Goin' Down to Mama's

Sunday Morning Serenity

The first time I read the Bible all the way through, I was struck by the number of times God tells His people to care for the poor. We often give other commands much more stress and attention, but they aren’t mentioned nearly as often as our call to help the poor, to love our neighbors as ourselves, to love each other as Christ has loved us.

I’m working on a freelance project that involves interviewing and photographing single mothers who have been living below the poverty line. A philanthropic group in Birmingham is offering education, job training, and childcare so that these women can get the tools they need to land a good job and provide for their families. Some of them have been able to build or buy a home through Habitat for Humanity.

These moms made me even more aware of how blessed I am to have parents who sacrificed so much to pay for my education. Nothing I’ve been able to achieve professionally would have been possible without it. The women I met this week didn’t have that advantage. Through all kinds of circumstances—everything from drug addiction to spousal abuse—they found themselves trying to support their kids on a minimum-wage job. But with just a little help, they’ve been able to turn everything around.

What amazed me is that there was no self-pity in any of them. Instead, their trials have taught them that they can get through anything, and they often attribute their strength to their faith. Something else I noticed was how surprised they were to be singled out for attention. They couldn’t believe, at first, that anyone would want to hear their stories or photograph them.

We have a moral obligation to help feed and clothe people who are struggling, but it doesn’t end there. Our neighbors need us to listen, understand, and encourage. We all need to feel like we matter. And we all do.

[Image by David Vidmar at Freerangestock.com]

Sunday Morning Serenity

Exodus is making me homesick for the Sundays of my childhood. I think we all honored the Sabbath more fully back then. Everything was closed, so nobody went to the mall or the grocery store. Our family went to the movies so rarely that I don’t even remember if theaters were open. The only organized sports teams were at local schools, and nothing happened there on Sunday. So the only options were church and family—you worshipped at one and visited with the other. (I love this "Sunday porch visit" snapshot, taken at my grandmother's house years ago.)

I just read the chapter in Exodus where God duplicates His laws for Moses, who had broken the original stone tablets when he became angered by the Israelites’ rebellion. God tells Moses to return to Mount Sinai with two new chiseled tablets and promises to write the laws on them again. And as they commune together on the mountain, God further instructs Moses on how the Israelites should live and worship. He stresses the importance of the Sabbath:

Six days you will labor, but on the seventh day you shall rest;
even during the plowing season and harvest you must rest. 
(Exodus 34:21)

Even when we’re at our busiest, even when there is so much to be done that we can’t see straight and time is in short supply, we should rest on the Sabbath. One of the many things I’ve always admired about my mother’s two farming brothers is that they do not go to the fields on Sunday—ever. That’s a hard choice for a farmer. Sometimes they desperately need to plant or harvest, and the weather keeps them from it. The first good workday in weeks could fall on a Sunday. It’s not easy to let it pass, but they do. They observe a day of rest.

I rarely miss church on Sunday morning, but am I really honoring the Sabbath if I pitch in a quick load of laundry, catch up on a freelance project, and Swiffer the kitchen floor before I get there? And buy groceries on the way home because, my goodness, Walmart’s right there? Is there any difference between a farmer going to the field and a writer turning on her computer on the Sabbath? Nope.

As with so many other things, God has a purpose with the Sabbath that we might forget sometimes. It’s absolutely intended as a day to honor Him, but it’s also His way of imposing on us something that we very much need but might not allow ourselves—rest. There’s a passage in Mark where the Pharisees chastise Jesus because he and his disciples are walking through a cornfield on the Sabbath, and the disciples pick ears of corn as they walk. They need food, so they gather it. Jesus reminds the Pharisees that, “The Sabbath was made for man, and not man for the Sabbath” (Mark 2:27).

In other words, honoring the Sabbath is not some arbitrary law we were given to follow. It was created to give us two things we need in our lives—rest and communion with God.

Sunday Morning Serenity

This week I braved a plane ride (which I rarely do) and went to New York with my dear friend and agent, Gary. It was a work trip, but he treated me to the Broadway musical Wicked, based on The Wizard of Oz, which I absolutely loved.

The strangest thing happened at the Gershwin Theatre that night. After the show, a friend of Gary's kindly gave us a tour—not just backstage but onstage. That's where I noticed the silence. Just ten minutes earlier, the theater had been packed, the stage a beautifully lit, technicolor work of art. There was music and dancing and laughter and drama and glitter and glitz and thunderous applause. But as soon as the curtain went down, the theater emptied. It was quiet and still. Cast members who, moments ago, were wearing ball gowns and witch hats now had on blue jeans. My inner 10-year-old wanted to protest, "But, but, but—where's your sparkly wand?!!!! Why are you hailing a cab when you have a magic bubble to ride in???!!!"

The magic moments in life are fleeting, I guess, but that doesn't make them any less special. Knowing that Glenda probably stopped by the corner market on her way home from Oz didn't diminish the joy of watching her soar above the stage. I think I'll make a commitment to celebrate and be grateful for every little bubble of wonder that floats into my more ordinary days.

{Image by Chance Agrella @ Freerangestock.com]

Sunday Morning Serenity

In a sweltering season, there are pockets of cool—

In the noisy din, islands of quiet.

There are bookends of morning and evening stillness

Holding up the whirl of the day.

 Hoping for all of us, this Sunday morning,
pockets of cool, islands of quiet, and a spirit of peace.

 

Sunday Morning Serenity

It’s cool outside this morning—cool. I’ll be glad when August is over, not just for a break in the heat but for a break, period. We’ve got too much going on this month—some challenging work to get done, lots of doctor’s visits for people and pets . . . I’ve thought about offering Hank a trade: I’ll take your rabies shot if you’ll take my mammogram. You can zip me up in the pet carrier and everything.

The end of summer has given me what Mama calls “a case of the mully-grubs.” The mully-grubs are just shy of the blues. You’re not sad, but you’re not happy either, and you can’t figure out why. Nothing’s wrong, but something’s not right.

Part of it, I’m sure, is that August was my friend Missey’s birthday month. I always think about her a lot this time of year. She would not appreciate being associated with the mully-grubs. She would tell me to kindly leave her out of it and get over myself :)  She would tell me to relish every single day, even in the August heat.

Maybe this month has brought on a little too much introspection on my part. One of my freelance assignments has made me think back to the very beginning of my career, when I first started writing for Southern Progress. I didn’t know anything about anything when I walked in those doors. I had no idea what a magazine publisher did or why he wouldn’t be interested in the essay about my grandmother that I left on his desk. (FYI, if you’re not in the biz, the publisher rides herd over the sales force. It’s his job to sell ads and make a whole lot of money. He is a mover and a shaker and a jet-setter. He is not interested in reflections on MeMaw.)

I picture 26-year-old me with my big permed hair and my padded shoulders, trying to look professional instead of terrified. I want to take her aside and say, “Oh, honey, sit down right her and let me give you a clue.” Fortunately for me, some amazing people did just that—they took me aside and gave me a clue and taught me how to do my job. I appreciated it then, but I’m incredibly thankful now.

You can’t always understand what’s happening to you in the moment. I saw a greeting card the other day that said, “Everybody you meet is either a blessin’ or a lesson.”  Looking back, I see that so many people were both—they blessed me with what they taught me. Maybe the antidote for the mully-grubs is gratitude—and faith that you are on a guided path that will eventually lead you where you were meant to go.

In your unfailing love
you will lead the people you have redeemed.
In your strength
you will guide them to your holy dwelling.
Exodus 15:13