Goin' Down to Mama's

Sunday Morning Serenity

This morning, I had some serious Christmas fun. A sweet couple with two little boys moved into the McKinneys’ house this summer, and the fellas will find on their doorstep today a request for address verification from the North Pole. Their mom is totally in on it.

I was inspired by my Granny, who knew how to show kids a good time. She used to call my baby cousin Dane (he’s married with three kids now, but he’s still my precious angel) and tell him she was Mrs. Claus. They would have a long conversation about the toys he was hoping for. Granny made that call every Christmas Eve—probably until he was driving, knowing her. (That's Dane pictured above, with his Uncle Rich next to his Grandma's Christmas tree.)

I’ve heard Daddy talk about the way Granny would shop for everybody when she worked at Loveman’s—how she loved wrapping presents and always had the prettiest ones under the tree. Sadly, I do not share that gift (no pun intended). Loved ones have been known to make fun of my wrapping, and I can’t say I blame them. I’m terrible at it. No patience. No vision. Just get some paper around those Dearfoams and move on! Bow optional.

While it’s true my gifts sometimes look like a preschooler wrapped them, I do love surprise opportunities to make people happy. Those seem to appear more readily at Christmas.

Nothing makes you feel better than making somebody else happy, just because. It doesn’t take a grand gesture or an expensive gift. Sometimes a cupcake will do the trick.

It’s all about love and joy freely shared, with no expectation of anything in return. Let’s try that:)

 

Sunday Morning Serenity

Our church is hosting a Hanging of the Green service for the community tonight (6 p.m. at First Baptist H’ville, if you live in the area). Preparing for it reminded me of Christmas programs past—the ones with homemade angel wings and bathrobes for shepherds’ costumes.

I think one of my favorites was an interdenominational celebration—our church and the Methodists down the road—back in the seventies. It was held in front of the town clinic, which is now the police department. We had a live Nativity scene—real animals and everything. We didn't have the budget to rent a camel, but I think we had a cow and a donkey. Or maybe it was a goat and a donkey. In any case, we had livestock.

The combined choirs sang from a flatbed truck. I was the pianist, playing an old upright that the men had loaded into the back of Uncle Chick’s pickup. When we weren’t “ministering in song,” I had to wear gloves because it was freezing cold. People from all over the community turned out for it, huddling together in the cold night air to celebrate Christmas with us.

That’s really what I remember most about that service—the sense of community, of celebrating the birth of Christ with people who had deep roots in this place and strong ties to each other.

When Missing Isaac first came out, one of the more critical reviews came from a reader who didn’t think the people were realistic—nobody’s that loving, forgiving, caring, etc. That stung at first, but then I kind of felt sorry for her. I grew up with people who are that loving, that forgiving, that caring. And I’m especially thankful for them this morning. (I’m also thankful that I won’t have to wear garland-lined, poster board angel wings tonight.)

With a little help from the Canadian Tenors, Happy December!

[Illustration by Stuart Miles @ Freerangestock.com]

 

 

Sunday Morning Serenity

I love a foggy morning—as long as I don’t have to drive in it. Cheeto the Cat and I made our way to the Story Shack just before daylight this morning, and I could see fog shrouding the neighbors’ outdoor lights and my peacock wind chimes, purchased to remind me of Aunt Callie, one of the most creative women I ever knew. The fog is still hovering, even though the sun’s up and Cheeto is well into his third round of snacks, torn between the treat bowl in the floor and the one on my desk (which is much more convenient to his napping chair, so decision made).

I love fog for the same reason I love a rainy afternoon or a thunderstorm—the sense of being sheltered. Watching the rain from a front porch or listening to the thunder while I write in a candlelit Story Shack—those are definite happy places for me. And I’m acutely aware of what a blessing it is to have shelter, having recently traveled to the Florida Panhandle, where I saw some of the locals sleeping in tents pitched wherever they could find a spot. The same is true of fire victims in California. I haven’t seen the devastation there up close, but I did see the Smokies after the Chimney Tops 2 fire in 2016. And I spent a lot of time on the Gulf Coast after Katrina. Something a Bay St. Louis restaurant owner said back then stuck with me: “People tell me they know how I feel because a hurricane once destroyed their vacation home. Wait till a storm destroys your house, your church, the school your kids attend, your business—everything. Then come and talk to me.”

It’s easy to take shelter for granted: The roof over our head will always be there. The people we love and lean on will always be with us. Only when we feel like our shelter has been taken away do we realize how important it is, how much we need and depend on it.

One thing I ask from the Lord,
this only do I seek:
that I may dwell in the house of the Lord
all the days of my life,
to gaze on the beauty of the Lord
and to seek him in his temple.
For in the day of trouble
he will keep me safe in his dwelling;
he will hide me in the shelter
of his sacred tent
and set me high upon a rock.

Psalm 27: 4-5

 

 

Sunday Morning Serenity

I’m thinking, this morning, about Cheeto the Cat and Rosanne Cash. But I’m only halfway through my second cup of coffee, so that could change.

