The Camera

My home growing up in Grenada, MS was a two story red brick house. The house had three bedrooms, a kitchen, living room, dining room and a single bathroom. All of them were downstairs. Upstairs, the house had never been completed. Consequently, it became a huge attic where all sorts of things found their resting place. As a kid, I loved going up into the attic. It was easy as there was an enclosed stairway that went straight up to it. Up in the attic there were canning jars, my dad’s wool army uniform, a couple of boxes of broken toys and piles of magazines. A drum set that I had received one year found its way into the attic, I suspect rather quickly. Over to one side there were wreaths of plastic flowers that hung loosely on their Styrofoam forms, memories of an infant little sister who died just days after birth. An old black and white television took up one corner. Dad hated throwing things away.

One of my favorite trophies in the attic was an old Kodak box camera. No one thought much about the camera. It had been in the attic forever and was in the box with the broken toys. The camera intrigued me. It was nothing like my Polaroid Swinger so it was hard for me to imagine how it worked. Often times I would gaze through the scratched square lens and imagine. Surely it had been on safari, had captured wild animals and amazing moments in history. I would snap the shutter and wait on it to spit out a picture like my Swinger did. Nothing ever happened.

High school and college came and went. Seminary took me off to the far country, Texas, and thoughts about the attic and its treasures faded. Mom died. Jana and I met and were married. Life continued. While home for a visit with my dad, the old attic called my name so up the stairs I went. Nothing much had changed. The old newspaper with JFK’s assassination sat right where it had been since 1963. There were a few more magazines. Some tattered quilts had also ascended the stairs. Over in the old cardboard box of broken toys was the camera. I picked it up and stared through the scratched lens. The thought occurred to me, “What if there were pictures inside.” Impossible. 30 years of Mississippi summer heat and the cold of winter would have ruined them. I found the latch and gently opened the old camera. You guessed it. Inside was a roll of film. As if I had found the arc of the covenant, I carried the film back to a lab in Fort Worth. Three days later there were treasures of immense value. Photographs. Six of them actually. There was a slender young woman on the steps of our house laughing at a really short little boy playing in the snow. Mom and me! Snapshots of a blink in time that was long since gone. Lost moments now remembered. Captured, kept, and now treasured.

God remembers, too. It is mentioned over 70 times that God remembers his people. No cameras required! Our Jewish friends have something called the Yizkor prayer. It is a prayer offered for those who have departed. Rabbi Tielson says this of Yizkor, “Yizkor is a Hebrew word that means "He will remember." Our memory is most fleeting, it is a blink of the eye. Our memory is short and fuzzy and so very partial. "He will remember" means "God will remember." God is beyond the realm of time, not bound by the clock or the calendar. God is beyond the realm of forgetfulness, for God remembers.”

God remembers . . . us. God loves us. God keeps us. God treasures us. Like a mother treasures her child, on a snowy day in Mississippi.

Christmas Laughter

Several years ago I was associate pastor in a church very similar to my current church of Weatherly Heights. We followed the liturgical calendar, supported women in ministry, believed strongly in missions and shared a few other distinctives. We also had a Christmas Eve service. The service began at 11:00 pm every Christmas Eve and was a strange mix of formal and informal. The ministers wore robes, the organ played, we sang the familiar Christmas hymns and we would light the Christ candle. In an effort to encourage young families, children were invited to come in their pajamas. It was a wonderful service.

One year during the service we had entered into a most solemn time. It was an extended period of silence in which we prayed and reflected on the coming of Christ into the world. As I stood next to my pastor on the platform and pondered on the significance of the moment, I folded my arms across my chest. I was in deep, deep thought. Then, as if on cue, came a faint sound, a musical something. It came swirling around my head and began to gain momentum and volume. The sound was a tune, an electronic tune. It was “Here Comes Santa Clause.” It could have been a cell phone today but it wasn’t. Its point of origin began to awaken within me a most terrifying thought. Could it be? It was. It was me! My new Christmas tie had a button in it and when I had folded my arms I unleashed its power. The coming of Christ had been upstaged by the coming of Santa. I tried to stop it. I grabbed the tie that had bunkered itself under my heavy robe. I found the button and pressed it. The tune started over. I pressed it again. It started over again. What do I do? I decided a dash to the U-Haul store might be appropriate but remembered it wouldn’t be open for a couple more days. Maybe if I look at my pastor with a quizzical expression the good folks in the congregation would think it was him. I looked over and he wasn’t smiling so I ruled that out. I finally managed to grab the tie and shove the device under my arm and held it there. Now only a faint sound, somebody said amen, the organ began, and we began singing. Saved.

I’ve got to believe that at such times that God must certainly smile, even laugh, at us and with us during such foibles. Seeing a young minister become glowing red enough to challenge Rudolf on the night of such importance must bring God a sense of pleasure in knowing that meaning well is enough when things go awry.

