Goin' Down to Mama's

Sunday Morning Serenity

A couple of nights ago, we had meatloaf balls for supper—not just any meatloaf balls—Mama Sue’s. Dave loved them, and so did I. We’ll be raiding her cookbook again very soon. And I love watching the YouTube videos that I’m pretty sure her daughter, Amy, talked her into making.

My hometown friends know Mama Sue as Sue Strickland Garrett. That’s her in the picture, holding a spoon in her home ec class at Vincent High School in 1969—my first-grade yearbook. Back then, Sue was my hero (heroine?) We went to the same Baptist church, where she played the piano and organ and I dreamed of playing the piano and organ. Keyboards fascinated me from the time I was old enough to identify one. Learning to play was something I wanted more than anything else. And Sue did it so well. (Also, her hair flipped perfectly, which mine was too straight to do, and she was a majorette—probably the reason I asked for and received a baton, which I was never very good at twirling.)

Unlike many teenage girls who are talented and smart and popular, with perfectly flipping hair, Sue was about as kind and humble a young girl as you could ever hope to meet. She spotted my longing for music and invited me—ME!!!—to sit with her on the piano or organ bench when I was probably six or seven years old, maybe even younger. Before church started, she would remind me, “Now don’t play.” Of course, I wouldn’t. But I got to watch her play—and arrange her hymnals so that there was never an interruption in the service. In between songs, she would whisper little tidbits about music to me. We’d draw treble clefs on discarded church bulletins. Most important of all, she taught me how to separate the foil from the paper on a chewing gum wrapper, a skill I retain to this day. And I’ve been a church pianist most of my life.

Somehow, the meatloaf balls brought all that back to me—what it was like to be a young child, looking up to a teenage girl who made me feel like I mattered. I guess the separation from so many people I love has made me all the more grateful for them, for those who have touched my life, inspired me, nurtured me, shown me loving kindness.

Community is such a gift. Love and friendship too. Sharing good food is a way of expressing both. You can look for meatloaf balls underneath the Reynolds Wrap on my covered dish as soon as we can fellowship again.

Sunday Morning Serenity

During my brief sojourn as a freelancer, one of my clients was a magazine for the Association of Recovery in Higher Education. They created a national, well-organized network of Collegiate Recovery Communities designed to help young people who were recovering from addiction return to campus and successfully complete their degrees. I interviewed quite a few of those students and found their stories to be some of the most inspiring I've ever heard. There was one experience they all shared: “my rock bottom.”

Rock bottom is the point of no return, the specific moment when you realize that your current path has dragged you down to such an unsurvivable depth that you’re left with one choice and one choice only: change or die.

I feel like we watched our rock bottom play out on Capitol Hill this week. It was sickening and heartbreaking. But I have to say, for the first time in a long time I was proud of our perpetually divided Congress for coming together and performing their duty, even in the face of violence and volatility. It gave me hope that maybe we had, at last, hit our rock bottom and were ready to begin the slow and difficult climb out.

Suspicion and division and dishonesty pushed us down. We’ll need truth and justice and unity to pull us out. The question is, are we up to the climb? I think so. I hope and pray so.

Sunday Morning Serenity

I’m turning into my Mother. So there’s that. But I don’t mind really. If you’re going to turn into somebody else, Mama’s not a bad choice.

After years of teasing her about being The Bird Lady, I found myself looking out the huge front windows of the Story Shack, where I now spend most of my time since I’m working from home, and thinking to myself, “a bird feeder might be nice.” I found a reasonably priced one on Amazon. But then it occurred to me—won’t the birds get thirsty too? Birdbath. Check.

At first I worried that the feathered ones wouldn’t fly my way. They did, though. I’ve watched the birdseed level dip, dip, and dip some more. But that’s okay. The birds in my buffet line earn their keep, putting on a show for me every day. Plus, they’ve given Mama and me a whole new avenue of conversation: What seed do they like best? Should I get more than one feeder? Is that a chickadee I just texted you a picture of? We’re already talking bird-friendly shrubbery and butterfly-attracting flowers.

