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.

Through the Fog

Three years ago, I began writing a book about being a caregiver for my sister. The book still hasn’t been finished and it’s shifted to not only being about Abbie, but also about Danny and my attempts to help care for them and provide for their needs. For so long, I have attempted to care for my family but time after time, I find they care for me. I once dreamed of a day when I can make enough money editing and writing to pay off our house, our car, provide food, and other necessities and be able to live stress-free. Maybe I will, but even if I never do, I know God is always good to me and my family. Below is the original beginning of the book I began about Abbie:

Through the Fog

A heavy fog blanketed the roadway on a misty morning. As my low beam headlights cut through the fog, I began wondering about my sister, Abbie, and more specifically, about the way she thinks.

I wondered if her thoughts were foggy, and that made it more difficult for her to be dependent, as a mentally-challenged individual. I wondered that, if sometimes, when I see her smile because she has had an epiphany that her low beam highlights had not increased with a flick of the switch or a tap of the toe to full brightness.

I often wonder how Abbie’s mind works. Since it is a rare occasion that she ever speaks, there are many questions that I ask her that go unanswered unless the answer to the questions comes through body language – a smile, a frown, a shrug of the shoulders, shaking her hands in frustration, tapping her fingers on the top of her head because she has a headache, or touching her finger to her forehead to indicate she is thinking about the question that I asked.

People often ask how I communicate with my younger sister. I tell them that it’s hard to explain, but that, if you have been around her as often as I have, you learn to pick up on her non-verbal cues and facial expressions.

Maybe others do not see my sister the way that I do, but I see her as a genteel, Southern lady, a “steel magnolia” – “Gentle as the sweet magnolia/Strong as steel, her faith and pride/She’s a everlasting shoulder/The leaning post of life…” (Lyrics from “Eagle When She Flies,” written by Dolly Parton). Abbie has the gentlest heart of anyone I know, yet she is strong-willed and strong-minded. When she is soft, she reminds me of my mother, and the character played by Darryl Hannah in the movie, “Steel Magnolias.” When she is strong-willed and strong-minded, she reminds me of the character played by Shirley MacLaine in “Steel Magnolias” and the character played by Jessica Tandy in “Driving Miss Daisy.” Sometimes, I think she is going to look at my brother, Danny, or me, in a combination of a strong-willed and soft-hearted moment when she has had us do her bidding, and proclaim like Miss Daisy did to her driver, “Hoke, you’re my best friend.”

As the rain falls outside my window, and I hear the pitter-patter of it to the ground, I give thanks that God has given me Abbie for a sister. Some may see my work with her as a challenge, but, for me, it is a great opportunity, and one, for which I will always be grateful. I will wander through the fog with Abbie until the end of my days.

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.

Cardinal on the Garden Wall

I saw a cardinal on my garden wall,
For some reason I wondered if we would have a cool fall
Or if summer will linger like lyrical
Poems I remember like a miracle.
I sit here, remembering classes at FSU,
Walks I took with Sigrid and Amy too,
Studying communication and the Fine Arts,
While Tara and Paige held my heart.
There’s no hurt like unrequited love when you’re in its throes,
Wondering if your present can ever pass and become tomorrows,
I see another cardinal on my garden wall
And remember fondly those old college falls.

Cage Without a Key

Someone out there has a key to the cage I am trapped in.

It is cold here. It is damp here. It is dark here. It hurts here, but it is not from the physical pain. The prison I am locked in is on an island. The island is isolated. I am the only one here. I am lonely.

I know one day someone special will come and put the key in the lock and let me out of this prison and take me away from this penal institution of doubt, fear, nothingness, and being alone.

I thought I had broken free but I was wrong. I was captured again and placed back in here by someone who I had given the power to do it. I let down the guard to my heart. My mind should never have wandered in her direction.

Someday, someone will bring me a key that will open the iron doors that hold me in. In the meantime, I sit here but my spirit flies free because someone took a cross-shaped key and opened a million other prisons for me when He carried that key up a hill called Calvary and opened the doors to my soul’s prison. I sit and listen to Him comfort me and keep me warm and free of fear and doubt.

Someday, someone special will bring me the key that will free me from my prison of physical loneliness, but Jesus makes sure my spirit is comforted and never lonely.

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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?

In The Desert, Begging to Die

One victory won, another crisis awaits, as I sit under a tree in the desert like Elijah, begging God to be merciful and let me die. But, like with Elijah, God shows me that His mercy is much greater than my plea. He beckons me to look at my heart and at my life.

