Goin' Down to Mama's

Sunday Morning Serenity

For the past month, I haven’t been writing very often because I’ve been on a healthcare journey with Dave. He’s not much for Facebook sharing:) So I’ll just say he had a cluster of issues that silently progressed over time until they converged like a bad weather system and kicked up quite a storm. He was in St. Vincent’s—a wonderful, wonderful hospital—for three weeks. We’re home now, with home health, as he continues healing and getting stronger.

Prayers have been answered daily. My initial choice for the emergency room was a really good hospital close to our house, but they were overloaded and “diverting.” So we went to St. Vincent’s—farther away but, as it turns out, the best possible place for us. We landed with an internal medicine doctor (Andrew Collins), who sorted out Dave’s health issues and enlisted an army of specialists to take them on, one at a time. Excellent, compassionate care was ours at every turn.

And as an only child, let me just say a word about cousins. Mine are the best. They’ve been there for my parents and me every step of the way so that I could focus on Dave, whose family has also offered support, even though they’re several states away. Our church family has been in touch and in prayer constantly. Southern Living has been understanding and supportive. Our next door neighbors have offered help, and a sweet couple down the street—whom we had just met before the ambulance came—still checks on us. Dear friends have called, encouraged, and listened. Two of them actually came out and turned my scattering of hurriedly planted flowers into a real garden. And when your house is upside down, having a beautiful garden to look at and escape to is such a gift.

All that to say, we just don’t realize how much we need each other until we really, really need each other. God has blessed us with amazing friends and family, whom I’ve taken for granted far too often. I hope I never do that again.

Sunday Morning Serenity

We just had our first family reunion in . . . We can’t quite remember if it has been 20 or 30 years since we all gathered.  Probably closer to 30. My cousin’s wife told me she had prepared their young children: “You’ll probably see a lot of people who look like Daddy.”

And it’s true. There’s a strong resemblance in the McCranie family—Mama and her siblings and the cousins. The first cousins grew up together, and even the few who lived away from Shelby County, Alabama, visited several times a year because our grandmother said they had to. Period. But as we got older, with spouses, kids, and grandkids coming into the picture, it got harder and harder to bring everybody together. Until COVID pushed Mama over the edge. The whole time she was quarantined, all she could talk about was how she missed her family and how, the minute we had a vaccine, she wanted to see EVERYBODY. We managed a good 50+ I’d say. And it was pretty amazing.

A college friend who had heard me talk about my family once told me, “It’s like you’re going through life with this giant safety net under you.” She was right—I have indeed enjoyed a safety net, held up by close relatives on both sides of my family. I took that for granted when I was young but not now. 

I’ve been thinking about our family this morning—what makes us us. And I think so much of our identity is spiritual—it’s a shared faith passed down from one generation to the next. But it’s also mutual respect. The cousins were taught to respect our elders, while our elders took an active interest in all of us. It went both ways. Now I’m an elder! There are so many young cousins coming along. And that family resemblance is right there on those sweet faces.

There's one more tie that binds us. We've always had an awareness that we’re part of a story, one that goes back many, many years and connects all of us, past, present, and future. That story has been shared and passed down from Grandme to her children to their children to their children . . . and on it goes, this story we carry with us, reminding us of who we are and where we came from and how we're forever bound together as a family.

When Aunt Joyce passed away, her service included a reading of Scripture that speaks to that same familial connection between Christians and God:

For I am persuaded, that neither death, nor life,
nor angels, nor principalities,
nor powers, nor things present, nor things to come,
Nor height, nor depth, nor any other creature,
shall be able to separate us from the love of God,
which is in Christ Jesus our Lord.
Romans 8: 38-39

 

Sunday Morning Serenity

 

My friend Gary introduced me to a Sandi Patty song called “In the In Between,” and it's speaking to me this morning. It’s all about how it’s easy to celebrate God when you’re on the mountaintop, and it’s natural to call on Him when you’re in the valley. But sometimes we lose sight of His love “in the in between”—not the highs nor the lows but the everyday.

For a singer with such a powerhouse voice, this one is a departure because it’s quiet. No soaring high notes. No orchestra. Just a piano and a sincere expression of how we often forget God’s faithfulness—or at least I do.

My sister-friend Ginger reminded me of that recently. We were talking on the phone and she spoke so easily about an answered prayer and being led by the Holy Spirit. She made me remember how accessible God is—to those who ask and listen, which I forget to do sometimes. Or maybe I'm just being stubborn and rebellious. I’m so busy trying to “fix things” myself that I can't admit—can't even see—that I need help.

Ask, listen, trust. Thank you, sweet Ging. Thank you, Sandi.

 

Sunday Morning Serenity

Did you ever go through a period in your life when you felt like somebody stole your compass and you lost all sense of direction? That was me of late. And while I know better, from past experience, I chose not to admit defeat but to wallow in it, wrestle with it, and get really depressed about it. (It’s a personal choice, not for everybody.)

Finally, when I truly couldn’t handle it anymore, I gave up and prayed a simple prayer: “Lord, I am just lost.” Between the books and my job and all the upheaval caused by the pandemic, I’m exhausted most of the time, but what for?

