Goin' Down to Mama's

Sunday Morning Serenity

We had an early Father’s Day celebration at our house yesterday—Chinese food, Daddy’s favorite. When Mama and I were making arrangements over the phone, he was LOUDLY offering suggestions in the background: “Tell her JUST a barbecue sandwich and NO sides.” I sent word back: “Tell him it’s not up to him.”

Barbecue sandwich my foot. I knew his true menu of choice was Mongolian beef, lo mein, fried rice, hot and sour soup, and egg rolls. He just didn’t want Dave and me to “spend all that money.”

I’m thinking this morning about the little things Daddy spent “all that money” (and time) on when I was growing up—not big stuff like the education that made my whole professional life possible; a piano and years of lessons, which gave me music to share and feed my soul; food to eat and a roof over my head. Those were all givens in my life because of him.

But about the little things . . .

Sandals. I wanted some when I was about four years old and Daddy was working in Birmingham. He brought home (and returned) pair after pair after pair until he finally brought home The Ones. Who does that?

SuperStuff. I was sick with yet another childhood bug, and Mama sent Daddy to the drugstore to fill a prescription. These were the days before chain pharmacies, when locals like J&J in Childersburg carried all your childhood and teenage needs: prescription and over-the-counter meds, Tiger Beat magazine, Revlon nail polish, a small selection of popular toys . . . Daddy wanted to know if he could bring me back something (because Daddy has always understood the healing power of merch). I requested SuperStuff, which was some kind of oozy, elastic, gel-like substance you could stretch and play with. About an hour later, Daddy came home empty handed and said: “Do you have any idea how the lady behind that counter looked at me when I asked her if she had any SuperStuff?” (Apparently, J&J was unfamiliar with this product. And unaware it was a toy.)

Pretty dresses for no reason. I especially remember a batch of them he brought me when I was probably fourteen or so—the age when dresses REALLY matter. One was a pale blue-and-white pinstriped sundress; one was bright red with a red-and-white belt. There were many others over the years, but I especially remember those. I think it was because they made me feel teenagey at a time when I so wanted to be a fully grown teenager and not a tween.

Vacation souvenirs. My all-time favorite was a silver-and-abalone necklace. I saw it during an early stop but, as was my custom, I had to see EVERYTHING at EVERY souvenir shop before deciding, which both of my parents endured. I couldn’t get that necklace out of my mind. Daddy bought it on the way out of whatever beach town we were in—Panama City or Gulf Shores. I was still wearing it when I went to grad school in Texas.

Nickels and quarters. Bajillions of them to play my favorite song of the moment on the juke box. Daddy has always considered music a necessity, not an indulgence—just like quality cheeseburgers.

Songs. He used to sing to me when I was little: I’m just a country boy; money have I none; but I’ve got silver in the moon, diamonds in the stars, and gold in the morning sun.

The Camel Walk. He taught me how to dance it to Patsy Cline’s “Walking After Midnight.”

Watches. I love them, but I break them and lose them and pull their stems out. I have no idea why. Long after Mama declared, “We are NOT buying another watch,” Daddy was still watch shopping.

My list could go on forever, not because of the things themselves but because of what they represented—Daddy’s never-ending desire to bring me joy, make me smile, give me confidence.

You’ve no doubt heard the expression “can’t see the forest for the trees.” I think Daddy would say, “Don’t be so awed by the forest that you miss what makes every tree special.”

Don’t be so caught up in building a future for your child that you forget how special the present is. Save for her college tuition, sure. But in the meantime, put some nickels in the juke box, teach her the Camel Walk, and buy her another Seiko for Christmas.

Happy Father’s Day, June Bug!

 

Sunday Morning Serenity

Mama and Daddy came over yesterday for a belated birthday/early Mother’s Day celebration for her. I think this is only the second time in my life that I haven't been on her church pew on Mother’s Day. But I know she understands why I can’t be there because she’s one of the reasons I have all that I need to do what Dave and I have to do right now. (Daddy’s the other one:) I've watched both of my parents call on their faith in God to get through "many dangers, toils, and snares."

