Goin' Down to Mama's

Sunday Morning Serenity

My mother recently reminded me of an expression that I’ve heard all my life but never thought much about: “do for.” As in do (something kind and helpful) for (someone who is in need or just going through a rough time).

She used it a lot in December. During our tiny COVID Christmas celebration (Mama, Daddy, Dave, and me), she talked about how frustrating it was to be distancing because she “couldn’t do for people.” Normally during Christmas, she would stuff stockings for underprivileged children in our community, wrap presents that area churches donated for needy families, deliver food and gift baskets to the elderly and homebound, bake her specialties for family and friends . . . In short, she would do for people.

Daddy’s the same way. It’s one of the things I admire most about my parents—their generous hearts. To them, giving doesn’t mean sharing what you don’t need; it means sharing what somebody else does need, whether you can comfortably spare it or not. They give sacrificially.

Everybody has been through a lot over the past year, and it isn’t letting up just yet. But we have to hold onto the good things. There’s always a neighbor or a friend or a family member who needs a little lift. Offering one will lighten your load as much as theirs.

For a while longer, there might be some distance between us, but not so much that we can’t bridge it. Not so much that we can’t do for each other.

"Let us rejoice and be glad" for all that we have and all we can give and the spirit of generosity that comes from God.

 

Sunday Morning Serenity

Sometimes, you need only a little something good to help you cope with a whole lot of bad.

I’d be lying if I said I haven’t been completely worn down by the past year. I’m tired of “all the wipin’ and swipin’”—Daddy’s terminology for sanitizing. I’m tired of staying away from my friends, family, and church. I’m tired of wearing a mask. And talking through a mask. And breathing through a mask.  But I know I’ll never be as tired of it as all the healthcare workers and first responders who have to wear head-to-toe protective gear all day long—a far cry from just popping on a mask like I do for trips to Publix or visits with my parents.

I know all of the above—the mask and the distancing and the wipin’ and swipin’—are absolutely necessary right now. But I also know they won’t be forever. Just getting my parents to their first vaccination lifted a huge burden off all of us. I felt hopeful for the first time in a long time, and it was thanks to a dear friend who helped me navigate the red tape and get them an appointment. I’ve been able to “pay it forward” and help other friends and family, which feels good. It always feels good when you can do something about something—when you can take even a tiny positive step forward.

Dave and I also bit the bullet and replaced my 10-year-old computer, which could no longer connect to anything and was so slow that even basic word-processing was a mind-numbing chore. So I thanked it for the good years and packed it away. And now I have one that does what it’s supposed to. I had forgotten what that was like. Before the computer’s arrival, I cleaned the Story Shack, throwing out old, useless files, storing things I’d let pile up on every surface, and vacuuming enough orange cat hair to stuff a mattress. With my office decluttered, my brain is, too, and I’m thinking about all kinds of ideas I want to explore for books.

I guess it’s about perspective.

I can’t take this pandemic becomes we need to be careful just a little while longer.

I'm worried to death about my parents becomes we’re taking positive steps to protect them.

I hate my work environment! becomes replace what isn't working and clean the rest.

Baby steps. But they’re headed in the right direction.

For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord,
“plans to prosper you and not to harm you,
plans to give you hope and a future.
Then you will call on me
and come and pray to me,
and I will listen to you.
You will seek me and find me
when you seek me with all your heart.
Jeremiah 29:11-13

 

Sunday Morning Serenity

A couple of nights ago, we had meatloaf balls for supper—not just any meatloaf balls—Mama Sue’s. Dave loved them, and so did I. We’ll be raiding her cookbook again very soon. And I love watching the YouTube videos that I’m pretty sure her daughter, Amy, talked her into making.

My hometown friends know Mama Sue as Sue Strickland Garrett. That’s her in the picture, holding a spoon in her home ec class at Vincent High School in 1969—my first-grade yearbook. Back then, Sue was my hero (heroine?) We went to the same Baptist church, where she played the piano and organ and I dreamed of playing the piano and organ. Keyboards fascinated me from the time I was old enough to identify one. Learning to play was something I wanted more than anything else. And Sue did it so well. (Also, her hair flipped perfectly, which mine was too straight to do, and she was a majorette—probably the reason I asked for and received a baton, which I was never very good at twirling.)

Unlike many teenage girls who are talented and smart and popular, with perfectly flipping hair, Sue was about as kind and humble a young girl as you could ever hope to meet. She spotted my longing for music and invited me—ME!!!—to sit with her on the piano or organ bench when I was probably six or seven years old, maybe even younger. Before church started, she would remind me, “Now don’t play.” Of course, I wouldn’t. But I got to watch her play—and arrange her hymnals so that there was never an interruption in the service. In between songs, she would whisper little tidbits about music to me. We’d draw treble clefs on discarded church bulletins. Most important of all, she taught me how to separate the foil from the paper on a chewing gum wrapper, a skill I retain to this day. And I’ve been a church pianist most of my life.

Somehow, the meatloaf balls brought all that back to me—what it was like to be a young child, looking up to a teenage girl who made me feel like I mattered. I guess the separation from so many people I love has made me all the more grateful for them, for those who have touched my life, inspired me, nurtured me, shown me loving kindness.

Community is such a gift. Love and friendship too. Sharing good food is a way of expressing both. You can look for meatloaf balls underneath the Reynolds Wrap on my covered dish as soon as we can fellowship again.

Sunday Morning Serenity

During my brief sojourn as a freelancer, one of my clients was a magazine for the Association of Recovery in Higher Education. They created a national, well-organized network of Collegiate Recovery Communities designed to help young people who were recovering from addiction return to campus and successfully complete their degrees. I interviewed quite a few of those students and found their stories to be some of the most inspiring I've ever heard. There was one experience they all shared: “my rock bottom.”

Rock bottom is the point of no return, the specific moment when you realize that your current path has dragged you down to such an unsurvivable depth that you’re left with one choice and one choice only: change or die.

I feel like we watched our rock bottom play out on Capitol Hill this week. It was sickening and heartbreaking. But I have to say, for the first time in a long time I was proud of our perpetually divided Congress for coming together and performing their duty, even in the face of violence and volatility. It gave me hope that maybe we had, at last, hit our rock bottom and were ready to begin the slow and difficult climb out.

Suspicion and division and dishonesty pushed us down. We’ll need truth and justice and unity to pull us out. The question is, are we up to the climb? I think so. I hope and pray so.

Sunday Morning Serenity

I’m turning into my Mother. So there’s that. But I don’t mind really. If you’re going to turn into somebody else, Mama’s not a bad choice.

After years of teasing her about being The Bird Lady, I found myself looking out the huge front windows of the Story Shack, where I now spend most of my time since I’m working from home, and thinking to myself, “a bird feeder might be nice.” I found a reasonably priced one on Amazon. But then it occurred to me—won’t the birds get thirsty too? Birdbath. Check.

At first I worried that the feathered ones wouldn’t fly my way. They did, though. I’ve watched the birdseed level dip, dip, and dip some more. But that’s okay. The birds in my buffet line earn their keep, putting on a show for me every day. Plus, they’ve given Mama and me a whole new avenue of conversation: What seed do they like best? Should I get more than one feeder? Is that a chickadee I just texted you a picture of? We’re already talking bird-friendly shrubbery and butterfly-attracting flowers.

I’m embracing, more than ever, a lesson I learned from both parents: Nature is a fine companion, especially when people aren’t an option.

And something else: You never know who might be hungry until you offer some food.

[Image by Gerald Rencehau @ Freerangestock.com]