I’m embracing, more than ever, a lesson I learned from both parents: Nature is a fine companion, especially when people aren’t an option.

And something else: You never know who might be hungry until you offer some food.

[Image by Gerald Rencehau @ Freerangestock.com]

Sunday Morning Serenity

Daddy and me posing in front of a long-ago Christmas tree at Grandme's house.

I think we can all say it together: This Christmas was different. And while there were things that I missed, there were others I didn’t.

Number one on that list is crowds. The older I get, the less crowd-tolerant I’ve become, especially given our current circumstances. And since we wouldn’t be gathering with family or friends this year, our gift-giving was really low-key—one present each for my parents, Dave, and me. We opened those in November, which meant Christmas Day wasn’t about loading and hauling gifts—it was about being together (over breakfast casseroles, much to Daddy’s dismay:)

Since I’m working from home, I completely avoided holiday traffic at rush hour. I can honestly say that I didn’t miss inching past Brookwood mall and crawling my way down 280 to get home at night.

In short, I didn’t miss the holiday stress, much of which is self-generated.

On the flip side, I’ve read so many Facebook posts that began with something like “never again will I complain about . . .” Giftwrap all over the house. A sink full of dishes to be washed, left behind by all the family who gathered for Christmas dinner. Noise-making toys for the tots.

I’m right there with those FB friends. I missed hugs from aunts, uncles, and cousins. I missed my church family and the sound of us all singing “Silent Night” and celebrating the birth of Christ together. I even missed the church building, decorated for Christmas. I missed getting together with friends, which I now realize should not be about the stress of “entertaining” but the joy of sharing laughter and conversation and fellowship, which we can do over a cup of coffee—no silver polishing required.

What I’ve missed is true communion. And I hope I never again take it for granted. I hope I never forget what this Christmas has taught us—what it’s all about.

Sunday Morning Serenity

This December, despite all the hardships and "not normal" of 2020, I'm doing something I've always wanted to do but never had the opportunity: I'm embracing the quiet side of Christmas. As an introvert who relishes solitude, I realize I have a great advantage this season over those who thrive on constant contact with people. My mother is in that camp. And this year has been very hard for her, especially now, when she would normally be making covered dishes for church socials and getting her house ready for family.

Of course I miss those things too. I'm right now imagining the huge family reunion I want to help Mama plan when this is all over. But you might see the quiet of this Christmas in a different light if you interpret it not as some sort of decree forbidding you to celebrate as you normally would but as a permission slip making it okay for you to just "BE STILL AND KNOW." 

I'm enjoying the cold weather more than usual because I don't have to go out in it. I can stay inside and watch the birds or bundle up and go for a walk. I don't wake up thinking about the holiday errands I need to run; I drink my coffee and pet my cat and look out at the sunrise and the bare branches against a December sky. My musical choices have shifted to the serene: "In the Bleak Midwinter," "What Child Is This," "The Wexford Carol," "O Holy Night" . . . though I still crank up Mariah Carey's "Jesus, What a Wonderful Child" now and then.

Yes, I look forward to next Christmas, when our extended family can be together again and we can rejoin our church family and I can stop worrying about my parents' safety. But I'm hoping to hold onto some of the stillness of this quiet Christmas. I'm hoping that I never let the presents and the covered dishes distract me from a young couple with a new baby taking shelter in a stable, that I never forget "and on earth peace, good will toward men," that I always find quiet time to contemplate in solitude "Wonderful, Counsellor, The mighty God, The everlasting Father, The Prince of Peace."

[Nativity image by Stuart Miles @ Freerangestock.com]

Sunday Morning Serenity

“For where two or three are gathered together in My name,
I am there in the midst of them.”
Matthew 18:20

Last week, my publisher sent me a list of questions to answer about my fourth book. They’ll be used to generate press coverage when it's released next year.

One of those questions was this: What do you hope readers will learn or experience when they read Under the Bayou Moon?

Part of my answer: I wrote this book primarily in 2020, the most difficult year many of us have ever experienced. I had a lot on my mind, namely, our need for community, which I believe is God-given . . .

