Goin' Down to Mama's

Sunday Morning Serenity

I'm thinking this morning about the Apostle Paul. And Sandra Bullock. Maybe I've had too much Starbucks. I'm rereading the Book of Acts, where Paul begins his missionary journeys and frequently encounters strong, even violent, resistance. In Thessalonica, angry Jews who oppose the teachings of Paul and Silas start a riot and come looking for them. Unable to find them, they bring Jason and other Christian supporters before the city officials with this accusation: "These men who have caused trouble all over the world have now come here" (Acts 17:6). All over the world, they said. But look at a map of Paul's missionary journeys. "All over the world" was just a tiny fraction of the world as we know it today. They had no idea how vast their universe was.

Fast forward to Ms. Bullock and Gravity, which is a breathtaking movie set in outer space—but it's not about space travel at all. It's about loneliness and isolation. It's about the profound sorrow that comes from feeling disconnected and finding no meaning in the world around you. What better backdrop for such a story than limitless space? Even scientists who have devoted their lives to unraveling the mysteries of the universe have explored only a tiny fraction of what's out there. We have no idea how vast our universe is.

There's a passage in the Gospel of John in which Nicodemus is struggling with the concept of being "born again":

"You are Israel's teacher," said Jesus,
"and do you not understand these things?
I tell you the truth, we speak of what we know,
and we testify to what we have seen,
but still you people do not accept our testimony.
I have spoken to you of earthly things
and you do not believe;
how then will you believe
if I speak of heavenly things?"
(John 3:10-12)

 

We have no idea how vast His universe is.

 

 

 

Us, Then & Now

My mother once told me that you should always treasure old friends who "knew you when," no matter how far apart you might drift, no matter how divergent your chosen paths might be. She was absolutely right. As you grow older, any youthful differences you might've had tend to fall away. This one wanted a career, that one wanted a family; this one had a boyfriend; that one didn't; this one liked Grease, that one liked Kiss . . . None of it makes any difference once you've all made the big choices and chosen your course. You find yourselves wondering about each other over the years—Where does she live now? How many kids did they have? The oldest is 20-WHAT? 

I've thought about that a lot since a recent and rare outing with four of my closest high school friends, one of whom I've known since third grade, the others since sixth or seventh. My goodness. The things we remember about each other—and the things we don't know. Husbands and kids and jobs and parents have taken us in all sorts of directions, most leading away from each other. We've all been through things the others know nothing about.

But there was a time when we knew all of each other's secrets. (Well, most of them anyway.) When I look at this picture—our "family portrait," complete with wagon wheel—that shared yesterday seems like a heartbeat ago. I hear teenage girls giggling all night long at a slumber party. I smell Jovan Musk and Love's Baby Soft and Final Net and Herbal Essence shampoo. I taste candy-flavored lip gloss. I see senior rings and booster badges and a hoped-for corsage to wear to the prom. And I'm very thankful for the circle of friends with whom I shared all of that and then some. Sisters, always.

Sunday Morning Serenity

My Uncle Bud has often said that no gospel music worth singing has been written since the Great Depression. I imagine my Great-Aunt Kathleen would've agreed with him. That's her in the picture, purse and Bible in hand. She's dressed for summer and wearing a corsage, so I have to wonder if this might've been taken on Mother's Day. Aunt Kathleen is crossing Highway 25 in Harpersville, Alabama, en route to the old First Baptist sanctuary from some buildings that held spillover Sunday School classes back when the congregation was growing so fast that they couldn't contain it on the church campus.

I've been thinking about old-time religion as I look through some vintage songbooks that a couple of friends recently gave me. One of the books is called Celestial Echoes, published in 1943 (if I'm reading those Roman numerals correctly) by Elder R.E. Winsett of Dayton, Tennessee. There's a picture of the Winsett family on the front page: a rather stern (or maybe just shy) Elder Winsett; his pretty, smiling wife, Ruth; and their three children, Ruth Naomi, Harold Gene, and little Marilyn Anita, who looks about five years old. I can imagine the Winsetts performing together at all-day singings and church homecomings, likely with Ruth at the piano. Celestial Echoes sold for 30 cents per copy "limp" (which I guess meant paperback). And Elder Winsett included this request: "If you like this book, tell your friends about it, if you don't like it, tell me." Fair enough.

Most of the songs in this collection were written before 1940, so they meet Uncle Bud's benchmark for greatness. I love the way old-fashioned gospel music relates the earthly to the divine. There are songs like "The Royal Telephone" and "The Heavenly Aeroplane": Ho, ye weary of ev'ry tribe, Get your ticket for this aeroplane ride; Jesus our Saviour is coming to reign, And take us up to Glory in His heav'nly aeroplane.

