Goin' Down to Mama's

Sunday Morning Serenity

Do you ever feel like you’re in the middle of a personal change of seasons?

I was thinking about that this morning as I walked through the wee-hour air to the Story Shack. Yesterday, it was chilly in the morning, sunny and warm in the afternoon. This morning it’s cool and damp. Winter and spring are clearly in a tug of war. And sometimes it seems like my “inner seasons” (good heavens—I sound like Dr. Phil) are battling each other, part of me ready for change, the other part clinging to the familiar.

I’ve never done change well, and yet there are times when I long for it—usually when I’m at one of those “something’s gotta give” points that we all come to sooner or later.

The Easter season tends to bring it out in me. Easter is such a promise—of hope and grace, of transformation and renewal. That’s a wonderful word—renewal—the idea of being made new, our old mistakes washed away, a new beginning handed to us. Nothing we earned. Nothing we deserve. Just . . . here is this gift of grace and forgiveness—accept it and begin a fresh new day.

So it can be as cool, damp, and gray as it wants to this morning. I know spring is coming.

 

 

Sunday Morning Serenity

The other day, my friend Amanda posted a Facebook video of her little girl—The Mae Mae—talking about the kind of merry-go-round she wanted to ride: “A Spider Man Merry Go Round with super heroes, princesses, Elsa, Anna, coffee grounds, teachers, and children.”

I’m a little puzzled by the coffee grounds, but hey—it’s Mae’s vision so we’re going with it. If she wants super heroes and coffee grounds on board, she has my full support.

I love the endless possibilities of Mae’s merry-go-round—and her fierce belief that she can and will ride it. I’ve always been bad about talking myself out of things before I even give them a try. There’s a very good chance that I’m not a daredevil.

On the other hand, some of my best experiences have come from pushing myself into trying something that terrified me. Not long ago, an interviewer asked me what I do to relax after writing, and I told her that writing is relaxing—it’s the book signings that make me take to the couch with Cheeto the Cat afterward. Once they’re over, I come home and tell Dave how much fun I had, but I’m always apprehensive beforehand—in part because my penmanship is atrocious and in part because I’m just naturally apprehensive. I’ve raised worrying to an art form. And I have to remember to “consider the lilies.”

Consider the lilies how they grow:
they toil not, they spin not; and yet I say unto you,
that Solomon in all his glory
was not arrayed like one of these.

If then God so clothe the grass,
which is today in the field,
and tomorrow is cast into the oven;
how much more will he clothe you,
O ye of little faith?
Luke 12:27-28

Granny used to tell me that she only worried about things if she could do something about them—in other words, if she had options and a decision to make. But she didn't see any point in worrying about anything beyond her control. You had to leave that in God's hands. Good advice.

The next time I’m feeling my old familiar doubts, I'll try to remember Granny's wisdom and faith. And I'll think of Mae, with her Spider Man merry-go-round—the one with super heroes, princesses, Elsa, Anna, teachers, and children. And coffee grounds.

[Image by Jack Moreh @ Freerangestock.com]

 

Sunday Morning Serenity

Today is St. Patrick’s Day. I never thought much about it till I married a good Catholic boy from Up North. (I tried my best to like corned beef on St. Patty’s Day, but it just wasn’t meant to be.)

This morning, I was reading about the real St. Patrick on Britannica.com and learned that he was born in Britain, taken from his family by Irish raiders, and enslaved for six years, a time when he had only his faith to rely on for strength and hope. He escaped and returned to Britain but was held against his will yet again before finally being reunited with his family. Then God called him to help the very people who had started the harsh chain of events in his life—the Irish.

He resisted at first because he wasn’t well educated and didn’t believe he was ready to lead, but eventually he felt such a strong pull toward the Irish people that he had to go. Once he was there, he let go of his doubts and fears, preaching the message of Christ all across the country yet always dealing compassionately with non-Christians.

The threats to his life never went away. But their power to stop him did.

So many times I’ve let my own fear and doubt get in the way of what God has already empowered me to do, if I would only step out on faith.

