Goin' Down to Mama's

Sunday Morning Serenity

I feel like we’ve boarded that long rollercoaster ride from winter to spring. It’s rainy and warm one minute, sunny and biting cold the next. My daffodils are blooming, but the heat’s on high and I’m writing with a blanket wrapped around me like a grandma shawl. I’ve got an ice cold can of fizzy water and a hot cup of coffee next to me, and I’m alternating between them.

Cheeto’s pretty calm this morning, but yesterday he aggravated the stew out of me because he couldn’t make up his mind whether he wanted to be inside or out, so he kept pawing at the door from both sides—wanting in when he was out and wanting out when he was in. But then, I sort of feel that way myself so I cut him some slack and obliged his indecision. We just have to accept that we’re in a state of transition I guess.

Seasonal changes tend to make me think of bigger transitions, like the ones they talk about in that "Kevin" commercial. The Kevin changes aren't easy. And they aren't always smooth. Sometimes you don’t even realize you're in the midst of one until, well, you're in the midst of it. But change is a natural part of life. (Not an original thought, but the one that's on my mind this morning.)

When I was a young writer, eager for my first big story at Southern Living, you never could’ve convinced me that, one day, I would get just as much joy out of helping other new writers with their first pieces in the magazine. But I do. Their excitement is contagious, and it reminds me of all the seasoned editors who coached me when I was as green as green could be. Conversely, I’ve had to embrace the digital world, patiently guided by the same young crew just venturing into print. I like to think we’re helping each other navigate our respective learning curves.

Yesterday, Dave and I were laughing about the area in our house that’s most crowded with stuff and most prone to clutter—it's the U-shaped space around the television. Are we becoming that old couple who stop everything to watch “our programs” together? Yikes. That’s a transition we’re going to fight a little longer—even though we sometimes discuss the need to eat more fruit, there’s a blood pressure cuff in the living room, and Advil has become a food group.

Transitions.

Here’s the thing about them: They’re only scary on the front end. Once you’ve completed the move from one place in your life to another, or at least accepted it, you’re fine. It’s the movement that feels uncertain, the first step that’s the hardest. Sometimes, you can’t make it all by yourself, and that’s okay. Most of us can’t.

This was the daily Scripture I found on Bible Gateway this morning:

Humble yourselves before the Lord, and He will lift you up.
                                                                                    James 4:10

I used to think that “humble yourselves” meant to acknowledge that God is greater than we are. True. But it also means “admit that we need help and trust God to provide what we can’t.”

Humility isn't a weakness. Humility before God is the gateway to courage.

Sunday Morning Serenity

My high school graduating class is planning a reunion for early summer. And my own mother gasped loudly when I told her it was our fortieth. If your Mama is shocked to realize how old you are, does that mean you’re seriously old?? I think it might.

It’s strange what you remember from way back then—especially once you reach the age where you can never remember why you just walked into whatever room you’re standing in. I thought I was grown when I could drive myself (in my parents’ car) to Sisters Sure Save (which we called Abbotts’) and buy myself a Coke and a candy bar from a white wooden cabinet with a glass door. I remember that Toto’s “Hold the Line” sounded especially good on the stereo in my friend Sarah’s Buick Regal. I remember how great those little lunchroom pizzas tasted (though I can’t remember which day was “pizza day,” which some of my classmates were recently discussing). I remember the big tree next to the gym doors. Those silver chalk holders the elementary teachers used to keep the white dust off their hands. The sounds of lockers slamming and sneakers climbing bleachers and Mrs. Killough's P.E. whistle blowing. I remember our annual visit from "The Snake Man." (Thanks to him, we learned how to distinguish between a coral snake and a kingsnake: "Red on yella, kill a fella . . .")

When you’re young, you think your life will be defined by the Big Moments—maybe a college degree and your first “real job,” maybe marriage and children, maybe both. And it is, to an extent. But it’s also defined by the little ones—a giggle-ridden slumber party, an especially good pizza, a favorite song on the radio. (Side note: I could NOT have survived high school without Linda Ronstadt, who spoke to my teen angst and drama like nobody else.)

