A Blanket, a Song, a Baby, and a Friend...

Since June, I've been on a race. I've been trying to outrun grief. 

Sure, there are moments when I let myself cry and wallow around in self-pity, but other times I try to move onward, knowing my mother wouldn't want me to mourn for her. She is where she is supposed to be.

So, how do you outrun grief? The answer is you don't. But if you busy yourself enough, you will falsely believe you've won the race and have dodged grief. If you've ever played dodge ball in PE, you know when you're "safe" because you're not hit by the ball, it's quite a feat. The same goes with grief--You know you're safe for a while, but the next game, or the next crazy hit and the sting of the ball will remind you how very real and raw your grief is.

I've filled my life with church, work, children, grandchildren, "Wheel of Fortune," and Aggie Football (a season which felt like a wheel of misfortune). I've been busy working on a book, and eating healthy-ish, and planning for a trip next year. But last Sunday, I hit a wall. A powerful. Hard. Unforgiving wall. I was stopped in my tracks.

Yep. The A&M game had a great deal to do with it. As long as their season continued, I had another week to outrun my grief. Once it ended I was left without a focus, without something to do each and every Saturday. I was sad, frustrated, and wondered "why does it always end this way?"

Then I got on social media where everyone is talking about the other team in the state that beat us. However, many of the comments are about the Aggies, and are extremely negative. If people would just support their team rather than bash other teams, it would be much more bearable. But, sadly some people enjoy the feeling of being on top too much--it's easy to laugh at and/or mock someone else when you're sitting pretty. Just remember, what goes up, must come down, so choose your words, actions, and posts wisely. 

I'll now get off my high-horse.

The major reason for my current situation and sadness is the holiday season. I thought I had it licked. I sailed through Thanksgiving, but three days later, I found myself in a hole I couldn't dig out of, nor did I want to. I felt safe and warm there; no one could get to me. 

Again. You can't outrun grief, or hide in a hole. 

So as others prepare for the holidays, decorating their homes, and trees, and wrapping presents, and sending out cards, I am a spectator. I don't want to do it. From the decorations, to the songs, to the gifts, to the cards--my mom is everywhere. She's a part of all my Christmas memories.

I should find comfort in that, but it's all too fresh. The memories turn into thoughts of my mother and how very much I miss her. The phone calls. The holiday planning. Her thoughts on current events. Sharing things with her about my children and grandchildren. She's everywhere, yet she's nowhere. In my mind, I know she's in the most wondrous place, but I still miss her. Every. Single. Day. 

This morning, I read a devotional and it talked about the Graciousness of God. When I read this, I paused:  "Asking for God to be gracious is invoking His favor--which is a blessing so extensive it can't be measured." 

In the last six months, I have asked God for many things, but not once have I asked Him to be gracious to me. Maybe I feel I don't deserve grace. Maybe I feel selfish asking for His favor, and for immeasurable blessings. 

I pondered this all the way to work. In fact, in my mind I thought of the song, "The Blessing." It kept entering my mind, and the word gracious was on repeat.

"The Lord bless you and keep you,
Make His face shine upon you and be gracious to you.
The Lord turn His face toward you,
And give you peace."

As I was hearing this song in my head, something happened. It can't be called a coincidence. It can't be called anything but God hearing my thoughts.

The very next song on the radio after the "make his face shine upon you and be gracious to you" line played in my head was...

"The Blessing."

I can't deny what happened. It was powerful, and real, and a reminder I am never alone. The Lord is with me all the time. And He is also gracious, and gives me peace.

I burst into tears, overwhelmed with the realization--I can't outrun grief, but I can run to God. He hears my cries and knows my heart.

I pulled in the parking lot, and tried to pull myself together. I was overjoyed, overwhelmed, overblessed. 

I'm usually the first or second person in the building every morning. This morning, I had barely walked in my office, and hadn't even turned on the lights, when I heard a tap on the door.

There was a sweet friend who handed me this (I actually put it in a frame I had in my office).

When I read it, I started crying. I told my friend how I had been struggling, and how much this meant to me. She then asked me to consider writing a children's book. She felt it was something I could do that could help children, since I'm familiar with issues kids deal with these days. I was surprised and honored at the same time.

I replied that I didn't know what to write about. She continued to encourage me, and as the morning passed, I have come up with an idea. 

I'm so thankful for a God who listens to prayers and sends angels disguised as friends. He is on time every time, and He is gracious, and His blessings are immeasurable.

I've been sitting on this other story for several months, but thought it was appropriate to share now. It's another blessing, and it came from my Gracious God. He gave me a special moment and reminder of my mother.

Last year, my mother kept talking about the need to crochet another baby blanket. She was known through the years for always knitting afghans, or crocheting blankets for every occasion. She knitted several blankets for my children and for my grandchildren.

She mentioned several times that she felt she really needed to crochet a baby blanket, in case there was another baby, and in case she wasn't around when that baby arrived.

I shushed her, and told her I didn't want to think about that.

In the days after her funeral, I was cleaning out her closet, and in the back corner, I spied a laundry basket. It was filled with something I couldn't quite make out. When I pulled it closer, I saw a crocheted blanket in yellows, purples, blues, and pinks...It was a baby blanket and was complete, except for one panel that needs to be attached. Underneath the blanket, were the extra skeins of yarn.

I grabbed the blanket and decided to take it to my daughter-in-law. She can crochet, and I thought she could attach that panel, and then keep it for Cooper and Harper.

Not long after that discovery, Charles and Kaitlyn stopped by to share some news. 

They are expecting a baby at the end of April, or early May. 

When I heard this, I began to cry. Charles and Kaitlyn didn't know about the blanket. 

On that day, the Lord blessed me, and made His face shine upon me. 

Again, none of this is coincidence. It is all a part of the plan.

