Goin' Down to Mama's

Sunday Morning Serenity

I’m sitting in the Story Shack with the front and back doors open, listening to the birds sing and looking at a beautiful blooming vine a friend gave me years and years ago. I thought a storm destroyed it a while back, but this year it pushed its way out and is showing all that greenery around it a thing or two about spring color.

My mother has always loved the hymn “For the Beauty of the Earth,” a song of praise I now understand in a way I couldn’t before. I’ve found, in this time of solitude as Dave continues to recover and heal, great comfort in God’s creation and the powers of renewal he instilled in nature—in all of us. I see it out my door, and I see it in wounds that are slowly but surely healing.

A friend of mine from the Mississippi Delta once told me about someone who, when chastised for fishing on Sunday, would say, “I’m worshipping in God’s cathedral.” Being temporarily homebound has given me an appreciation for that—for worshipping in God’s cathedral. (Aside to Mama: I promise I’m not fishing on Sunday.)

Especially today, on what I think is our third Easter out of church—we’ve lost count, between COVID and hospital stays—the renewal out my door reminds me to give thanks and praise to God for the ultimate gift of renewal in Christ’s resurrection.

The video below is fuzzy, but the music and message aren’t—“Was It a Morning Like This?”

May God bless you and your family this season of Easter and Passover.

 

Sunday Morning Serenity

Back when Daddy and I used to do a lot of shopping together, we had a little motto: “Whoever said ‘things won’t make you happy’ wasn’t buying the right stuff.” It rang especially true at Parisian, my favorite store of all time (and I miss it even now).

I still think some things can make you happy—at least in the sense of giving you a boost of confidence or maybe distracting you from what’s in front of you while you summon your courage to face it. But my choice of things has changed over the years.

Then: the perfect pair of taupe Liz Claiborne pumps I wore for years. Now: bird feeders. Then: a wool plaid blazer with padded shoulders (it was the 80s—what can I say). Now: L.L. Bean slippers that feel like clouds on my feet. And windchimes. And the first daffodils of spring. (I don’t sound over the hill, do I??)

The past seven months have been tough for Dave and me, and I'm grateful to friends and family for reminding me now and then that sometimes we all need just a little something for ourselves right now as we take one step at a time, one day at a time, toward something that seems just around the corner one minute and out of reach the next.

Healing can be a long, long journey. But Dave and I can look back and see God’s hand guiding us every step of the way—to the right hospital, the right doctors, wonderful nurses—and I know He’ll guide us through it all. So yes, I will keep filling my bird feeders and wearing my cozy slippers. I'll keep adding wind chimes to the Story Shack and taking a moment to admire the daffodils. But I’ll also try to remember this:

Through many dangers, toils and snares,
I have already come;
‘Tis grace hath brought me safe thus far,
And grace will lead me home.

—John Newton

Sunday Morning Serenity

I woke up this morning thinking about salt—specifically, salt’s power within our bodies.

Just this week, Dave and I came home from what I think was his fifth hospital stay since June. I had to call the paramedics on Christmas Day, and we rang in the New Year at what we now consider our St. Vincent’s condo. It all started with salt—a dangerous drop in sodium, likely caused by the joint efforts of an infection and other issues.

I’ve since learned from a sister-friend who’s an experienced nurse that there’s a very narrow window of sodium levels where your body functions properly. Too much salt, we all know, is bad for your heart. But it’s also bad for your brain. Too little, and you become incoherent—even run the risk of seizures if it drops low enough. You can’t say your own name. And you begin making up words that only you understand. It’s a little like that poem “Jabberwocky” by Lewis Carroll—the words sound like they should make sense, but they don’t:

’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

Since June, we’ve also been on a healing journey with pressure wounds. And as I’ve helped Dave’s nurses attend to those, I’ve been amazed by the human body’s power to heal, sometimes on its own, sometimes with the help of modern medicine. Either way, it's a remarkable creation. We are so perfectly balanced. We need exactly this, no more, no less. We are “fearfully and wonderfully made”:

I will praise You,
for I am fearfully and wonderfully made;
Marvelous are Your works, 
And that my soul knows very well.
Psalm 139:14

Many of you know “Mama Sue” Garrett, and you’ve been blessed and strengthened by her faith-driven journey through cancer treatment. Her message, “Be salt and light,” has stayed with me down this road that Dave has traveled with patience and courage. It comes from Matthew 5:13-16:

“You are the salt of the earth; 
but if the salt loses its flavor,
how shall it be seasoned?
It is then good for nothing
but to be thrown out and trampled underfoot by men.

