Early one morning last week I checked Facebook and saw this status:
“There is a sacredness in tears. They are not the mark of weakness, but of power. They speak more eloquently than ten thousand tongues. They are the messengers of overwhelming grief, of deep contrition, and of unspeakable love.” — Washington Irving
I’m a crier. Weddings, funerals, books, movies, songs. The groom’s face at first glimpse of his bride. Handel’s Hallelujah Chorus. The book of Psalms. The Notebook. It’s embarrassing at times, but overall I count it as a blessing; I’d rather cry than not feel at all.
I’ve seen some tears this week. A few days ago at Manna House: a mother in raw, anguished grief on the morning after her daughter’s violent death. Later that day, a daughter’s agony as she searched for her missing parents and feared the worst.
Those moments took my breath away.
The women’s tears opened the door for comfort; an outward sign of need and vulnerability that would perhaps not otherwise have been expressed. An opportunity for others to empathize and walk with them through the grief, even if only for a moment or two. And an honor for me to be invited onto the sacred ground of another’s tears.
I’m comforted by Psalm 56:8:
Record my lament; list my tears on your scroll (or in your wineskin); are they not in your record?
In ancient times, tear bottles (or wineskins) were used to catch the owners’ tears in times of grief. King David wrote this Psalm as he was being pursued by enemies who sought to kill him. Some scholars say David believed that God has a tear bottle of His own in which He collects our tears.
I love that thought. That He sees each tear as it falls and keeps them in His bottle. That every tear I shed is known to Him. And that He comes, with tear bottle in hand, into to those raw, vulnerable moments when the tears will not be contained any other way.
I reported to the federal courthouse building on a snowy morning when I’d rather have stayed in bed. My hope was that I’d be quickly excused, but as the process unfolded, I became intrigued. My name was called, the judge questioned me and the next thing I knew I was a juror.
The defendant, a convicted felon, was charged with possession of ammunition, specifically 13 bullets, which is a violation of federal law. The defendant had signed a form on which he had admitted he possessed the bullets. It was our job to decide whether or not he possessed the ammunition, which police had found in his room. Nothing more, nothing less. Simple, right?
I just left a business networking event with accomplished entrepreneurs, consultants and more CPAs than I’ve ever seen in one place in my entire life. Although as a general rule, financial people scare me to death, these were gracious and welcoming folks and I enjoyed the event immensely.
The speaker for the evening was attorney Cary Schwimmer, who specializes in employment law. Though I’m a freelancer with no employees, there were still valuable takeways. Schwimmer outlined the top ten employer mistakes, which ranged from poor documentation of performance and disciplinary problems to the tax implications of employees vs. independent contractors. Information I won’t use tomorrow, but have definitely filed away for the future.
The top mistakes shared a common thread — a lack of integrity. Failure to treat people with dignity, fairness and respect, lack of appreciation and nonexistent or dishonest communication. In an age where technology advances almost daily, I’m reminded that there is still nothing new under the sun.
Shane Claiborne doesn’t look — or live — like an average preacher. This author, Christian activist and sought-after speaker wears no tie, not even a blazer and jeans, but casual, comfortable clothes and has dreadlocks that hang past his shoulders. Raised in east Tennessee, he now lives and serves among the homeless in inner-city Philadelphia in community with others who share resources and live frugally on about $150 per person per month. He ministered in Iraq during the bombing of Baghdad in 2003 and spent one summer among the poor in Calcutta with Mother Theresa.
My Christmas tree doesn’t look like much anymore. In fact. there are no gifts under the tree at all. There isn’t even a tree skirt; the dogs just keep playing with it and doing their business on it, so what’s the use?
These days, the girls’ Christmas lists just include money and gift cards so they can shop for themselves. I don’t fight mall traffic or stand in line for Beanie Babies, Tickle Me Elmo or Furby. There are no packages hidden under drop cloths in the garage. I haven’t wrapped one single gift this year. No reason to charge the video camera to record the excited faces on Christmas morning.
Sound kinda depressing?
Not at all. I’ve traded frenzied shopping, lists and lines for time. More time with loved ones, especially my girls, whose time with us slips away too quickly. More time to relax and enjoy the season, to pause and reflect on why we celebrate Christmas.
Yesterday I did nearly half of my shopping in about 15 minutes’ time. That must be some sort of record, right? There are a couple of gifts to buy, but I won’t be stressed, hurried or frazzled. I’ll enjoy the cool weather, the decorations and the Christmas carols on the radio.
I’ve learned to embrace the changes that come with each new season of life, even as I look back misty-eyed on years past. It’s not like that anymore, but it is like this. And this is amazing.
How have your holiday celebrations changed through the years?
I turned 51 a couple of weeks ago. I like birthdays. And no cancer survivor in their right mind complains about getting another year older.
It’s kind of like a lopsided baseball game — even though the winning team is far ahead, they still try to cross home plate one more time. You can certainly win the game without the insurance runs, but they do make the victory a little more secure. At 51, I’m 11 runs ahead, which is a pretty nice lead.
A few random birthday reflections:
My family doesn’t even try to put all those candles on my birthday cake anymore; i just get the big number candles. I think they believe it would be dangerous otherwise.
