Rosetta Harris
September 24, 1932 - December 14, 2012
A Mother Passes and A Legend is Born
Our mother, Rosetta Harris passed away on December 14, 2012 at the age of 80. She was born September 24, 1932 in Columbus, Ohio, the daughter of Lena and Earl Gibbs. An energetic and inspiring woman, she was the most important influence on my writing. She taught me to read at age 4. The books she brought home from the local thrift store opened up worlds beyond Columbus, Ohio. She helped me master cursive writing in one night while she ironed clothes. I recall the time she stared down menacing neighborhood dogs and would-be trick-or-treat bag snatchers. One spring she sacrificed her gorgeous green and white silk gown to craft a splendid clown costume for my class play. Each of my sisters and brothers and all of her grandchildren have similar stories about her creativity, compassion, wit, wisdom and generosity. She is at the heart of every story I have written and every poem I have penned. Every positive character resonates with her warmth; every colorful phrase echoes her voice and every happy ending reflects her preference.
The Dream, the Song and the Sign
I slowly dressed as dark thoughts flooded my mind. My mother, Rosetta Harris, had passed away sixteen weeks ago. Her sudden passing hit me hard. She was my best friend and confidante. I felt I had too little time with her despite daily phone calls and weekly excursions to garage sales or movies.
From the time a doctor said the hideous words: “liver cancer” until she closed her eyes for the last time, only two months had passed. A door had been firmly shut. The loss of her humor and kindness was too much to bear. An irreplaceable part of my own life was gone and I was drowning in grief. Could I even go on without her advice about difficult tasks? Take one step at a time. Were her wise words lost to me forever? Examine your problem. Take it apart. I choked back tears.
In the weeks that followed, I was furious that other family members spoke of having sweet dreams about my mother. My daughter dreamed of the poodle skirt Mom had fashioned out of black wool and pink felt. My sister dreamed of her whipping up delicious potato salad. Another dreamed of Mom reading a book to her grandchildren. My brother dreamed of hiking the trails of a lush park with her. But I experienced no dreams of her for months. If she loved me and wanted to contact me, was being blessed with a dream too much to ask? I prayed fervently for one. Perhaps a dream of us doing things that we enjoyed: walking through the botanical gardens, wandering through the casinos, visiting the ice show, attending early morning church services, paddle boating, watching her beloved westerns on television. When finally a brief, precious early morning dream came, I was barely satisfied.
In the dream, Mom and I were simply talking. I did not see her face, but I heard her voice.
"What is it like?” I asked.
She answered in a clear voice: “They’ve got shoes here.”
I did not respond. I just woke up. I was happy that I'd heard her voice and took comfort in knowing we could communicate, but it was not the long-hoped-for dream and I yearned to experience another more meaningful dream. I craved some affirmation that she was in some happy joy-filled place. But the presence of some shoes provided no real information. Were shoes required there? Shoes had no special meaning for me. My shoe collection consists of sturdy low-heeled work shoes and four pairs of heels for special occasions. My daughter, who owns dozens of pumps, sandals and heels shakes her head in disbelief when she looks at my small row of practical footwear. So night after night, I continued to long for a special dream that never came.
When family members related their own sweet dreams, I felt ashamed that I was so jealous. Mom had set a far better example for all of us. It was surely time to return to some wholesome habits to rid me of my bitterness. It was time to drag myself to church.
I stayed away from Brown Chapel AME Church for months. Nothing I might hear from the pulpit could assuage the guilt of my inexpert, futile management of her health care. I also felt anger because God should have provided healing for my mother. Though I was all but consumed by sadness, being in the company of people of faith might keep my head above water.
So on that drizzly February morning, although I had not attended for months, I drove to church. I sloshed through the parking lot to enter the warmth of the sanctuary.
The regular choir stood in its usual section, but a half-dozen women wearing long skirts and shawls stood at the front of the sanctuary. I edged past a woman to take my usual seat in the back pew. Why were the men dressed in vests and breeches and the women wearing gingham dresses and bonnets? Then I understood. I had chosen to return on the annual celebration of the AME Church Founder’s Day during African-American History Month. I quickly re-buttoned my coat to cover my modern dress.