“You are the light of the world.
A city that is set on a hill cannot be hidden.
Nor do they light a lamp and put it under a basket,
but on a lampstand, and it gives light
to all who are in the house.
Let your light so shine before men, that they may see 
your good works and glorify your Father in heaven.

 

*Video originally posted to YouTube in 2015.

Sunday Morning Serenity

My keyboard’s getting rusty:) Just when I thought I could get back to Serenity, well . . . we got a little busy again with health issues.

But I’m thinking this morning about a song we learned in choir a hundred years ago. The words were something like this (old lady trying to remember):

In everything give Him thanks.
In everything give Him thanks.
In the good times, praise His name;
In the bad times, do the same.
In everything, give the King of Kings all the thanks.

I won’t sit here and tell you I’m always thankful. Sometimes I’m scared and angry and disappointed and doubtful and “why, why, why.” That’s the truth. But if you can be patient and still and just wait for God’s time to show itself, you’ll find your gratitude. You’ll find your reason for gratitude. I’ve seen that this weekend.

Over the past few days, Dave and I both got a big dose of love and encouragement that we didn’t even know we needed. With a lot of help from his primary doctor, he finally got a much-hoped-for appointment with a specialist at UAB in February and a better situation with his current clinic. Aischa the Wonder Nurse from St. Vincent’s Home Health paid us a visit, leaving us with a good report and a good plan of action (plus a Santa sleigh load of supplies to help keep Dave healthy). My kitchen and my deck are finally functional after making it over the final hurdles of a remodel.

How about that. Thursday morning looked dark and discouraging. By Saturday afternoon, the sun was out again. “In everything give Him thanks.”

My mother keeps telling me, “You have some GREAT friends.” She’s right. We’re blessed there. And we’re blessed with family and church family and each other. We’re blessed with calls and prayers and deliveries of food and cards and flowers—even pumpkins. (Cheeto is far too proud to admit that he too needs friends to lean on, so he sends thanks to his “auxiliary staff” for coming through with the Fancy Feast when we’ve been in the hospital.) Thanks to the Three Kiddos next door for occasionally raiding the Shack and reminding me that, as long as we’ve got chocolate and Capri Suns, everything will be alright.

“In everything, give Him thanks.”

Sunday Morning Serenity

Long time, no Serenity:) How are you? I’ve been a little busy. Too busy to write on Sunday mornings. Busy with the business of healing.

I always thought of healing as a passive process, but it’s not. It’s a daily, active, arm-yourself-with-knowledge-and-prayer-then-hit-the-battlefield-and-fight-till-you’re-exhausted proposition.

At the end of June, just as we were beginning long overdue home repairs and a kitchen remodel, a cluster of health issues that had been slowly building in Dave suddenly converged like one of those storm systems that puts James Spann and the Doppler on high alert. We found ourselves very much inside the polygon. Dave had serious pressure wounds—a sadly common issue for paraplegics—along with major infection and—big surprise—a heart condition that was responsible for so many symptoms he had been struggling with, symptoms that had been attributed to other causes.  

We summered at St. Vincent’s. He spent July there battling infection and a host of other issues so that he would be well enough for an amazing heart procedure that required only 2 nights in the hospital. Some people go home after one. Can you imagine? They consider it outpatient surgery, and you leave with a new heart valve.

So now we’re on the last and likely longest leg of the journey—healing wounds and restoring strength.

The cool weather makes me hopeful. It’s a new season of color and light. Dave has one more mountain to climb—not the whole soaring range he faced in June. And when I look back on the past few months, yes, I see a lot of hardship, but I also see so many blessings.

