Friday, November 11, 2011

My friend Joyce

I posted on Facebook yesterday: Lori Hudgins Clark is experiencing that inexplicable grace that rejoices and mourns at the same time. Today I'm gonna try to explain.

I rejoice because Joyce Breckenridge is in Heaven. She is finally free. Whole. Fully loved and fully capable of expressing love perfectly. I mourn for her family, for their loss of a wife, mother, sister, friend. I mourn for what they wanted and didn't have. I mourn for what she wanted and didn't have, couldn't grasp or keep within her reach. I mourn for what they will no longer have without Joyce here on earth.

I'm intimidated to write a few paragraphs about a woman who was so complex, so predictably unpredictable. She was a walking conundrum. Energetic and lethagic. Faithful and heretical. Elegant and crass. Encouraging and biting. Complex and simple. Hilarious and solemn. Confident and terrified. I've got the equivalent of a ream of paper crumpled up on my virtual computer floor. In an effort to write a tribute that would both honor Joyce and be truthful, I finally invited the Joyce I know, and love deeply, to be my Heavenly editor. The first several copies I wrote I heard her saying, oh so clearly, "Lori Hudgins, that's crap and you know it!" So Joyce, with all my limitations, here are a few thoughts.

Joyce became my real friend through Facebook. Oh, I've known her since my days at Foster Elementary. Prior to spending countless hours with several of her children, I knew of her because, well, everyone knew Miss* Breckenridge. She was a stay at home mom and loved her kids with passion. We all knew her because she was the antithesis of Kingwood mothers. She had a paper route she drove before the kids got up each day. She hosted an annual back to school party for other moms called, "TGTG--Thank God They're Gone." I'm told people still talk of that fabulous event. She wore whatever she decided to put on each day or what she'd slept in the night before--which was most often a man's undershirt, overalls, and flip flops. Flip flops at that time were for showering in public places or for beach vacations. She had silky, long brown hair and was a natural beauty. She was unfiltered in every sense of the word. If the thought occurred to her, she said it. As a teenager I was terrifed and fascinated by her. She loved jewelry. So much so, that she would wear as much she could get around her neck, wrists, and fingers. We lovingly referred to her as "Mr. T". She knew it and didn't care one iota.

In December of 2008, my dear friend Lindy and I made a spontaneous trip to New York to see Joyce's second son, Robby star in a Broadway production. It was a spectacular surprise and we even managed to sneak in on Joyce and Tom in a restaurant. She was in a wheelchair and she was accurate when she said, "I'm diminished." She told me I looked, "exactly the same... just fatter!" (True. Darnnit!) She quickly told me that if she ever got to Heaven she knew that God would punish her by putting her in a pew between Scoggins and Griggs for an eternity. (They were two very conservative pastors at the church in Kingwood. One of the men told Joyce to leave a service and go put on a bra!) And in just minutes she was asking me with great concern about my family, particularly about my brother. Joyce and Scott shared some demons and she walked him through fiery times with brutal honesty and passionate love.

When Joyce found out I filed for divorce, she called me and we talked on the phone for over an hour. Even though she never quite got the hang of the whole Facebook thing, she posted regularly notes of love and encouragement. I never doubted for a millisecond that when she said she was praying for me, she was. It was also wickedly wonderful to hear a few of her more unfiltered thoughts about my ex husband. She was quick to tell me she loved me and was truly heartbroken for my pain. I will always remember that.

If you're reading this, my guess is that you know Joyce too. It would be easier to engrave the Old Testament on a grain of rice than to explain who and why Joyce was who she was. I invite you to offer your memories, your love, and your thoughts that would honor Joyce. Just remember that Joyce is editing and she will be obliged to tell you you're out of line if you make her into the saint she knew she wasn't. She's in Heaven warming the pew and waiting for Scoggins and Griggs to join her. Heaven will never, ever be the same.

*No real Southener says, "Mrs."

**The donate button to the right of this blog is what you can use to donate to the Joyce Breckenridge Memorial Fund. Whether it's five dollars or five hundred, Joyce would be both shocked and delighted that you would give to her memory. She has a rich legacy and she gave what she was able to give, plus a little more.

Monday, November 7, 2011

Hiding

I am a cat lover. If I was concerned with gaining a following on this Blog, I would never publicize that fact about me. I've always been amazed that it's socially acceptable to say in group settings, "I HATE cats." I've also noticed that there is rarely, if ever, any social backlash from this statement, "I HATE dogs!" I dare anyone in a group to say that and see what happens. I recommend doing this at the end of your time with this group if you plan on enjoying the rest of the event. (I learn be doing. Sigh.)

Back to cats. I like interesting names for my cats. I guess it's because growing up we had Frisky, Puff, Whiskers, and Alley to name a few. I've had Bartok, Dr. Livingston, Stumpelina, Hiss---short for histrionic, Elphaba, and Galinda. When we got our latest cat from a shelter he was pre-named, Studley. My seven year old loved the name and informed me, with great accuracy, that I had named all the other cats and this was her cat.

I was wrong about his name. He's aptly named for many reasons. Annie Beth wrote this recently in an essay at school, "Studley looks like an Oreo, but thinks he's a supermodel." She will often say to me in hushed tones, "Studley is b-m-u-d!" She knows he's not bright enough to spell backwards and fears damaging his fragile self esteem. Perhaps I'm partially to blame for that fragility because I tell him multiple times a day he is a beautiful cat and rarely affirm other traits.

Studley is quite large and has long, lush fur. Although, neutered, he still loves to be outside with full confidence  that some young feline will find him irresistible. Unless he's hungry, he does the same thing every single night when it's time to come indoors. It always ends with this routine: I'm chasing him. He's cornered. He crouches on the ground, ears pulled back and closes his eyes. I laugh, pick him up, and bring him inside.

I laugh because I think I'm a lot like Studley. When I'm asked to do something I don't want to do, don't I crouch down, close my ears, and shut my eyes? Surely if I am I still enough, quiet enough, and keep my eyes closed, the other person cannot see me. Sometimes that method works with people--to my misfortune, I think. But, I'm particularly amused when I think about how God must view this behavior. In my odd imagination I hear Him saying, "Well, Jesus, there she is again, thinking I can't see her. If she only knew."

I love Studley. I did not love what his claws were doing to every piece of fabric or leather in my house upon his adoption, so his front claws were removed. I know that we still have coyotes in our neighborhood at night. So, it's love that motivates me to bring him inside. My agenda is to protect him since I made the choice to limit his ability to defend himself. I'm not trying ruin his evening and ask him to come in because I distrust him. I just know a few more things than he will ever be capable of learning or completely understand. He's a creature with more limited abilities than I have. It will always be that way. And yet, it doesn't impact my love for him. I love him because he is a cat. I never expect him to be a human. I just want him to accept my love and have a relationship with me.

So tonight I'll thank Studley as I pick him up from his crouched position. I do love that cat!