Goin' Down to Mama's

Sunday Morning Serenity

Life is strange. That is the groundbreaking truth I have for you this morning. (What—somebody said that already?) I’m constantly amazed by the way a single thread can run through your life, gliding along inside the fabric for years, then popping up out of nowhere to add a stitch.

When I was a child, my grandmother subscribed to two magazines: Reader’s Digest and Progressive Farmer. I wasn’t too interested in all the tractors and plows in Progressive Farmer—and had no idea back then that the company which published it would end up providing my livelihood for most of my adult life. (Stitch . . .) But Reader’s Digest was another story. Every time Grandme got a new issue, I would wait for my turn to read it and go straight to a column called “Drama in Real Life.” I so wanted drama in my own young life. Living in a rural community as we did, I was convinced that NOTHING would EVER happen to ME!! (Please read with appropriate adolescent drama in voice.)

The Drama in Real Life that I remember most was about a Mississippi family who survived Hurricane Camille. After all this time, I've never forgotten it. Many years later, a continuing interest in that great storm ended up connecting me with the Oral History and Cultural Heritage Center at the University of Southern Mississippi. In helping me learn about Camille, the wonderful staff at Southern Miss inadvertently prepared me to cover another terrible storm yet to come—Hurricane Katrina. Had I never read about Camille as a child, I wouldn’t have had the interest or the understanding to write about Katrina recovery for Southern Living. (Stitch . . . stitch . . .)

Last year, Dave and I weathered our own storms together, dealing with all kinds of ups and downs. (Tip: If you’re an emotional, high-strung Southerner who hasn’t married yet, shop for a spouse in the Midwest so there will be at least one even keel in the house. A calm husband is a good thing.) My mind just wasn’t free enough to get serious about another creative writing project. But now I think I’m ready, and I recently dusted off a binder of interviews with Camille survivors, which Southern Miss sent me over ten years ago.

So many images in those accounts struck me, but one in particular is on my mind this week. A family and a few of their friends had gathered to ride out Camille in a house that had withstood many hurricanes. But as the wind grew stronger and the water rose higher, they realized that they might not be safe after all. One of the houseguests, a woman named Diane, had some valuable jewelry that she was worried about losing. She gathered up some of her prized belongings and put them in a leather bag. As the house started moving and coming apart, the wind and water pushed it up against a tree. All the people in the house ended up climbing out an upstairs window and into that tree, but Diane couldn’t hold on very well because one hand was still clutching the leather bag filled with her prized possessions. Finally, her friend snatched the bag away from her and threw it in the water, forcing this woman to focus on saving her life, not her property.

I have often been guilty of clinging to my own version of that leather bag—focusing on things that really aren’t important instead of having the faith to “let go and let God have his wonderful way” as an old hymn says. I’m working on changing my prayer from “please make this happen” to “please take away my fear and give me faith for whatever happens.” It's time to throw my leather bag in the water and cling to that life-saving tree.

[Camille account from the Hudnall interview, The Mississippi Oral History Program of The University of Southern Mississippi, Hattiesburg]

Sunday Morning Serenity

Did you ever consider the unbelievable number of connections we make as we move through life? It’s pretty amazing when you stop to think about it. We come into the world attached only to our mothers. Then our fathers hold us for the first time, and suddenly we’re part of a family that expands to include grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins . . . more and more ties forming as we become aware of all our relatives. And then we make friends—school friends and college friends, work friends and church friends, neighbors we couldn’t get along without—some of whom stay with us for a lifetime. I’ve had friends who filled a void in my life that I didn’t even know was there until they showed up. Once you hit middle age (yes, I’m planning to make it to 106, so I am middle-aged), your lasting connections, the people who have shown you again and again that they’ll be there for you—they just mean so much.

See the girls in this lovely wagon-wheel portrait? I don’t remember how old we were when that picture was made—maybe 8^th or 9^th grade? This week, we all stood in a circle together in a church parking lot. We laughed about the year we all met—how awkward and unsure of ourselves we were. (I pointed out that I’m still awkward and unsure of myself.) Who on earth knew, back when we were giggling teenagers cheering together at pep rallies and shopping for prom dresses that we would still be there to comfort and support each other 40 years later?

Near the end of his life on earth, Jesus told His disciples that he thought of them as friends—not just followers, but friends whom He loved and prayed for. It takes time to pray for your friends—time, love, and thought. Christ was the ultimate example of a loving friend. And when we can’t do anything else—we can pray for each other.

[Seagull image by Lindsay Niles @ freerangestock.com]

Sunday Morning Serenity

Do schools still have “room mothers”? When I was growing up, every class had a group of moms who volunteered for that critical role. They were bakers of cupcakes, coordinators of booths at the annual Halloween carnival, chaperones for field trips to the Birmingham Zoo and Six Flags . . . If there was a job to be done, they did it, and they looked out for the safety of all the kids, not just their own. (Once we all hit puberty, they had eagle eyes for any attempts at smooching in the back of the bus. There would be none of that—not on their watch.)

