The Gospels record Christ’s birth, which happened at night, and His resurrection, which came in the morning—from darkness to light, as Isaiah prophesied:
The people walking in darkness
have seen a great light;
on those living in the land of deep darkness
a light has dawned.
Isaiah 9:2
Christ’s love, light, grace, and peace to you this Easter morning.
This is a story about vintage Florida postcards and nurses and the Book of Hebrews. I think I can pull it off because I’m on my second cup of coffee. Even so, prepare for a ramble because I’m not sure where this one’s going.
I’m working on a book manuscript that’s partially set in Florida in 1947. And while I was researching it, I ran across lots of old postcards online. I caught myself feeling a little smug, looking at images on little rectangles of linen paper, inviting me to marvel at a parrot or be amazed by a porpoise leaping up to catch a dangled fish. How touristy! How naïve those travelers were back in the day.
But I imagine, decades from now, some whippersnapper will be turning up her nose at my Instagram vacation photos (if I ever remember to post any, and Instagram lives as long as those old postcards). I’ll get the same “bless her heart” I just gave the tourists of yesteryear. Plus, I’m old enough to remember when the glass-bottom boat at Silver Springs was all that. Everybody wanted to ride it. Truth be told, I probably still would, given the chance, so I’m not exactly the picture of sophistication.
Those postcards reminded me of something I used to hear a lot when I was freelancing and Interviewing nurse scientists at UAB: “You don’t know what you don’t know.” In other words, there’s knowledge and truth waiting for us out there, and until we seek it out, we won’t know what we’re missing. We don’t know how much we have yet to understand. (For example, those iconic Florida flamingos were initially shipped in from South America, or so I read.)
I know I’ve quoted this passage before, but it fascinates me because it’s very much in keeping with “we don’t know what we don’t know.” It’s in Hebrews 8:5, which talks about earthly priests, who “serve at a sanctuary that is a copy and shadow of what is in heaven.” Remember how they used to tell schoolkids to view a shadow of an eclipse? Something about a pin hole through a piece of cardboard—I forget the details—but the idea was that our eyes couldn’t handle looking directly at the real thing, so we had to be satisfied with the safer (but not nearly as beautiful) shadow.
And then this: “By faith we understand that the universe was formed at God’s command, so that what is seen was not made out of what was visible.” (Hebrews 11:3) I could think about that all day. What we see of the world was originally made of something we can’t see. (And it still is, to some degree, hence the need for microscopes and telescopes.)
It's very hard to accept that some things are beyond our understanding and that we have to be satisfied with a shadow of the real thing, for now. And if we feel that way, imagine how early Christians must have felt on this jubilant day, now called Palm Sunday, as they slowly realized where a Jerusalem street, filled with hosannas, was leading. Sorrow and suffering were coming. But so were resurrection and redemption. They just couldn't see it yet.
Peace to you this Sunday morning.
Rory the curious toddler paid us a couple of visits yesterday, with his mother and grandmother close on his heels.
I have to wonder—if Rory had a to-do list, what would it look like:
In one sense, maturing is about acquiring—knowledge, experience, judgment. But if we aren't watchful, it can also be about shedding—our sense of wonder, our joy, our excitement over something as simple as a swing or an orange cat.
I’m the world’s worst at getting so caught up in my to-do list that I don’t even remember where I put my to-enjoy list. My to-marvel-at list. My to-giggle-about list.
I'm taking a cue from Rory this week. Yes, I have lots of work to do. But my azaleas are blooming and tomato season is coming and the outdoor pool at the gym is about to open.
Clap hands. Giggle. Squeal with delight.
[Image by Jordan Whitt @ Freerangestock.com]
Do you ever feel like you’re in the middle of a personal change of seasons?
I was thinking about that this morning as I walked through the wee-hour air to the Story Shack. Yesterday, it was chilly in the morning, sunny and warm in the afternoon. This morning it’s cool and damp. Winter and spring are clearly in a tug of war. And sometimes it seems like my “inner seasons” (good heavens—I sound like Dr. Phil) are battling each other, part of me ready for change, the other part clinging to the familiar.
I’ve never done change well, and yet there are times when I long for it—usually when I’m at one of those “something’s gotta give” points that we all come to sooner or later.
The Easter season tends to bring it out in me. Easter is such a promise—of hope and grace, of transformation and renewal. That’s a wonderful word—renewal—the idea of being made new, our old mistakes washed away, a new beginning handed to us. Nothing we earned. Nothing we deserve. Just . . . here is this gift of grace and forgiveness—accept it and begin a fresh new day.
