Goin' Down to Mama's

Sunday Morning Serenity

Do you ever feel like an untended garden? I spent yesterday morning in a beautiful one, and it made me realize how I’ve let mine go. The remains of last year’s ferns, in all their brown glory, are still occupying patio containers. I meant to clean out a big window box Dave built for me and start fresh this year, but before I could get around to it, the cannas in there started popping up, and now I hate to rip them out before they bloom.

Sometimes I see myself in that window box—there’s plenty that needs weeding out, and what’s left could use some sprucing up, but I never seem to have enough time to focus and get it done. We took a step in that direction last night. As we finished supper and did our usual channel surfing, I looked at Dave and said, “Do you think we’d be talking to each other if the TV weren’t on?” So he built a fire in the fire pit outside and we spent some time on the deck with no TV noise.

It’s important, tending to your own garden. Yesterday, I saw dear friends I haven’t seen in forever, and why don’t I? They’re all flowers in my garden. They bring joy and color to my life, and I don’t stop and appreciate them nearly enough. Gardening is all about give and take—you get back what you put in.

A prayer, this Sunday morning, for a spirit of awareness and appreciation for the flowers blooming all around me.

Sunday Morning Serenity

I promised not to tell this. So y’all don’t tell anybody, okay? Mama and I got lost yesterday—between Lincoln and Talladega. How is that even possible?

We were coming home from an author visit with the Lincoln Public Library, where we made some wonderful new friends. In our defense, we were deep in conversation when we took that wrong turn. And since we had made it to Lincoln without a hitch, I’m afraid we got a little full of ourselves and turned off the GPS. Bad decision.

Here’s the thing about Mama and me. We always get lost. It’s who we are. It’s what we do when we’re together. We’ve never gotten more than 10 miles or so off course before we realized our mistake and corrected ourselves. But we always make at least one wrong turn. Yesterday, I remember a break in our conversation when I squinted at the horizon and said, “Is that Cheaha Mountain?” Mama had a look. “Well . . . we’re in that area . . .”

The great difference between us is that I can be exactly where I’m supposed to be and still worry that I’m lost; Mama can be lost as a goose but remains supremely confident that she knows what she’s doing.

We’re a lot like that in our spiritual walks. Mama never has any doubt that, even when a particular turn on her journey makes no sense to her, it’s taking her she was meant to go. I, on the other hand, can be traveling through some amazing terrain, and I’m still worrying about potential pot holes ahead.

This Sunday morning, I’m thankful for friends, old and new; blessed by the opportunity to tell stories; trying to do better at trusting the road ahead of me; and tickled to death that I got to spend yesterday afternoon lost—but not really—with Mama riding shotgun.

Sunday Morning Serenity

I love listening to the wind in the trees. It makes a completely different sound, depending on where you are. Wind in the pines, wind in the live oaks, wind in the palms . . .

Years ago, I was standing in front of the old deserted cotton gin at Dockery plantation in the Mississippi Delta, taking it all in while my friend Art Meripol photographed it. And I remember the wind in the trees—how that sound made me feel like something was going on beneath the surface at this place.

I felt the same way the first time I ever went to Key West, walking through an old island neighborhood and listening to the ocean breeze rustle the palms. Every spring, I look for banana plants and palms to try and replicate that sound in our garden, but it’s not quite the same. I think we need an ocean to make it work.

In the corner of our front yard, there’s a towering oak (at least I think it’s an oak:) that divides into three trunks. The wind is stirring its leaves this morning, making such a peaceful sound. Listening to it reminded me of one of the strangest sights I’ve ever seen: April 2011, when a tornado came through our neighborhood—or at least over it—in the wee hours of the morning. We were in bed but wide awake, watching the weather channel when the TV went out. And then we heard “the train sound” and leaves hitting our house, and I looked out our bedroom window to see that oak blowing, not side to side, but in a circular motion, its three trunks splayed out so that it looked like a ride at the fair swirling one way and then another. It was over in a matter of seconds. We went back to sleep, relieved that the storm had missed us, or so we thought. Daylight showed us what the wind had done. We hadn’t heard a single tree fall, but they were uprooted everywhere, covering our neighborhood, puncturing the roofs of neighbors’ houses.

