My journey to purpose -

From concert jazz to music ministry...

through an interracial marriage, a brain hemorrhage,
a long tunnel of depression and a leap of faith

After spending almost 20 years working hard to carve out a solid path as a successful jazz vocalist, I awoke one morning in the predawn hour to find myself in the midst of what would turn out to be a hemorrhagic stroke exactly one week before my 48^th birthday. That's when my path started to change.

I achieved semi-consciousness with the words "somebody's hitting me in the head with a baseball bat" audibly coming from my lips. Having awakened my husband as I tried to get up from my dazed state, I stumbled awkwardly to the bathroom, finished my business and stood up, only to feel my legs collapse from under me, landing me with a solid thud onto the floor.  I grabbed for the bathroom door, which was slightly open, so as not to ram my head into it on the way down, hoping that it might help disrupt the fall.  I saved my head, but hit the floor anyway. 

I tried to get up, half asleep (or so I thought) and discovered that I could not retrieve myself from my position on my left side on the bathroom floor. The next words I then spoke were words which had become the center of many jokes following a long national commercial run for the "Life Alert" system. I summoned what consciousness I could muster and called to my husband, Kevin "Honey, I've fallen and I can't get up!"  I can laugh at it now, but it was anything but funny at the time. 

The rest of the memory is a wash of activity that includes my husband coming in to retrieve me from the floor and carrying me, babe in arms, back to the bedroom.  I remember him saying "I'm calling an ambulance." 

"Why?" I asked.  "I just had to pee." I said dully, wondering at the seriousness of my situation. 

"Because," he said, "I think you're having a stroke."

I can remember hearing him say to Kevin Jr., who had been living with us for several months, which was the source of extreme stress for me at the time, "That's the fire truck.  Let them in."  Then somebody (the paramedics) said "This is gonna be uncomfortable, after your bed", as they laid me on the stiff, cool cot.  The drag through my gravel driveway to the ambulance was an indefinable sensation my mind can still feel, and the thud of the ambulance door was excruciatingly loud. In my dull state, my head registered, "They're locking me in a vault," but I knew better, somehow. 

My next phase of consciousness included the thought "Good God! Those lights are bright!" as I attempted to open my eyes in the ER and then realized that I could not.  In spite of hearing the nurse say "Okay... paralysis on the left side; semi consciousness, speech is slurred", I dared to ask "Am I gonna be able to go to my yoga class on Thursday?" I was totally serious. 

"I wouldn't count on it, hon'. You're having a stroke, but we're gonna get you better, ok?" was the nasal country-twanged voice that came back.  I listened intently for my husband's comforting voice as the twang continued, firing off a series of questions at me that I prayed Kevin would answer on my behalf, as I simply could not find the strength. 

I tried with all my might to answer one or two of them.

"What's your name?" "Can you tell me your birthday?"

But the struggle to come up with answers took all my strength.  My mouth did not want to offer up the responses. 

"Thank you, honey", I thought to myself with each answer my husband gave.  "I can't talk just now." 

But true to my over-achieving nature, I kept trying.  I struggled until I finally got out another "Am I gonna make my yoga class on Thursday?", which was met by a solid "Shhh!  Just rest.  Yoga is out for a minute" from the deep warm voice I knew was the husband and rescuer I loved so dearly.

I recall thinking "A stroke?  What the hell...?  Okay. Now, what? What happens to my life now?"  My next and last conscious thought for the night was "I don't know what this is all about, but I'm not gonna be here long."

When I finally opened my eyes in consciousness, a predawn trip to my bathroom had turned into a hospital bed, a series of tubes and beeping sounds and a left arm that would not move.  Kevin was there as I awoke, immediately at my side, comforting me with "Your sisters are on their way." 

"How is that possible?" I wondered.  This just happened.  Greensboro is a full day away in a car.  Have I been asleep for two days?"   I must have actually asked the question in some fashion or another, because he responded with   "You've been asleep for almost 13 hours.  I'm picking them up from the airport at 7." Then suddenly, the doctor was there. 

"Can you lift your left arm for me?"  I tried.  "Not without a crane," I thought. 

"It feels like it weighs 900 pounds" I said, trying to lift it.  It barely budged.

"Am I paralyzed?" I asked bravely, certain deep inside somewhere that if I was, I wasn't going to stay that way.

"Yes", came the answer, "but hopefully it'll only be temporary.  It looks like you're moving it just a little and that's a good sign.  Don't try too hard right now.  I'll check on you again in a little while."

I remember Kevin smurking slightly at the doc's comment "don't try too hard." He had to be thinking "That's kind of like telling a fish in a pond not to swim." 

"I tried too hard" would likely be the inscription on my tombstone one day.  But, not this day.  "I'm still here," I thought.

"What time is it?" I slurred.

"About 4:30" Kevin responded.