It also causes me to appreciate the gift of forgiveness. The pastor never said a critical word. The congregation chuckled about the experience, especially at Christmas time in the years following. It really was a small thing. I’ve done much worse. But every time there have been those gracious souls that have smiled and forgiven. I’ve tried to do the same. There are many gifts that Santa brings this time of year but none, none, so great as the gift that came with the Child – the gift of forgiveness . . . of ourselves . . . and of others. Thanks be to God.

Beagles

As my keyboard meandered its way through the woods of Shake Rag chasing turkeys last week, I was reminded that I also hunted rabbits in those same woods. Armed with Daddy Freeman’s single shot 20 gauge shotgun, I would call the dogs up to the house and then head for the woods. Daddy Freeman’s dogs were service animals first, then pets. Mike was an English Setter that had been around since God had planted the grass. He was a pretty good bird dog but what I liked most about Mike was his snake hunting abilities. Mike and Mama Bea shared an equitable amount of hatred for water moccasins. He and I would often just go snake hunting. He would spot a snake at the water’s edge, grab it and shake it until there was nothing left to shake. There is no telling how many times he was bitten. Then there was Mary and her clan. Mary was the queen beagle. She had a great nose and a distinctive yelp. You could always tell when they were on a rabbit. Often, she and the other beagles would go out hunting all night and make it home in time for breakfast which was usually a pan of corn bread that Mama Bea had cooked the night before.

So off we would head into the woods. I would make my way to briar patch after briar patch giving it a kick and a stomp. Eventually a rabbit would pop out and the hunt would be on. Hunting rabbits with beagles is not like the pictures you see of dogs hunting foxes. Beagles tend to walk rather than run, relying on their noses rather than their eyes to follow the rabbit. Surprisingly, the rabbit isn’t much faster. It does have that initial burst out of the briar patch. After all, a beagle’s bite is worse than its bark so it clears out pretty fast. But then, after a bit of distance, it will slow down, rest, hop a bit, rest some more. The rabbit will stay a safe distance out in front of the dogs. Funny thing about rabbits: they run in circles, big circles. Always. No one knows why since no one can speak rabbit. Some speculate that it is because they are just staying within the area they call home. They don’t know what lies beyond so why risk going there. Some think they are doubling back to confuse the dogs. Whichever, they run in circles.

The beagles never catch on to this, noses to the ground, they’ll trail right along behind that rabbit when what they should do is just sit and wait. If they would just pause long enough to take a look around, maybe they would spot the furry critter and get a clue. Nope. Noses to the ground, yelping, following, trailing, persistently, predictably, hunting. They run until they get tired or the hunter has, well, you know. Then they head home for a pan of cornbread.

Ever felt like you were running in circles? Are you going through life with nose to the ground, predictably doing what you always do? You might do it well, but it’s the same ol’, same ol’. We all do at some time or another. I suspect even my surgeon friend over in Mississippi looks down occasionally and even thinks, “Same old gall bladder-ectomy.” When that happens to me, it’s time to not just pause and look around, but look up. Brother Lawrence, a monk in the seventeenth century saw God in the mundane. He said, “It is enough for me to pick up but a straw from the ground for the love of God." All we do, even chasing rabbits, is done for the kingdom and our Lord. Even much of what we do during Advent and the Christmas season can make it seem like we are running in circles. Before we wear ourselves out, let’s pause in those times, look up and thank God that we are able to do, to be, to love, and to share . . . for others . . . and more importantly . . . for the Christ child’s sake.

Turkeys and Thanksgiving

Last week was Thanksgiving. Surprise. I’m sure no one had noticed. Thanksgiving today is far different than my childhood. Growing up we would gather up the casseroles and climb in the ’62 Ford and head to Mama Bea’s. If you have read much of my stuff, Mama Bea may seem as familiar to you as your own grandmother. Mama Bea, as you know, lived in Shake Rag which was out from Okolona which was down the road from Tupelo which is where Elvis was born.
Mama Bea and Daddy Freeman raised a variety of animals on their farm. They had the usual cows and chickens but they also had some unusual animals. They had peafowls. Peafowls are those beautiful birds that you usually see at zoos as they strut around with their million brilliantly colored “feather-eyes” staring back at you. They raised quail for a while. This was started one day when Daddy Freeman and I were walking across the pasture and came upon a quail’s nest filled with little ones. He took them back and raised them to adults and pretty soon had quite a covey.
They also had turkeys, although they weren’t around as much as the chickens or the guinea (funny looking fowls from Africa). I never could decide if turkeys were smart or dumb. They wouldn’t nest close to the house like the chickens would. They wandered off across the pasture and into the woods. If you wanted to know where they were nesting, you had to follow them. As soon as we would see a hen heading out, we would follow, eventually finding the nest. As I recall, Daddy Freeman would then go back at a time when the hen was off the nest and get the eggs. He would take the eggs and put them under a chicken that was setting (for you city folk that’s what a hen does when she is incubating eggs). This was necessary because if the turkey eggs were left in the woods, they would be robbed by foxes or raccoons before they ever hatched. But Daddy Freeman wouldn’t just take the turkey eggs, he would also leave behind fake eggs. Something to fool the hen into thinking that all the eggs were there and the nest was undisturbed. Otherwise, off she would go to make a new nest. So, the turkey was smart enough to hide her nest but when it came to the eggs . . . hmmmm, not so much.
Now, I wouldn’t want to compare people with turkeys entirely, although I have known a few turkeys in my life, but, I do see a similarity. As we gathered around the table this year there were many thanksgivings offered up for houses, prosperity, cars, jobs, football teams (not me) and a host of other pleasures that we surround ourselves with. No doubt, all blessings. But really, aren’t they more like those fake eggs in the turkey’s nest? Don’t they replace what is valuable in our thinking with false comforts and security? What really is most important? Family? Friends? It really is a much shorter list than we may think, if we stop to think. Let’s give thanks to God for what is really important and not let others define what is important for us. We may or may not have full tables, but at the very least, we’ll have full hearts.