Mama and I often look at each other like some strange, exotic creature. We’re very different people. She’s an extrovert to my introvert. She sees things clearly, realistically, in black and white. I wander around in a perpetual gray area of “yeah, but what if . . .” Mama is very strong and very brave. I am not. But I’m stronger and braver than I thought I was, thanks to her, because while she taught me many things, as it turns out one of the most important ones was how to “back my ears.” (If you didn’t grow up on a farm, some animals, when faced with something they don’t want to do, will lay their ears back.) “Sometimes,” Mama has often said, “you’ve just gotta back your ears and get through something.” Dave and I have done some serious ear-backing over the past year.

I wish I were more like her. I wish I could swim like a fish. (She still can.) I wish I could handle a firearm. (I’ve always had an aversion to sudden loud noises and, hence, all firearms.) I wish I could feed forty family members in a bare-bones kitchen with two feet of counter space and an old-school pressure cooker that Mama assured me would blow us all up if I so much as set foot in the kitchen before the turkey was done. (I have spacious countertops and an array of appliances, but I can still ruin a meatloaf for four.)

I wish I had her baking skills, her green thumb, and her ability to take whatever she is given and be thankful. That first one is never going to happen. But the last two? My geraniums don’t look half-bad. And while I try my best to look forward, looking back on the past year makes me very thankful. Dave and I have had many moments of, “How on earth did we get through that?”

But we did get through it, and we will get through it. We’ve been blessed with many friends and family members praying for us “without ceasing.”

Thank you, my sweet, funny, strong, faithful believer Mama. I’ll miss you today . . . but not really. You’re always right here with me. Happy Mother's Day with lots of love.

 

  

Sunday Morning Serenity

I’m sitting in the Story Shack with the front and back doors open, listening to the birds sing and looking at a beautiful blooming vine a friend gave me years and years ago. I thought a storm destroyed it a while back, but this year it pushed its way out and is showing all that greenery around it a thing or two about spring color.

My mother has always loved the hymn “For the Beauty of the Earth,” a song of praise I now understand in a way I couldn’t before. I’ve found, in this time of solitude as Dave continues to recover and heal, great comfort in God’s creation and the powers of renewal he instilled in nature—in all of us. I see it out my door, and I see it in wounds that are slowly but surely healing.

A friend of mine from the Mississippi Delta once told me about someone who, when chastised for fishing on Sunday, would say, “I’m worshipping in God’s cathedral.” Being temporarily homebound has given me an appreciation for that—for worshipping in God’s cathedral. (Aside to Mama: I promise I’m not fishing on Sunday.)

Especially today, on what I think is our third Easter out of church—we’ve lost count, between COVID and hospital stays—the renewal out my door reminds me to give thanks and praise to God for the ultimate gift of renewal in Christ’s resurrection.

The video below is fuzzy, but the music and message aren’t—“Was It a Morning Like This?”

May God bless you and your family this season of Easter and Passover.

 

Sunday Morning Serenity

Back when Daddy and I used to do a lot of shopping together, we had a little motto: “Whoever said ‘things won’t make you happy’ wasn’t buying the right stuff.” It rang especially true at Parisian, my favorite store of all time (and I miss it even now).

I still think some things can make you happy—at least in the sense of giving you a boost of confidence or maybe distracting you from what’s in front of you while you summon your courage to face it. But my choice of things has changed over the years.

Then: the perfect pair of taupe Liz Claiborne pumps I wore for years. Now: bird feeders. Then: a wool plaid blazer with padded shoulders (it was the 80s—what can I say). Now: L.L. Bean slippers that feel like clouds on my feet. And windchimes. And the first daffodils of spring. (I don’t sound over the hill, do I??)