How many times have I been given victory and failed to give the Lord credit?

If I had only done it once, that was one time too many.

How many times have I let anger and regret turn into self-pity and self-loathing and sat in the valley of humdrums singing the heartrending song of the mullygrubs?
How many times have I felt tempted to believe that others could not make it if not for me?

God calls me to get up and go face the next battle with the prophets of Baal, but not to rely on my strength, only on God’s power. He shows that others are fighting the same battles and He calls me to go and return on my way (I Kings 19:15), to “Fight the good fight of faith, lay hold on eternal life, whereunto thou art also called, and hast professed a good profession before many witnesses,” (1 Timothy 6:12) because if I cast my cares on Him and live righteously, he will never let me fail. (Psalm 55:12)

Silhouette

My family is emblazoned in a silhouette somewhere in the shadows of my mind. We sit on the cattle fence looking far across a vast meadow. All of us are young, even my father and my mother, and we are dressed like the cowboys and cowgirls and dairy men and women that once we were once upon a time not so long ago.

The silhouette reminds me of the possibility that we all shall be together one day once again and that the vast domain that we gaze upon will not be on Earth, but will be in the realms of Glory. As I gaze upon the picture in the family album that is kept and treasured in my heart, I see others hopping on the fence beside us. I see nieces and nephews, other relatives, and friends, and, yes, even those who would call themselves my enemies.

It is a glorious picture I imagine and something that I would like to see one like in Heaven one day. Most of all, I want to see the face of the One who can make the silhouette of family and friends possible.

Written by Jacob Bembry, March 26, 2016

The Sky’s Beauty, the Wind’s Anger, and God’s Tears

The memories of that March 25th morning hearkened and brought to my senses the smell of jasmine and roses, the taste of lemonade on a warm spring day, a butterfly brushing me lightly on the lips as it flew away when I exhaled, the sound of a Jimmy Buffett beach ballad, and the sights of pretty girls driving by and honking at me as I was stranded beside the road with no gas in my car.
Though the early morning weather was mild and I had been Gulf Coast beach bound, I looked at the sky and noticed that the wind was whirling around. It looked as if it was one of the few days in March that would be pleasant for flying a kite. The sky was empty and lonely, though, at least until her husband showed up and began uttering oaths and threats to her.

The sky began to tremble under the tumult unleashed by her old man, who had been jealous because she had been so pleasant to everyone, including guys like me for days. I admit I had looked up at the sky’s beauty and admired her. I longed to feel the gentle caress of her breezes and the kisses from her dewy lips early in the morning.

The face of the sky, which had been clear and the sun had worn a smile as she looked fondly at her old friend. Now, the sky had become ashen and eventually her once clear complexion had turned the color of coal before being placed in a furnace.
Her husband’s anger became even more fearsome and violent. I saw fire come from his mouth as her swore at her and then I heard him strike the first blow against her. More fire from his mouth. More blows to her body.
I had been on my way, in search of a gas station, when the spousal abuse had begun. Helplessly, I had only stood by and watched. It was still going on when God began to cry.

He cried softly at first, but as the beating continued, He began crying loudly, almost as if was screaming at the wind to stop.
As I stood there, getting soaked by the tears of God, I began to cry too. I cried for the sky, I cried for anyone who may have to suffer abuse at the hands of those they love like she did, and, most of all, I cried for God whose only Son had died for us so that we would not treat each other the way the wind treated the sky.

Written by Jacob Bembry, March 24, 2015

The Concrete Museum

Art spray painted on concrete sidewalks, where Sears and Roebuck bicycles and Radio Flyer wagons have rubbed grooves into the cement.

Some of the art work has been done in chalk by little girls who engage in hopscotch. Other art work has been done by teenage graffiti artists who think it’s funny coming up with a rhyme for a man from Nantucket.

There are spray painted graffiti taunts about someone’s mother written in green. Them’s fighting words. If one looks closely, they can see red paint mingled in with the green.

Wait a minute, that’s not red paint — that’s blood.

A little farther up the sidewalk, one sees that someone has taken their time and painted a beautiful picture of Jesus Christ nailed to the cross, wearing a crown of thorns.

The sidewalk has become a museum with the crude paintings, the rude paintings, and finally the Masterpiece. I think about who may have painted the picture and wish I had. I continue walking. Earlier assailed by the cares of this world, I am now calm, thanks to a concrete canvas painting of the most terrible, yet beautiful thing, that has ever happened in the history of mankind – the crucifixion of Jesus Christ.

 

The Concrete Museum, written by Jacob Bembry, December 14, 2015