The House of Roller
(In Memory of Patricia Roller)
I’ve always loved the word “steadfast”. My mind’s eye conjures endless examples of what it means to sustain through our material struggles but I tend to land on this memory of a friend greeting the sun as it rose to claim another day, a cordial defiance as his Earthly journey continued. I’m not entirely sure what influenced my allegiance to the designation but it has long been king in my vocabulary. I’m sure it has something to do with my favorite poem, my Naval service and various other things but we’ll save that for another time.
Steadfast.
I know a woman who embodied that with such grace and fortitude that it’s likely God himself manufactured that word with her in mind, no matter how many centuries it took for her to claim her spot in this world. A stout heart and the love of a thousand angels enveloped this steadfast being. Her given and earned names were Patricia Roller but a more deserved moniker is “the best hug you’ll ever get”.
Traveling back to earlier this summer, I pitched this idea of creating stories that centered around the various extraordinary lives that reside at Goodman Oaks. Our collective focus as a church is on establishing “deep roots” within our communal spiritual endeavors and my immediate desire was to elucidate that notion through the diverse and compelling personal tales of tribulation and triumph. I wanted to take the marvelous makings of our unsung or unheard heroes, shining a bright and loving light on what made them wholly unique. Matthew Crowe agreed to my idea, although I’m sure my exuberant rambling gave him reason to concur with my desires, in the hopes I would end the novel I was furiously texting him. What happened next wasn’t what I hoped for but in typical fashion, God had his own plan.
When you want to build a foundation, you aim to anchor it to an ideal that will weather the storm of storms, categorically speaking, and has the sustenance to create true growth within all our hearts. There was never a doubt on who I would choose first for this verbose endeavor. It was always Patricia Roller. From the day I met her to the last beautiful conversation we had, she was the warmest and safest blanket an Earthly soul could ever fathom. A woman forged by the most intense struggles and trials a human can endure but remained “steadfast” in her purpose. She loved with such great force that it could shake the Devil from his roost and send the most terrible nightmares packing for at least a week.
She wasn’t my mother, my kin or even someone I’ve known that long but oh did I love Patricia Roller like she was the greatest of friends. Her unfiltered and almost inhuman altruistic tenderness cannot be described by even the best wordsmith. I’ve never know a soul like hers and I wouldn’t be surprised if God took a short nap after bringing her into this world, considering what it must have took to create a being like Patricia.
The first hug she ever gifted me was after sharing my story with a small class at Goodman Oaks. A boy carrying such immense and deep scars who became a man in search of the meaning behind why God chose him. I didn’t know how to allow myself grace but the light that shone from her heart was so piercing that it bore itself into every fiber of my being, the feeling of rebirth and the acknowledgement of “true” love washed over me. She was the gentle spur, the soft kick in the rear to start my journey in overcoming and understanding my past. It wasn’t until I began writing this did the realization wash over me that she was the reason I allowed myself to face my fears. I wallowed in my wounds but a single hug and the acknowledgment that this amazing soul loved me was the necessary push to seek therapeutic recompense.
What followed was witnessing the love she equally distributed to us all. The pinnacle matriarch, a merchant who only sold adulation at the mere cost of nothing and smiling all the way. She traveled the halls of this world determined to enable every person she met with the ability to see themselves as whole, as something worth living for and accepting we are allowed to be loved. She never required associative compensation for her efforts, I don’t think she had the vocabulary or the mental wiring that would allow her to ask for something in return. Unconditional dedication to the betterment of those around her and those she had yet to meet.
What makes this even more astonishing is what this woman endured, each decade presenting a new ninety degree climb to the top of whatever caustic and wretched summit lay in wait. I scoffed in writing this next part but you would have never known of her struggles. How would you when she carried herself like a person you’ve always vicariously known of but never met, only to realize the “legend” around their existence is only a fraction of who they truly are and frankly didn’t do them justice in quantifying their existence.
