My Breath Of Fresh of Air

I refer to my “breath of fresh air” as the woman who came into my life when I was eleven years old. I was at my father’s house one weekend, sitting on the couch watching TV, when I heard a knock at the front door. My father had already told me he was expecting company, so I opened the door and let her in.
“Hi, come on in,” I said waving.
“Hi, I’m Paula,” she said, smiling as she walked inside.
She is so pretty, I thought. It was hard to believe she and my father were the same age because she looked so young. Before she’d arrived, my father had already told me their story. They had been friends since they were six years old. Their mothers lived next door to each other for years. She and my father had grown up together, dated off and on, and remained good friends. They had lost contact over the years, so this would be their first time seeing one another in a very long time. I liked Paula right away because she was so warm and inviting. She hugged me and talked to me while my father was upstairs getting ready. He was taking his time, making sure he looked and smelled nice.
When he finally came down, I watched them hug tightly, and then they sat on the couch. They must’ve talked for hours. I was sad when it was time for her to leave, asking her to stay a little while longer. She assured me she’d be back soon. I don’t remember how my hair was at the time, but I’m sure it was probably a mess, because she promised me she would come back in a few days to braid it for me.
“Okay,” I said, only half believing her. People were always telling me they were going to do something and never did it, so I expected the same from her.
My face lit up when she arrived a few days later, just as she’d said she would, with all the supplies to braid my hair. She sat on the couch; I sat on the floor between her legs, and for the next few hours, she braided my hair. Even at eleven years old, I knew how to be thankful when someone did something for me that they didn’t have to do.
From that moment on, I felt like I got a breath of fresh air every time she came over. It was always just my father and me, so it was always nice when someone else was there with us, particularly Paula. I liked the feeling of having her there.
She instantly took me in like I was one of her own, teaching me how to be a young lady from personal hygiene to making sure I made my bed every morning. When I got my monthly cycle for the first time, she bought me a vanity bag packed with pads, deodorant, a bar of soap, Ibuprofen, and an extra pair of panties. She told those were the necessities every lady should carry.
She had had four daughters of her own, and five grandchildren. When she introduced me to them she said, “These are your sisters, and those are your nieces and nephews.”
I never really knew what to call her. Referring to her as my father’s friend was a major understatement as she was much more to me than that. Godmother sounded like an understatement as well, as the term is overused. I could never bring myself to call her, or anyone else, “Mommy,” because it felt like I was betraying my mother. So, I stuck with calling her by her first name.
Paula would come get me on weekends and take me to one of her daughter’s houses to get a break from my father. Every graduation—elementary, middle, and high school—she made sure my hair and attire were on point. For my middle and high school proms, she got my hair done, bought my dresses, and drove my friends and me to both.
When I was crowned Miss Rambler, one of my high school’s homecoming queens, she showed up just as I thought I wouldn’t have a car to ride in for the homecoming parade. Parade goers were oohing and aahing as we rode by; not at me, but at her shiny black Mercedes Benz with its twenty-inch rims. I stood out of the sunroof, smiling and waving proudly.
Half-way through my senior year of high school, Paula moved me out of my father’s house. I had been going with her most weekends and returning back home on Sundays. But one Sunday, she decided I wasn’t going back. She could see the damage he was doing to my mind, my emotions, and even my body.
I had gained a significant amount of weight in my junior and senior years of high school, because eating was one of the ways I dealt with depression. I didn’t know I was depressed; I just knew I was sad every day and eating made me feel better. Apparently, Paula noticed. She could see I was on a downward spiral. I hadn’t realized those “weekend getaways” were her way of gradually moving me out….

