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And the spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters.
And God said, Let there be light: and there was light.
And God saw the light, that it was good:
and God divided the light from the darkness.
Genesis 1: 2-4
Wishing you, this Sunday and every day, a world of light divided from darkness.
This is one of my new favorite family pictures, given to me this year by my cousin Jimmy. I keep a copy of it above my writing desk. My mother's two sisters, Aunt Joyce and Aunt Vivian, are on the left and the right, respectively. Aunt Gladys, who was married to their oldest brother, is in the center. I like the way "The Sisters" are both holding onto Aunt Gladys, like they're welcoming her into their circle. I don't know when the picture was taken or how long Aunt Gladys had been married to my Uncle Guy. But looking at it reminds me of all those family gatherings at my grandmother's house, when the women would congregate in the kitchen after they got everybody fed. That's where you had to be if you wanted to know what was what. And I figured out pretty early that if I'd behave myself and keep quiet, they might forget I was there and let me stay and listen—to what, I wasn't sure. I just knew big stuff was being discussed, and I wanted to hear it, even if I didn't understand it. There's something amazing about sisters and their sisters-in-law—the way the circle of women in a family expands to take in a brother's wife, the way a wife eventually finds her place among her husband's family. I never heard Aunt Gladys utter a single unkind word. You can see that sweet disposition on her face in this picture. Aunt Joyce and Aunt Vivian actually look a little protective of her, and I imagine that they might've been when she first joined their family. That's what sisters do.
Me: So what exactly is a hard simmer?
My Uncle: That's might nigh a boil.
My cousin Jenny and I are about to head out for a chili sauce lesson at Mama's, and we're taking along Dave's Aunt Shirley, who's from St. Louis, so she can witness this phenomenon called Southern cooking. (Aunt Shirley's giving me a brownie-making lesson tomorrow, but that's another story.) When I called my mother yesterday to see if she needed any canning supplies, she told me she was short on homegrown tomatoes. I offered to pick up a few at Murphree's, a terrific little market in Cahaba Heights. Here's a snippet of that conversation:
Me: You want me to go ahead and peel and chop them before I come?
Mama: That might be a good idea.
Me: Any particular way you want it done?
Mama: No, anything's fine. . . . Just make sure you peel real thin so you don't waste any tomato.
Me: OK.
Mama: And for heaven's sake, cut the core out before you chop them up. You don't want that old core in your chili sauce.
Me: OK.
Mama: And when you start to chop them, remember . . .
I think I'll just take her the basket so she can ramrod this operation in person.
The first time I heard this great old hymn was during a summer revival when I was a kid. A former pastor's daughter had just made a record and was the "special guest star" at one of our services. (Aside to readers under 30: A "record" is a dinner-plate-sized vinyl disc with music recorded on it. Now you know:) My mother bought a copy, and we played it on one of those 1960s stereos that doubled as decorative furniture. The cabinet was so long that it almost took up a whole wall. I don't remember any other songs on that record, but I remember this one. There was just something about the language and the beautiful old Scottish melody. I'll bid farewell to ev'ry fear, and wipe my weeping eyes. The older I get, the more powerful that line becomes because it means so much more than "no crying, no sorrow" (yet another line from another great hymn). To me, it means complete peace and a clear-sighted vision of who we're meant to be. Sometimes that's so hard to see from where we're standing now. Too many distractions, I guess.
When I was a student at Baylor, one of my best friends was a retired teacher and brilliant storyteller named Martha Eamons. I drove her to the grocery store when she needed to go, and she took me to concerts at the music school, which was across the street from our apartment complex. Martha was in her nineties. After I had moved back to Alabama, we would talk on the phone now and again. The last time we spoke, she said—sort of out of the blue: "You know, all of my people are on the other side now, and I just want you to know that when my time comes, I'm ready." Martha was preparing to read her title clear. And her last act of friendship to me was to make sure I was prepared for her crossing. Her last act of friendship was to wipe my weeping eyes.