The past seven months have been tough for Dave and me, and I'm grateful to friends and family for reminding me now and then that sometimes we all need just a little something for ourselves right now as we take one step at a time, one day at a time, toward something that seems just around the corner one minute and out of reach the next.

Healing can be a long, long journey. But Dave and I can look back and see God’s hand guiding us every step of the way—to the right hospital, the right doctors, wonderful nurses—and I know He’ll guide us through it all. So yes, I will keep filling my bird feeders and wearing my cozy slippers. I'll keep adding wind chimes to the Story Shack and taking a moment to admire the daffodils. But I’ll also try to remember this:

Through many dangers, toils and snares,
I have already come;
‘Tis grace hath brought me safe thus far,
And grace will lead me home.

—John Newton

Sunday Morning Serenity

I woke up this morning thinking about salt—specifically, salt’s power within our bodies.

Just this week, Dave and I came home from what I think was his fifth hospital stay since June. I had to call the paramedics on Christmas Day, and we rang in the New Year at what we now consider our St. Vincent’s condo. It all started with salt—a dangerous drop in sodium, likely caused by the joint efforts of an infection and other issues.

I’ve since learned from a sister-friend who’s an experienced nurse that there’s a very narrow window of sodium levels where your body functions properly. Too much salt, we all know, is bad for your heart. But it’s also bad for your brain. Too little, and you become incoherent—even run the risk of seizures if it drops low enough. You can’t say your own name. And you begin making up words that only you understand. It’s a little like that poem “Jabberwocky” by Lewis Carroll—the words sound like they should make sense, but they don’t:

’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

Since June, we’ve also been on a healing journey with pressure wounds. And as I’ve helped Dave’s nurses attend to those, I’ve been amazed by the human body’s power to heal, sometimes on its own, sometimes with the help of modern medicine. Either way, it's a remarkable creation. We are so perfectly balanced. We need exactly this, no more, no less. We are “fearfully and wonderfully made”:

I will praise You,
for I am fearfully and wonderfully made;
Marvelous are Your works, 
And that my soul knows very well.
Psalm 139:14

Many of you know “Mama Sue” Garrett, and you’ve been blessed and strengthened by her faith-driven journey through cancer treatment. Her message, “Be salt and light,” has stayed with me down this road that Dave has traveled with patience and courage. It comes from Matthew 5:13-16:

“You are the salt of the earth; 
but if the salt loses its flavor,
how shall it be seasoned?
It is then good for nothing
but to be thrown out and trampled underfoot by men.

“You are the light of the world.
A city that is set on a hill cannot be hidden.
Nor do they light a lamp and put it under a basket,
but on a lampstand, and it gives light
to all who are in the house.
Let your light so shine before men, that they may see 
your good works and glorify your Father in heaven.

 

*Video originally posted to YouTube in 2015.

Sunday Morning Serenity

It’s a strange thing, the way time and circumstances change our priorities and our limits.

Priorities: I’ve often used weekends to catch up on work, but now it seems more important to watch an old movie and eat popcorn with Daddy than to “get a jump on next week.” I don’t think I was even aware of birds in my yard—not in a conscious way anyhow—until I was stranded with them for a couple of years. Now I buy birdseed on the regular. I used to have all kinds of projects I wanted Dave to work on and holiday stuff I wanted us to do together. Now I just want him to feel good and be healthy. I want everybody to feel good and be healthy.

Limits: I think my priorities have gotten bigger, but my limits have gotten smaller. For example, I can make it through a kitchen remodel, but don’t ask me to live with that overrun bedroom closet another second. I’ve been cleaning out big sections of it as I have time. A sister-friend told me that cleaning out the closet was my way of exerting some control over the chaos we’re going through right now, and she’s right. Another way to put it: I need to see what I’m dealing with. Jammed-together hangers, each once draped with jeans I don’t wear any more (because who are we kidding they don’t fit any more)? No can do. Overflowing storage boxes with shirts that were worn out last year? Can’t take it. I need to see what I’m dealing with and what I have to work with.

