Goin' Down to Mama's

Sunday Morning Serenity

Daddy and me posing in front of a long-ago Christmas tree at Grandme's house.

I think we can all say it together: This Christmas was different. And while there were things that I missed, there were others I didn’t.

Number one on that list is crowds. The older I get, the less crowd-tolerant I’ve become, especially given our current circumstances. And since we wouldn’t be gathering with family or friends this year, our gift-giving was really low-key—one present each for my parents, Dave, and me. We opened those in November, which meant Christmas Day wasn’t about loading and hauling gifts—it was about being together (over breakfast casseroles, much to Daddy’s dismay:)

Since I’m working from home, I completely avoided holiday traffic at rush hour. I can honestly say that I didn’t miss inching past Brookwood mall and crawling my way down 280 to get home at night.

In short, I didn’t miss the holiday stress, much of which is self-generated.

On the flip side, I’ve read so many Facebook posts that began with something like “never again will I complain about . . .” Giftwrap all over the house. A sink full of dishes to be washed, left behind by all the family who gathered for Christmas dinner. Noise-making toys for the tots.

I’m right there with those FB friends. I missed hugs from aunts, uncles, and cousins. I missed my church family and the sound of us all singing “Silent Night” and celebrating the birth of Christ together. I even missed the church building, decorated for Christmas. I missed getting together with friends, which I now realize should not be about the stress of “entertaining” but the joy of sharing laughter and conversation and fellowship, which we can do over a cup of coffee—no silver polishing required.

What I’ve missed is true communion. And I hope I never again take it for granted. I hope I never forget what this Christmas has taught us—what it’s all about.

Sunday Morning Serenity

This December, despite all the hardships and "not normal" of 2020, I'm doing something I've always wanted to do but never had the opportunity: I'm embracing the quiet side of Christmas. As an introvert who relishes solitude, I realize I have a great advantage this season over those who thrive on constant contact with people. My mother is in that camp. And this year has been very hard for her, especially now, when she would normally be making covered dishes for church socials and getting her house ready for family.

Of course I miss those things too. I'm right now imagining the huge family reunion I want to help Mama plan when this is all over. But you might see the quiet of this Christmas in a different light if you interpret it not as some sort of decree forbidding you to celebrate as you normally would but as a permission slip making it okay for you to just "BE STILL AND KNOW." 

I'm enjoying the cold weather more than usual because I don't have to go out in it. I can stay inside and watch the birds or bundle up and go for a walk. I don't wake up thinking about the holiday errands I need to run; I drink my coffee and pet my cat and look out at the sunrise and the bare branches against a December sky. My musical choices have shifted to the serene: "In the Bleak Midwinter," "What Child Is This," "The Wexford Carol," "O Holy Night" . . . though I still crank up Mariah Carey's "Jesus, What a Wonderful Child" now and then.

Yes, I look forward to next Christmas, when our extended family can be together again and we can rejoin our church family and I can stop worrying about my parents' safety. But I'm hoping to hold onto some of the stillness of this quiet Christmas. I'm hoping that I never let the presents and the covered dishes distract me from a young couple with a new baby taking shelter in a stable, that I never forget "and on earth peace, good will toward men," that I always find quiet time to contemplate in solitude "Wonderful, Counsellor, The mighty God, The everlasting Father, The Prince of Peace."

[Nativity image by Stuart Miles @ Freerangestock.com]

Sunday Morning Serenity

“For where two or three are gathered together in My name,
I am there in the midst of them.”
Matthew 18:20

Last week, my publisher sent me a list of questions to answer about my fourth book. They’ll be used to generate press coverage when it's released next year.

One of those questions was this: What do you hope readers will learn or experience when they read Under the Bayou Moon?

Part of my answer: I wrote this book primarily in 2020, the most difficult year many of us have ever experienced. I had a lot on my mind, namely, our need for community, which I believe is God-given . . .

I had never given it much thought before, but I do believe our need for community is divinely inspired. It’s part of our spiritual DNA. Yesterday, Dave and I distance-visited with our good friends Rod and Mari, and we all talked about how much we want to reconnect with our circle, once “This” is over. That visit made me remember a passage from Reverend Timothy Keller’s The Reason for God:

“The Hebrew word for this perfect, harmonious interdependence among all parts of creation is called shalom.We translate it as “peace,” but the English word is basically negative, referring to the absence of trouble or hostility. The Hebrew word means so much more than that. It means absolute wholeness—full, harmonious, joyful, flourishing life.”

Wholeness. Full, harmonious, joyful, flourishing life. Doesn’t seem entirely possible right now, given our physical separation from each other, does it? Aren’t we all planning what we’ll do first, once our world is “back to normal”? Or do we even think that’s possible? I’ve heard so many friends and family ask the same question: Do you think things will ever be like they were before?

We don’t know. We hope so. Then again, maybe we’ve learned to appreciate community—and communion—more. Maybe we’ll work harder to protect it. Maybe we’ll come back better, having learned the value of things we took for granted. Maybe we’ll think more about each other and less about ourselves. Maybe we’ll be humbly grateful for the divine communion that can sustain us when there’s nothing else to hold onto.

“The Christian gospel is that I am so flawed that Jesus had to die for me, yet I am so loved and valued that Jesus was glad to die for me. This leads to deep humility and deep confidence at the same time. It undermines both swaggering and  sniveling. I cannot feel superior to anyone and yet I have nothing to prove to anyone. I do not think more of myself nor less of myself. Instead, I think of myself less.” —Timothy Keller

 

 

Sunday Morning Serenity

I’ve heard everybody from pastors to parents say it. And I’ve said it myself many times: This year has been hard. And it will get harder before it gets better. But it’s going to get better.

The closer we get to that light at the end of the tunnel, the more I’ve been thinking about a verse from the book of Acts. The Apostle Paul is a prisoner on board a ship bound for Rome, when it sails into a great storm. Having battled the winds and the waves for many days, the sailors are giving up hope of survival:

Then fearing lest we should have fallen upon rocks,
they cast four anchors out of the stern,
and wished for the day.
Acts 27:29

Some translations use “prayed” in place of “wished.” Either way, the sailors are longing for relief from the storm and the darkness. Their only remaining option is to drop anchor and hope and pray they live to see daylight.

We’re living through our own version of “drop anchor and pray for daylight.” How well we get through the storm will depend on our anchors—that is, what we anchor ourselves to. It's interesting to think about—who and what your anchors are. I know that God, my family, and my closest and dearest friends are my three strongest anchors. My fourth, I think, is made of all the things that bring me peace and joy—writing, nature, music, Cheeto the Cat . . .

When I focus on my anchors—not the storm but the anchors that I know will get me through it—I feel joy and gratitude, not fear or sadness. So if you’re feeling tossed about, just remember: It’s not about the size of the storm. It’s about the strength of your anchors.

Daylight’s on the way. "The Storm Is Passing Over."