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.”
Welcome
Come In the House is a collection of stories that seeks to find the grace of God in the everyday stuff of life. Many of its stories center around a little rural community in North Mississippi called Shake Rag, where the writer spent many holidays and summers. The characters and stories are all real. A good place to start is to read the first posting entitled "Come In the House." You can find it as the first posting in September.
It is hoped that as you read the stories that you will find connecting points with your own life story and more importantly, that you will find a connection with God and God's grace in your life. Thank you for being here. You are always welcome to "Come In the House."
It is hoped that as you read the stories that you will find connecting points with your own life story and more importantly, that you will find a connection with God and God's grace in your life. Thank you for being here. You are always welcome to "Come In the House."
Monday, October 25, 2010
Monday, October 18, 2010
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.
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.
Monday, October 11, 2010
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
Monday, October 4, 2010
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.
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