Goin' Down to Mama's

Sunday Morning Serenity

As Easter approached, Dave and I noticed more than the usual Biblically inspired movies on TV. (Hollywood has much to teach us about Bible history. Did you know that both the ancient Hebrews and their Roman oppressors spoke with English accents?:) Those broacasts prompted me to buy a DVD of Jesus of Nazareth, which is still my favorite because I think it's the most faithful to the Bible—and because there are scenes in it that inspire me to go back to the New Testament and revisit passages I haven't read in a long time. Matthew, for example, was originally a tax collector, despised by his community because he made a living taking money from his fellow Jews and giving it to the Romans. Jesus completely changed Matthew's life, and Matthew kept a record of how he became a disciple and what came afterward. I've read the Beatitudes many times, but it's the verses following in Matthew 5 that struck me this week, especially beginning with verse 17, when Jesus teaches about Jewish Law and the great Hebrew prophets. He explains that He hasn't come to abolish them but to fulfill them. And then He takes it a step further. It's not enough to obey God's Law simply because it's the Law. We should obey it because we want to. He's talking about the difference between acting from fear or duty and acting from love, between obeying God because we feel obligated to—or because we're afraid of what will happen if we don't—versus obeying Him because we love Him and want to be in fellowship with Him. The Law says that if you commit murder, you're subject to judgment, but Jesus said that if you're angry with your brother, you're subject to judgment. In other words, it's all about what's in your heart and mine. I started thinking about that in all kinds of contexts. It's not just what I do, but why I do it. When I play the piano or lead the choir in church, am I doing it with love and worship in my heart. . . or just a sense of obligation? Take it beyond church and into the everyday world—let's say to an SUV that cut me off in traffic. Did I want to murder the driver? Of course not. Did I laugh out loud when he/she got pulled over by a State Trooper? That would be a yes. Anger in my heart. Easter is about changing hearts and lives, deep down, where it counts. Christ's gift of grace and forgiveness offers us a new life—and not just when this one is over, but while we're here on earth. We can be different NOW. Jesus said:

"You are the light of the world. A city on a hill cannot be hidden. Neither do people light a lamp and put it under a bowl. Instead, they put it on its stand, and it gives light to everyone in the house. In this same way, let your light shine before men, that they may see your good deeds and praise your Father in heaven."
Matthew 5:14

[Image by Jacquie Reed @ Freerangestock.com]

Daddy Says: "It's Those Black Holes That'll Get Us"

Conversation around our most recent Sunday lunch table turned ominous, as Daddy shared with us the imminent destruction of the universe. 

Daddy: It's those black holes that'll eventually get us. I'm telling you, people, they're coming.

Mama: He's been watching the Science Channel again.

Me: What exactly is a black hole?

Daddy: It's a star that basically burns out and then turns in on itself, and it creates this suction that just pulls anything that comes near it into that hole.

Me: How does it turn in on itself if it's all burned up?

Mama: That's exactly what I wanted to know.

Daddy: Well, it leaves behind something like a strong current, I guess. Now, it doesnt go AFTER other stars and planets and things—it just sucks in whatever happens to drift by.

Mama: I hope the Milky Way doesn't happen to drift by.

Daddy: Scientists have learned to spot 'em kind of the way you spot a tornado at night—you can't see the actually tornado, but you can see things moving where it creates a disturbance. It's the same with black holes. They're hard for scientists to see because, well . . . it's dark up there.

[Image by F. R. Nuhyn @ Freerangestock.com]

Sunday Morning Serenity

Prepare yourself. I'm about to attempt a connection between Hank the Cat, George Beverly Shea, and Palm Sunday. Ready? Here we go:)

PART I: Let's start with Hank. A recent early morning storm sent him into a meowing frenzy. I assumed he wanted my protection from the thunder and the lightning, so I set about petting him and talking to him and assuring him that everything was going to be fine—trust me. For a little while, he calmed down—even napped a bit—but as the storm intensified, his trust in me went out the window, and the meowing resumed. Eventually, he led me into the kitchen, where it became clear that he wanted to go . . . outside? Surely not. I opened the kitchen door, and Hank shot into the carport, heading straight for a tiny opening that leads to his favorite hiding place in the crawl space under our house. What I had interpreted as "I'm scared and I don't know what to do—please protect me!" was actually "I don't think you get the gravity of the sitution, so I'm taking matters into my own paws." Instead of trusting the safe haven of a warm, dry house—and me—he went with a damp, musty crawl space of his own choosing. Effective, yes, but unnecessarily difficult and unpleasant.

