Goin' Down to Mama's

Sunday Morning Serenity

If I were a preacher (now there’s a scary thought for all concerned) I would step up to the podium this morning and announce, “The theme for today’s message comes from Miss Carol Burnett.”

Years ago, I heard her interviewed about her life and career, and she said something I’ve never forgotten. I’ll probably garble it, but roughly paraphrasing, she said that when you see something happening—not just when you wish for it or hope for it, but when you can actually see it happening—look out because it’s about to. I think there’s a lot of truth to that.

I’m doing some work at Southern Living right now, and returning to that building has made me revisit one of the biggest decisions I’ve ever made—leaving the magazine. It took me over a year to realize, as my very wise and spiritual friend Theresa put it, that “my season had passed.” Dave knew it long before I did, but he also knows that I am, by nature, a nester. Once I feel at home someplace, it’s very hard for me to leave. Ultimately, I guess, that was the trigger. I didn’t feel at home there any more. Dave, bless him, gave me the time and space to figure that out. And it was doubly hard for me because even though I knew, deep down, it was time to go, I still loved the magazine and everything it had always meant to me.

Finally, though, in the spring of 2010, I saw myself leaving. I could envision a life outside the place where I had spent my entire adult life. That fall, the company offered voluntary buyouts, and I took one. To put that differently, Dave and I joined hands, said a prayer, and leaped off a cliff—personally, financially, professionally, you name it.

We’ve been very blessed, and God has softened our landing, but the trip over has not been without some painful bumps. And moments of sheer terror. Am I ever going to work again? Will there be enough money to pay the bills? What if one of us gets sick and can’t work? What if the car dies and we have to buy a new one? What if, what if, what if???? I am the reigning queen of What Ifs. I’ve got the tiara and everything.

More than anything, the past few years have been a lesson in trust. Our needs—and even some of our wishes—have been provided. That doesn’t mean we never struggle, that we never fear. It just means that we see ourselves in the right place and trust in the comfort that follows every hardship:

Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ,
the Father of compassion and the God of all comfort,
who comforts us in all our troubles,
so that we can comfort those in any trouble
with the comfort we ourselves have received from God.
For just as the sufferings of Christ
flow over into our lives,
so also through Christ our comfort overflows.
2 Corinthians 1:3-5

[Image by freerangestock.com]

Sunday Morning Serenity

One of my oldest and dearest friends, Gary, is also my agent. When we first started working together, I noticed that he would send me texts and emails in the late-night/wee-morning hours—11 p.m., 2 a.m., etc.—which I would respond to when I got up with the chickens at 4 or 5 a.m. But then sometimes he would email at 6 a.m. And he usually did check-in calls in the afternoon. So I finally said to him: “Look, I can’t help noticing that you never seem to sleep, so I need to ask you a personal question. And I promise I’ll still be your friend if the answer is ‘yes.’  Are you a vampire?”

Recently, Gary pointed out that I have been responding to texts and emails at all hours, including times when I would normally be snoozing . . . which means I’m not snoozing  . . . which means I’m stressing. When your agent, your husband, and your mother all tell you that you don’t handle stress well, you should probably listen.

Actually, I’m not stressing so much as pondering. I have a lot on my mind, a lot of things I’m trying to sort out and make decisions about. It’s all good—but it’s all there in my head, swirling around. When I was editing stories for Recovery Campus magazine, one of the essayists who wrote about her experience with addiction recovery used the phrase “the tornado in my head.” I know exactly what she means. Sometimes I feel like I’ve got an F-5 swirling around up there, and it’s generating a lot of debris.

This morning, I revisited several New Testament passages—all from the Apostle Paul—which I would stitch onto a sampler if I could sew. I’ll have to settle for writing them on Post-It notes in the Story Shack. The first comes from an AMAZING shipwreck story in Acts 27.  Paul, a prisoner, has been put aboard a ship bound for Rome. While crossing the Adriatic Sea, the ship encounters a northeaster—hurricane-force winds—and the sailors turn to Paul for leadership. Having battled the storm for 14 days, the sailors sense they are nearing land and fear they are about to be dashed against the rocks in shallow water. So they dropped four anchors from the stern and prayed for daylight (v. 29). I love that phrase. When all seems lost and you don’t know what to do, drop anchor and pray for daylight—anchor yourself to God and pray for daylight, for guidance and clarity.

