2023 — Surrender to Love

For at least the last decade, I have selected a word-for-the-year to guide me through that upcoming 365 days. In December, I begin listening, watching, paying attention to what word the Spirit might be showing me. If my memory and journals serve me well, these are the words I have lived with; words that have somehow shaped me through the course of that year.

2014 — Freedom

2015 — Grace

2016 — Let it Be

2017 — Beholding

2018 — Face to Face

2019 — Threshold

2020 — Awareness

2021 — Vision

2022 — Joy

Sometimes the yearly word comes easily. Other times it takes some paying attention. For example, 2018’s “Face to face.” I originally came across it one morning while reading John 1:2 in the Passion Translation: “They were together face to face in the very beginning.” Because the wording was so different than what I was used to in my NRSV, it startled me. Later I was reading  a post by Graham Cooke: “A face to face relationship with you is God’s dream.” Okay. That’s a bit odd. Later that night, I was sitting at my son’s watching the first episode of the crime thriller, “The Blacklist,” when Liz Keen says to her father Reddington concerning the man being held in the interrogation room, “He wants you face to face.” That pretty much did it for me. But for good measure, when I got home and was sitting at my dressing table, I looked toward my book shelves, and there in the midst of some 500 books, my eyes fell on Bill Johnson’s book entitled, you guessed it, “Face to Face with God.” And would it surprise you to know that when I picked up Frederick Buechner’s “Listening to Your Life” and turned to the day’s reading, this is what I found: “…Savior, be born in each of us who raises his face to Thy face.” 2018’s word was pretty much settled.

The words in and of themselves are not magical. They merely serve as guides or tools to direct me in my thinking and in my ongoing and hopefully growing relationship with the Lord. But some do have more swaying power than others. A greater impact. Like 2023’s.

I knew in mid December of 2022 that “Surrender to Love” was the word for the upcoming year. It was just a matter of waiting for the calendar to turn. And turn it did. With vengeance. If I knew then what I know now, I would have just as quickly turned my head, said I didn’t hear correctly, and chosen another word. But, alas, I did not. It has been a hard word in every stretch of the imagination, but one that has carried me through, laid a foundation, and changed me.

Surrender to Love.

The word surrender itself gets a bad rap as most think of it as a sign of weakness. However, to surrender to something or Someone bigger than ourselves is the only way to free us from ourselves. From our own egos and painstakingly self preoccupations. The problem with most of us, I’m afraid, is that we focus more on obedience than surrender. Obey. Obey. Obey. And while they are closely related, they are different. To put it visually, think of surrender as the soil out of which the tree of obedience grows. God doesn’t simply want our compliance, He wants our hearts … our love. No doubt, those who surrender obey. But not all who obey surrender. I really got to thinking about this at tonight’s New Year’s Eve service. While responsively reading the Ten Commandments, I thought to myself, “We talk so much about obeying these commandments, but we rarely discuss surrendering to the love at the forefront of them.” In fact, if our obedience is anything less than a response to love, I suggest our obedience might not really be “Christian” but rather a clanging cymbal.  

Surrender to Love.

And whereas the world despises the word surrender, it trivializes love and gives it all sorts of sordid romantic connotations. But love is a powerful force. Just think of what it can do. Love can soften a hard heart. It can renew trust after it has been shattered. It can inspire acts of genuine self-sacrifice. It can free us from fear. 

Surrender to Love.

No one is created for isolation. We are magnificently and mysteriously designed for an intimate relationship with the Divine … with the One Who is Love Himself. When we surrender to that Love, we are not bowing to someone else’s contaminated or self-preoccupied pale imitation or pitiful insecurities. We are surrendering to the Perfect Love of the One Who knows us, sees us, and wants absolutely nothing for us but that which is good.

But I would be foolish to say to love is always easy. In fact, love cannot only be hard but sometimes it’s just plain dangerous. Why? Because love always demands surrender if it’s going to be love. And surrender hurts, I don’t care how you look at it, because it demands our ego. 

This surrender to Love will look different on you than it does on me or your neighbor because we each have own story; our own relationship with God, with others.