PART II: On to the Gaithers. Dave and I were channel-surfing last night when we landed on the Gaither Tent Revival on PBS. Among all the great gospel singers onstage together were Bill and Gloria Gaither (I still have my first book of their music from the 70s); Cliff Barrows (bought a book of his music after I heard it sung by the Wilsonville Baptist Church youth choir, also in the 70s); and George Beverly Shea (he was a staple of the Billy Graham crusades, which we watched, well, religiously when I was growing up). George Beverly Shea was 102—and still singing—when Tent Revival was recorded. He's now 104. These singers have been in the ministry for decades, reaching millions of people through live performances, TV, radio, and now the internet. 

PART III: Jesus' own ministry didn't last for decades. It lasted three years. Not even thirteen or thirty—just three. No TV cameras to follow Him around and report back to CNN. No sermons delivered in stadiums and broadcast live via satellite. No Facebook or Twitter to spread the word. But in those three years, He inspired all those who followed Him then and all who follow now. All the Billy Graham crusades and the Gaither homecomings, every Palm Sunday service that will take place this morning, every believer's effort to lead a Christian life—it all comes back to what Jesus taught in those three short years.

THE ATTEMPT AT CONNECTION:  If there's anything I've learned from my (still incomplete but progressing) journey through the Bible, it's that humans, for centuries, have been saying "I trust you, God" when things are going well, and "Where are you, God?" when the road gets a little bumpy. I've been known to say I'll trust . . . but then take matters into my own hands and bolt out into the storm on my own without recognizing the dangers I'm getting into. Trust isn't easy. Belief in things unseen isn't easy. Jesus understood that. But there's no need to go out there all alone. The Gospel of John says that, right before Jesus was arrested, He said a prayer. Much of His prayer focused on the disciples—but He didn't pray for them alone:

My prayer is not for them  alone. I pray also for those who will believe in me through their message, that all of them may be one, Father, just as you are in me and I am in you. May they also be in us so that the world may believe that you have sent me. I have given them the glory that you gave me, that they may be one as we are one: I in them and you in me. May they be brought to complete unity to let the world know that you sent me and have loved them even as you have loved me.
John 17: 20-23 

[Palm image by Ian L @ freerangestock.com}

Put on Your Bathin' Suit and Blow Up Your Float

Ah, vacation photography—where would we be without it? How else could we prove (or in my fuzzy-brained case, even remember) that we had built a sand castle by the Gulf, ridden the train to Tombstone Territory, explored the battlefields at Vicksburg, or toured Fairyland Caverns on Lookout Mountain? (Actually, our vacation shots suggest that I slept through that one, with Daddy carrying me.:) I found this picture when I was cleaning out a desk the other day. It was taken on Panama City Beach with a Kodak Instamatic (the kind with the flashcube on top), around 1969. That's me on the left, with my cousin Kathy, who was my beach buddy on those trips. Note that our mothers gave us the exact same haircut even though we had radically different hair. You would think the Ladies Home Journal would have advised them against that. Kathy was always trying to straighten hers, and I was always trying to coax a curl—even a hint of a wave—into mine. No such luck. It was straight as a board then, and it's straight as a board now. I'm pretty sure Mama ordered my shorts ensemble from Sears because other photos from this same trip reveal that I had it in more than one color, and most of my fashion multiples back then came from Sears. I don't remember where we were staying, but I know it had a kitchenette. We always had a kitchenette. My mother believed in stretching her vacation dollar. Kathy and I always envied the kids we met from up north because they were always in Panama City for at least two weeks, whereas we only got a few days. (Granted, it took them 14 hours to get there, but still, we were jealous.) The departure for home was always an adventure because my parents were notorious for deciding, at the exact same moment, that vacation was over and it was time to go—right then. Once, on the last night before we were set to leave, we had all had our supper and our showers and were ready for bed when Mama and Daddy looked at each other and said, "Let's go." Our car wasn't air-conditioned—come to think of it, neither was our house—so I guess they figured it was easier to travel at night with two sleeping kids than sweat it out with us the next day. As for me, I much preferred to return by day. That way, the folks back home would be awake to greet us—and to admire the way my pink airbrushed T-shirt set off my new suntan. Or sunburn.

