The Sign

 My sister went to school to become an RN when I was 9. I was in awe of her bravery, knowledge, and ability to care for the sickest of people. I learned to see all caregiving/nursing/doctoring skills as in her forte and not mine. 

As my parents aged, my sister stepped in to help when needed, taking them to doctor’s appointments and for minor procedures. She often said to me “You couldn’t handle this” or “You’d never be able to handle that” and it became a refrain that took up residence in my head. It confirmed my belief that I really couldn’t handle medical things. That she was strong. And I was weak. 

On Thanksgiving Day in 2005, my beloved Dad had a stroke while napping after lunch. My mom, disbelieving and afraid, talked with her neighbor (and dear friend) Laura, who in turn called my sister’s son, Shawn. He arrived and lifted Dad from his recliner and carried him to his vehicle and on to the local hospital. I will never forget his call from the ER. 

After hugs from family, I headed to hospital nearest my hometown. After a brief period of awareness, Dad sank into unconsciousness. Ultimately my sister, mom, and I set up a vigil in his room. It soon became clear he could not recover and as the days ticked by, we knew the inevitable awaited. 

On Friday afternoon, which turned out to be his last day on earth, Dad had a visit from one of his very dearest friends, Joseph Long. Joseph had been a constant throughout my entire life. He and Dad shared so much: love of God, love of family, love of the land. On that afternoon, my sister had briefly left the hospital to play piano for a wedding at her church. My mom and I were alone with Dad and his quiet yet labored breaths when Joseph arrived. 

Joseph Long and me, circa 2019

Joseph’s presence has always flooded me with affection and love. That day, he visited a few minutes. then addressed me specifically. He reached his hand deep in his pocket and pulled out a gleaming white piece of quartz. “I brought you a little something,” he said as his eyes twinkled. “It’s not an arrowhead, it’s a spearpoint. Spearpoints are much older than arrowheads. This one is a Halifax spearpoint, I found it and I wanted you to have it.” 

The Spearpoint

Joseph had long been an arrowhead hunter, searching for and amassing a beautiful collection, from his farm, our county, and nearby areas. I understood what a rare and precious gift this was. I was filled with gratitude and awe. The idea of holding such an ancient thing was overwhelming. 

Joseph said his goodbyes and I was left holding that precious piece of stone. I sat and turned it this way and that, observing the way it was carefully crafted and it’s sharpened point.   And it came to me then, an image of a ancient hunter, the one who had created and used this spearpoint to provide for his family, his tribe. The symbolism took my breath away and filled the empty bits of me. It felt like a sign, that I, too, had the strength within me to care for my family, too. 

When my sister returned, my Dad was in his final minutes, a few breaths followed by a long pause, a few more breaths followed by another long pause. At the very moment my dad’s breathing completely stopped, the morphine drip alarm suddenly blared. My sister, wailed in her grief. My Mom looked sad but accepting. And me? 

I took a deep breath, uttered a silent prayer – a plea for God’s presence - and got to work. I turned off the alarm, I alerted the nursing staff. I contacted the funeral home. And I continued to step my family though the days to come. And God was with me to lift and support me every step of the way. I wasn't weak. I wasn't less than. I was strong for my family.

Joseph’s generous gesture was one of kindness; one that held a deep and reassuring message of strength that continues to sustain me. A few months after Dad’s death, I sought out a goldsmith, Jenny Garret McLaurin in Pittsboro, NC. She expertly fashioned a necklace out of the spearpoint and added a small blue topaz from a birthstone ring that Dad had once tucked in my Christmas stocking. She created a geometrical design around the stone that honored my dad’s penchant for math and science.  She took that precious moment at my dad’s bedside and made a beautiful piece of wearable art.

That necklace is my totem. It has seen me though the last 16 years, 10 of which have been caring for my now 95 year old mom. When I need courage, or just to feel close to Dad,  it takes me back to that sacred moment of my father’s death and it’s call to the strength within me. It rightly aligns that strength with God’s presence. 

God is like that. When we think we cannot see the next step, He will help us find a way. He will metaphorically straighten our backbones and help us achieve things we never thought possible. He will remind us of His love and His power. He will strengthen us.  And He will lift us, again and again. 

God is our refuge and strength,

    an ever-present help in trouble.

Therefore we will not fear, though the earth give way

    and the mountains fall into the heart of the sea,

 Though its waters roar and foam

    and the mountains quake with their surging.

There is a river whose streams make glad the city of God,

    the holy place where the Most High dwells.

 God is within her, she will not fall;

    God will help her at break of day.

Nations are in uproar, kingdoms fall;

    he lifts his voice, the earth melts.

The LORD Almighty is with us;

    the God of Jacob is our fortress.

Come and see what the LORD has done,

    the desolations he has brought on the earth.

 He makes wars cease

    to the ends of the earth.

