Goin' Down to Mama's

Sunday Morning Serenity

This is a story about cats, hope, and race relations. Ever since Cheeto the charmer arrived on the scene, Hank the Cat has not been happy. They get along well enough if I'm not around, but with humans present, they have jealousy issues. They can't seem to grasp that there's plenty of food, shelter, cat toys, and love for both of them. Neither's portion need be diminished by sharing the land of plenty that is our back yard.

Yesterday, in the midst of dealing with all the feline drama, I had a work meeting on Birmingham's Southside. We were planning a book project that involves some of the city's history. When we wrapped up and stepped outside the local Starbucks, we found ourselves in a flash mob being staged for a music video. The main intersection in Five Points had been blocked off, and it was filled with African American singers and dancers performing "Every Praise" with gospel artist Hezekiah Walker, whom I had never heard of but intend to follow from now on.

Given that we had discussed the 1960s during our meeting, I couldn't help thinking that there was a time—in my own lifetime—when the jubilant street scene we were all sharing would not have been possible. It wouldn't even have been safe for those singers and dancers to be there. No doubt, the teenagers and 20-something college students who were clapping and cheering yesterday probably didn't give that a thought because they're too young to remember a different time and place.

Birmingham isn't perfect. There's still an enormous economic gap between some of our communities, and there are people here in great need. But we've made some serious strides in building and sharing a more abundant life. We've learned to sing together in the streets.

A new commandment I give unto you,
That ye love one another;
as I have loved you, that ye also love one another. John 13:34

[Image by Johan Strydom @ Freerangestock.com]

Crazy Cat Lady: The Sequel

Is Cheeto convalescing in a cage at the vet?

That would be a "no." Cheeto is convalescing in our guest room.

Tears of a Crazy Cat Lady

I shed a few tears over this fella yesterday. Had to drop him off at the vet for The Procedure that will stop his career as the neighborhood kitten factory. His name is Cheeto, and we've had a bumpy ride together for the past month or so. He showed up in my back yard, doing his Polynesian love call to the stray ladies on the hill behind us. Quite a ruckus ensued, as Hank the Cat was sweet on one of them. (Hank, however, had The Procedure many years ago, so it was a peacefully platonic relationship.) Hank and Cheeto get along fine OUTSIDE, provided I am nowhere in sight. But the minute I pet one, the other gets jealous. And if Hank catches Cheeto in the house, it's a hissin', yeowlin', free-for-all.

Cheeto is from out of town. When his owner moved to Birmingham, a series of unfortunate circumstances made him take to roaming. Finally, his owner decided he just couldn't keep him any more and let me adopt him.

Cheeto likes to dart in the house and meddle and claw the furniture and eat Hank's food, even when his own bowl is full. He is a rascal. But he is also very affectionate and loves a lap to lay his head on. He started life as a stray that the neighbors fed, so in my Crazy Cat Lady head, he just wants to belong to somebody and will stop all the mischievous behavior once he realizes he has a home. And has The Procedure.

Because he's not supposed to eat or drink anything before his surgery this morning, I had to catch-as-catch-can yesterday and drop him off at the vet. He hates the pet carrier. And I left him at the vet, convinced that he felt abandoned. I am paying more for The Procedure at my vet than I would at the Humane Society. Why? Because I want this rascal cat to have Hank's medical team, an overnight hospital stay, and really good pain meds for the trip home. Cha-ching. Then one of the nurses informed me that, since I don't have his vaccination history, he needs three shots in order to stay at the clinic. Cha-ching again. And then there's the need for additional blood work. Since he has been outside, they need to test him for feline HIV, and if that test is positive they will call me so I can "decide what to do." That's where I drew the line. "He cannot test positive because I cannot take that, so you all will just have to make sure that doesn't happen," I told the nurse. She said she would do her best. I told her I had heard somewhere that male cats who hate each other will sometimes become friends once they've both had The Procedure. "It's possible," she said, "but I wouldn't count on it."

So now I am watching the clock. Cheeto's surgery is scheduled for 8:30, and they said if his tests come back okay, they won't call. They'll just go ahead with it and update me when it's over. If the phone doesn't ring before 9:30, I think all should be well. Tick-tock, tick-tock . . .

