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.

Moreness vs Enoughness

On the way home from an appointment this morning, I stopped by TJ Maxx to pick up some hair products knowing that tomorrow would only provide me with zoo-like conditions. And if today is any indication, it will be just that. A zoo! My first clue was the absence of vacant parking places. My second was the woman coming out of the store. Climbing in her truck, she said to me, “I just want to warn you: it’s crazy in there!” I thanked her, told her that I just needed some hairspray, and boldly entered the … zoo.

She was right. It was crazy. But not just with customers … and there were a lot of us, but also employees who were hard at work getting ready for the weekend shoppers. Boxes in the aisles, tables laden with every gadget imaginable, and bins stacked a mile high with what I’m assuming was everything they didn’t know what to do with. 

So let me back up a moment. A couple of weeks ago at our morning ladies’ Bible study, I challenged the women not to purchase any unneeded item between now and Christmas, with decorations being the main thrust of the idea. In other words, we were to practice the discipline of “Enoughness.” 

And so here I was standing in front of that table laden with all kinds of cool stuff. I walked around it. Checked prices. Picked up a few boxes. I have to admit that towel warming bucket was very alluring. Can you just imagine such luxury? But I resisted and moved on to get my hairspray. But not before stopping at the winter apparel where my eye caught the most beautiful long blue coat that would make my gray hair “pop.” And what a good price! I took it off the rack; held it up to see the length. Perfect. But, I decided not to let myself try it on. After all, Sandy had just bought me a jacket at Bass Pro last weekend and I have read that having more than two coats in your closet is stealing from the poor. I needed to move on to the hairspray aisle anyway.

But what’s a stop at TJ Maxx without checking out their shoes? I always find a great deal; some cute pair I just can’t live without. And those fuzzy Tom’s fit the bill, but a half size too small. On to the hairspray. Oh, wait. Christmas pajamas! Wouldn’t I be so cute on Christmas morning in these red ones that said, “Joy!”? But the plaid I could really wear all year. Hmm. I’ll think about it and returned each to the rack.

But this time before turning toward the hairspray, I looked toward the back of the store and my eyes fell on all the Christmas decorations and wrapping paper and every kind of paraphernalia there was to be sold, and I stopped dead in my tracks. For just a moment, time stood still as I recalled my challenge to those women. And then I cried, “Oh, God. Forgive me. Forgive us … for all of this,” gesturing my hands as I said it. “For making this holy season into a season of ‘Moreness,’ which is so foreign to the true meaning of Christmas.”

Indeed, on that first Christmas, God gave us everything we need in the birth of His very own Son. His very Presence with us. Here. Now. Tomorrow. We already have it all because we have Him! Oh, if we could just live with that sense of “Enoughness.” How our lives would be so different. So full. So real. So satisfying. God help us. God help me.

I finally made it over to the wall with the hair products, and wouldn’t you know it, they didn’t have my hairspray. In fact, the shelves were almost depleted, left unstocked in order to fill the “more” pressing needs. So I left the animal theme park empty handed … but with a heart filled, no, overflowing, with “enoughness.”

Just an ordinary moment…

Practice Make What?

It’s not uncommon for me to ask my piano students, “Practice makes what?” To which new ones will always reply with great certainty and faith, “Perfect!” And with just as much zeal, I respond, “No! Practice makes permanent.” And I go on to explain to them that they can practice hours and hours at the time, but if they aren’t doing it correctly, for example not counting properly or are playing the wrong notes, it will not be perfect. Just permanently incorrect. Which can actually make it more frustrating than having not practiced at all because their muscle memory now comes in to play and that is a stubborn motor skill to correct.

Of course, muscle memory is not a bad thing. After all, it’s how we ride our bikes, drive our cars, type our emails, enter our PIN numbers and a host of other numerous activities we perform throughout the day. And, quite frankly, I am really grateful for it, because it has gotten me through many a piano recital and musical performance. 

And so what do we do when a student comes to his or her lesson having established a “permanent” muscle memory? We begin to tear it down by playing over and over and over the correct phrase or note pattern. The incorrect music previously learned has to be overridden and destroyed by the correct way. And that takes intentional reshaping of the muscle and muscle memory. Not to mention a lot of patience on the student and teacher. It can be excruciating … just ask my husband who listens from another room. But it’s necessary if the student wants to perform well and accurately and do justice and give integrity to the composer.

I am now in the process of retraining my own muscle memory. Not a physical one but a mental muscle memory. As I sat before the flickering flame of my Advent candle this morning, participating in and reading the Divine Hours, I realized the way my mind kept going to an unhealthy place of thinking; a place that I now know I had been training for decades through constant practice. I thought of those students and that “practice” that “makes permanent” and knew that’s exactly what I had done. I was (am) stuck in an incorrect pattern of thinking. And one that seems to unbiddenly overtake everything else.

So now comes the hard work; that of behavioral therapy. Of putting into practice what I have been teaching for so long. But not the hands on a keyboard kind of retraining; rather that of rehearsing new thought patterns. No doubt, as any exercise is, it will be grueling. It will also need to be intentional because this thing puts up a fight. But it is necessary if I’m going to perform well this particular melody that is mine alone to play, and honoring the One who composed the music. The good news is that the Teacher Himself sits next to me, advising me, encouraging me and taking great delight with every correct note and rhythm I play. And if I listen closely enough, at times I can even hear Him humming along.

So what about you? Got any muscle memory that needs transforming? If so, give me a call. I know the Name of an amazing Instructor.