We couldn’t get into the hospital I originally chose, so we ended up at the right one instead, with a lead doctor who put together a team of six or seven specialists to pool their knowledge and get Dave well.

Our family and friends have supported us with everything from food to flowers to offers of financial safety nets, should we need them.

Our church family has been praying for us and sending messages of encouragement, love, and support.

My cousins have stepped in to make sure Mama and Daddy have everything they need when I can’t be there. They're constantly sending texts and Facebook messages just to let us know they’re right there if we need them, while Dave's siblings check in to make sure he's okay—and that he's not running low on quality cookies and ice cream:)

The kiddos next door pop in to raid our fridge and candy stash and give “Miss Val” much-needed hugs. 

God has been faithful—“All I have needed, Thy hand hath provided.”

I know Thanksgiving is a month away, but I'm definitely giving thanks this morning. Love to you and your family.

Sunday Morning Serenity

Life is strange. You can write that down. I didn't copyright it or anything.

I don't have a lot of time this morning, but I wanted to write that much at least. It's strange—because you can feel the least alone when you're isolated. You can also feel lonely in a crowd. I haven't been in any crowds lately so that one's not speaking to me, but I do know a think or two about isolation. 

Of course, Dave and I have been isolated together—which makes a powerful difference, I realize. But we've also had so many expressions of love and friendship, concern and support, that we don't feel alone at all. Flowers planted by caring friends remind us every day that those bonds are very much there. Fresh peaches from our sweet neighbors brought us a little taste of summer we couldn't get our usual way—driving to or from the beach. Everything from text messages, cards, and calls to cornbread, fresh eggs, and covered dishes have reminded us daily that prayers are going up and we are not alone. 

We're so thankful for that—and for "God's unchanging hand." He has watched over us through everything. Feeling love and gratitude this Sunday morning.

 

Sunday Morning Serenity

We need to laugh—even when we’re at our worst. We really do. But when you feel like you don’t have much to laugh about, you can forget how good it feels—what a release it can be.

I have my friend Lil to thank for that little revelation. Last week, Lil and I talked on the phone for the first time in a long time. Her simple “so tell me what’s going on” was followed by something like this: Well, we’re changing bandages twice a day and doing intravenous meds once a day. Home health is coming several times a week. We’re getting our roof fixed and some other repairs done on the house, so one day last week, we had nurses in the driveway and men on the roof. I really need to get out to see Mama and Daddy and rent a van for Dave's doctor's appointments . . .

Somewhere in the middle of all that, Lil and I started laughing. Hard. Because things can only get so bad before they get ridiculous—and funny. It’s like that commercial where this little kid is feeling put-upon and finally exclaims, “What am I, Job???!!!”

Or the old Hee-Haw song, “Gloom, despair, and agony on me.”

Or my personal favorite from Steel Magnolias: “My personal tragedy will not interfere with my ability to do good hair.”

I can remember so many times when Daddy’s family would be in a hospital waiting room, worried to death about whoever was sick at the time, and my Uncle Jimmy would have everybody in there—not just our family but everybody, including preachers in attendance and total strangers who happened to be within earshot—all of us laughing. It helped. It got us through.

Dave and I manage to find reasons to laugh—a much more extraordinary feat for him than for me right now. Laughing together immediately brings back “normal.” And when your life has been upended, even for a little while, you cling to every tiny shred of “normal.” It anchors you. It lets you know that you’re still you, and that whatever you’re going through is temporary. It reminds you to be thankful for life and health and for the strength and courage God will give you when you need it most.

[Image by Chance Agrella @ Freerangestock.com]

Sunday Morning Serenity

For the past month, I haven’t been writing very often because I’ve been on a healthcare journey with Dave. He’s not much for Facebook sharing:) So I’ll just say he had a cluster of issues that silently progressed over time until they converged like a bad weather system and kicked up quite a storm. He was in St. Vincent’s—a wonderful, wonderful hospital—for three weeks. We’re home now, with home health, as he continues healing and getting stronger.