I have a dreadful habit of always trying to skip ahead—focusing on what “will be” at some distant point in the future instead of appreciating and fully experiencing the here and now. But there’s pure gold in the here and now. There was back then and there is right now.

Reminding myself this Sunday morning to try and live each day as it comes and appreciate it as it unfolds. No skipping ahead.

Sunday Morning Serenity

There’s a Kate Campbell song called “Waiting for the Weather to Break,” and I feel like that’s what most of us spent yesterday morning doing—anticipating an unknown “something” out there, wondering just how bad it would be, preparing as best we could, and hoping it passed quickly. If “waiting for the weather to break” isn’t a metaphor for life’s hurdles, I don’t know what is. Then again, maybe that’s only true for the Worry Wart Club, of which I am president, grand marshall, and chairman of the board.

It’s not an original thought to say that storms make us appreciate the blue skies, or that bad times teach us to give thanks for the good. Still, it’s a notion worth reviewing. Our struggles and storms do make us appreciate our blessings—our Shelter—all the more. They make us care more deeply for those who didn’t come through unscathed, who have lost more than any of us could’ve imagined. They make us appreciate the gift of life.

The first thing I noticed this morning was how beautiful the light was, once the storm had passed and the sun turned the bare trees shades of yellow and gold. I never truly appreciated the beauty of trees till I worked at Southern Living and met garden editors who would plant them as much for their bare winter bark as their warm-weather leaves and blooms. They showed me how to fully enjoy what I had seen only halfway.

Giving thanks this morning for safety and sunlight; lifting up those who suffered loss; working to fully appreciate, with sincere gratitude, what I often take for granted. Every day is a gift.

Sunday Morning Serenity

My fat clothes are tight. What’s new with you?

I probably should’ve made a New Year’s resolution to lose 30 pounds, but I didn’t. Instead, I’m adopting, as my resolution, the wise words of my dear friend Jane, who used to say, “Sometimes you’ve just gotta let the rough end drag.”

This year, I resolve to do what I can while accepting that I cannot do everything. And when I’ve done all I can do, I will let the rest go. I will let the rough end drag.

We weren’t built to live the way so many of us live—at least, I don't think so. The call to rest has been with us since Genesis. Once you become alert to them, you’ll see all kinds of references to rest and private time in the New Testament—moments when Jesus took time to pray privately or get away from the crowds and be with those closest to Him. 

I’ve gotten to the point in life where I can say, “I don’t want to go 90 miles an hour 24/7.” Yesterday, I said to Dave, “You know I’m starting to understand why old people like to nap a lot.” (The older I get, the older “old people” get. When I was a teenager, people in their 50s were old people. Now? What’s a number?)

And so, I intended to clean out all my kitchen cabinets before I went back to work after the holidays. But I ran out of time and energy. I did, however, clean out the ones most likely to cause disease if neglected any longer. And I am okay with that.

I still haven’t put away what few Christmas decorations I displayed, but I have taken them down. And I don’t think they can bring bad luck in the floor.

Yesterday, Dave and I finally had the financial summit I’ve been avoiding for a month. Talking about or even thinking about money stresses me out. Fortunately, Dave brings a calm Midwestern logic to the table and the whole thing was entirely painless. We made our decisions and are ready to charge ahead. Well . . . maybe “charge” is not the right word . . .

I probably won’t recover my waist in time for our class reunion, but I can move more and sit less. I can eat better. I can reinterpret my time on the treadmill so that it’s not a workout but, rather, my hour to listen to my favorite music while sweating. I can, as my wise sister cousin Kathy reminded me recently, accept that I can’t take care of anybody else if I don’t take care of myself.

Repeat after me: It is not an indulgence to take care of my own health. I need rest. I will let the rough end drag.

Sunday Morning Serenity

[Image by Eric Yuen at Freerangestock.com]

I was struggling with what I should write this morning, but then just before daylight, it started to rain, and the sound of raindrops sprinkling the leaves made me stop thinking altogether and just listen.

