America's STORYTELLER
Telling Untold Stories in Photographs, Prose and Public Speaking
I wrote a story about my family called The Crying Chair.
My story was published in 2001, by Adams Media Corporation in the flagship book of their series, A CUP OF COMFORT.
CLICK on the link or COPY & PASTE the link in your browser:
http://www.abebooks.com/CUP-COMFORT-Lady-Blue-Dress-Wish/4644404504/bd
I maintain the copyright for the story, so I am able to share it with you today. I made some minor corrections to the story that the editors didn't get quite right in the book. It happens.
Both my parents, Natalie and Jewell Bush, were alive when our story was published. Mom carried the book, A CUP OF COMFORT, with her to the hospital for her cancer treatments. She proudly showed the story to the doctors and nurses at the hospital and her wonderful hospice nurses who cared for her at home for over one year.
Mom (Mema) went to Heaven in February 2003. She left each of our family members Crying Towels that she hand embroidered. After all - there was only one Crying Chair, and there were many more tears to come. Dad went to Heaven in July 2003.
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| Mema's Hand-Embroidered Crying Towel. Copyright 2003 Marcia Norwood |
Are you in the midst of a storm?
Are you overwhelmed?
Are you grieving the loss of a loved one, family pet, job or house?
Please give yourself permission to cry.
Psalm 56:8
You (God) keep track of all my sorrows.
You have collected all my tears in your bottle.
You have recorded each one in your book.
It's good to cry.
It's healthy to cry.
The Health Benefits of Tears
CLICK on the link or COPY & PASTE the link in your browser:
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/judith-orloff-md/emotional-wellness_b_653754.html
Here's our story: The Crying Chair.
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| The Crying Chair....page 16 |
The Crying Chair
By Mary Marcia Lee Norwood
Copyright 1999
Each chair at Mom and Dad's kitchen table was spoken for. As the oldest of four -- I had first pick. I picked the one directly across from Dad. Everybody knew it was "Marcia's chair." My sister, Gloria, chose her chair next -- followed by my brothers Bret and Terry. Selections were made in birth order: first come . . . first served . . . you might say. Mom didn't sit much. She was usually up waiting on one of us.
Sometimes I gave up my chair for guests, and it was known by another name: "The Crying Chair." Family, friends and neighbors sat in that chair when they needed a good cry, and someone to share their burdens. To this day folks still come to sit in The Crying Chair at my parents' house, in Liberty, Missouri. Folks like Fran and Bob, who once lived across the street , , , shared coffee, stories and tears at our kitchen table. They moved from our old neighborhood, but when Bob died, Fran returned to The Crying Chair.
We're a family of natural-born weepers, from my parents, Natalie and Jewell Bush, right on down the line to all four of their children, now grown with little weepers of our own. Not that our lives have been filled with extraordinary tragedy or that our hearts are filled with sorrow, it's just that crying is comfort for the soul.
Mom said that it was only natural for "Marcia's Chair" to become the official Crying Chair, since I was the most tenderhearted crier in the family. I put The Crying Chair to good use throughout my life: when my dog, Midnight, died; when Dad was injured in a terrible car accident; when Dad sang us a song about a little crippled girl; when I watched Superman take a crippled boy on a Super flight on our black-and-white TV; and when my two-year-old brother, Terry, tried to be Superman and jumped from the neighbor's tall slide - which required brain surgery. Of course, I took to The Crying Chair when a boyfriend broke up with me.
Yet, I was not an unhappy child. In fact, quite the opposite: I was very happy.
The Crying Chair gave me a place to park my emotional baggage, so I could get on with my life. There were also times when I took to The Crying Chair with tears of joy: each time my sister, Gloria and I were chosen for the cheerleading squads; when I was crowned Sweetheart Queen; when I left for college; when I came home from college; when I became engaged, and when I became pregnant with each child.
The Crying Chair gave me a place to park my emotional baggage, so I could get on with my life. There were also times when I took to The Crying Chair with tears of joy: each time my sister, Gloria and I were chosen for the cheerleading squads; when I was crowned Sweetheart Queen; when I left for college; when I came home from college; when I became engaged, and when I became pregnant with each child.
