Goin' Down to Mama's

Sunday Morning Serenity

I had a little light bulb moment recently. Oprah calls them "Aha moments" (and I think we should all quote Oprah whenever the opportunity presents itself). Here's my Aha: There's a difference between praying about something—discussing it with God—and truly lifting something up—giving it over to God and letting go of it altogether. I have a tendency to pray about problems while continuing to try and solve them myself. What if this happens? What if that happens? What am I going to say to this person? What should I do about that situation? How's it all going to turn out in the end? Over and over in my muddled brain till I can't sleep or think about anything other than whatever issue I'm obsessing about. I continue to pray . . . but I continue to obsess. Not long ago, however, I had a situation where God seemed to be sending me a clear message: "You are apparently STILL unaware of what I can do, so watch this and pay attention." Something that had worried me and stressed me and made me a grand champion hand-wringer was just fixed. Through no doing of mine. And in a way that I never could have imagined, let alone engineered.

I recently shared a song with a friend (so Michelle, if you're reading this, forgive the repetition). It's one of those great old-fashioned gospel songs that our choir loved to sing years ago. It's called "God Said You're Gonna Make It," and it goes like this:

God said you're gonna make it;
You're gonna make it through the raging storm;
Don't worry over thunder;
You're not going under;
God said you're gonna make it—
You're gonna make it for the Master's on board.

[from "God Said You're Gonna Make It"
by Niles Borop, Mike Speck & Daryl Williams]

Sending it out this morning to some very special women in my family (love you, Dothan girls!) and to anyone who needs a little assurance that there's a way over those troubled waters: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d0a2VbVqBNg

Sunday Morning Serenity

I took this picture of the Gulf after I accidentally discovered the black-and-white function on my iPhone. Yes, I know. It has been there for years, but I am Apple-challenged and need to hire a teenager to direct IT for Luesse World International Headquarters. The picture actually looks foreboding, like a big storm is coming. In truth, it was just a little overcast that day, so the ominous look of the clouds is just a function of the lens I was looking through. My things-look-really-dark-and-cloudy lens has been working overtime of late. But I've had cause this week to realize that prayer can empower us to toss that lens and see the world through a brighter filter. I gravitated to this verse early this morning: Now faith is being sure of what we hope for and certain of what we do not see (Hebrews 11:1). I am very sure, this morning, that God handled challenges which were too big for me this week and that He put in my path friends and family who strengthened and encouraged me just when I needed it. And so I would like to share these seven words, which I will remind myself to live by in the weeks ahead: Approach the throne of  grace with confidence.

For we do not have a high priest who is unable
to sympathize with our weaknesses,
but we have one who has been tempted in every way,
just as we are—yet without sin.
Let us then approach the throne of grace with confidence,
so that we may receive mercy
and find grace to help us in our time of need.
Hebrews 4:15-16

Sending you a joyful message with one of my favorite songs from the Brooklyn Tabernacle Choir, "Gloria." http://batlyrics.net/gloria-lyrics-brooklyn_tabernacle_choir.html

Sunday Morning Serenity

When I was growing up, the Gulf of Mexico was like an annual gift that Daddy gave Mama and me. He never cared much for the beach and would much rather be walking a creek bank or a mountainside than a sandy shore. But my mother LOVES the beach—everything about it—the wind and the waves, the white sand, the seagulls and the pelicans . . . the lunch specials at the Oyster House:) And I must've inherited all of that from her because the Gulf has a transforming effect on me. I can breathe and think and clear the clutter from my mind.

As a child, many of my favorite songs on the radio were ones that reminded me of the beach. I loved "Sitting on the Dock of the Bay" and "Galveston." (I was too young to get the war message and thought it was just a great song about the coast.) I even associate "Build Me Up, Buttercup" and "The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down" with beach vacations, I guess because the restaurants down there usually had juke boxes, and Daddy would always give my cousin Kathy and me some change to play our songs while Mama had her shrimp cocktail and we waited on our cheeseburgers to arrive.

