, and college events to cheer them on. He encouraged his sons and grandchildren to always do what is right.

Pop was a hard worker; he worked many jobs to support his family--at times holding down three jobs. He also worked to help others. Helping others no matter what the circumstances was essential to his belief. He was known far and near for showing love to people. He never met a stranger. It appears he passed down this trait to his children and grandchildren. He retired from D. Canale Brewery.

Pop was a football fanatic and was passionate about the New England Patriots much to chagrin of the Steelers and Titans fans in the Holmes family. Pop traveled often. He was an avid hunter and fisherman and loved eating wild game and frying fish.

Pop loved to travel and was an avid hunter and fisherman. After retiring from D. Canale Brewery, he often traveled to popular hunting and fishing places. He loved to cook and eat the wild game he bagged and fry fish he snagged. Pop was a football fanatic and often traveled to games to cheer his team. Pop was a foot fanatic and often traveled to games to cheer his cheer for teams. He was passionate about the New England Patriots--much to the chagrin of most of the Holmes family members who are Steerlers and Titans fans.

A devout follower of Jesus Christ, Clarence “Pop” Holmes as a strong as he lived it. He will be missed by his family but his legacy will live on forever and ever.

Visitation:

Friday, January 3, 2014

Harold Ford Funeral Homes

4-6 PM

1638 Sycamore View Road

Memphis, TN 38134

901-379-0861

Funeral Services:

Saturday, January 4, 2014

11:00 AM

Greater Community Temple COGIC

924 North Dunlap

Memphis, TN 38118

Repast:

Greater Community Temple COGIC

5151 Winchester Road

Memphis, TN 38118

Should friends desire, contributions may be sent to the following organization that are meaningful to the Holmes Family:

The Oasis Center 

The Holmes Family Fund

1704 Charolette Pike

Nashville, TN 

www.oasiscenter.org 

The Frist Center for the Visual Arts

Military Families Fund

919 Broadway

Nashville, TN 37203

www.fristcenter.org

Hard Bargain Association

Ty's House Community Center
P.O. Box 545
Franklin, TN 37065-0545

www.hardbargain.org 

My Grandmother and I

I visit my grandmother as often as I can. I have written about her in many blog posts, my news column, and I have spoken about her on my radio show. I can talk endlessly about my grandmother. My grandmother has even gotten a shout out on social media.

Each visit home brings new revelations about my grandmother’s life. She is not perfect but she is my beloved. Each visit gives more insight into who I am and my personality, the many lives my grandmother has impacted, the power of love, and the grace of God. Each visit leaves me humbled and grateful for the smaller things in life.

My holiday visit was my most recent trip. I did not tell my grandmother when I was coming, only that I was coming. I have learned that giving a specific date leads to disappointments for both of us. My schedule is that of a mad woman and no matter how I try to be specific about dates or times, life interrupts. But when I say I am coming, she knows, rain or shine, snow or ice, I am going to make my way to Mississippi.

For Christmas 2012, I made it hours shy of Christmas Day. But I came in full Ms. Santa’s gear. I sneaked into town and drove straight to the nursing home where she resides. After getting buzzed in, I winked at the nurses who were all smiles (and probably all kinfolks in one way or another) when they saw me. I knew she would be up watching TV. I put down my bags of goodies for her and the other residents of the home and I walked up behind her.

In her ear, I whispered, “What’s up chic?” Her tears started flowing almost immediately as she turned to look up at me. Upon hearing my voice, my grandmother said, “My baby is home. Yes, my baby is home.” My tears started too. We carry own like this every time we see each other.

Surprise!

There is never a shortage of tears when we greet each other. We cry for a while and then start laughing and then start crying some more. She boldly stated after gathering her wits, “I knew you were coming.” Hugging her for what seemed an eternity, I said, “Mother you look so good!”

After giving me a head to toe inspection, she said, “You look good, too.” She then touched my Santa suit and the pearls she gave me years ago and started talking nonstop. Soon our roles of grandmother and granddaughter, flesh of her flesh, meshed into two hens without a care in the world. Time seemed to stand still as we picked up where we left off. We seemed joined at the hip in thought and speech. I had to stop our conversation because I realized everyone was watching us.