Bogue Creek

When I was twelve years old, I had an unusual assortment of friends. They were Jerry, Gary and Snake Doctor. Jerry lived down the street and across the sewage ditch. The ditch was a dividing line between the haves and the have-nots. Jerry was on the have-nots side. His four room shack had a living room, a bedroom, a kitchen and a bathroom that didn’t have a shower or tub. We called them shotgun shacks because, as you know, a shotgun could be fired in the front door and the shot would go out the back without hitting the walls. Jerry was a relatively nice kid as was Gary, his cousin. Snake Doctor was from a similar background as Jerry but wasn’t all that nice. Actually, he was a little bit scary and unpredictable. All of them were three years older than I was.

One day we all decided to make a trip to Bogue Creek. This meant my sneaking off from home. Jerry, Gary and Snake Doctor didn’t have to sneak because their parents didn’t care where they were, ever. Jerry grabbed his 410 shotgun and off we went. We crossed the railroad tracks, the “black” cemetery and meandered our way through a stand of trees to the creek. We had made the trip many times. On this trip, we decided to shoot shad. Shad are little silvery fish that swim in schools. We were having a grand time shooting at the fish and watching them blast out of the water. At some point Jerry made his way out onto a sand bar and I stood on the bank near him. The school of fish darted into the water that separated the bank from the sand bar. Now, even a twelve year old knows a little bit about angles and a phenomenon called ricochet so when Jerry raised the shotgun, I threw my arms up in front of my face and screamed, “No!” Too late. My legs were on fire. I looked down and there were little holes in my pants’ legs. I quickly pulled them up to find dozens of little bits of lead buried in my very skinny legs. There was also blood. Not much, but enough to scare me, Jerry, Gary and even tough guy Snake Doctor who I was sure had shot a few people already, on purpose. We sat there on the bank picking the shot out and blotting the blood with my pants. Not being mortally wounded we headed back home. When I got home, I yelled to Mom that I was back and dashed to my room. I quickly changed pants and stuffed my blooded pants into a paper bag that I snuck into the trash can out back. Safe! I didn’t wear shorts for a couple of weeks while my wounds healed. Mom never asked about the missing pants. All was well at home and the shad were able to live their lives out peacefully because of a lesson learned.

Thirty years later the phone rang. It was Dad with his weekly Saturday morning call. After we had discussed the weather and the prospects for Ole Miss’ success on the gridiron (both short topics) Dad mentioned that he had seen Jerry. Turns out Dad had needed a plumber. Jerry had finished his stint at Parchman, the state prison of Mississippi and had learned a trade while there – plumbing. “Son, tell me about Bogue Creek.” I suddenly became a twelve year old again as I told Dad the whole story. We both laughed and I was grateful that the visit with Jerry had been short. There was much more that could have been told. It was strange how after all those years I was still a bit embarrassed and ashamed that my misadventure had been revealed.

Imagine the woman at the well. All was revealed and yet this man didn’t speak words of condemnation, only loving acceptance. His eyes revealed grace and forgiveness. He offered living water that quenched every thirst of the soul. We all have our secrets. Some we wish could remain secret. But the One who knows them all, loves us most. Thanks be to God. We are forgiven.

Come and see a man who told me everything I have ever done! He cannot be the Messiah, can he? John 3

God Cheers

Go Zackary. Go Zackary. Go Zackary. Go Zackary. Come to McGucken Park most any Tuesday evening these days and you’ll see a crazed bald guy standing on the sideline of a soccer game yelling his lungs out. Go Zackary. And go he does. He’s a fleet footed little guy. Zackary hangs back from the wad of players who are competing for control of the ball until it eventually pops out. Zackary is there waiting. His coach says he is a strategically smart player. I think he looks at those flying feet and trembles. Anyway, he gets the ball and streaks toward the goal with the bald guy encouraging every step. Go Zackary. Inevitably he gets to the goal and loses control sending the ball to unpredictable places.

My heart sinks. I want him to score. I want him to be successful. So, I yell some more. Then the coach yells. Then the players yell. So why is Zackary smiling, with all this yelling going on. Because everybody is yelling, “Way to go Zackary.” “Good playing Zackary.” “Great shot Zackary.” We celebrate the good that he did without dwelling on the mistake.

