Goin' Down to Mama's

Sunday Morning Serenity

There’s a cool wind blowing in the trees this morning—what my mother calls “a little touch of fall in the air.” The heat of another summer is passing, the chilly winds of harvest season are here, at least in the morning.

As the weather cools, we’re coming to the end of the strangest, most turbulent year in my adult memory, though I have vague childhood recall of the 1960s. And there’s some comfort for me in the changing season, in the constants of nature. No matter what turmoil humans create, nature will continue on its course.

Harvest season will always remind me of my Uncle Bud, whom we lost recently. I won’t write much about him here because he was a very private person, and I don’t think he would appreciate being put on “that computer.”  (I can see him shaking his head as I type.) But I will say that my cousins and I had a great example, in Uncle Bud, and continue to have a great one in Uncle Chick—brothers and cotton farmers—of stewardship, of respect for the land that sustains us and humble gratitude to God, who gives it to us.

There’s a special peace in the simple cycle of seeds in the ground, rain and sun from above, and red fields covered with clouds of cotton. It makes me think of a passage from John, when Christ teaches about stewardship of our spiritual landscape:

Jesus said to them, 
“My food is to do the will of Him who sent Me,
and to finish His work. 
Do you not say,
‘There are still four months and then comes the harvest’?
Behold, I say to you, lift up your eyes and look at the fields, 
for they are already white for harvest! 
And he who reaps receives wages,
and gathers fruit for eternal life,
that both he who sows and he who reaps
may rejoice together.
John 4: 34-36

Sunday Morning Serenity

I’ve always loved pretty boxes—wooden, glass, fabric-covered, floral-printed—containers that don’t look like they’d be doing something as utilitarian as hiding letters, stickie notes that have lost their stick ’em, story research, and all of my “to be dealt with later.” If the box in question has a hinged lid with an attached satin ribbon for lifting, all the better.

I put just about every box I own to work yesterday.

In the final days of finishing my book manuscript, the Story Shack became virtually uninhabitable (this always happens). There was stuff everywhere and almost nowhere to step, let alone work. So yesterday, I did the post-completion purge—threw out, stacked up, filed, vacuumed, Swiffered, cleaned the windows, and pseudo-dusted. And I boxed—computer cords in a red glass cube, unstickable stickies that I still need in a pretty stationery box, Southern Living work in a fabric storage bin.

All the previous chaos is still there but now it’s manageable. I know where it is when I’m ready for it, but I’m not letting it invade my mental or physical space till the time comes.

The result? I couldn’t wait to get out here this morning, and I can’t wait to start something new.

We all need mental boxes right now. Lots and lots of them. Because there’s just too much happening at once to cope with it all at the same time. If you try to take it on all at once, it’ll overwhelm you—just like my glueless stickie notes, scattered around my desk and distracting me from the screen where I needed to focus, the place where I could actually exert some control and make good things happen.

The real beauty of boxes is that they’re empowering. They say to your daily challenges, “Get in there and don’t come out till I say so.”

My biggest daily challenge right now is my physical health. Between all the sheltering-in-place comfort eating I did and an I-have-no-time-to-exercise attitude for the past six months, my preexisting waistline issues have become serious (make that horrifying, as in, I think I heard the mirror scream). But given my current fitness level (nil) and some post-COVID shortness of breath when I exert, I’ve had to accept that I can’t walk two miles like I once did. That goal went into a box. Right now, my goal is to just move. Short walks. Ten minutes of step aerobics. Whatever I can do right now, not what I hope to do a month from now, because if I focus on the unattainable, then I’ll just end up feeling hopeless and not do anything.

The point of my ode to boxes? Do what you can when you can, and put the rest in a really pretty box till you’re strong enough to take it on. And to quote my dear friend Jane, whom I miss every day, "Sometimes you gotta let the rough end drag."

Therefore do not worry about tomorrow,
for tomorrow will worry about itself.
Each day has enough trouble of its own.
Matthew 6:34

Finally, all of you be of one mind,
having compassion for one another;
love as brothers, be tenderhearted, be courteous;
 not returning evil for evil or reviling for reviling,
but on the contrary blessing,
knowing that you were called to this, 
that you may inherit a blessing. 
1 Peter 3: 8-9

[Image by Pexels @ Freerangestock.com]

Sunday Morning Serenity

 

Sometimes we feel more than we can verbalize. Sometimes words fail us. We can only be still and quiet and receive God's grace and peace.

Peace I leave with you, My peace I give to you;
not as the world gives do I give to you.
Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid.

John 14:27

Sunday Morning Serenity

There’s an image in my mind that will never go away.

A few months after Hurricane Katrina, I was riding through Biloxi, Mississippi, with a friend and Southern Living photographer, both of us stunned into silence. I had never seen anything like it. Recent footage of Laura’s damage brought those scenes back to me in unsettling detail.

