Tuttle Buddy

Author’s Note: Dedicated to the strongest woman I know, Beverly Gail Beaver, my Tuttle Buddy. 

Revelation 12:11: “They overcame the accuser by the blood of the lamb and by the word of their testimony.”

Memories are funny things, at least in my estimation. Like, I can’t remember when I was born, my first steps, nor my first words, but it’s like I just somehow knew that when anyone would say Jamie that they were talking to, or about, me. 

I also don’t remember when or why my dad left me and Momma. I don’t even really remember what my dad was like, but I do remember how sad his absence made my mom, and I remember trying extra hard to make her … not sad. The problem was that I didn’t even understand the problem, even less did I have the tools to fix it But God …

Me and my mom (Gail) moved into a pay-by-the-week motel. Just a single bed that we shared, a bathroom, an old microwave for us to cook in that was full of roaches, and an AC/heating unit that kept us warm enough but made more noise than the black-and-white TV that sat upon the dresser at the foot of our bed. 

In Arkansas that year it was very cold, but Momma would bundle me up and walk me 3 ½ blocks to my Aunt Teresa’s house so that she could watch me. Then Mom would walk the seven miles to Mani Powell’s restaurant seven days a week. Though Mom was obviously very sad, she always made time for me and had a special smile just for me. She always had a kind spirit and she would hold me at night when I’d wake from a bad dream. 

She’d say, “Come here, Cuddle Buddy,” but since I couldn’t pronounce the C sound I’d respond, 

“Not me, Mom, I’m a big boy, not Tuttle Buddy,” to which she’d always just smile and respond, 

“Yes, you are, little man. Don’t worry what people think.” 

So by the time I could actually pronounce “cuddle,” Tuttle Buddy was already firmly a way for me to bring a smile to her face, so I would continue this for many years because I loved to make her smile.

One day I remember I woke up and it was already daytime, but my mom was still asleep — which was odd — and when I tried to wake her up she groggily told me she wasn’t going to work that day and for me to go play and let her sleep. Now normally Mom wouldn’t allow me to play in the water, what with something about poorer kids wishing that they had even a drink of water, so I shouldn’t waste it. My excuses now are that I was only 5, she told me to play, and playing in water is fun. So I quickly grabbed one of the cardboard boxes that our few belongings were packed in. I quietly slid it into the bathroom, closed the door behind myself, and maneuvered the box just so. Then I climbed up so I could reach the sink, where I commenced to “waste” quite a bit of water. At some point I thought it would be cool to write “Tuttle Buddy yes you are don’t worry” on the mirror in the only ink available … you guessed it … water. 

I soon became aware of a problem. OK, problems, plural.

One, I was only 5 and couldn’t spell well at all — though Mom had been trying to teach me — and two is that I suffered from mild dyslexia, but to a 5-year-old boy who is having a blast playing in “forbidden” water, those were trivial matters. Until I realize my biggest problem of all is that water serves as very poor ink — as it’s transparent — so like most 5-year-old boys, when my fun became work I found something else to occupy my time. 

A few hours later my mom was awake, but like usual, she dried her eyes and said, “Come on Tuttle Buddy, let’s get dressed.” 

“Not me, Mom, I’m a big boy, not Tuttle Buddy,” and even in her great depression, she responds, “Yes you are, don’t worry,” and she adds that special smile she reserved just for me. 

Even though it didn’t reach her eyes like usual, she put it on just for me. 

Once we were all bundled up, my mom walked me to Aunt Teresa’s house. This day differed from others of its ilk, because this day Mom asked Aunt T to keep me overnight. Me and Auntie had fun — as usual — but she dropped some jewels on me about mine and mom’s situation that stuck with me for most of my life. 

“Listen to me Jamie, your momma is going through a whole lot right now. She’s hurting. A person never knows how strong they are until somebody they love expects it from them, and Jamie, your momma must be superwoman because she keeps pulling strength from a reserve I never knew she had. I don’t expect you to fully understand why she’s so sad. All that matters is that you become aware that you are her main reason to believe that life will get better … eventually. Never take your mom for granted. She’s lost but for you. Because of her love for you she puts her emotions aside — just enough — to make it work day after day even in the dead of winter. All to put a roof over your head and food in your belly. Since your daddy left, you’re the only one who can make her smile, small though it may be. Lil’ Jamie, I’m not telling you all this to make you feel bad. Quite the opposite. See, God gave you a momma who constantly put you before her own wants and comforts. As you grow and mature, always remember all the stuff you do have and don’t worry about all that you don’t.” 

Even at 5 her words held a lot of weight. So that night I prayed the first prayer I ever remember saying. 