Prayers have been answered daily. My initial choice for the emergency room was a really good hospital close to our house, but they were overloaded and “diverting.” So we went to St. Vincent’s—farther away but, as it turns out, the best possible place for us. We landed with an internal medicine doctor (Andrew Collins), who sorted out Dave’s health issues and enlisted an army of specialists to take them on, one at a time. Excellent, compassionate care was ours at every turn.

And as an only child, let me just say a word about cousins. Mine are the best. They’ve been there for my parents and me every step of the way so that I could focus on Dave, whose family has also offered support, even though they’re several states away. Our church family has been in touch and in prayer constantly. Southern Living has been understanding and supportive. Our next door neighbors have offered help, and a sweet couple down the street—whom we had just met before the ambulance came—still checks on us. Dear friends have called, encouraged, and listened. Two of them actually came out and turned my scattering of hurriedly planted flowers into a real garden. And when your house is upside down, having a beautiful garden to look at and escape to is such a gift.

All that to say, we just don’t realize how much we need each other until we really, really need each other. God has blessed us with amazing friends and family, whom I’ve taken for granted far too often. I hope I never do that again.

Sunday Morning Serenity

We just had our first family reunion in . . . We can’t quite remember if it has been 20 or 30 years since we all gathered.  Probably closer to 30. My cousin’s wife told me she had prepared their young children: “You’ll probably see a lot of people who look like Daddy.”

And it’s true. There’s a strong resemblance in the McCranie family—Mama and her siblings and the cousins. The first cousins grew up together, and even the few who lived away from Shelby County, Alabama, visited several times a year because our grandmother said they had to. Period. But as we got older, with spouses, kids, and grandkids coming into the picture, it got harder and harder to bring everybody together. Until COVID pushed Mama over the edge. The whole time she was quarantined, all she could talk about was how she missed her family and how, the minute we had a vaccine, she wanted to see EVERYBODY. We managed a good 50+ I’d say. And it was pretty amazing.

A college friend who had heard me talk about my family once told me, “It’s like you’re going through life with this giant safety net under you.” She was right—I have indeed enjoyed a safety net, held up by close relatives on both sides of my family. I took that for granted when I was young but not now. 

I’ve been thinking about our family this morning—what makes us us. And I think so much of our identity is spiritual—it’s a shared faith passed down from one generation to the next. But it’s also mutual respect. The cousins were taught to respect our elders, while our elders took an active interest in all of us. It went both ways. Now I’m an elder! There are so many young cousins coming along. And that family resemblance is right there on those sweet faces.

There's one more tie that binds us. We've always had an awareness that we’re part of a story, one that goes back many, many years and connects all of us, past, present, and future. That story has been shared and passed down from Grandme to her children to their children to their children . . . and on it goes, this story we carry with us, reminding us of who we are and where we came from and how we're forever bound together as a family.

When Aunt Joyce passed away, her service included a reading of Scripture that speaks to that same familial connection between Christians and God:

For I am persuaded, that neither death, nor life,
nor angels, nor principalities,
nor powers, nor things present, nor things to come,
Nor height, nor depth, nor any other creature,
shall be able to separate us from the love of God,
which is in Christ Jesus our Lord.
Romans 8: 38-39

 

Sunday Morning Serenity

 

My friend Gary introduced me to a Sandi Patty song called “In the In Between,” and it's speaking to me this morning. It’s all about how it’s easy to celebrate God when you’re on the mountaintop, and it’s natural to call on Him when you’re in the valley. But sometimes we lose sight of His love “in the in between”—not the highs nor the lows but the everyday.

For a singer with such a powerhouse voice, this one is a departure because it’s quiet. No soaring high notes. No orchestra. Just a piano and a sincere expression of how we often forget God’s faithfulness—or at least I do.

My sister-friend Ginger reminded me of that recently. We were talking on the phone and she spoke so easily about an answered prayer and being led by the Holy Spirit. She made me remember how accessible God is—to those who ask and listen, which I forget to do sometimes. Or maybe I'm just being stubborn and rebellious. I’m so busy trying to “fix things” myself that I can't admit—can't even see—that I need help.

Ask, listen, trust. Thank you, sweet Ging. Thank you, Sandi.