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.