Also, there are a few comforts I’m especially grateful for right now. Some are big, like time with family. Others are small: cozy slippers that feel like clouds wrapping my feet, a few strings of white lights, our tabletop tree covered with bird ornaments from Cracker Barrel (I had to do something while I waited for Dave’s breakfast during our kitchen redo). A warm throw that Aunt Grace gave me. The kiddos next door popping in for Oreos and Yoo-hoos. Coffee.

We had a quiet Thanksgiving. We’ll have a quiet Christmas. And quiet, I’ve learned, can be good for you. Reminds me of a song written by Lucinda Williams—she’s listing all the things she thinks she should have, among them “pens that won’t run out of ink and cool quiet and time to think.”

Wishing you “cool quiet and time to think” on this December Sunday.

Sunday Morning Serenity

My keyboard’s getting rusty:) Just when I thought I could get back to Serenity, well . . . we got a little busy again with health issues.

But I’m thinking this morning about a song we learned in choir a hundred years ago. The words were something like this (old lady trying to remember):

In everything give Him thanks.
In everything give Him thanks.
In the good times, praise His name;
In the bad times, do the same.
In everything, give the King of Kings all the thanks.

I won’t sit here and tell you I’m always thankful. Sometimes I’m scared and angry and disappointed and doubtful and “why, why, why.” That’s the truth. But if you can be patient and still and just wait for God’s time to show itself, you’ll find your gratitude. You’ll find your reason for gratitude. I’ve seen that this weekend.

Over the past few days, Dave and I both got a big dose of love and encouragement that we didn’t even know we needed. With a lot of help from his primary doctor, he finally got a much-hoped-for appointment with a specialist at UAB in February and a better situation with his current clinic. Aischa the Wonder Nurse from St. Vincent’s Home Health paid us a visit, leaving us with a good report and a good plan of action (plus a Santa sleigh load of supplies to help keep Dave healthy). My kitchen and my deck are finally functional after making it over the final hurdles of a remodel.

How about that. Thursday morning looked dark and discouraging. By Saturday afternoon, the sun was out again. “In everything give Him thanks.”

My mother keeps telling me, “You have some GREAT friends.” She’s right. We’re blessed there. And we’re blessed with family and church family and each other. We’re blessed with calls and prayers and deliveries of food and cards and flowers—even pumpkins. (Cheeto is far too proud to admit that he too needs friends to lean on, so he sends thanks to his “auxiliary staff” for coming through with the Fancy Feast when we’ve been in the hospital.) Thanks to the Three Kiddos next door for occasionally raiding the Shack and reminding me that, as long as we’ve got chocolate and Capri Suns, everything will be alright.

“In everything, give Him thanks.”

Sunday Morning Serenity

Long time, no Serenity:) How are you? I’ve been a little busy. Too busy to write on Sunday mornings. Busy with the business of healing.

I always thought of healing as a passive process, but it’s not. It’s a daily, active, arm-yourself-with-knowledge-and-prayer-then-hit-the-battlefield-and-fight-till-you’re-exhausted proposition.

At the end of June, just as we were beginning long overdue home repairs and a kitchen remodel, a cluster of health issues that had been slowly building in Dave suddenly converged like one of those storm systems that puts James Spann and the Doppler on high alert. We found ourselves very much inside the polygon. Dave had serious pressure wounds—a sadly common issue for paraplegics—along with major infection and—big surprise—a heart condition that was responsible for so many symptoms he had been struggling with, symptoms that had been attributed to other causes.  

We summered at St. Vincent’s. He spent July there battling infection and a host of other issues so that he would be well enough for an amazing heart procedure that required only 2 nights in the hospital. Some people go home after one. Can you imagine? They consider it outpatient surgery, and you leave with a new heart valve.