Tomorrow, we’ll be celebrating the life of one of those moms—Jackie Spates. Her daughter, Sarah, and I have been friends since third grade, when we were both enrolled in Mrs. Jean Holston’s class. (I still mentally refer to Mrs. Holston’s drawing of a rabbit and a hollow log, designed to teach us how to recognize prepositions: “The rabbit can hop over the log, to the log, through the log . . .”) My mother and Sarah’s were room mothers and friends for years. I guess I always figured the field trips and the bake sales were a chore for them. But Mother still talks about how much fun she had with Miss Jackie and all those other women.

There’s no telling how many times I spent the night at Sarah’s, doing each other’s hair and listening to Donny Osmond records. (I still can’t believe neither one of us married Donny. It just seemed meant to be.)  As we grew older and our circle of friends expanded, Sarah’s mother never seemed to mind having her den or living room floor covered with giggling girls on quilts and sleeping bags. And her dad always had a way of making us kids feel like he actually enjoyed our company. We got to share the home-cooked meals Miss Jackie made for him—including the best homemade biscuits I ever tasted. I’ll always remember her as she was back then—laughing at our jokes, herding us into her car or onto a bus, making our breakfast on a Saturday morning.

She used to tell us the story of how she first got her future husband's attention, back when they were very young. She had run by and snatched his hat off his head, making him chase after her to get it back. A while ago, I got to see her at a family wedding. She wasn’t in good health then and her memory was failing, but she looked so pretty and was surrounded by her children and grandchildren. I went to her pew and gave her a hug. “It’s Valerie,” I said, just in case she needed a little help. But she looked up at me with a smile and said, “Oh, I always know who you are.” I sat down behind her and saw her taking in all the family around her. I leaned up, tapped her on the shoulder, and said, “Aren’t you glad you stole that hat?” She smiled and nodded. Some stories never leave you, no matter how many years go by. Some people never leave you. You're blessed by the love they gave you—always.

[Image by Krystle552 @ freerangestock.com]

Sunday Morning Serenity

I have friends who lost parents this month. Yesterday, I learned that my mother's lifelong friend had passed away. And I heard that news from my lifelong friend, who is struggling mightily to try and get her own parents well enough to come home from the hospital. She and her brother are making the painful and difficult decisions you have to make when people you love are very sick. So many of my friends seem to be in that position now, and I can't begin to say how much respect and admiration I have for them because they're giving their mothers and fathers the same unconditional love and care that we've always received from our parents, especially as we were growing up and finding our way. I am thankful every day for my own parents' good health and for the simple blessing that they recognize me and call my name, that we can still recall and enjoy memories of our life together. I have precious friends who can't say that any more. I'm thinking of them this morning and praying for peace and comfort in their hearts.

Why should I feel discouraged,
Why should the shadows come,
Why should my heart be lonely, and long for heav’n and home,
When Jesus is my portion? My constant Friend is He:
His eye is on the sparrow, and I know He watches me;
His eye is on the sparrow, and I know He watches me.

I sing because I’m happy, I sing because I’m free,
For His eye is on the sparrow, and I know He watches me.

“Let not your heart be troubled,” His tender word I hear,
And resting on His goodness, I lose my doubts and fears;
Though by the path He leadeth, but one step I may see;
His eye is on the sparrow, and I know He watches me;
His eye is on the sparrow, and I know He watches me.

(from "His Eye Is On the Sparrow," by Civilla D. Martin; sparrow image by Geoffrey Whiteway @ freerangestock.com)

Sunday Morning Serenity

I'm a restless wanderer this morning. Too much stuff swirling around in my mind, I guess. I'm trying not to inflict my tossing and turning on Dave (who is blissfully snoozing away), so I've roamed from the sofa to the guest room to the kitchen and back to the sofa. TV on. TV off. Picked up my laptop and put it back down. Gave up on sleep and had a cup of coffee. You know what's going to happen, right? About midway through church, I'll suddenly get so sleepy that I'll nod off and snore right there on our pew.

I guess my restlessness made me zero in on a particular word—"return"— as I tried to quiet my brain with the Bible this morning. I wonder how many times it appears in the Scripture? In the Old Testament, it's often a plea and a warning, as the prophets urge God's people to come back to Him and cease their drift into rebellion. In the New Testament, "return" is a promise, the center of our Christian hope. Christ promised His disciples that He would return, and He did. He promised that we would one day return to Him, and we will. 

Why am I sometimes "prone to wander . . . prone to leave the God I love," as that great old hymn says? I don't know. But I do know that there's no greater comfort than God's invitation to return, to cease my wandering, to be still and at peace. When I can find that spiritual stillness and quiet, my mental swirl starts to calm down because I realize that I'm trying to control things that are beyond my control or fretting over a future that hasn't been revealed yet. My prayer this morning is for a quiet mind that's open to receive, a peaceful and obedient spirit, and a grateful heart.

O to grace how great a debtor 
daily I'm constrained to be! 
Let thy goodness, like a fetter, 
bind my wandering heart to thee. 
Prone to wander, Lord, I feel it, 
prone to leave the God I love; 
here's my heart, O take and seal it, 
seal it for thy courts above. 
(from "Come, Thou Fount of Every Blessing,"
lyrics by Robert Robinson, 1735-1790)

[Image by Geoffrey Whiteway @ Freerangestock.com]