The Memory Box

By Tyra Garlington

The End is the Beginning
Tyra Garlington woke one morning dizzy, disoriented, and alone on the bathroom floor. Her pain was excruciating and she could barely breathe. Unable to move or call for help, she soon closed her eyes and surrendered to what she believed was the inevitable. What happened next would change her forever.
The Memory Box is a story of how one woman came to truly know and live the promise of Gods grace that had always been with heras she was beaten practically to death in the 1960s south, as her beloved parents died both from cancer, and as she had to say goodbye to the disappointment that was her marriage. It is a series of reflections that give hope to anyone experiencing abuse, betrayal, clinical depression, or loss. In her brokenness, Garlington found peace and a way to move on to live a brilliant life full of giving, of helping others understand the power of knowing that you are not your circumstances and that Gods grace is there to uphold you and propel you forward in ways unimaginable.
When your heart attacks you violently and unexpectedly, you pray. As you struggle, you realize that Gods presence, power, protection and provision is there to sustain you. Tyra Garlington found the secret to his infinite gracethat its timeless promise came shining through was more than amazingit was sufficient. Her story is her gift to you. To receive it, please open your heart and hear Gods message of grace for you.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Oct 7, 2014
• ISBN: 9781493150571

Tyra Garlington

Cincinnati native, Tyra Garlington, holds a Masters in Psychology from San Diego State University. She has held a myriad of positions from psychologist to teacher and principal. She has worked in private industry and in the public sector using her marketing skills to research and respond to the needs of her customers. Currently, she works as a radio-show host, a speaker and a life coach, but she considers her most important work giving back by volunteering to improve the quality of life of youth, survivors of domestic violence and homelessness. Through Rotary International she is leveraging her volunteer passions in both a local and global environment.

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THE MEMORY BOX

Tyra Garlington

Copyright © 2014 by Tyra Garlington.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2013922090

ISBN:   Hardcover   978-1-4931-5056-4

Softcover   978-1-4931-5055-7

eBook   978-1-4931-5057-1

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted

in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system,

without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 10/28/2014

Xlibris

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CONTENTS

Prologue

Introduction

THE END IS THE BEGINNING

Chapter 1: The No Longer

Chapter 2: Wake-up Call

Chapter 3: Memory Catchers of Truth

TO GRANDMOTHER’S HOUSE WE GO

Chapter 4: A Train Ride Back in Time

Chapter 5: A House Not Made of Gingerbread

Chapter 6: Graceful Footprints in Sandy Dirt

Chapter 7: Grandmother’s Shadow

MOTHER: MY QUEEN OF MAGIC

Chapter 8: A Princess for a Queen

Chapter 9: Laurel Homes Public Housing

DADDY: MY KING OF EVERYTHING

Chapter 10: Daddy’s Home

Chapter 11: Daddies Are, So Daughters Can Become

Chapter 12: Daddy’s Love Covers Most

BLESSED BE THE FAMILY

Chapter 13: Remembering Us Three

Chapter 14: The Ties that Bind

A RELUCTANT PRINCESS AWAKENS

Chapter 15: Growing Pains

Chapter 16: Lessons Not Taught in School

Chapter 17: A Life Apart

Chapter 18: A Blip During the Journey Home…

MARKS OF AUDACITY

Chapter 19: A Blessing Too Soon?

Chapter 20: Doing Time

REPOSITIONING

Chapter 21: Turning Point

Chapter 22: My King’s Legacy

Chapter 23: The Queen and the Princess without Their King

Chapter 24: Going Forward

FOR EVERY MOUNTAIN

Chapter 25: Love Actually

Chapter 26: A Quiet Storm

Chapter 27: Magic Ends

Chapter 28: My King’s Secret

DELIVERANCE

Chapter 29: An Assault on the Human Temple

Chapter 30: A Sculptor’s Skill

Chapter 31: The Power of a Thought

MY SOUL AT WAR

Chapter 32: In Sickness and in Health

Chapter 33: The Peril before the Promise

Chapter 34: Near the Goal

Chapter 35: It’s Not Over

Epilogue

The Secret Pearl

About the Author

It is with great love and humility that I dedicate this book to

the source of all my resources;

Grandmother;

Mother and Daddy;

Em, who patiently listened;

Rhonda, who gave me my first healing place to write;

Amelia, who asked all the right questions;

Patricia, who walked me into my literary voice;

my Chantilly family;

my Heritage family;

Open the Book Ministries;

all who have encouraged and loved me through the seasons; and you

PROLOGUE

I love the gospel song that says, "You don’t know my story/ you don’t know what I’ve been through." Until recently, I did not want anyone to know my story, certainly not all of it. For most of my life I cheated. I kept secret a small part of me from those of you who should know. I wanted you to believe the way I looked, the things I possessed, the places I went, and the things I did were indeed me. I was afraid that if you knew my secrets, you would not like me, love me, or want to be with me. That worked until it didn’t. I realized I was secretly dying on the inside emotionally isolated from you.