From that moment, the service slid downhill. I fought back tears during the doxology and the altar call. I furtively wiped tears away and wondered how I’d make it through the service which would probably be longer than usual. I fanned my burning face with the program and then peered at the insert. Sure enough, the special activities would extend the service by at least forty interminable minutes:
My heart dropped. I’ve never liked spirituals. Certainly I enjoyed hymns such as “We Gather Together.” Even “How Great Thou Art” with its sweeping orchestral arrangement was pleasant, though solemn. But the spirituals I heard as a child were simply sad tunes about suffering and slavery. “Go Down Moses” and Swing Low, Sweet Chariot” ushered in haunting images of enslaved human beings: shackled men whipped mercilessly, screaming children dragged from mothers and weary people toiling in fields not their own. While that was certainly not the intention of the lyricists, I found the songs simply grim. When I was a child in Sunday school, I rolled my eyes since I couldn't rudely cover my ears. Even after learning the spirituals had double meanings and were used as tools to help enslaved people survive or escape or endure, they found no favor with me. And now, today of all days, I was going to have to listen to musical lament after musical lament. I shuddered.
The little choir of earnest women clutched their hymnals and a shower of half notes fell from the organ, washed over the choir and ran out over the congregation. Like a contrary ten-year old, I scowled, bracing myself for another dreary song. I lowered my head like a child. But then some sprightly-delivered words flooded the sanctuary.
“In heaven children got shoes.”
I gotta shoes, You gotta shoes
All o' God's children gotta shoes.
When I get to Heaven I’m gonna put on my shoes,
Gonna walk all over God's Heaven.”
My head snapped up and I gasped. That song was a message from my mother. Mom was safe, in comfort and filled with joy! She had shoes and she was in heaven. I couldn’t contain my excitement as the deep emotion caught me off guard. I stood astonished, shocked, loved.
The recitations and announcements blurred. I just shook my head and thanked God for the dream, the sign, the revelation. Shoes!
All of God’s Children Got Shoes! When I get to Heaven I’m gonna put on my shoes!
Since that Sunday three years ago, I’ve had some other vivid dreams and moments of connection with my mom. I dreamed of her as a child, preparing to board a train with her own mother; another early morning I felt a real hug from her during a dream, and on my way to my office, I experienced another incredible interaction with her loving spirit. I realize now that there had been other moments of connection that I was too grief-stricken to recognize or appreciate. Happily, even now, I often sense her sweet spirit washing over me. But that shoe dream was too specific to be coincidence and too personal to be random. It was a present from an unknown songwriter and a generous gift from God.
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September 24, 1932 - December 14, 2012
A Mother Passes and A Legend is Born
Our mother, Rosetta Harris passed away on December 14, 2012 at the age of 80. She was born September 24, 1932 in Columbus, Ohio, the daughter of Lena and Earl Gibbs. An energetic and inspiring woman, she was the most important influence on my writing. She taught me to read at age 4. The books she brought home from the local thrift store opened up worlds beyond Columbus, Ohio. She helped me master cursive writing in one night while she ironed clothes. I recall the time she stared down menacing neighborhood dogs and would-be trick-or-treat bag snatchers. One spring she sacrificed her gorgeous green and white silk gown to craft a splendid clown costume for my class play. Each of my sisters and brothers and all of her grandchildren have similar stories about her creativity, compassion, wit, wisdom and generosity. She is at the heart of every story I have written and every poem I have penned. Every positive character resonates with her warmth; every colorful phrase echoes her voice and every happy ending reflects her preference.
The Dream, the Song and the Sign
I slowly dressed as dark thoughts flooded my mind. My mother, Rosetta Harris, had passed away sixteen weeks ago. Her sudden passing hit me hard. She was my best friend and confidante. I felt I had too little time with her despite daily phone calls and weekly excursions to garage sales or movies.
From the time a doctor said the hideous words: “liver cancer” until she closed her eyes for the last time, only two months had passed. A door had been firmly shut. The loss of her humor and kindness was too much to bear. An irreplaceable part of my own life was gone and I was drowning in grief. Could I even go on without her advice about difficult tasks? Take one step at a time. Were her wise words lost to me forever? Examine your problem. Take it apart. I choked back tears.
In the weeks that followed, I was furious that other family members spoke of having sweet dreams about my mother. My daughter dreamed of the poodle skirt Mom had fashioned out of black wool and pink felt. My sister dreamed of her whipping up delicious potato salad. Another dreamed of Mom reading a book to her grandchildren. My brother dreamed of hiking the trails of a lush park with her. But I experienced no dreams of her for months. If she loved me and wanted to contact me, was being blessed with a dream too much to ask? I prayed fervently for one. Perhaps a dream of us doing things that we enjoyed: walking through the botanical gardens, wandering through the casinos, visiting the ice show, attending early morning church services, paddle boating, watching her beloved westerns on television. When finally a brief, precious early morning dream came, I was barely satisfied.