I gathered her things and off to her room we rolled to finish our conversation. For the rest of the day, we caught up on all things in my little home town, and I shared about life in Nashville. The more we talked, the louder we laughed, and the more folks came to her door to make sure we were okay.

My grandmother reading a copy of Mocha Market

At some point, I had to pull myself away. My grandmother was in good spirits, and it showed. I finally managed to make my way to Stringer Drive to my parents’ home.


Once there, I unpacked and exchanged gifts with my mom and dad. My grandmother’s well-being was on everyone’s mind. I encouraged them by telling them how good my grandmother looked; the hard work of the family was obvious. My evening was spent catching up on the holistic welfare of my grandmother.

Later, I got busy around my mom’s cooking and planning a New Year Eve’s bash for my grandmother and the other residents of the nursing home. My head was racing with ideas. I brought party items from Nashville, but I still needed to go to town (Natchez, MS) to get a few more items. Immediately I thought about Nashville and for a brief moment, I wanted to be Jasmine with a magic carpet. The next day, I managed to make it to Natchez, shop for items, and get back to Fayette in less than two hours. Whew!

On New Year’s Eve, my grandmother and I had the grandest time. There were many at the party, but we were having our own party. Decked out in her 2013 top hat and jewelry, she laughed and blew her horns. She wore “sparkly” nails that told you she was in a festive move. The dining hall was beautifully decorated. We popped the bubbly, sparkling grape juice, and the staffed toasted every good deed EVER done! Most laughed like no tomorrow while one of the residents, Slater, danced the time away! I soaked up the sight of my grandmother having so much fun.

Slater Dancing like it is 1999!

As usual, the time with my grandmother came to an end much too quickly. I dreaded driving back to Tennessee. Leaving is always the hardest part of my trips home. My carload becomes lighter but my heart gets heavier each time. On my way back to Nashville, I saw a billboard that read “Visit Vicksburg”. I whispered quietly, “Thank you God for my grandmother.”

Seeing the billboard reminded me of New Year’s Eve 2011 at Vicksburg’s Mercy Hospital. My grandmother was hospitalized after being very ill for weeks. In 2011, I spent the holidays with my grandmother in the hospital. We laughed but not nearly as much. We cried, too, but my tears that year were of sadness from watching her struggle to live. I prayed daily that her body would be without the drips, needles, nurses, doctors, and pills for a pill. And this Christmas 2012, she was doing just fine.

New Year's Eve 2011

Christmas Day 2011

New Year's Eve 2012

New Year's Eve 2012

Look at God. What a difference a year makes. God answers prayers. My grandmother and I were toasting to bring in 2012 with Ensure and were popping Champagne and dancing to bring in 2013. Did I mention we laughed a lot?

Oh my, I serve a mighty good God!

Teaching Children to Love to Learn

I grew up in a community that is now known as one of the poorest counties in Mississippi. When I return home for family visits, poverty is on every corner. Buildings that were once housed prosperous family businesses are now boarded up or burned down. Most residents work out of town or are unemployed. Whenever I ask my mother, a lifelong educator, about the stark contrast from the town that was part of my childhood, she replies in a sad voice, “Education, education, education. We stopped teaching children to read for the love of reading. We stopped teaching children to dream big dreams. This is what you get.” To my mother, education and economics are inseparable. She often told me, “Without an education, options are few. An educated community is crucial to its survival. Part of that survival is teaching children to learn to enjoy learning”. One of my mother’s core beliefs is to teach children to love to learn and they will become big dreamers. Big dreamers invest in their communities.

My mother taught me to love to read. My reading led me to becoming a dreamer. Dreaming taught me to face life without fear or hesitation. Reading was also my escape from country life. I grew up in household with very little extras but I had an abundance of everything. I was surrounded by educators, professionals, and kinfolks who showed me how things were done by allowing me to see them in their career settings. I also saw them with books in their hands at every turn.