Back then, we all watched daily images of New Orleans and the floods and the horrific loss of life, but for reasons I’ll never understand, the TV cameras rarely aimed at the Mississippi Gulf Coast, which got obliterated. Because of that, I had a hard time making anybody believe me when I tried to describe the totality of the damage.

Katrina’s storm surge, when it hit Mississippi, was 28 feet high. The whole beachfront—30-plus miles of it—was just erased. It was hard to know which town you were in because the only visible landmark left standing was the Biloxi lighthouse. The few buildings that remained had been blown out by the wind and the water.

And as we slowly drove through all of that, I remember looking out my window and seeing a woman with a dazed expression, standing in what used to be her yard I guess, with huge fallen trees all around her, the house badly damaged. It’s strange but I can’t remember whether she was holding a rake or a broom. I just remember watching her absently move it back and forth, this handheld tool that was no match for the enormity of the destruction all around.

It warms my heart to see friends in Mississippi posting words of encouragement to hurricane survivors in Louisiana and Texas because they’re living proof that there’s an “other side” waiting, once the storm passes over.

Maybe we all need to be reminded of that, given what I often see on Facebook: smiling faces with sad eyes, or at least, very tired ones. Right now, most of us probably have days when we feel like we’re trying to sweep up a hurricane with a broom. We’re way out of our depth and we know it. And I think we have to give the storm that is 2020 its due. Accept that we can’t repair the damage overnight but that eventually, everything will be renewed. There’s an “other side” waiting—we just have to give ourselves time to get there. And we aren’t traveling alone.

Be anxious for nothing,
but in everything by prayer and supplication,
with thanksgiving, let your requests be made known to God; 
and the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding,
will guard your hearts and minds through Christ Jesus.
Ephesians 4:6-7

Sunday Morning Serenity

This morning I was looking for a Scripture passage I could only partially remember, so I went to BibleGateway and typed in “gathered together.” There were 148 results.

There’s an awful lot of gathering together in the Bible, which explains why we miss it so much when we can’t do it. Gathering together is not just an important way we communicate with each other—it’s an important way we communicate with God.

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

We’re hoping to return to church soon, but we’re still erring on the side of caution. And while I’m spending Sundays at home, I’m thinking back on a million moments of churchgoing, missing even the things that used to aggravate me. I thought my memories might spark some of yours:

That time we held a two-hour business meeting to discuss how to change the bulletin, eventually voting to leave it as is.

A church cleaning day when my cousin Kathy and I decided to dump Tide into the baptistry and give it a good scrubbing, but then we couldn’t get the suds out. For months, we held our breath in fear of bubbles at every baptism.

The way my Aunt Rosalie used to corner us at the entrance to the fellowship hall to make sure we knew where her apple dessert was. Also, her mischievous sense of humor and the way she and my cousin Richard used to tease each other.

Vacation Bible School cookies and Kool-Aid.

The “lis-ten, sit, down” and “lis-ten, stand, up” chords that were always part of the Bible School music I had to learn to play every year.

The peaceful way an older gentleman in our church used to close all his prayers with “and when we reach the end of life’s journey . . .”

My Great Uncle Clyde’s practice of giving the Lord specific direction when he prayed for the sick: “We ask that you bless Sister Green, room 304 Brookwood Medical Center . . .”

My maternal grandmother’s justification for sketchy church attendance: “I am not a Baptist. I’m a member of the Christian Church.” Also the way she would rummage through her purse all during the sermon, which would send my Aunt Joyce absolutely into orbit.

Kids in homemade angel costumes at Christmas.

Christmas cantata music all marked up: Hold 4 counts. Sally sings here. Don’t rush this part . . .

Responsive reading. (Boldface, lightface, boldface, lightface)

Seventies youth choir. (“I Wish We’d All Been Ready,” “Pass It On,” “Part the Waters”)

Ice cream suppers.

Right hand of Christian fellowship.

“Blest Be the Tie”

Sunday Morning Serenity

My mother’s favorite hymn is “Blessed Assurance.” Probably a close second is “For the Beauty of the Earth.” I never connected those two before, but this morning when I was sitting on the porch of the Story Shack, having the coffee that is required to make me human in the early hours, both songs popped into my head.

Right now, there’s nothing I find more assuring than the beauty of the earth. I think it’s because I feel so removed from everything else. For my parents’ safety, as well as our own, Dave and I have been keeping our social contact to a minimum, which doesn’t often bother introverted me, but every know and then I get this overwhelming sense of disconnection.

That’s when I go outside. And it gives me assurance. The earth was so beautifully and divinely engineered that it has survived everything we’ve put it through, though not without serious and lasting damage. It has rebounded in our confinement.