The Crying Chair worked so well throughout the years -- I decided to borrow the idea for my Kindergarten classroom at a private Christian school where I taught for seven years. The idea came to me when I was trying to find ways to console one of my Kindergarten students. He cried uncontrollably each morning when he arrived at school, and several times throughout the day. His parents were going through a divorce. This little guy was shifted from one parent to the next, and he never knew who would bring him to school or pick him up.
With great pomp and circumstance I announced the arrival of The Crying Chair in our Kindergarten classroom. It was just a regular chair that I "named" and moved to an isolated part of our room. I placed a box of tissues within arm's reach of The Crying Chair. The students listened with wide -eyed wonder as I proclaimed the rules for The Crying Chair. They even added a few of their own.
Rules For The Crying Chair
1. Teacher: The Crying Chair is NOT a punishment or time out.
Student: We won't get in trouble.
2. Teacher: Raise your hand and state your need for The Crying Chair.
Permission will be granted.
Student: Ask the teacher first.
3. Teacher: All outbursts made while in The Crying Chair
shall be uttered at a moderate level,
so as not to bother the other students, and
NOT to draw attention to oneself.
Student: No screaming.
4. Teacher: Length of stay in The Crying Chair is up to the individual;
however, five-minute intervals are suggested,
which may be extended if necessary.
Student: Hurry up. Get it over with.
5. Teacher: The Crying Chair is available to both students and teachers.
Student: Teachers cry, too?
6. Teacher: Other students will not be permitted
to harass or make-fun-of anyone in The Crying Chair
Student: Don't start a fight.
7. Teacher: Other students are encouraged to pray for and
show special kindness to the person in The Crying Chair .
Student: Be nice. Be kind. Pray.
The Crying Chair was a special chair. The students almost had a reverence for it. The precious student who cried uncontrollably would raise his little hand for permission to sit in The Crying Chair. Then he would bury his head in his hands, and sob. My heart ached for him, but I rejoiced as I watched other students (of their own choice) bow their heads in prayer for their classmate. Some asked for permission to walk over to The Crying Chair and give him a pat on the back -- or a hug. Other times a classmate would quietly place a piece of candy for him on the table beside The Crying Chair.
After a brief time in the chair he would dry his eyes, ask for permission to get a drink of water and go to the bathroom before returning to his regular seat in class. Not one student teased him about sitting in The Crying Chair. As his life took on some semblance of order, his trips to the chair became less frequent.
The source of tears was always traumatic when a child came to The Crying Chair: like the loss of a pet or a grandparent. For three children who had been abandoned by their mothers, and were being raised by other family members, it provided a soft place to fall, and cry. One student strived so hard for perfection in printing letters his entire body shook. He discovered a little cry in The Crying Chair relaxed him enough to try again. After being molested by a neighbor, one child sat and sobbed until I thought all our hearts would break.
One particular day, I felt overwhelmed with the duties of teaching and motherhood and marriage. I announced to the class that I needed to spend some time in The Crying Chair. I laid my head in my hands and cried. As the tears flowed down my cheeks I felt the touch of many tiny hands as my students walked by and gently patted me on the back.
The teacher learned compassion from her students.
The students learned a teacher hurts just like they hurt, and cries just like they cry.
Both learned to love each other.
The Crying Chair
By Mary Marcia Lee Norwood
Copyright 1999
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| SIBLINGS! From Left: Gloria, Terry, Marcia and Bret. Copyright 1976 Marcia Norwood |
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| Marcia's Dad, Jewell; Nephew Jeramy, Brothers Terry and Bret. Copyright 1991 Marcia Norwood |
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| Marcia's Parents: Jewell and Natalie with their grandchildren and great-grandchildren: Megan, Lacey, Taylor, Conner, Sarah ZK and Joshua. Copyright 1999 Marcia Norwood. |
Thanks for stopping by!
Come back often, and invite a friend!
Come back often, and invite a friend!
Mary Marcia
America's STORYTELLER
Telling Untold Stories in Photographs, Prose and Public Speaking
America's STORYTELLER
Telling Untold Stories in Photographs, Prose and Public Speaking