I read books before I started school. My earliest memory of reading was to my grandfather. He would sit in his Lazy Boy chair rocking back and forth while I read to him from my small chair. Because he was hard of hearing, I read at the top of my voice. He had the patient of Job as I read one story after another. Reading to my grandfather was a routine I continued to end of his life. As an adult, my return visits to my grandparents always included stacks of magazines and newspaper from other cities. I would eagerly share with him who I met and where I have been while I read to him articles from places he never got to visit. He would smile and grin and give commentary on the politics and economics of municipalities as if he lived in each one.

When my grandfather became ill, I returned to Mississippi until he passed. Every evening, I read stories to him. Every evening. Often, I wondered if he heard me but I read to him anyway as I did as a child. Loudly. Bible passages, novels, news stories, even some of my favorite childhood books was read to him until he took his last breath.

My love of reading to my grandfather has transitioned to reading to school age children in area schools. I realized that my interactions with the many children I see during the holidays as Ms. Santa must go beyond giving them toys with a temporary shelf life. Catherine Ramsey, a lifelong educator and fellow book club member, taught me by her actions at Christmas. As a gift to her, she only wanted book club members to give books to young girls. She wanted to plant seeds of loving to read while they were young. Catherine Ramsey has never met my family but their philosophies about life and education are exactly the same.

Private, public, charter schools, and daycares have all called me to visit their schools to read. I have donned my famous Ms. Santa suit for the Girl Scouts. I have been the Queen of Hearts for Valentine Day and I have dressed as a Leprechaun to cheer on test scores in March for Buena Vista Enhanced Option School. I have been Spiderwoman at Grace Eaton and a Reading Princess at Hull-Jackson Montessori. Name a holiday or occasion and I have a costume to help incorporate into a story. My visits may seem outlandish to the casual observer but many educators encourage me to come often. My visits also bring community into the classroom and introduce children to professionals who not only work but serve. I have managed to recruit other entrepreneurs to join me. Why should I have all the fun?

My visits with the school children are not limited to the classroom. Escorting several classes, community groups, and families to the Frist Center helps incorporate the arts into story telling that is meant to encourage loving to learn. The visits to the Frist Center at the beginning of the school year have helped several students along with their families to become museum regulars. I have been told by parents and teachers alike that they have seen improvements in test scores and attention spans. The students come to the Frist Center to create their masterpieces inspired by their favorite books they have read at school.

No matter where a child attends school, all villagers must be active participants in helping create environments where loving to learn is at the forefront. We must all look for ways to make learning engaging and exciting to equip the next generation to help keep our communities vibrant and economically strong. Loving to learn produces big dreamers. And big dreamers invest in their villages and communities.

Doing Good in the Community

Last week, “doing good in the community” struck a chord with many. We must be willing to adjust our lens while bringing solutions that can be implemented sooner than later. Often times, servant leaders can see the issues but they need the support of others for efforts to spread the in community. They make serving others look effortless but much time, patience, and tenderness go into laboring for the greater good.

My grandfather often said, “Show me your deeds and I will show you your heart.” Let me share with you a few deeds that reveal the heart of someone who is trying to make an impact and who is trying to light a path for young girls very quietly.

At the beginning of last summer, Miss Gloria approached a group of women about mentoring young ladies. Everyone thought it was a nice idea. Gloria was dead serious. She went to work (and worked and worked) on outlining plans and activities for the girls for the school year. When we reconvened from our summer break, Gloria was ready for everyone to implement the program that we agreed we would do. (You know where this is going). In jeopardy of getting kick out of the group, I will limit the details of the fireworks behind the scenes, but I will share that a two hour meeting turned into six. “Miss Gloria” held us hostage until “she finished!” I have seen Divas show out; I was raised by several aunts, my mom, and my grandmother, so I know when to just listen and let them “finish”. Since we were not going anywhere until we agreed to agree, we agreed to move from nice idea to rolling up our sleeves.

Gloria held us accountable for taking on a project that she was very passionate about and had devoted her summer to planning activities for us to do. Since the fall, several outings have been experienced by everyone with the teen girls and their families. Last month was my turn to help out. The lesson planned was about table setting and manners. I offered to prepare lunch for their meeting. It was one of the coldest mornings in January. The Mayor’s neighborhood walking tour was scheduled and a brisk walk with our city leader was incorporated into the day. Charlotte and Carolyn also volunteered that day. Everyone in the group stepped up to the plate in some meaningful way; there was enough food and juice to feed an army for breakfast.

