faith

Goodbye, Alice.

| Marlys

I’m just one of many people who loved Alice. She was kind–always. She was my friend, but, then, she was a friend to all she met.

Alice’s memorial service was yesterday. Even knowing she was ready, I was saddened by the thought of a goodbye. I drove into the parking lot, saw how full it was, and pulled back out. Not that I’ve ever looked forward to funerals, but I haven’t been very good with them since my dad’s almost three years ago. I figured, there are so many people there, I’ll not be missed. But as I drove out, I could tell I needed to be there. I drove around the block and came back, entering the church right as it was time to begin and sitting at the back.

Besides sharing a church and loving several of the same people due to that affiliation, Alice and I had a couple other strong connections that bound us together–Chelsea and Ashley, her granddaughters. Both had been in classes with me at Cowley College, and they were and are remarkable young women. Alice and I spoke of them almost weekly for years. She was so proud of the women they are. I don’t mean things like education and jobs, although those were always quite good as well. I mean, who they are…inside.

Chelsea and Ashley did Alice proud in front of a full congregation yesterday by speaking about who she was and how they loved her. She was a major part of who these women became in life–strong, intelligent and compassionate. I can only hope they realize how much they added to her life, too. That truth was evident in every word Alice spoke of them.

Am I glad I went? Oh, yes, I am. Mostly, however, I’m glad to have hugged and been hugged in return by Chelsea and Ashley. I could feel Alice’s smile upon us in those brief moments of connection.

Alice, you are in your well-deserved Wonderland now, and I can just imagine the joy that met you there.

Kids Who Die: a look backward in a backward world

| Marlys

In 1938, Langston Hughes wrote the poem “Kids Who Die”. Listening to it today made me sad at how we seem to be right back in that time period of discrimination and hate, looking for the light that brings people together rather than  separating them. I’ve added a video link at the bottom of this post, in case you’d like to hear the poem. The video is created by Frank Chi and Terrance Green, and it is narrated  by Danny Glover. I found it posted on FB by ColorOfChange. It is tough to listen to his words and tough to watch the video that accompanies it.

I, in no way, feel the majority of officers of the law are violent in this manner, but the cases are growing and our communities are either growing numb to the outcomes/outcries, or recognizing they must take a stand, or becoming so scared for their youth they feel hopeless. The tides must change. For all the dialogue of Christian values, not nearly enough is lighting a path of love for all. All. I started with a posting on FB as I reposted the video, and it became obvious that there way more I needed to think through that is heavy on my heart on the subject, so I’ve moved to this venue instead.

It seems I spend much of my time justifying why I post or repost situations of brutality by those in authority, explaining again and again that I am not anti-police, anti-authority, but rather pro-people. Stereotypes are rampant for all sides of any issue, and I do not condone hurtful ones for any segment of our population with authority over others. Some of my favorite people are in law enforcement, and I grew up around several police officers, including police chiefs, and highway patrolmen, and I am friends today with many who work in law enforcement. I am not fearful of them. I count on these men and women to protect those I love.

However, even in my community and workplace, the fear of the “other” is much more rampant than it has been for a while, and I now fear for many I know and love. Any situation, interpreted like the stereotype, could lead to death. It’s not as simple as “follow the rules” or “do what you’re told.” That, too, has led to injury and even death for many. So, yes, while I agree that stereotypes abound for all segments of our population, including law enforcement, many of these do not result in injury and death. They may be unfair, and I will speak up against those that I know are just as I do for the innocent accused in any area. But my ethical and loving heart has to first go to those who are in the line of fire even though innocent, without being trained in how to navigate those who hate and/or fear them.

With sadness, I read about mothers who have to tell their children/youth how to behave in a submissive manner, not to question anything even if they have no idea what they are being charged for, to fear the police and not to trust the community around them…the one that is theirs as much as it is mine.

Search this. Previously, it was moms worrying about their boys. Now, there are the faces of so many girls in the mix, too, that the pool of potential victims has grown. Fear has grown. Fear and hate are the weeds in the garden that will not go away. Not with the love your gardening hands bring as you tend the space. Not with the chemicals put there in attempts to rid the area of these problems. They come back more times than we can count in that garden we love. How do you move from an issue that grows so out of control people begin to think their actions are aligned with their faith?

Friends I love observe a plethora of different faiths, but the common denominator in them is the idea of caring for the poor, the abused, the suffering. None truly elevate the idea of discrimination and injury, violence and death. Those elements may be brought in by segments of their followers, Isis within the Muslim faith, the Klan within Christianity, and so on, but they are not precepts of the faith. They are people bending their faith into what they want to see in the world, into something that helps them justify their actions. That is not faith, and that is  not coming from the truly faithful.