The Lord truly is near to the broken-hearted. He shows up in all kinds of ways, and just when you think you can outrun grief, he reminds you to slow down. To not forget. To remember. 

And He always finds a way to connect us to those who have gone ahead of us.

I'm so thankful He did this for me with a blanket, a song, a baby, and friend.

 

Being an Aggie is tough at times. To paraphrase Kermit the frog, "It ain't easy bein' maroon."

I don’t remember ever deciding to be an Aggie; I was born one. It is in my blood and has coursed through the veins of four generations of my family beginning with my Grandfather Brown, Class of ’30, my dad, Class of ’57, my brother Greg, Class of ’83, I'm Class of ’85, my son Chris, Class of ’12, and my son Charles, Class of ’15. “There’s a spirit can ne’er be told,” but I’ll do my best to at least explain what being an Aggie means to me.

To say my dad was a huge A&M fan would be equivalent to saying water is wet. He passed down this love for his university to both my brother and me. I became a diehard Aggie at an early age. When I was eight years old, my friend Paula and I declared we were going to go to college at Texas A&M. We even had a secret Aggie handshake!

I remember sitting with my dad on Saturday afternoons, as he searched for the A&M game through all the static on his transistor radio. As we listened to the commentators, Dad relived stories about his college days in the mid-to late 1950s, during the era of “the Junction Boys,” led by Bear Bryant and players like John David Crow and Gene Stallings. While he spoke about days of old, I sat in my white A&M sweatshirt with the maroon Sarge and Block T on it, hanging on his every word.

I learned very early that Thanksgiving was not only about the Pilgrims and Indians but also about the Aggies and Longhorns. This day meant celebrating (or grieving) the holiday with the A&M-t.u. game. 

As a young child, this rivalry game was usually watched at my grandparents’ home in Gonzales. My grandmother despised the fact that the TV blared during our meal, and she chided my grandfather with her standard line: “You’re going to burn, Brown.” In the end, her objections were overruled, and we watched the game while we ate because God understands about football. I must confess we weren’t above praying and asking the good Lord for an Aggie victory before we said, “Amen.”

The Thanksgiving game when the Longhorns scored three touchdowns in the first two minutes is forever burned in my mind. After the third touchdown, my grandfather jumped up from the table, muttered a few colorful words, and announced he was going to retrieve his hatchet so he could chop up the large wooden console TV. I waited with bated breath, imagining we were going to have our own personal version of an Aggie bonfire in the middle of Nana and Papa’s living room.

I discovered more about being an Aggie when we were visiting my grandparents in the summer after my brother finished second grade. Looking for something to do, Greg decided to climb a tree which hung over the back patio. I ventured out to see what he was doing just as he began screaming, “Snake, snake!”

I didn’t stick around long enough to see if it was true. I ran inside and alerted the adults. My Dad and Papa ran outside, and when my grandfather spotted a copperhead coiled up at the base of the tree, he sprung into action. He ran into the house, grabbed his A&M saber off the wall where it was mounted, ran back outside, and sliced the snake in two. He could have grabbed a shovel or other garden tool, but he wanted to be sure that he “Beat the Hell Outta” that snake, Aggie style. Whoop!

It is imperative that I give my father full credit for my love of both Texas A&M and football—two sacred things that for our family go together like peas and carrots or, better yet, chips and salsa. My dad and brother taught me the gridiron basics, and I quickly caught on to the signals the officials gave when assessing penalties. At four years old, I was a rare breed---a girl who would rather watch football than play with Barbies.

As I look back on my formative years, I realize the love of sports my father instilled in me was in preparation for the life I would lead as a coach’s wife and mother of two boys. I clearly see the Lord’s plan in this and am so lucky that God gave me two men who not only shared with me their love of the game but also the life lessons that abound in the world of sports.

Collegiate football has drastically changed since my childhood days and my freshman year at A&M when Tom Wilson was the head coach. Now, schools not only compete on the field, but also in the transfer portal. NIL has added another dimension, which to me, has ruined the game. I always enjoyed college football more than watching the pros because it seemed pure. Players played for the love of the game; they represented their team with pride. Sure, many hoped that their success would lead to a contract in the NFL, but overall there was a fire within them that seemed to burn more brightly.

I'm not a fan of these changes. I guess I'm old school, or more accurately an old Ag, or "old army." I am glad for the National Championship playoff games, but it seems that early in the season, hopes are dashed with one or two losses. Teams are counted out. And as an Aggie, this is when the sky starts falling.

Last season, when we began searching for a new coach, the insults and barbs were at an all-time high. It was hard to take. At that point in my life, I felt I was being a poor sport because I became so defensive. But here's the thing, if we didn't matter, if we weren't a possible contender, it wouldn't be such a big deal to other programs. Believe it or not, we have become relevant. And that, in itself, makes others uncomfortable, to say the very least.

I'm a Coach Elko fan, and know our future is bright. In one season, he has not only changed the culture of the program, but he has also embraced what it is to be an Aggie. 

If you're an Aggie, you understand that it's about so much more than supporting the football team. When you enter Kyle Field, the world comes full circle. You relive your days on campus. You run into old friends. You experience the atmosphere unlike any other with your children and grandchildren.

Being an Aggie is a way of life. It's taking the values we learned at A&M and carrying them through our daily lives. It's remembering those who are no longer with us by saying "here" at Muster. It's saying "howdy," and not ever walking on grass when there is a sidewalk available. It's meeting other Aggies all over the world because they can identify you by your Aggie ring.

It's passing down the love you have for your university, and sharing that love with future generations.

It's keeping the Aggie spirit of loved ones who have passed away close to your heart.

My father died on October, 20, 1992. It was sudden, shocking, and heartbreaking. Needless to say, our first Thanksgiving without him was painful. For most families who have been in our situation, stumbling through the meal would have been the hardest hurdle to jump, but for our clan, it was the football game we would watch that afternoon—the traditional rivalry game between the Aggies and the Longhorns. This family tradition without Dad would be the most difficult to endure.