After the walk, the morning was spent engaging teens about manners. That was straight old school thinking and teaching. Gloria came with her table décor and finest china. She gave them a tablescape presentation that resembled a Martha Stewart’s creation. Her three helpers even asked questions and gave quick tips to remember what goes where. We also learned a few things ourselves. While talking about manners, we heard about the challenges of today’s teen.

After serving soup and salad, I packed to leave and bumped into other girls walking through the door. The day ended with lessons on walking like a lady. (Steve Harvey cannot teach that folks). When I followed up with Charlotte and Carolyn, we all mentioned how blessed we felt from that fateful day. Gloria inspired us with her dedication and we gave that precious commodity called “time” to young ladies who taught us as well. Even though the idea was Gloria, everyone shared the fruits of her planning that made it meaningful to the group.

Remembering the night we were taken hostage, Gloria was actually fighting for the good we can do in the community that is so desperately needed. She did not want us to meet with each other; she wanted us to meet with the girls. It takes a warrior to cut through cotton candy and push folks to be their best and to bring their best to the community. The seeds that are being planted in the lives of the young girls will bear fruit. As I look at photos from the Civil Rights period, young folks were often pictured with current leaders of the time. Those pictures foreshadowed their futures and showed us how an encounter can propel a person into their destiny. I have no doubt that the girls who walked with the Mayor and were taught by an activist and college professor, an attorney, and a state official on that freezing cold morning will go on to become remarkable young women in the future.

As we are seeing more and more of our culture fall by the wayside with basketball game fighting mamas and kids leaving the court to fight with mamas, we need more Glorias to be hands on examples of what a warrior means. Demeaning yourself and your community by having your entire school become synonymous with mayhem because of the actions of a few is not going to be an issue that celebrity “do gooders” will touch. Mamas and daddies cannot come to the school to discuss the situation, because the parents are trying to post bail and are banned from school properties! This is not a local problem, this spectacle is happening around the country.

Sports have long been a spring board for our young men to go to college. When some have come up short academically, but performed well in sports, they were given another avenue to enter college. Now, when your school is banned from playing sports for a few years, where does that energy and drive go now? This is not criticism or judgment; this is reality folks.

As we continue to celebrate Black History, let us not be shy about resurrecting old school thinking and teaching that can be used 365 days a year. My grandparents might sound primitive by today’s standard but their hands on approached included the little things like teaching manners and respect of person at every turn. They did not hesitate to pull in others to keep us in line. Those lessons were backed up by a pop to the lip when rules were not followed. “Yes ma’am” and “No sir” were some of our first words. Women like Gloria, Carolyn, and Charlotte attended games and would have taken pleasure in whipping us if we acted up.

I know we are living in different times and physical violence is becoming a pastime but we need more warriors now than ever to remind us of our past, to help our present day young folks look forward to having a meaningful future. We can make a difference, one child at a time.

Pick Your Battles: Lessons Learned from my Grandfather

Friends who know me well hear me sharing about my grandfather (Daddy) and his love he showed his grandchildren. He really was a good man. He was not perfect by any means but he did not waiver on things that were out of sync with doing what was right when no one was around to see. One of his favorite sayings was “fair is fair.” Those words were usually followed up by “ball or strike.” One day, I am going to write a book about his poetic sayings. 

Once, I accompanied my grandfather to a meeting held at our community lodge. Watching Daddy on the front row, I thought I was going to hear one of his fiery speeches about doing what is right because it is the right thing to do. But on this particular night, things would not be normal. The tone in the room was not what I had expected. Even at the age of nine, I knew something was different about this crowd. 

The crowd had gathered to debate a hotly contested ordinance being proposed. Some community leaders were urging folks to vote for a law that was not good legislation according to my grandfather. Daddy adamantly opposed the measure and did not hide his disdain for those supporting it. In this public hearing, Daddy’s critics never called him by name but there was no doubt that he was the object of their dissatisfaction. I watched for hours as one speaker after another took pot shots at my grandfather. He never said a word and a few times, I caught him smiling. I sat in disbelief wondering why Daddy was not speaking up for what he believed in or refusing to address the group to defend his point of view.

