Today is Harvest Day at our church, which means a big fellowship after the service. (It starts at 10:30 a.m. if you’d like to come for worship and fried chicken.)
Sisters of the faith, you know how my brain is working this morning: Church starts at 10:30 so I probably need to get there a little after 10 to deliver my food, which means I need to leave home a little after 9, so the vat of macaroni and cheese should go into the oven no later than 7, which means I need to be mixing it no later than 6:30 and then I can take a shower and assemble the sliders while it bakes . . .
I’m not exactly resting on the Sabbath Day.
This special day on our church calendar has changed quite a bit over the years. We don’t have a cotton field harvested by members any more. We don’t stay at church all day the way we did when I was a kid. But there’s still a touch of the old-timey about it. The older I get . . . the more old-timey stuff I love, especially in church. Happy Harvest Day!
I’ve been thinking a lot about names. It started when I was trying to name a character for a book set in Louisiana, worried that I wouldn't know who he was until I named him. That conjured all kinds of memories and mental leaps.
In the late 1980s, on my first or second day as a 20-something, entry-level, phone-answering employee at Southern Living’s parent company, a tall, elegantly dressed older man walked up to my desk and told me to make a lunch reservation for four. Green as I was, even I had sense enough to realize he was Somebody. I just didn’t know who. So in the most I’ve-got-it-together professional voice I could fake, I said, “Yes, sir . . . and . . . in whose name would you like me to make that reservation?” Bless him, he saved me by finding a face-saving way to tell me his name. Too bad I hadn't noticed the enormous portrait of him hanging in our lobby.
When my maternal grandmother was dying, there was a moment—a very brief one, thank goodness—when she didn’t recognize me. Not only that, but she got really angry at this person standing by her bed, claiming to be Valerie. Fortunately, her confusion soon passed and I saw recognition in her eyes. We were both so relieved. But I never forgot those few seconds. I can’t imagine what it must be like for my friends whose parents have dementia—the daily absence of recognition and the inability of someone you love to call you by name.
Of course, thinking about my grandmother made me think about Moses. (You can see the logical progression there, right? Me neither.) Specifically, Moses at the burning bush (Exodus 3). Early during their encounter, God tells Moses, “I am the God of your father, the God of Abraham, the God of Isaac, and the God of Jacob.”
Still, Moses wants an answer to a nagging question: But what’s your name?
Depending on which translation you read, God’s answer is “I am that I am” or “I am who I am.” The NIV has a footnote that translates God’s response as “I will be what I will be.” He first tells Moses, “This is what you are to say to the Israelites: ‘I am has sent me to you.’” And then he repeats to Moses: “Say to the Israelites, ‘The Lord, the God of your fathers—the God of Abraham, the God of Isaac, and the God of Jacob—has sent me to you.’”
God puts the focus on his relationship to Israel, not what men call him. He also refuses to be defined by a name just to make humanity more comfortable.
On a human level, we should do the same—put the focus on our relationships with each other and never let ourselves be defined by whatever others choose to call us. Each of us has to be true to the self God intended us to be—even when that self is tough to name.
And now I just have to play this song one more time:
Dave and I are heading home today after a much-needed vacation, and I’m enjoying my last beach sunrise for a while. I’m also wishing all the drivers with loud cars would have slept in, but that’s okay. Now that the show has started in the sky, I’ll forget all about them. That's what I love most about the beach—there’s something so beautiful and peaceful about sand, sky, and water that it makes me forget all the distractions that, well, distract me under normal circumstances. And I can just enjoy the place I’m in. I can just be amazed by the majesty and glory. (Song cue:)
It’s a question we’ve probably all asked at one time or another: Why do bad things happen to good people?
But did you ever stop to think about all the bad things that could have happened and didn’t? It’s not healthy to dwell on the what if’s in your life, but now and again one of them can take hold of you in a way that’s hard to shake. And you realize how blessed you are for what didn’t happen.
Yesterday morning, I saw the makings of a tragedy unfolding in front of me, but in the nick of time, the driver who was involved saw what he needed to see and stopped it from happening. All in a matter of seconds. Not hours, not minutes. Seconds. Something awful didn’t happen.
My mother’s favorite Scripture is Psalm 121, which includes the words, “He that keepeth thee will not slumber. Behold, he that keepeth Israel shall neither slumber nor sleep.”
God is watchful even when we aren’t. And I’m very thankful for that.
[Image by Freerangestock.com]
Come On In And Meet Everybody I come from a long line of feisty Southern women—women with wit and wisdom, faith and strength.