I’ve always found nature to be a fine companion. Dave would laugh REALLY loud to hear me say that because he constantly tells me I don’t get outside enough. (He doesn’t know how much time I spend writing with the Story Shack doors wide open—my version of “outside” when I’ve got deadlines.)

When I was a kid, there was a big fallen tree at the edge of a cotton field behind my parents’ house. It was just below a little rise in the field, so you couldn’t see it from the house, which made it seem private. I called it my thinking tree and would climb up on the trunk to reflect on whatever life crises I had at 12 or so. There was something about the scent of that red dirt and the sound of a breeze stirring the hedgerow that made me feel like everything would work out somehow.

Back then, I loved to watch the sky turn purple and feel the big wind when a thunderstorm blew in. I still do, though I have a healthier respect for what weather can do now.

When it started to rain this morning, I remembered a song our choir used to sing. It’s by Hillsong: Holy Spirit, rain down, rain down; let Your power fall, let Your voice be heard, come and change our lives as we stand on Your Word.

Note to self regarding prayer life: Stop thinking and just listen. Let the Voice be heard.

 

 

Sunday Morning Serenity

This is one of THOSE holiday weekends—way too much to do in way too little time. It’s my last weekend with my third book, so it’s now or never to make any big changes. We have the only dark house in a cluster of festive ones, all lit up for Christmas. Amazon boxes coming and going. Busiest week of the year at work, likely beginning tomorrow.

Dave says I probably, seriously, really, really need to slow down.

So I took a break from everything yesterday afternoon to toss some icicle lights over the picture window and set up our Nativity in a new spot—in front of the window, on a trunk that Dave made.

Just looking at it makes me calm. My heart rate and blood pressure seem to drop a few notches. And I give myself permission to just “be still and know.”

Last week, I reconnected with a dear friend from my Baylor days. She sings with a choir called Bel Canto Company, whose music is so beautiful. Sharing a little of it this morning and wishing you the peace and joy of the first Christmas this season.

(P.S. Love you, Anne!)

 

 

Sunday Morning Serenity

I guess this big football weekend has me thinking back to my time on The Plains. As an only child who had never been anywhere, I had a rough adjustment to college. But once I got over that hump, my Auburn years were some of the happiest of my life—final exams notwithstanding. (That's me and my big hair, studying on the steps of the apartment Missey and I shared around 1983 or 84.)

During those first trying weeks, I thought that if I could ever get myself situated and satisfied in college, then everything would be easy. But that wasn’t true. What happens when you love the home you left and grow to love the one you’ve come to is that you’re always missing somebody. You’re always telling somebody goodbye—either your friends when you go home or your family when you return to school.

That’s a pattern that followed me for years. Good things always seemed to come with partings—leaving home for Auburn, leaving Auburn for Baylor, leaving Baylor for my first job (back at Auburn), leaving again for what would become my career in Birmingham . . . It was actually a relief to travel with Southern Living photographers who struggled with the same dilemma—that we couldn’t do the work we loved without leaving the people we loved, at least for a little while. The flip side, of course, is that we met people and explored places that stayed with us always. (That’s the thing about great stories—they never really leave you. Maybe that’s why I love them so much.)

We’ve entered a season of partings and reunions—Christmas Eve with one side of the family and Christmas Day with the other; college students coming home for Christmas break and returning to their friends after the holidays.

It's much bigger than that, of course. A Father and Son temporarily parted. A birth to overcome death. A promise of homecoming and reunion.

Let not your heart be troubled:
ye believe in God, believe also in me.
In my father’s house are many mansions:
if it were not so, I would have told you.
I go to prepare a place for you.
And if I go and prepare a place for you,
I will come again, and receive you unto myself;
that where I am, there ye may be also.
John 14: 1-4

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sunday Morning Serenity

Mama’s always said I’m not very good at doing nothing. For the past week, however, I haven’t had a choice. I got walloped by what I would describe as gastro-intestinal mayhem of epic proportions, enhanced by the occasional fever and chills. It introduced itself, as these things do, right at the beginning of a Southern Living sales meeting, which I had to flee—literally—hoping against hope that I didn’t share it with anybody there.

