A Celebration of My Father

Today, I am grateful for my earthly father, Bobby Bembry, who shaped my life through the wisdom he shared. Some of the things he said seemed funny and hard to figure out like, “You can’t lead a goat to water because you can’t make him drink. You can make a horse drink but a goat’s going to do what he wants to do” and “You don’t leave a dead dog in the road. It just stinks.” Both statements, as well as many others he would make, are profound. The goat statement tells us some people will never change and it’s not our job to make them change. There are a couple of thoughts in the second hidden gem: first, we don’t need to put all of our personal business out there for everyone to see and run over; second, we need to clean up any problems we have before they get us run over by cars or eaten by buzzards.

Today, my daddy would have been celebrating his 84th birthday. I am thankful God put him in my life to help mold me into the man I am today.

My father, seated, surrounded by, from left to right: my youngest sister, Abbie; myself; and my brother.

Elegy for Mama

Today, I am grateful for the wonderful woman God gave me to be my mama and my friend. Twenty-one years ago today, my mother left this earth and entered into the realms of Glory. I remember the battle to keep her here as I was told by my friends, Rob Covell and Lori Williams, who worked for Madison County EMS, and by Dr. Adolfo Dulay. I appreciate everything they did, but God had other plans for my mother and he allowed her to go Home. She had a hard life, losing three of her precious children, who she was reunited with. Although many times I wish she was still here, so I could share a problem I have with her, or to share a moment of happiness, I know that I would never want to remove her from her place of Joy. She is in the presence of the Lord.

Tara: An Essay in Beauty and Class

 

“Oh Jacob. That is so special. I adore you. You are one of God’s gifts too. Thank you for being a friend to me. It means more than you know.”  Tara Burtchaell, May 2, 2019

I didn’t know it at the time, but I would also speak to Tara (a friend from my days at Florida State University) via social media once more. Six months and five days later, she would be dead. Death sometimes can play cruel games with the living and I didn’t discover my beautiful friend’s fate until this past Saturday, January 4, 2020. That is the day a celebration of life service was held in her memory at Peachtree Road United Methodist Church in Atlanta. Of course, life can sometimes appear to be cruel, and, amid all those in-between months, I was busy as my brother had one massive heart attack in July, and another four days after Tara was ushered into Eternity. During this turmoil, a childhood friend and the valedictorian of my senior class, passed away. I guess it can be overlooked that I hadn’t checked in on Tara more.

The conversation I had with Tara that evening had been shortly after the death of her mother. Tara absolutely doted on her mother and had sat by her side during her illness. She was distraught over her death and told me she was struggling with the loss. I shared with her that I had lost both of my parents, and that I care for my brother and sister, Abbie Gail, who has developmental disabilities. I explained how Abbie has been like a daughter to me, although she is only six years younger. That is why she responded the way she did during the conversation.

For all intents and purposes, Tara and I should have never been friends. She came from class. I was a dirt-poor farm boy. She was beautiful. I was just me. Tara and I would go to plays together, and occasionally, to dinner or lunch together, but it was always as just friends, although I had the biggest crush in the world on her.
Miles, years, and circumstances separated us. She left and went to New York City before she returned to her home in the Atlanta area. I settled in the north Florida area to a life that was nowhere near as exciting as hers.

Tara went on to work on and produce such TV shows as Good Eats with Alton Brown, Dancin’ the Dream and Dance Crash with Brandee Evans. My favorite work she produced and wrote was a cartoon based on the Elf on the Shelf books titled Elf on the Shelf: An Elf’s Story.

I wish life had afforded me the opportunity to talk more with Tara. I wish I had known her more than I did. She was such a beautiful person. More Important that that, she was a kind person.

Perfect Time

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

He did not need a watch on his left wrist, nor an alarm clock to wake him up in the morning. He knew what time it was every minute of the day. He intuitively knew when to wake up. Going to sleep was his problem.

Sleep eluded him like a woman trying to escape from an unwanted lover. Like a fly escaping from a swatter. Like Criss Angel escaping from a straight jacket. Sleep was the woman he loved the most, but sleep ran when he tried to catch her.

Eventually, sleep would finally yield to his embrace and ravish him with kisses. The two would become one, but it would be a restless relationship because he always knew when to awake.