With thoughts of Thanksgivings past and memories of Dad cheering for his team, we clicked on the television to watch the ball game. The showdown was played in Austin that year, so the environment seemed extra hostile. Sounds of the band playing “The Aggie War Hymn” filled the living room as we watched the teams run onto the field. As if he were sitting in the room beside me, I heard my father boldly proclaiming, “If the Longhorns played the Soviets in Red Square, I would cheer for the Soviets every time.”

It goes without saying that in the South, football is a religious experience, and I knew with the added emotional baggage attached to this day and this game, we would be “having church” like never before. Going into the game, the Aggies were undefeated and embarking on one of the best seasons in A&M football history. There was so much riding on this contest, and of course, we bundled all our hopes and dreams and burdens into a victory, as well. Somehow, we fully believed if we beat the Longhorns, it would be a tribute to my dad. In a month full of losses, a win for our family was monumentally important. Football that day became more than just a game. It represented life itself.

We whooped and cheered and high-fived and quietly mumbled ugly words throughout the four quarters. We yelled louder and stronger and prayed harder than ever before during a football game. We simply had to win. We couldn’t take another letdown or loss. When the final whistle blew, the Aggies had resoundingly defeated the Longhorns 34–13. We firmly believed Dad was waving his 12th Man Towel and whooping it up in heaven. It was the first time in over a month that we felt alive. 

Deep down in my soul, I know God doesn’t choose sides, but on that day, he was an Aggie. As much joy as this victory brought us all, it was still laced in sorrow, and nothing could take away the sting we felt by Dad’s absence.

After the game, the time had come for us to leave. We loaded the car to return home, and along with the leftovers, I packed a great big helping of guilt, something I always felt whenever we left Mom alone in that big, empty house. Since the cemetery was on our way out of town, Brian and I decided to stop by. We knew Dad’s grave site would still be a mound of dirt with only a temporary marker identifying him. His headstone had been ordered but wouldn’t be in for a month or so. Even though we dreaded it, we knew stopping by to pay our respects was the proper, grown-up thing to do.

The sun was setting on an autumn sky, and shadows were starting to dance across the monuments and stones. I wasn’t exactly sure if I could find Dad’s resting place as we weaved in and around the winding pathways that coursed through Sunset Memorial Park. I was grateful that his plot was newly made and would help us narrow down the options. 

From a distance, I could see the dirt covering my father. It seemed to have settled since I was last there, and in a temporary flash of madness, I wondered if he was cold. Snapping out of the crazy thought, I admired several floral arrangements that had withstood the weather over the past month or so.

As I continued to survey the area, something white caught my eye. It was almost like a white flag of surrender, which I thought was a little harsh, even for a cemetery. The closer we moved  to the object, the more familiar it became. It was a 12th Man Towel attached to a stake. During Jackie Sherrill’s tenure as the head football coach at A&M, he introduced the tradition of waving white towels imprinted with "12th Man." This was a rally cry for the team and reminded us that all Aggies stand ready to go in the game and help our boys if ever needed. To a die-hard Aggie fan, the 12th Man Towel is a mandatory wardrobe accessory for game-day attire.

As the November wind blew gently that afternoon, the flag proudly waved like the one planted at Iwo Jima. It, too, represented pride, tradition, and camaraderie. We stepped out of the car and clumsily searched for a note or something that might reveal the thoughtful giver of this random act of kindness. After investigating the area for a few moments, there was not a trace of anything but the towel.

I never found out who put the flag there, but know whoever it was understood my father’s deep love of his alma mater. I can think of no greater honor or tribute to one of the most loyal Aggies I’ve ever known. “There’s a spirit can ne’er be told, it’s the Spirit of Aggieland.”

As we drove away from the cemetery that autumn night, the last few stanzas of a poem entitled “The Last Corp Trip” echoed in my head. I will always regret that I didn’t think to have this poem read at my father’s funeral. This is how I envisioned Dad’s entrance into heaven:

"And the band poured forth the anthem in notes both bright and clear.

And ten thousand Aggie voices sang the song they hold so dear.

And when the band had finished, St. Peter wiped his eyes

And said, 'It’s not so hard to see they’re meant for Paradise.'

And the colonel of the Cadet Corps said as he stiffly took his stand,

'It’s just another Corps Trip, boys, we’ll march in behind the band.'” —P. H. DuVal Jr., ’51

The A&M experience is unique to all Aggies, but the common thread of loyalty, honor, and pride is woven through those experiences, connecting each of us to all other Aggies.

To me, being an Aggie is more than just wearing maroon and supporting a team. It’s a link between my past, present, and future. My boys never knew their grandfather, but through Aggie traditions, stories, legends, and experiences they have been connected to him in a way that would otherwise not be possible.

So, what does it mean to be an Aggie?

•     It’s going to Fish Camp to learn the Aggie way of life.

•    It’s Thursday nights spent at the Dixie Chicken, listening to the needle of the record player scratch across entire albums by Jerry Jeff Walker, Willie Nelson, and Hank Jr., always ending       with "Goodnight Irene.”

•    It’s putting a penny on Sully, hoping the luck will get you through that test.

•   It’s changing your major 3 times and trying to beat your midterm grades home before Spring Break.

•   It’s my brother, as a senior in the Corps, getting Jackie Sherrill to sign a football which Greg’s outfit would run to Austin before the A&M/t.u. game.

• It’s the sound of senior boots clicking along the sidewalks and streets.

•  It’s the solemn stillness and quiet of “Silver Taps.”

• It’s getting your Aggie ring, and sitting in the MSC, waving to all your friends, showing off the results of your hard work.