In the dream, Mom and I were simply talking. I did not see her face, but I heard her voice.
"What is it like?” I asked.
She answered in a clear voice: “They’ve got shoes here.”
I did not respond. I just woke up. I was happy that I'd heard her voice and took comfort in knowing we could communicate, but it was not the long-hoped-for dream and I yearned to experience another more meaningful dream. I craved some affirmation that she was in some happy joy-filled place. But the presence of some shoes provided no real information. Were shoes required there? Shoes had no special meaning for me. My shoe collection consists of sturdy low-heeled work shoes and four pairs of heels for special occasions. My daughter, who owns dozens of pumps, sandals and heels shakes her head in disbelief when she looks at my small row of practical footwear. So night after night, I continued to long for a special dream that never came.
When family members related their own sweet dreams, I felt ashamed that I was so jealous. Mom had set a far better example for all of us. It was surely time to return to some wholesome habits to rid me of my bitterness. It was time to drag myself to church.
I stayed away from Brown Chapel AME Church for months. Nothing I might hear from the pulpit could assuage the guilt of my inexpert, futile management of her health care. I also felt anger because God should have provided healing for my mother. Though I was all but consumed by sadness, being in the company of people of faith might keep my head above water.
So on that drizzly February morning, although I had not attended for months, I drove to church. I sloshed through the parking lot to enter the warmth of the sanctuary.
The regular choir stood in its usual section, but a half-dozen women wearing long skirts and shawls stood at the front of the sanctuary. I edged past a woman to take my usual seat in the back pew. Why were the men dressed in vests and breeches and the women wearing gingham dresses and bonnets? Then I understood. I had chosen to return on the annual celebration of the AME Church Founder’s Day during African-American History Month. I quickly re-buttoned my coat to cover my modern dress.
From that moment, the service slid downhill. I fought back tears during the doxology and the altar call. I furtively wiped tears away and wondered how I’d make it through the service which would probably be longer than usual. I fanned my burning face with the program and then peered at the insert. Sure enough, the special activities would extend the service by at least forty interminable minutes:
- Symphony of Spirituals
- Recitation
- Announcements
My heart dropped. I’ve never liked spirituals. Certainly I enjoyed hymns such as “We Gather Together.” Even “How Great Thou Art” with its sweeping orchestral arrangement was pleasant, though solemn. But the spirituals I heard as a child were simply sad tunes about suffering and slavery. “Go Down Moses” and Swing Low, Sweet Chariot” ushered in haunting images of enslaved human beings: shackled men whipped mercilessly, screaming children dragged from mothers and weary people toiling in fields not their own. While that was certainly not the intention of the lyricists, I found the songs simply grim. When I was a child in Sunday school, I rolled my eyes since I couldn't rudely cover my ears. Even after learning the spirituals had double meanings and were used as tools to help enslaved people survive or escape or endure, they found no favor with me. And now, today of all days, I was going to have to listen to musical lament after musical lament. I shuddered.
The little choir of earnest women clutched their hymnals and a shower of half notes fell from the organ, washed over the choir and ran out over the congregation. Like a contrary ten-year old, I scowled, bracing myself for another dreary song. I lowered my head like a child. But then some sprightly-delivered words flooded the sanctuary.
“In heaven children got shoes.”
I gotta shoes, You gotta shoes
All o' God's children gotta shoes.
When I get to Heaven I’m gonna put on my shoes,
Gonna walk all over God's Heaven.”
My head snapped up and I gasped. That song was a message from my mother. Mom was safe, in comfort and filled with joy! She had shoes and she was in heaven. I couldn’t contain my excitement as the deep emotion caught me off guard. I stood astonished, shocked, loved.
The recitations and announcements blurred. I just shook my head and thanked God for the dream, the sign, the revelation. Shoes!
All of God’s Children Got Shoes! When I get to Heaven I’m gonna put on my shoes!
Since that Sunday three years ago, I’ve had some other vivid dreams and moments of connection with my mom. I dreamed of her as a child, preparing to board a train with her own mother; another early morning I felt a real hug from her during a dream, and on my way to my office, I experienced another incredible interaction with her loving spirit. I realize now that there had been other moments of connection that I was too grief-stricken to recognize or appreciate. Happily, even now, I often sense her sweet spirit washing over me. But that shoe dream was too specific to be coincidence and too personal to be random. It was a present from an unknown songwriter and a generous gift from God.
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