Amazing People You've Never Heard Of

Back in the spring, I got a call from the sister of an old Southern Living friend who had bumped into one of my choir buddies from years ago at First Baptist Birmingham—this is how networking operates in the South. She asked if I would be interested in working on a magazine about addiction recovery. And I said, "Huh?" I didn't know anything about it, and it sounded . . . depressing. But in the world of freelance, you have to at least peek behind every door that opens for you, so I took a peek. What I saw changed the way I think, on many fronts.

The magazine is called Recovery Campus, and it focuses on a network of colleges that have established something called "Collegiate Recovery Communities" aimed at helping college students who have been through treatment for drug, alcohol, or other addictions and are trying to get back on a positive path and earn their degree. I'm particularly excited about it right now because yesterday I interviewed Kitty Harris, a national leader in collegiate recovery. If you can spend five minutes with Kitty and not be inspired (1) to change your own life for the better and (2) to help others, you might want to check your pulse. I've been doing magazine interviews since 1988, and Kitty is easily one of the most passionate, compassionate, inspiring people I've ever talked with. I asked her how she encourages recovery program directors who are just getting started and are going through all the struggles for university support, funding, etc. And she said, "If you save even one young person's life, isn't it worth it?"

More than once, when I've told friends about this project, their faces lit up and they said, "Could you send me some information?" Sadly, many, many young people get derailed by addiction as college students or even high school students, which can set them on a downward trajectory, even if they're trying very, very hard to get their lives back on track. And it's not just about the kids who hit the frat parties on a far too regular basis. Some kids get hooked on prescription stimulants because they're trying to stay awake to study and keep their grades up while holding down a part-time job, then they take another drug to help them relax so they can sleep, and on and on. If they're lucky enough to get into treatment and get clean and sober, their parents then have to figure out . . . now what? Do we send them back to the same college environment where this all started?

This is where it gets really difficult for the students in early recovery. They know they can't go back to their old crowd because the temptations are just too great. But they can't relate to students who have never suffered with addiction because those kids have no idea how hard it is for someone in recovery to stay on track in a college environment. Collegiate Recovery Communities give them a safe haven and an instant social group of students who share and understand their struggle and who are committed to making sobriety and graduation their priority. There's a strong emphasis on honesty, compassion, and service to the community, as well as academic counseling and all kinds of recovery support. Suddenly, they can go to a football game without worrying about whether their circle of friends will start drinking. They can go to parties without wondering whether they'll be surrounded by drugs and alcohol. They can fully participate in the college experience, knowing they have the safety net of this community. Students in Collegiate Recovery Communities often have a higher graduation rate and a higher average GPA than their university's average. Some of them are so changed by the experience that they go into counseling or a related field and launch programs at other schools.

Coming through recovery makes this whole community very honest and direct about their struggle, their choices, their regrets. Am I brave enough to be that honest about mine? No, I am not. I have tremendous respect for their courage. And, as is the case with so many things that have just fallen into my lap, I have the feeling, as the song says, that "God is tryin' to tell me somethin'."

If you know a family struggling with this situation, please share the following websites:

http://recoverycampus.com/

http://collegiaterecovery.org/

http://www.staciemathewsonfoundation.org

 

Morning Moon

Woke up yesterday morning to a moon high in the suburban sky. Crickets chirped till the birds woke up. The air was cool and crisp. I think fall is the most hopeful time of the year. Those seeds you planted back in the spring might just deliver a bumper crop. Your team could have a winning season, and maybe you'll have a dream date to the homecoming dance. This could be the best Thanksgiving ever . . . Likewise, the hours just before dawn aren't necessarily the darkest. Sometimes they're the most promising. The sun has yet to rise, the day has yet to begin, and right now anything is possible. Hope your best possibilities for today are realized.

Sunday Morning Serenity

Did you ever go through one of those periods in your life when you just feel, as Mama would say, fed UP? When nothing seems to be going right and everything from your work to your house to your car to your cat seems to be conspiring to raise your blood pressure? Nothing earth shattering. Nothing truly terrible. Just a slow build-up of aggravations that eventually leads you to suspect that the moon is not in the seventh house, Jupiter has not aligned with Mars, and you are not living in that harmonious age of Aquarius we sang about in the sixties. In times like these, I try to remind myself that life is like the frozen food section at Publix—each freezer lights up when you step in front of it, but the lights won't come on until you get there. You can't see what's at the end of the aisle from where you're standing, so you just have to be patient, keep walking, and light one freezer at a time. In due course, you'll be able to distinguish the cheesecake from the cauliflower. 