• It’s the fall of 1985, when we beat Texas at Kyle Field, securing a place in the Cotton Bowl, and having your brother scream at some upset teasips, “I don’t know what you call this in Austin, but here in College Station, we call this an ass-whipping.” And amazingly, his didn’t get his whipped…

• It’s waving a 12^th Man towel.

• It’s going to the Cotton Bowl and stopping Bo Jackson on the goal line when it was 4^th and one.

• It’s jumping for joy when your two sons are accepted to A&M.

• It's finding a Twelfth Man towel on your father's grave...

September 8, 2012, when A&M entered into a new era in the Southeastern Conference, was an extremely emotional day for me. I usually tear up during “The Spirit of Aggieland,” but that year, I couldn’t even sing it. As the team ran onto the field, tears streamed down my face. Never in my life have I felt such depth of emotion attached to being an Aggie.

I realized in that moment who I am today is largely due to my family heritage and legacy as an Aggie. The footsteps we have all made across the campus and into the world have contributed to the place where our university is today. We truly are a part of all those we have met, and many others whose presence has only been felt; our university moves forward on the heels of the many Aggies who have left their mark on the campus before us and those who will walk across the same campus in years to come. We have a bright future because we hang on to those values that are simple and fair and just.

On that beautiful day in September, as I stood among more than 87,000 others looking onto Kyle Field, I realized that the torch had been passed to my sons. Their generation, and all the generations to come, will be the ones leading us forward into new horizons.

And just like those before us, and those who come after us, no matter how our team is playing, we will always get goose bumps when we hear, “Now forming at the north end of Kyle Field, the nationally famous fightin’ Texas Aggie Band.”

Aggies live for football season. There’s no better place to be than Kyle Field on a Saturday night under the lights.  But eleven years after entering the SEC, it seems we’ve taken one step forward, and twelve steps back.

While I’m disappointed with the way things have gone, I will never give up hope that one day we will finally get it right. Until then, like all Aggies, I will keep supporting my school and my team.

That’s the thing about Aggies. We’re always there. We keep coming no matter what. We always have hope. We always believe.

In the last leg of a dismal season, 103,000 Aggies turned out for a night game at Kyle Field. And those same Aggies will pay $25 for nachos, make donations, and keep buying season tickets.

You see, Aggies are all-in. Maybe that's our problem. Many football programs who have gone through growing pains and have ended seasons by firing the coach, do so because the fans stopped showing up, donations decreased, and there was a general malaise about the future.

But Aggies don’t operate that way. No matter what, we’ll show up in our maroon, we’ll wave our Twelfth Man towels, we’ll yell, and sing, and sway. After the game, we’ll armchair quarterback, and talk about what could have been. But we will never, ever not show up.

This Thanksgiving, I find myself both excited and lost. My mother passed away in June, and I am navigating through the waves of grief. 

As I prepared the Thanksgiving meal, I used all the recipes my mother used to make. I am reflecting on the many years we gathered around the table. The stories told, the prayers said, and the many things for which I am thankful.

And this year, I am thankful for the renewed rivalry game. Tomorrow, when I'm standing in Kyle Field, I will remember what being an Aggie has meant to me. No matter the outcome, I will always be a proud Fightin' Texas Aggie.

Sure, we might wish for more touchdowns, and wins, and championships, but the amazing thing that keeps us looking upward is something we already have; something we don’t have to search for. A unique and undying spirit no other university can boast of.

It’s a connection, and it's maroon.

It’s called being an Aggie.

It’s about much more than a game. It’s about being a part of something that only those who experience it can understand.

So, when all the others mock us, or make jokes about us, just remember,

“After they’ve boosted all the rest,

They will come and join the best.

We are the Aggies, the Aggies are we.

We’re from Texas AMC.”

 

Remember...

 

It's been seventy-nine days. 

Eleven Saturdays and eleven Sundays.

Eighteen hundred and ninety-six hours.

You've missed two federal holidays. 

And I've missed you every single second you've been gone.

Life has gone on, as I knew it would, but nothing is the same.

I've done the things you would have wanted me to. We went to see George Strait the day after your funeral. You were right--he did fill the stadium with more people than the Aggie football team ever has. He sang most of our favorite songs.

I hosted the neighborhood book club the following week. It was a huge success. You know how over-the-top I can get with things. 

The book we read was The Women, and since it centered around the Vietnam War and took place in the 1960s-70s, I asked everyone to dress for that era, and we ate favorite foods from the time period. Each member honored veterans from their family by bringing photos. Everyone shared their story, and at the end of the night, we were all united by the shared love of country and reading. You would have loved it!

We began emptying your house. Mamacita's furniture looks so beautiful in Charles' old bedroom. I'm so fortunate to have my great-grandmother's furniture, especially since I was born on her birthday. The bedroom is now referred to as the Mamacita and Mother Room. 

I've scattered photos of you and Dad on the dresser, chest of drawers, and shelves. I find comfort when I'm in the room, but right now, I can't stay there too long. 

The first time Cooper saw the room, he said, "Whoah!"

While carefully going through your things, and packing the special keepsakes, we were reminded of so many wonderful times. Your house was filled with so many memories, some we remembered well, others caused our hearts to flutter a bit as we were taken back to times we had almost forgotten.

Greg has been amazing. He has had the immense burden of being the executor of the will. While there was a great deal to do, your preparedness made that easier for him. I'm so thankful for that gift. 

In every step of the process, we have been met with an abundance of sympathy, empathy, and kindness. You were so well-loved and respected, and we have been filled with pride and gratitude for being your children.

Scooter is enjoying life with Cleo. I'm sure her resemblance to you is comforting. She's had him on a diet, limiting his eating times to a couple of times a day. He's actually lost a few pounds. Scooter says that life is good, but he still misses you and the never-ending bowl/supply of cat food.