Don’t you wish our adult life was more like that. Adults, we, make mistakes and more often than not we hear the stinging words of blame. Accusations fly and insults are muttered. “Fire the coach.” “She did that on purpose.” “He knew better.” Worst of all are our own condemning words. We are indeed our own worst judge. Recordings from years ago start playing in our heads that we aren’t valuable. We can’t succeed. We deserved what we got.

Thankfully, God is not like that. God is always with us cheering us on, “Go Howard. Go Mary. Go Steve. You can do it.” God desires our best, always. Mistakes? I make them. You make them. But God says to us, “You are forgiven.” Others may condemn. We may condemn ourselves. But we have a “cheerleader” that is always, always cheering us on. Go Terri. Go Mike. Go Jane. Way to go!

If God is for us, who is against us? – Romans 8

Communion

Here's a story as we approach All Saints Day . . .

Celtic Christians were people of the land. They were agrarian people but their connection to the land was more than economic. For them, the land on which they lived was sacred. It was as if they were inextricably bound to it. It was the place of family and it was a gift from their Creator. I have places like that for me. Shake Rag, MS is one of them. Every few years I go back to the place where my mother was raised and reminisce about a few acres that I was allowed to roam freely with a single shot shotgun and an old dog named Mike. We took on many dragons and slew them all.

Up the road is Boone’s Chapel Methodist Church. It is the first place that I had a real conversation with God. The story is a bit long for this but at around the age of 10, I became keenly aware that there was a Someone who loved me. Out behind the church is the cemetery. There are over 300 folks buried there and I think I might be related to almost all of them. A couple of years ago I walked the grounds of the cemetery, remembering my grandparents, my aunts and uncles, a cousin who died too soon, and a local TV repairman that often dropped by for Sunday dinner at Mama Bea’s. There were also tables, long tables that stretched out along the side of the church forever. I remember community gatherings on those tables that I know are older than even my memories of them. Fried chicken, corn bread, green beans, tomatoes, coconut cakes, fried corn and giant jars of tea filled every available space. I have to wonder if those tables are still being filled or have all the saints that once gathered around the tables now taken up residence behind the church. Has the community that once broke bread on rough hewn planks now gathered to celebrate communion at the banquet table with our Lord?

That day as I walked and felt the sacredness of the land beneath my feet, I was reminded of that “great cloud of witnesses” that Paul speaks of in Hebrews. They witnessed years ago to a skinny 10 year old about a mystery, about fellowship, simple faith and the importance of community. They witnessed to the next generation about faith and about communion, not from little glass cups and bits of crackers but from big jars of tea and cornbread. It was true communion … Southern style. Thanks be to God.

The Resurrection of Daddy Freeman

By the time I came to know my grandfather Daddy Freeman, he had made some significant changes in his life. One of which, I am told, is that he had quit drinking. It seems that in his younger days he had a bit of a wild streak in him. This wild streak led him on binges that might keep him out all night or longer with his buddies. Mamma Bea was a worrier and she would sit up waiting for him to find his way home, even if it meant waiting all night. One particular weekend Daddy Freeman had been gone a little bit longer than usual and Mamma Bea was almost beside herself. Then she heard the rumble of a car coming down the gravel drive. The distance from their house and the main road was probably about 150 yards so as soon as she heard the car, she had plenty of time to get outside and prepare herself for a proper reception of her wayward husband. This time was different though. Instead of the snarling and flying frying pans, Mamma Bea took one look and began wailing at the top of her lungs. Great tears were flowing as she saw one of Daddy Freeman’s friends coming down the driveway. It was Mr. Smith. “Ohhhh, Baby!” she said to her son. “It’s finally happened. Here comes Mr. Smith bringing your daddy home.” Now, it wasn’t unusual for a friend to bring Daddy Freeman home but Mr. Smith is not the one you wanted to see. Mr. Smith, as it turns out, was the Chickasaw County Funeral Home Director and he was bringing Daddy Freeman home in the hearse! Mamma Bea thought that Daddy Freeman was dead and I’m certain that if Daddy Freeman was sober enough to see Mamma Bea, he probably was wishing that he was. In fact, I think I might have climbed in the back and reclined until the storm was over, Jesus had come back or I had succumbed to natural causes rather than face Mamma Bea. “FREEMAN!” no doubt reverberated all over Shake Rag that day.

I don’t know what happened following the one and only resurrection of Daddy Freeman. Maybe that is when he decided to quit drinking. Maybe Mamma Bea knocked a knot on his head and encouraged him along the road to sobriety. Knowing my mischievous grandfather, he probably got a good laugh out of it, in a day or two.

“Lazarus, Come out.” Jesus said. And he did. Not from the back of a party wagon called a hearse but from a tomb. What a joyous day! Hearing his name called and then to be greeted by Jesus and Mary and Martha and the others must have been, well, a miraculous feeling. One day Jesus will call our name. Howard, Come out. Ruth, Come out. Bill, Come out. We will be raised, reunited, and resurrected.