True to my sense of push and determination, by the time my sisters arrived at 7:30 I was able to lift my arm about 6 inches off the bed. I kept thinking, "I'm not staying here long", with an odd and unusual sense of calm and lack of worry at my current state of paralysis and hospitalization.

I say 'unusual,' but it was closer to unnatural for me.  This sense of peace was new.  Did it take a stroke for me to understand what inner peace felt like?  Apparently it did.  It was this odd, new peace that I would try to hold on to as my life would take a sharp turn over the following two years.

The day after I entered the hospital, my friend Jennifer came to visit and flatly and sweetly said, "You need to just go ahead and get well and get on up out of that bed, Ms. Connye.  AWA's are in a month and the folks at the YW are asking me if you're going to be there.  I told them you would, so you just need to get well.  We're counting on you."

"Count me in," I said as clearly as I could manage.  "I don't plan to be here long.  They keep telling me I had a stroke, but I'm not buying it."

Maybe it was my refusal to accept the 'stroke' idea that had me on the rapid road to wellness. Perhaps it was Jennifer's lovingly shared "we need you" that helped speed the process. I had such rapid improvement that the doctor started calling me his "miracle patient".

Maybe it was my own determined "I try hard" nature and my repeated testimony of "I'm not going to be here long" that did the job.  I can't say.  All I know is that approximately 72 hours after a blood vessel burst in my brain and bled for nearly 30 minutes, leaving me paralyzed on my left side, with doctor's assuring my husband that I'd probably never fully regain use of my left arm, and that it was likely that I would never walk again without assistance - 72 hours later I waved goodbye to the nurses with my left hand (and my head) high in the air and walked down the hall to the wheelchair that awaited, with my husband holding on tight - but with both my legs in use.  The left one dragged a bit, but I knew I'd get the use back in time.  Thirty days later, I was back on stage - in high heels even - singing at the AWA's as expected, having driven myself to the convention center for the performance. 

There was a chair on stage for me if I needed it.  I was determined not to have to use it.  I remembered all the words to the songs, even though my mind was still in a bit of a haze.  At least some of the haze had lifted. 

I remember the day after I got out of the hospital and my sister took me to dinner, I couldn't read the menu.  I knew what the words said, but they were meaningless.  I couldn't think of what anything actually was, even while I understood beans, chicken, rice...it was as if I'd never had them before.  I couldn't make any sense of them in deciding what to order.  I remember telling my sister "This is so weird. They said it would take up to six weeks for the blood in my brain to reabsorb...and I can think, but the thoughts are really slow in coming forward. It's like trying to think through milk."

So needless to say, remembering the lyrics to not one but six songs thirty days later was a huge accomplishment, let alone to actually be singing, which I thought I might not regain the ability to do.  I knew I'd walk and use my arm, but singing I was not entirely sure of.  I knew that I had to try and that folks were "counting on me".  I was thankful to have made it through, with a collection of friends cheering me on.  It was a good feeling. 

At the end of the evening, someone asked "So, what's next?" Suddenly the calm and peace I had found in the hospital and had regained until this moment vanished.  I had no clue, except to learn how to rest and get focused on full recovery. I was suddenly quite nervous and anxious to get home to my bed.  I knew that I had been thrown off my regular path as a "busy, successful jazz singer", and was without a clue what God had in store for me from here.  Friends who were amazed at my 'miraculous' recovery kept telling me "God's got some important plans for you, my dear.  That is clear.  Just you wait."

Waiting was not my strength.  I had plenty of fortitude and determination, but had been short on patience for a lifetime.  I needed an answer to the "what's next?" question that would take the better part of two years to reveal itself.  My husband kept saying, "Rest is next.  Lots of rest."  Rest was like a monster I'd been running from for decades - partially the reason I'd had a stroke.  I didn't know how to rest.  I would spend the next 9 months learning how.

Life after stroke became a series of odd thoughts, like "what if Jesus is already here and we're all ignoring him?" There were endless questions about the future posed to God, long naps and even longer bouts of depression and feelings of worthlessness, unparalleled insomnia and ferocious night sweats.  The more I rested, the more worthless I felt. I struggled to relocate the peace I'd come to know in the hospital.  It was as lost as I felt. 

Exhaustion was a new visitor in my daily existence. I lost a lot of weight and began to look frail, even as I worked to achieve a "full recovery." I felt "broken" and somehow unworthy of a place of purpose in the world. Though I was singing just fine, the gigs fell away. So did my faith. I wondered how I would get my life back on track and what that track would be.  I couldn't imagine myself returning to my old rhythm and pace, and had not quite made friends with the concept of rest.  "I've got to DO something," I kept telling my husband. "I can't figure out what God wants me to do!" 

"I think God wants you to rest, dear. Resting IS doing something," he kept repeating, often to exasperation. "You've had a stroke, silly.  A full recovery requires lots of rest. The way you've worked for the last...how many years, now? 33, is it?  I'd say you're due for about two and a half years of rest. So, go back to bed."