We had the estate sale and it was a huge success. From what I've heard it was quite an occasion. Cars were lined up to the end of the neighborhood. People actually had to park on Appleby Sand Road. 

Although the sale began at eight o'clock, people started lining up at 6:00 a.m. At the end of the two days, only two pieces of furniture were left behind, a few articles of clothing, some books, and glassware. 

Many of your friends and former students came by, just wanting to find a little something to remember you by. The wonderful thing, though, is the love and memories you shared with so many will go with them for the remainder of their lives.

The house is now for sale. Greg and I went by the other day, after the estate sale, and the house was completely empty. 

It was so very sad, but we were reminded that your spirit isn't confined to that place. You are everywhere we are. 

You're in the subtle touch of a light summer breeze. And the beautiful hibiscus plant that a friend gave me. Although each flower only lives for a day, we have faith that another one will come tomorrow. While we hope for a new bloom, we are always surprised by the color of the flower. It's such a beautiful reminder of how God's mercies are new every morning. How great is his faithfulness.

As the political season moves along, I imagine all the thoughts and comments you would be sharing. As usual, you were right about so many things.

I hear your laugh when there is something funny that Cooper or Harper does. I imagine telling you about it. 

Just the other day when they were at our house, Harper saw a picture of you, me, Cooper and Harper. She pointed at it and said, "Gramma."

I knew, in that moment, you were with us.

As sad as it was, the night of your visitation, Cooper made some amazing connections. He said, "I sad. Gramma's not here." But he pointed upward and knew you were in heaven. Through your death, he had a better understanding of Jesus, and heaven. Thank you for teaching that lesson. Even in death you are guiding us, and leading us toward the Lord.

When I'm in the grocery store and I see soup, and Blue Bell ice cream, and corn bread, I think of you and some of your favorite things.

I hear your voice when I'm sad and feeling alone. I always manage to pick myself up and ready myself to conquer the world and whatever giants I'm facing. 

You taught me to have grit, but to also be sweet, kind, and polished. I'm still working on parts of that, but my hope every day is to strive to be more like you.

Cooper started Pre-K, and Harper is taking dance lessons. You would adore seeing her in her leotard and tutu-type skirt.

Cooper is living his best life at school--he eats breakfast at home, and then again at school! He takes his lunch and eats in the cafeteria! He asked Kaitlyn and Charles why they don't have waffles at home! I immediately thought of you--- you would have so enjoyed eating waffles with Cooper.

I'm back at work. It's been so hard. I'm so used to calling you on my way home. I've wondered many times why I came back to work, but every time that thought creeps in, I see the smile of a student, or get a sweet hug, or a funny story.

The other day when I arrived at work (I'm the first one here at 6:45) I knew you were with me. As I put my key into the lock on the door, a butterfly flitted between the door and me. It was yellow, and it's said that yellow butterflies are symbols of hope and happiness. At times those things seem so distant, but that day, hope and happiness were literally right in front of me.

I watched "Sleepless in Seattle" the other day. I remembered before you and I went to see it in the movie theater, we rented and watched the video "An Affair to Remember." You wanted me to understand the connection between that movie and "Sleepless in Seattle." Just like everything you did, you shared your knowledge and opened up my world a little more.

Aggie football begins this weekend. Tell Dad that hopefully this is the "maybe next year" we've been hoping for.

Brian is reminded of you often, and he and the boys, and Kaitlyn, Cooper and Harper all miss you. 

Life just isn't the same.

Thank you for the life you gave me. For the things you taught me. For our legacy. 

I do small things each day to keep you close. I try to always wear lipstick when I leave the house. I always sweep the porch and sidewalk before company comes. When decorating, or choosing clothing or applying makeup, I'm reminded of you always stating that "less is always more-except when it comes to swimsuits!"

I try to stay busy. But at times, I just want to rest. I want to remember. I want to do things that bring me joy.

I re-watched "You've Got Mail" for the millionth time. I remembered one of the reasons why I love that movie so much. It's the part with the photo of Kathleen's mother that is on the shelf in the bookstore her mother started. Joe Fox says, "Your mother was enchanting," and then Kathleen talks about her mother "twirling" her around in the photo.

And then the song "Remember" comes on. 

That's the song that plays in my mind when I think about you.

"Remember, is a place from long ago.

Remember, is filled with everything you know.

Remember, when you're sad and feelin' down.

Remember, turn around.

Remember, life is just a memory.

Remember, close your eyes and you can see.

Remember, think of all that life can be.

Remember."

I remember, Mother. You were enchanting.

And I miss you with every beat of my heart.

A Tribute to my Mother: A Broken Zipper, a Box of Letters, and an Amazing Life

 

When I was a senior at Texas A&M, I was the Historian for the Class of '85. It was my responsibility to write an entry in the Aggieland (yearbook) about our time at A&M. In addition to that daunting task, I was to read my thoughts at the Senior Banquet which was held just before the much awaited senior celebration called Ring Dance. That night, the banquet room would be filled with cadets, non-regs, and lovely young ladies in beautiful dresses.

Some of you are probably rolling your eyes at the mention of Aggie traditions, but for me, this was all a part of life. It was the cherry on top of my years at TAMU. And Ring Dance was an event I had heard about for many years (although when I was younger I thought it was "Rain Dance," and asked my father why on earth there would be such an event)...

Now, let's get back to the night I was almost "pretty in pink."

I was going to wear the most beautiful dress my mother bought from The Townhouse, our favorite shop in Nacogdoches. Our friend Shelba special ordered it, and this dress was adorned with all of my favorite things. 

It was the Goldilocks color of pink--not too bright, and not too pale. It was just right. The dress was strapless, and the top portion had an overlay of pink lace, matching the dress color perfectly. The material was gathered at the waist, and in the back supported a big bow. The dress flowed freely; it would look stunning as I twirled around the dance floor. The formal was just below the knee, making it appropriate for evening attire. 

