The Sacred Place of Overcoming
Standing in the waves, searching for peace.
Like the air seeping from a pinhole in a balloon, the breath of life began to escape from Mama’s body, barely leaving a dimple in her shrinking frame or diminishing the glow of her sun-kissed face, until one day she decided to simply close her eyes. I held her warm hand to my face for the last time. Vascular dementia gradually took parts of her mind, but not her heart. Her compassion was still visible as she adored her grandchildren from afar. When the disease took her speech, her facial expressions and her eyes communicated with my soul. She could no longer discern whether to put her shoes or her stockings on first, but her hands remained soft, warm, and eager to hold. She remembered how to smile sometimes even as the water welled in her eyes. Some days she brushed her hair with her toothbrush and washed her face with buttered toast, yet in a moment of lucidity, she said, “I am sure going to miss you.” She stopped talking after that.
At the beginning, she thought the decline was her secret. She hid the pots and pans that were burned beyond recognition in the basement. I eventually had to remove the burner knobs from the stove. She joked about forgetting the recipe for her famous potato salad. She beat her fist in her hands when she could not get the words out that were jumbled in her brain. We laughed it off, I filled in the words, and we ignored the signs.
Although it has been five years, her absence still fills me with an overwhelming sense of drowning. While riding a water slide, the giant tire tossed me into the river like a bag of cement. I fell deep into the bottomless abyss of the Chattahoochee, sinking. I extended my arm, stretching and waving my hand until I could feel the air above. I thought if I could just reach for the sky, someone would pull me out.
Grief, like the relentless pull of the Chattahoochee, engulfs me, dragging me into its depths. My hand stretches upward, desperate, grasping for the air like clutching at a lifeline, a rope, or the steadfast rungs of a ladder that might lead me back to safety. When grief overwhelms me, I go to the ocean. Amidst this turmoil, solace is found in the rhythmic embrace of the waves.
“The gentle lapping of waves against my feet provides a sense of stability and calm even as I feel the sand shifting beneath me.”
As the waves rise, they gather the waters into towering foamy crests that sparkle under the sun, catching the light like diamonds, tossing them in the air, and scattering them across the floor of the shore. A symphony builds with each approaching swell, causing the waves to inhale and exhale like the breath of a sleeping giant. I close my eyes and inhale the moist atmosphere and watch the sparkling water rise above my ankles, only to retreat and repeat.
I turn my eyes towards heaven, and my hands instinctively follow. The tranquil tempo of the ocean fills my heart to overflowing. Mama’s spirit comes alive in me as I leave the shore with a heart full of diamonds and reminiscences.
We were an anomaly, my Mama and I. Mama dared to go places we were not welcome. My triple-A size feet led us into such a place. Even though I insisted that the shoes my friends were wearing fit my feet just fine, those shoes would flop off my heels like clown shoes. Mama would save enough money to take me downtown to Martin’s to buy shoes that fit properly. As I recall, there were never many black people in that store. The 1920s antique coffee shop was always a part of the trip. I loved sitting on the spinning white leather and silver rimmed barstools. Using two forks, we shared the best whipped cream covered blueberry pie while she crossed her ankles and indulged in a hot cup of coffee. She ignored the stares and the frowns of the white faces that surrounded us. She was not bothered. She was regal. Her demeanor and her courage demanded service everywhere she went. She was never denied, fearful, stoppable, or contained.
Mama taught herself to drive a car. Then she bought herself a dark blue Chevy Nova Super Sport that accelerated from 0 to 60 mph in 6.5 seconds. She whipped that car around the city with one foot on the gas and the other on the brake like a professional race car driver. Driving in New York required aggression, audacity, and a fearless spirit. It was certainly not for the faint of heart. She maneuvered through the chaotic streets like a woman on a mission, both hands gripping the steering wheel, her body poised and slightly bent forward, ready to tackle whatever came her way. She approached life with the same tenacity.
Our home operated with the precision of a well-oiled machine under her command. She embodied the strength and resolve of Harriet Tubman, Shirley Chisholm, and Aretha Franklin – formidable forces demanding respect.