Right now, the faithful should hurt for others. Should pray fervently for change. Should meditate to center themselves into a strong place of conviction to the actual teachings of their faith. Should encourage others to do the same. In a loving way. Not in the in-your-face debate methods found throughout our world right now.

I am imperfect in all of this, but I strive for the perfection of loving people more than material items, helping people above personal greed, and serving the loving God I know to exist in the world and in my heart.

May your compassionate hearts reach out to those in the world who may need you, and may the compassion of others find you when you are in need.

Video Link: Kids Who Die, by Langston Hughes

Shifting Sands

| Marlys

The shells glisten as I hold them,

ready to be placed where I can see them easily.

Shells glisten

in my hands

as I look for

a special place

that can hold them.

Shells sit

on the nightstand

where I can look

anytime I need to

see them.

Shells hide

behind the books

under the papers

mixed in with other trinkets

not so important.

Shells allude me

as I try to grasp themTexas_Mermaid

but my memory fades

and they slip through my mind

like grains of sand slip through my fingers.

The End

| Marlys

We begin at the end, 9/11/10

“I need to talk to you,” I say to my wife, Connie.

“No,” the nurse says as she puts the mask back over my mouth. “You have to keep the ventilator over your mouth.”

I remember how this all began on September 3, with my surgery to remove a large, aggressive, cancerous tumor in my stomach, causing pain, an inability to eat, and damaging most of my organs as it grew and attached itself to them.

Dr. Tim Gilbert, the surgeon, removed the tumor in a lengthy surgery that also repaired organs, and I’d been admitted to the hospital to recover with Gilbert and Drs. Michael Sullivan and Paul G. Hagood overseeing the healing process.

As weak as I was in the beginning, I soon began to move about some and felt recovery was progressing.

Since I’d been having kidney problems, and that was one of the organs damaged by the tumor, the kidney specialist Hagood wanted an x-ray taken on 9/10 using the contrast dye gastro griffin.  I remember three nurses, just girls really, taking me to the x-ray.  One said, “How much are you gonna give him?”  Another answered, “I don’t know how much I’m supposed to, but I’m going to give him a lot.”  That didn’t boost my confidence of the process any whatsoever.  I’m sure I was given a liter or two.

I felt sick all night, but the night nurses must have thought it was normal.  I know my family wanted more done to help me all through this time because I was failing quickly and becoming weaker and weaker.

By morning, I felt I had lost all healing that had previously taken place.  I felt horrible, if you could even say I could feel anything at that time.  Luckily the morning nurse, God bless her, could immediately tell things weren’t normal.  I wasn’t okay.  She called the doctor and coordinated my move to CCU a little after 8am that morning.  My son Todd rode the elevator with me, and Connie and my daughter Marlys walked to join us, relieved that I was headed for more in-depth care.

After a few hours, Hagood told the nurses to flush my kidneys to try to get them working again.  Connie and Marlys were asked to step out of the room, so they joined other family and friends in the waiting room.

Shortly thereafter, from the waiting room, my family and friends heard “Code Blue in CCU. We need the ER doctor to CCU. Code Blue in CCU” over the loud speaker.  They were frozen with fear.  As for me, I was floating two or three feet above my body, looking down, watching the chaotic activity below me.

The nurses are there, working frantically.  One even crawls onto the bed and straddles me.  She has a large ball-like instrument on a mask.  She’s rough.  But in the midst of that roughness, a man’s voice says, “Should I call it?”  And the nurse says, “No.”  Again he asks, and again she replies “No.”

The chaos is evident, the stress obviously intense.  But not for me.  Because I’m not in that body on the bed.

As I watch, I feel a presence beside me.  Ghostly might be a way to describe both the presence and myself during that time, fog-like.  It’s male, a spirit, I guess.  But really, I know it’s God. He’s comforting.

“Gary, it’ll be okay,” I hear more than once.  I think maybe one time He even calls me “son”, but I can’t be sure.  I may just feel that level of comfort with Him beside me.

“It’s your choice,” He says to me. “You can go on, or you can go back.”  I’m sure it must’ve been only seconds, but it felt as if I was with that presence for a long time, deciding.

I tell him I want to go back.  I can’t leave Connie yet.  Just as quickly as He’d come, He is gone.  And I am awake in the hospital bed.  With a surprised doctor and nurses looking over me.

Connie and my kids are allowed to come into the room to see me. I can see the tears and fear on their faces.