I had never given it much thought before, but I do believe our need for community is divinely inspired. It’s part of our spiritual DNA. Yesterday, Dave and I distance-visited with our good friends Rod and Mari, and we all talked about how much we want to reconnect with our circle, once “This” is over. That visit made me remember a passage from Reverend Timothy Keller’s The Reason for God:

“The Hebrew word for this perfect, harmonious interdependence among all parts of creation is called shalom.We translate it as “peace,” but the English word is basically negative, referring to the absence of trouble or hostility. The Hebrew word means so much more than that. It means absolute wholeness—full, harmonious, joyful, flourishing life.”

Wholeness. Full, harmonious, joyful, flourishing life. Doesn’t seem entirely possible right now, given our physical separation from each other, does it? Aren’t we all planning what we’ll do first, once our world is “back to normal”? Or do we even think that’s possible? I’ve heard so many friends and family ask the same question: Do you think things will ever be like they were before?

We don’t know. We hope so. Then again, maybe we’ve learned to appreciate community—and communion—more. Maybe we’ll work harder to protect it. Maybe we’ll come back better, having learned the value of things we took for granted. Maybe we’ll think more about each other and less about ourselves. Maybe we’ll be humbly grateful for the divine communion that can sustain us when there’s nothing else to hold onto.

“The Christian gospel is that I am so flawed that Jesus had to die for me, yet I am so loved and valued that Jesus was glad to die for me. This leads to deep humility and deep confidence at the same time. It undermines both swaggering and  sniveling. I cannot feel superior to anyone and yet I have nothing to prove to anyone. I do not think more of myself nor less of myself. Instead, I think of myself less.” —Timothy Keller

 

 

Sunday Morning Serenity

I’ve heard everybody from pastors to parents say it. And I’ve said it myself many times: This year has been hard. And it will get harder before it gets better. But it’s going to get better.

The closer we get to that light at the end of the tunnel, the more I’ve been thinking about a verse from the book of Acts. The Apostle Paul is a prisoner on board a ship bound for Rome, when it sails into a great storm. Having battled the winds and the waves for many days, the sailors are giving up hope of survival:

Then fearing lest we should have fallen upon rocks,
they cast four anchors out of the stern,
and wished for the day.
Acts 27:29

Some translations use “prayed” in place of “wished.” Either way, the sailors are longing for relief from the storm and the darkness. Their only remaining option is to drop anchor and hope and pray they live to see daylight.

We’re living through our own version of “drop anchor and pray for daylight.” How well we get through the storm will depend on our anchors—that is, what we anchor ourselves to. It's interesting to think about—who and what your anchors are. I know that God, my family, and my closest and dearest friends are my three strongest anchors. My fourth, I think, is made of all the things that bring me peace and joy—writing, nature, music, Cheeto the Cat . . .

When I focus on my anchors—not the storm but the anchors that I know will get me through it—I feel joy and gratitude, not fear or sadness. So if you’re feeling tossed about, just remember: It’s not about the size of the storm. It’s about the strength of your anchors.

Daylight’s on the way. "The Storm Is Passing Over."

 

 

Sunday Morning Serenity

This morning I stumbled onto a video by cellist Wendy Law, who played the same classical piece on three different cellos: one cost $5000, one cost $180,000, and the last one cost $1 million. She encouraged viewers to comment on whether they could tell a difference in the sound among the three instruments.

Between the first two cellos, I couldn’t hear much distinction in sound quality, but the better instrument looked easier to play, as if the cellist's fingers could effortlessly glide up and down the strings instead of wrestling with them, as she occasionally had to do on the cheaper cello. The third one—the million-dollar one—sounded better and looked easier to play. The refinement of the instrument freed the musician to express herself in away she couldn't with the other two.

What we’re given does affect what we have to share with the world; but what we’re willing to give of ourselves shapes it too. A cheap cello might be a bear to play, but a willing musician can coax something beautiful from it. Oftentimes, we can do a lot of good with a lot less than we think we need. And the difficulties we face will just make us appreciate the ease we enjoy, if and when we’re blessed with more.

