Goin' Down to Mama's

Sunday Morning Serenity

Last week, I walked into the Apple store to pick up my repaired computer, and the friendly Genius Bar tech said, “We’ve never seen a Mac do this before—I mean I’ve shown it to everybody here, and nobody has seen a Mac do this before.” (I get that a lot from Tech Support. It’s a gift.)

The next morning, I was all excited to have my Story Shack computer back, and I got up early to do some writing before work. I set it up, plugged it in, then realized the keyboard wasn’t working. I turned it on. (Hey, I’ve picked up a few things along the way.) I waited for it to “sync up” or whatever it is that my keyboard and computer have to do in order to work together. It worked for a minute, and then it didn’t. I replaced the keyboard batteries. Away we go. But wait! Had to re-install word processing software—and then figure out why it wouldn’t let me edit my own document. And then . . .

After an hour of that, I thought to myself, “If I had a typewriter and a stack of paper, I could’ve been writing all this time.” (Aside: Remember how excited we were about those IBM typewriters with built-in backspace delete capability and rollerball typefaces you could swap out? I digress.)

I don’t really want to replace my computer with a typewriter. But I do think some of my “life is too complicated” whining is of my own making. If you’ve been kind enough to read previous posts, you’ve probably heard me quote Mrs. Fannie Hinds, my genius of a first-grade teacher, whose remedy for my six-year-old lunchroom etiquette crisis was, “Dahlin’, fingers were made before forks.”

Once, when I had completely (and unrealistically) overloaded myself, I called my mother and wailed, “I just can’t DO all of this!” And she said, “Of course you can’t, so just don’t.”

Sometimes the answer to our current frustration is “just stop.” Step back, have a look at the situation, and see if all our efforts toward a remedy aren’t, in fact, making matters worse.  We have to accept our own limitations—not just accept them but respect them. We can’t do everything that’s asked of us, and if we try, we’ll end up exhausting ourselves to the point where we can’t do anything.

Thinking of the chorus to an old hymn this morning: Let go and let God have his wonderful way; let go and let God have his way . . .

Sunday Morning Serenity

 

Is it possible to be overwhelmed with gratitude and, at the same time, just generally overwhelmed? I think that's where I am this morning. Baker Publishing Co., which will release my book in January, invited me to attend the Southern Independent Booksellers Alliance trade show in New Orleans and participate in a book signing. That's Dave at my signing table:) Thank you, Lord, for Dave. Every time I would have a panic attack, he would say, "Enjoy it! This is all good!"

Booksellers filed by my table, and I signed copies and tried to answer, "What's your book about?" After I stumbled through a one-minute summary of something I worked on for five years, one bookseller just nodded. And then I went off-script and said, "Mama thinks it's wonderful." Which made her laugh out loud. Suddenly we were connecting like real people.

It reminded me of a trip looooong ago with my friend Burton Craige, who was in Southern Living Advertising. Burton had the daunting task of trying to keep all the Idea House teams happy long enough to get a house built and decorated. Not easy. But I remember as we went from one house to another and he put out one fire after another, he said, "It's all about people—just making some personal connection with whoever you're working with." 

That's so true—not just in business and books but in everyday life. If we can get past "the script" we all use when we're on unfamiliar territory and make an honest connection with each other, wonderful things can happen—like true friendships.

We're heading back to Birmingham this morning, grateful and happy—with a Cracker Barrel gift card burning a hole in our pocket!

P.S. Please forgive typos. Writing on the road this morning!

 

Sunday Morning Serenity

I’ve got hurricane brain this weekend. Can’t think of much else. I’ve never been in one, thank heaven, but I’ve had to run from a couple of them. Dave and I were in Southwest Louisiana for Southern Living as Hurricane Gustav approached, so we watched and listened as the people there prepared. They did it with a mix of anxiety, humor, determination, resignation, prayer, and community. It’s hard to explain if you haven’t seen it and hard to understand for those of us who didn’t grow up on the coast. (Dave and I are coastal wannabes.)

Do you have indelible images in your mind—permanent snapshots of things you saw, maybe for just a second or two, years ago? One of mine is an image of a young woman in Biloxi, Mississippi, aimlessly sweeping her yard, which was covered with Katrina debris that no broom could handle. She looked dazed, as if she weren’t even aware that she was sweeping. The landscape all around her looked like it had been bombed. I remember seeing a barge on top of a house it had crushed—I even remember gasping when I saw it—but I can’t picture that scene as well as the woman with the broom. I still think about her sometimes.

Maybe that’s because there was something about her futile sweeping that I identified with. Sometimes a personal storm hits me and I sweep and I sweep, wondering why the debris won’t go away. Dave loves that line from Jaws: “We’re gonna need a bigger boat.” There will be times in our lives when we’re gonna need a bigger broom—a divine one—because there’s more debris (some of it our own creation) than we can sweep away alone.

Prayers for all those in the path of Hurricane Irma. And prayers for the faith to put my own storms in God’s hands.

Sunday Morning Serenity

I was planning to write all day yesterday, but the minute I stepped into the Story Shack, I knew I had to clean it first. My office computer is on the blink, so I’ve been using my laptop and not spending as much time out there. Plus we’ve had so much going on that I haven’t had time to write. The Story Shack had become dusty and musty and cobwebby and otherwise unpleasant, with random stacks of paper everywhere.

I sorted, tossed, filed, swept, Swiffered, and dusted so that I have an idyllic work space once again. After I got rid of all the clutter, I could better see the things I had kept, like family pictures, a hand-painted pitcher from my neighbor, an old Bible (because even though I can look up any passage online, I still like to turn those tissue-thin pages).

So many of my Story Shack inspirations, I realized, were gifts from friends and family: a quilt from Sarah and her girls; a journal from Nancy; keepsakes from my cousins; two candles, a journal, a notepad, and a sign that reads “No Outfit Is Complete Without Cat Hair” from Jane. It didn’t dawn on me, when I was unwrapping those gifts on Christmas or my birthday (or sometimes for no occasion at all) that Jane was forever giving me something to light my world or write my world.

Daddy and I (who both like to shop) used to joke: “People who say that things can’t make you happy just aren’t buyin’ the right stuff.”

Some things can make you happy because they’re attached, through memory, to someone you love. They tell your story.

And it’s the same with our “spiritual houses.” They need decluttering from time to time. Some things hide in the corners and need to be swept clean so we can see what we need to hold onto.

I have a little sweeping to do myself. Top of my list: Sweep out the fretting and complaining; polish up the gratitude.

Also, I need to lose about 30 pounds:)

[Image by Eric Yuen @ freerangestock.com]