Goin' Down to Mama's

Sunday Morning Serenity

What am I worth? When you're self-employed, you ask yourself that question a lot. (My dear friend and agent, Gary, tells me that I am dreadful at self-promotion and that I have a tendency to give away the farm:) It's tough, putting a price tag on yourself. Am I this good, that good? Where's the price that's fair to my client and to my family? What exactly is my value? The Bible has a clear answer to that question, in our spiritual lives. And it's amazing: I'm worth the sacrifice of God's greatest gift, and so are you—so are we all. 

Therefore, since we have been justified through faith, we have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ, through whom we have gained access by faith into this grace in which we now stand. And we rejoice in the hope of the glory of God. Not only so, but we also rejoice in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope. And hope does not disappoint us, because God has poured out his love into our hearts by the Holy Spirit,
whom he has given us.
Romans 5: 1-4

But God demonstrates his own love for us in this:
While we were still sinners, Christ died for us.
Romans 5: 8

Cattin' Around

As you can probably tell from Hank's hostile posture, he is NOT happy to see the golden little guy who turned up to court one of his feral lady friends and never went home. At first I shooed Yellow Cat away as I fed Hank and Catsy Cline. Unfortunately, I got the Daddy gene when it comes to animal husbandry. I can't stand to see anything hungry, no matter how aggravating it is to feed half the four-legged neighborhood. So I continued urging Yellow Cat to take his business elsewhere—just as soon as he finished his Friskies. And maybe had a bite or two of Meow Mix. But he stuck to me like . . . well, like only a cat can stick to you. Right at my door, right underfoot.

Unlike the stray ladies, who gobble down their food and then scram, Yellow Cat clearly wants to be part of our lives. He parks himself right by the kitchen door to maximize human contact and tries every trick in the book to get inside. So far, I've remained strong because I'm afraid Hank will pack up his Whisker Lickin's and hit the road if he catches a whiff of Rex in the house. (Oh. Did I forget to mention I named him Rex? It just slipped out one day.)

For his part, Hank has a sixth sense about Rex and me. When it's clear that the little fellow will feel completely unloved unless somebody pets him RIGHT NOW, I lure him into the carport, away from Hank's throne on the back deck, and urge him to hold down the purring while I scratch behind his ears. Yes. I really am that crazy. Hank hasn't spent any time in the Story Shack in weeks, but the moment I allowed the interloper in for a quick visit, who should turn up about 15 minutes later? Rex had just stepped out, fortunately, or it could've gotten ugly.

As fond as I am of this affectionate little feline, he has upset our apple cart mightily. Hank has no desire to share his kingdom. Also, he underwent an all-important procedure long ago, so there's no danger that he and Catsy will one day present us with 47 kittens. Rex appears to be a different story. He's also a foodie, eager to sample what everyone else is having, even as his own plate is set before him. Drives Hank and Catsy bananas. I finally made Catsy a wall of coleus containers to hide behind so that she can eat in peace. And there's no way I can ask our sweet neighbors to do all the cat-distracting required to get everybody fed when we're out of town.

Dear Rex does seem to go someplace else between breakfast and early afternoon, so I have plans to make a few posters at Kinko's and hope, hope, hope I get that call from a loving family up the street, wondering where their precious kitty has been slipping off to. 

If it turns out that Rex is an orphan, I will be looking for a good home for this golden boy—and he deserves it. He's a great little cat. So if you're in the market for a kitty, do keep in touch, won't you?

 

Sunday Morning Serenity

Feast or famine, ups and downs, seasons of want and seasons of plenty—that's what my magazine friends told me to expect when I started freelancing. They weren't kidding. Freelancing is a little like fishing—sometimes you cast your net and it comes back so full you can barely pull it in. Other times, there's nothing there but an old tennis shoe and an empty Coke can. And because I tend to obsess about, well, everything, I've developed a bad habit of working really, really hard when I have work and spending my down time worrying that I'll never work again. In other words, I've lost my compass. The whole reason for this major life change was to have more down time so that I could write my own stories, explore some new creative projects, and spend more time with the people who matter most to me. The work is supposed to be a means to an end, so once again, I'm giving myself a talking-to. New opportunities continue to come along, and I'm daily reminded of that line from "Great Is Thy Faithfulness": All I have needed Thy hand hath provided. I just have to remind myself that I shouldn't fear stillness—I should relish it. Because there is a time to boldly strike out for uncharted waters, but there is also a time to be quiet and listen, to see which way the winds are blowing and trust the current to get you where you need to be:

Jesus calls us o'er the tumult of our life's wild, restless sea,
Day by day His sweet voice soundeth,
Saying, "Christian, follow Me."
Jesus calls us from the worship of the vain world's golden store,
From each idol that would keep us,
Saying, "Christian, love Me more." 