He breaks the bow and shatters the spear;

    he burns the shields with fire.

 He says, “Be still, and know that I am God;

    I will be exalted among the nations,

    I will be exalted in the earth.”

The LORD Almighty is with us;

    the God of Jacob is our fortress.

-Psalm 46 (NIV)

Special thank you to John David Jewelers at 4015 Univeristy Drive for restoring my necklace’s shine! 

Hidden Things

 

Dad 

Since Father's Day, I have had my dad, Thomas Jackson Draper, aka "Jack" on my mind. I was an unabashed "Daddy's Girl" and  loved spending time with him anywhere and for any reason. Many is the time I crawled up in his Chevy pickup and rode with him  - to the farm, to the gin, to  the shop - everywhere. The cab of his truck was peppered with tools, and a distinct oily smell. It was heaven. 

By training, Dad was an NCSU mechanicall engineer. Lifewise, he ultimately chose to be a farmer. He loved being his own boss and tending to my mom's fields of corn, cotton, soybeans, and peanuts. He was a wicked mechanic and had a true aptitude for fixing anything with a motor. He was happiest when he was elbow deep a motor. I credit my mini-bike to his desire to built one himself! 

His hands were quick and sure and remembering him put me in mind of a the strange little bump  he had on the side of his index finger. As a very young girl I can remember holding his hand and examining it closely. (He probably allowed me this to keep me quiet in church.) The knot was small and hard and jutted out oddly. It didn't hurt my Dad and he didn't often give it a thought. 

In his later years (which I realize means when he was about the age I am now) the knot got bigger - it remained hard, but not discolored like other skin abberations. Finally, at the urging of my RN sister, he went it to his family doctor to have it removed. 

After the mystery knot's removal, and it's accompanying stitch Dad had quite a tale to tell. The doctor was as surprised as he was when an incision into my dad's finger revealed to the astonishment of all - - a tooth! Indeed, the small knot was a specific type of tooth - that of a baracuda! 

Dad reached into his memories and dusted off a story from his teenaged years. While visiting family in Florida he went fishing - caught a barracuda - and received a bloody bite for his trouble. His folks took him to the local doc, who cleaned off the wound and stitched it up. The working, and likely theory, is that a tooth broke off deeply in the wound. It took years, but it finally worked its way out. 

It occured to me that sin can be just like that tooth. Buried deep inside where we can go about our day to day business, completely ignoring it. Some sins are visible - overeating, overdrinking, overspending, but many, many are hidden away: pride, hatred, resentment, selfishness, greed, cruelty, classism to name a few. Only by taking a moment to actually identify and acknowledge these "invisible sins" can we begin to be free of them. 

And this year - of all years - I invite you to call into the light the little sin known as racism. Because it is embedded deeply in the American psyche and desperately needs to be called into the light. 

I was one of those people - those people who said "I don't see color!" and with one santimonious comment denied the deep roots of racism that are as much a part of life in the South as the sandy soil that raised me. I was blessed to have parents who did have black friends, and was raised to extend every kindness and courtesy to people both black and white. But despite how enlightened I thought I was,  I completely ignored the fact that systemic racism exists. Which - and here all caps are necessarry - MEANS NOT THAT I HAD A LEG  UP SO MUCH AS I WAS NOT BESET WITH BARRIERS THAT KEPT ME FROM SUCCEEEDING.  

The death of George Floyd made a giant impact on our country and I will tell you it made a giant impact on my heart. Because I saw, and you saw, a white police officer kill a black man in front of our very eyes. This absolute horror drove me into books, into studies in my church, community, and with friends. It drove me to listen to my black friends (with my own mouth closed) to hear how race has affected their lives and the lives of their forebears. How things I have never even considered affect their lives daily. 

Not only have I reached for religous books (most noteably our church study The Cross and the Lynching Tree by James H. Cone) and contemporary titles (How to Be Antiracist by Ibram X. Kendi and White Fragility:Why It's So Hard for White People to Talk About Racism by Robin DiAngelo) but I am now just beginning to dig into different historical tones. My complete lack of knowledge of so many of the struggles of Black Americans has left me ashamed and astonished. I have just started reading Wilmington's Lie: The Murderous Coup of 1898 and the Rise of White Supremecy by David Zucchino, This book won the Pulitzer Prize and rightly so. The fact that I heard so much about the Nat Turner Insurrection but never ONE WORD about Wilmington, is a telling observation of what it means to grow up white in the South. 

Yes, this is painful to admit, especially in a public forum. But as Maya Angelou so wisely said "Do the best you can until you know better. Then when you know better, do better." I'm taking that quote seriously and inviting you to inventory your preconceptions and biases honestly, to read and most importantly listen.  Work at incising the racism that hides deep inside and dedicate yourself to making this a country where equality is a reality.