There were times I needed your support and I did not know how to ask. I was afraid of your rejection. At other times I pretended to be okay about things when I wasn’t; I was emotionally dishonest with you. At one point, I totally gave up. And until recently I didn’t know that some of you saw the Tyra I was trying to hide and loved me anyway.

Gladly, now I have arrived at a season I call my best life. I have found my way out of emotional isolation as I learned to be courageous enough to be vulnerable and strong enough to be genuine in my relationships. Staying meaningfully connected to you is no longer a problem. Living in the recently discovered empowerment of God’s grace, I am moving toward my unborn dreams and possibilities. I have broken up with fear as I learned and practiced new overcoming behaviors. I have let go of my guilt and shame. I found that forgiveness is an action that I could give and receive; I am determined to finish my life strong, in this place where I never thought I would be. The challenges that are sure to continue will be met with a new peace within, with blessed assurance and confidence.

I wrote The Memory Box for you, hoping we could connect somehow, somewhere between the pages. I will show you photographs and tell you stories and indulge in recollections about my life. Some of the stories I am about to tell you as if the memories were my own are not. Some are about my infancy and who is to know when memory actually begins? These stories are gifts from Grandmother, Mother, Daddy, and a collection of surrogate aunts, uncles, sisters, and brothers that I call my play family.

At the end of each section, as if in a backward-facing time machine, I reflect on my life through a new lens. The new lens reveals evidence to me that it has been grace that provided for, protected, and sustained me throughout the good, the bad, and scary seasons of my life. Based on what I learned, I want to encourage you to dream the impossible, hope against the tide, claim more, and survive until you know this truth—that you have everything you need within you to live your best life.

INTRODUCTION

For me, February 3, 2014, was a day of violent awakening. I was up at four, my usual writing time, but on this particular day I couldn’t concentrate. Sleep soon called me to come back. When I woke up again I was nauseous. Worse, I swear there was an elephant sitting on my chest. I was so dizzy I couldn’t stand. I crawled to the bathroom and passed out. When I woke again, I was wet with sweat from head to toe with the shower curtain down on top of me. I had voided in my workout pants. Since I could barely breathe and the pain was acute, I didn’t have what it took to be embarrassed. Too weak to move or call out, I found the energy to pray. Then I gave in to what I thought was the inevitable.

I woke up again to a voice in my ear saying, Miss, stay with us, Miss. What is your apartment number? Do you have any pets? Can you unlock your door? Do you have any aspirin in the house? How old are you? I will stay on the phone with you until the ambulance arrives—it won’t be long now. The voice didn’t wait for answers to his questions.

Was I dreaming? How did I find my way to the living room floor with the phone under my ear? I was naked from the waist down. Who took off my pants and cleaned me up? I heard far away sirens in the phone, then loud sirens outside my apartment building. Heavy running footsteps and urgent knocking at my door followed. Not waiting for an answer, four uniformed people carrying life-saving stuff flew through the door. They came running toward me on the floor and it seemed like they were instantly taking my vital signs, talking to each other and to the hospital at the same time. They cut off my tee shirt so they could more easily attach the monitors. Now I was totally naked, but I didn’t care.

I was completely confused. Did I unlock the door? Did I dial 911? Did I give my apartment number? I could not move. I could not talk. I could only look at all the hurried movement around me. I surrendered to everything including the pain. I felt me giving up.

They decided to take me in a sheet-like stretcher to the ambulance three stories down. I was so cold. They covered me with a thin sheet and attached more wires to various parts of my upper body. They put an IV in each arm. I could feel a cool sensation moving up my arm into my already cold body. Lastly, they inserted oxygen tubes up my nose. On three, they lifted me into the ambulance. An urgent far-away voice said, Her pressure is dropping.

That same urgent voice hovered over me and said, Tyra, stay with us. You are having a heart attack. We are taking you to the hospital. We cannot give you anything for the pain because your pressure is too low. You have to fight to hang on now. Come on, Tyra, fight!