Quite frankly, I’m somewhat looking forward to my word for 2024. But just because I’ve got a new one coming doesn’t mean I’m laying down Surrender to Love — or any of the previous year’s words. They all continue to have their impact upon my life. But this has been a hard one. Surrender always is.

Bless you, dear reader, as you enter 2024. And if you so desire, may the Lord lead you to your own word that will shape you, strengthen you and lead you towards a wholeness of spirit, soul and body that can be found nowhere else except in this One Who loves you so very much and desires relationship. 

Journal entry dated May 24, 2005: 

“Remember, saying ‘uncle’ to God is never a loss. It’s always a win!”

Let it be…

Words, Words, and More Words

A recent trip south provided me with an angst I was not expecting. I had finally gotten away for an overnight trip with my husband to attend our daughter’s graduation from law school and was eager to “rest” a bit from the expectations and demands that I had left behind. But as soon as we hit the interstate, I felt as if rocks were being hurled at me from every direction. Rocks of words. It didn’t take me long to realize I was reading every road sign, every billboard, every water tower, every advertisement on trucks … right down to the bumper stickers on the cars. I’m not sure which was more exhausting: the constant reading of the words or the attempt at not reading them. They were everywhere.

Don’t get me wrong: I love words. In fact, I still use a dictionary to find just the right one  needed when writing. And of course I love using them verbally. It’s in my DNA as both a woman and the family from which I come. Words are good, but they can be very exhausting to both the one reading or the one having to hear them.

Words can also be very hurtful. In fact, they are described in Scripture as daggers.  Proverbs 18:21 tells us that our words can bring death or life. They have the power to build up or tear down. But we don’t have to have anyone tell us that. We have all been victims of the cutting edge of that knife. Some left small incisions that only made us wince; others provided open wounds that take a lifetime of healing … if even then. Of course, I have also been the one left holding the knife.

And this morning I was reading of yet another potential product of words. I think it’s one of those things the Lord wanted me to see because I was actually reading the incorrect passage at the time. I had begun my Ephesians reading in verse four instead of the prescribed verse eight. I had read it numerous times before, but this time it jumped off the page. “Let no one deceive you with empty words.” Yes, words have the possibility of being “empty” with an end result of being deceiving. And that gets over into a whole different sphere of influence. A realm of falsehood, of hypocrisy, of duplicity, of trickery. (Read those words again. They are not lightweights.) And that scares me. Not only because our use of words can be so powerfully sneaky, but because I have played into it myself … on both sides of the cunning coin.

I’m not saying the male population holds no real estate, but I do believe that women just might have a corner on the market which also gives us the power to read the female persuasion. In fact, it’s something that dates back to the Garden of Eden. Don’t consider for a moment Eve didn’t know what she was doing. And don’t think for a second that same tool is not used today. No, we women may not leave the house in inappropriate attire, but that doesn’t mean we don’t do our share of wooing with our words — to both species. In fact, I would say words might even be the more dangerous of the two because of their deception and the ease of giving in to their flattery. And we all know who the father of that one is. 

Just this morning my precious friend Katie reminded me that words are just letters linked together — by spelling. By putting letters together in a correct order “to comprise the conventionally accepted form of a word.” Ah, but it can also mean “a verbal formula (spelling) considered as having magical force.” And so we have yet another dimension of this deception of words added to the equation.

Like I said, I love words. I love using words. I love finding the correct words to not only stir the readers minds but their hearts as well. After all, can you imagine reading a novel that doesn’t evoke emotion of some sort? How does any good author like Amor Towles do it? And, yes,  I am entranced … spellbound … by his use of letters linked together. Writers do it by using beautiful, wooing words. 

So maybe I just need to ask myself: where is the dividing line that separates words that are life giving and encouraging and sacredly beautiful from ones that are deceptive and duplicitous and “trickery” in nature? On which side of the coin do I rest my writing pen? Indeed, may the One Who is the True Word, guide my heart, direct my thoughts, give purity to my writing, and, when needed, protect each of us from unnecessary and deceptive words.

Now there’s a wordy blog post.

Lord, have mercy.