“I need to talk to you,” I say to Connie. After the nurse left the room, I removed the oxygen mask myself because I needed to tell them what happened.

“Just me?” Connie asks.

“No.” And I point that Todd and Marlys should stay.

“I died.”

“I know you came close,” Connie says softly.

“No, I died.”

“How do you know?”

“I could see myself.”

Still trying to understand, Connie says, “Were we in here?”

“No, you weren’t here. Just the nurses and then a doctor working on my body.”

“A presence spoke to me. God. I had decisions to make,” I continue. “It was peaceful. No stress.”

To make sure they understand just how peaceful this was, I tell them, “I wanted to come back, but it would’ve been okay if I didn’t.”

Epilogues

Gary:

Since that day, September 11, 2010, I’ve talked more to my family, and many others, about the experience. But it’s hard to truly describe how peaceful it was. How those few seconds changed my life. It will always be okay, I know.

Connie:

A few days after Gary was released from the hospital, we found out I also had cancer and would need surgery. It was not something we knew when Gary felt he couldn’t leave me yet, but maybe Someone else knew and just put that feeling within him as he decided.

Todd:

After we made it through the Code Blue, what I remember most is sitting in the room in CCU and watching the blood pressure numbers, which were next to nothing, slowly rise through the night—as life was restored to my dad.

Marlys:

As I record this experience, I’m reminded of the awe I felt from Dad’s moments of peace as he related being with that presence, and the mysteries of faith abound within me. It is through tears of joy that I put this to print on the one year anniversary of this truly blessed day in all our lives.

Sometimes, the end…is only the beginning…

It’s Not My Story, but it is The Way it Was: Midnight and Mud

| Marlys

Night Cross

 As I walk through the mud, I wonder if I’ll even make it to the other side. I wonder, how did it get to this point? Me, midnight, two babies, scared.  And I think back to just a few years ago, and him.

We were poor, but he was hard-working, a farmer, unafraid of labor. I hadn’t really considered getting married yet, but when I met him, I knew he was the right one. When our son was born we were so happy, so content, the family we’d always wanted to be. But we were still poor, and oppression in our country was rough. We were troubled with lack of work, lack of income, lost at not being able to take care of our family. He felt less a man, and I knew not how to help him. After hearing of dreams realized by others in the United States, we began to think of the opportunities there. But he was unwilling to take a young wife and baby who was not quite 1.

So, alone, he left for the trip to find work, new opportunities, a way to support his family. And I waited, unknowingly pregnant already with a 2nd son, trying to manage a child, living with my parents, who really couldn’t afford us either. I was lonely. And I waited, hinging on the brink of depression but unable to go to that dark place with a little one relying on me. Hoping, especially once I discovered I was pregnant, that I’d be with him long before this baby came.

But that didn’t happen. And I had a terrible delivery, with a wet nurse who didn’t think I’d survive, wondering who would get word to him, in the United States, if I didn’t. But I, we, survived. To live alone, still, without him.

Almost a year has passed since that day. The world I live in has gotten worse, the poverty and discrimination, tyranny really, is overwhelming, and I had to write to him that I wasn’t sure how long we’d survive. He’d hoped to have more time to really help us come over, but instead, now, we were to sell our personal belongings for the trip and come.

I am scared, but excited. I hope he won’t have changed too much, and I hope I haven’t either. I want my husband, my family, back. Luckily, my brother-in-law said he’d go with us since I have two children, babies really, one 11 months old now, who’s never even been seen by his father, and one 2.

When we arrive at the border, excited to go on, we’re stopped by guards and told it is closed. We cannot cross. It doesn’t matter that the other half of my heart is over there. It doesn’t matter that I’ve been alone, for 2 years now, just waiting for this moment in time. But time has stopped for me. I panic but cannot talk. We move back and sit a bit, trying not to think about what it means to return to nothing. Trying not to think about if I’ll ever see him again.

My brother-in-law understands my depression and finds a guard. Bribes him with all the money we have. A final attempt to get across this border that is, truly, only another portion of God’s land. But now it represents oppression. Dreams lost. The fear of a young woman. Me.  But it works, and we’re told to get rid of everything we can’t easily carry. We’re told where to meet, at midnight. Me, my brother-in-law, and two little boys. Boys who should be fed and fast asleep long before that time.

The fear is overwhelming, but there are things to do. I get rid of everything but a few diapers, a change of clothes for the boys, a few personal mementos. I put them in a pillowcase. All my life is now diminished to a pillowcase. And two little people who rely on me. And a man I haven’t seen in 2 years. I never thought this would be my life.

