Saying “I’m Sorry”

I sat across the desk from a pastor telling him of grievances I had experienced; distress that had come from the hand of people I loved. More specifically: the church. He sat attentively and listened quietly while I spilled both my tears and soul to this one I barely knew. As I settled down and a stillness overtook the room, he leaned forward and out of his mouth came the kindest, most healing and appropriate words he could have uttered. “I am so sorry you have been hurt.”

He knew he couldn’t “fix” anything about the situation and so he didn’t offer a solution. What he gave me, however, was a much larger bestowal. The gift of being seen. 

Isn’t that what we are all looking for? To be seen? To have someone say, “I see you and I am so sorry you have been hurt. Are hurting”? What healing is in those few words. 

In 2006 I read an article in the Houston County Magazine that touched me deeply. It was an interview of a local girl who had made it to the glimmering lights of New York City. Because we went to different schools, I didn’t really know her, although our daddies had worked together, mine often mentioning what a kind man hers was. In the article, she was quoted as remembering the racial stirrings that had happened in our community (and around the nation) when she was in fourth grade, (I was in fifth), and how much it hurt her when the private school was formed and separation of students and friends occurred. Because my daddy was extremely instrumental in the founding of that private school, I knew then I had to contact her. It took me two years to do so, but I finally did. As part of my email I wrote, “I am so sorry that you were hurt by the decision and fears of my parents’ generation.” 

And that’s when I learned the power of saying “I’m sorry.”

A portion of her response I received early the next morning read, “You just left me in tears as I rode to *** Studios. Your words were like nothing I’d ever experienced. While I’ve moved away, emotionally, from that tragic time in southern Georgia, yours is one of the most amazing notes that I’ve ever received. I cannot thank you enough for your gracious, selfless sentiment. … Thank you for your comments from the bottom of my heart.”

Listen, all I said was, “I am so sorry you were hurt.” But those words carried such power. Such force. Such weight. For the first time, after four decades, she felt seen. Maybe even healed. In fact, in 2019, I received yet another note that said, “Your heart felt and unexpected letter still touches me deeply even 10 years later.” 

Powerful, healing words. “I am so sorry you have been hurt.”

Honestly, it doesn’t take much to say those words. The more difficult part is being aware of the person who is hurting or been hurt … of actually looking at someone and seeing pain in their eyes or on their face. Even their body language can be descriptive. For me right now, it’s more about seeing the cashier behind the counter at Publix or the nurse at the pill cart at the nursing home where my mother resides, because that’s where life mostly takes me these days. It’s more about slowing down and truly seeing people. And I do mean a literal slowing down at times. Pacing our walk. Becoming aware of the people around us. 

“I am so sorry you are having to pull such a long shift. I know you are exhausted. But thank you for being here.”

“I am so sorry that customer spoke so shortly to you. But you responded so kindly.”

“You look like there might be something weighing on your mind. I’m sorry.”

“I am so sorry you have been hurt.” 

“I am sorry.”

Powerful, healing words that we all need to hear at one point or another, because, more than anything, they mean we have been seen.

I have a bird print in my home that says, “To be seen is the beginning of love.” Maybe our seeing of that person, our “I’m sorry,” is really a conduit for God’s love to be poured into their hearts and for a healing to begin. I know that’s what happened to me while I sat across that desk. And it’s what happened to my friend in NYC.

Just an ordinary, grace-filled moment.

Thanks be to God.

Beauty on a Backroad

Being married to a forester turned land sales guy for almost 45 years, I have had my share of riding the backroads. It’s one of my favorite pastimes to do with him. And whereas I might be totally lost and wouldn’t be able to find my way home if my life depended on it, he knows the land and roads well. 

Last week provided not one but two opportunities to ride. The first was in a north westerly direction where the roads became hilly and curvy and the dirt red and slippery.  Where every church was named after a nearby creek and had a graveyard tucked up under it. Where signs along the road were ones attached to barns that read something like, “Pop’s Garage,” obviously given to him by a grandchild, or “Do not park in front of this door!” scribbled in huge letters across a large garage door. It was a land where labor is hard and community good. Where country animals and birds like chickens, horses, goats, sheep, pigs (that were NOT for sale according to the sign), cows, and even a miniature Shetland pony abound.