[From "Jesus Calls Us," lyrics by Mrs. Cecil F Alexander]

A Picture Spurs a Thousand Words

I know I've shared this before—I am old—I repeat myself—I've shared everything before, at least twice. ANYway, when I worked for Southern Living, I had my office walls plastered with enlarged photocopies of old family photographs. I always thought they were just keeping me company and maybe offering up a little added family support on those days when I needed a boost of confidence or courage. But a friend walked in one day, looked around, and said: "You're working something out—I don't know what, but you're working something out." This morning, Hank the Cat and I were in the mood to sit on the deck and write in the cool (COOL!) morning air, and when I flipped open my laptop and looked at the desktop, I was reminded of that comment about my office. I think I'm at it again. Here's a sampling of the images I keep there. I know there's a story in them somewhere, maybe individually, maybe together. Either way, I just don't want to lose sight of them . . . 

My maternal grandmother's family—the Wyatts—photographed at their home place in Shelby County, Alabama, around 1909. That's Grandme in the back—you can just make out her dark hair and white dress.

Here's that same dark-haired girl, now "Grandme," with my cousin Kathy and me on a visit to Aunt Vivian's farm, which we all loved. Apparently, I was trying to channel Ali McGraw, but it wasn't going well. This shot was clearly taken before Kathy sat me down in her mother's front yard with a pair of tweezers and separated my one giant eyebrow into two. With every pluck, I hollered, to which Kathy replied, "Oh, hushyamouth and be still!"

Mama (left) and Aunt Vivian with Grandme on that same visit. Grandme appears to be a reluctant photo subject.

Aunt Mac, my paternal grandmother's much beloved sister. I always thought Aunt Mac was the oldest because she doted on Granny so, but it was actually the other way around. Granny called her "Sister" (pronounced "Sus-tah"), and Aunt Mac called her "Sugar Babe" (pronounced "Chug-babe"). Note the broom propped against the tree, for yard-sweeping, no doubt. And the dog in the lower right corner. And the exotic tropicals all around her. Looks like Florida, but I'm pretty sure this was taken in Harpersville, Alabama. I suspect Aunt Mac harbored a secret dream of talking Uncle James into making a break for more exciting environs than small-town Alabama:)

The tall guy in the center is my cousin Richard, who is seven years older than I am. (That's me on the right, sporting a color-coordinated ensemble that likely came from the Sears & Roebuck catalog.) By the time I was in high school, our age difference didn't matter, and we were big buddies. That's our cousin Stanley on the left. Stanley and his wife spent last weekend moving their son into his dorm room at Troy State. The car in the background was one of the few brand-new vehicles Daddy ever bought (not only because used ones were cheaper but because he LOVES haggling). It had a sunroof, but you had to open it with a little handcrank, which didn't work very well, so opening it was "just too much trouble." Rarely talked Daddy into wrestling that roof open. NEVER talked Mama into it. But I tried.

Last summer's hibiscus, which was especially beautiful. We've filled our backyard with tropicals, which we never get tired of. I guess we're longing for the coast. Or maybe I just take after Aunt Mac!

Sarah, my dear friend since third grade. Her pigtails always looked better than mine because no amount of coaxing from Mama and me would get my hair to curl like that. Sarah called me from Labor & Delivery when each of her four children was born: "It's a boy! It's a girl! It's a girl! It's a girl!"

Daddy, showing Elvis what cool looks like:)

Sunday Morning Serenity

When I was growing up, the door to one of the ladies' Sunday School classes at our church had a sign next to it that read "Dorcas." These women had apparently decided to name their group after "a sister" from the New Testament. I didn't know why because, for whatever reason, Dorcas never made it into the rotation of Bible stories that we kids learned in our own classes. We studied Mary, the mother of Jesus, and Lazarus' sisters, Mary and Martha. We learned about Lydia, Priscilla, Ruth and Naomi, Esther, Miriam, Rachel and Leah—but no Dorcas. I happened upon her when I started reading the Book of Acts, and that's the only place she appears, according to the index in my Bible.