Just an ordinary moment…

Remembering Daddy

It was exactly one year ago this morning that I received the call that my daddy had passed through that thin veil and was now residing in his new Home with not only Christ but with his own daddy, mother and son. As a way of honoring him today, I’d like to share with you the words I spoke at his funeral. 

My Daddy, who only had a high school education, was one of the smartest men I knew, mainly because he lived by wisdom and not book sense. So I begin with a list.

Daddy’s 10 words of wisdom to live by:

1. The safest speed to travel on the interstate is with the flow of traffic.

2. Shop locally and always use your hometown pharmacy. (I still do to this day.)

3. Don’t store sharp knives on the kitchen counter or leave them in the sink at night. (This was in case someone broke into the home. You didn’t want to give them easy access to a weapon.)

4. Don’t look at the overhead light bulb when you are changing it. 

5. Don’t gossip; it’s usually hearsay anyway.

6. Stand for the American flag when it passes by.

7. Borrowing from Teddy Roosevelt and a big one for Daddy: “It’s not the critic who counts … but the man who is actually in the arena.” 

8. Say your prayers every night. (He did and he taught us to do the same thing.)

9. Go to church every Sunday. (I actually tried this one out for size one morning when I was in 4th grade. My parents had always said, “We won’t MAKE you go to church.” So I got up one Sunday morning and announced I wasn’t going to church. Daddy’s response was simple but never forgotten: “Get in there and get your clothes on.”)

10. Lastly, Daddy always told me to “leave them wanting more.” He was normally speaking specifically to my piano performances, but it’s one that extended those boundaries and flowed over into life itself.

While looking for a newspaper clipping this week, I came across a post I had shared on my blog some 15 or so years ago. Obviously Mom had printed it out and saved it. I’d like to share an excerpt with you.

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When I was in 6th grade, about 12 years old, I obviously hit “the age of accountability” that we hear so much about but which we really can’t explain. I think I had used a bath towel and placed in back in the cabinet wet. Mom found it and wanted to know who did it. ‘Not me!’ I said. Well, it wasn’t long, but sometime later that evening, first-time guilt encroached upon me. I knew I had lied and it bothered me greatly. That very night, I crawled up in my daddy’s lap in his bedroom, and I confessed every known sin to man — or at least to me: from the towel, to sneaking the frozen cake squares out of the freezer and eating them behind the closet door, to the pack of crackers I had slipped in my pocket at a local “rippy mart.”

Anyway, my daddy didn’t berate me or punish me or scold me, he just gently let me tell all, get it out of my system, and come clean. And, yes, I’m sure he must have encouraged me to ‘go and sin no more.’ I don’t remember that part. I just know the sense of relief I felt having bared all and the security I found in my father’s lap.

Of course, I didn’t realize it until many, many years later, but Daddy was sitting proxy for my Heavenly Father that night. When I think of mile markers in my faith journey, that was a huge one. I was so fortunate to have a daddy that was available, but most of all, forgiving.

Daddy was a storyteller. Another Jesus quality. When nighttime came, Daddy would see to it that prayers were said, then he would tuck me in and tell me a story. Sometimes Chip would be in there with us, but often, it was just Daddy and me. Seems like time was all he had. I know he was making some of them up, but I have a feeling most of the stories were taken from his own life or mine. ‘Once upon a time, there was a little girl…’ Quite honestly, I can’t remember them now, but I can recall with clarity laying there listening and never tiring of hearing them. 

But one of the richest memories of Daddy is seeing him on his knees. Every night, Daddy prayed — and he did it the old-fashioned way: at the side of his bed, on his knees, hands folded. (No doubt Mom prayed for us children, too. But I think she did it the only place she could find peace and quiet — behind the locked bathroom door.) Surely the weight of the world was on Daddy’s shoulders as he raised us four children on limited means. But I have a feeling he found the strength on his knees to carry that load. As for that image, it is etched in my mind for all eternity.

I credit much of my faith to my parents, but I certainly know that my healthy view of God stems from my earthly father. So, thanks, Dad. You took some of the faith struggles of out my life by being such a Godly influence and role model to me. I realize very few can give that kind of testimony in today’s society and I am eternally grateful.