Paula, I am still and will forever be grateful for how you came into my life and took me in as if I was one of your very own. I pray you have a very HAPPY BIRTHDAY. I love you ♥

 

*This was an excerpt from my book, Pain, Promiscuity, Purpose: From Mess To Ministry

 

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Woman, God’s Most Precious Creation

In Genesis 2:7, God formed Adam out of the dust of the earth. He blew into his nostrils,
and he became a living person. But, a few verses later in Genesis 2:21-23, God was a little bit more creative when He made the woman. He put Adam into a deep sleep, took one of his ribs and created His greatest work of art, in my opinion, the woman. Have you ever wondered why He didn’t just grab more dust and create the woman as He did the man? I believe He took His time sculpting the body that would be the carrier and deliverer of life. Our bodies are a work of art, custom made.
A woman’s body can carry one or more babies at one time while nurturing and stretching to make room for them! It manages to carry human life for nine whole months, just the right amount of time for a baby to be healthy enough to survive outside of the mother’s body. The woman’s body is so complex, yet miraculous. Its functions can only be the work of God.
Looking at my body the way God sees it changed my entire perspective.
We need to value ourselves more. We need to value our bodies. We need to value the
most precious thing in our bodies, our birth canal. It is both an entry and an exit. Two bodies are made into one flesh via entry into the birth canal, and life is brought into the world through the birth canal.
When you see it for how precious it truly is, you may never allow a man who is not
your husband to see or enter into that precious place again.
*This is an excerpt from my book, Pain, Promiscuity, Purpose: From Mess To Ministry.
It is my story of how I turned my pain and the mistakes from my past into PURPOSE. 
Love, Mizz K ♥

Does It Hurt Worse To Lose Your Mother As A Child Or As An Adult?

Does it hurt worse to lose your mother as a child or as an adult?

I know that may sound like a strange question to ask, but I was sitting here pondering on it.  Such a thought may even sound depressing. However, I am not depressed nor am I sad. But after experiencing losing a mother at ten years old and then again at 27 years old, I sometimes wonder which hurt worse. I remember being traumatized after losing my mother suddenly to AIDS when I was ten years old. Up until she died, I had been attached to her hip. I still slept on top of her most nights. In the first chapter of my book, Pain, Promiscuity, Purpose: From Mess To Ministry, I write about that experience and how for a long time I thought she was coming back. At that time, I had been learning about Jesus’ resurrection in church, and I had believed my mother was also going to come back as Jesus did. Learning I was mistaken and that my mother was actually not coming back was somewhat traumatizing all over again.

Once my mother died, her sister, my Aunt Tricia became my mother. She was my mother until I was 27 years old when she died. It was like deja vu. The pain was unbearable. For a long time, I had to drink alcohol just about every day just to be able to sleep at night. Most mornings I woke up in tears when reality hit me that Aunt Tricia was really gone. And to be quite honest, I still have moments of disbelief, and it’s been five years. I’m still not able to put into words what losing her feels like.  I was about 12 years old when I realized I loved my Aunt Tricia. She’d been in my life all of my life as she and my mother were very close, but it was a different kind of love now that she was my mother. I write how I came to that realization in my blog post, Aunt Tricia ❤.  Before then, I was guarded with my feelings toward her. Looking back as an adult, I realize I felt like I was betraying my mother by loving Aunt Tricia. At one point I even felt like I was betraying my mother to consider that losing Aunt Tricia hurt worse than losing her.

Some days I think about my Aunt Tricia, and I burst into tears. I think losing Aunt Tricia affected me differently from how it affected me when I lost my mother because 1. I was now an adult and 2. because I had more time with her, 27 years versus ten years with my mother. But even that fact doesn’t minimize the love I have for my mother and how much I miss her. I cry sometimes thinking about her and how close we were. I cry wondering how she would be with my daughter. But I also cry thinking about how good Aunt Tricia was with my daughter. I cry wishing my mother had made it to my graduations. I cry thinking about how proud Aunt Tricia was at my graduations. I cry wondering how it would have been to grow up with my real mother. I also cry because I did grow up with a mother, and losing that relationship was devastating.
So I’ve concluded that there is no way to answer this question factually. As I wrote in, The Pain Of Losing A Mother, the pain is unbearable no matter how old you are when you lose your Mommy. Other than our love for our children, there is no greater love than the love we have for Mommy. Although I’ve tried many times to put it all into words, the best I could come up with is “ a part of me died with her. A part of my childhood is gone.” And although I’m grown and a mother myself, I sometimes miss the feeling of being someone’s “baby.”

 

Until next time,

Love, Mizz K ♥

 

 

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IMG_7269Kendra “Mizz K” Fowler is an author, poet, and blogger. Her book, “Pain, Promiscuity, Purpose: From Mess to Ministry is available on Amazon.