Dorcas lived in Joppa, an important port city overlooking the Mediterranean Sea. Luke, who wrote the Book of Acts, describes her briefly as a disciple who "was always doing good and helping the poor" (Acts 9:36). When she becomes ill and dies, other disciples in her community learn that the apostle Peter is in a neighboring town and send for him. Peter arrives to find all the widows in the community crying for Dorcas and showing him all the clothing she made for them. Peter raises her from the dead, and word spreads all over Joppa, converting many people to Christianity.

Dorcas wasn't a powerful leader in the early church—she wasn't a charismatic teacher or preacher. She didn't have throngs of followers. Then again, maybe she did—her community mourned her death, so clearly, she had touched many lives. And she did it just by using the gifts she had been given to help other people however she could. She made clothes for the poor and showed kindness to everyone—simple things—but those simple offerings of love and kindness touched so many people that word of Dorcas' death and resurrection quickly spread and converted many people to her Christian faith.

None of us can meet the great needs of the world, but we can do what we can in our little corner of it. We can show kindness. We can share. We can listen to a friend's troubles—or maybe a stranger's. We can be willing to be used, willing to help. We can make a big difference by hanging an imaginary "Dorcas" sign over our door.

[Image by Chance Agrella @ Freerangestock.com]

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I am just dis-GUSTED! That's my mother's comment of choice when she's unhappy with her weight. I know exactly what she means, which is why I have a teensy bone to pick with the weight loss industry.

I should preface this by saying that I am a member of Weight Watchers Online, which is a good program. It has worked before, and if I hadn't taken the attitude of "OK, I've fixed my weight problem now and can eat anything I want with a side of fries," it would have continued to work. Weight Watchers is basically a numbers game, which you win by eating healthier and exercising. All good. It's not the program itself that raises my blood pressure a notch—it's the marketing.

Ever seen that Weight Watchers commercial where this fit guy is rattling off the foods he can still eat? "GOTTA have my chicken parm!" he says with a smile. Chicken parm? As in chicken parmesan? Yes, he can have it. But depending on how it's prepared and how much he eats, it will cost him anywhere from a respectable 8 points to a whopping 40-plus points—way over a day's allowance for most of us. He'll be tapping into some serious bonus points or spending his waking hours in the gym if he's really gotta have that chicken parm on a regular basis.

Equally dander-raising is the commercial featuring an extremely toned, bikini-clad brunette who says she looks better than ever, thanks to Nutrisystem. Now, I'm willing to believe that she lost a lot of weight on this program, and I'm proud for her. (Or, as Mama would say, "I glory in her spunk.") But she didn't get those arms and abs by dieting. She got them by going to a gym, picking up heavy things and putting them back down, over and over again. Or through untold hours of Pilates. 

I've done my share of copy writing for PR and marketing departments. I get WHY they do this. But the end result is disappointment because there's absolutely nothing easy about weight loss, especially for women like me in that 50+ group I call Club M  (ladies, we all know what the "M" stands for, don't we:) The  truth is this: If you want to lose weight in a healthy way and keep it off after a certain age, you will have to give up some foods you love, or at least eat them sparingly. You will have to be aware of everything you're eating and drinking. You will have to exercise. I have friends who LOVE working out. My husband LOVES working out. I do not. I wish I did. I have, fortunately, discovered that I very much enjoy the pool and have concocted my own 40-minute routine that is making a difference in how I feel. I've even introduced myself to the Cybex machines, though we aren't exactly close yet.

This brings me back to Mr. Chicken Parm. What I wish all those commercials would say is something like this:

Girl, we hear you. That waistline you had back in the eighties must be in there somewhere, but it'll probably take a GPS and some sled dogs to find it. We're willing to hitch 'em up if you are. It'll be a journey—uphill, at that. And we can't make it quick. So just settle in for a long haul, be patient, and we'll do what we can.
By the way, you might wanna lay off the chicken parm.

[Image by Sleepylog @ Freerangestock.com]

As a blissful summer afternoon fades into early eve, and birdsong gives way to the chirping of cicadas, you can hear the laughter of children at play, the conversation of neighbors coming together for a chat over the fence.

 

In moments like these, I like to pause, take it all in, and say, from the innermost depths of my heart . . .