In the mean time . . . What about the mean time? What about now? Wait. Listen. Don’t you hear it? Everyday? Howard. Ruth. Bill. Come out! Leave behind the bindings, the tomb of addiction, the darkness of depression. Come out! All of you to be resurrected to the newness of life in Christ! We can live, because He lives. So, let’s go out and live it up, the way God intended.

And the people said, “Amen.”

Hammer Time

Mama Bea and Daddy Freeman had a huge garden every summer. All kinds of vegetables were raised, picked, and then pickled, frozen or canned, which is a funny way to say they were put in jars. They were both hard workers and I’ll always believe that their work ethic kept them healthy. That said, when the heat of mid-summer came, despite their predisposition to hard work, they tended to rest around noon for a couple of hours or so. Lunch, a bottle of coke, As the World Turns and a nap in the recliners helped to rejuvenate them for the afternoon of work.

I vividly remember one particular day that Daddy Freeman’s mid-day siesta was stretching a bit long. “Freeman, the garden needs to be tilled.” No response. “Freeman!” That was enough and out of the chair he went. Now, I wouldn’t say that Mama Bea wore the pants in the family but she definitely washed, starched and ironed them and Daddy Freeman knew if he didn’t get going there wouldn’t be any pants for anyone to wear. So, up and out of the recliner went Daddy Freeman down to the garden. With me trailing a safe 5 steps behind, I could hear something along the lines of, “That woman #%&** can’t rest *+=#%^ work is all @!!!!&%.”

The tiller was an old machine that was held together with bailing wire and Daddy Freeman’s sweat and spit. (Baling wire is what bales of hay used to be bound with.) He checked the gas, set the choke and gave the old gal a strong pull to start the engine. Cough. Spit. Chug. He pulled again … and again … and again. Nothing. Daddy Freeman went up to where he kept his tools which were in the trunk of something like a 1932 Pontiac that had found its final resting place next to the smokehouse which was next to the chicken house. Back he came. He pulled out the spark plug and cleaned it, adjusted some screws that I’m sure were important and pulled the starter rope again … and again … and again. Mama Bea’s name was then invoked with less than romantic tones and then he reached for it. The “it” was his hammer. I found this a bit unusual and wondered what he was going to do. I found out. He took that hammer, raised it high over his head and “Wham! Wham! Wham!” Right on top of the tiller the hammer found its mark. I took a step back wondering what would happen if I didn’t start when Daddy Freeman wanted me to. He then grabbed the rope, pulled hard and the tiller realizing it was over-matched started right up.

Aren’t we glad that God doesn’t have a hammer? Some would argue that. Some would say that bad things happen to us because God wants to get our attention. Some would say that God punishes us for our misdeeds and allows our car to run into a tree or for our bodies to succumb to some horrible disease. Surely God is not vindictive. Surely God does not return evil for evil. Surely God is different than our models of justice.

God is good and desires our good. God loves us and does not desire that any be punished but that all live life joyously and in the abundance of His grace. Bad things happen. There is no doubt about that and some of those bad things are natural consequences to our bad choices. Some just happen. But God is not the initiator of those bad things nor does he simply allow them. God does what God can, for us, for His creation, for His kingdom. We are not tillers that just need a little corrosion knocked off of us. We are the beloved, God’s good creation, chosen, redeemed, Spirit-filled, the body of Christ and God loves us. Hammer time? Not with God.

Grace. Only grace. Always grace.

Sunday School Sweats

In Shake Rag there were two churches when I was growing up: a Baptist and a Methodist church.  Now Mama Bea and Daddy Freeman weren’t big church goers, but they knew it was important so occasionally they would send me down the road to attend church.  Most of my family was Baptist, I think, but I’m not sure that denominational divisions were all that important in Shake Rag.  You just went to church, period.  What determined which church you attended on any particular Sunday was a mystery to me then and still is today.  Boone’s Chapel Methodist Church was the closest one to us.  It was also, you may recall, where everyone eventually took up residence for their eternal reward.

One particular Sunday when I was about ten years old I had made my way to the Methodist church in time for Sunday School.  I suppose some cousin or aunt had picked me up and taken me.  Now Boone’s Chapel wasn’t that big.  In fact, as I recall, it had a small red brick sanctuary with a couple of side rooms and that was about it.  Our little class of ten year olds had gathered off to the side of the sanctuary for the morning lesson.  Our teacher was a nice lady who was rather young.  I’m certain we were related and I want to say her name was Laura but I can’t be certain.  At any rate, there were five of us gathered in a semi-circle sitting in folding steel chairs.  I remember because I was wearing shorts and my legs kept sticking to the chair.  Between the teacher and me there were three girls.  All three were sitting very properly in their frilly white dresses.  To my right was another student that I don’t remember much about at all so I’m guessing it must have been a boy. 