At the same time I'm trudging through my own personal slump, I'm reading Paul's letters to the early churches at Corinth and Galatia. What I keep coming back to is an overarching message that seems contradictory, but actually it's not. And it's this: Being a Christian is very simple . . . and very difficult. It's simple in that our path is clear and direct—accepting God's gift of grace and forgiveness through Christ. It's difficult in that the world is not wired to help us walk with God. There will be obstacles and disappointments and hurts in our way, and we will often feel as if we're swimming against the current. Sometimes we'll rely too much on our strength, which will ultimately fail and set us adrift.  

In 2 Corinthians, Paul mentions an unidentified thorn in his side, which he repeatedly asked God to remove, but God refused. Why?

Three times I pleaded with the Lord to take it away from me,
but he said to me,
"My grace is sufficient for you,
for my power is made perfect in weakness."
Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses,
so that Christ's power may rest on me.
That is why, for Christ's sake, I delight in weaknesses,
in insults, in hardships, in persecutions, in difficulties. 
For when I am weak, then I am strong.

2 Corinthians 12: 8-10

 

 

Hank's Book of Cat Philosophy: #26

What's that you were "just wondering"?
Wouldn't it be "super fun" to have another cat?
Wouldn't I "just love" a new buddy?

Let me say this very slowly—feel free to write it down:
I DON'T DO SHARING.

Sunday Morning Serenity

Treasure in jars of clay—that's how Paul describes us in 2 Corinthians. It might be one of the most perfect phrases I've ever heard."For God, who said, 'Let light shine out of the darkness,' made his light shine in our hearts to give us the light of the knowledge of the glory of God in the face of Christ. But we have this treasure in jars of clay to show that this all-surpassing power is from God and not from us" (2 Corinthians 4:6-7). Think about that. If we were perfect, if we could live a faultless life on our own, then the light that shines from us would appear to come from us—to be generated by us. But we're not perfect. We jars of clay are chipped, cracked, and flawed from hurts we've suffered, bad choices we've made, moments of arrogant rebellion that had painful consequences and left a few scars. And yet God fills us with treasure and trusts us to preserve and share it—even though He knows we can be woefully careless with it sometimes. 

So what to do about those cracks and chips? They bring some serious regret because we know we put many of them there, willfully, intentionally, carelessly—attach the "-ly" of your choice. One of the hardest things in the world for me to do is get past my own wrongdoings—to repent, ask forgiveness, and then MOVE ON. I tend to return, again and again, to stare shamefully at the chips and cracks in my jar and revisit my own regret over and over again. WHY did I DO that? Here's what Paul has to say about the sorrow that comes from recognizing and owning responsibility for sin and changing our behavior (as opposed to just being sorry we got caught:): "Godly sorrow brings repentance that leads to salvation and leaves no regret . . ." (2 Corinthians 7:10). Maybe it's the flaws in your jar that make you realize how beautiful a perfect vessel could be and inspire you to try and restore it to its intended form.

Pondering jars of clay made me think about all the pottery my mother and I have collected when she used to travel with me for Southern Living. In tiny Merigold, Mississippi, we bought some of our favorite pieces, made from Mississippi mud by the McCarty family. Initially drawn to their shapes and colors—to the beauty they projected—we were excited to learn that we could actually use them, put them to work. Like any good jar of clay, they had a job to do, a special purpose that the potter intended from the moment of creation.

We are therefore Christ's ambassadors,
as though God were making His appeal through us.
2 Corinthians 5:20 

[Image by Chance Agrella @ Freerangestock.com]

Roll Out the Cotton Wagons and Strike Up the Band!

I woke up this morning to an undeniable nip in the air. Hank the Cat has a new spring in his step, college football's on the TV lineup, and I'm imagining the smell of dust and lint in the air—coming soon to "them old cotton fields back home." Fall's upon us, y'all! And not a moment too soon. Most of this summer was relatively mild, but we were so busy that it just flew by. Once life began to slow down, the thermometer decided to head into the 90s. So this cover-up-in-a-quilt-and-have-your-coffee-on-the-deck weather is just a big ole aaaahhhhh. 