Daddy Says: "You Look Good Just Like That"

After church on Sunday, Daddy offered one of his periodic, complementary, entirely unsolicited evaluations of my appearance. "You look good today,without any makeup on," he said. "You should do that more often."

Tired of looking all "done"? Ready to go all natural like me? Here's how I did it: Estee Lauder Advanced Time Zone moisturizer and eye cream; Estee Lauder Advanced Night Repair; Lancome night moisturizer (can't remember the exact name); Estee Lauder Invisible Fluid foundation and powder blush; Lancome dual-finish makeup/powder; Lancome mascara; Almay eyeliner; eyeshadow from Sephora. Use all that, and nobody will have a clue you're wearing makeup. But don't tell Daddy.

Daddy Says: "I'm Drawin' a Blank"

Overheard in the church fellowship hall, after Mama shared a few of Daddy's habits that drive her insane (never closing a drawer or cabinet door once he opens it, making a yell-like noise every time he yawns, etc.):

Daddy: "You know, I've been sittin' here tryin' to think of my own faults . . . but I'm just not comin' up with anything. I'm drawin' a blank."

Sunday Morning Serenity

There's something about sunrise bird chirping that automatically lowers my blood pressure. And I'll be honest. Right now, it needs lowering. We're still working through the grieving process for Dave's dad and trying to do as much as we can, long distance, to help his brother and sisters make sure his mom is okay. Soon, I'll receive my first completely-self-employed income tax return, and I can't help wondering what horrors the IRS has in store for me. We have many DIY home projects under way, so our back yard, kitchen, and dining room are upside down. Easter services to prepare for. Work decisions to make. And on and on and on. As Hank the Cat and I sat on the deck early this morning, listening to the birds—well, I was listening—Hank was probably stalking—I decided to have a little prayer time, right there in my favorite swivel rocker, with my feet propped up and my coffee cup nearby. Mid-prayer, I realized that I was feverishly rocking back and forth: Please be with . . . (rock, rock, rock, rock) and please bless . . . (rock, rock, rock, rock) and if You would show me Your will for . . . (rock, rock, rock, rock). I suddenly realized that I wasn't so much praying as stressing. So I stopped and got quiet and just listened. Prayer doesn't have to be active, I've come to think. You don't have to talk. Sometimes it's better if you don't. Sometimes it's better to listen and just . . . commune. There's comfort in communion with God. And there's peace. 

These things I have spoken unto you, that in me ye might have peace. In the world ye shall have tribulation: but be of good cheer; I have overcome the world.
John 16:33

Happy St. Patrick's Day!

[Image by Gerald Rencehausen @ Freerangestock.com]

No Future In Decorating

Witness my attempt at color selection. As you can see, I'm all over the board. This little decorating adventure began with a beautiful hutch Dave built for me. I didn't want to put it in an ugly kitchen, so I decided to paint said kitchen. But the kitchen opens into the living room. Maybe we should paint them both the same color? (They didn't turn out that way, but I'll spare you the details.) Perhaps we should break up all that yellow with an accent wall. In red? (Or would that be too mustard-and-ketchup?) Cream? Soft mocha? Taupe? (Neutrals make Dave yawn.) Okay, maybe burnt orange. (Will that fly with a maroon sofa? Then again, the sofa needs replacing, so maybe we throw a sheet over it till we can save our pennies and get to Lazy Boy? I wonder if we'll bump into Brooke Shields while we're there. She's probably great with color, what with all those years in modeling.) And hey, what about the dining room—you can see into it from the living room. Do we paint it, too?????