My other Post-It Scripture comes from Paul’s letter to the church at Corinth: For I do not want you to be ignorant of the fact, brothers, that our forefathers were all under the cloud and that they passed through the sea” (1 Corinthians 10:1).  He’s referring to Israel’s exodus from Egypt, when God sent a cloud to guide them by day and parted the Red Sea so that they could escape the pursuing Egyptian army. Whatever personal wilderness we might be wandering through, we are “under the cloud” of God's love and grace. And no matter what enemies are at our heels—sickness, struggles, disappointment, fear—God has the power to part the sea and make a way through, even when we can’t see one.

Drop anchor and pray for daylight . . .
because you’re under the cloud and will pass through the sea.

 

 

Daddy Says: "Moving Around All Day"

From a recent phone conversation with Daddy:

Me: How's your knee?

Daddy: Oh, it's a lot better.

Me: And how's your foot?

Daddy: It's better, too.

Me: So are you ambulatory?

Daddy: No, I've been moving around all day . . .

[He is totally messin' with my head:)]

Sunday Morning Serenity

Once again, I am inspired this morning by the felines whose housekeeper I am:) Dave and I just got back from a short trip, and I've noticed a distinct difference between Hank (the tuxedo cat) and Cheeto (the golden boy) when we go out of town. Hank has been with us long enough to know that we never leave without coming back and that all of his needs will be attended to by our sweet neighbors while we're gone. Sometimes he even shows up on their doorstep in the morning, I guess to save Mrs. McKinney the trouble of walking across the driveway to our house. So Hank pouts a bit when he sees us loading the car with suitcases, but he's not frightened by it.

Cheeto, on the other hand, has serious trust/abandonment issues. The sight of suitcases loading into the car makes him very agitated and fearful. He came to us when his previous owner moved to our neighborhood but then decided Cheeto couldn't stay in the house any more. He took to wandering and was on his own for a long time before he claimed squatter's rights in our back yard. I think he sees suitcases and assumes he's about to be left behind again. When we come home, he's is clearly overjoyed and relieved to see us and wants to spend lots of time in the house with us.

Now, there was never any actual cause for Cheeto to worry—he was never going to go hungry; never going to be forgotten; never going to do without anything he needed. But because he couldn't SEE how those needs were going to be met, because he couldn't anticipate what would happen from one day to the next and had to wait to be shown how he would be taken care of, he suffered all this needless anxiety. 

That sounds strangely familiar . . . like somebody else I know . . .

 

Now faith is confidence in what we hope for 
and assurance about what we do not see.
Hebrews 11:1

Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened,
and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you
and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart,
and you will find rest for your souls.
For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.
Matthew 11:28-30

Hank's Book of Cat Philosophy

Hank the Cat Says:

"When an interloper like Cheeto invades your space, you might try approaching him with reason, holding out the olive branch of friendship while you establish personal boundaries. Or . . ."

"You can just roll over and play dead till that royal pain goes away."

Sunday Morning Serenity

The older I get, the less use I have for meanness, which is why I’m all the more disgusted when I see it in myself. One of the scariest truths in the Bible can be found in Matthew 12:25, where Jesus says, “For out of the overflow of the heart the mouth speaks.” When I think about things I’ve said when I was angry or hurt—or just stuck in traffic—the heart from which those comments overflow can’t possibly be mine, can it? If so, it needs some serious searching and examination.

We all leave a legacy of meanness or kindness, love or spite. When I was 32, I lost my best friend to cancer. We had been college roommates and remained like sisters from then on. I don’t write about Missey very often because I guess I still miss her too much. But when I think about what she left behind—what exactly was it? She left behind the love that she gave, the good she did for other people, the memories she made with everybody she cared about, the many, many times she made us all laugh with her quirky sense of humor, all the beauty she created for others to enjoy—in her case, wonderful paintings. In my case, I hope it will be good stories. And maybe that stellar pimiento cheese recipe I high-jacked from my friend Mary Allen:)

So much of what we spend our time fretting about—money, jobs, houses, bills, appearances—doesn’t amount to much. Nobody’s going to remember whether your house had 1500 square feet or 5000, but they will remember every kindness you ever showed them. They will remember every time you helped them or encouraged them. Every time you laughed together. Every time you cried together.