Praying, this Sunday morning, for more faith, less fear, more willingness to serve, less doubt about my readiness.

The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.
He maketh me to lie down in green pastures:
he leadeth me beside the still waters.
He restoreth my soul:
he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness
for his name's sake.
Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,
I will fear no evil: for thou art with me;
thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.
Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies:
thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.
Surely goodness and mercy
shall follow me all the days of my life:
and I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever.
Psalm 23

[Shamrock image by Brian J Geraghty @ Freerangestock.com]

 

Sunday Morning Serenity

Rory was on the loose yesterday. He’s the fair-haired toddler who lives next door. I hear his baby brother, Calim, can stand up now, so it won’t be long until he’s running all over this hill, as well.

My first sight of Rory yesterday afternoon was his backside as he gleefully ran toward his house, just ahead of his mom. He had been playing in their backyard and at some point decided clothing was optional. The next time I saw him, he was clothed and sitting on my back steps (after busting through the kitchen door to see what Dave was doing) while his mom and grandmother did their best to corral him. He decided I was worthy of a game of peekaboo. A first. But then he spotted Cheeto. “Meow!!!”  Game over. No way was an old lady going to hold his attention with a cat on the premises.

It’s so much fun to watch Rory in action because he has absolutely no sense of “can’t”: I can open that door! I can chase that cat! I can climb that hill!

Also, everything is interesting to him. (Well, for a second or two.) What’s that? I think I’ll step on it. Hey what’s up there? How does this work? What does that do? Look! A light!

His mind is working as fast as his little feet, which never stop moving.

I think one of our greatest losses, as we get older, is that we forget to be amazed. A hummingbird, a butterfly, a sunrise—they’re all amazing, but I look right past them on my way to get this or that “extremely important” task done.

Spring is all but here. I think I’ll try to follow Rory’s lead and be amazed.

Sunday Morning Serenity

Pictured above, from left: Me in all my prairie fashion glory; Sarah Spates Slaughter; Cindy Casaday Allen; Wanda Walker Snyder; Ramona Bearden Martin.

It’s not easy being a preacher’s kid, or “PK,” especially in a small Southern community. And it can’t be easy raising PKs, either, because the whole family’s living life in a fishbowl. As a young teenager, I got so see both done exceptionally well.

The Casadays at my school were just normal kids like the rest of us—sweating exams and prom dates and all the other WORST PROBLEMS EVER that teenagers have. Cindy Casaday was one of my closest friends, part of a circle of girls who did just about everything together. We all talked about boys and grades and makeup and clothes and how to get our “wings” to lie flat (mine never did).

But you could also see the Christian faith the Casadays were raised with, not because they were preachy (kiss of death in high school), but because they were honest and kind and compassionate; because they happily participated with young people in their church; because they respected their parents.

The things I remember most about sleepovers at Cindy’s—the pastorium for Hepzibah Baptist Church—were (1) the formal living room where church receptions were sometimes held, which we were not allowed to mess up; (2) the quiet presence of her dad, who was the pastor at Hepzibah—he would always find time to say hello to our giggling brood, but then he let teenagers be teenagers; (3) and Cindy’s mom, a force of nature who could somehow sit down and talk with all of us girls to find out what was going on with us, welcome pop-in church members, get supper on the table, and remind Cindy and her brothers to help the kids from that new family fit in and feel welcome. They were a well-oiled machine, all working together in support of Brother Casaday’s ministry but more than that—in support of his mission in the community, in support of sharing God’s love and grace. It was completely genuine.

We lost Brother Casaday to a stroke this week. He preached his last sermon last Sunday and had just turned 88. As our friend Amy said, there has surely never been a more “good and faithful servant.”

I feel so blessed to have had the Casadays in my life—especially as an impressionable teenager. Every time I visited their home, I saw it: Faith isn’t just something you have—it’s something you do, something you live, every day.

Thinking of Cindy and her family today as they say a temporary goodbye to Brother Casaday.