 It was something akin to torture to learn to be still. "Surely, God, you don't mean for this to be the rest of my life!?!  What am I supposed to do, now that I'm broken?"

"Be still and know that I am God." 

I'd ask the question countless times a day for days in a row and get the same answer.  So this became my new mantra.  "Be still and know that I am God." A hard lesson to learn for "try too hard" overachievers like me.

Fifteen months rolled by in a flash of time that I could not get hold of as I learned to rest and relax.  I worked on letting go of long-held anxiety - for a moment - until the recession kicked in, hard - and Kevin's work slowed down like the rest of the country. Bills began to pile up. My life-long companions, anxiety and depression set in once again.  I prayed...and cried...and prayed...and cried.  Life felt dark and hopeless. I kept thinking "I've got to DO something!"

I began having regular lunches with an old church member and friend, a retired missionary steeped in faith and spiritual virtues, to help me sort through my loss of faith and focus. She reassured me that I was not lost, just walking a new and unfamiliar path.  "You've gone through a trauma," she reminded me.  "Often, recovery from trauma finds us on a new road. Just keep walking.  God will show you where you are soon enough. And remember that resting IS doing something."

It took almost 2 full years for the darkness to turn to light.  Peace returned at almost the very moment my husband and I made the decision. 

"Maybe we're supposed to be doing a music ministry." 

The minute Kevin said the words, I knew it was the right thing. We had found a church home just prior to my illness.  We were both certain that the congregation's love and prayers had helped pull me through.  Perhaps this had been the source of the peace I found in the hospital..."the knowing" that all would be well.  The New Year had found us in conversation about a new path - I'd been searching for an answer for months as I rested in stillness waiting for God to direct me.

After dodging a massive heart attack for nine days in October, Kevin's newest discovery was finding himself enjoying a new role as church pianist more than anything he'd done in year.  I had returned to church singing just to be sure I was singing at all, and had begun to feel the call to 'minister' in doing so.  My regular meetings with my friend had become a mentoring of spirit and I had begun to reconnect more fully with God and my faith in the quest. 

My husband and I had both been through 'near death' experiences and were still here together. God had kept us together for something - sharing music - and love. Obviously God had something for us to do. We'd been together in music for nearly twenty years...fully steeped in it...and married for twelve of the twenty. It was suddenly clearer what we were called to do. The music ministry idea seemed to be the answer.

For Kevin, the idea of ministry was much more daunting than it was for me.  I was raised in the church - he was not. For me, the "call" was not new.  I'd simply ignored it for almost thirty years, clueless as to how to answer it from the path I was on.  Now, the next step onto my new path seemed clear as day. 

Having been passionate about the issue of racial unity and eradicating racism since age thirteen - and having entered into an interracial marriage that required a willingness to love "across the boundaries", it all seemed to make sense.  So my husband/music partner and I began the process of answering the call and developing our new music ministry.

The title "Crossing The Divide", the songs, and the message appeared to come together in a flash - as if it had always been there, just waiting for us to decide.  The "how do we get started?" question was answered with one phone call to our former church.  The welcome back and response to the message were all outstanding. The next two months showed promise, as other church congregations, including our home fellowship, eagerly invited us to share our message of hope and love with them.  My peace settled in as if to root itself anew in my usually panicked spirit.  Then things slowed down.  The old pressures of "How do we sell it?", coupled with conflicts between the "Is ministry a gift to be shared or talent to be sold?" questions began to surface.  Anxiety threatened to overtake my spirit at any moment, with old rhythms returning my heartbeat to rapid palpitations. 

But something new has found a home in me - a true desire to stay on the path that has been revealed.  A new sense of peace has come with the desire to stay true to the purpose for which I have been intended - through my childhood experiences with integration and racism, daring to "cross the divide" and get to know folks on the other side.  Looking back, the struggle makes more sense.  Looking forward, the light is still casting dark shadows on the path, but I am no longer fearful of what the shadows hide. 

I look forward to the moment when I am able to look back and see that stepping into the shadows with faith has brought us into a new understanding of ourselves and of our purpose as husband and wife.  The bills are still stacked, but faith is growing as we go on.  The word is out - "Crossing The Divide" is inspiring folks to keep working on healing our cultural wounds.  People are eager to help us spread the word about the ministry.  I struggle only slightly with the transition from "jazz singer" to "messenger." 

The music has not left me - it has simply joined hands with a message that my spirit has longed to deliver for years.  I am stronger in my faith and prayerful that God will keep my eyes open and my courage strong as Kevin and I dare to walk this new path.  And beyond all - I am grateful for another chance, a renewed sense of purpose and new understanding.

Connye Florance

www.crossingthedivide.net

www.connyeflorance.com

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An encore performance of "Crossing the Divide" will be at 7 pm on Saturday, February 12 at the  Celebrity Centre at 1130 8th Avenue South in Nashville.  Visit www.crossingthedivide.net for details.  People of all faiths, cultures and backgrounds are welcome.