Goin' Down to Mama's

Sunday Morning Serenity

Shalom. That’s what I’m thinking about this morning.

Maybe it’s because I have friends and family who have experienced painful separation recently. Some have a child going off to college or joining the service. Others are mourning the death of someone they loved dearly. All are longing for shalom. So are the rest of us.

Here’s how Reverend Tim Keller describes it:

“God created all things to be in a beautiful, harmonious, interdependent, knitted, webbed relationship to one another. Just as rightly related physical elements form a cosmos or a tapestry, so rightly related human beings form a community. This interwovenness is what the Bible calls shalom, or harmonious peace. . . .

"Threads become a fabric when each one has been woven over, under, around, and through every other one. The more interdependent they are, the more beautiful they are. The more interwoven they are, the stronger and warmer they are.”

Whether we like to admit it or not, we’re all interdependent on each other. We’re meant to be. And while, in the business world, “everybody’s expendable,” that’s not true at all in our personal circles. Nobody’s expendable. The people we love all touch us in a special way. None of them can be replaced because each one colors our lives in a one-of-a-kind shade.

The thing to remember is that we daily share ourselves with each other, through the love and friendship we give and receive. That part never goes away. We carry it—and the people who gave it—with us always. It keeps our tapestry whole even if we can’t touch some of the threads right now.

Shalom.

[Lead image @ Freerangestock.com]

Sunday Morning Serenity

Illustration by Stuart Miles at Freerangestock.com

This is a story about introverts and birds-of-a-feather and books and the human community and all sorts of stuff.

I’m a little overwhelmed (and, you might justifiably suggest, incoherent) this morning. I just got back from the Fiction Readers Summit in Grand Rapids, Michigan, which I haven’t said a peep about because I didn’t want Mama and Daddy to worry. (Of course, I made the mistake of calling Mama from a plane, just as the captain decided to outline our flight plan over the loud speaker, and eagle ears immediately asked, “What was that?” I told her my phone was malfunctioning. I doubt she believed me.)

It was inspiring to meet authors who have been at this far longer than I have, to learn from and be encouraged by them. And it was amazing to meet readers from all over the country. I still can’t believe anybody reads my stories. That might sound odd coming from somebody who has been writing for a living since the Reagan administration. But it’s different with the magazine. Southern Living is such a powerful platform that I’ve always seen it as sort of a rocket booster for what I write there—readers will give it a chance just because it’s in their favorite magazine. But for a book club in Indiana to choose one of my stories—I still have trouble wrapping my brain around that.

As honored as I was to be invited to the summit, my closest friends (among them my husband) were stunned that I mustered the courage to go because I am, by nature, an extreme introvert. I’m not a joiner, an attender, or a group activity participator. I have trouble flocking together, even with birds of my feather. But even people like me, whose high school yearbook caption could've read "Awkward In Groups, Among Strangers, And Just In General," need community. Sometimes I forget that.

We all need a sense of connection. We all need to feed and be fed—physically, spiritually, emotionally. A random conversation with one of the authors at the summit gave me exactly what I needed to respond to one of the bleakest young people I’ve ever met—the shuttle driver who took me back to the airport for my trip home. He was so used to talking over and arguing with passengers as he went on and on about how terrible the world is that he wasn’t prepared for, “But you don’t have to live in that world—you can live above it.” Then I took a cue from my late and very dear friend Jane and told him, “You don’t have to read the whole Bible to understand—just read the Gospel of John.” (I added Hebrews, one of my favorites, for good measure.) I truly believe God will use our conversation, as awkward as I was.

Here’s the art-meets-life moment: I have no idea what’s going to happen when I sit down to start a new book. I don’t know if it will sell or if it will mean anything to the readers who buy it. I see now that I’ve been letting those questions affect me a lot more than they should because I have no control over the answers. I can only control what I create—the story that I tell—and even that needs prayer. Even that is sometimes out of my wheelhouse.

That’s true of everybody, not just writers. We have some degree of control over what we create—our individual life stories—but those need daily prayer because they often include plot twists that are completely out of our wheelhouse. Those unexpected turns—good or bad—are the moments when we need community most of all. We need love and understanding and encouragement. Even those of us who flock together awkwardly.

“A new command I give you: Love one another.
As I have loved you, so you must love one another."
John 13:34

Sunday Morning Serenity

That's my baby cousin Adam, playing in a backyard swimming pool at a long-ago family Fourth of July celebration. He's past 20 now but still "Aunt Val's" baby cousin. I’m thinking of him this morning because our church is having a special lunch in his honor today. Since he was a little kid, Adam has been fascinated with military history and dreamed of enlisting. Now he is about to leave for the Army and basic training in Oklahoma.

