The Grace of Giving Thanks

As far back as I can remember my sister and I said “please” and “thank you” and “yes, ma’am” and “yes, sir.” Good manners were as natural to us as breathing, but astonished strangers in the grocery store used to ask my mom if they could buy me and my sister treats as a reward for our conduct. At the time I was barely out of diapers, and apparently my seemingly atypical actions had a significant impact on those around me. Mom declined their generosity, believing we should learn to “do right” simply because it was the right thing to do. Besides teaching us to use good manners in our speech, she and Daddy insisted we write thank-you notes to friends and relatives for gifts and special deeds of kindness. While my parents also modeled the behaviors they expected from my sister and me, they never explained their reasoning; perhaps the root of it all were the expectations of our ultra-polite Southern heritage. But I think their actions, words, and instruction also stemmed from their deep faith. They often reminded us that whatever we did in life, whether it was obeying them or our teachers or doing homework or chores, we should act as if we were doing those things for God (Colossians 3:17, 23). And by saying grace before meals, they taught us that humility and gratitude should be an integral part of our faith and our relationship with the Lord. 

Jesus Himself sets the example for all of us by offering thanks to God the Father in many circumstances. Matthew 15:36 records Jesus giving thanks to God for the bread and fish He broke before the miracle of feeding the 5,000. The gospel of John records Jesus as thanking God for hearing His prayers just before He calls Lazarus back from the dead. (John 11:41-43). Jesus even showed how we should give thanks in the worst of circumstances when He thanked God for the bread of the Passover and shared it with the disciples, telling them it represented His body that would be broken within hours by a Roman scourging and cross. (Matt. 26:26) With such a selfless example of gratitude, it’s no wonder the United Methodist word of service and communion for “The Great Thanksgiving” includes the exhortation:

“Let us give thanks to the Lord our God.

It is right to give our thanks and praise.

It is right, and a good and joyful thing,

always and everywhere to give thanks to you,

Father Almighty, creator of heaven and earth.”

Nestor and the Skim-boarders

Tropical Storm Nestor popped up out of nowhere, an aberration for this late in hurricane season, and last weekend his appearance threatened my plans to attend a Christian writer’s workshop I’d eagerly anticipated for two months. So, every day I checked the weather forecast for Orange Beach as Nestor drifted towards the Panhandle. And every night I read emails from the workshop coordinator, eager to see whether the event was going to be canceled. Thankfully, the weather cleared and that Saturday morning I only had to battle a little drizzle during the 64-mile trip to the coast. I even made it to the church with 15 minutes to spare.

When I walked in, I was met with excited voices and friendly faces and as I expected, the all-day workshop was an enormous blessing. One of the main ideas that stuck with me was whether as a writer I am a planner or someone who flies by the seat of her pants. The speaker also reiterated the idea that we need to make a commitment to our writing in order to succeed. Once the conference ended and I exchanged hugs and contact info with some new friends, I drove to my favorite beach. As soon as I cut off the car engine and hopped out, I yanked off my good shoes and threw on my flip-flops. Standing there still wearing my dress clothes, I scanned the horizon where the afternoon sunshine played freeze tag with a sky full of fluffy gray clouds. Inhaling the salty air, I smiled and hustled down the weathered boardwalk that dropped me into soft piles of sugar-white sand. Almost as soon as my toes -which were sporting ocean blue nail polish- hit the sand, I could hear the waves roar. As I trudged further toward the shore, the sound grew and I spied huge rolling waves crashing one on top of another. The unusually high surf was the only evidence that overnight Nestor had brushed past the Alabama coast dropping off rain and stirring up the gulf. 

I stared past the breaking waves to a smattering of surfers who were patiently waiting for the chance to ride into shore. Then another group on the beach caught my attention and I walked over to speak to some board-short-wearing fellas. Each loosely held on to a short board that was propped on the sand in front him like a fiberglass shield. When I asked them about surfing, one guy politely explained they were skim-boarding and then told me the difference. I quickly caught on as I watched him and his friends run pall-mall into the surf, throw down their boards and skim the wave as they drifted back into shore. Amazed, I commented to the first guy that I could never be brave enough to do what they did. Without missing a beat his friend glanced at me and said, “You just need a plan. And then you need to make a commitment to it.” I nodded in agreement. That’s good advice for skim-boarding, for writing, and for life.

11 on the 15th

I think subconsciously I’ve been waiting on the clock to roll over to midnight. Then it won’t be August 15 anymore. But then…it won’t be August15 anymore. Today marked the 11^th anniversary of Mom’s passing and as the clock marks the end of this day, it also reminds me that another entire year full of griefs and challenges, joys and accomplishments has slipped past since I last paused to remember her anniversary. 