The following day was a morning trip that also led us in a westerly direction where every field was recently harvested cotton, corn or sorghum. And where when farm land stopped, pine trees and hardwoods took their place. When one talks about being in the boondocks, we were there.

There’s not a lot of conversation that goes on. No music or news to interrupt the silence. Just the enjoyment of creation and of being together. But as we crossed the Flint River and were passing the bottom and overflow, I casually said, “If I wanted to kill somebody, this would be a great place to do it.” “Got anybody in mind?” my man asked. “Not at the moment,” I replied. “But, seriously, you could just throw a body down there and the swamp critters could have a feast. No one would ever find it.” I probably watch too much NCIS and other crime shows.

As we continued our journey a little further, he took a couple of more turns taking us even farther from civilization. It was here I said, “You really are taking me out here to leave me, aren’t you?” To which he too quickly replied, “No, there’s the river bottom for that.” 

All that to make the humorous point that we really in the middle of nowhere. It was wild, rural and quiet. But most definitely beautiful. The air was crisp; the temperature never reaching above freezing with the wind making it feel even colder. I made the comment how ponds and lakes look so much more inviting on such days and he explained why. (I’m married to an amazingly smart man.)

But there was one scene that will forever be etched in my mind and retained in my heart.

We turned down a winding dirt road and had been riding some distance when we crested a hill. As we did, there to my right was the most beautiful sight I had seen in a very long time. Cows. The setting couldn’t have been more grandeur. The sky was a cold January blue-blue. The hills before me were more green than they should have been. The pasture that held the cattle was lush. But, oh, the cows. Beautiful. Black. Silky. Even the weather worn wooden feeding troughs and the blue buckets from which some ate only added to the incredible color scheme and breath taking scenery. It was nothing short of heaven for me. 

BEAUTY. That’s my word for 2024. And this particular day I found it in a meadow of grazing cows. I was breathless. Beauty has a way of doing that.

Beauty is also unpredictable. John O’Donohue writes concerning beauty, “… a threshold we had never noticed opens, mystery comes alive around us and we realize how the earth is full of concealed beauty.” Indeed, the majesty of beauty is its gracious wholesomeness, and I experienced nothing less that day. Normally I would have retrieved my phone and tried to capture the moment. But I’m learning that junctures in time such as this cannot be captured. They can only be experienced and savored, because beauty does not linger. It only visits. 

Read that again: Beauty does not linger. It only visits. To have spent my time trying to “capture the moment,” I would have lost the moment. Besides, I do not need a photo on my phone to recall this eternal moment that became mine on that icy cold January morning. It found a place in me that will live on. That’s what beauty does. 

No doubt I received an eternal embrace that morning from the One Who is Beauty Himself … on a dirt road that led to a pasture of grazing cows. Who would have ever thought?

O Worship the LORD in the beauty of holiness… Ps. 96:9

Thanks be to God for this “ordinary moment” on a backroad.

What’s the Saddest Word?

Earlier this week, I sat in a circle with a group of wonderful ladies. To inspire conversation, the question was posed: In your opinion, what is the saddest word in the English language? 

After a moment of reflection, Lacy held up her hand and said, “I have two. ‘Barren’ and ‘goodbye’.” As women, we could relate to both words. After all, Celine Dion has an entire song devoted to the latter word. But barren. It’s most every girl’s dream to produce children. Yet we knew that Lacy’s word went much deeper than that. It was a word that touched each of our souls and fed into the other answers given.

Sally thoughtfully suggested “unfulfilled.”

Betty chimed in with “abandoned … neglected … alone.” 

Clarissa added “hopeless … orphaned” — with a much deeper implication than having no parents. 

I have to admit, to voice such words brought a somberness to the room. A heaviness with which we sat for a time until we were led into a period of sharing the “whys” of our choice of words. No doubt, each answer spoke of life lived. Of experiences each has had over her lifetime.

Oh, there are many “saddest words” in the English language. Just do a quick Google search.

Heartbroken.

Betrayed.

Wistful.

If only.

Unrequited.

Almost.

And if we want to go with a phrase, Google offers those as well.

I don’t value you.

I don’t love you.