With this dress, I wore spectacular shoes, and I donned a strand of pearls that belonged to my mother.

The night was going to be magical. It was a time of remembrance, as well as a time to look forward to all the things to come. It was a celebration of our Aggie journey, the friends we made, and the many lessons we learned along the way.

My parents planned to meet me at my apartment, and follow us to the banquet. These fancy events always added a bit of stress, but having to give a speech in front of a large crowd had me extra nervous.

In addition to my unwelcome anxiety, there were three of us, all trying to get ready for the big event; all trying to take turns in the one bathroom apartment.

I was ready well ahead of the scheduled departure time. I was still in my robe, but my plan was to put the dress on last, so I wouldn't muss it up.

Just before my parents arrived, I put on the appropriate undergarments and slipped on my lovely pink dress. 

I called out to my roommates, asking if one of them would come zip me up. They were both hurriedly getting ready, as their dates had already arrived. Since the dates were in the living area, I couldn't skedaddle down the hallway to get zipped up without them seeing me. 

I decided I could zip it myself. 

But I was wrong. As I pulled the zipper up, it got caught on the lace portion of the dress. I decided to pull the zipper down and hopefully release the captive lace. As I tried to do this, I was too forceful, and the zipper began to eat up more of the lace. I was about to reach panic mode, and in hindsight, should have slipped down the hallway and asked my roommates for help. 

Instead of that, I thought I would spin the dress around so I could see exactly how to pull the zipper down without damaging my dress. 

Thinking I was pretty smart, I followed this plan. After reviewing the situation, I ascertained that if I carefully continued with the zipper going up, the delicate piece of lace that had been snagged would be released. If the lace was torn a bit, that wouldn't be a big deal.

But as things often go in life, my plans went awry. When I pulled upwards on the zipper, it became uneven, and in a moment of complete chaos, the zipper split, and pulled away from the dress. 

Panic ensued, and tears began to fall. I was hopeful, though, because my mother was an excellent seamstress. I was sure she could find a fix for the pickle I now found myself in.

But, in order to fix the dress, I would need sewing supplies, and I had none. There wasn't enough time to run to the store and purchase anything. If I hadn't been the speaker at the banquet, I probably would have skipped it, and spent that time darning the darn dress. Again. Not an option.

My parents arrived, and I was a mess. Mascara was streaming down my face as my roommates left the building to go to the banquet. My date was notoriously late, and for once, it was a good thing. 

After looking for a solution from every angle, my mother finally stated the obvious. The only way to pull the dress together would be with safety pins. Something we had an abundance of.

I'm not sure how many safety pins my mother used, and I'm not sure how she pulled it together so that my undergarments weren't seen, but she did it.

My dad was nervously pacing in the living area, and I heard my date arrive. I was absolutely devastated that this important evening had gone south before it even started. I was inconsolable, and hysterical. But there was nothing else that could be done. I would have to attend the Senior Banquet and Ring Dance with my dress pinned together by silver safety pins that had no silver lining.

As I was about to walk out of my bedroom and into a night which would surely be filled with gasps, and comments, and people stating the obvious, my mother knew I was at a loss, and any confidence I had stored up for this evening had been snared by that hateful zipper. 

I dried my eyes, touched up my makeup, and as I headed for the door, my mother said, "If anyone comments about your dress, tell them it was made that way."

I thought to myself how ridiculous this sounded. How could I say that and be taken seriously? 

I arrived in the Banquet Hall, flawlessly gave my speech, and was ever-so-grateful that I was sitting at the head table facing the crowd during this portion of the evening. No one could see the safety pins vertically attached to the back of my dress, encompassing the all important task of keeping my dress from slipping down in an unprecedented wardrobe malfunction.

I made it through the banquet without much fanfare. I knew there were whispers of pity from the people who were walking behind me, but I entered the ballroom like I owned the place.

It wasn't surprising at all, when a certain young lady waited until the most inappropriate time to exclaim in a loud and catty voice in front of the large group we were with, "What happened to your dress?"

Without missing a beat, I turned to her and said, "It was made that way."

For the rest of the evening, no one said a word about my fashion faux pas. All because my mother gave me such sage advice. It wasn't haughty or rude. It was spot on. How could anyone respond to that retort? It was made that way...

The above story was the easy part in writing this blog. From here on, I'm sure I will have to take frequent breaks, and many deep breaths. The Kleenex are as close to me as my emotions. As much sorrow as I have, I am also filled with joy, for the life, legacy, and love my mother left behind when she parted from this world.

On June 10, 2024, the heavens opened up and welcomed my mother to her eternal home. She ran the race. She received the prize. She's where she has longed to be. 

But, oh, how I miss her.

Without going into much detail, my mother's health had been declining for a couple of years. We attributed most of this decline to her age. Many of her ailments were expected, even considered normal for an eighty-six-year-old.

Mother fell on May 17th, and from there, went to the hospital where she stayed for a week. The doctors finally told us that she needed bypass surgery, which she was obviously too frail to have. 

All Mother wanted was to go home. To her house, and then to heaven. In order for this to happen, we had to agree to set up hospice care for her. My brother diligently worked to get this done, and my mom was able to go home.

I have learned so much about hospice. It's nothing like I thought it would be, but it's a thousand times better than I ever imagined. The hospice staff of nurses, and caretakers, and a chaplain, were in charge of everything.

The care and compassion shown by each person at Heart to Heart Hospice, was exemplary. Along with her caretaker, Mary, these individuals helped make my mother comfortable in her last days.

When Mom first arrived home, she was unable to walk alone, due to the heart catheter that went through her groin. Other than that, she was her old self, except she was constantly trying to escape from the bed. 

