healing

“Mom” 8.27.21

Samantha Jane Buice

I am grateful beyond words for my mom. I am her firstborn. She has always kept me out of harm’s way. She encouraged me as a child and as an adult to reach for my dreams, work for them, and achieve them. I realize how lucky I am. She is one of my greatest loves. I have many loves in my life, and thanks to her, I not only have Mom and Dad. She gave me three wonderful sisters. My mom is not only the bearer of daughters. She is my best friend.

When I was a child, I was very particular about clothing. I wouldn’t wear tights, hated elastic, and never wore shorts or pants. I didn’t want to wear tight fitting clothes. If I had my way, I would have run around naked. Before my chest developed, I pretty much did. I normally wore loose dresses that I picked out. I was all about comfort, without a care for fashion. It bothered my mom to no end. I would try to get away with wearing a dress several days in a row, and all of my family members–immediate and extended–remember a specific green dress.

Mom and I got into huge fights about my wardrobe. I pitched angry fits. One day, she handed me to Dad and he ended the dressing battles. The rules were that I came up the stairs, lifted my arms, and twirled around so he could smell me. If I didn’t smell like a “little goat” (as my mom would refer to me upon sniffing my forehead), I could wear whatever I wanted, much to Mom’s chagrin. My relationship with my mom began to strengthen after our frustrations subsided. I love my mom, and I always have. It is difficult to relay that message when you have had a big fight.

My mom has been with me through thick and thin. I am tired of talking about the hospital, which I think is a very good step away. One last time. Mom was devastated. She had to go to work every day knowing where I was, thinking about me, and telling no one. At one point, I didn’t recognize her. Still she fought to bring me home, knowing in her heart that I would return. She brought me her homemade bread when I wasn’t eating. I devoured it. There is no way to turn down that bread. Absolutely no way.

In my adult life, we have spent a lot of time together. I visit her and Dad every Saturday for breakfast; sometimes she stops by my house for coffee. Often we have walked together. We have been on many road trips and she is good company. She decorates her house for my birthday every year no matter how old I get, and makes my favorite cupcakes (red velvet with cream cheese icing). When Rush and I got married, she planned the whole day and helped to make it the best day of my life. She makes my whole life special.

My mom is a huge part of my life, and without her I would be lost. She is my guiding star.

–SJB

“Leaving the Church” 8.20.21

Samantha Jane Buice
Prince of Peace

To clarify, this illustration is a depiction on Jesus, not of my dad.

My dad, “Father Sam,” retired recently. He was my favorite preacher. Of course, I am biased, but his were not the only sermons that entered my head. I have heard other sermons at different churches. I have done my homework. Nobody preaches like my dad. His sermons resonated throughout the week, and will reside inside my mind and heart for the rest of my life. As a priest and a dad, “Father Sam” taught me many lessons. These are some examples: God is love. God forgives. Love your neighbor as yourself, and not only the person who lives next door. Keep growing. Build relationships and work through conflict with words. Encourage God to shine God’s light into your life. God is everywhere. Church is a place of fellowship and worship, but not the only place to feel God’s presence. Jesus is a corrective measure. The Kingdom of Heaven is on Earth.

I grew up in the forests; I climbed the tallest trees. I swam in the cold, refreshing whitewater rivers. I wanted to be Pocahontas. My family camped, hiked, swam, and traveled the country. I have never seen a family bond like the one we share. Dad plays a large role in gluing us together.

When I was little, going to church was mandatory. I thought the point of church was to hear Dad preach. Over the years, worship has changed me, and now I know Daily Morning Prayer Rite II by heart. I confess that I have not read the Bible cover to cover, but I have heard most of the parables, and a good many Old Testament stories. The ritual of Holy Communion has always been sacred to me. I have taken a leave of absence from the church. It is no longer my duty to show up, worship, and keep important secrets. Though I am relieved of my “preacher’s kid” duties, I feel a little empty inside. It is an emptiness I cannot fill with material possessions, no matter how full my Amazon shopping cart becomes. God is everywhere, and much like mental illness, God appears invisible, though I have faith because I believe in the unseen.

I have thought about this for some time. Going to church all the Sundays of my life has been special to me. My mom, three sisters and I have always been seated in the front pew. As I understand, it is hard for a child to concentrate and listen for an hour. So, my earlier days in the church were spent reading, coloring, and listening selectively. The most special part about that time in my life was napping on my mom’s lap. As an adult in church, I have often been tempted to do the same.

When I was six years old, my friend, Rob, and I became acolytes. We carried the candles during the procession into and out of the church. Early Christians worshipped in caves to hide their spiritual practices from those who meant them harm. The purpose of the candles in the procession is to remind us of the darkness of the caves, where the only light shining inside was that of the candles and of God’s Holy presence within.

I realize now that the church does not rest on my dad’s shoulders. It is more complicated. My relationship with God was instilled inside of me from the start, and while my dad had a hand in guiding Jesus into my heart, God has been there all along. Leave the church? Maybe for a bit of a vacation, but probably not forever.