For the first three days, I couldn’t even focus enough to watch TV or listen to an audiobook. All I could do was . . . absolutely nothing. Until I was finally well enough to sleep. And sleep. And sleep. I had no idea how tired I was.

The triage nurse at my doctor’s office said it was likely a virus going around. Mama diagnosed it as e coli and made me promise never to eat lettuce again as long as I live. She also pointed out that I rarely get this sick, and when I do, exhaustion is generally a factor.

We say it all the time: “I’m sick and tired of [insert whatever you’re sick and tired of here].” Sick and tired often travel together, don’t they? But maybe the other way around: We get so tired that we become sick. Mama says that if you won’t stop yourself and rest, your body will eventually do the stopping for you. I think she’s right. (Who are we kidding? She’s always right.)

Rest is important—a necessity, not a luxury—physically and spiritually. Yes, there’s work to be done, but we also need time to rest and recharge, to be still and be fed. So if you're at the point where you feel like you just can't go any more—stop. What needs to be done will somehow get done. It always does. 

Rest and peace to you this Sunday morning.

[Image by Freerangestock.com]

 

Sunday Morning Serenity

One of my “baby” cousins joined the Army recently—farther away from home than he has ever been and sharing close quarters with young men from all over the place and all kinds of circumstances. He'll be graduating soon.

The only thing I have to compare with his experience is my freshman dorm at Auburn. I’m guessing boot camp is a little different. But the exposure to a bigger world is similar. My first roommates were a millionaire’s daughter, a military kid, and a girl from South Florida who was shopping for designer shoes while I was going through a Western-wear phase and listening to a lot of Willie Nelson.

You don’t realize how small your world is until you step out of it, which is scary at first. But it also makes you grateful. I never appreciated my mother’s cooking more than when I was living on Kraft macaroni and cheese and frozen chicken fingers. I didn’t appreciate Daddy’s fun-loving nature and sense of humor until I met girls with distant fathers who had never told them a joke or listened to records with them or taken them to a creek bank for the day. I'm guessing Baby Cuz has had a similar experience.

Back then, I couldn’t wait to get away from home. Now? Let's just say Dave and I have our regular assigned seats at Mama's table.

 

 

 

 

Sunday Morning Serenity

[Image by Chance Agrella @ Freerangestock.com]

Nothing’s more welcome than shelter when we need it.

Think of every time you ever ran inside just as it started to rain or warmed your hands in front of a warm fire on a cold, windy day. It’s a relief and a comfort like no other.

One of the few times Dave and I rented a beach house for a whole week, we kept an eye out for storm clouds because we loved watching big weather roll in from the Gulf while we sat safe and dry on a deep porch high above the wet ground below.

Years before we married, I called him from a work conference in Sundance, Utah, because I wanted to tell him about one of the most amazing places I ever stayed—a mountain chalet with a deck right over a swift-flowing river. I was there in the springtime, and I tried to imagine what it must be like to tuck into a gorgeous cabin like that and sit in front of a roaring fire, looking out at the mountains covered with snow.

We run to physical shelter without even thinking, but sometimes we can’t even admit that we need spiritual shelter—when we face a problem that won’t go away, or the challenges of the world get way too big for us. It’s hard to admit we need a porch to run to or a fire to sit by. A "shelter in the time of our storm."

Dave and I spent the past couple of months trying to untangle a knot in our future retirement plans, and it did NOT want to be untangled. We were frustrated and stressed. Getting soaked. Feeling the chill. Finally, we both agreed that we were in a situation bigger than the two of us, and we’d just have to turn it over to God. Which we did. We ran onto the porch.

Now the knot is untangled—maybe not the way we originally saw it happening but in a way that taught us a lot and worked out for the best in the end.

When nothing we do is enough, maybe that means it’s time to ask for help—time to come in from the weather and accept the grace of a warm fire.

The shelter of God’s grace and peace to you this Sunday morning.