Mama had to be a force to reckon with. She was a preacher’s wife, industrious, inquisitive, ingenious, and sometimes envied, all of which came with its own set of consequences and repercussions. There were periods of loneliness, sadness, and many thankless moments. She learned to manage the household money and make smart investments. She negotiated and purchased our first home, an investment property. She saved for rainy days, turned little into much, and stretched a dollar until Washington cried. She knew that rainy days would come. Some days, she was overcome with sadness. The tears would flow as she moved about the house doing her chores.
Her pain was obvious, but she never complained. I could only speculate the source and would not dare to speak it out loud. In retrospect, these internalized accumulations of heartache compounded over the years could not have been healthy, but she never stayed in that place for long. She prayed her way through whatever it was, resurfaced victoriously, and moved undeterred to her next level.
Pictured: Annie Nell Chavis, Joanna Johnson’s mother, whose legacy lives on in every word.
In the summer, Mama took us down south. Sometimes, we took the long train ride from New York to Georgia. Other times, we carpooled with our aunts, uncles, and cousins to granddaddy’s house. The manicured red dirt, the dirt floor out-house with the roll of tissue on a tree branch, the white bucket slop john in the middle of the room at night, the cackling chickens, the taste of fresh eggs, and the smell of homemade biscuits in the morning, still vivid recollections. But even more than that are the warm reflections of wonderful family gatherings that took place on this ancestral land.
A real, genuine southern upbringing is something special. Mama had six siblings. Their journey from down south to the city is a story of resilience, love, and family strength that should be documented and televised. They left one at a time, each making a way to bring the next. Their deep faith, family traditions, and the love they so naturally and unapologetically shared with us and each other were truly amazing and permeate the lives of their children and their children’s children.
Sunday mornings were revitalizing for Mama. She rose like the morning sunrise, boldly brightening the day. She wore her First Lady role like a coat of many colors and was adored and honored because of it. She started the service with her melodious voice bellowing, “This Is the Day That the Lord Has Made, We Will Rejoice and be Glad in It, I Will Enter His House with Praise, and So Good, So Good, He Has Been So Good to Me.” She would sing and pray as if there was nobody there but her and Jesus, and sometimes there was nobody there. It didn’t matter if there were two or twenty. She would sing herself happy, awakening the saints, and setting the atmosphere. Her praise ushered in the Holy Spirit and filled the room.
She was a woman transformed in front of my eyes, imbued with a supernatural power, who managed in the same day to relegate herself to the church kitchen, cooking up and serving the best fried chicken, macaroni and cheese, collard greens, candied yams and cornbread dinner the saints and friends had ever tasted. Her light could fill a room one way or another.
Although the light she brought has dimmed, her reflection greets me in my mirror every morning. My eyes are like her eyes, brown, almond-shaped, lighter in the sun, and sometimes sad. My lips form her smile under a protruded upper lip. Her hands extend out of my shirt sleeves, her sass is in my spine, and her dip is in my hips. Her ways are a part of who I am, and somewhere in the dark recesses of my bones is the light she gave to me waiting to glow again for her through me. If I could just stretch my hands high enough to reach the heavens where she resides.
At the ocean’s shore, I kneel, beckoning the waves’ crest to lift me in their gentle embrace and plant my feet softly upon the shore where I can wallow in the essence of her and bask in the memories until my soul overflows. I grasp remnants of her spirit in my hands as the sandy water sifts slowly through my fingers. I bid farewell to the missed opportunities to love, to share, to say more, to embrace her more, and yield to her embrace more.
In these moments of regret, I offer myself kindness, grace, patience, and solace while constantly seeking that sacred place of overcoming. The sound of the surf washes over me, and each crest carries away a fragment of my sorrow. The ocean's vastness mirrors the depth of my emotions, yet its continuous motion reminds me that life still flows, even in the face of loss. The waves, in their eternal dance, offer a promise of renewal, hope, and comfort to my grieving heart, as I skip along the shore with my pockets full of diamond-crusted memories.
“Dear God,
Endow me with her sweet, kind loving spirit,
her warm heart.
Her creative and prolific hands.
Her praise, power, fearlessness and faith.
Give me a portion of her grace
A modicum of Your mercy
So that one day I may be able
To see her again. Amen”
“In loving memory”
Annie Nell Chavis
May 8, 1928 - October 20, 2020