(Note to self: You’ve been blessed to work from home and keep a rewarding job, which meant keeping your house and insurance during the pandemic, a time when many people lost theirs. Writing books is your dream come true. Most of all, your family made it through the past year and half. Many people didn't. Enough with the pity party.)

The afternoon following my "I am just lost," I received, out of the blue, an unexpected and a much-needed boost to my confidence—and, I believe, an answer to that prayer. The message I think I heard was this: You’re not lost. You just can’t see your destination from where you stand. So you need to have faith.

In other words, nobody stole my compass. I just neglected to read it.

For this reason I kneel before the Father, 
from whom every family in heaven and on earth derives its name. 
I pray that out of his glorious riches 
he may strengthen you with power 
through his Spirit in your inner being, 
so that Christ may dwell in your hearts through faith.
And I pray that you, being rooted and established in love, 
may have power, together with all the Lord’s holy people, 
to grasp how wide and long and high and deep
is the love of Christ, 
and to know this love that surpasses knowledge—
that you may be filled to the measure of all the fullness of God.

Ephesians 3:14-19

 

 

Sunday Morning Serenity

We have a tendency to talk about war in the big picture—battles won or lost, territory taken or surrendered, objectives achieved, zones stabilized.

But what could be more personal than sending our mothers and fathers, sons and daughters, friends and neighbors away from home and into a place where they will be asked to risk their lives?

My sister-friend Nancy recently took me to Veterans Memorial Park in Mountain Brook, where we saw a monument inscribed with names of all the Alabama veterans who lost their lives in wartime. Among the names of the fallen in Viet Nam, I found my cousin, Melvin W. Gunter, a career soldier. The family called him by his middle name, Wister. I was just a child when he was killed, but I have hazy memories of going with my mother to visit his family and offer condolences.

Back then, we all watched the war in Viet Nam on our black-and-white TV’s every night. All the networks had reporters imbedded with the troops, and we saw casualties being carried off the battlefield as correspondents explained what was happening.

Wister’s mother was watching one of those reports when she saw a fallen soldier on a stretcher and recognized her son. She didn’t need anyone to tell her that he was gone.

Several years ago, another dear friend, Holly, told me an amazing story about her dad and wondered if I’d like to write a book about it. I did, and as a way of helping me understand and develop my characters, Holly sent me a batch of letters that her dad wrote to his bride while he was serving as a fighter pilot in Korea. They’re filled with his longing for home and for the kind of simple things we all take for granted, like listening to records with his wife on a rainy afternoon.

Fortunately, Holly’s dad made it back, after flying 101 missions. But he knew others who didn’t. All those who come home from war know those who didn’t. And there’s nothing “big picture” about their sacrifice. It’s entirely personal.

Prayers, this Sunday morning, for all of our military families.

Sunday Morning Serenity

For the sake of my physical and emotional well-being, I’ve decided to strive for something I call Modified Cat.

Why Cat? Because they have no problem saying, “This is what I need right now.” Cheeto says it all the time. He’ll park himself on the floor beside the spot on the couch where I’m comfortably reclining, stare at me with unblinking eyes, then give a little bob of his head. Translation: I need you to get up and follow me to an undetermined destination—likely my bowl or the kitchen door, which I like for you to open for me even though I have a perfectly serviceable cat door right beside it. Or he’ll pace back and forth across my computer keyboard. I know you think you need to write, but what you really need to do is brush me. Or he’ll fall asleep on my person as if I were his own personal body pillow. You might think you want to get up, but I need a nap and you’re way more comfortable than, well, anything  . . .

Why Modified? Because I don’t want to be oblivious to the needs of everybody else. (And to Cheeto’s credit, he does seem to know when I’m feeling under the weather and can be quite the feline nurse when he wants to.)

I had little pop-up rebellions all day yesterday. My responsible self told me I needed to take a long walk. But my joints hurt and I’d rather take a short one, so there. My anxious self told me I needed to make some headway on my next book. But I haven’t figured out something I need to figure out before I start putting words on paper, and I really and truly just flat-out don’t want to write today.  I could make up for the lost time if I told my parents I wouldn't be staying for Sunday lunch and came right back home after church. But I want to spend some time with them and enjoy a visit.

Modified Cat. Not so much selfish as a little more self-forgiving when there’s just too much coming at me. And I’ll remind myself that we all need rest—not just for a tired body but for a troubled mind or a weary spirit.

Come to Me,
all you who labor and are heavy laden,
and I will give you rest. 
Take My yoke upon you 
and learn from Me,
for I am gentle and lowly in heart, 
and you will find rest for your souls.
Matthew 11:28-29

Sunday Morning Serenity

Am I really free? Many of us have been asking that question since the CDC lifted the mask mandate for the vaccinated. It’s still hard to believe, after all these months of masking and sanitizing everything but the cat, that we can at last free our faces (with the exception of all the exceptions, which will sort themselves out eventually, I guess). On Friday, Daddy and I went to a local hardware store to get potting soil for Mama’s spring flowers, and we were well on our way home when we realized we were both still masked, cruising down the highway in his pickup truck.