It’s fun to watch my younger friends freak out when I tell them I finished my masters degree before they were born.
It’s cool to see the look of surprise when younger people realize I know how to work a computer and can type a text message just as fast as they can.
It’s good to have an excuse for being absent-minded and scatterbrained, which I’ve always been anyway. Now I can just remind people that I’m old. My kids buy it completely and leave me alone about the forgetfulness.
Every year is better than the last. The body may be falling apart, but my mind is full of the kind of lessons you only learn from experience. When I can remember them. See above.
I have a great life and am grateful for each and every one of these years. I love having adult and almost-adult children, especially when they turn out to be people you’d spend time with anyway. Marriage is better after 23 years than after one — anyone can be married for a year; 23 is a grand slam — and I’ve always wanted to hit one of those.
Note: I do know that baseball season is over. It’s the only sport I know enough about to make an analogy. And it’s only a few months until spring training starts.
Today would have been my Daddy’s 75th birthday. I always write about him on his birthday and reflect on his impact on my life. One of the qualities he lived and taught by example is giving.
Many times after he visited, we would find a $100 bill tucked away in some random place with his business card attached, usually bearing a bad money-related pun. We would find it days — in some cases, weeks — later. The last one I found in the freezer, and it said hard, cold cash. Groan.
A year or so before he died, Daddy decided we needed a piano and asked my mom, who sold real estate, to split the cost. He contacted a musician friend of ours who knew my preferences and swore him to secrecy. One Saturday morning, after my parents had spent the night with us, a man in a large truck came to the door and asked where I wanted my piano. As much as I had wanted a piano, I thought it was cruel irony. Until I saw the devilish grin on my Daddy’s face.
His lesson for us was that the kind of pure giving that the Christian life calls us to does not depend on the gratitude or perceived worthiness of the recipient; it does not require — and often avoids — recognition and seeks no reward other than the sheer joy of the giving.
I watched it from our deck of my family’s house overlooking Greers Ferry Lake. Sara Ann was about to begin her senior year in high school, my last school year with a child at home. Prelude to the empty nest.
Between the uncharacteristically cool breeze, the natural beauty and the chardonnay, my mood was reflective as I thought about the beginning of the end of this part of my life. A life defined by semesters, school days, spring breaks and Christmas vacations. The end of my girls’ lives as children as they move into adulthood — college graduation and the beginning of a bright career for Elizabeth, high school graduation and off to college for Sara Ann. A beginning for me as, for the first time in 21 years, I explore my own priorities and interests apart from motherhood. The end of rules and curfews. The beginning of years of friendship with my girls.
I love pictures of sunsets. This particular sunset marked the end of an amazing day, but as sure as it set over the lake, the sun rose again on the other side of the night. When you look at the photo, unless you know the exact location and directional orientation, you don’t know whether it’s a sunrise or a sunset. So I realize it is with life — every end holds within it a new beginning and there is beauty in both.
Though I know this transition will not be easy and I approach it with mixed emotions, I cling to the idea that, for us, the sun is rising.
My first experience humbled and overwhelmed me. With regret for the assumptions I have made. Shame for my complacency. Anger at my own indifference while I lead a comfortable life as others suffer. I ignored them. I dismissed them. I cared, but not enough.
What changed from the me-centeredness, the casual, detached concern? Caring only because I knew I should?
Faces.
Eyes.
Voices.
Of people not so different from me after all. Children of God, my equals, who happen to be homeless. Some of whom can read and speak fluently in two languages, write poetry that expresses deep emotion and pain, beat me mercilessly at checkers and play a game of Scrabble that would challenge any wordsmith. Here’s an excerpt from a poem written by Tony, one of our guests:
The Manna House is a place where you can feel safe and get some rest,
Where help is offered through all they can do but keep in mind they’re only human too.
So if you ever come here please be thankful for this place
And at the end of every prayer you will always hear them say,
“Thank you, Lord for the coffee that’s hot, the sugar that’s sweet and the creamer that takes all life’s bitterness away.”
Scrabble games, soap, clean socks and coffee may not change a life. But maybe a few hours of peace, rest, companionship and love can change that day in a life. Manna.
Do not neglect hospitality, for through it some have unknowingly entertained angels.
Hebrews 13:2
Photo credit: PhilipPoon, Homeless Person in Front of Temple
Today someone offered me a piece of a chocolate donut … and it made me cry.
I spent this morning at Manna House in midtown Memphis, which offers hospitality, showers, change of clothes, coffee and rest to area homeless persons. After we served coffee, provided showers and dispensed basic toiletries, socks and clean clothes, we spent some time in the back yard, just talking and listening to our guests.
One man talked about how hot Memphis is in summer, and that he really wants to find a place to sleep inside before it gets too hot. Another told me which alley he sleeps in. Both had come into the backyard at Manna House with sack lunches and quickly began making trades: a peanut butter sandwich for a brownie, ham for a bag of chips. One of the men spent a good minute or so driving a hard bargain for a donut. Then he sat down, began to unwrap it and before he took a bite, he offered a bite to me.