My friend Jane, our church organist, finds all kinds of music at thrift stores. She recently gave me several books from the Stamps Baxter and Singspiration series that I grew up with. Most of these songs (cover your ears, Uncle Bud) were written post-Depression, in the fifties, sixties, and seventies. This is the music that was popular when I was learning to play for church—Gaither tunes like "Something Beautiful" and "I Just Feel Like Something Good Is About to Happen" and songs by Ralph Carmichael and John W. Peterson, both of whom were favorites of my piano teacher, Jenny Glenn. Like Uncle Bud, Mrs. Glenn had very high standards—she wanted a beautiful melody, rich harmony, and meaningful lyrics that were Scripturally sound. (Mrs. Glenn was a preacher's wife. If the lyrics weren't Biblical, she would have none of it.)

There's a name written on the title page of Jane's books: Vivian Aultman. Vivan's handwriting reminds me of Mrs. Glenn's—neat, elegant, and scripted. She circles the numbers of songs she likes and indicates whether they were "choir" or "solo." I suspect Vivan was a church musician, and while I hope someone with such an ear for great songs is still with us, I doubt that she is because she never would've let these books leave her piano bench. I trust Vivan's taste in music. And I wish I could've heard her play. I think she would be pleased to know that Jane and I often play one of her picks, number 69 in the Stamps Baxter Gospel Hymnal Volume II. Like that "Royal Telephone" and "Heavenly Aeroplane," it presents the beauty of divine union in earthly terms—and it's Biblically based, so Mrs. Glenn would approve:

I'm satisfied with just a cottage below,
A little silver and a little gold;
But in that city where the ransomed will shine,
I want a gold one that's silver-lined.

Don't think me poor or deserted or lonely—
I'm not discouraged, I'm heaven bound,
I'm just a pilgrim in search of a city,
I want a mansion, a harp, and a crown.

I've got a mansion just over the hilltop,
In that bright land where we'll never grow old;
And some day yonder we will nevermore wander
But walk the streets that are purest gold.

[from "Mansion Over the Hilltop" by Ira F. Stanphill, 1949]

 

 

 

Sunday Morning Serenity

Last night I dreamed about my late paternal grandmother, Granny. She told me I had really let myself go.:) Freelancing does bad things to your sense of style because unless you have a client meeting, you're working alone for the most part. And it's hard to get motivated to blow-dry and fluff when your only office mates are Hank and Cheeto the Cats. I do take pity on my poor husband from time to time and throw on a little blush and maybe a spritz of Oscar de la Renta. Still, I'm probably wearing gym shorts and a T-shirt as I head out to "the office," aka the Story Shack in our side yard.

Back to Granny—as much as we loved each other, the two of us had a life-long struggle for understanding. I was always a little bookish and introverted. She was beautiful and stylish and never met a party she couldn't be the life of. And yet she managed to raise Daddy, who definitely has an eye for great-looking clothes but firmly believes "it's what's on the inside that counts." My mother is the same way. Southern mamas can have a thing or two to say about how their girls look, but most of the time, my mother only speaks up if she believes my appearance reflects something more important—I'm working so much that I don't even have time to make my clothes match, or maybe I'm going through one of those phases where I'm not entirely happy with myself and have begun taking it out on my wardrobe. 

Granny had a point in that dream—though maybe not the one she meant to make. Women have a real tendency to "let ourselves go," and I don't mean that in the superficial "for heaven's sake, put on some lipstick" sense. I mean we "let ourselves go" to the back of the line when it comes to needs being met. Men do it, too. Dave completely supported my decision to quit my job in the middle of a recession and try to start a freelance business. That took a lot of love and courage and selflessness on his part. I guess what I'm trying to say is that sometimes we all need to look ourselves in the mirror and say, "You've let yourself go—it's time to get yourself back and take better care of yourself because you matter." 

As for your wardrobe, always be sure to dress appropriately:

Therefore, as God's chosen people, holy and dearly loved,
clothe yourselves with compassion,
kindness, humility, gentleness and patience.
Bear with each other and forgive
whatever grievances you may have
against one another.
Forgive as the Lord forgave you.
And over all these virtues
put on love,
which binds them all together
in perfect unity.
Colossians 3:12-14

(Southern) Breakfast of Champions

After Sunday lunch with my folks, I drove back to Birmingham with a carload of vegetables Mother had cooked for me. And I still had one jar of the chili sauce she tried (without success) to teach me to can. So for the past two mornings, I've had peas and chili sauce for breakfast. Might sound a little strange, but it beats the heck out of yogurt and breakfast bars. If Dave hears me making cornbread at 5 a.m., though, the marriage might be over. One of these days, I'll master Aunt Grace's technique for frying eggs in the microwave. Until then I'll just have to keep on raiding Mama's "deep-freeze," as we used to call it. (I wonder what okra would taste like before daylight???)