No big secret here: There’s a spiritual application to the mask situation. It's hard to let go of the guilt and regret we feel for all the bad choices we wish we could undo (preaching to myself). And it's hard to believe that God really does have enough love for us to look at those faults, unmasked, and forgive them when we turn away from our stumbles in the darkness and seek the light. But He does. He does have that much love.

Therefore, having been justified by faith, 
we have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ, 
through whom also we have access by faith
into this grace in which we stand,
and rejoice in hope of the glory of God. 
And not only that, but we also glory in tribulations, 
knowing that tribulation produces perseverance; 
and perseverance, character;
and character, hope. 
Now hope does not disappoint, 
because the love of God has been poured out
in our hearts by the Holy Spirit who was given to us. . . .

But God demonstrates His own love toward us,
in that while we were still sinners, Christ died for us.

Romans 5: 1-4, 8

 

Sunday Morning Serenity

I’ve never considered myself photogenic, so I don’t have many pictures of myself that I care to dwell on. The few that I do like were taken by Southern Living photographers or my cousin Richard. (Our friend Blake Sims, who worked with me at the magazine, gifted Dave and me with our wedding pictures.)

Though I usually don't like images of myself, I have many pictures of Mama and me, together, that I love. She’s a natural beauty who never takes a bad picture, even though she wears very little makeup and is “not good with hair.” (It’s a deficiency the two of us share; we heavily depend on our hair stylists because the cut has to save us from ourselves.)

The pictures I love best show the two of us enjoying each other’s company—laughing, hugging, or sharing a knowing look (that silent mother-daughter communication where a raised eyebrow speaks volumes).

On this Mother’s Day, I’m thankful to have been raised by an Alabama country girl who can make a coconut cake from scratch, set a pretty table, swim like a fish, and handle a shotgun. Her faith in God and love for other people are daily lessons in how to live my life.

Happy Mother’s Day, Mama! Today, for the first time in a long time, I’ll see you in church.

Sunday Morning Serenity

Today is a little bittersweet for me. It’s Mama’s birthday, so lunch and . . . CAKE! But it’s my last “Movie Sunday” with Daddy. Once he and Mama were fully vaccinated, she was MORE than ready to go back to church, but Daddy’s still not quite up to it. So while Dave and I waited (and waited) to get our shots, I’ve been going out on Sundays and sharing a movie morning with Daddy while The Boss is at church.

To explain: Daddy and I both love movies—I mean LOVE movies. Mama . . . not so much. She can’t sit still long enough to get through one (unless it’s Robert Redford in the The Way We Were). She and I have always had our girl time together, but I haven’t had much time, especially lately, with just Daddy and me. It took a pandemic. These Sundays have been pretty special—just the two of us and a big bowl of popcorn, watching Gary Cooper and Judy Holliday and Sidney Poitier.

Mother’s Day will be my first Sunday back at church in over a year. I’ve missed two Easters and Christmas. And I’ve missed our church family. I’ve missed the fellowship. But I also know that time with Daddy is a treasure I need to hold onto. Movie Sundays might have to become Movie Fridays, but I’m not ready to quit riding the range with Daddy and Gary Cooper. And I’m very lucky that Dave is just fine with giving us time to saddle up.

If months of separation and isolation have taught us anything, it’s that we should treasure the people we love and every minute we can spend with them. Human connection teaches us so much about our connection with God. Both are gifts.

Sunday Morning Serenity

There’s joy in pleasing a bird. That’s my great takeaway from the pandemic. Little things make me a lot happier than they used to, and I’m hoping they always will. When the weight of the world seems to be knocking at your door daily and your whole life has been upended, you’d think it would take a lot to pull you out of the dark places your mind can go, but it doesn’t. A blue jay’s wacky hop through the birdseed on your porch will just about do it.

I never took much notice of birds before, even though Mama is a certified Bird Lady. But at some point during the past year, well before vaccines, I decided I needed something new to look at while I worked. So I hung a couple of birdfeeders on the little front porch of the Story Shack and consulted Mama on proper feed and care. What began as entertainment for me turned into a fascination with them—with birds and their fine-feathered ways, from the blue jay—“a blue jay’s a fussy bird!” Mama says—to the peaceful doves that hang back just a bit so as not to stir up trouble. They have such personality. And they seem able to coexist well enough with the squirrels and the chipmunks.

Of course, I imagine bird-voiced conversations: “Have you tried the sunflower seeds? Oh, my, they’re just delightful. You’ll want to get here early for the supper buffet.”

Cheeto, whose nap chair sits by a big glass window overlooking the porch, thinks he has acquired his own personal Animal Planet station and watches the birds and chipmunks till he falls asleep.

And so it goes in the Story Shack for a little while longer—birds and squirrels and chipmunks and the occasional invasion from inquisitive toddlers next door, out for a snack from the basket of treats in my office and a gleeful grab at the wind chimes hanging from an arbor nearby.

The moral of this avian meditation, I guess: Even when your joys are small, your joy can be full. Prayers for your joy and peace this Sunday morning.