She was happy, and chipper, and talkative. We thought hospice care would be around for several months or more. 

And then eighteen days after her fall, reality set in. Mother was in excruciating pain, and wasn't eating or talking. The decision was made to give her morphine to make her comfortable. I didn't understand until then, this meant her days were numbered.

My brother and I took turns being with her daily. Along with hospice and her caregiver, she had care twenty-four/seven.

On Sunday, June 9th, her sister was on her way from South Texas. Phone calls came from her grandchildren. We held the phone to her ear, and watched her struggle to find words that never came. Her expression didn't change, although she desperately tried to make it do so. A solitary tear rolled down her face as her grandchildren thanked her for all she had done for them, and expressed their love to her. 

Earlier that day, I was alone with Mother for several hours. In the background, my Bose speaker quietly played praise songs. I sat by her side, held her hand, and talked to her about her life, and the life she gave me. She squeezed my hand a couple of times, or batted her eyes. I knew she could hear me. 

During that time, I said all the things I wanted and needed to say. Hearing is the last sense to go, and I knew that God was allowing her to hear me, as well as her grandchildren, family, and friends who stopped in to say goodbye.

This wasn't the first time I expressed everything I felt I needed to say to Mother. Last fall, feeling that I might be running out of time, I wrote her a letter. Not an email, or a text. A letter that I mailed to her.

Here is what I said:

Dear Mother,

I just wanted to take a moment to thank you for all you have done for me throughout my life.

As I reflect on my childhood, it was idyllic. We lived in a charming town, and were always surrounded by wonderful friends in the neighborhood, at school, or at church.

I remember all the activities I was involved in. Thank you for those opportunities:

Dance with Mr. Haden, and later Judy Ann. Twirling lessons, piano lessons, a brief stint at gymnastics. I appreciate that you and Dad didn’t ever want us to quit anything, but if that was our choice, we had to be the one to tell the teacher/instructor at the end of the year. That was such an important life lesson about being responsible, as well as accountable.

You also made sure I was a part of the Summer Theatre Workshop, and a mini-sewing course provided by the County Extension Agency. I never finished that red skirt, but I did learn a few sewing skills.

You and Dad sent me and Greg to Camp Huawni every summer, where we both made lifelong friends.

Greg and I were so lucky to have you and Dad as our parents. You were supportive, and encouraging, but never tried to micromanage or solve our problems for us. You allowed us to make mistakes, and in the end we learned so much more through those mistakes than we ever would have if you had gone before us, fixing the issues at hand.

I remember summers at cheerleader camp, where you were either a sponsor/chaperone, or drove to Dallas to drop us off at SMU, or to pick us up at the end of a very long, hot week. The summer before my freshman year when you were our sponsor, you didn’t faint or come undone when Linda Flood and I bought a mouse from the pet store in Town East Mall, rescuing it from becoming a snake’s dinner. If you didn’t know about this, I apologize. We ended up taking the mouse with us to SMU, and if there has been a rodent problem there since 1977, it was probably our fault.

I’ll never forget you consoling us in the lobby of the SMU dorm one day during lunch that same year, as twelve Nacogdoches Freshmen cheerleaders were sobbing and wailing when Kitty on  the soap opera “All My Children” died.

From as far back as I can remember, you made many of my clothes. I always felt special because no one ever had the same outfit. When we were young, you would coordinate our outfits, finding a boys’ shirt for Greg, and then making me a dress with the same colors in it.

Every Easter, Greg and I looked extra dapper. It was important that we celebrate that day by looking our finest. I especially remember the black patent Mary Jane shoes, or the shiny white shoes with gold buckles. And a matching purse, of course.

As an adult, you supported and encouraged me every step of the way. I know at times it seemed I didn’t appreciate your advice or wisdom, mainly because I thought I knew it all, as most young people mistakenly do. You never held it against me, or said, “I told you so.” You were always good like that.

Thank you for loving Brian like a son. In fact, at times Greg and I think he’s your favorite! But what a wonderful thing to have a husband who is so highly revered and respected by you.

Thank you for being a wonderful grandparent. You did it without Dad. Christopher and Meagan were both two years old when he died. And Charles was born six weeks after he was gone.

Some of the best memories of our family are the times we shared at sporting events, especially in 2006, when you followed the Arp Tiger Basketball team all the way to Austin to watch us win the State Championship. I always loved how you got to know our friends, the coaches, and other people who were on the journey with us. You never met a stranger.

Thank you for contributing to the grandchildren’s education. And a special thanks for buying the boys their Aggies rings for their twenty-first birthdays. That was such a special and generous gift, and the boys will always remember you each time they put on their rings. 

The A&M years were so fun, but were also sad, as we were constantly reminded of Dad’s absence. I think it did, however, make us feel closer to him whenever we were in Aggieland.

When Dad died, I was so worried about you. But in true Claudette Brown fashion, you rose to the occasion. Your strength, determination, and resilience were inspiring.

Before you sold our childhood home, you informed Greg and me that you were putting it on the market. You wanted our blessing. We both replied that we thought it was for the best—that the house didn’t seem like home without Dad there.

Thank you for teaching me to love books, reading, various kinds of music, but most importantly, thank you for teaching me to be tolerant of those who have different views from my own.

You led by example, and shared stories, movies, and books that taught important lessons, the most special being To Kill A Mockingbird. Aside from the Bible, no book, or movie has had a bigger impression or impact on my life. I’ll always remember when you picked me up early from a birthday party so that I could watch a movie about a mockingbird. I was in seventh grade, and was embarrassed to be the first to leave the party.

But that night, I became friends with Atticus, Scout, Jem, and Boo Radley. As I watched in awe, you explained the historically significant details about the time period, setting, and relations between races. After watching the movie, I understood the importance of walking around in someone else’s shoes; seeing things from another point of view.