 

 

KNOCK IT OFF!

I'M TRYIN' TO SLEEP HERE!

This is a rare Sunday for me. Our church isn't having services this morning, so I'm not scrambling to get music together and scare up some breakfast for us and pack after-church clothes to take to Mother and Daddy's. And I have to admit, it's a relief not to make the drive from Birmingham. (Not that it's a day's journey or anything, but 50 miles round trip is kind of a long way to go to church.) I am, as my Granny used to say, "doing my praying at home" this Sunday:) And I'm sitting on the deck, looking through the little notebook I keep as I read my Bible. I noticed that I often flag a verse with a person: Remember when Bernice Kidd told us this story in Sunday School (about the poor widow who gave the only two coins she had); remember what Mrs. Glenn had to say about this (God's gift of love).

Mrs. Jenny Glenn was my piano teacher—and the wife of a Baptist pastor, whom she often addressed, affectionately, as "Preacher." Some of the happiest moments of my childhood were spent side-by-side with her at a beautiful old Chickering spinet that was the centerpiece of her living room. She always tried to guide me in one of two directions: classical composers like Mozart and Chopin or gospel composers like the Gaithers and John W. Peterson. I could make occasional forays into movie themes, like "Tammy" and "Theme from Love Story," but she didn't much care for pop fluff on the radio. Even so, whenever I was particularly enamored of a Top 40 hit, she would give in and order the sheet music from Forbes in downtown Birmingham. One song, however, got her very riled up. I'm surprised she didn't call up Burt Bacharach and Hal David and give them a piece of her mind. It was "What the World Needs Now Is Love," which had become popular a few years before I started taking piano lessons. By the time I took the bench around 1969, Mrs. Glenn was still mad about it. 

What riled her was the notion that God had not supplied the world with all the love it needed: "God GAVE us the gift of love!" She was right. Sadly, love is a divine gift we often squander—or are too scared to share. What if I look stupid? What if it's not returned? What if I get hurt? What if I'm disappointed? The thing is, we're not supposed to look at it that way. We're not supposed to worry about what's in it for us—we're supposed to focus on what we can give to other people, without expecting anything back. Tough to do, right? But there's no doubt it's our calling. 

I just read the passage in the Gospel of John where Jesus washes His disciples' feet. And Peter initially reacts the way we might have. Roughly paraphrased: "But—but—but—you can't DO that! You're our Lord!" Once Jesus had washed all the disciples' feet, he said, "I have set you an example that you should do as I have done for you" (John 13:15). It was an example of humility, service, and love.

When the Last Supper was over, and Judas Iscariot had set out for the ultimate betrayal, Jesus told his disciples:

A new command I give you: Love one another. As I have loved you, so you must love one another. By this all men will know that you are my disciples, if you love one another.
John 13: 34-35 

Scram, Mr. Chicken Parm

I am just dis-GUSTED! That's my mother's comment of choice when she's unhappy with her weight. I know exactly what she means, which is why I have a teensy bone to pick with the weight loss industry.

I should preface this by saying that I am a member of Weight Watchers Online, which is a good program. It has worked before, and if I hadn't taken the attitude of "OK, I've fixed my weight problem now and can eat anything I want with a side of fries," it would have continued to work. Weight Watchers is basically a numbers game, which you win by eating healthier and exercising. All good. It's not the program itself that raises my blood pressure a notch—it's the marketing.

Ever seen that Weight Watchers commercial where this fit guy is rattling off the foods he can still eat? "GOTTA have my chicken parm!" he says with a smile. Chicken parm? As in chicken parmesan? Yes, he can have it. But depending on how it's prepared and how much he eats, it will cost him anywhere from a respectable 8 points to a whopping 40-plus points—way over a day's allowance for most of us. He'll be tapping into some serious bonus points or spending his waking hours in the gym if he's really gotta have that chicken parm on a regular basis.

Equally dander-raising is the commercial featuring an extremely toned, bikini-clad brunette who says she looks better than ever, thanks to Nutrisystem. Now, I'm willing to believe that she lost a lot of weight on this program, and I'm proud for her. (Or, as Mama would say, "I glory in her spunk.") But she didn't get those arms and abs by dieting. She got them by going to a gym, picking up heavy things and putting them back down, over and over again. Or through untold hours of Pilates. 