On the drive home, I asked Daddy about the meeting. With much confidence, Daddy responded, “Never bet against the truth; you must learn to pick your battles.” At nine, my lack of comprehension showed on my face so my grandfather served up this nugget of knowledge that I use often, “Never argue with a fool, they will either win the argument or kill you.” Later that week, several individuals met with my grandfather to thank him for not debating with the noise makers. His silence spoke volumes, they told him. That was the first of many meetings where I saw my grandfather win the battle of words by never uttering a sound. He was an old school passionate orator but from time to time, he would fall silent and allow his lack of verbal engagement diffuse a situation or get others to speak up instead of waiting on him to be the messenger.

Several weeks ago, I got to experience how my grandfather felt firsthand. I attended a meeting that left me wondering had I a missed a Prozac pill. I thought I was attending a meeting to discuss empowering others to be the best they can be and mobilizing individuals to be more educated about issues in the community. I was ready to soak up whatever knowledge that was going to be shared. I had my sleeves rolled up to learn new ways to tackle old issues with relevant goals and defined action plans. As with most folks and good intentions, you get what you get. Nothing in life is a guarantee. 

Folks, I sat in a meeting, which I initially thought would be informative and motivating, dodging bullets and daggers. Damn! I did not get the memo to come dressed in amour. One speaker took great pleasure weaving belittling comments into a message about leadership. There was no hiding the fact-less infused lecture with its saccharine coated ugly tones, there was an issue with me. Before you ask, my name was never spoken. Are you surprised? Me either. As my amusement grew by the minute, I saw out the corner of my eye several individuals sitting stoned faced and showing signs of being uncomfortable with what was taking place for all to see and hear. I thought to myself, Daddy would have loved this meeting! I could visualize him twisting his Mason ring around on his finger while never looking away from the speaker. Channeling my grandfather, I twisted my diamond ring on my finger and found myself fascinated with counting the number of biting remarks that were meant to either hurt or humiliate. 

At one point, I started taking notes because I would hate to leave this one out of my upcoming book. Not to get even but because I needed to record what was taking place within my spirit. I did not get upset or walk out. I pinched myself several times to make sure I had not dozed off or was having an out of body experience. I was actually listening quietly to words that were not having an effect on me. My grandfather words came rushing back to me, “pick your battles.” This was not a battle; this was a pissing match and I was not a bed wetter. I had nothing to prove. I had spoken truth to a few folks and the result of speaking up was this angry crazed tirade that had me pinned in my seat. Riveting. On the drive home, I found myself laughing as if I seen a comedy routine. Does personal growth and revelation come with bouts of laughter? Instead of fuming and ready to take folks to the shed, I was laughing at what I experienced. Meds do not produce that kind of response.

By the time I made it home, I received calls apologizing for my experience were pouring in from many individuals that I respected. Each apology was heartfelt and genuine. Their phones calls made me respect them even more. Unbeknownst to me, several expressed their indignation at the meeting not being about serving others. I did not have to mention that the meeting was not as it was billed. Although my experience was meant to humiliate me, I witnessed folks willing to do the right thing even when no one was looking. I realized something had changed in me. Not one to hold my tongue when mayhem and foolishness rear their ugly heads, surprisingly, I was silent. By not engaging in petty words that faithful day, I took in what was said and made a decision to use my time building others up for the greater good of everyone, including myself.

Since the meeting, I taped the notes from that day near my calendar to remind me of the lesson from my grandfather that was revealed years later. It took courage for him to hold back. I cherish those actions from the lodge that I witnessed; his strength in his silence, the twisting of his ring and smiling while staring intently at a speaker hurling clandestine insults. He was showing me not every battle is worthy of my energy and to always leave foolish arguments for fools to debate. After a few days, I sent a note to the speaker expressing thanks for a presentation that had a positively profound effect on me. Growth is good. How was your week?