On a recent trip to Orange Beach, my parents and I sat outside one night, reminiscing. I told them I don't remember feeling watched over while I dug in the sand and splashed in the saltwater as a child, but I know good and well that I was. Not only that, but I know it was Daddy doing the watching. He would buy floats for us kids and stay with us in the baby waves while Mama paddled waaaaaay out to ride the big ones. ("I guess the Lord looks after people who don't have sense enough to know about sharks," she said, remembering how fearless she was back then—and how completely unaware we were of those sharp-toothed predators, pre-Jaws.)

I think the reason I don't remember being watched is that Daddy wasn't just watching us—he was playing with us, pulling our floats out to a good spot, riding the waves with us, showing us how we could write our names in the sand and then watch as the surf made our writing disappear. It was grand. So from all of us surfer girls, Daddy . . . thank you, with love. Happy Father's Day! (P.S. It takes a special person to pull off mossy oak camo surfside.)

 

Daddy Says: "And Then You've Got . . ."

Overheard during a recent confab with the parents:

Me: I don't get the metric system. I've never gotten it. Teachers from Coosa Valley to Auburn have tried to explain it to me, and I still don't get it.

Mama: Well, I don't see why we need to understand it. We measure things in feet.

Me: They always say it's easy to understand because it's "based on ten." But what does that mean? 

Daddy: Well, kilo is a thousand. Centimeter is 100 . . . and then of course you've got your gigabytes . . .

Sunday Morning Serenity

I. Am. Tired. Period. My brain is tired. My body's tired. And when those two crash in tandem, my emotional health goes out the window. As one of my old Baylor friends used to say, I'm at that point where "I'm crying at stoplights.":) Fortunately, Dave and I recently stumbled onto a rerun of The Long, Long Trailer, and that got me through. This time out, Lucy and Desi are playing Stacy and Nicky, not Lucy and Ricky. Love that. Every time—and I do mean every time—they start up that mountain in a trailer loaded to the gills with all of Stacy's souvenir rocks that she promised to get rid of, I wonder if they're going to make it. She's holding onto a ton of hidden baggage that she doesn't need, and it's making her upward journey much more treacherous than it was intended to be. Hmmmmm . . .

With that notion in mind, I was flipping through my old Broadman Hymnal this morning and ran across a song I had never heard before. It's called "Go Bury Thy Sorrow." At first, I wasn't sure I liked the idea of the song. Isn't it better to deal with sorrow than keep it buried/hidden? But ultimately, I think, this song is not about ignoring your sorrow, but working through it in a positive way—specifically, sharing it with Jesus so you can heal and share His light with the world.

The lyrics are speaking to me because the first stanza is about acknowledging that you're troubled (own up to the rocks in your trailer); the second is about turning those troubles over to the One who can handle them much better than you can (toss those rocks onto the Mountain); and the third is about moving on (get yourself back in gear—and while you're at it, see if there might be something you can do to assist the other drivers):

Go bury thy sorrow, the world hath its share;
Go bury it deeply, go hide it with care;
Go think of it calmly, when curtained by night;
Go tell it to Jesus, and all will be right.

Go tell it to Jesus, He knoweth thy grief;
Go tell it to Jesus, He'll send thee relief;
Go gather the sunshine He sheds on the way;
He'll lighten thy burden—go, weary one, pray.

Hearts growing a-weary with heavier woe
Now droop 'mid the darkness—go comfort them, go!
Go bury thy sorrow, let others be blest;
Go give them the sunshine, tell Jesus the rest.

("Go Bury Thy Sorrow," lyrics by Mary A. Bachelor)

[Image by Leland Davis @ freerangestock.com]

 

 

Frugal Isn't Everything

I try to be a frugal gardener. I really do. I never buy pricey petunia hanging baskets because I know I can get the same look with a few small plants if I'm willing to wait just a bit. I don't pay $26 for a big mandevilla because I know a small one will grow like kudzu in no time. And so I tried to convince myself that I could be patient with a tiny hibiscus (which you can barely make out in back of this container) until it had time to grow to the desired height. I tried for two weeks. And then I bought this . . .

Sometimes, you've just gotta carpe a little diem.