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When my Daddy’s own mother had just died, he and I were in the car together, and as we were crossing over the railroad tracks at the bridge just down the road from here, he said, “You know, when someone you love dies, this world doesn’t stop. It keeps right on turning.” Daddy was right, this world doesn’t stop. But what Daddy also knew is that the God who was good, merciful and faithful on THAT day, would continue to be good, merciful and faithful on the next one.

Indeed, our Daddy’s life preached the gospel. May we all be so inspired to live in such a way that the same can be said about us. 

My View from the Pew

I was in no way prepared for the flood of emotion that was to come over me. I had already played the pre-service music for the funeral and taken my place at the end of the second pew when it happened. The preacher had welcomed everyone and now Mercy Me was singing “I Can Only Imagine” through the speakers. That song can move anyone who has lost a loved one, but this time it wasn’t the music that undid me. It was my view from the pew. 

It had been over 20 years since I had sat in this place on the second row and even though the sanctuary was filled, I suddenly felt alone with my memories. Listening to the words being sung, my eyes fell upon the cross hanging above the choir loft and I quietly remembered, “My daddy made that cross. And he and Mr. Chesley hung it.” Which led me to look at the Paschal candle and the beautiful stand which held it. My daddy built and carved that stand and gave it to the Perry United Methodist Church in honor of the Reverend Bill Strickland for his service to God. And there’s the bell tree Daddy made at the request of the music minister Marc Foster and on which hangs a hundred small bells to be used on special Sundays. Oh, the goosebumps I would get when I would hear its tinkling in the narthex knowing that the processional was about to begin.

By now, my head and heart were beginning to reel with the memories.

Yes, this was the very pew I sat on as a child. This is where I learned the great hymns of the church and where I heard the call from the Reverend Billy Key standing with arms outstretched, “If anyone will come, come.” And I did. This pew is where I learned the Apostles’ Creed, the Lord’s Prayer, the Doxology, the Gloria Patri. Where I heard the Word read and preached.

And whereas the piano is a different one from the grand when I was small, this is where I had my piano recitals when I took from Mrs. Jean Gossett, the church organist. Where I was first given the opportunity to play in church worship services and to accompany the choir led by Mr. Francis Nunn. In later years and on the beautiful Yahama that sits there now, it’s where I would take a stint as the church pianist, leading in worship and also accompanying youth and adult choirs alike.

As my eyes wandered to the casket, I knew that many other coffins had been placed there. Ones that had held my grandmother and grandfather, my great aunts and great uncles. And so many more whom I had known and loved through the years. That place in front of the altar was also where my parents stood to say their wedding vows, where I was baptized as an infant, where I professed my own faith as a six year old, and where my husband and I each said our own “I do.” 

The pulpit brought to mind all the pastors that had stood there and at whose feet I had sat. Billy Key. J.B. Smith, Leonard Cochran, Elick Bullington, Tom Johnson, Bill Strickland. Men who in one way or another shaped me. That pulpit was also the place where I gave my first public testimony as a youth, using Psalm 96. And when the presiding pastor asked us to join him in reciting the 23rd Psalm, I could hardly get through it for the knot in my throat, for I knew this was the place where I had put those words to memory.

And the altar rail just feet before me that stretched the width of the sanctuary: how many times did I kneel and receive the elements of bread and juice? How many Christmas eves did we gather as an extended family, squeezing tightly together so we could all fit at one time and join in communion? How many times did I kneel in repentance or prayer?

As I played for the congregation to sing “Because He Lives,” I was bolstered in my spirit and was reminded of just how much these people love to sing. It was a singing church then and it remains a singing church now. A rare commodity in our culture today. 

Toward the end of the service when the pastor asked us to bow our heads in prayer, I quietly gathered my belongings and slipped out the back door as I knew I wouldn’t be able to hold myself together to meet and greet those who had gathered. I drove home, walked through my kitchen door and burst into tears. Yes, they were tears of sweet memories, but they were also tears of thanksgiving. 

I am indeed grateful for parents who saw that going to church was of utmost importance and who made the effort to take me and my three brothers. Parents who even knew the value of sitting close to the front to keep distractions to a minimum. Parents who literally put hands to their faith and did what they could with the abilities God had given them. 

