Conversations With God While My Heart Was Breaking

By Gloria A. Jolly

I have been writing bits and pieces of this book for the past 20 years, but never quite had an ending until now. Writing it made me laugh, cry, and sometimes get so angry I had to walk away and come back to it. My husband, Jolly, was truly a unique individual. The minister at his funeral summed it up best “he was a Fisher of Men.” He was such a fun, energetic person—always with a joke that people naturally gravitated to him. I, my family, and our friends miss him every day. We had a wonderful life together and I wrote this book to let everyone know that even though you go through adversity, if you have faith in God he will lead you through to a better tomorrow.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Dec 4, 2013
• ISBN: 9781619277182

Book preview

me!

PROLOGUE

I started my conversations with God at a very early age. But, my hardest conversation with God was the day my husband died. I could not believe God in his infinite wisdom would take him from me and my family. I got so tired of people telling me that God does not make mistakes and doesn’t do anything without a reason. I told God he had made a big mistake this time. Yet, every time I turned around someone else said to me, God does not make mistakes. That Sunday morning after he passed I lay in bed crying, dreading having to get up, and dreading even more all the things I had to take care of on Monday morning. I asked God again, why him, why now, and out of the blue on the TV Joel Osteen said, God does not make mistakes. I gave in and said, OK God! I get it, I get it. I don’t like it, but I get it.

My husband, Jolly, was my very best friend, the love of my life, and my hero in every sense of the word. I don’t mean to sound like I worshipped him, far from it. We had our fights and arguments like everyone else, but somehow managed to get over them. Talk about opposites. No one could believe it, when we got married. We were so totally different from each other. Where I was extremely shy and quiet, he was loud and full of life. But, what people couldn’t see was that we completed each other in more ways than one.

Lots of people say that, but for us it was really true. We knew each other’s thoughts at a glance. In the quiet of our home we could each get lost in a book, while lying in bed or on the sofa next to each other; our relationship wasn’t perfect, but better than most. We both believed the key to a good relationship was communication and compromise and to never go to bed mad. Or if you go to bed mad, never, never without kissing each other good night. You will find if you are mad and kiss, it will lead to making up. Always, always kiss goodbye whenever you leave the house if it was for no more than going to the store. Looking back I can remember all those kisses so vividly and realize that they will have to last me a lifetime. It has taken me a while to pull myself out of the funk I was in after his death and finally put my thoughts on paper.

Jolly’s death caused me to face a lot of harsh facts that people don’t realize they have to deal with until it is too late. Fortunately, we talked a lot and we knew what each other wanted even if others did not or did not approve. Because we had talked so much I found I could make decisions that needed to be made calmly and rationally. I prayed and prayed that God would let us see another 10 or 15 years together, but it was not to be. My husband, my rock was called too soon. My minister told me that God does not surprise his children and she was right, because he knew that his time was short and he tried to prepare me. He even tried to move our vacation to Hawaii up from December to March or April but we settled on July. How I wish we had just took off when he first mentioned it.

One day toward the end of January he insisted on going away and I knew something was really wrong. I had been trying for a couple of months, since his last hospital stay, to get him to make his doctor give him a referral for the tests the hospital recommended, but he wouldn’t do because he trusted what his doctor was saying. Anyway, we went to Dover and checked in the hotel then went to the casino. He loved the casinos but after about an hour he was done. He was really weak and I helped him back to the room, even then he tried to tell me he was alright. We settled down and about 3:00 I was awakened by him stumbling in the room. The TV was still on and I could see his eyes were as big as saucers and he looked like he was lost, he was disoriented and confused. Seeing him like that scared me to death and at the same time broke my heart. I helped him into the bathroom then back to bed. After he settled down he hugged me to him and said, I don’t want to scare you, but I’m dying.

No you’re not! I said, We are going to fight this. We are going to get you in to see the specialist and get answers. I don’t believe your doctor has did all she can do. She hasn’t scheduled you for any of the tests the hospital said you should have. Don’t you give up. Don’t you dare give up. Then I cried the rest of the night.

But, let me start at the beginning…

One

For as long as I can remember I have wanted to write a book. I said I would like to write my life’s story -- like it’s really something anyone would want to read. But, how could I tell a whole life’s story in one book that would convey what we felt, what we did, or how we loved. Still it can be a legacy for my children and my grandchildren, so that when I am dead and gone they can read it and know that I was here, that I mattered, and that I believe I made a difference. I firmly believe that everyone is here for a reason and that God in his infinite wisdom connects us one to the other in ways we don’t know and can not even comprehend.