Everywhere I go, I run into people who know you. Mostly your former students who always praise you for teaching them so much about government. Your influence has extended beyond the classroom into all walks of life.

I love how you helped teach your grandchildren the importance of being involved in decisions at the local, state, and federal level. Many of the best conversations have revolved around government, the Constitution, and voting.

When Christopher lived with you, he was tickled when you left a list of suggestions of who to vote for in local elections.

One of my favorite things about you, is the way you have always expressed your feelings when something isn’t right or fair.

My favorite example is when you used to drive to the Daily Sentinel to talk to the sports reporter about the lack of coverage of SFA basketball. If an article was the least bit negative, you drove down to express those concerns, and to defend SFA basketball on the highest level.

Most of all, Mother, thank you for your example. You’re a hard act to live up to, and I know I have fallen short more times than I care to mention.

Through it all, you have loved me unconditionally, and infinitely.

I haven’t been good at expressing these thoughts over the years. It’s too difficult to do without becoming an emotional wreck. All of these feelings are tucked into a place I visit often, but don’t share with others.

Since Dad died, I have built a wall around that part of my heart, protecting myself from the deep emotional scars that feel like they will never heal. 

I can’t imagine my life without you, and I want you to know that. I apologize for always keeping my composure, and not treading to the area where I dare not go.

I love you with all my heart, and thank you for the life you’ve given me. I admire you more than you could possibly know, and am so proud of the imprint you’ve left on so many lives. Your life has, indeed, been well-lived.

I know you’ve struggled over recent years, being in constant pain. I wish I could take that away. I wish I could make you feel better.

Just know, without a doubt, you are my hero. Thank you for your classy example, your kind heart, and your brilliant mind. If I am one fourth of the person you are, I will be happy.

I know this letter will make you emotional, and you don’t have to say anything about it. I know that we will both be together, sharing that space of unspoken words. Once the dam breaks, it’s hard to stop the tears from flowing. But feeling those emotions, in the deep recesses of my heart, is a reminder of the great, never-ending, all-encompassing love we share.

As Scooter (mom's cat) says, “We’re all lucky to have you in our lives.”

Much love,

Sharon

We used to laugh at the fact that Mother spoke for her cat Scooter. When she wanted to say something that she couldn't say without getting emotional, Scooter would say it. "Scooter says he's proud of you." If there was something that wasn't as complimentary, or had to do with her frustration with politics, or the world, Scooter would say those things for her too.

And now, "Scooter says," has become a precious memory. Something to bring a smile to our faces when the days seem long and dark.

I'm a firm believer in letter writing. As a child, my mother made sure I sent my grandparents thank you notes, and letters throughout the year. My grandmother saved those letters, and after she died, I found them. 

Letter writing allows you to put down on paper things that might be hard to say. Letter writing is a link between people and generations. Letters become a part of one's history and legacy.

The afternoon before Mother died, I told Greg that several years ago, I found a box of letters in the filing cabinet in the garage. Letters between my mother and father as they began "courting" through a long distance relationship. Dad was at A&M, and Mother was at Mary Hardin Baylor. 

I put the box of letters back, and it wasn't until June 9, 2024 that I took them out of the cabinet and showed them to my brother.

The box of letters is the story of their love. And these letters are the most precious thing Greg and I have of our parents. It shows their love, but also is the beginning of our story. The story of our beautiful family, and the life Mother and Dad gave us.

On her last full day on this earth, my brother read her some of the letters from my Dad. A tear rolled down her face as she listened.  Later that day, she reached out, as if she was trying to take someone's hand. She called out to her mother, and father. And then she called out to my dad, "Charles, come get me." 

Mother hadn't said my name in two weeks, and on that day, she said it twice. Once she called me over to her, the other time she asked me to get her sweater. 

We knew this was probably her rally day, and we made sure we let her know how much we loved her.

On June 10th in the afternoon, Mother went to Heaven and bowed down at the feet of Jesus. She joined my dad, and other family members who went before her.

It's hard to express, and people who have experienced this very thing will all see it differently. For me, watching my mother suffer and knowing death was near was horrific. The physical things that occurred will never be unseen.

But the spiritual experience and the complete honor of caring for my mother as she prepared to go see Jesus is the most precious memory I have of her. It's a hard memory. It's tough not to relive her pain. But in the end, she fulfilled the promise given by her Heavenly father. 

And by fulfilling her lifelong commitment to the Lord, her friends, and her family, she left us behind. And while I look back on those moments, and the waves of grief that continue to wash over me, I understand more than ever something about Life.

It's made that way.

We're intended to love. We're supposed to experience hardships, pain, and loss. Our lives will be far from perfect, because this is our temporary home. Life is made that way. 

The lesson my mom shared with me on that calamitous day when my zipper failed me, is one I have carried with me throughout my life. It was a lesson filled with honesty, grit, determination, and confidence. It helped me to look at situations that can't be changed and find the good. 

Mother was never dramatic, or hateful, or rude. Her example is one that is hard to live up to, but at the end of the day, when I'm lost, or sad, or don't know what to do, I will remember how to carry on. I will remember how I was created and loved, and beautifully and wonderfully made.

When I doubt myself, or feel alone, I will remember my pink dress, my mother, and the letters left behind. When I question life, and death, and joy and sorrow, and muddle through grief, I will look at myself and see my mother. I will remember the times she fixed my broken heart, or helped me with a problem, or simply led by example. The times she held me together, or mended my heart with a safety pin only a mom possesses.

I will always think of her as the person I hope to be. The one who gave me the best life advice ever, wrapped up into one phrase, "It's made that way."

Right now, I feel sad, alone, and heartbroken. I miss my mother, but know she is looking down, coaching me through the tough days, praying for my heart to heal, and for my soul to be joyful once again. 

And if she could tell me one thing it would be, "You can do this. You're made that way."