Goin' Down to Mama's

Sunday Morning Serenity

Do you know what I love about the sea? Everything, but especially the wonder of the waves. I know there's science behind them—wind and water temperature and the depth of the ocean floor. But it's hard to think about that when I watch them rolling in. All I can do is stand amazed. Every wave that washes against the shore has the same expanse of eternal waters behind it, yet every one is original and makes its own special mark in the sand. I'm still making my way through the Old Testament and just finished the Book of Nehemiah. What, you might ask, does this have to do with ocean waves? Well, one of the many great lessons of Hebrew history is that one person can make a difference. The third time the Jewish people returned from exile, the walls of Jerusalem lay in ruins, leaving the city unprotected. Nehemiah left a comfortable post in the Persian government to return to his people, rebuild the wall, and restore a system of justice to the city. Together with Ezra, he led a spiritual revival, bringing what remained of the Hebrew nation back to their faith and renewing their covenant with God. Maybe we aren't all called to lead a nation. But we all have a special mark to leave in the sand. And every person who is willing to be used has the potential to shape the shore in a profound and wonderful way. [Image by Melodi Ustenor @ Freerangestock.com]

"Fingers Were Made Before Forks"

My first day of school was both thrilling and terrifying. On the one hand, I couldn't wait to learn how to read—Mama and Daddy had already given me a little jump-start in that area. But I was an only child whose playmates were either cousins, lifelong neighbors, or kids from Sunday School. Being thrown into a room full of strangers was fraught with potential disaster. What if the other kids didn't like me? What if I didn't like them? What if my teacher didn't like me? What if I wasn't smart enough to learn anything? What if, what if, what if??? I needn't have worried. I let go of my mother's hand at the door to that first-grade classroom and walked straight into the loving arms of a truly gifted teacher, Mrs. Fannie Hinds. Mrs. Hinds rocked us when we were sick, sent us to "the praying rail" when we were bad ("I've done all I can—go give it to the Lord," she would say), and made a lot of rural Alabama kids feel happy and safe enough to learn. I didn't understand, back then, what a great educator she was. I just knew I loved her—and that all those books I wanted to read were quickly opening up to me, thanks to Mrs. Hinds and her phonics lessons. One day, during lunch, I was struggling to mind my manners and cut up a sliced tomato with my fork. When Mrs. Hinds spotted me, and I explained my dilemma, she said, in that wonderful Southern accent of hers, "Dahlin', fingers were made before forks." And I happily picked up my tomato and finished it off. At the time, she was probably tending to 25 or 30 children, and I doubt she thought twice about what she said to me. I'm pretty sure it never occurred to her that I would remember it at 50. What she telegraphed to my six-year-old self that day was, "Quit worrying so much about making a mistake and just get to it." I cannot tell you how many times I've needed to remind myself of that. Just recently, I heard the news that Mrs. Hinds passed away. Normally, I would say "sad news," but she lived such a long and meaningful life that it's hard to be sad when I think of her. She made such a difference to so many people. She will always be remembered, with love and gratitude. And if there are classrooms in heaven . . . she's teaching in one right now. 

Sunday Morning Serenity

Family—even if you somehow made it through the rest of the year without giving yours much thought, Christmas would immediately remind you that you have one. Why is the holiday season so hectic? Family. Why is your calendar suddenly full and your schedule impossible to work out? Family. Then again, maybe I shouldn't speak for you:) It's one of the great wonders of marriage that two people instantly start a new family just by saying "I do." Not only that, but they make complete strangers part of each other's families. Dave and I are lucky. Each of our families welcomed the other. I love my in-laws. And as for my folks? Anytime I make the mistake of complaining to them about a disagreement I've had with my husband, I usually hear, "Maybe you should listen to Dave" or "Well, Dave does have a good point." He absolutely loves that. This week has been completely out of control as we've scrambled to get Christmas cards to both sides of our family, send a long-distance remembrance to Dave's parents—and deal with Daddy. Daddy always manages to make Christmas interesting. There was the year he HAD to have a wool, camel-colored sport coat, which I drove all over Birmingham searching for in his size (in the rain during rush hour) only to have him return it after Christmas. The year of the new fly rod. (That was a very good year.) The year of the warm bathrobe (another good one), which he still wears for TV viewing. This year, he insisted that he didn't want Mama to buy a certain electronic toy she had planned on getting him. He said he might prefer to use that money for new carpet. Right. Daddy really wants carpet. Toy purchased. Lest you think I've gone totally commercial, I know that Christmas isn't about stuff. But it is very much about love—about sharing and showing love. And it's also about family. God didn't send His only Son to earth in isolation. He sent Him here through an earthly family. The Bible says that, when the boy Jesus was teaching in the temple and Mary and Joseph couldn't find Him, they panicked—just as any parents would if they thought their child was lost. As an adult, Jesus turned water into wine at a wedding. Why? For His mother. And even as He suffered on the cross, He watched over Mary, putting her in the care of His beloved disciple, John:

Now there stood by the cross of Jesus his mother, and his mother's sister, Mary the wife of Cleophas, and Mary Magdalene.
When Jesus therefore saw his mother, and the disciple standing by, whom he loved, he saith unto his mother,
Woman, behold thy son!
Then saith he to the disciple, Behold thy mother! 
And from that hour that disciple took her unto his own home.
John 19: 25-27 (KJV)

My own family has been one of the greatest blessings in my life. I know how to love other people because of them. I believe I have an obligation to help other people because of them. And even when I've lived far away from them, I've always known that I wasn't alone. When I look at the Nativity my mother gave me years ago, it reminds me to be thankful, not only for the Holy Family but also for the gift of family, both earthly and divine. 

After three days they found him in the temple courts, sitting among the teachers, listening to them and asking them questions. Everyone who heard him was amazed at his understanding and his answers. When his parents saw him, they were astonished. His mother said to him, "Son, why have you treated us like this? Your father and I have been anxiously searching for you."
"Why were you searching for me?" he asked. "Didn't you know I had to be in my Father's house?" But they did not understand what he was saying to them. Then he went down to Nazareth with them and was obedient to them. But his mother treasured all these things in her heart. And Jesus grew in wisdom and stature, and in favor with God and men.
Luke 2: 46-52 (NIV)

 

Sunday Morning Serenity

I spotted this storefront Nativity on our last trip to Illinois and couldn't stop looking at it. True, you could interpret it in a negative way—that Christmas has become commercialized. But there's a different message, too. Christmas celebrates the birth of Christ, God's ultimate gift of grace and forgiveness to us. It's our annual reminder that God is always "open for business." We just have to walk through that door.

And the angel said unto them, Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people.
For unto you is born this day in the city of David 
a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord.
And this shall be a sign unto you; Ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger.
Luke 2:10-12

 

'The Violent Bear It Away'

Years ago, I met and interviewed an incredible singer-songwriter named Kate Campbell. I had discovered her music at one of those Barnes & Noble listening points and couldn't believe both the voice and the lyrics coming through the headphones. The CD I listened to that first time was called Visions of Plenty, which included songs that depicted the South of the 1960s the way I remembered it—through the eyes of a child. Back then, as my parents and I watched Huntley and Brinkley deliver the news every night, I saw so much that didn't make sense. Violence never makes sense to children. One of Kate's songs has been going through my head ever since I heard the awful news yesterday. It's called "Bear It Away." Written about the Sixteenth Street church bombing, the song takes its title from a Flannery O'Connor novel. O'Connor took the title from the Douay-Rheims translation of Matthew 11:12:  From the days of John the Baptist until now, the kingdom of heaven suffereth violence, and the violent bear it away. I wanted to share Kate's lyrics with you because even though they were written about a specific moment in time, I think they speak to the overwhelming sorrow we feel for any senseless loss —and the frustration we feel whenever we seek the "why" behind an incomprensible act of violence:

Four little girls 
Dressed up nice
Singing about Jesus 
Red and yellow 
Black and white
Dreaming of freedom 
Across the land
And all God's children 
Walking hand in hand

One deadly blast 
Shattered the peace
Making for a dark 
Sunday morning 
On Sixteenth Street
Who can explain 
Such ignorant hate
When the violent 
Bear it away

Bear it away 
Bear it away
Merciful Jesus 
Lift up our sorrow
Upon your shoulder 
And bear it away

It hurts my heart 
To think of them
Four little girls 
And what they 
Could have been
But we never know 
About these things
When the violent 
Bear it away

Hank's Book of Cat Philosophy: #17

During this, the hectic holiday rush, remember—
you can't take care of others
if you don't take care of yourself.
Get plenty of rest, fresh air, and sunshine.
Actually, you could probably get by without the fresh air.
Now that I think about it, you might also wanna
ditch all those pesky "others."
It's the nap in the sun you're after.
Trust me on this one.