Now, here I am, walking in the rain, across muddy swamps, trying to remember the Promised Land is ahead. Maybe.  If we make it. You can’t imagine my fear when we met the guard at midnight. He only then realized how young the boys were, and he said, “You better keep that little one quiet. If he cries, I’ll have to fire my gun to warn the other guards someone is sneaking across. You know what that means?” I do. It means prison. If I’m lucky.

I don’t know what it means for the boys. I choose not to think of that as I pat my baby’s back and try to keep him quiet. We move on. We get to a fence. Barbed wire. We have to crawl under. The guard doesn’t help. He’s done, except to tell us to keep moving after we cross so we don’t get caught. The guard has his money, my money, all I’m worth in the world. Except to him. The one I’m slowly moving toward on this night. Midnight and mud. Toward morning. Toward light. Toward life.

*******************************************************************************************************************************************

Final Thoughts: Her reality to mine

You’ve heard stories like this, whatever your sympathies or political leanings are. But this one isn’t quite the same. It’s not from the Cervantes side of my family, like it might seem.  It’s a story that began with a wedding in 1906 and a border crossing in 1911. A German border.  And it’s the story of my great grandmother. Not Josefina Salazar, but Wilhelmina Busch, and Adolf Weis. The parents of another baby boy they named Waldo Weis, but who went to school in a little town in Oklahoma, where the teacher misheard him and listed him as Walter. The name stuck.

So, what does The Way It Was make me? It is the way it was. It is the reason I’m here, with you, and an obligation to a young woman named Wilhelmina to make the best life I can.

Night Falls in My Heart

| Marlys

(Dedicated to Her)

by Marlys Cervantes

What the hell am I doing? Again. I lay on the couch, watching out the window for his headlights. The number of nights I’ve followed this routine probably numbers in the hundreds, so it takes a minute before I realize that my thought patterns have changed. I’ve spent so many nights in this very situation—hoping he’d make it home safely. What’s the difference tonight? He hasn’t changed, but when did I?

I think, almost pray, that he doesn’t make it home. I haven’t been to church in quite some time, and prayer hasn’t even crossed my mind in so long, I figure no one’s listening. Still, I can’t help but hope that this time, the drinking will lead him to a fatal wreck. I know. I know what that makes me. That makes me a horrible person, but I don’t know how else to get out.

By now, I can’t even remember the number of times I’ve left, or at least threatened it, only to return. I wonder if all women, only girls really, if they were like me, feel this strongly about the first person they make love to—an obligation to make it work, to make the giving of themselves meaningful. It’s only stronger now that we have a baby. I seem to find no road I’d willingly take to leave him.

I can’t help but think, what if he dies…I know I’ll hurt—I love him. But, I hurt now, and maybe hurting really hard, once, will be better than over and over and over again. I have to stop feeling this way. What if he really has that wreck? Would I be able to take the guilt I would most likely feel?

My mind is exhausted.  I try to think back to how I came to this place in time, in my life, in my mind, and I wonder if it will ever change, if he will ever change. Still, I can’t help it, one time of tremendous pain seems preferable to this exhaustion I feel continually. I wonder how much guilt I’d hold onto if it happened.

***

The baby cries and takes me out of my depression, out of wandering through my disheartened mind. I make my way to her room, and I bring her into the living room and rock her. I hold her close and listen to her heartbeat because she’s the only reason I am sane in this moment, at this time, waiting for him.

The walls dance with headlights, and I know he has made it safely home. The caress of lights over me feels almost like a hug, but I know that’s fleeting, only a momentary feeling. I wish it was more.  I wish I was more. I wish I was enough.

I wonder if he’ll already be angry. That’s the emotion alcohol generally brings out in him. No big surprise there. I was probably only 17 the last time I was able to laugh when he had alcohol on his breath. There’s been nothing fun or funny about it in so long.

As he enters the door and throws the things he’s carrying into the living room, I can see he is already filled with anger. I’m not even sure what it’s really about, but he starts ranting about wanting to beat up the neighbor over the dog or some idiotic, unimportant excuse for a fight. I tell him, no, he needs to just go to bed and not start anything that could get him in trouble.

His yelling and my pleading over that go on for a while. I’m even more exhausted.  It has to stop. Finally, I tell him he ought to go next door and take care of the guy. I say, I’m sure the guy is telling everyone in the neighborhood he’s too chicken to do anything about it.  Whatever it is. I think that once he’s out the door, I’ll call the police to come investigate the noise on the block. Surely, if they realize it was me calling, they won’t tell him. I’m simply not sure what else to do.