I am grateful for the people who built me up like Mr. Francis, the music director, and Jim McIlrath, my youth minister. For those pastors who were committed to preach and to lead and to speak life into me. Indeed, every single one of them did so in their own way. (Elick Bullington never failed to tell me how pretty I was. That meant so much to a young teen who didn’t think she was.) And for all those lay persons who sat each week in the same pew: their faithful presence was a solid and stable force in my life.

I am grateful I was taught to memorize Scripture and the Lord’s Prayer and creeds and doxologies. They are foundational to me even until this day.

I am grateful for the love instilled in me for the symbolic: crosses, Paschal and Advent candles, bells and baptismal fonts.

I am grateful for the scaffolding that Perry United Methodist Church gave me as a young child, so that when those beams began to fall away, I could stand and even walk in my own faith.

I am grateful for a God who has loved me, directed me, carried me. But more than anything, especially in this season of Advent and Christmas, I am grateful for this One Who came, Emmanuel, to give meaning to it all. 

Thanks be to God for His indescribable Gift.

Journal entry: 12/20/23

Dec. 20, 2023

Third Wednesday of Advent

I love sitting in the dark — and today gives me ample opportunity since this is the shortest day (longest night) of the year.

I love how Venus greets me when I come here to my sacred space, just hanging there, suspended in dark space — my companion on this cold winter morn. Its presence warms my soul.

I love the way the white lights of the Christmas tree and the snow globe angel bounce off the walls and windows like fairies dancing in the dark.

I love the flicker of the Advent candles that speak of hope, of peace, of joy — and come Sunday, love. With each light, comes more light. A gradual move to the true Light of Whom we wait.

I love the unhurried awakening of the Eastern sky … so subtle yet so sure of itself in its unfolding, knowing it will move through the day only to bow its head in rest again when evening comes.

I love how the dark teaches me to trust the light and how that light teaches me to walk in the dark.

I love how the Light leads kindly on.

Christmas Looks Different This Year

If you were to come to my house, you might wonder if I am celebrating the Christmas season at all this year as decorations are extremely limited and packages are few. Boxes of Christmas decor sit unopened in the closet and only those items which were in easy reach were placed around the house. A four-foot lit tree sits upon a table in the corner; a wreath hangs above my fireplace; a snowman greets visitors at my front door and another in the garage; a family choir sings on an end table in my music room; the holy couple looks lovingly upon the infant Jesus in my den; and with only a few candles and other meager items here and there, that’s about it. No doubt, Christmas looks different for me this year. Indeed the outward display, or lack of, is just a representation of what’s going inside of me. My friend called it a “winnowing.” 

But whereas the decorating, baking and whole Christmas shopping experience is at an all time low, there is one thing to which I have been committed: and that is Advent. Every morning finds me sitting in the dark before my candles … waiting. It’s not the  traditional Advent wreath of years past, rather a slightly elevated and elongated wooden lipped tray that I filled with red “pebbles” and four white pillar candles. And tucked in the front is a favorite small Celtic cross my son brought me from Scotland a number of years ago. If this were my only “Christmas” decoration, it would be enough. In fact, it is perfect.

And so each morning finds me here, beginning with my readings from Phyllis Tickle’s “Divine Hours,” which calls me to prayer and a request for Presence. I call the day: “Today is December 19, 2023, the third Tuesday in the season of Advent,” and I light the first three candles. After completing the “Office,” I turn to a book entitled, “Light Upon Light,” a collection of Scripture readings, poems, prose and prayers. Whereas collected writings are different each day, the same Scripture passages are read for the entire week: a psalm, an Old Testament, a New Testament, and a gospel passage. And that really has its advantages of letting the Word soak in and take shape in me.

The thing about Advent is that it’s a period of waiting. A past waiting. A present waiting. A future waiting. And that shows up in no better place than in the Scripture readings for this season as the passages are filled with worship, with longing, and with promise. 