You know what my real problem is? Besides being hopelessly messy and clumsy with a paint brush, I'm entirely verbal and not the least bit visual. Put me in front of that wall o' paint chips at Home Depot and I can't help reading them. Even worse, I can be totally swayed by the name. Martha Stewart had a perfectly lovely neutral, but she went and called it Filing Cabinet. Who wants to have a candlelight dinner surrounded by Filing Cabinet? No, give me names like Lemon Sorbet, Firelight, Poppy, Gentle Rain, Wheat Field, and Calming Retreat. In the dining room, I went with "Malibu Sunset"—sort of a soft rosy tannish kind of color. Sure, others might misinterpret it as "pink." But that's because they're letting the color distract them from the name, from the warm sun and the whisper of the waves and the true essence of my Malibu Sunset. (I've never actually seen a sunset in Malibu, but I've seen one in Panama City, and I figure they're about the same.) Yes, I might indeed spend the next few years staring at my dining room walls in all kinds of light and steadfastly reassuring myself that is NOT pink, that is NOT pink, that is NOT pink. But it will be worth it just to know that my guests not only get dinner—they get a trip to the beach.

Sunday Morning Serenity

Yesterday felt like springtime. Our daffodils are still blooming, and little purple flowers have popped up all along the bank out back. There's a bit of bluster in the wind—rain's coming. And we ran our clocks up—Daylight Savings Time, which one of my uncles refuses to acknowledge any more. He doesn't like it one bit, so he says he's just not going along with it:) A new season's coming. Maybe that's why Dave and I are in transformation mode. Our leaky roof created a leaky picture window, and the prospect of a new window prompted us to think about other changes we could make in our house. So, as the roofers hammered away for the past two days, Dave stayed in his shop building me a beautiful new serving table with tons of storage underneath. (Hooray! A place to hide the turkey roaster!) Meanwhile, I painted. We intended for the kitchen and living room to be the same bright yellow, but since I bought paint-and-primer-in-one, I didn't think I had to prime the walls, AND since those rooms began life in two different colors, they turned out two different shades of yellow. Not what we had planned, but we will learn to love it. We don't have enough Advil to get me through painting any room twice. A few months back, Dave discovered that he had soaked up quite a bit of woodworking know-how from his dad, and it has been great to see him explore that. I'm the first to admit, I'm not DIY girl. I am a messy painter who somehow dumped an entire pan of yellow all over our living room hardwood. It was a Lucy Ricardo moment that I managed to clean up before Dave saw it. I think he would've required medical attention. But on the upside, it's amazing what a difference you can make with one swipe of a paint brush, all the nicks and smudges and damage you can erase with one clean sweep. You can literally make an old thing new again. And even if that yellow turns out slightly different from the one you planned, and you have to work through the pain of a few sore muscles that you haven't used in a while, in the end, the change will do you good. You just have to be willing to take the first step, risk an occasional spill, and call for guidance when you hit a rough spot:)

Monsters Beneath My Fridge

The Luesses are on a nest-feathering rampage. We looked around and realized (1) we have too much stuff we don't need; (2) we have no place to put the stuff we actually do need; (3) we're bored with the color of everything in our house; and (4) we can't spare the cash to hire trained professionals, so we'll have to tackle this ourselves. For the past two days, I've been painting our extremely outdated kitchen a sunny yellow (which we hope will distract us from the seriously old cabinets that we intend to destroy when we flip the kitchen around and put the appliances on the opposite side of the room a little later on). By yesterday afternoon, I had painted my way to the wall behind the stove and fridge, which required me to unplug the appliances and pull them away from the wall. At which point, SCREAM!!!! It occurred to me, as I revealed the terrors on the floor beneath the fridge and stove, that the last time I scrubbed under there was approximately . . . never? I actually poked at a couple of spots with my foot, half expecting them to hop away. EGAD! What would Martha Stewart say? Forget Martha—what would Mama say??? Well, I'm happy to report that both Mama and Martha can rest easy now, thanks to Lysol, Clorox, and Greased Lighting. (No snake wranglers or critter catchers were required.)