Shoes I Have Loved

I spent yesterday afternoon with my friends Meredith and Kim. Naturally, with three women in the room, the topic of conversation eventually worked its way around to shoes. Meredith (who went to New York armed with socks and Band-Aids so she could break in her new boots without significant blood loss)  has a friend who believes that all women are obsessed with one of three things: shoes, purses, or lingerie. I proudly carry the banner of the shoe obsessed—or at least, I used to. Thanks to some cartilidge issues that I'll spare you, I now own a lot of Clarks. But there was a time when I could work in high heels all day long without the aid of pharmaceuticals or crutches, and my cousins called me Imelda. (Remember the former Philippine first lady whose ousters confiscated over 2,000 pairs of shoes?) When I was in high school, I had a Sunday School teacher named Sally who was also a shoe hound. We couldn't resist admiring each other's footwear every Sunday morning before turning our attention to the Scripture. As a single working girl with a credit card, I once waltzed into Parisian and bought three pairs of shoes at one time. And they weren't even on sale. I no longer possess department store credit cards, for the obvious reasons, but I still remember some of those shoes. I got a little misty telling Kim and Meredith about a pair of absolutely perfect taupe pumps I owned in the eighties. Alas, I wore them completely out before I met Teresa, a work friend who introduced me to the wonders of resoling. I had some killer red patent Kenneth Coles with a super-high heel—to die for. Rose-colored suede peep-toes that looked like something out of a Betty Grable movie. Lovely. Pearlized sling-backs and black evening shoes with a silver bow and . . . boots. Don't even get me started on boots. While I mourn the loss of my ability to wear five-inchers, Kim shared a shoe tragedy far more heartbreaking than my orthopedic issues. She owned the perfect black wedges—great fit, great height, went with everything—until one fateful morning when her preschooler said "Mommy, I don't feel good." And in a moment of moral weakness, she put her child's welfare before that of her shoes, raced to baby's aid . . . and got her favorite wedges covered in something we'll just call "projectile." They were done for. Yes, to ensure the safety and well-being of her child, Kim sacrificed an amazing pair of shoes. But I still think she's a good person.:)

[Image by Wixphoto.com @ Freerangestock.com] 

Sunday Morning Serenity

"Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening"
by Robert Frost 
[Image by Aleksandar Momirovic @ Freerangestock.com]

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

This time of year, it’s easy to feel like you have miles to go before you sleep and WAY too many promises to keep. But the world won’t stop turning If you take a quiet moment, imagine yourself in the stillness of Frost's snowy woods, and remember:

For unto us a child is born, unto us a son is given: and the government shall be upon his shoulder: and his name shall be called Wonderful, Counsellor, The mighty God, The everlasting Father, The Prince of Peace.
Isaiah 9:6 

Small Town, Big Santa

Driving through a small town last night, Dave and I spotted a super-sized Santa on the main square. That's the local courthouse behind him. Something about this jolly fella reminds me of the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man that attacked New York in Ghost Busters. There's nothing like a small town with big-time Christmas spirit. Don't know how this fellow will fit down the chimney . . . but we thank him for such a warm welcome on this cold winter's night.

The Christmas Gardener

Well, it happened again. I barely had the Christmas lights strung and the poinsettias on the dining room table when my first seed catalog of the new year arrived in our mail box. And now I'm humming "Joy to the World" while gazing dreamily upon Cherokee Purple tomatoes. Something seems askew about that. Then again, maybe not. Christmas and gardens have a lot in common. They're both about new beginnings, about a promise of new life soon to be fulfilled. And so instead of chastising myself yet again for rushing the season, I'll just turn on the holiday lights and sing along with Bing and Nat while I savor all those pictures of ripe tomatoes on the vine and hollyhocks in bloom and take a moment to be thankful for a world of beautiful possibilities.