Somewhere along the way I had learned a critical fact about attending Sunday School:  when the teacher asked a question, never look her in the eye.  Look down, look out the window, feign reading your Bible, cough a lot, anything but don’t look at the teacher as this assured your name being called upon to answer the question.  This strategy had served me well the few times that I had attended but today the teacher had issued a full blown assault on the class.  She was going in order around the semi-circle with a question that scared me, “When were you saved and how did it happen?”  Quickly I counted, 1, 2, 3 … 4.  I was fourth.  There was time to figure out what the dickens she was talking about.  What does she mean “saved”?  I began to sweat.  Her earlier comments seemed to indicate that it had something to do with being a Christian but it seemed silly to ask such a thing.  Didn’t she know Mamma Bea and Daddy Freeman?  They weren’t Russians or aliens or anything like that.  They were my family, Baptists, Christians and I had come from that family.  Didn’t she remember where she lived?  America for Pete’s sake.  Everybody is a Christian.  How can I point to a time when I was “saved”?  I’ve always been that way. 

The teacher turned to Polly who sat next to her and said, “Polly, tell us about when you were saved.”  Polly said rather snootily, “I was saved on October 23, 1965 when Brother Jim came and preached a revival for our church.  I went down the aisle on the second stanza of “Just As I Am” and received Jesus Christ as my personal savior.”    “Hmmmmph, teacher’s pet.” I thought.  That had gone way too fast but it had given me some insight into this “saved” business.  There had been a particular date.  A decision had been made.  Jesus was personal.  That was all new to me.  Maybe victim number two will shed more light.  “Brenda, tell us about when you were saved,” said the teacher.  “That’s not a fair question,” she responded.  With those five words I felt like a bale of Daddy Freeman’s hay had been lifted from my shoulders.  She was stalling.  She didn’t have an answer either.  I was set free.  The teacher continued to prod her but to no avail.  The buzzer rang indicating class was over and I pulled my sweaty legs free from the steel chair and bolted.  It would be a long time before I would go back to Sunday School. 

Although that experience was most uncomfortable for me, I count it as one of the pivotal times in my spiritual formation.  It would be another seven years before I would become a Christian.  The Spirit would use that Sunday School teacher, my grandfather, a few friends and a couple more occasions to nudge me along.  I suspect most believers can reflect back and see such “Spirit proddings” in their faith development.  Perhaps we would all do well to sit down with a pen and paper and remember those people and events that God has used in our lives. 

What then is Apollos? What is Paul? Servants through whom you came to believe, as the Lord assigned to each.  I planted, Apollos watered, but God gave the growth. . . . .For we are God’s servants, working together; you are God’s field, God’s building.  – I Corinthians 3

Till Death Do Us Part

My daughter has been dating a wonderful young man for about a year now.  It wasn’t very long after they began dating that we discovered that we are related.  Being from Mississippi, that didn’t come as much of a shock, especially since it was from my Shake Rag side of the family.  It turned out that his great, great Aunt Hortense was married to my great Uncle Earl.  It’s a small world, I guess, at least in Mississippi. 

We began talking about this in the family circle and a story surfaced that I had never heard before.  It turns out that Uncle Earl had been married twice.  His first wife had died and he married Aunt Hortense, the only aunt of the two that I ever knew.  Now Uncle Earl was a practical man so when his first wife died, he bought a double plot in the cemetery at Boone’s Chapel Methodist Church in Shake Rag.  Boone’s Chapel Cemetery is where all my relatives are buried going back to the 1800’s.  You can’t step over a grave without stepping over a cousin or aunt or uncle.  My grandparents are there along with others that weren’t relatives but probably thought they were.  So, when Uncle Earl went on to his reward it was only natural that he would be buried beside his first wife.  In fact, it was his request, being the practical man that he was. 

Practical or not, Aunt Hortense was livid.  She had given him the best years of her life and she should be the wife that Uncle Earl found his eternal home next to.  Aunt Hortense just couldn’t let it rest, so to speak.  So she went and found a grader blade.  A grader blade is that long steel blade you see on road graders and is used to smooth road foundations.  They seem to be about 6 feet long and about 3 feet tall.  I can’t imagine how much it must weigh.  Aunt Hortense wrestled that huge piece of flat steel up to the Boone’s Chapel Cemetary along with a sledge hammer.  She took the blade and put it between Uncle Earl and his first wife and began pounding.  She beat that thing until it served as a suitable divide between him and “her”.  Forever.

I’m sure Aunt Hortense was a good Baptist as was most of my Shake Rag family.  She would have known about the gospel story where Jesus is quizzed by the Sadducees trying to catch him in a misstep.  They want to trap Jesus by basically asking if we will have more than one spouse in heaven if we had more than one on earth.  Jesus’ response was that it wasn’t important. 

Now, I like to think that Jana will be waiting on me in heaven one day, or that I’ll be waiting on her.  I want to think that the relationship will truly be beyond “till death do us part.”  But, I can’t count on it.  What I can count on is that we will all be joyfully received into the kingdom, into the loving Creator’s arms, surrounded by the Spirit, and greeted by the living Christ.  There we will live, truly live, and we will love like we have never loved or been loved before.  That, I can count on.  Grader blades or not. 

Forever.