I've done my share of copy writing for PR and marketing departments. I get WHY they do this. But the end result is disappointment because there's absolutely nothing easy about weight loss, especially for women like me in that 50+ group I call Club M  (ladies, we all know what the "M" stands for, don't we:) The  truth is this: If you want to lose weight in a healthy way and keep it off after a certain age, you will have to give up some foods you love, or at least eat them sparingly. You will have to be aware of everything you're eating and drinking. You will have to exercise. I have friends who LOVE working out. My husband LOVES working out. I do not. I wish I did. I have, fortunately, discovered that I very much enjoy the pool and have concocted my own 40-minute routine that is making a difference in how I feel. I've even introduced myself to the Cybex machines, though we aren't exactly close yet.

This brings me back to Mr. Chicken Parm. What I wish all those commercials would say is something like this:

Girl, we hear you. That waistline you had back in the eighties must be in there somewhere, but it'll probably take a GPS and some sled dogs to find it. We're willing to hitch 'em up if you are. It'll be a journey—uphill, at that. And we can't make it quick. So just settle in for a long haul, be patient, and we'll do what we can.
By the way, you might wanna lay off the chicken parm.

[Image by Sleepylog @ Freerangestock.com]

Hank's Book of Cat Philosophy: #25

As a blissful summer afternoon fades into early eve, and birdsong gives way to the chirping of cicadas, you can hear the laughter of children at play, the conversation of neighbors coming together for a chat over the fence.

 

In moments like these, I like to pause, take it all in, and say, from the innermost depths of my heart . . .

 

 

KNOCK IT OFF!

I'M TRYIN' TO SLEEP HERE!

Sunday Morning Serenity

This is a rare Sunday for me. Our church isn't having services this morning, so I'm not scrambling to get music together and scare up some breakfast for us and pack after-church clothes to take to Mother and Daddy's. And I have to admit, it's a relief not to make the drive from Birmingham. (Not that it's a day's journey or anything, but 50 miles round trip is kind of a long way to go to church.) I am, as my Granny used to say, "doing my praying at home" this Sunday:) And I'm sitting on the deck, looking through the little notebook I keep as I read my Bible. I noticed that I often flag a verse with a person: Remember when Bernice Kidd told us this story in Sunday School (about the poor widow who gave the only two coins she had); remember what Mrs. Glenn had to say about this (God's gift of love).

Mrs. Jenny Glenn was my piano teacher—and the wife of a Baptist pastor, whom she often addressed, affectionately, as "Preacher." Some of the happiest moments of my childhood were spent side-by-side with her at a beautiful old Chickering spinet that was the centerpiece of her living room. She always tried to guide me in one of two directions: classical composers like Mozart and Chopin or gospel composers like the Gaithers and John W. Peterson. I could make occasional forays into movie themes, like "Tammy" and "Theme from Love Story," but she didn't much care for pop fluff on the radio. Even so, whenever I was particularly enamored of a Top 40 hit, she would give in and order the sheet music from Forbes in downtown Birmingham. One song, however, got her very riled up. I'm surprised she didn't call up Burt Bacharach and Hal David and give them a piece of her mind. It was "What the World Needs Now Is Love," which had become popular a few years before I started taking piano lessons. By the time I took the bench around 1969, Mrs. Glenn was still mad about it. 

What riled her was the notion that God had not supplied the world with all the love it needed: "God GAVE us the gift of love!" She was right. Sadly, love is a divine gift we often squander—or are too scared to share. What if I look stupid? What if it's not returned? What if I get hurt? What if I'm disappointed? The thing is, we're not supposed to look at it that way. We're not supposed to worry about what's in it for us—we're supposed to focus on what we can give to other people, without expecting anything back. Tough to do, right? But there's no doubt it's our calling. 

I just read the passage in the Gospel of John where Jesus washes His disciples' feet. And Peter initially reacts the way we might have. Roughly paraphrased: "But—but—but—you can't DO that! You're our Lord!" Once Jesus had washed all the disciples' feet, he said, "I have set you an example that you should do as I have done for you" (John 13:15). It was an example of humility, service, and love.

When the Last Supper was over, and Judas Iscariot had set out for the ultimate betrayal, Jesus told his disciples:

A new command I give you: Love one another. As I have loved you, so you must love one another. By this all men will know that you are my disciples, if you love one another.
John 13: 34-35