The next time I woke up, a sea of blue-masked faces hiding all but their eyes looked alternately at me and at machines that surrounded me. Dr. Hopkins gently patted my cheek to say, Tyra, I know you are weak and in pain. Your pressure is too low to give you anything to ease the pain. I will make you feel better another way in just a little while, okay? Can you hang on for me?

I felt a new sharp pain in my groin. It moved up, up toward my chest. Now the elephant had company. I didn’t think I could take any more pain. I couldn’t get my breath. I felt tears roll down the side of my face, but I didn’t feel like I was crying. The doctor was talking, but I did not know what he was saying.

After what seemed like forever, the elephant slowly got up. I opened my eyes. I was aware that breathing was extremely difficult yet not as painful. I was shivering uncontrollably. A nurse holding my hand said, Her hands are like ice. They wrapped me in what looked like clear bubble wrap with a hose coming out of the bottom. Suddenly hot air covered me. I was silently grateful. Because I was becoming warm, I could also feel—and I knew I was extremely tired. Blissful sleep finally blotted out the pain, the elephant, and everything.

The next time I woke up, tubes were coming out from everywhere, it seemed, but I could breathe. My right leg was forced to be immobile with a brace of some sort. Dr. Hopkins asked the nurse to turn my head to the left so I could see the monitors, and then he said, Tyra, look at the left monitor. My vision was blurred with tears. That was your blocked artery when they brought you in. Look at the right monitor. That is your artery now, happily pumping new life into you. We got to you in time. I thanked God silently. He added, I just don’t understand why your heart shows no damage after all you went through. I don’t how long you were unconscious before we got to you, but we have been with you for over an hour. I think after a cardio rehab program, your heart will be as strong as mine.

I smiled and thought, I know why my heart is strong. And then as I thanked God fervently again, I had a name for the reason I survived. Grace, God’s sweet divine grace had brought me through this ordeal.

On February 3, 2014, my heart attacked me—violently and with no warning. I had no family heart disease history. I worked out, ate a Mediterranean diet, and my annual physicals indicated I was in excellent health for my season in life. But I quickly learned that heart attacks can hibernate in arteries clogged with cholesterol as the result of long-term stress.

Sweet divine grace revealed itself that evening in the form of strength I didn’t know I had and brought new understanding of its presence within me. Grace is God’s way of giving us strength to endure trials. It regenerates our spirit when we are down and gives us spiritual sustenance to help us see the splendor that is always around us, even when things look dismal, ugly, and dark. Everyone has access to its promise and provision but how many of us are aware of the power of its presence? Its magnificence only seems to be appreciated in retrospect.

Although God automatically woke grace up in me when I came to know him many years ago, I didn’t fully accept the power of its presence until now. When I survived with very little or no damage to my heart, it was my affirming moment that God’s grace was real in my life. I was alive and all that I had been promised all my life—that God would never leave me nor forsake me and would protect me—was demonstrated in that one instance.

Sometimes it takes something violent, something so visceral, so real, and so present for us to recognize, live in, and celebrate the wonder of grace. More importantly, I have found that grace is more than amazing—it is sufficient!

As I lay in my hospital bed, I relived that morning that almost took me to heaven. I realized that only through grace would I have been able to negotiate with my body; for only from a place outside of consciousness could I have endured the pain of taking off my soiled, stinking pants, wiping myself off, and crawling to the phone in the living room.

It was grace too that quickly sent a friend to the hospital—a woman I only slightly knew from my past but who now attended the same church—who told me she was there to help me. She took my key to my home to get me some clothes and there discovered my nasty bathroom mess on the floor. When she returned to my hospital room, she held my hand and said matter-of-factly, It’s okay, I cleaned up and took out the trash. Without reminding me of what she found and had to clean up, she had erased the filthy ugliness I left behind—another moment of unmerited favor.

Her family was shocked when she told them she was taking me to her home to care for me. Historically, it was not her nature to do so. She told me she surprised herself. But whenever I tried to say thank you, she refused. She would thank me instead and tell me that I blessed her.

Although it may be hard to believe, I have come to think my heart attack was a divine setup. I was at a crossroad in my personal and professional life. I had recently been let go from my job—something that was completely foreign to me. I had always been described as an asset to any employer for whom I worked. Nevertheless, when I received my proverbial pink slip, my life turned topsy-turvy. I had to sell my home. To survive economically, I had to relocate to a new state. I was sixty-eight years old. I felt betrayed, afraid, and alone. I was stuck between my no longer and my not yet.