He knows I’m not homeless. I’m obviously a middle-class white woman and I wore a nametag that identified me as a volunteer. But he offered me the first bite of his donut. Not what was left over when he finished it. Not the donut he didn’t want. The donut he negotiated and traded for. The first bite.
One of the founders of Manna House explained to me that the name comes from the manna God sent from heaven to feed the Israelites after they left Egypt. (Exodus 16) He sent it each day; just enough for that day, no more, no less, and instructed them not to gather more than they needed. They trusted Him to provide the next day. In much the same way, Manna House meets the daily needs of its guests; their mission is not to solve all problems, but to meet daily needs: basic hygiene, clean socks, a good cup of coffee and companionship — for that day.
I don’t know why my donut friend offered me the first bite; why didn’t he keep it for himself? He may or may not get another donut any time soon; I can buy a dozen without a second thought. Why was he so willing to share with me?
Maybe a better question is: why are so many of us unwilling to share what we proudly call ours? Our money, our home, our time.
We turn our heads and our hearts away and refuse to give of our abundance, while this man offers the first bite.
Twice each year I get very sentimental about my Daddy; the week of the anniversary of his death and on his birthday, October 4. He died June 13, 1993, after a sudden, completely unexpected massive cerebral hemorrhage. Before that day his health was perfect, he was an active man, an avid golfer and led a life devoted to God, family and community.
An accomplished orthodontist, he was known for his research, admired by his students in the orthodontic department at the University of Tennessee in Memphis and loved by the patients he saw in his Jonesboro, Arkansas practice. As president of the Jonesboro Rotary Club, he was deeply involved in the community and after his death the Club named their most prestigious award after him, the James F. Gramling Service Above Self Award. He taught orthodontics in various places around the United States and abroad and published in professional journals. He had an impeccable sense of personal style, elegant and classic; much like a Brooks Brothers ad — blue blazer, well-cut gray slacks, starched white shirt and striped repp tie.
He was Dr. Gramling to some, Jim to many, Jimmy to my mom, Sonny to family and childhood friends and Dad to me. I remember him best driving the boat at the lake wearing this goofy baseball hat, which I still have. Though he taught hundreds of orthodontists in his career, I value the most the lessons less well-documented: the way he explained the early-morning dew on the grass to his granddaughter (my oldest daughter) Elizabeth, how he taught her to shop at Wal-Mart (never buy the one in front) and the grace, kindness and generosity he modeled for us all. He had the spiritual gift of wisdom and I cannot count how many times since he’s been gone that I’ve needed that wisdom.
After 16 years, I can look at photos of him, like this one, and smile and remember. I can watch a video and hear his voice and it doesn’t rip me apart from the inside out. Though there are still tears, it’s not overwhelming grief, but gratitude that, for far too short a time I got to know him and be loved and mentored by him.
In today’s economy, more of us are eating in than eating out. This suits me fine, as I love a crowd at the family dinner table — we’ve been known to squeeze as many as 14 people around our table for six. I enjoy having people in our home, whether it’s a Christmas party for 15 families in our home on five minutes’ notice and or a cocktail buffet for 45 after months of planning.
Our house is far from perfect; in fact there are several rooms that are somehow stalled in the redecoration process, but my guests aren’t coming for a home show. Don’t let that stop you from inviting friends into your home; just use what you do have creatively and focus on relationships and interaction more than the environment.
Here are my seven tips for lively, low-stress, fun dinner parties:
The House Get it cleaned up and ready several days ahead of time. Then you can focus on food and table prep rather than dust and dirty toilets. Once it’s ready, walk out the front door, and walk back in as if you were visiting for the first time. It’s likely you’ll notice things you wouldn’t otherwise catch.
Table Get it ready at least one or two days ahead. If you have more than one dining area, one table can be completely set up ahead of time. We use the kitchen table for appetizers, so I just stack the place settings near the table until it’s time to quickly set up.
Food Get to know mise en place. Literally means put in place. Do all of the food prep such as measuring, chopping, slicing and peeling before you begin to cook. Depending on the ingredients, some of this can be done a day ahead. Not only does this save time the day of the party, it helps you get a head start on the prep dishes.
Flow For a buffet, separate drinks from food to help with traffic flow. Serve from whatever space you have — I use the stovetop. For a sit-down dinner, Jim and I plate the food assembly-line style just before seating everyone so they don’t sit down to empty plates.
Plan for Extras You never know when someone will bring an extra person. For a larger party, I typically plan for about 10 percent more than the number of invited guests and enjoy the leftovers if we don’t need the extra food.
Relax There is no bigger party buzzkill than a stressed-out host. Your friends will remember the time with you more than the perfection of your house, the table or whether or not your sauce breaks. Keep it in perspective and don’t forget to enjoy the people.
Cleanup is Not Part of the Party I never let my guests do dishes. The last thing they remember should be conversation and good times — not the remains of someone else’s plate. Clear an area where dishes can be quickly stacked, then take the focus off cleanup — move to another room or serve coffee or dessert. Think of clean-up time as a way to unwind after everyone leaves; pour one more glass of wine and attack the dishes after the party.