So it can be as cool, damp, and gray as it wants to this morning. I know spring is coming.
The other day, my friend Amanda posted a Facebook video of her little girl—The Mae Mae—talking about the kind of merry-go-round she wanted to ride: “A Spider Man Merry Go Round with super heroes, princesses, Elsa, Anna, coffee grounds, teachers, and children.”
I’m a little puzzled by the coffee grounds, but hey—it’s Mae’s vision so we’re going with it. If she wants super heroes and coffee grounds on board, she has my full support.
I love the endless possibilities of Mae’s merry-go-round—and her fierce belief that she can and will ride it. I’ve always been bad about talking myself out of things before I even give them a try. There’s a very good chance that I’m not a daredevil.
On the other hand, some of my best experiences have come from pushing myself into trying something that terrified me. Not long ago, an interviewer asked me what I do to relax after writing, and I told her that writing is relaxing—it’s the book signings that make me take to the couch with Cheeto the Cat afterward. Once they’re over, I come home and tell Dave how much fun I had, but I’m always apprehensive beforehand—in part because my penmanship is atrocious and in part because I’m just naturally apprehensive. I’ve raised worrying to an art form. And I have to remember to “consider the lilies.”
Consider the lilies how they grow:
they toil not, they spin not; and yet I say unto you,
that Solomon in all his glory
was not arrayed like one of these.
If then God so clothe the grass,
which is today in the field,
and tomorrow is cast into the oven;
how much more will he clothe you,
O ye of little faith?
Luke 12:27-28
Granny used to tell me that she only worried about things if she could do something about them—in other words, if she had options and a decision to make. But she didn't see any point in worrying about anything beyond her control. You had to leave that in God's hands. Good advice.
The next time I’m feeling my old familiar doubts, I'll try to remember Granny's wisdom and faith. And I'll think of Mae, with her Spider Man merry-go-round—the one with super heroes, princesses, Elsa, Anna, teachers, and children. And coffee grounds.
[Image by Jack Moreh @ Freerangestock.com]
Today is St. Patrick’s Day. I never thought much about it till I married a good Catholic boy from Up North. (I tried my best to like corned beef on St. Patty’s Day, but it just wasn’t meant to be.)
This morning, I was reading about the real St. Patrick on Britannica.com and learned that he was born in Britain, taken from his family by Irish raiders, and enslaved for six years, a time when he had only his faith to rely on for strength and hope. He escaped and returned to Britain but was held against his will yet again before finally being reunited with his family. Then God called him to help the very people who had started the harsh chain of events in his life—the Irish.
He resisted at first because he wasn’t well educated and didn’t believe he was ready to lead, but eventually he felt such a strong pull toward the Irish people that he had to go. Once he was there, he let go of his doubts and fears, preaching the message of Christ all across the country yet always dealing compassionately with non-Christians.
The threats to his life never went away. But their power to stop him did.
So many times I’ve let my own fear and doubt get in the way of what God has already empowered me to do, if I would only step out on faith.
Praying, this Sunday morning, for more faith, less fear, more willingness to serve, less doubt about my readiness.
The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.
He maketh me to lie down in green pastures:
he leadeth me beside the still waters.
He restoreth my soul:
he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness
for his name's sake.
Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,
I will fear no evil: for thou art with me;
thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.
Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies:
thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.
Surely goodness and mercy
shall follow me all the days of my life:
and I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever.
Psalm 23
[Shamrock image by Brian J Geraghty @ Freerangestock.com]
Rory was on the loose yesterday. He’s the fair-haired toddler who lives next door. I hear his baby brother, Calim, can stand up now, so it won’t be long until he’s running all over this hill, as well.
My first sight of Rory yesterday afternoon was his backside as he gleefully ran toward his house, just ahead of his mom. He had been playing in their backyard and at some point decided clothing was optional. The next time I saw him, he was clothed and sitting on my back steps (after busting through the kitchen door to see what Dave was doing) while his mom and grandmother did their best to corral him. He decided I was worthy of a game of peekaboo. A first. But then he spotted Cheeto. “Meow!!!” Game over. No way was an old lady going to hold his attention with a cat on the premises.
It’s so much fun to watch Rory in action because he has absolutely no sense of “can’t”: I can open that door! I can chase that cat! I can climb that hill!
Also, everything is interesting to him. (Well, for a second or two.) What’s that? I think I’ll step on it. Hey what’s up there? How does this work? What does that do? Look! A light!
His mind is working as fast as his little feet, which never stop moving.