But he doesn’t go. And, he’s still angry. I say the wrong thing, I don’t even remember what, and he grabs up an ashtray stand and raises it over his head facing me. The shadow flows over me. Kind of like the headlights did. But, this doesn’t feel anything like that hug even for an instant. The stand is wooden and the top is ceramic. I know it’s heavy.

He swings it at me, just missing my head. I scream. She screams. My heart stops. I don’t know if she’s been hit, or if my screaming scared her. And, I can’t try to figure it out right now because he’s apologizing and, of course, requires all of my attention. One thing I know is, it won’t help to bring him back to the anger.

As I think about if she’s hurt, I have to focus on what to do. I would never have believed, growing up with a loving family, basic middle class, nice middle sized city, that I’d ever have this question, with no answer for it, in my mind: What on earth do I do now?

As the question resonates through my soul, my mind tells me that the first step is getting him to the bedroom. But, he’s now intent on apologizing, yet again, for this behavior, trying to bite his tongue each time he almost says it is my fault. Not that it would bother him in any way to blame me. But, at this point, he’s ready for bed instead of a fight. And I’m expected to forgive (well, that one probably doesn’t matter), forget (this one won’t matter unless I want to talk about any of this later), and be there with him, thankful, of course, that he wants to be in bed with me instead of someone else. At least, this time.

***

I tell him I’ll put her in her crib—to go back to the bedroom, and I’ll be there. Instead, he waits for me as I put her to bed. I’m glad to see that it looks like only a red mark on her forehead. She isn’t still crying, so surely there’s no serious injury, and she’s not yet bruised or swollen, so I feel some relief.  Maybe the stand he yielded hit the top of the wooden rocking chair at the same time it would have come down on her head. I don’t know anything for sure, except I think she’s okay. This time, at least.

I follow him back to the bedroom, he gets into bed, I hesitate, and she cries. Somehow, I’m thankful for this cry. It means I can put off, at least for a little bit, and longer if he falls asleep, the act that should feel like love but instead feels like another form of physical betrayal.

I’m disgusted with myself as much as I am with him over my feelings. Where did the young man I fell in love with at 16 go? But, with another cry, I’m again pulled out of my mind, and I tell him that I’ll just go check on her, and I’ll be right back.

***

Now, here’s where it gets bizarre, uncanny. I suddenly know exactly what to do. If asked the year before, or week before, or even day before, what I’d do in this situation—drunk, angry husband, possibly injured baby, and no confidence in myself to do anything about my life—I’d have said I’d be panic-stricken.

Funny, I’m not. Instead, before I get to my—his—bedroom door, I already know what to do. I hear it clearly being said to me as I leave the room. It’s like a whisper from a friend, a secret meant just for me.

Close his door.  I take three more steps out of the room.

Place the ironing board across the hall.  Another three steps.

Think. Where did you leave your car keys?  In my purse on the floor by the couch.

Get her quickly. I lift her into my arms, leaving everything else, and she fits snuggly just like the part of me that she is.

Turn off the hall light on your way out her door. I do, at the same time looking toward my purse so I can locate it in the dark. I feel her heartbeat against my chest, causing my heart to beat again.

Lock the front door on your way out.  Get the keys as quickly as you can because he’ll hear you at some point.  I pray it’s not too quickly that he does. She looks at me, unafraid.

I’m opening my car door just as he comes out of the front door and busts the porch light with his fist. He’s yelling that I’d better come back if I know what’s good for me, and any number of other things that I don’t really hear. He just keeps screaming.

But she’s not. And I’m not.  We are out.  I wonder how I ever let myself dig down and place my spirit so deep into this abyss. How can a person place so little value on herself? I wonder if I have the will to really leave him. This time. After coming back so many times before.

***

Then I remember. I remember with awe and gratitude the voice in my head that was that first source of clarity. Remembering this very first time that God enveloped me in a whisper that saved my life. And hers.

Beginnings

| Marlys

Where did it begin?

Do you love beginnings or hate them? Look forward to them or fear them? Truly, I oftentimes love change, but my preference is to be past that beginning and right in the middle of the challenge of it.

I’ve been thinking about what to post first on this website, SoulfulBeing.net, fully intending it to be something academic, dealing with writing and reading and the importance of critical thinking in life today. I have journals full of writings I want to share, poems written on everything from restaurant receipts to church bulletins, reflections about my past, my present, my hopes and fears and, well, you get the idea. Where to do I begin?  Continue reading →