When I was a child, wind was one of the few things my skittish little self wasn’t afraid of it. I loved storms and would stay outside as long as Mama would let me (which wasn’t very long). Now, of course, I have a healthy respect for them. Nobody has to tell me when it’s time to come inside and await James Spann’s instructions. But there is something about a “rushing might wind” that feels like a direct connection with the Almighty to me—wordless communication in a world where we’re constantly bombarded with words that don’t mean anything.

When the Day of Pentecost had fully come,
they were all with one accord in one place. 
And suddenly there came a sound from heaven,
as of a rushing mighty wind,
and it filled the whole house
where they were sitting. 
Then there appeared to them
divided tongues, as of fire,
and one sat upon each of them. 
And they were all filled with the Holy Spirit
and began to speak with other tongues,
as the Spirit gave them utterance.
And there were dwelling in Jerusalem
Jews, devout men,
from every nation under heaven. 
And when this sound occurred,
the multitude came together,
and were confused, because everyone
heard them speak in his own language.
Then they were all amazed and marveled,
saying to one another,
“Look, are not all these who speak Galileans? 
And how is it that we hear,
each in our own language
in which we were born? 
Parthians and Medes and Elamites,
those dwelling in Mesopotamia, Judea and Cappadocia, Pontus and Asia, Phrygia and Pamphylia, Egypt and the parts of
Libya adjoining Cyrene,
visitors from Rome, both Jews and proselytes, 
Cretans and Arabs—we hear them speaking
in our own tongues
the wonderful works of God." 
Acts 2: 1-11

Sunday Morning Serenity

Somebody a lot smarter than I am said that “friends are the family you choose.” That’s true in a way. But friends are also gifts from God, people He puts in our path so we can help each other on our respective journeys.

I had no idea, when I was learning to tell time with friends like Sarah and David that we would still be offering each other friendship and support over 40 years later. Yesterday, I spent some time with some Auburn friends—Ginger, Lisa, and Brian—and was reminded of how many times we laughed our heads off about something ridiculous when we were all in school together. We talked about our friend Missey (that's one of my favorite pictures of her above). I didn't know, back in my college days, that those dear people and I—all of us strangers at first—would somehow remain connected over time and space.

One of my favorite passages in the Bible is in John. Jesus is spending some of his last hours on earth with his disciples, and He’s telling them how important the bond between them really is:

Greater love hath no man than this,
that a man lay down his life for his friends.
Ye are my friends,
if ye do whatsoever I command you.
Henceforth I call you not servants,
for the servant knoweth not
what his lord doeth:
but I have called you friends;
for all things that I have heard of my Father
I have made known unto you. 
John 15: 13-15

That’s how it is with friends, right? Whatever we know, whatever we have that might help a friend, we want to share with them. True friendship, I think, taps into the divine in us, the part that reminds us we were created in God’s image.

Very thankful this morning for the friends I’ve been blessed with.

 

 

Sunday Morning Serenity

The sky was just showing a little light of dawn when Cheeto and I made our way to the Story Shack this morning. I stood outside in the dark, underneath an arbor Dave made for me, listening to the birds wake up. That early morning in-the-garden moment made me think about Mary Magdalene coming to the empty tomb and mistaking Jesus for the gardener, and about Sandi Patty’s song, “Was It A Morning Like This?”

It might seem like an odd leap to make, but I came into the Shack and listened to a radio interview that a friend sent me—former President Jimmy Carter talking about his new book, Faith. The interviewer asked him about his Christian faith and wondered, if President Carter could choose any Scripture to have tacked on the wall in the offices of the President and Congress, what would it be? He answered with three: Be ye kind one to another. Love thy neighbor as thyself. God is love.

 It wouldn’t be a bad idea to tack those on all of our walls. Easter is the ultimate expression of God’s love and grace. And I think we dishonor it when we fail to show love and compassion to each other.

In a loud, turbulent world—grace, peace, love, and kindness to you this Easter morning.