Years ago, my friend Art and I were on Louisiana’s Atchafalaya River for Southern Living, guided by a Cajun fisherman. As we glided past centuries-old cypress trees, he said something I’ve never forgotten. He said white men once accused Native Americans of being uncivilized, but native tribes lived on this earth for hundreds of years without leaving a footprint, so now who’s uncivilized? (He put it a little more bluntly than that.)

We so often judge other people in relation to ourselves, when we should see them—and ourselves—as part of something far bigger.

My parents get that. They sit on their back porch and talk about the critters that come and go as if they know them personally. Because they do. There’s “that lizard with the stubby tail” and “that hummingbird that won’t share the feeder” and even “that wasp that stays on the railing all the time.” They share their back-porch world with the lizard and the hummingbird and the wasp, maybe because they know who was there first.

Me? I’m looking out the door of the Shack, watching for that big brown rabbit who has been turning up lately and hoping he feels welcome in the overgrown shrubbery at the edge of our yard.

Another Mama favorite that’s speaking to me this morning:

I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills,
from whence cometh my help.
My help cometh from the Lord,
which made heaven and earth.
He will not suffer thy foot to be moved:
he that keepeth thee will not slumber.
Behold, he that keepeth Israel shall neither slumber nor sleep.
The Lord is thy keeper:
the Lord is thy shade upon thy right hand.
The sun shall not smite thee by day,
nor the moon by night.
The Lord shall preserve thee from all evil:
he shall preserve thy soul.
The Lord shall preserve thy going out and thy coming in
from this time forth, and even for evermore.

Psalm 121

Sunday Morning Serenity

Yesterday I went to the mailbox expecting the usual ads and bills but instead pulled out a card from a dear old friend who took the time to write the sweetest message. In a nutshell, what she said was, “Sometimes I think you need reminding that you matter.”

My. Goodness. When is the last time I took the time to do something like that? I made an immediate commitment to mail at least three cards this week "and this time I mean it" because it was so uplifting. And so unexpected. And given my general state of self-absorption these days, undeserved. But I’m so thankful for it. And for her. And for all the friends I can’t hug right now.

We might think the people we love don’t need to hear that simple message, but they do: You matter.

That sweet card moved into “God is trying to tell you something” territory when I opened Biblegateway.com this morning and read the verse of the day:

Are not five sparrows
sold for two farthings,
and not one of them is forgotten before God?
But even the very hairs of your head
are all numbered.
Fear not therefore:
ye are of more value than many sparrows.
Luke 12:6-7

So much in The Big Bad World devalues human beings—from violence to mean Facebook comments. We daily devalue each other, and that’s not how we're meant to be. If God values each of us—not just humanity in general but each one of us in particular—then we should value each other.

And if there’s a silver lining to all the social distancing and quarantining, I hope it’s that it teaches us to value each other—to treasure the simple joy of a hug or a handshake or a backyard burger shared with friends and family.

My prayer, this Sunday morning, is that distance makes us value togetherness and celebrate the gift of community.

[Image by Aleksandar Momirovic @ Freerangestock.com]

Sunday Morning Serenity

I guess this year has made all of us a little philosophical. We've definitely had more time to think. This morning, I've been thinking about my job and what a big part of my life it has been. Southern Living has been a life-long enrollment in continuing education, and I'm not just talking about all the talented people who took the time to mentor me over the years. Every story—the story itself—was an education, but a few will always stand out—one in particular that I've written about before but it's on my mind this morning.

When I met Pastor Shirley Caesar, she was wearing jeans and a blue sweater, her hair pulled back with a headband. She looked about 20 years younger than she actually was. (And no way was she going to allow photographs of her in blue jeans and a headband.) There was some confusion about her schedule. She wasn't sure why I was there with a photographer. (Art Meripol, was that you? I'm picturing you there for some reason, but it has been so long ago I can't remember.) It was lunchtime, and she hadn't eaten. She was busy. Why was I there again? She said she could give us 30 minutes at best. A couple of hours later—after a long lunch during which she told me all about her childhood beginnings in gospel music, all the famous soul singers she got to know when they were getting their start in gospel, and the evolution of gospel over her decades as a singer and minister—we came back to her house and sat down together at her white grand piano. She showed me some chords I had never seen. I couldn't believe I was sitting at the piano with Shirley Caesar, whose music I had known since I was a kid. 

She told me about all the things she had to do that day and it made me tired just listening to her. I asked her how she kept up that pace. Didn't she ever want time just for herself? And that's when she said: "We aren't put here to do what we want to do; we're put here to do what needs to be done." Then she changed into her glitzy stage clothes, hair, and makeup so we could get our pictures, and we went on our way. Shortly thereafter, I returned to the piano bench at my home church—something I thought I would never do.