First, Cheeto. Sometimes I so wish he spoke English. I can usually interpret his meows, but I seriously doubt that he understands my lengthy explanations as to why we’re out of milk. (Never mind that we have an abundant supply of Meow Mix, Fancy Feast, and Whisker Lickin’s, plus shredded cheese. No milk. MEOW!!!)

Cheeto still has occasional nagging fears of deprivation and abandonment—even though he eats whenever and whatever he likes; even though he sleeps whenever and wherever he likes; even though his cat door is always open so he can come and go as he pleases; even though he pretty much owns the Story Shack, which is outfitted with two cat bowls, a kitty water dispenser, toys, and a velvet chair for napping. Even though. Our neighbors have provided him with an adventurous toddler to play with, but still. Cheeto sometimes seems to remember the solitary existence he led before, when he felt unwanted and unloved. (I’m hearing Dave in my head: “Or maybe the cat just wants some milk.”)

On to Rosanne. I think she’s brilliant and always have, ever since my cousin Richard played her first record for me. Recently, I ran across her record The River & The Thread, written when she and her husband took several road trips through the South, traveling to Arkansas to help save her father’s boyhood home.

Her song “50,000 Watts (of Common Prayer)” has these lines:

To be who we are and not who we were
A sister to him, a brother to her

That’s one of the hardest things in the world to accept: To be who we are and not who we were. We get tripped up by old hurts and old memories and nagging doubts: Did God really mean it when He said I could be forgiven and let go of all that? Is there really such a thing as unconditional love?

Yes. Your (spiritual) bowl will never be empty. Your warm bed (of grace and peace) isn’t going anywhere. You have a forever home.

Sunday Morning Serenity

Mama has been reading my Facebook page more than usual, post-award. And she keeps saying, “You have the most wonderful friends!” She won’t get any argument from me. I do have the most wonderful friends.

And they’re an interesting lot: teachers and storytellers; mamas and millennials; writers, photographers, architects, and painters; doctors, lawyers, foodies, and musicians; ministers and gardeners; wanderers and homebodies; seniors and toddlers . . . You don’t realize how rich your life is until you stop and think about all the people who have touched it.

Recently, I’ve had conversations with a couple of friends who made me really think about my faith—what I believe and why. I would never sit here and tell you that I’ve got it all figured out, that I never have doubts or questions or moments of confusion. I have them all the time. Because life is like the frozen food section at Publix: You can’t see where you are until you get there—that’s when the light comes on and shows you what’s behind the door you’ve chosen. (“Broccoli? NOOOO!! Blue Bell? YAY!!!”)

Despite the leaps we have to take sometimes, the great assurance of Christ is that we can “approach God’s throne of grace with confidence,” not because we’re perfect—just the opposite. We can know that we’re loved even though we’re far from perfect, and we can ask God to forgive us even when we can’t forgive ourselves.

“What a friend we have in Jesus, all our sins and griefs to bear . . .”

 

Sunday Morning Serenity

Last week an editor-friend and I spent some time in Panama City and Panama City Beach. When I was growing up—back when my cousin Kathy and I were begging Daddy for more rides at the Miracle Strip or trying to decide whether to get the pink float or the orange one (the pink one)—we never used to distinguish between the two.

But they're worlds apart right now. Michael was an odd hurricane, skipping over the beachfront, for the most part, and doing a lot more damage in the actual city, just a bridge crossing away. And it caused the kind of destruction you usually see with a tornado, demolishing a whole block here while leaving a solitary house unscathed there. We were advised not to attempt Mexico Beach because of the extensive damage—and because anyone who doesn’t live there and isn’t providing assistance is basically in the way.

We met some amazing people in Panama City and PCB. They reminded us that humans were meant to be communal. Even in the worst situations, we can come together and make it through. There’s a great guy named Decaris in Panama City who has taken it upon himself to stand on the street corner and hold up signs with encouraging messages. People smile and blow their horns, waving at him as they drive by. He told us that, even when all your material possessions are taken, you still have love to give.

Amen to that, Decaris.

[Locals and volunteer groups say the Salvation Army and Publix have been “rock stars” during this disaster. Please consider supporting them with your donations and your business.]

Sunday Morning Serenity

Did you know that the birthplace of prejudice is storytelling? I learned that while I was reporting a story and interviewed the founder of the Equal Justice Initiative. I had never thought about it that way, but it’s true. We tell ourselves stories about each other all the time: All black people are this, all white people are that, all Christians, all Jews, all Republicans, all Democrats . . .

That conversation made me seriously examine the stories in my own mind, past and present. Once we create or embrace a negative story about ANYBODY, it becomes dangerously easy to hate them, or at the very least, to think they don’t deserve the same consideration that we do. That’s especially true if we’re open only to ideas that match our own and to people who look and sound like us.