The Devil Made Me Do It

I was eight years old at the time and had made my annual summer pilgrimage to Mama Bea’s.  The farm, of course, belonged to Mama Bea and Daddy Freeman but everyone called it Mama Bea’s, because, well, it was.  She was the matriarch of the clan in every sense of the word and when Mama Bea spoke, we all listened.  I was the proud owner of a Daisy BB gun that Santa had gotten from the Sears Roebuck catalogue.  Mama Bea had rules that governed the use of BB guns.  Don’t shoot at the house, don’t shoot the dogs and chickens, and don’t even think about shooting the Purple Martins.  Cows, snakes, turtles and other birds were all acceptable targets, especially the snakes and turtles.  The purple martins though, those were off limits.  Daddy Freeman had built a multi-tiered bird house years earlier and the Purple Martins had made a permanent summer home of it.  Martins were known to return each year to the same bird house and their return became a much anticipated event.  I think that the birds’ return had become part of the farm’s rhythm, just like the planting and the hatching of chicks, so when the Martins showed up, we all breathed a collective sigh of relief, knowing that all was well with the world. 

One day, my older brother and I were outside with my BB gun.  James Freeman was my hero. He was ten years my senior and had been named after Daddy Freeman.  He was already out of high school and I trusted and believed he could do anything.  I loved him dearly.  He and I were watching the Purple Martins flying above us at what seemed to be a hundred miles an hour.  They were zigging and zagging as they searched and caught insects in mid air.  Then my big brother, my hero, said it.  “I bet you can’t shoot one.”  The words, “Don’t shoot the purple martins” were quickly pushed out of my head, through my ears and they fell to ground with a thud while the words, “shoot one” seemingly grew and grew until they occupied every square inch of my being.  Overwhelmed with a sudden sense of urgency, I raised that Daisy BB gun to my shoulder, took aim and pulled the trigger.  Then horror struck.  I actually hit one.  One of Mamma Bea’s purple martins fell to the ground.  We both ran over to it and James Freeman bent over and picked up the limp bird.  It was motionless and so was I.  My big brother, my hero, held the bird up close to my face and with a grin that stretched from ear to ear he said, “Mama Bea is going to get you.”  He was right.  She would get me.  What would I ever say to her?  I don’t really remember what I thought at that moment but I imagine, being the precocious eight year old that I was, I probably thought that quoting one of the great theologians would do the trick for Mama Bea.  Something from the infamous Geraldine who said many times, “The devil made me do it.”  seemed most appropriate because whatever excuse I was conjuring up, one thing was certain to me.  The person who stood there with that giant grin wasn’t just my big brother but seemingly … the devil himself. 

So there we stood, my brother and I, staring at this motionless bird cupped in his large hands.  We both stood there for what seemed an eternity as I was envisioning my Daisy BB gun being placed on the top shelf of the freezer room, there to remain until the pigs out by the barn sprouted wings and flew.  Then, a miracle occurred.  I thought I saw it, but maybe not.  No, it did it again.  The bird’s eye blinked and then as quickly as it had plummeted to the earth, it took flight leaving my brother and me standing there with our mouths agape.  I watched as the bird mingled with the others in what must have been a home coming of sorts or an “aviarian” Lazarus experience. 

Then, I looked down at my brother’s hands.  They were still cupped as if holding the bird.  They were empty and it was as if it had never happened. 

There it is!  It is God’s lavish grace.  Whatever our sin, whatever our misdeed, God’s grace comes to us, forgiveness beyond measure, and it is as if it had never happened.  As far as the east is from the west; though our sins are like scarlet, we will become pure as snow; if we go to the deepest crevice or the highest pinnacle, we cannot escape the loving gracious presence of our Lord.  The Scripture says:  In Christ we are adopted according to His will, in Christ we have redemption; in Christ there is forgiveness; in Christ the lavish grace of God is poured out and it is as if it had never happened.  We are God’s good creation.  We have been clothed with righteousness.  You are free to choose … you are free to choose life, life in Christ. My brothers and sisters … you … are … forgiven. 

Snakes and Gardens

My grandmother, Mama Bea, had a garden.  It was always Mama Bea’s garden even though my grandfather, Daddy Freeman, did as much work in it as she did.  I remember Mama Bea making Daddy Freeman get up out of his chair one day to go till the garden.  He didn’t like it one bit and when the tiller wouldn’t start, he took a hammer and started pounding on it.  Better the tiller than Mama Bea I thought because I was quite certain Mama Bea could take him.

Anyway, they had a garden that to any 8 year old looked as if the entire world’s population could be fed from it.  Its rows yielded corn, tomatoes, eggplants, okra, squash, watermelons, onions, potatoes, and most everything else that could be planted, grown and eaten, canned, or frozen.  The garden also had a huge section that was the strawberry patch.  I can still see Mama Bea stooped over in the strawberry patch, sweat dripping from her face as she would pull weeds and later as she searched for the big, red berries.  Daddy Freeman would be off in another part tilling, or hammering, whatever was appropriate for that particular day and the demeanor of the tiller. 