The first week I read of roadways in wildernesses and rivers in deserts. Of waiting with perseverance. Of the Word in whom is life. I was reminded in week two that the works of His hand are truth and justice and that He has established His covenant forever. That He raises the poor from the dust and lifts the needy from the ash heap. That He visits the common and overshadows them, and plants holy Seed. This week, the third week, takes me to the rivers of Babylon where people weep, where harps are hung on willow trees and singing has stopped. Where longing for Jerusalem is their soul’s deepest cry. And where “it came to pass,” and the virgin gave birth.

This is Advent. This is the hope amidst our Christmas emptiness. Our Christmas chaos. Our Christmas longings. 

Maybe that’s something you need to hear this season. I know I do.

The Watchman on River Street

Once a favorite stomping ground, it had been a while since my husband and I had been to Savannah, so we decided to take a little trip earlier in the year to this once much loved and frequented place. Prior to our going, a lot had happened in my life. The earth beneath my feet had shifted in several significant ways and I now know I was probably suffering from some form of depression that was the result of these losses in my life. And one of the ways this was presenting itself was by my feeling invisible. I was an “Un”: Unseen. Unnoticed. Unimportant. Or so I believed.

While there has always been homelessness in Savannah, when my husband and I stepped foot on River Street, it was obvious that it had risen to a whole new level. Sadly so. As we began walking, I found myself not knowing how to respond. Do I look them in the eye and give them dignity? Or does my look make them feel worse … especially since I have no “alms” to offer? Do I avoid eye contact all together making them feel even more unseen? It was a constant struggle within me. Some held signs. “Food.” “Beer.” Some just sat. And yet some were in small groups … talking, laughing, even playing some musical instruments … which brought an odd sense of jealousy as I longed for just that thing. But I was grateful they could find community even amid homelessness. 

But there was one particular individual who caught my attention. On our first afternoon stroll down River Street, he was sitting on a bench and was dressed in an old, gray and dirty suit with coat tails that were even long on his tall slender body. On his feet were orange patent lace up dress shoes … no socks. He held an umbrella, had a long graying beard and wore a floppy brimmed hat that hid his eyes. And with each trip up or down River Street, I would see him, always in a different location. In fact, on one occasion I came out of a shop on the “top side” of River Street, and when I descended the stairs to get down to the alley to take me back to River Street, there he sat on the bottom step. Head bowed. Motionless. I was never afraid, but by this time I was beginning to think, “This is getting weird.”

After several encounters, my husband and I were walking westward toward a very narrow section of sidewalk when I saw the man approaching. This time our proximity would be such that we would nearly touch each other in passing, and so I asked the Lord to let His presence in me “minister” to this man as we did. Oh, how arrogant I can be! For as we passed, within mere inches, the power in HIM nearly knocked me off the sidewalk. I turned around and wide-eyed asked my husband, “Did you feel that??” This man walked with such strength, such power, such energy, such stature, that all I could ask was, “What was THAT?”

After dinner on our last evening, Sandy and I took one last stroll down River Street. As we approached the far end just past the open air market, there he sat on a bench, hands propped on his umbrella. But this time was different. As I walked by, the man slowly raised his head and from under that worn brimmed hat was an AGELESS face … and eyes that looked directly into mine. I’m sure the encounter didn’t last more than a few seconds, but if I have ever experienced eternity, that was it. There was no “time.” And in that eternal moment, I knew I was seen down to the core of my being. The very thing I needed and longed for, the Lord had provided through a homeless man. A man that had nothing to give me but his eyes. Can I explain it? No. Can I be grateful for it? Absolutely. 

My husband and I made the loop around Savannah’s Waving Girl and headed back toward the hotel. Of course, I looked for the man as we approached the bench but he was no longer there. Rather a young woman wearing a tiara was standing on the steps of Joe’s Seafood having her birthday picture taken. I looked in the direction of the photographer across the street and there he was: positioned on his umbrella, standing behind the guy with the camera, just watching. I wanted to run to him, take his hands, and beg, “Who are you? Tell me your name!” But I continued on with the questions still lingering in my head, a smile on my lips, and a heart filled with gratitude. 

There are still times today when I feel invisible. An “Un.” But it only takes an earthly moment before I am reminded of that eternal one when I WAS seen by the watchman on River Street. And I give thanks to God: the One Who truly sees, knows and loves me … and you.

Just an ordinary moment.