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.
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
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.
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.
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.
I’ve been thinking a lot about names. It started when I was trying to name a character for a book set in Louisiana, worried that I wouldn't know who he was until I named him. That conjured all kinds of memories and mental leaps.
In the late 1980s, on my first or second day as a 20-something, entry-level, phone-answering employee at Southern Living’s parent company, a tall, elegantly dressed older man walked up to my desk and told me to make a lunch reservation for four. Green as I was, even I had sense enough to realize he was Somebody. I just didn’t know who. So in the most I’ve-got-it-together professional voice I could fake, I said, “Yes, sir . . . and . . . in whose name would you like me to make that reservation?” Bless him, he saved me by finding a face-saving way to tell me his name. Too bad I hadn't noticed the enormous portrait of him hanging in our lobby.
When my maternal grandmother was dying, there was a moment—a very brief one, thank goodness—when she didn’t recognize me. Not only that, but she got really angry at this person standing by her bed, claiming to be Valerie. Fortunately, her confusion soon passed and I saw recognition in her eyes. We were both so relieved. But I never forgot those few seconds. I can’t imagine what it must be like for my friends whose parents have dementia—the daily absence of recognition and the inability of someone you love to call you by name.
Of course, thinking about my grandmother made me think about Moses. (You can see the logical progression there, right? Me neither.) Specifically, Moses at the burning bush (Exodus 3). Early during their encounter, God tells Moses, “I am the God of your father, the God of Abraham, the God of Isaac, and the God of Jacob.”
Still, Moses wants an answer to a nagging question: But what’s your name?
Depending on which translation you read, God’s answer is “I am that I am” or “I am who I am.” The NIV has a footnote that translates God’s response as “I will be what I will be.” He first tells Moses, “This is what you are to say to the Israelites: ‘I am has sent me to you.’” And then he repeats to Moses: “Say to the Israelites, ‘The Lord, the God of your fathers—the God of Abraham, the God of Isaac, and the God of Jacob—has sent me to you.’”
God puts the focus on his relationship to Israel, not what men call him. He also refuses to be defined by a name just to make humanity more comfortable.
On a human level, we should do the same—put the focus on our relationships with each other and never let ourselves be defined by whatever others choose to call us. Each of us has to be true to the self God intended us to be—even when that self is tough to name.
And now I just have to play this song one more time:
Dave and I are heading home today after a much-needed vacation, and I’m enjoying my last beach sunrise for a while. I’m also wishing all the drivers with loud cars would have slept in, but that’s okay. Now that the show has started in the sky, I’ll forget all about them. That's what I love most about the beach—there’s something so beautiful and peaceful about sand, sky, and water that it makes me forget all the distractions that, well, distract me under normal circumstances. And I can just enjoy the place I’m in. I can just be amazed by the majesty and glory. (Song cue:)
It’s a question we’ve probably all asked at one time or another: Why do bad things happen to good people?
But did you ever stop to think about all the bad things that could have happened and didn’t? It’s not healthy to dwell on the what if’s in your life, but now and again one of them can take hold of you in a way that’s hard to shake. And you realize how blessed you are for what didn’t happen.
Yesterday morning, I saw the makings of a tragedy unfolding in front of me, but in the nick of time, the driver who was involved saw what he needed to see and stopped it from happening. All in a matter of seconds. Not hours, not minutes. Seconds. Something awful didn’t happen.
My mother’s favorite Scripture is Psalm 121, which includes the words, “He that keepeth thee will not slumber. Behold, he that keepeth Israel shall neither slumber nor sleep.”
God is watchful even when we aren’t. And I’m very thankful for that.
Normally, it’s short-term memory I struggle with: Did I wear this outfit to work yesterday? Where did I leave my coffee? Why did I come into this room?
But where blessings are concerned, my long-term tends to fail me. As in I’m stressing because I have a book deadline. Seriously? I should be thrilled to have a book deadline because that means I have . . . a book. So how about some gratitude, Mrs. Whiner? Five years ago, I would’ve traded my house for a book deadline.
Speaking of the house, I notice myself complaining about it a lot lately. The kitchen has always needed a redo, ditto the tiny bath. The guest room carpet is so worn and dirty, you could grow cotton on it. A screened-in porch sure would be nice. Wah, wah, wah. Back in 1996, I couldn’t believe I got to live here: My very own house!!! My very own yard!! My very own weeds! I’msohappyIcan’tstandit!!!!!
We change and our things change over the years, but it’s important to remember how much they meant to us in the beginning and how grateful we should be for them now. The things I take for granted today weren’t even mine to claim yesterday.
Do you ever want to take a broom to the whole wide world, or at least your corner of it? Sort of like that evil politician in O Brother, Where Art Thou?—he was going to sweep out corruption from the state of Mississippi (but ended up getting ridden out of town on a rail—hoping that doesn’t happen to me when I sweep).
Sometimes life really does throw a lot at us. It really is overwhelming. But if I step back and look at what’s going on, I often find that I’ve created my own situation, or at least contributed to it, by letting myself get all cluttered up—physically, mentally, spiritually—pick your “-ly” and I’ve probably been there. That’s when I need to do some sweeping and some clearing so the light can break through.
For example, I recently woke up one morning, looked around, and went: “I hate this house! It’s unlivable!” Actually, I love our little rancher, but I had made it unlivable by sheer accumulation of stuff. So . . . I sold the dining room furniture we never use any more because, for now, we’re just too busy to have company the way we’d like to, and it’s time I accepted that. Cluttered dining room became open and airy sunroom. (Total Gym, green lounger nobody ever sits in, take notice—you’re on your way to FB Marketplace, too.)
I can’t stand to set foot in our guest-room-turned-storage-unit because it’s uninhabitable. But if I take a few deep breaths and calm down, I can see that, as soon as I get rid of just about everything in there, rip up the heinous 20-year-old carpet and replace it with hardwood, it’ll be one of my favorite rooms in the house. Done.
So much for the house—now how about me? Hanging onto old hurts, old insecurities, old disappointments and failures—that just clutters us from the inside out. Time to break out that broom, clear the dust, and let some light in.
And what about faith? Well, that can get cluttered up too. But it's really simple. It's about a direct connection to and relationship with God; it's about accepting his grace and forgiveness made available to us through the sacrifice and resurrection of his son, Jesus Christ. I love this quote from Tim Keller (thank you, Shari, for introducing me to it): "The gospel says that you are more sinful and flawed than you ever dared believe, but more accepted and loved than you ever dared hope."
This morning I stumbled onto an old gospel song I had never heard before, performed by some young artists I had never heard before. It's called, "Take Your Shoes Off, Moses." And I can only imagine Moses in the presence of God for the first time, wondering what on earth to do. Well, Moses, it pretty simple . . . for starters . . .