Sunday Morning Serenity

Inertia is the enemy. If I were remotely crafty, I would cross-stitch that on a sampler and prominently display it in our home. There's a difference between stillness—taking a moment to be quiet and calm, to listen and be aware—and inertia—which, on a personal level, is the inability or unwillingness to move in any direction—backward or forward. If I think about it, I can attribute most of the unhappiest periods in my life to inertia, to a sense of feeling "just plain stuck." Kristin Armstrong talks about that in her wonderful book Work in Progress: An Unfinished Woman's Guide to Grace. She attributes inertia to fear, and she's right. Most of the time, when we can't get ourselves moving, it's because we're afraid—afraid of making the wrong choice, afraid of looking foolish, afraid of failure, afraid of rejection, afraid, afraid, afraid.

Dave and I have been in a rut lately. Once work started coming in, which we both needed, we were suddenly working all the time. I'd go to the Story Shack, he'd go to his shop or the tennis court, we'd convene for lunch and supper, then get up the next morning and do the same thing all over again. We couldn't remember the last time we had friends over, which we had hoped to do this weekend, but by Thursday I was still covered in work and couldn't imagine getting the house clean in time, so I bailed on that idea. But I told Dave I thought I could at least take time for a day trip, which he's been wanting to do for a long time. So we set out yesterday morning in his 53 Chevy, with a couple of Diet Cokes and a road map on board. My one request was that we go someplace neither of us had been before. We rambled down to Lake Martin, took a two-lane highway out of Dadeville, and ended up in Tuskegee.

An old Southern Living habit prompted me to get on my smart phone and look for off-the-beaten-path local restaurants. We ended up in a tiny little soul food place called The Coop—a chicken joint. The whole dining area was about the size of my living room (which isn't very big at all), with communal seating. Fourteen dollars bought us collard greens, yams to die for, black-eyed peas, creamed corn, and enough chicken wings to put us to roost. While we were there, an African American family came in—they were in town, no doubt, to tour the university, as their group included adults of two generations and one teenager with that I-can't-believe-I'm-traveling-with-my-parents look. One of the men in the family had spotted the Chevy outside—an instant conversation starter. We ended up visiting over lunch and wishing each other safe travels. Just an ordinary day. But not really. That visit would've been impossible in Alabama—or at least unlikely—40 or 50 years ago—in my own lifetime. Now it's not even a big deal.

The world can change for the better, but it takes movement—and the belief that change is actually possible. WE can change for the better, but it takes movement—and faith enough to believe that, even though we can't see our final destination off in the distance, we can begin the journey, knowing that we're in God's hands, and everything will be okay somehow.

Dave and I would've missed out on something pretty special if we had stayed home and stuck to our typical routine yesterday. And I'll admit, we were a few miles down the road before I forgot about checking email. But that one little change, just a one-day break, made us remember what it's like to enjoy each other's company, not just collaborate to pay the mortgage. And I hope, the next time I'm juggling deadlines and an overloaded Inbbox, I have sense enough to remember who and what I'm working for. 

[Image by Lindsay Niles @ Freerangestock.com]