A God Who Sends Flowers

On Sunday, July 25, 2010, Beth Roper showed up at my garage door with a colorful bouquet of freshly picked flowers from Farmer Brown’s field in Montezuma. With that large, beautiful smile that only Beth can give, she handed them to me and said, “The Lord told me to bring these to you.” Little did she know that I had just played my last service at Grace Church earlier that day and I was in total grief mode. I will never forget her sensitivity to hearing and obeying God’s voice to comfort me in what was a great loss. God had sent me flowers.

Today, He sent me flowers again … from a still obedient hand yet this time an anonymous one.

I had been out running some errands; a common Monday morning routine. Checking on my mom; gathering her laundry; stopping by the pharmacy; picking up a few things at Publix. Just all normal stuff, but today I carried a sad heart. A grieving heart even. A heart that at times still seems so raw. No doubt December is the month that bears the heavy weight of losing men I really loved … and still love. Each year prior to the anniversary of my brother’s death, I recall those days as we stayed close and did what we could to help out. Of sitting vigil. Of gathering as a family around his bed as the angels escorted him homeward. And now this year will be my first Christmas without my daddy as he took his last exhale in the wee hours of December 28th of last year as his beloved wife of 67 years, my mom, stood next to him.

As I traveled from one location to the next this morning, I recognized my heaviness. I felt the holes in my body riddled by loss, and I don’t apologize for that, because I know that the longing and lingering pain is a testament to the great love I had for these men. I’m grateful I was given the privilege to love. And for them to love me.

So when I drove up to my house and I saw the Christmas cactus sitting on my doorsteps, my very first thought, even before I knew there was no name included, was, “God has sent me flowers again … to comfort me.” How much more personal can it get than that? 

I am so grateful for the one who brought that basket of “Malissa White” Christmas cactus. And I wish I could thank them personally and express my sincere gratitude. This one truly was the hands and heart of Christ today. But moreover, I am so grateful for a God who is so good; so caring, and so seeing. A God who is near to the broken hearted. A God who visits us in the night seasons. Yes, even a God who sends flowers to the funeral. 

My heart is completely undone this night. 

 

Drinking the Poison

I had fallen asleep in the sunroom listening to Amor Towles’, “The Lincoln Highway.” Waking up a short time later, I stumbled to the bed and pulled the warm heated blanket over me … and that’s when it happened. Like a thief in the night, it attacked me. My breathing got shallow. My heart started racing. My blood pressure rose. My mind went out of control. In an instant, he had jumped me. This villain’s name?

Unforgiveness.

Of course, Unforgiveness doesn’t travel alone. He comes with lawless and fractious friends: Bitterness. Resentment. Anger. Revenge. The mighty five travel together … Unforgiveness being the leader of the pack. He’s the one who calls the shots. Without him, the others have no power. They whimper away with their tails between their legs. Unforgiveness, however, makes it personal, showing up with two weapons in his hands: a person’s name or face in one and a painful situation in the other. 

Oh, this wasn’t the first time I have combated this plunderer. In fact, he has been showing up often as of late. But not with such vengeance. This particular night, every fiber of my being seemed to be involved and affected. Maybe it was due to the hour; night is always worse. Or maybe it was because we had been discussing unforgiveness in my ladies’ study earlier. Or was it because I needed, NEED, a rude awakening in order to face this swindler head on.

It has been said, “Unforgiveness is like drinking poison and expecting the other person to die.” Of course, I don’t want anyone to die, but I am drinking the poison. And the truth is that “other person” doesn’t even have a clue. They are living life to the full, which is the club that Resentment is holding over me.

Gulp. Gulp.

So it seems the problem lies not with them … but with me.

In her book, The White Stone: The Art of Letting Go, Esther de Waal writes, “Increasingly over the years I have come to recognize the extent to which forgiving is about letting go — after all, the Greek that we translate as forgive, aphiemi, means to let go. Perhaps I am hanging on to hurt and grievance, the suffering that brings me the status of victim. Yet every time that I say the Lord’s Prayer, I am being given the chance to say yes to forgiveness.” … She goes on to write, “Our need to forgive and to be forgiven is on a par with our daily need to eat. It is the only obligation in the Lord’s Prayer.” I put a huge asterisk next to that paragraph.

We know that hanging on to bitterness, resentment, anger or revenge can do a lot more damage than the original situation itself, but all of these can be mighty attractive when Unforgiveness comes calling. It actually feels good for a while. That is until your heart starts racing, and your blood pressure goes sky high, and you can’t breathe. Then you start to wonder: maybe I need a new lens — for that person as well as myself. Maybe I need help. Someone stronger than I. 

It’s true, forgiveness doesn’t make the situation all right. It makes me all right. It’s also true that to harbor unforgiveness is to be frozen in the past. To allow another to control me. On the other hand, to forgive sets me free. And when it comes right down to it, the choice is mine. It’s yours. Are we going to hang on with all of our energy until we are completely wiped out? Or are we going to “let go.” In other words, forgive.

The good news is we have a supreme role model Who has not only walked this road before us, but Who now comes along side us. Over and over in the Scriptures we read of this One who exemplified forgiveness. This One who forgave when He had every right to call down fire from heaven. Even to His hanging on a cross, He looked down upon the very ones who had stripped Him and nailed Him there, and with compassion prayed, “Father, forgive them.” 

I think it’s time I put down my vial of poison and hold my hand up to this thief and say, “No more! I forgive!” It might take me a hundred times of doing so, but each time weakens him a bit more and loosens my chains a little in the meantime, setting me on a trajectory toward freedom.

Until that day, my mantra will be, “I forgive. I am forgiven.” It’s a tall order; but it’s the correct one. It’s the holy way. 

So what about you? Got any vials laying around your place?