My "fall's here" signals have evolved (like everything else) with my advancing years. When I was a child, fall was all about the cotton wagons, which farmers don't even use any more. Mama and Aunt Joyce used to take my cousin Kathy and me into the fields to watch our uncles pick, and it wasn't hard at all to talk them into a ride on those big machines. Sometimes they would pull the heaping wagons of cotton to Grandme's for a day or two before taking them to the gin. Yay! Playing in a wagon load of cotton was like playing on a cloud. And if you should get a little chilly up there, you could just bury up in those snow-white puffs and get toasty warm while you looked out at the world from high above. It was grand.

In high school, of course, fall was all about the The Big Game—procurring your booster badge, showing your school spirit, building your homecoming float, and wondering if you had a prayer of getting a date to the dance. Our class always built our float at the Miller farm. I don't really remember any of our themes (though I seem to recall that one of them involved building a giant gorilla . . . King Kong maybe?) What I do remember is how much fun it was to leave school and go over to the Millers' to stuff tissue paper into chicken wire and wonder if our handiwork might somehow beat that of the seniors, thereby securing us a moment of longed-for glory.

Fast-forward a few years to Auburn. Oh. My. Goodness. There is nothing like the sound of Auburn's marching band approaching the stadium on game day. They would march down a hill from the music school into the stadium, with the percussion section playing the whole way, and those drums would get louder and louder till WOW! The whole band started playing. (I got excited when the Tigers themselves entered the stadium, too, but what can I say—I'm a music fan.) Years later at Southern Living, we all used to look forward to the beginning of band practice at the high school across the street because we loved the sound of those drums and trumpets drifting through the fall air as we were coming and going from the office.

And now? I guess fall is all those things, stored away in memory, like a treasure chest ready to spring open with my first sip of coffee in the cool morning air. 

Sunday Morning Serenity

Two women are on my mind this morning. One is a dear friend and schoolmate (I think we met in seventh grade) who just lost her mother. No telling how many spend-the-night parties I went to on their dairy farm when we were growing up. Ramona's dad would get up to milk cows before all of us giggling girls ever went to bed. And her mom was usually working on some project or other for their church. She loved to talk about her faith, and it's hard for me to think of her without picturing the Church of Christ near their farm, where she and her family were so involved. I said a prayer for Ramona and her family this morning. I said another for my younger cousin Marie, who is a grown woman with grown children, but I still think of her as that pony-tailed kid riding my Hoppity-Hop in Grandme's front yard. Tomorrow, Marie has surgery, the last leg of a challenging journey from life with breast cancer to life after breast cancer. One final hurdle, after many she has already overcome. 

As I offered up my prayers for Ramona and Marie, I thought of a very special prayer someone once said for me. I was at work, on the last day before knee surgery—nothing compared to what many people in my own family have had to face—didn't even require an overnight stay in the hospital. However, it was my first, and I was irrationally TERRIFIED. I came back from lunch and went straight to our receptionist, Theresa, whose faith was sort of legendary in our headquarters building. I told her that I was having surgery and that I knew it was silly to be so scared, but I was. Would she remember me in prayer? Honey, she stood up right there at that reception desk, with people coming and going in the lobby, took me by the hand, and said, "Let's just take care of it right now." The prayer that followed was powerful and joyful and running over with "blessed assurance," and it gave me an instant infusion of strength. I felt different after that prayer. I've never forgotten it—or the courage it took for Theresa to stand up in the middle of a corporate lobby, without the least bit of concern for what the comers and goers might think, and offer up a fervent prayer for a friend.

Sometimes I've been guilty of saying something like, "Well, there's nothing I can do to help this person—I guess all I can do is pray." All I can do? As if that's not much? Prayer is a powerful thing. It's never "all we can do." It's always the very first thing we should do.

Somebody went to the throne of heaven,
Somebody lifted my name,
Bringing me into His holy presence, saying what I could not say.
Somebody showed me the face of His mercy
When darkness was all I could see.
Sombody pleaded the blood of Jesus, somebody prayed for me.

[from "Somebody Prayed for Me," lyrics by Claire Cloninger]