Every act of love lives on, and not just as a memory. When we show love to someone else, we’re encouraging and inspiring them to do likewise. Love really is the gift that keeps on giving. Meanness? Not so much.

If I speak in the tongues of men or of angels,
but do not have love, I am only a resounding gong
or a clanging cymbal. 
If I have the gift of prophecy and can fathom
all mysteries and all knowledge,
and if I have a faith that can move mountains,
but do not have love, I am nothing.
If I give all I possess to the poor
and give over my body to hardship that I may boast,
but do not have love, I gain nothing.

Love is patient, love is kind.
It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud.
It does not dishonor others,
it is not self-seeking,
it is not easily angered,
it keeps no record of wrongs.
Love does not delight in evil
but rejoices with the truth.
It always protects, always trusts,
always hopes, always perseveres.

Love never fails.

I Corinthians 13: 1-8

 

Sunday Morning Serenity

When I sat down to write this morning, I had a momentary panic. I realized that one of us (probably me) had forgotten to turn off the wireless whatchamacallit from Verizon the last time we used it. We've just gone through the ordeal of having someone hack into our wireless service, apparently to stream music or video or maybe download games. Neither of us was web savvy enough to realize just how big a gig is. So when our data usage went way up, I thought it was the result of all the work I was doing, which necessitated a lot more internet research. After the umpteenth "data usage alert," however, even I figured out something was suspicious and dug into our account history with three different Verizon reps, who ultimately concluded, "You're right—this looks odd." We discovered lots of gig-devouring internet activity in the wee hours, when I'm frequently awake but not using that device, and Dave is snoozing, so it can't be him. That leaves us with Hank and Cheeto the Cats or a hacker. So now we take security precautions we had no idea were necessary. We were told that whoever did this (a) somehow figured out or went around the factory-issued password, which I should've changed at the beginning, and (b) is very close by. A neighbor.

That made me ponder the whole business of social networking and what it means to be a friend and neighbor. I imagine our hacker as a teenager who's gleefully thinking, "Wow, free games!" Or an adult who's slyly thinking, "Ha! Free movies!" Either way, I'm sure in my heart of hearts that they don't know us. Whoever indirectly dipped into our bank account has a cyber connection to us but no personal connection. The neighbors who actually know us would never steal from us because they care about us, and they know we care about them.

I'm rereading the Book of Romans right now, and my little internet panic made me return to the opening of this letter, written to Roman Christians whom Paul had yet to meet. He opens by expressing his faith in Christ and his calling to spread the Gospel, by giving thanks for the Christians to whom he is writing, and by assuring them that he prays for them regularly. And then he shares this hope: "I pray that now at last by God's will the way may be opened for me to come to you. I long to see you so that I may impart to you some spiritual gift to make you strong—that is, that you and I may be mutually encouraged by each other's faith" (Romans 1:10-12).

I do not believe social media is inherently evil. If I did, I would not be blogging on the Sabbath:) People reach out to each other for prayer, encouragement, and support all the time on Facebook, and that's a good thing. But this cyber world can be deceptive sometimes. It can make us think we're there for each other when we're not. It can make us forget to pick up the phone and have a conversation (which one of my Baylor buddies and I have been attempting for about a year now) or pack up a covered dish and have a face-to-face visit with a friend who's sick or feeling low. Paul wrote such a beautiful letter to the Romans, but he wouldn't be satisfied until he could see them in person, which he eventually did.

I'm reminding myself this morning that, while "the new" can be great and wonderful, there's no substitute for "the old"—a real cup of coffee with a real neighbor or a hug from an actual friend who's standing in your living room. I stand by that commitment to the personal . . . right here on my blog:)