—SJB

“Christmas in July” 8.6.21

Samantha Jane Buice

I am soaking in the melody of this morning, as my dog and husband are sleeping. The early birds are catching worms and the crickets haven’t yet realized that night is over. The small quiet sounds are peaceful; I am listening to the day awakening. Sometimes lack of noise on the outside invites thoughts and regrets on the inside. Recently, my family celebrated “Christmas in July” literally, as we were not able to gather for the real festivities last year. I don’t think we always appreciate the wonderful people in our lives. I had a month to catch up with my little sister, Jessica, before she moved across the country. I wish I had spent more time with her, but if I look deeper, I see that our time together was valuable and good quality. There are always regrets and things we could have done differently. Coulda, Woulda, Shoulda.

One problem with our pretend Christmas was that it was supposed to be my parents and all of my sisters and brothers. We weren’t all present. We had planned very far in advance so that we could set the date in everyone’s calendar. We were missing my sister, Amy–who suddenly found herself buried in work on Saturday and Sunday–and my brother, Rob, who usually doesn’t go anywhere without her. The family dynamic is thrown off balance when any of my family members are absent from group gatherings. Every member of our family carries a different candle, and when a candle is absent, that bit of darkness is distinguishable.

Mom rented a boat on Sunday to increase the fun factor of “Christmas in July,” and we spent the day on the lake. Logan (our dog) spent the day at his sister’s house because he is little, doesn’t have a life jacket, and can’t swim. Not a good combination. I think he had a better time in the yard than he would have on the boat, despite his love for sun bathing.

It was a great day. A day without worries or obligations. If you didn’t wear sunscreen, it was noticeable later. We swam in the lake, had a picnic, and felt the wind in our hair.

There is no better way to be reminded of what you have until you almost lose it. While my sister, Jessica, was here I was in the mindset that even when she lived far away, she would always be around; she would probably return to our part of the country one day. I took her for granted. She and Dad drove the truck and trailer to Virginia to gather her possessions and then headed to her new home in Portland. When they were two hours from their destination, they were moving slowly and about to stop for gas. The driver behind them was coming up fast and not paying attention. Luckily, my dad is a good driver and noticed this in his side mirror. He told Jessica, her dog, and two cats to “Hold on.” They were hit hard from behind; the truck and trailer flipped and landed right side up. The truck, trailer, and most of Jessica’s belongings were totaled. Dad, Jessica, her dog and two cats walked away physically unscathed.

Every night since, I have had a hard time falling asleep because I cannot shake the fact that I almost lost two of my favorite people in this world. This near-death experience amplifies the voice in my head that screams, “Appreciate them! Love them! Spend every moment with those you love as if it is your last chance.” I will never take them for granted again. Let this be a lesson that no one is invincible and we must love as deeply as we possibly can.

–SJB

Article Three: Origin

Samantha Jane Buice

I have been working on my book for thirteen years. I am a bit superstitious, but only for fun. I was born on the 13th of January, and black cats with green eyes only bring me good luck. If I see a penny on heads, no matter where I am, I have to pick it up. I just can’t pass it by. Friday the thirteenth is always a good day for me. I also paid quite a bit of money in the Museum of Modern Art on a four-leaf clover encased in glass that I “found.”

When I was a very little girl, I loved to read, write, and draw. On career day at my elementary school, I dressed as an “Author and Illustrator.” I was only wrong about the attire of an author and illustrator. I can’t speak for all of us, but I wear pajamas to work.

When I was in first grade, I won a writing contest with a short story about a cat named Fred (I’m sure he was a black cat with green eyes). In second grade, I kept a wild journal! My teacher, Mrs. Sanders, seemed to have fun reading it because she always left funny comments in the margins and predicted that one day I would write a book. So, I did. Twenty-five years later.

It’s not every day you grow up to be an astronaut, but my dreams were just as important and a little more attainable. I am an author and an illustrator; one of those kids who grows up to live their dream. I feel so fortunate, but it has nothing to do with good luck. Some might even say it has to do with putting a spin on bad luck. This book would not be possible if my whole life consisted of good fortune.

I dreamed of being a writer of words people wanted to read. I think a higher being, God if you will, heard me. Let’s just say he gave me a lot of material to work with!

For the first few years of this project, I had a hard time deciding exactly what form my book would take. My first attempt was an unfinished forty-page, single-spaced, twelve-point font autobiography. It was boring. It was heavy. It was not entertaining, and there were no illustrations. It was cold, and dark. So I steered it in a different direction. No one needs all the details, though I plan to share many of them here.

My next attempt was a series of funny short stories, but when I had finished those, it seemed I was making light of the situation, and I didn’t want to give readers the impression that mental illness is not a serious issue. That project was then squashed.

Finally, after much pondering and many more years, I started writing and illustrating fairy tales with underlying messages about mental illness. I wrote so many that I had to decide which to publish first! I got a little carried away. Writers are supposed to write about what they know, right? I have seen and experienced my share of mental illness, so the truth came out.

It has been clear to me for a very long time that my purpose here is to take a stand against societal stigma and make waves in the field of mental health. I want to speak for those who have difficulty speaking for themselves, and help broken families heal.

In eighth grade, I had a writing assignment about my dreams for the future. One of my dreams was “to write something people wanted to read.”

I hope you want to read my book, hear what I have to say, and pass it on.

—SJB