I think of Mom every day, many times a day, and she still worms her way into conversations with those in my life who knew her and loved her. But August 15 is separate. A dividing line: life with Mom/ life without Mom. I wouldn’t wish for her to come back. Not now that she is safe and healthy and whole. But there are days I’d love to hear her laugh or sing or to hear her tell one of the stories that could make me laugh until tears rolled down my face. And so many times I would welcome a chance to glean a word of wisdom from her, especially when I have some sort of medical crisis and desperately need her advice. I miss Mom's wit, her charm, and all the love she poured out not just on me, but on so many people in our lives. Despite years of poor health and a life filled with monstrously abusive relatives, Mom was so vibrant, such a bright star and it was devastating to watch that light get snuffed out.

So, no matter how many years pass, August 15 will always be the day Death stole my sweet Mom from us. Until one day, there will be no more August or January or June. And once again, I’ll get to hear her sing the hymns she so loved, this time for all eternity. Until then, I’ll keep trying my best to honor her memory by living out the lessons of love and faith and joy that her life taught me.

Dogwood Sanctuary

"The flowers appear on the earth, the time of singing has come, and the voice of the turtledove is heard in our land." -- Song of Solomon 2:12

In January delicate clusters of bright pink blossoms appeared on my neighborhood’s redbud trees. In February, Japanese magnolias offered their sleek, lavender tulip-shaped blooms. Then March enticed the dogwood, my favorite blooming tree, to share its creamy cross-shaped blossoms with their distinct rust “stains” on their tips and their “crown of thorns” in their centers. The trees’ shallow roots make them easy prey to hurricanes here in my adopted hometown, so few have survived and not too many folks choose to plant them. But in Birmingham, where I grew up, the tree adorned nearly everybody’s yards. 

One dogwood in particular, though, holds a special place in my heart. It grew in our front yard beside a lovely ornamental peach tree that bloomed at the same time as the dogwood each spring, its tiny pale pink flowers a beautiful contrast to the dogwood’s larger white ones. When I was about eight, every afternoon I would expertly shimmy up the lone dogwood. Its angled trunk led to a bough that resembled an open hand with the fingers cupped upward. It made the perfect seat for me and over the years, I spent hours perched there, half-hidden behind my fragrant curtain of white flowers. It was as if God had designed the hiding place just for me and with a glorious blue sky as its backdrop and the pretty peach tree as its neighbor, the dogwood made an ideal sanctuary. 

Often, I would go there to spend time with God, but sometimes I would simply watch the clouds go by with birdsong as my anthem. When I was ten, we moved across town and I was sad to leave behind my favorite tree. I was thrilled to learn there were about a half-dozen dogwoods in the yard at our new house. While none were suitable for climbing, each spring their showy profusion of blossoms reminded me of God’s faithfulness. His goodness, kindness and generosity. And the many hours I had spent enjoying fellowship with Him in my dogwood sanctuary.  

Lord, I Need You

“Without you, I fall apart. 

You’re the One that guides my heart. 

Lord, I need You, Oh, I need You,

Every hour I need You.

My one defense, my righteousness,

Oh, God, how I need You.”

--“Lord, I Need You” by Matt Maher

This morning every time I stopped to look at the clock, I felt sick, so I decided to write instead. Then before I could finish this post, I just got the phone call I needed: my friend’s husband called to say her surgery went well and she was in recovery. Sadly, though, the surgery was a foot amputation. We found out two weeks ago today that she’d have to have this surgery. We just didn’t know when. Until yesterday afternoon when the doctor told her it would be this morning. Somehow that just didn’t seem long enough to come to terms with something this monumental.

As I tried to support my friend over the last two weeks, I spent more time in deep prayer and scripture meditation than I had in a while. Pain and suffering will take you there. The needs of someone you love deeply will drive you to your knees, seeking God’s grace and mercy. I didn’t want her to have to endure one more surgery, one more loss, so I begged God for a miracle. But He didn’t provide one in the way I intended. 

I wanted Him to save her foot and leg. Instead, He filled her so full of His spirit and strength, I could hear it and feel it, even from 200 miles away, when we talked on the phone. Despite some moments of fear and grief, my friend had such a positive outlook. There was no hint of bitterness or self-pity. Instead, she simply exuded the peace of God, the peace that passes all understanding. Walking through this ordeal with my sweet friend, I’ve been reminded that not only do I need the Lord every day, but I need Him every hour of every day. And when challenges threaten to overwhelm me, like Matt Maher, I can say that “when I cannot stand, I’ll fall on You, Jesus You’re my hope and stay.”