We've always had a special connection. We're both only children. We both like music. We both like history. Before he was old enough to drive, I was giving him a ride home from church and was thrilled to find that he liked the music I was playing on the radio. ("I'm the cool cousin-aunt!") And then he said: "Sure, I like it, Aunt Val. I'm into classic rock." ("Correction—I'm the seriously old cousin-aunt!")

Adam's imminent departure has me thinking, oddly enough, about graduate school. I did my thesis on Eudora Welty, in part because I was drawn to her recurring theme of “love and separateness”—how you can belong to the people you love and yet maintain some independence from them. And if you want to see that notion distilled down into one of its purist forms, visit with an only. It’s something Dave had to come to terms with (and bless him for doing it with such a generous spirit) when we first married. He’s the middle of five kids, with lots of grandkids, so the notion of “we’re it” with Mama and Daddy was foreign to him. Not that they didn’t both have siblings and cousins and nieces and nephews that they dearly loved—both of them did—but when it came to children . . . just the one and her husband.

Now Adam, another only, is taking a big step, and his parents are understandably anxious but also proud and supportive of him. If I could presume to guess what has gone through his mind as he made this decision, it was likely, “I love you, but I have to do this"—the official creed of the curious and determined only child.

Making a break from the people you love isn’t easy for anybody. And the thing that makes it so hard is something you can’t see in the moment—that’s it’s not really a break at all. It’s more like a lengthening of the ties that keep us tethered to those who love us, unconditionally; those who want what’s best for us even when it’s hard for them; those whose doors will always be open.

“Love and separateness.” It’s a tough row to hoe, y’all. But those homecomings are something else.

 

 

Sunday Morning Serenity

Image by Jack Moreh @ freerangestock.com

It’s a good thing Dave is interested in the Apollo flights because I’m a little bit obsessed with them. We’ve been watching every documentary I spot on our evening scroll down the channel guide.

I was just a kid when we all followed Apollo 11—in my case, in front of a huge black-and-white Magnavox that occupied a whole corner of my grandmother’s living room—and watched reporters like Jules Bergman use models to try and help us understand what was going on up there.

You can find interviews with former astronauts all over the internet right now, and many of them were moved just as much by the sight of Earth from space as their encounter with the moon. Modern-day astronaut Scott Kelly has published a book of his photography called Infinite Wonder: An Astronaut's Photographs from a Year in Space. The pictures are breathtaking.

Astronauts often talk about how stunningly beautiful and colorful Earth is from space.  And many of them recall a sense of wonder that overcame them during their flights. One said he was temporarily overwhelmed by a swirl of questions spinning through his mind: Who am I? Why am I here?

Jim Lovell, who orbited the moon on Christmas Eve, 1968, said that before the flight, he and his crew were struggling to decide what what they might say during their TV broadcast on Christmas. They weren’t even sure their voices would reach the Earth—or if anybody would be interested in hearing from them during such a special holiday. A reporter hired by NASA tried to help. But in the end, Lovell’s wife had the answer: Just recite the first 10 verses of Genesis, which is what they did.

When I look at pictures of earth from space, I too am amazed by its beauty. But I also wonder how we ever manage to find each other. How do we ever find the people who will love and sustain us as we float out there on that giant ball in space? Somehow we do. That might be the most amazing thing of all.

In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth.
And the earth was without form, and void;
and darkness was upon the face of the deep.
And God said, Let there be light: and there was light.
And God saw the light, that it was good:
and God divided the light from the darkness.
And God called the light Day and the darkness he called Night.
And the evening and the morning were the first day.
And God said, Let there be a firmament in the midst of the waters,
and let it divide the waters from the waters.
And God made the firmament,
and divided the waters which were under the firmament
from the waters which were above the firmament: and it was so.
And God called the firmament Heaven.
And the evening and the morning were the second day.
And God said, Let the waters under the heaven
be gathered together unto one place,
and let the dry land appear: and it was so.
And God called the dry land Earth:
and the gathering together of the waters called he Seas:
And God saw that it was good.

Genesis 1:1-10

 

 

 

Sunday Morning Serenity

Let me tell you about the feisty little lady in purple. That’s Aunt Shirley, Dave’s mom’s sister. She and Dave were photographed here during a very sad occasion, but as families do in sad times, we share good memories to help each other remember how to smile. Aunt Shirley could always make Dave smile.