He hated his ability to keep perfect time. .

Written by Jacob Bembry, September 15. 2010

Granddaddy’s Secret Elixir

I had a million things on my mind as I tried to sleep one night. Much of my time, but not nearly enough, was spent in prayer.

As I walked down the halls of sleeplessness, I began opening many doors. The doors held long-forgotten memories.

One memory that I recalled was from my Granddaddy and Granny Sealey’s anniversary party. I believe that it was their 41st anniversary. Everyone enjoyed a cookout outside my grandparents’ home in Lee. There were many people, mostly family, all there. I remember a band playing country music. The members of the band included my mama’s first cousin, Mason Linton, and her cousins, Trent Lasseter and Brenda McCormick. Jimmy Kent played the guitar. Her cousin, Faye Kervin, sang a song or two. Mama’s brother, J.D. Sealey, sang. I am still wondering if Mason and Jimmy still play. I don’t think Faye sings anymore. I do know that Trent and Brenda still play.

I believe that it was a year later, maybe less, than Granddaddy died.

Granddaddy, along with my daddy and my Uncle Billy, were probably my childhood heroes. Granddaddy had grand plans for the two of us. Many of them, like the go-kart he was going to build for us, never materialized. I understand, though, that it was because he did not have the time. He had to work. He had to work a lot but he still took time out for his firstborn grandson.

I can still remember my granny and granddaddy getting into little spats when I was a child. Granddaddy would get in his car and leave in a huff. Soon, he would be home and wouldn’t be grumpy anymore.

I always wondered where Granddaddy went. One day, my daddy and I found out. There used to be a general store in Lee run by Bert Stroup. On this particular day, when Daddy and I went there to buy Coca-Colas, we discovered my granddaddy, Jake Sealey, in there drinking one of those eight-ounce Coca-Colas that they used to bottle years ago. With youthful wide-eyed wonder, I looked up at my mother’s father like I hadn’t seen him in years and said, “Hey, Granddaddy!”

“Hmmpf!” was his reply but it did not deter me because I was excited. I had discovered the secret elixir that would end his grumpy mood.

Sometimes, I wish that I could find me an old eight-ounce Coca-Cola and drink it and chase my problems away, but I know that drink had no influence on him other than as a pacifier that gave him time to think things through.

God is the answer to my problems and I know that I should spend more time in prayer and Bible reading with Him.

Photo by Caleb Oquendo on Pexels.com

Most of All

I remember the scrapes and scars from my childhood.

I remember falling off the bicycle and scraping my knees.

I remember falling off the porch and breaking my arm and the tears not falling until I heard my father’s boss, who was visiting my grandparents’ house that day, tell him upon examining the arm, “Bobby, it’s broke. You are going to have to take him to the hospital.
I remember after hearing those words, tears pouring like rain and my scream piercing the air.

Hospital? Doctors? Shots? Words that strike fear in a five-year-old’s heart.

I remember the sore throats, the fevers, the fever blisters, the colds, the tummy aches, the mumps, the measles, the chicken pox.

I remember the pain of the immunizations, and the promised sucker as a reward for not crying that I was never given by the county health nurse.

I remember church on Sunday morning.

I remember the snap, crackle, and pop of a fire built by my grandfather.

I remember laughing with The Beverly Hillbillies and Andy Taylor and Barney Fife.

I remember riding the Ponderosa with Ben Cartwright and his sons, and chasing bad guys with Marshal Dillon, and Festus.

I remember being lost in space with Will and Penny Robinson.

I remember the war in Vietnam.

I remember the moon landing that was one giant leap for mankind.

I remember my parents being young.

I remember my brothers and sisters as infants.

I remember being happy.

I remember being sad.

Most of all, I remember love.

Looking for Love

I used to pray for love and for riches. I remember praying for success and having enough money to travel anywhere, buy anything I want and be able to help others while basking in my wealth. I remember praying that I would find a beautiful woman to love me. The only two women that I ever truly prayed would love me was one when I was a student in college at NFJC; the other was a couple of years after I had left FSU. Both were cases of unrequited love. I have had hundreds of crushes and thoughts of being in love but those were the only two that I ever thought that I had truly loved. Years later, I realized that I did not truly love them. Still, there are thoughts of “what if” and “if only” that I don’t feel for any other women. My prayers for money today are prayers to have just enough money to pay my bills and get by. Today, I realize that I did find true love lying in a manger in Bethlehem and dying on a cross at Calvary and I know that I will have unlimited wealth when I enter the gates of Glory, whether I go by the Rapture or by death. Thank you, God, for giving me answers to prayers even though I may have thought you didn’t answer them at the time.

