In Recognition of International Woman’s Day

Mrs. Beam picked me up on Sunday morning to take me to Cedar Grove Lutheran Church. I was a little on the uppity side when it came to choosing church going.  My grandparents and my father attended Bess Chapel Methodist.  That was too redneck for me, too “Rock of Ages” for my taste.  I had a vision that I need to be among the better heeled Lutherans and that if I attended Cedar Grove, with the judgmental and harsh minister who at the time stood in the pulpit and reined with a steel fist over his flock, I would somehow be closer to where my family had once been.  I could pretend for those mornings while standing, sitting, standing, and sitting that my life was truly no different that it had been.  Before the divorce.  Before the gradual disintegration of my family.  Before I came to live at Flay.

So my precious and loving 4^th grade teacher picked me up as she passed by Flay on Sunday mornings.  In my memory, I was always waiting on her, ready and willing to enter an environment that did not want me at all.  On time for this appointment, this may explain why I have rarely been on time since.

This was a church filled with intact nuclear families and perfect mother-daughter relationships.  Fathers appeared to be part of the plan, and I could gaze upon a world that had been stolen out from under me.  A place that loudly proclaimed that I was the ugly duckling, but which I chose to attend repeatedly, to endure what I felt as personal abuse, until I received my confirmation.    I recall being admonished by a holier-than-thou teacher because I uttered the word, “dang”.  I was strongly reprimanded that this was no different from saying the other word – I suppose she meant damn – and that I should watch my language, young lady.  I don’t think I was trying to be a lady.  And I do not carry fond memories of her.  I can see the agitation and disgust in her face even now.

I still have the 8×10 glossy in which my best friend at the time, along with three other “young ladies” are being photographed in the moment of their confirmations.  Or the moment after.  The dogmatic and unkind minister stands there as well with his expression of boredom and dislike.  Still, there is a pride on that 15-year-old face that I had accomplished this goal, that I had attained this special recognition that I mistakenly thought would make both of my parents proud.  My dad was with my grandparents (or so I remember) attending the small Methodist church.  Perhaps there were family members in attendance.  I don’t recall.  But the importance of the event was that I had done it with no encouragement and little fanfare.  I had reached this goal, which was shortly to bear little importance to me.

I left the Lutheran church after that.  Mrs. Beam was no longer there to take me on Sunday mornings.  Or else I had my driving license by that point, and was in the throes of teenage rebellion.  Who needed church?  I still needed Mrs. Beam, but my vision was blurred by the upheavals in my life, and I lost touch with her.  It was time to be the rebellious, battle your way out of life and cut your nose off to spite your face teenager.  I did a rather good job at that.

My sister reminded me of Mrs. Beam this week.  The warm memories, feelings, and fondness I still feel for her is deeply embedded.  She was a beacon in a time of deep darkness for me.  She loved me for who I was and I felt no recriminations or judgment because I did not come from the perfect family unit.  I came with the baggage of a mentally ill father, divorced parents, and abandonment issues with my mother, and the somewhat jaded goodwill of grandparents who took me into their home to raise.

A veritable redheaded force who was unable to feel appreciation for much in her life at that point.  That has changed deeply.  I do appreciate now.  I am humbled with gratitude for what so many did for me.  That is the lesson of life – if you can appreciate late, do so.  If you can do it early, please do so.  Thank you, Mrs. Beam.  For giving unsparingly and without any reservations to me with a heart that was so full of compassion, so ready to offer love to a lost little girl, so able to allow me to see myself through your eyes.  Thank you for simply being you.  Thank you from the very essence of me.