I’m sad to say we lost her recently. And I will sorely miss her visits. She used to call out of the blue and say, “I’m coming down the weekend of so-and-so, and I think I can stay X number of days.” I’d get the guest room ready and stock up on coffee—Aunt Shirley and I loved our morning brew—and then Dave and I would plot how to show her a good time.

That wasn’t very hard because Aunt Shirley was content to sit on the deck with whatever cat was available and read all afternoon. Any food that you served her was met with, “That was delicious,” be it a steak or a peanut butter sandwich. She was up for any road trip and spent one summer afternoon making chili sauce with some of my family “hens” down at Mama’s.

I always thought of her as a cross between my Granny (Daddy’s mother) and my Aunt Vivian because she had the vagabond spirit of one, the let-me-bake-something-for-you heart of the other, and the love of laughter and fun that all three ladies shared.

Once, Aunt Shirley’s flight to Birmingham was scheduled to arrive during rush hour. Dave and I were struggling to figure out how to turn that negative into a positive when we hit on the notion of a stretch limo. Imagining the look on Aunt Shirley’s face if we could somehow hire one to pick her up—well—that kept us entertained for weeks. We pulled it off with the help of our friend Gary, who always “knows a guy,” no matter what you’re trying to arrange. (That's Aunt Shirley with her limo driver at the bottom of this post.)

I’ll miss our long talks over a cup of Starbucks on my deck and the “special brownies” she always made for Dave. I’ll miss finding her napping‚ an open book in her lap—in a comfy chair outside. I’ll miss those hugs and that smile.

I have friends and family who have also lost someone dear to them recently. And there’s no easy answer for how to grieve and go on. We all have to do that in our own time and in our own way. But I do know this: When you really love somebody, part of them never leaves you. The love they’ve shown and the time they’ve shared stays with you, always. That’s the part we get to keep until we meet again.

Sunday Morning Serenity

Dave and I took a rare break together the other day and did a little inventory of our domicile. The results were scary.

For the past six months or so, both of us have been busy all the time. Weekends, holidays, vacation days—you name it, we’ve got deadlines or projects to fill it right up. Our schedules have turned our home (house, yard, carport, Story Shack, Dave’s shop) into one big storage unit.

There is not a stuff-free square inch in all of Luesseville:

Last Year’s Garden Containers: Full of weeds and whatever managed to survive the winter and pop up without any encouragement.

Dining Room: Current home of the ironing board, to-be-ironed clothes, and TotalGym.

Bedrooms: Don’t get me started on those closets.

Carport: How many empty glass florist vases does one family really need?

Deck: No, those cushions won’t make it through another year and need to be thrown away.

Kitchen: It’s time to clean out the refrigerator AGAIN??

Story Shack: Cat hair, cat hair, here, there, and everywhere.

What we realized is that we’ve been so focused on the future that we were ignoring the here and now.

Yes, we need more storage space, but if we got rid of everything we don’t like, need, use, or even remember buying . . . we wouldn’t need as much.

Sure, the deck needs a new roof, but cushions would be a start. We might actually sit out there again.

As for the Story Shack? It’s called a hand-vac. Look into it.

I’m bad about getting so focused on tomorrow that I don’t see all the clutter creeping into today. It’s not so much a can’t-see-the-forest-for-the-trees situation. It’s more like, “Trees? When did I plant all these trees?”

Dave and decided that, while we’re improving what we have, we also need to enjoy it. And be thankful for it.

The same rule applies to ourselves. All of us are trying to get better in one way or another (hence the Total Gym in the dining room). But while we’re working on everything from our waistlines to our reading lists, let’s remember to accept and appreciate who we are and what we have right now. And then breathe.

Preaching to myself . . .

 

 

 

Sunday Morning Serenity

I complain a lot about being tired. (Sorry, Dave!!) Part of it is just the combination of working full-time, trying to write a book, and carving out time to at least wave at Dave and my parents once in a while. But it also has to do with being completely out of shape—carrying around a lot more of me than I should—so I reintroduced my overweight self to the gym yesterday. Moving for just 30 minutes made me feel so much better. Then I took 10 to pull the weeds out of three or four patio containers and discovered that some of the perennials we planted last year really did survive the winter and were peeking out of the dirt. They just couldn’t find the sun because of all the weeds.

Neither my rendezvous with the treadmill nor my spot gardening took much time or effort, but both made a big difference in my outlook. Lesson learned: Less whining, more doing. Or to quote the verse of the day on biblegateway.com . . .