Might have been.

We would be remiss not to acknowledge such sad words as war, racism, division, diagnosis, etc. 

And what about Ernest Hemingway’s shortest and saddest six word novel? “For sale. Baby shoes. Never worn.”

Talk about some gloomy words and phrases. But they are all common to man, and they all come from a raw place in the soul because, in one way or another, they each come from an experience one has had with life. You have your own. I have mine.

And the Lord’s disciples had theirs. 

“I am going away.” 

For three years these men walked with Jesus in a place of overwhelming connection with God Himself. They had been able to talk with Him, walk with Him, ask Him anything and have Him speak into their very ears and heart, and now He says, “I’m going away.”

Now go back to that list of words and read them from the disciples point of view. 

Barren. 

Goodbye.

Unfulfilled.

Abandoned.

Neglected.

Alone.

Hopeless.

Orphaned.

Heartbroken.

Even betrayed.

Do you think they might have been experiencing any of these “saddest words”? You bet they were. All of their hopes and dreams were crashing down around them: the coming kingdom, God’s righteous rule, of finally being free from the Romans where life would be good. 

I feel sure Jesus knew they wouldn’t understand. It wouldn’t be the first time. But He also knew that His going was necessary because it made a way for a bigger story. A larger outpouring. A more expansive kingdom. 

“Nevertheless I tell you the truth: it is to your advantage that I go away, for if I do not go away, the Advocate will not come to you, but if I go, I will send Him to you.” John 16:7

Multiple sermons could be preached on that one verse, but let’s just consider this one: What if we were to look at these saddest words as opportunities for a fresh outpouring of God’s Spirit into our own? A place of greater anointing? Of love? Of ministry? What if we allowed His Spirit access to those places of brokenness and hopelessness? That we allowed Him to give us life, fill us with Himself, welcome us into His Fatherly arms?

Life would look different, would it not? These words would look different, because we would see them as opportunities toward life rather than destructive forces that suck the energy right out of us. 

It was quite a list those women gave me. Sad words. Somber words. But we said our goodbyes that evening with the one word on our lips and in our hearts that trumped them all. The life giving word:

Jesus.

“Reading” the Word with Mom

Many years ago, late 90s, I would find myself sitting in a small bedroom on Main Street with Mrs. Aurelia Evans. It was in a home that her father had built —or at least bought and to which he had added a second story. But I imagine her little shoes had danced all over those hardwood floors. Yet now her flats were limited to this small square living area that included her bed and a side table, a dresser, a portable potty, two chairs and a TV.

On occasion I would take “Miss Aurelia” cheese straws which she would quickly hide under her chair for when the Honorable Sam Nunn would stop by for a visit. One day I asked her, “When you aren’t visiting, how do you spend your time?” To which she responded, I watch the Braves and I read my Bible. “Anything specific?” I questioned. “Well, I can’t see to read anymore so I just turn to the passages I know for memory and ‘read’ those.” “What would ‘those’ be?” I asked. She named several passages, but it was no surprise that among her answer was Psalm 23. I never forgot that particular visit.

Flash forward 25 years. I was playing for a funeral and the presiding preacher asked the congregation to “read” with him the 23rd Psalm. Which we did. King James style. I remembered Miss Aurelia.

This week I pulled my mother’s Bible off her bookshelf, pulled up a folding chair, took a seat next to her bed in the nursing home and opened to Psalm 23. She was awake but her eyes were closed. When I began reading, her lips began moving, and together we “read” the beautiful shepherd song. At the end of the passage she had inscribed, “Thank You, Father.” Remembering my own Scripture reading from the morning, I turned to Psalm 139 and found that she had numerous verses underlined and notes made in the margin of this one as well. I began at verse one, but we “read” together verses 23-24, Search me, O God, and know my heart; test me and know my thoughts. See if there is any wicked way in me, and lead me in the way everlasting.”

It was then that I remembered what I had forgotten: her most beloved passage of all time. I turned there and, sure enough, in the margin she had written, “My favorite psalm since I was a child.” And so with her eyes shut, her mouth moving, her voice faint, and my attempt at translating the NIV into the King James Version which she would have memorized as a child, we “read” together:

I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, 

From whence cometh my help. 