Growing up on the mean streets of DC during the 1950’s and 1960’s was a stark contrast to growing up in the lush countryside of my Grandfather’s farm. It was like living in two entirely different eras of history. The lights, the noise, the gunshots, the fights, the gangs, the number runners, and fires—so, many fires—the donut-man, the watermelon man, and the ice cream man made up my city life. At the other end of the spectrum was my grandfather’s farm. The farm represented peace, a slower pace, open fields, fresh air, fresh fruit and vegetables, pumping your own water, kerosene lamps, the outhouse (Grandpa did not have electric, running water, or indoor plumbing), the meathouse, the visiting bakery man, feeding the chickens, slopping the hogs, riding his plow horse, playing hide and seek, Stoplight, and Mother May I.

I was oldest of five children and had to mature really fast. My mother depended on me to take up the slack and take care of my sisters and brother. She was very harsh in dealing with me and in my opinion never really cared for me or loved me the way she did my siblings. My grandfather knew the hell I was in and came to pick me up every long weekend and holiday he could…so, went my life.

Two

I was born one cold, dreary October day. I say cold, dreary day because isn’t that what writers are supposed to say? To be honest I don’t know what the day was like -- I had just arrived!

At any rate, I was born on October 9, 1950 to Connie Thompson, youngest daughter of Thelma and Michael Thompson, and my father was John Johnny Bell. I am not sure exactly how my mother hooked up with my father, but she did and I was conceived.

My earliest memories of my father was his mother’s house. I can remember my mother and father’s bedroom vaguely, but, the thing that stands out the most was the red drapes and red bedspread. There are other things about my grandmother’s house that stands out vividly in my mind, things like: a big green front door, a long high staircase that seemed to go on forever (or so it seemed to me), her living room off the front hall with the green sofa, the sound of the street cars on the front, the sound of the trains passing by in a distance during the night, a street light shining through my bedroom window, my little blue satin Chinese pajamas, M & M’s on the buffet in a dish, and lemon meringue pie or merry-ring pie as I used to call it. And most important of all a feeling of being loved, spoiled, and belonging.

I remember one day while playing cowboys and Indians with my cousin, Teddy, I shot him with my gun, but, he refused to die. I said, Bang! Bang! You’re dead. Teddy. No, I’m not, he retorted. So being the self-respecting cowgirl that I was I took the gun and turning it around butt first, as I had seen Hop-A-Long Cassidy and Roy Rogers do, I hit him in the head and said, You’re dead now.

I don’t know if any of you remember the old toy guns in the fifties, but they were made of metal not the plastic like guns today, so it was pretty heavy. Needless to say I got my butt tore up for that little incident and Teddy had to get five stitches in his head which he thought was pretty neat. Over the years Teddy never forgot that incident and every time he saw me he would say,

Remember when you bust me in my head and I had to get stitches?

I, also, remember my cousin Molly. I remember she had dimples like me and although she was in her teens -- she always had time for me. I thought she was the most beautiful girl in the world and I hoped I would grow up to be as pretty as her. Molly is in her seventies now and except for some gray in her hair she is still as pretty as she was then.

My sister, Kim, was born when I was two and things then started to fall apart.

Three

Anyway, my life took a turn that changed everything in my world when I was three and my Mom left my father and married my stepfather. Malik Simms was a good stepfather, but he was not my father. My mother was the problem. I found myself always on pins and needles, trying to do what was right, and trying to please her just to get a little praise. However, nothing I ever did was right and she resented my very presence sometimes.

Growing up with her was a roller coaster ride. As long as things went her way everything was fine, but, let one thing not go her way and I caught it. She said it was because I was the oldest, therefore, I was responsible for everyone else. Well, this wasn’t fair and my sisters really took advantage of it, especially Benita. But, I am getting ahead of myself.

Mom had a way of talking to me that made me feel like dirt. She would tell me that I wasn’t shit, I was the color of shit, and would never be shit. That only made me want to excel and prove her wrong.

My mother and Daddy Malik got married and we lived in an apartment in southeast Washington. I remember it had a little storage cabinet that I used climb in, shut the door, and hide. We were not there long before we went to stay with Daddy’s Cousin Tess. I remember she had several children the

Reviews for Conversations With God While My Heart Was Breaking

[Theresa Miller · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Down to earth!