So now we’re on the last and likely longest leg of the journey—healing wounds and restoring strength.

The cool weather makes me hopeful. It’s a new season of color and light. Dave has one more mountain to climb—not the whole soaring range he faced in June. And when I look back on the past few months, yes, I see a lot of hardship, but I also see so many blessings.

We couldn’t get into the hospital I originally chose, so we ended up at the right one instead, with a lead doctor who put together a team of six or seven specialists to pool their knowledge and get Dave well.

Our family and friends have supported us with everything from food to flowers to offers of financial safety nets, should we need them.

Our church family has been praying for us and sending messages of encouragement, love, and support.

My cousins have stepped in to make sure Mama and Daddy have everything they need when I can’t be there. They're constantly sending texts and Facebook messages just to let us know they’re right there if we need them, while Dave's siblings check in to make sure he's okay—and that he's not running low on quality cookies and ice cream:)

The kiddos next door pop in to raid our fridge and candy stash and give “Miss Val” much-needed hugs. 

God has been faithful—“All I have needed, Thy hand hath provided.”

I know Thanksgiving is a month away, but I'm definitely giving thanks this morning. Love to you and your family.

Sunday Morning Serenity

Life is strange. You can write that down. I didn't copyright it or anything.

I don't have a lot of time this morning, but I wanted to write that much at least. It's strange—because you can feel the least alone when you're isolated. You can also feel lonely in a crowd. I haven't been in any crowds lately so that one's not speaking to me, but I do know a think or two about isolation. 

Of course, Dave and I have been isolated together—which makes a powerful difference, I realize. But we've also had so many expressions of love and friendship, concern and support, that we don't feel alone at all. Flowers planted by caring friends remind us every day that those bonds are very much there. Fresh peaches from our sweet neighbors brought us a little taste of summer we couldn't get our usual way—driving to or from the beach. Everything from text messages, cards, and calls to cornbread, fresh eggs, and covered dishes have reminded us daily that prayers are going up and we are not alone. 

We're so thankful for that—and for "God's unchanging hand." He has watched over us through everything. Feeling love and gratitude this Sunday morning.

 

Sunday Morning Serenity

We need to laugh—even when we’re at our worst. We really do. But when you feel like you don’t have much to laugh about, you can forget how good it feels—what a release it can be.

I have my friend Lil to thank for that little revelation. Last week, Lil and I talked on the phone for the first time in a long time. Her simple “so tell me what’s going on” was followed by something like this: Well, we’re changing bandages twice a day and doing intravenous meds once a day. Home health is coming several times a week. We’re getting our roof fixed and some other repairs done on the house, so one day last week, we had nurses in the driveway and men on the roof. I really need to get out to see Mama and Daddy and rent a van for Dave's doctor's appointments . . .

Somewhere in the middle of all that, Lil and I started laughing. Hard. Because things can only get so bad before they get ridiculous—and funny. It’s like that commercial where this little kid is feeling put-upon and finally exclaims, “What am I, Job???!!!”

Or the old Hee-Haw song, “Gloom, despair, and agony on me.”

Or my personal favorite from Steel Magnolias: “My personal tragedy will not interfere with my ability to do good hair.”

I can remember so many times when Daddy’s family would be in a hospital waiting room, worried to death about whoever was sick at the time, and my Uncle Jimmy would have everybody in there—not just our family but everybody, including preachers in attendance and total strangers who happened to be within earshot—all of us laughing. It helped. It got us through.

Dave and I manage to find reasons to laugh—a much more extraordinary feat for him than for me right now. Laughing together immediately brings back “normal.” And when your life has been upended, even for a little while, you cling to every tiny shred of “normal.” It anchors you. It lets you know that you’re still you, and that whatever you’re going through is temporary. It reminds you to be thankful for life and health and for the strength and courage God will give you when you need it most.

[Image by Chance Agrella @ Freerangestock.com]