“Jesus, help my momma know how special she is.” Short though it was, I meant every syllable. 

The next morning Momma came and got me early and the smile she had for me this particular morning was 1,000 watt. No, mega watt. OK, I just know it was extra large and that smile kept me completely warm despite how cold the 3 ½ blocks back to our room was. In my memory, I never could figure out what changed that night, but whatever it was, I had my happy momma back, only better somehow. It wasn’t until 10 years later in a big church sitting in a pew next to my Aunt Teresa that I learned why.

–Ten years later–

The church was packed as my momma took the stage to give her testimony.

Pastor Johnson introduced her and, with a microphone in one hand and a folded-up piece of paper in the other, my momma spoke to God’s people … the church. With every new word she said, it pulled back the veil on my heart to reveal a deep understanding of just how much we mean to God, of how he will get right in the dirt of our lowest moments, paying attention to details, even to the most insignificant, to show us how loved we are. 

“Hello, uh, I’m here to share how God saved my life and then my soul …”

She stops here to point at me and Aunt Teresa.

“That is my baby son Jamie and my sister Teresa. After my husband — a man I had put all my trust and faith in — I was lost, broken, and very depressed. I used my love for my son and sister as fuel to keep slogging through all the many tasks in life, day after day. I thought that would be enough, but in my own head and heart, I didn’t feel worthy of even their love. I didn’t matter enough to keep a husband; I didn’t deserve the loyalty of my sister nor the unconditional love of my son. I had heard about Jesus, but I was certain that I was too little for his notice or intervention, more so his love. This next part I haven’t even shared with Jamie or Teresa.

“I decided one day that Jamie was better off with my sister and without me, so I took him to stay the night with her, and as soon as I left, I went out and borrowed a small 38-caliber pistol from a coworker who lived a couple rooms down from us at the motel. Then I went into our room. Locked the door, and still feeling the need to hide what I was fixing to do, I turned on both the loud heating unit and the TV. I went into the bathroom and shut and locked that door as well. I even turned both the sink and the tub faucets on full blast so as to further muffle the sound that the gun was sure to make very soon. That’s when I fully broke down and started crying in earnest. I leaned back against the wall for support — opposite the sink — which caused me to see myself in the reflection of the mirror, and since that was just a reminder of how weak and little I’d become, I slid down the wall to my butt, put the gun in my mouth, and closed my eyes. That’s when I heard a small voice, very clearly say, ‘I know you’re hurting, daughter. You’re seeking a way to stop hurting. I understand. But who is your death going to hurt most of all?’ 

“And I knew right then that it was Jamie who would be devastated, lost, left feeling responsible. I would like to lie and say that was enough for me to put the gun down, but I won’t. I can’t. The truth is that this realization only sent me deeper into my despair. With no other consolation than that my sister would take care of Jamie, I cocked the hammer back on the gun, pressed my finger firmly on the trigger, and I asked God for whatever forgiveness he would give for what I was fixing to do. To forgive me for having too little strength to keep on living, and especially for the pain that my decision would inflict on Jamie.

“As I made my mouth to say, ‘Amen,’ that small voice spoke again. It was so kind, so gentle, and so filled with affection as it said, ‘Look up, daughter. I know you feel little. Don’t believe that lie. This is the truth.’ With the barrel of the gun still partially in my mouth, I opened my weeping eyes and did as the voice said. I looked up. The whole bathroom had fogged up due to steam from the running water in the sink and the tub but as my eyes adjusted, I saw words just appear out of nowhere on the mirror, words that were not there just moments before when I’d seen my reflection. I copied what was written.”

At this revelation, Mom unfolds the piece of paper that had been in her hand as she’d walked onto the stage. When I saw the fully unfolded construction paper, the message on it rocked my world. 

To u u little
Bud in me
U r
Worthy

As the church sees and deciphers the words, and there isn’t a dry eye in the entire room, Mom explains that to her best assumption this was done by me and meant to say “Tuttle Buddy, you are loved. Don’t worry.” But God had caused her to see it for both what I was trying to say and more so the truth he meant for her. 

To you, you are little, but in me, you are worthy. 

Mom goes on to tell how she was soon invited to this church, confessed and believed in the finished work of Jesus. See this is but one God memory — not good memory — that I hold onto in my own life. Memories are tricky sometimes, what with remembering things you thought you wouldn’t, and forgetting things you wish you hadn’t, so every time you have a God memory, hold it firmly, write it on the tablets of your heart, and every time that the serpent of old tries to tell you lies, remind him what God has already done for you, and more importantly, remind him of his future.