I think one of our greatest losses, as we get older, is that we forget to be amazed. A hummingbird, a butterfly, a sunrise—they’re all amazing, but I look right past them on my way to get this or that “extremely important” task done.
Spring is all but here. I think I’ll try to follow Rory’s lead and be amazed.
Pictured above, from left: Me in all my prairie fashion glory; Sarah Spates Slaughter; Cindy Casaday Allen; Wanda Walker Snyder; Ramona Bearden Martin.
It’s not easy being a preacher’s kid, or “PK,” especially in a small Southern community. And it can’t be easy raising PKs, either, because the whole family’s living life in a fishbowl. As a young teenager, I got so see both done exceptionally well.
The Casadays at my school were just normal kids like the rest of us—sweating exams and prom dates and all the other WORST PROBLEMS EVER that teenagers have. Cindy Casaday was one of my closest friends, part of a circle of girls who did just about everything together. We all talked about boys and grades and makeup and clothes and how to get our “wings” to lie flat (mine never did).
But you could also see the Christian faith the Casadays were raised with, not because they were preachy (kiss of death in high school), but because they were honest and kind and compassionate; because they happily participated with young people in their church; because they respected their parents.
The things I remember most about sleepovers at Cindy’s—the pastorium for Hepzibah Baptist Church—were (1) the formal living room where church receptions were sometimes held, which we were not allowed to mess up; (2) the quiet presence of her dad, who was the pastor at Hepzibah—he would always find time to say hello to our giggling brood, but then he let teenagers be teenagers; (3) and Cindy’s mom, a force of nature who could somehow sit down and talk with all of us girls to find out what was going on with us, welcome pop-in church members, get supper on the table, and remind Cindy and her brothers to help the kids from that new family fit in and feel welcome. They were a well-oiled machine, all working together in support of Brother Casaday’s ministry but more than that—in support of his mission in the community, in support of sharing God’s love and grace. It was completely genuine.
We lost Brother Casaday to a stroke this week. He preached his last sermon last Sunday and had just turned 88. As our friend Amy said, there has surely never been a more “good and faithful servant.”
I feel so blessed to have had the Casadays in my life—especially as an impressionable teenager. Every time I visited their home, I saw it: Faith isn’t just something you have—it’s something you do, something you live, every day.
Thinking of Cindy and her family today as they say a temporary goodbye to Brother Casaday.
I was wandering around YouTube recently and ran across several interviews with Linda Ronstadt. After she announced that she had Parkinson’s disease and couldn’t sing any more, everybody wanted to talk with her. Before then, I can’t remember the last time I saw her interviewed on TV. Why is that? Why does it take something dramatic—tragic even—happening to somebody to make us appreciate them?
I spent many an angst-ridden teenage night huddled up in my room with one of Linda’s hurtin’ songs spinning on the turntable. Maybe I just didn’t realize what that music was doing for me way back then. Maybe I don’t realize what the special people who touch my life on an average day are doing for me now. But I want to.
We can get on such a treadmill that we don’t look up much. But we need to. It’s important—to be aware, to be attuned, to be grateful even for the little things—like daffodils blooming in all the rain we've had.
I'll be striving—in all the daily striving—to stop, breathe, look around, and be thankful.
It’s raining outside. But I can’t hear it over the heater in the Story Shack, and it’s too cold in here without the heater, so I’m in the Shack, door closed, heater on, with nature sounds playing on iTunes so I can hear the sound of rain. Cheeto couldn’t be more confused: Why is her desk thundering, and why are we not wet because I’m sure I hear rain?
I’ve always loved changes in the weather, especially dramatic ones. Both of my parents are bona fide nature lovers, so I guess I come by it honest. I especially love thunderstorms, as long as there’s no chance of a “whirligator”—Daddy’s term for a tornado.
Yesterday, I stared at my computer screen for the longest time, trying to figure out how to describe the movement and sound of a palm tree when a coastal storm is moving in. Palm trees don’t sway like other trees, and palm fronds don’t move like tree branches, do they? The sound they make is incredible. I could listen to it for hours. It’s relaxing you and warning you all at the same time: Feel the Gulf breeze and breathe the salt air, but by the way, a storm is approaching, and you’ll be soaked if you don’t get inside.
We can find millions of things to be stressed about in the manmade world. But the natural world God gave us shouldn’t be ignored or taken for granted. It can soothe and heal and thrill us every day if we let it.
Wishing you time under a blue sky, a rainy afternoon with nothing to do, and the sound of the wind in a palm tree.
Come On In And Meet Everybody
I come from a long line of feisty Southern women—women with wit and wisdom, faith and strength.