A couple of days ago, I was going through the mail and opened a card from a friend who had written, simply, "I prayed for you today." And my first thought was, "How did she know?" How did she know I especially need it right now? Whenever I call my mother about a problem or a worry, her first response is always, "Have you prayed about it?" There's a comfort in prayer, especially the familiar kind, like prayers among your family or your church family. When I was growing up, there was an older usher in our church who used to close all his prayers with "and when we reach the end of life's journey . . ." There was something very calming about that—the idea that we don't die but merely reach the end of a long journey. My Uncle Clyde used to begin all his prayers with "Our eternal heavenly Father," which embraces God's power and love all at the same time. And whenever he prayed for a hospitalized church member, he would give the Lord their room number, as in, "We ask You to bless Brother Jones, room 403 at University Hospital." I always admired Uncle Clyde for being so sure of God's presence, so certain that his prayer was being heard, that he wanted to make sure the requested blessing went straight to the appropriate hospital room. Praying is such an easy thing to do—and such an easy thing to forget to do. And when I think about people like Uncle Clyde, I'm reminded that maybe instead of looking for answers or wishing I had them, I should just . . . ask for them.
Dave and I are getting ready for a visit from his Aunt Shirley, whom we both adore. And as I was mopping and dusting and deciding what to cook for Sunday lunch, I thought about my Aunt Mac, Granny's sister. That's the two of them in the picture, with Aunt Mac on the left. Granny called her "Sistah" and Aunt Mac called Granny "Chug-Babe," which was short (I think) for "Sugar Baby." Aunt Mac was the quintessential hostess—not because she broke out the china and silver for every meal but because she knew how to make anybody feel welcome in her home. She never worried about making things perfect. If she had more cousins staying over than she had beds, well, they'd be fine on pallets. Not enough seats at the table for everybody? That's what coffee tables and back yards are for. The important thing was bringing everybody together. Aunt Mac was an amazing cook who was highly offended if you didn't come back for seconds. You could eat till you thought you'd explode, and she'd still chase after you with another slice of ham or a deviled egg: "Here I've cooked all this food, and you didn't eat a thing!" Aunt Mac's rules of hospitality were simple: show your company plenty of love . . . and feed them till they beg for mercy.
Frying chicken one day, my mother reminded me never, ever to put cast iron in the dishwasher. "Some people don't even wash theirs, but I like a little hot soapy water on mine," she said. "Then I spray it with a little Pam—not too much—and wipe it out with a paper towel." My uncle, sipping his coffee and listening quietly from a corner in the kitchen, offered this summary of cast iron care: "The nastier it is, the better it cooks."
It's always interesting to watch Mama wrestle with a moral dilemma—more specifically, it's mighty entertaining to watch her determine whether something is a moral dilemma. Take peach brandy, for example. It's alcohol. Big check in the "Sin" column. On the other hand, Aunt Margaret's fruit cake recipe calls for soaking the finished cake in it, and Aunt Margaret's recipe is the only one to use, in Mama's book. Big check in the "Culinary Exemptions" column. The solution: we soak the fruitcake, but we send the men in the family after the brandy. And we prefer that they deliver it to the back door, just in case a member of the WMU should be driving down the highway, catch a glimpse of that suspicious-looking paper bag, and get the wrong idea. And now there's Facebook—excuse me—"That Facebook," as in, "now don't you be telling my business on That Facebook." Mama suspects there might be something insidious about anything that draws people to it like, well, fruitcake to brandy. Still, when I took my laptop on a trip with us and logged onto FB just to show her what it looks like, we were scanning the News Feed for at least an hour: Well, look at that. I had no idea. There's Kathy! Is that a picture of Teal? My goodness, she's growing fast. Is Gail on here? Find her. Wait! Is that Jenny? I know, Mama, I know. It's kind of . . . addictive. But like my Methodist friend Becky once told me, "everything in moderation."
Come On In And Meet Everybody
I come from a long line of feisty Southern women—women with wit and wisdom, faith and strength.