 . . . those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength.
They will soar on wings like eagles;
they will run and not grow weary,
they will walk and not be faint. 
Isaiah 40:31

Early this morning, I was channel surfing and landed on a documentary about Mavis Staples, who sang with her family for decades and is still singing at 80. The filmmakers interviewed Bob Dylan, who talked about one of the Staple Singers’ songs called “Sit Down, Servant,” written by Roebuck “Pops” Staples. The narrator of the song has just arrived in heaven and is so excited that she just can’t sit down.

Instead of complaining about being tired, I need to find that kind of excitement for the opportunities that I have and the stories I get to tell and the friends and family who lift me up daily.

Sit down!
(oh, please don't make me)
Sit down!
('Cause I just got to heaven.
I'm gonna walk around)
Sit down, servant, and rest a while, sit down.

Oh, I can't sit down,
Oh, I can't sit down,
I can't sit down,
I just got to heaven and I can't sit down.

 

 

Sunday Morning Serenity

There’s an adorable, viral video making the rounds, of a young dad having a conversation with his baby son, who can’t actually talk yet but is trying mighty hard. You can see the delight on both their faces as the father pretends to understand his child completely, and the child feels completely understood.

Sometimes, when I’m having early morning prayer in the Story Shack, I don’t bow my head and close my eyes as directed in Sunday School. I open the front door so I can hear the birds waking up, and I look up to the sky. When I did just that this morning, I realized Cheeto the Cat was looking up at the sky and then back at me, as if to say, “Who on earth are you talking to?”

I was talking to God, who makes me feel understood even when I’m babbling nonsense, even when I think I understand much more than I do, even when I’m as focused on my own needs as a baby looking for that next bottle.

It’s one of the best gifts we can give each other—listening and making another person feel that they’ve been truly heard, understood, and appreciated.

Committing to getting much better at it this Sunday morning.

 

 

 

Sunday Morning Serenity

Years ago, I saw a movie about a group of medical students, and one of their professors said something like, “we have doctors—we need healers.” She was explaining the difference between someone who possesses the knowledge and technical skills to treat physical injury and disease versus someone who has that same ability plus the heart of a healer—the compassion and empathy to recognize that it’s not just the visible wounds that need binding.

Mama and Daddy have both needed healing this spring, and we’ve been blessed with doctors who also have that healing heart. (Unending gratitude to Dr. Jeff Davis and Dr. Kathleen McKeon at Andrews.)

As I’ve watched both of my parents go through hospital stays and recovery, what I never realized in the moment and was always surprised to discover, after the fact, is that I’ve needed healing, too. And friends and family have been right there with just the right treatment—encouragement, advice shared from their own journeys, a reminder to laugh even in the hard times, offers of help and assistance—and prayer—constant prayer.

They made me realize that we’re all healers. We have opportunities every day to help, encourage, console—in short, to love each other. Unending gratitude for that gift.

A new command I give you:
Love one another. 
As I have loved you,
so you must love one another. 

John 13:34

 

 

Sunday Morning Serenity

Spending time with Mama during a difficult situation has made me acutely aware of something I’ve always known: When it comes to how we handle stress and pain, I am a turtle and Mama is a golden retriever. As much as I want to tuck into my shell and hide away in solitude until it’s all better, that’s how much Mama wants to reach out—and not just to get help but to give it—from her wheelchair, in her hospital footies.

I can—and have—gone through many a doctor’s appointment without talking to anybody except the doctors and nurses asking me questions. Last week, I took Mama for her surgical follow-up appointment, and I think we talked to everybody at St. Vincent’s—total strangers who weren’t approaching all the 82-year-old women in wheelchairs—just Mama. By the time her appointment was over, I looked at her and said, “I think you give off some sort of gamma ray that telegraphs, ‘Talk to me and tell me your problems.’”

The other day, she introduced me to one of her favorite physical therapists, who told me, “I’ve learned a lot about Miss Nannette.” And I said, “I’ll bet she’s learned even more about you.” He had to smile. He knew it was true. She’s already told me where he’s in school and when he graduates, and if she knows that, she also knows where he was born, where he went to high school, what his daddy does for a living, whether his mama’s a good cook, how many siblings he has and—of course—where he goes to church and if he sings in the choir.

After every ordeal she has ever been through, Mama always says, “I’ll be glad to get back in church.” And by "church," she doesn’t mean the brick building on Highway 25. She means her church family, which has always given her strength. She loves to surround herself with people who have been praying for her and who share her faith. Mama tells all the hospital staff who marvel at this little woman pushing through 140 steps with a fractured pelvis and a broken wrist that it’s “nothing in the world but prayer.”

The strength of her faith is inspiring. And I’m hoping she sheds a little golden retriever on this turtle while she recuperates.

[Image by Richard Rowe, taken many years ago but still one of my favorites.]