Four weeks ago I spent an afternoon with Patricia as we had been trying to align our crazy schedules to discuss her story and how I might weave her tale. Which come to think of it what better way to personify this woman than allude to her packed schedule of supporting her entire family, her friends, her neighbors, their four-legged loved ones, heck probably a random stranger she met at the grocery store she felt obligated to assist in some random project. That’s just who she was and still is, as little bits of her southern colloquialisms and her benevolence still lives on through us all.
Four weeks ago I met her at a very busy Coffee Central, which quickly turned to me following her to her house because she insisted she could make me coffee or lunch or probably knit me a blanket if I wanted. I’m not even sure if she knew how to do that but like that would stop her if it meant pouring love into another soul. Needless to say we arrived at her house and after being distracted fourteen times by a house tour, fixing me water, talking about her mail and so forth, we sat down in her living room in the hopes I could interview her.
Thing is, that didn’t actually happen. Patricia has an incredible knack of making you feel so very important and that your story is the story worth telling. I spent ninety minutes of two hours talking about my life, my family, my desires and fears, where I hope I’d be when I was at her stage of life. Then it dawned on me I had just spent a majority of the time talking about myself and felt embarrassed but Patricia, with her infectious smile, said “I love hearing about YOU!” and she meant it with a conviction only God can interpret.
We did talk about dogs, I suggested she get one of her own but she said she’d rather love everyone’s dogs. She talked to me about her favorite movies and why she likes Thrillers (which reminded me of my own grandmother). I laughed about all her pillows on the guest bed to which we discussed the functionality of “decorative pillows” and both decided as long as one side is soft they are acceptable. We talked about her family, where she was from and how she felt young having card nights with her girlfriends. When she explained of some nights where they would sit on the phone and work out pivotal points in each others lives, I couldn’t help but imagine her eating ice cream at her kitchen table staring at her trees she was very proud of, gabbing it up with “her girls”.
She spoke with such elation about her family. Her children, their children, who they are and what they meant to her. She pulled every picture off her mantel and bookshelves to show me after I asked who was who. I wasn’t expecting the rudimentary photo album but I just let her go because it brought her great joy to share the family she built.
At one point we discussed her upcoming heart surgery to which she admitted she was scared of what might happen and said “I don’t know how much longer I’m going to be here, honey. But if God wants me, well then I’m ready!”. I tried to pivot to a joke about how she’ll always be around us making sure someone has told us we’re loved but looking back on it now, I feel like she was subconsciously speaking to both of us.
What came next is something I will never let go of, I refuse to. The last hug I ever was bestowed by Patricia Roller. I can still feel her embrace, how she “meant” it when she hugs you. For me, it was the anxieties and stressors that washed from my soul as she squeezed me tight, I didn’t have to say a thing but she always knew what was needed because you can’t hide from that woman’s love.
We hugged for what felt like forever and I didn’t know what to do as my own awkwardness set in but just hold on for dear life. She wouldn’t let go of me and now I question if she knew it was the last time she’d see me in an Earthly form. I hate thinking in hindsight, questioning every instance and mannerism in a fleeting moment but that woman was too smart and too intuitive to just let an opportunity pass.
The last hug.
This was supposed to be an homage to who she is, not was. It crushes me knowing she never got to read how I feel about her and what she meant to so many of us. She told me when I first asked her that she wasn’t interesting and had nothing worth telling and I chuckled at her. “Patricia, you have all the stories worth telling”, I just wish I got a few more.
Thank you Mrs Roller. You changed my life to a degree I’m not sure you were fully aware of. You loved me, you loved my wife and our children like they were yours. You loved your church, your family, your friends and you loved your God. It’s because of people like you a church can have roots that reach far beyond the horizon. It’s because of you we’ll carry your torch in ensuring those around us always feel loved. We’ll never be you but as a collective, we might get close.
I can’t wait to see you again. I’ll be ready to hear all about Heaven but we both know, you’ll just ask me about my life and smile as I catch you up.
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If you have a story or memory of Patricia, please share it. She spent so much time listening to us, it’s our turn to tell her story.
A story worth telling.
– Jason Heitman