I wasn’t there the day that it happened.   My memories of the encounter rely on the memories and stories of my mother and others.  Mama Bea was meticulously going through the strawberry patch when she felt a sting on her hand.  Now, I don’t know if it happened this way or not, but what I picture is Mama Bea straightening up and holding her hand out at arm’s length and there being a water moccasin with fangs still imbedded in her hand.  How it happened, I don’t know but one thing was for certain, two were in the garden and only one was going to leave alive.  Mama Bea hated snakes and was a fierce opponent when her hoe was nearby.  I’m certain that snake figured out pretty quickly that it had bitten off more than it could chew. 

The next several days Mama Bea’s life hung in the balance.  She had been transported to Houston, MS for medical treatment.  There was no anti-venom but this Southern woman was strong as an ox.  She overcame the poison that had violated her body just as she had dispatched that snake.  I don’t remember if there was a strawberry patch the following year.

Snakes and gardens just don’t seem to go together, do they?  Eve discovered that, as did Adam.  We want to enjoy God’s good creation and somehow it gets mucked up on occasion by snake-like critters.  Some might call it temptation, maybe even sin.  It just gets in the way and can sting, even resulting  in the loss of life, spiritual or physical.  If we only had a champion, someone who could wield a spiritual hoe as Mama Bea had and dispatch sin and temptation before its sting.  If only there was someone who could go ahead of us, searching and destroying, as it were.  If only there was someone . . .

The sting of death is sin, and the power of sin is the law.  But thanks be to God, who gives us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ.  I Cor. 15

Come In the House

My grandparents, Mamma Bea and Daddy Freeman lived in Shake Rag, MS.  Shake Rag was about 10 miles from Okolona, MS.  Okolona was about 20 miles from Tupelo, MS.  You may not know where Shake Rag is but everyone, in Mississippi at least, knows where Tupelo is.  It's where the king was born, you know, as in the King of Rock and Roll.  Yep, it's the birthplace of Elvis Presley. 

Shake Rag was a grouping of good folks along a couple of roads out in the county that used to be gravel but had been black topped by the time I came along.  Most of those good folks were related to me in some fashion or another.  Their mail was delivered into mailboxes out on that black top.  The closest post office was in Egypt, just down the road.  One of my uncles was the post master there and my momma graduated from school in Egypt.

The long gravel driveway that came off the main road down to my grandmother’s house in Shake Rag gave ample opportunity to get ready to greet visitors.  The windows and doors were always open in the summer because, even though they had a window air conditioner, they never turned it on except when As The World Turns came on around midday.  Through those open doors you could hear the rumble of the pickup truck and see the plume of dust trailing so you always knew when company was coming.  Sometimes on Sundays Mama Bea would pray before issuing the invitation.  She would look out, see the familiar truck and say, “Lord, here comes Billy Brown!” with just a bit of disgust in her voice.  Then came the bang of the screen door as it was flung open and the same hearty greeting from Mama Bea that everyone received, “Come in the house.” 

Billy was a TV repair man with one arm who was strong enough to lift TV’s that normally required two grown men.  He was born and reared in Shake Rag.  He always had the same coveralls on and always smelled musty.  Billy had a loud voice with a bit of a rasp that carried easily through the four room cinder block house.  It was well known in our family that Billy was smitten with my older sister who was 20 years his junior.  That little bit of information was great fodder for this younger brother’s teasings.  Such thoughts seem strange by today’s standards but I guess 35 years ago in Mississippi it wasn’t that uncommon.  I need to add that my sister never returned his affections.

Billy would visit for most of the afternoon, lingering until the Wonderful World of Disney came on and it was time for supper.  Then the cloth that covered the table and Sunday dinner came off to reveal the remains of roast beef, fried chicken, an occasional rabbit or squirrel, green beans, boiled okra, squash, corn bread, butter beans, peas, chocolate pie and coconut cake, not to mention the potato salad with mayonnaise that we thought was as fresh as it had been five hours earlier.  After the unveiling, we all got a little quiet except for the rattling of silverware and ice tea glasses.  The second feast was always as good as the first.  Then, Billy Brown would leave with a big smile, a full stomach and a thank you.  “Better get on home Bera,” he would say as he clamored into his truck.  Mama Bea would stand on the porch and watch until the plume of dust had settled on the cotton plants and then she came in.  There was no doubt that Billy Brown was a little different from most, even a bit strange and unsettling but, except for that hushed prayer, you would never know it by the way he was treated at Mama Bea’s.  As soon as Billy Brown crossed over that threshold, he was received and accepted as he was.  There were no expectations for change.  He was Billy Brown, a guest.  That was enough.

Billy Brown is buried in the back right corner of Boone’s Chapel Cemetery there in Shake Rag.  It’s a good place as cemetery plots go.  Just a few over are Mama Bea and Daddy Freeman and a host of other relatives.  I wouldn’t mind being buried there myself.  It feels like home.  One day there will be a door flung open wide and our Lord will welcome us all home.  There will be no distinction and the table cloth will be pulled back to reveal a banquet of plenty.  We’ll all be treated as what we are:  sons and daughters, brothers and sisters. 

That will be enough.