Goin' Down to Mama's

Sunday Morning Serenity

This weekend, I went to a wedding. When the picture above was made, the bride and groom who said their vows last night hadn't been thought of just yet. It was taken (I think) in September 1984. Missey got really nervous right before the ceremony and made me play "Victory in Jesus" for her on a piano tucked somewhere into a room at the church—can't remember where. We were roommates at Auburn when she was planning her wedding. She and another dear friend, Ginger, who lived with Missey and me for a year at AU, got engaged to cousins, Larry and Brian. (Ginger and I thought it would be HILARIOUS to take this picture that made it look like we were both in the shower.) All of those families loved to come down to cheer on the Tigers during football season, and they would bring carloads of home-cooked food with them. They always had room at their table for one more McDonald's-weary college kid, and they always made me feel like part of their family. 

The little blond-haired boy pictured here with Missey grew up to be a fine young man. I know she would've been so proud of him—and so grateful that his family raised him to have an inquisitive mind, a kind heart, and a compassionate spirit. I know she would've adored the lovely young woman who met him at the altar last night. Ginger and I sat together at the ceremony, and we both sensed it—Missey's spirit there, somehow, and an unmistakable kinship between that beautiful bride from 1984 and the one standing in front of us.  

Somewhere, I saw one of those inspirational signs (or maybe it was a bumper sticker:) that said, "Friends are the family you choose." I've been truly blessed with my chosen family of friends. I love you all. (And Missey, whenever I feel the need to give myself a talking-to, I start by imagining you saying, "VAL-er-IE!" the way you used to do when you were about to straighten me out. Hope you don't mind . . . because I'm never going to stop doing it.)

 

Sunday Morning Serenity

A few weeks ago, I spotted a toddler leaning over the edge of an outdoor fountain at the mall, patting the water with her hand while her dad looked on with a big smile. Clearly, he enjoyed letting her get away with it—turning a public water feature into her very own playground—and was relishing this moment of Outlaw Dad. And I thought to myself . . . amateur.

Oh, it was a respectable first effort—and perhaps, over time, he’ll grow as a rule-breaking, think-out-of-the-box father. Maybe he’ll get lucky, and Junior Fraser will decide to offer workshops one day. Because Daddy is one guy who comes at parenting from, well, somewhere outta left field.

That fountain trick? Been there, done that, when I was about four. Once my mother was out of sight, Daddy looked at me with a conspiratorial grin and said, “Wanna go wading?” He then took off my shoes and socks, rolled up my pants, and plopped me over in the water. This was no outdoor affair, where the line between should we or shouldn’t we splash in the fountain was blurry. No, this was a big, rectangular indoor fountain—a primary focal point—at Birmingham’s old Eastwood Mall. Believe me when I tell you that I was the only child wading in it. I can still see the puzzled faces of all those women, burdened with shopping bags and trying not to stare as they made their way from Aland’s to Parisian.

When I was a kid, most of the restaurants that we could afford had jukeboxes. And I have seen Daddy bring the entire proceedings of the place to a halt—summoning waiters, the cashier, the manager, whoever—all because the jukebox had taken my nickel and didn’t play my song. Once the situation was handled, he would call across the restaurant to self-conscious me: “Come on up here and pick your song, baby, it’s workin’ now.” And I would skulk up to the jukebox, imagining all those diners staring at me (they weren’t) as I dropped in my nickel and played “The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down,” “Sitting on the Dock of the Bay,” or “The Lion Sleeps Tonight.” Don’t ask me why I was fine with wading in the mall fountain but mortified to make a second trip to the jukebox. I was an odd child.

Over the years, Daddy has tried, on my behalf, to talk Mama into everything from a pet chimpanzee (absolutely not!) to figure-skating lessons (we live in Alabama, Junior). He gave up on the chimp when he heard that they could be mean. Otherwise, I think there would’ve been a furry primate in my childhood memories. As for those skating lessons, my mother looked at the realities of the closest rink to our house, which was about 40 miles away, and just had to hope my Peggy Fleming phase would pass. (I still love to watch skating, but who are we kidding? The move to quad jumps would’ve done me in.)

Our parents teach us what we should and shouldn’t do. But I’m probably most grateful to Daddy for teaching me that sometimes you should do . . . what everybody else thinks you shouldn't. Happy Father’s Day, June Bug!

Sunday Morning Serenity

When I write a travel story for the magazine . . . I do Google searches and (dinosaur alert!) read actual books about the place. I interview people who know it well. If I’ve never been there, I try to go and explore it as thoroughly as I can, which might mean trying five or six eateries in one day (pass the antacids) and speed-visiting local shops, galleries, and museums from the time they open until they close, gathering maps, brochures, and business cards and taking scouting shots as I go. Then at night I type up my notes for the day so that I don’t forget anything. I look for more locals who can help me interpret the area. Later, when I get back to the office, I sit down with that file I’ve amassed, sort through everything, organize it, figure out the angle of the story, and strategically write a headline, a teaser blurb, and a lead sentence that will hook readers and make them want to stay on that page.

When I write fiction . . . I dim the lights in the Story Shack, sit down at my computer (and maybe light a candle), get still and quiet, and wait for the characters to present themselves.

These are radically different processes. One is inspiration molded by logic—a place inspired me to write about it, and now I’m logically figuring out how to tell that story. The other is logic freed by inspiration—far from capturing the real world I live in, I get to leave it altogether and experience a whole other universe—but only if I’m willing to quietly wait, to trust that it’s really there and that it will be revealed to me in time.

I think we write our own life stories the same way. We can’t just kick back in a beach chair and wait for God to make everything happen for us. There are times, I think, when He presents opportunities and expects us to act on them. We have to work to develop the talents we’re given. On the other hand, there are times when we’ve done all we can do, and we just have to wait quietly for our next steps to be revealed. We can’t have one without the other—faith without action, or action without faith. We need both to make our stories as  rich and fulfilling as they were intended to be.

[Image by Unsplash @ Freerangestock.com]

Sunday Morning Serenity

The first time I went to Ocracoke Island, part of North Carolina's Outer Banks, I didn't get it at all. I had picked up a map at a local store in the only little village there and was planning to take a walking tour when I realized that some of the stops on the map were places that used to exist: "At the corner of such-and-such streets, you'll find the site where a turn-of-the-century hotel once stood." Huh? It took me a while to understand that this place has a long and storied history, and the people who love it appreciate what is because they understand what was.

It's the same with people. My closest friends are those with whom I have some history—people who look at me and see, not just what is (needs a root touch-up, clearly lost the address of her gym . . .) but what always has been—the real person behind the face I show the Big World. I spent Friday night with some of my old high school friends, and we all said the same thing: It seems like yesterday that we were all racing to and from our lockers together, cheering at football games together, building homecoming floats together. Being with friends you've known forever is kind of like shorthand. You can skip over a lot of particulars—you've got those already—and just go straight to the essentials. Everybody needs to feel known, to be with people who can recognize and appreciate the genuine person at the core.

There are so many passages in the New Testament where Jesus asks, "Don't you know me?" or "Who do you say that I am?" In John 14:8-9, when the disciples are struggling to understand where Jesus is going when he leaves them and how they can find his Father's house, Philip says, "Lord, show us the Father, and that will be enough for us." And Jesus replies, "Don't you know me, Philip, even after I have been with you such a long time? Anyone who has seen me has seen the Father." So much of Christ's time on earth was spent trying to help ordinary people understand who He was so that they could grasp the nature of God's love.

I'm especially thankful this morning for friendships that last a lifetime and for the example of true friendship that Christ gave us: Really know each other. Really love each other. Really be there for each other.