Only God could have known that I needed shocking into the reality that I may no longer have a job, but I am not over. Only with his divine guidance could I understand and accept this as my season of intentional living and giving. This has become my time to live on purpose, empowered to be whomever I decide to be. I still have value. I have unrelenting love to give, wisdom to share, patience to provide, and words to encourage.

The Memory Box is in essence the story of my becoming acquainted with the power, provision, and promise of the grace that has lived inside of me my entire life. The title itself comes from a series of boxes that hold mementos—moments of memory—of my life. Additionally, those boxes have come to represent something far more special. They are the keepers of truths about my stumbling, bumbling journey into understanding the real power of grace.

When I finally returned to my home, I opened one of the boxes, then another. There I found a lifetime of symbols of grace’s love, forgiveness, understanding, correction, and beauty that I had saved over the years. As I relived the stories attached to the memories in my collection of boxes, I discovered that even in my brokenness I had gifts to give. The Memory Box is my gift to you. To receive it, the lessons I learned and hopefully you will accept, you need only to open your heart.

THE END

IS

THE BEGINNING

CHAPTER 1

The No Longer

"December 2012

Dear Journal,

Sometimes life just sucks!

Here I am at Christmas my favorite time of year, living a lie. Each day before I leave my condo, I look in the mirror at the door and say, Showtime! Each day I come home to my newly painted unlit fireplace hiding behind packed moving boxes. I will miss the fire’s dancing shadows on the wall choreographed by music drifting down from the loft. Sadly, that’s only one of many things I will miss about my newly renovated home."

My journal was the first item I took out of my memory box when I came home from the hospital. Even though I was horribly weak and breathing was still very difficult, I decided that I needed to stand up to the memory that I had worried over in the hospital and even before. I marveled at how depressed and stressed my journal writing sounded.

I am having a personal handshake with failure. It’s big this time. I just had the height of my professional career ripped away. In two weeks, I will be jobless and homeless. That really sucks! I keep playing the events over and over in my head, wondering what really happened.

I knew what had happened, but I was beginning to realize why I had kept the truth from my truth keeper, my journal. The truth was too hard, too humiliating to deal with. I remember the conversation with my boss vividly:

What do you mean I’m fired? You have given me top evaluations for the past four years. I have documentation and awards.

I thought we respected one another.

Where were the conversations we should have had to warn me of this moment?

Is this a joke? Are there cameras?

It was not a joke.

I was gone.

Soon I would be a statistic on a page: Tyra S. Garlington, Deputy Director, Fairfax County Office of Public Affairs, and September 2007–2012. Although my last day was extended until December 2012, the time between September and December felt like I was watching someone else live my life.

As I cleaned out my office, I watched my robotic movements from a deep hurting place. My eyes stung all day, ready to drop tears at the slightest show of compassion from anyone. I had to be careful how I breathed so I wouldn’t hyperventilate. I intentionally walked tall, praying my fake smile would last the entire day. For the first time in my life, I was glad that my parents were not alive to witness my humiliation.

If we were about to share the same space, I watched my agency staff look or walk in another direction. My office was behind the agency kitchen, a morning and noon gathering place. I listened to loud silences during the usual noisy breaks. Some brave souls whispered to me that they did not agree with what happened. But they steadfastly kept their distance in public. I knew they had to survive; they had mortgages to pay. It was as if someone had drawn an invisible line—and I guess someone had, my boss. Some staff called me at home and wanted to meet for lunch or dinner somewhere away from the office. It all seemed so sad.

Mother gave me some helpful advice a long time ago. She said, At times when people expect you to look broken down and pitiful, dress up! With the lesson I learned, I found myself each night tearfully putting together a special outfit to wear the next day. I dug out accessories I had not worn in forever. I made an extra effort. In addition, it took me two hours of positive self-talk in the morning to get ready. I spent a total of three hours each morning preparing to spend an entire day in pain.

As September turned into October and then November, the word got out around the county that I had been—fired. No matter how many times I said it, it never felt right. Right or not though, I was out of a job. Friends came to see me, hug me, and to get something of Tyra, a photo, a book, to remember.

I remember thinking a little disgustedly that I was not dead for goodness sakes, just suffering from wrongful termination also known as temporary hell. I think what triggered my decline probably occurred in July 2011. One of the deputy county executives sent an e-mail directly to me with a copy to my manager assigning me to a new countywide project.