Life, At This Juncture

Thinking of my life, at this juncture,
Remembering cuts I survived, each puncture,
Each knife that sliced the marrow of my soul,
I’ve been cut like a diamond, melted like gold.
I look at my life through its bumps and bruises,
I don’t avoid them, have no call for excuses,
I know every bone I broke, I learned a lesson,
And God uses the fractures to give me a blessing.

My Special Needs Sister, A Typical Female

Just because my sister, Abbie, has special needs does not mean that she is not all female. This became clear to me when she was a little girl and she cornered a little boy she thought was cute as he walked out the door of the Assembly of God Church in Monticello.

I remember Abbie smiling down at the boy, who was shorter than she and backing him in the corner. He was dressed like a gentleman, in a coat, a bowtie, and a pair of short pants. I was watching, fearing for the little boy, sort of embarrassed because my baby sister was stalking the little boy like a cougar stalks its prey (yes, she was older, so she was a cougar in this situation). As she backed him toward the wall, my mother swooped in and rescued him by grabbing Abbie by the hand. Abbie smiled at the boy and then laughed.

I have further proof that Abbie is a typical female:

Years later, when I was a student at Florida State University, my parents and Abbie and my brother, Danny, went and picked me up to take me home for the weekend. Driving through Tallahassee on Tennessee Street, Abbie was looking out the window, on her side of the car, when a Jeep with four male college students rode up beside us. Abbie started smiling at them flirtatiously and batting her eyes at them. I was in shock! The boys started smiling back and the driver started honking the horn at her.

Further proof:

Years after the Tennessee Street incident, Abbie developed a crush on John Cena, so I took her to Tallahassee to watch John Cena wrestle. She wouldn’t even look at him, but Randy Orton was a different story. I guess Abbie has a fickle side too. She dropped John Cena like a hot potato that night and developed a crush on Randy Orton.

While the stories above are told tongue-in-cheek, they are true. I sometimes wonder what it could have been like if Abbie had been able to live a life like others do; if she had been able to experience the joys and pains of being a child who had been able to go to a mainstream school; if she had the chance to be a typical teenager, with all its joys and pains, going on dates, hanging out with friends, and having sleepovers with the girls; and what Abbie would be like as a wife to the husband she found, and a mother, and if her children would be as beautiful and kind as she is.

I know that Abbie will never enjoy what the world calls a “normal” life, but she does enjoy her life. She is a gift from God to my family, and we love her very much. We need her, as much, or maybe more, than she needs us.

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Crickets Jingle Jangle a Melody

Crickets jingle jangle a melody in the early morning silence. A freight train rumbles down the track, from the east. It strikes a discordant note with the song the crickets sing. On the TV, I watch the frazzled face of Harry Dean Stanton in a movie where Harvey Keitel has the eyes of a television camera.

As the world spins, each of us falls through space at over one million miles an hour. We don’t feel it. We go cheerily along our way, most of us not cognizant of that amazing miracle God has given us. So many miracles we overlook every day of our lives – the air we breathe, the sites we see, the dreams we dream.

Some try to create their own miracles with their own actions. They seek thrills, through activities such as trying dangerous stunts, or putting pills in their bodies that cause them to hallucinate thrills. While parachuting or driving cars or diving off cliffs or manmade structures may create a real thrill, briefly, drugs only create manufactured thrills. The thrills are not real, and, at their most, are surreal. For real thrills, why not turn to worshiping God? Why not turn to doing good for others? Why not pause and meditate on the goodness and the miracles of God? Why not listen to a train going down a track in the early morning hours? Why not listen to the sad song of a whippoorwill or a cry of a mourning dove or the cheery chatter of mockingbirds? Why not look at the stars or the clear blue skies or the rain on a dark day and realize we can hold on to this Earth only through a miracle of our Creator?