This season of thanks has been like none others. But a quiet celebration has its own special rewards—namely, less stress and more gratitude. Can you even imagine how much more we’ll all appreciate this time next year, now that we know, beyond a doubt, what made it special all along? We'll never again take for granted the priceless gift of having our families together, under one roof, giving thanks.

Oh, give thanks to the Lord, for He is good!
For His mercy endures forever.
Psalm 136: 1, 26  

[Image by Freerangestock.com]

Sunday Morning Serenity

And let the peace of God rule in your hearts,
to which also you were called in one body;
and be thankful.

Colossians 3:15

Let the peace of God rule. Be thankful. If I can hold onto those two things alone, I can deal with anything. But sometimes I don’t.

I didn’t know until recently that there’s a psychological term for something I’ve done forever: “catastrophizing.” It means imagining that your situation is far worse than it is and/or imagining the absolute worst outcome possible. It’s a great way to make yourself miserable. And ungrateful.

Naming it has helped me fight it. Sometimes that’s all it takes: identifying your foe, spiritual or psychological or emotional . . . Many times, my foe is me. (Technically, “my foe is I” but that sounds hoity-toity.) I’m imagining the worst instead of trusting in The Best.

Let the peace of God rule.

I’m blessed to come from a family of grateful people—on both sides. They’re genuinely thankful for what they have. Actually, my hometown is like that. It’s a community of people who believe in gratitude and generosity. I hope I carry that with me. And I think when I’m ungrateful, it’s because I’m focusing on the few things I don’t have instead of the many things I’ve been given. Every new day is an incredible gift, when you think about it.

Be thankful.

I was looking for a song to add to this post and came back to one I’ve shared before: “Psalm 34” by the Brooklyn Tabernacle Choir. I’m repeating it because as I listened to it again this morning, I found myself in a spirit of true worship, and I realized that’s something I’ve been missing. I can have quiet time at home. I can pray at home. But it’s hard to worship at home. Listening to this song somehow restored my sense of fellowship.

Let the peace of God rule. Be thankful.

 

Sunday Morning Serenity

A cool wind is blowing through the trees this morning. With the possible exception of ocean waves, I think that’s my favorite sound in all of nature—wind in the trees, be they pines or palms. Dave and I have been known to hurry onto the nearest porch when a storm’s coming so we can watch it roll in and listen to the sound of the wind (unless it takes a scary turn and sends us scurrying back inside to watch the Weather Channel). One summer we planted palms and banana plants in our back yard to make it sound like the beach when the wind blew.

Today, with the Story Shack's front door propped open to the rustling leaves outside, I looked up “wind” on BibleGateway and of course found lots of mentions. There’s plenty of seafaring in the Bible, particularly in the New Testament. I haven't studied James carefully, but this passage struck me:

Look also at ships:
although they are so large
and are driven by fierce winds,
they are turned by a very small rudder
wherever the pilot desires. 
Even so the tongue is a little member
and boasts great things.

See how great a forest a little fire kindles!
And the tongue is a fire, a world of iniquity.
The tongue is so set among our members
that it defiles the whole body,
and sets on fire the course of nature;
and it is set on fire by hell. 
For every kind of beast and bird,
of reptile and creature of the sea,
is tamed and has been tamed by mankind. 
But no man can tame the tongue. 
It is an unruly evil, full of deadly poison. 
With it we bless our God and Father,
and with it we curse men,
who have been made in the similitude of God.
Out of the same mouth proceed blessing and cursing.
My brethren, these things ought not to be so. 
James 3: 4-10

Oh dear. James saw us coming. How true is that? How much trouble in the world comes from that one tiny part of the human body? It can bring blessings or curses. And it is indeed difficult to tame. But that’s the single greatest favor we could all do for ourselves and for each other right now—try to tame our tongues. Speak blessings and not curses. Use that tiny rudder to steer our ships toward a better course.

Behold, a king will reign in righteousness,
And princes will rule with justice.
A man will be as a hiding place from the wind,
And a cover from the tempest,
As rivers of water in a dry place,
As the shadow of a great rock in a weary land.
Isaiah 32:1-3