My help cometh from the LORD, 

Which made heaven and earth. 

He will not suffer thy foot to be moved: 

He that keepeth thee will not slumber. 

Behold, he that keepeth Israel 

Shall neither slumber nor sleep. 

The LORD is thy keeper: 

The LORD is thy shade upon thy right hand. 

The sun shall not smite thee by day, 

Nor the moon by night. 

The LORD shall preserve thee from all evil: 

He shall preserve thy soul. 

The LORD shall preserve thy going out and thy coming in 

From this time forth, and even for evermore.“

Psalm 121:1-8 KJ

This One Who has kept my mother through a lifetime, this One Who has preserved her going out and her coming in, still carries her today, and will soon see her Home. Thanks be to God for His faithful and enduring Word.

Don’t Mess With My Baby Brothers

A number of years ago I was in a dressing room in Belk when a phone rang in the stall beside me. The woman answered and, not meaning to eavesdrop, I couldn’t help but hear one side of the conversation. I really wasn’t interested … that is until I heard her mention my brothers’ names. Then I was full on with both ears attuned. I listened while this woman went on and on about them and their dental practice. And why SHE would not go to them. It was all I could do to remain silent. But, boy, did I listen. She finally hung up, gathered her things and walked out … as I peeked under the door to see her shoes.  I must admit I was pretty livid. You don’t mess with my people; especially my “baby” twin brothers. But I decided not to pursue her and to let it be.

Until … I got ready to make my purchase and headed to customer service to check out. And guess who was standing there? The lady with the recognizable shoes. There was a lot of debating going on inside my head. Do I remain quiet? Do I say anything? If I do say something, what should it be? As it happened, I had plenty of time to think because she was ordering something to be shipped to her which meant I got her name, her address and her telephone number. Wasn’t that fortuitous?

So as we stood there waiting, she turned around and said “Hello” in the nicest voice. I kindly returned the greeting and added, “I’m Nancy McLendon, the Sheltons’ sister. The dentists, remember?” She smiled so largely and nodded her head as she said, “Yes, the Sheltons.” I just smiled back at her without saying another word knowing it was going to take a second. And then I watched the transformation happen. Her smile began to droop, her eyes began to widen and her lips parted to form an, “Oh, my.” 

When I was sure it had settled on her, without raising my voice or pointing my finger, I simply said, “I just want you to know you will not find two better men in a hundred mile radius. Not only do they both have immense integrity, they are excellent dentists, they care about their patients, and are not out to “take” you. You can trust them.”

To say this woman was horrified at this recent turn of events would be an understatement. She knew she had been caught with her hand in the proverbial cookie jar in front of the boys’ big sister. When she could gather herself, she responded, “I am so embarrassed. And my husband would be mortified if he knew about this. He is a pastor and they are his dentists.” I slowly nodded and said, “I’ll make a deal with you. I won’t tell anybody,” [remember I had her name, address and phone number in my pocket — and she knew it], “but you have to promise me that you will never talk ugly about them again. AND I want you to go call your friend right now and tell her about our conversation.” 

There are many applications that I could make about this encounter, but I’m going to leave it with this one:

Now as he [Saul] was going along and approaching Damascus, suddenly a light from heaven flashed around him. He fell to the ground and heard a voice saying to him, “Saul, Saul, why do you persecute Me?” He said, “Who are You, Lord?” The reply came, “I am Jesus, whom you are persecuting” (Acts 9:3-5 NRSV).

Translation: “When you mess with one of Mine, you mess with Me.” Just like any older brother, or sister, would do.

Take heart, dear reader. Have you got somebody messing with you? Jesus is your older Brother. He is your Defender. Your Protector. Your Bulwark. Your Savior. He is the One who fights for you. But beware: it goes the other way, too. Even pastor’s wives are not immune.

Now whether this woman went and did what I suggested, I’ll never know. But I am confident of this: she will never forget about that moment standing at the cash register in Belk. In fact, I’m not so sure she didn’t even see a bright light flash around her.

[Side note: when I was young, maybe about six years old, a neighborhood bully called me “Fat.” My older brother came to my defense. He looked at my persecutor and boldly proclaimed, “She’s not fat. She’s Chubby!” What love.]