Yesterday, a man opened fire in a synagogue, apparently because he hates Jews. And a Jewish friend of mine said she doesn’t feel safe in her own country.

[Image by IanL @ Freerangestock.com]

 

 

Sunday Morning Serenity

Every morning, while Dave sleeps and Cheeto eats and I have my first cup of coffee, I get online to read Facebook and several news sites—everything from The Washington Post and the BBC to AL.com. I think I need to stop doing that. It’s so depressing—and completely overwhelming, especially when we take the trials of The Big World and add our own personal losses—moments of grief, sorrow, and disappointment

I have to constantly remind myself of what Christ told His disciples: “These things I have spoken unto you, that in me ye might have peace. In the world ye shall have tribulation: but be of good cheer; I have overcome the world.”
(John 16:33)

The NIV translates “be of good cheer” as “take heart.” I love that verse. It’s a divine everything’s going to be okay in the end—no matter how it looks right now.

To believe that, you have to believe in the power of love—the hard kind, the unconditional kind, the kind that comes only from God. And I do believe in it. I have my moments—of doubt and fear and “how can God possibly love me as many times as I’ve stumbled and rebelled and made absolutely shameful choices.” But the Bible says He can. And through the grace of Christ, we can access that love and share it. That’s the greatness of God.

I’m sending out a passage from my mother’s favorite Scripture, with love, to some sister cousins who are grieving right now.

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.
Psalm 121: 1-3

 

[Sunflower image by Chance Agrella @ Freerangestock.com]

 

Sunday Morning Serenity

 

Sometimes I think life is a daily battle between doing what everybody else wants you to do, or doing what you know, in your heart of hearts, you have to do if you’re going to be true to yourself. Maybe you can reconcile the two; maybe you can’t. Hard choices follow.

I’ve been inspired lately by the Secret Sisters—actual sisters Laura and Lydia Rogers from Alabama—whose harmony is unlike anything I’ve heard this side of the Carter Family. The duo saw rocket-launch success when they first started, but when their second record didn’t meet sales expectations, they were summarily dropped from their record label and almost had to declare bankruptcy. With help from fellow artists who believed in them, they came back and made a third record, You Don’t Own Me Anymore, which is one of the most amazing song collections I’ve heard in a long, long time. You can read their whole story here: Secret Sisters Story

You don’t have to be an artist to find yourself in a situation where other people want to put you in a box. It even happened to Christ—quite a bit actually. How often did He hear, essentially, “Who ARE you? Are you a teacher, a prophet—we need a label because you’re making us uncomfortable.”

It’s human nature, I guess. We try to file each other away into manageable compartments so we can deal with everything that’s coming at us. But we all have layers. None of us fits neatly into a manila folder. Sooner or later, we’ll feel crowded in there and come tumbling out.

I just had an opportunity to write a Southern Living story that’s unlike anything I’ve ever done. (Jury’s still out on whether the editors love it or hate it. I might go running for cover in my manila folder before it’s over with.) It was a hard story to write but I really wanted to try, and I’m thankful the magazine gave me a shot at it. There was a time when I probably would have said to myself—without anybody else throwing doubt—“That’s not what you do.” But I grew more from that story than anything I’ve done in a long time. (Who says you can’t teach an old dog new tricks? I think I just called myself an old dog.)

My prayer for you, this Sunday morning, is the faith and courage to follow your path.

 

 

Sunday Morning Serenity

Why is it so hard to rest? I'm not talking about squeezing in a little sleep at the end of a long day or giving yourself 10 minutes to enjoy your morning coffee while you start mentally calculating all the things you need to get done before you sleep again. I'm talking about real rest—the kind where you forget your to-do list and your in-box altogether and give yourself permission to watch the seagulls do what seagulls do, for no particular reason.

Dave and I are on the last day of a much-needed—no, desperately needed—vacation. And we both arrived in Mississippi exhausted. We come to Cruisin’ the Coast—a ginormous vintage car show/cruise—every year, and normally we both have a list of have-to’s: He has to at least drive through all of the show sites; I have to make it to Bay St. Louis and Ocean Springs, which are on opposite ends of the coast and require navigating through unbelievable traffic; we have to do this and we have to do that.

This year, we were just too tired. So we threw out our have-to list. We went to one show site. We spent almost no time in traffic. We watched all the cars go by from the balcony of our hotel room, which had dual views—cars to the left, Gulf to the right. We cooked the food we brought when we felt like it and walked to restaurants when we didn’t. I walked on the beach. He napped. We rested.

People often quote the shoulds and the should-nots in Scripture, but the Bible also addresses basic human needs. From the very beginning—Genesis—there’s a day of rest. There are mentions in the New Testament of Christ making time to get away from the crowds and rest. It’s important, but when I’m not on vacation, I tend to treat rest like a luxury—something I’m getting away with. I’m being lazy and unproductive. But that’s not true. Rest isn’t a luxury but a very real human need, just like the air we breathe and the water we drink.

Maybe I should be packing. But I really need to rest.