It's strange when you think about it—how someone I met only once could lead me, with just a few words, back to the service I was called to. As much as anything I've ever experienced, that afternoon demonstrated, for me, that God really does put us in each other's paths. I had jumped at the chance to interview Pastor Caesar because I wanted to hear about her music. But in the process, she reconnected me with mine.

Another sign of our strange times—being physically separated just heightens our awareness of how spiritually and emotionally connected we are. 

I'm thankful, this morning, for the ties that bind.

 

Sunday Morning Serenity

 

Have you ever felt so many different emotions at one time that words failed you? You couldn't even wrap your mind around it all, let alone verbalize it?

That's where I am this morning. From Daddy's first trip to the emergency room, through a hospital stay, then coronavirus exposure for all of us, then quarantine, then the prayed-for negatives for Dave and me and Daddy's steady improvement, then yesterday I saw my parents for the first time in what seems like an eternity and went inside their house (masked, of course) for the first time since late March. And through it all, the blanket of prayer, love, and support wrapped around all of us by our friends and family.

As my dear friend Jane used to say, "I MEAN!"

All I can say is thank you, Lord. Thank you.

This morning, I was drawn to a song that our choir used to sing. (I can still hear you singing the solo, sweet Ashley:) 

Much love to all the friends and family I look forward to hugging—and praying with and singing with and laughing with and eating 9x13 church casseroles
with—when we can gather together again.

Fear not, for I am with you;
Be not dismayed, for I am your God.
I will strengthen you,
Yes, I will help you,
I will uphold you with My righteous right hand.

Isaiah 41:10

 

Sunday Morning Serenity

The word of the day is JUST.

I’ve been thinking about it a lot for the past two weeks because we hear it so much in the media these days. And here’s the thing about this small but powerful word: It can elevate humanity or diminish it.

First the elevated.

We're in the midst of an awakening, calling ourselves and challenging ourselves to rethink what is fair and just. Can we find a path to treating all people—not just the ones who look, sound, think, and believe like us—with justice and respect? We don’t all agree on what “just” looks like, but we’re at least talking about it, aspiring to it.

It might help to revisit the “just” that God calls us to:

Defend the poor and fatherless:
do justice to the afflicted and needy.
Psalm 82:3

Finally, brethren, whatsoever things are true,
whatsoever things are honest,
whatsoever things are just,
whatsoever things are pure,
whatsoever things are lovely,
whatsoever things are of good report;
if there be any virtue,
and if there be any praise,
think on these things.
Phillippians 4:8

[Christ speaking to his disciples]:
A new commandment I give unto you,
That ye love one another;
as I have loved you,
that ye also love one another.
By this shall all men know that ye are my disciples,
if ye have love one to another.
John 13:34-35

 For, brethren, ye have been called unto liberty;
only use not liberty for an occasion to the flesh,
but by love serve one another.
For all the law is fulfilled in one word, even in this;
Thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself.
Galatians 5:13-14

Loving each other as Christ loved us, which is to say, unconditionally and sacrificially—that goes way beyond the human definition of “just,” which we generally take to mean what we deserve as human beings, what we have a right to. Christ said give love even when it hasn’t been “earned.” Even when you don’t think it’s deserved. Give it freely. Put others before yourself.

It’s such a short command but such a high one: “Love one another as I have loved you.”

And now for the diminishing “just.”

It's an all too human one, I think, because it's a way of keeping a very scary contagion at arm's length: It’s just the elderly. It’s just people with other health problems. It’s just poor people without good doctors. It’s just the deaths we need to pay attention to. 

Most of us could name plenty of elderly friends and family we aren't ready to give up, people who have lived long and rich lives, with still more to give, more life to enjoy, and plenty of wisdom to share. We know young people with preexisting health conditions. We have middle-aged friends and family who are otherwise healthy except for one manageable chronic issue. We have sense enough to know that struggling communities deserve our help, not our scorn.

I don’t shock that easily any more. None of us do, given the barrage of media coming at us every day, all day long, but “just the deaths” shocks me every time I see it.

“The deaths” aren’t numbers, they’re people—somebody’s mother, father, son or daughter, sister, brother, aunt, uncle, or grandparent. Each one of them represents a family that will never be the same.

Health care workers and first responders aren’t risking their lives and the health of their families for the dead, but for the living—to try and keep them that way. And in the process, some of them become one of “the deaths.”

Next time you hear or read “the deaths,” replace it in your mind with “beloved family members tragically lost.”

JUST.

My prayer, this Sunday morning, is that we can embrace “whatsoever things" are honest, just, pure, and lovely—God’s “just”—and banish the other from our hearts and our vocabulary. We're called to love and never diminish each other, now more than ever.