"It was the best of times, it was the worst of times." That could define my recent trip to Africa. The best was the return to daily proclamation of the Word of God. I loved it, felt alive and free. I love to worship, preach, and sing, and working with an interpreter only makes it that much more precious. We saw over 3000 people come to Christ; 2500 were treated in medical clinics; about 1000 declared they will be Methodists, and 20 new Methodist churches were established in Ghana and Nigeria. It was the best.
And for mission trips into 3rd world countries, well, it was the best in other ways, too. The best transportation I've ever had, much better roads than on my trip to Africa in '93, much better hotels. It was the best.
And it was the worst. I was away from Christian (my seven year old son) for three weeks, the longest separation we have had since I adopted him six years ago -- incidentally, our "Gotcha Day" occurred during this trip, the anniversary of our adoption. So, we postponed the celebration and are going to Disney World with good friends and fellow-adoptees, Ramzy and Lori Smith, in just 2 more weeks. We are all pumped!
But it was the worst. I was so homesick...I had taken a computer, hoping I could Skype them regularly, but we were able to connect via Skype only once, and otherwise, had to put up with cell phone and facebook communication. Thankfully, international communication is much more affordable now than 20 years ago, so I was able to talk with them fairly frequently. Next time I go to Africa, I will buy my own cell phone and be able to communicate daily...multiple times per day, if I choose. That's a long time to be away from home...it was the worst.
And it was the best of times. In 1993, my experience in Africa was a daily challenge to exercise grace and forgiveness. We were in a very abrasive, pushy, greedy, grabby culture back then. But this time around, people were gracious, generous, patient, open-hearted, and oh, so friendly. I wondered more than once if the change was in them, or if it was mostly in me. Either way, it was a refreshing difference from that last experience.
And it was the worst of times. I am nearly 20 years older and quite a bit heavier than the last trip. Everywhere I went, people called me "Mommy," which is a wonderful term of respect in their cultures. But it reinforced to me that I am officially middle-aged, in our culture, and downright elderly in some others! Truthfully, I loved the term of endearment, and I think that in time I will be able to fully embrace the role of mother/grandmother to people around the world. I have always enjoyed getting older, adding another year to my age, and I'm finally getting a bit of respect for it! Might as well embrace it fully.
I'm back home now and mother to my 2nd grader. He calls me "Mom," and it isn't always said with affection or respect. But I'm back where I belong, the older mother to a precious boy. I'm listening to his funny, hiccuppy laugh right now, and oh so grateful that on this journey, God saw fit to share this bit of His creation with me.
Good to be home. Hope to post a bit more regularly now. Blessings to you all!
Monday, March 1, 2010
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Turning 50 -- 55 Days to Go
Well, the blog is going to have to wait for a while. I'm sick. I'm leaving for Africa on Tuesday. And I'm turning 50 in 55 days, and just have to admit my limitations! Besides that, my little brother told me he tried to read it and found it "too religious, too sentimental" for him. So I've got to get a little edgier. Ha!
Anyway, thanks faithful friends. I'll try to post some more in coming days, but it will be spotty, since I don't know when I'll have web access. I have the cutest new Mini-Notebook, with Skype capabilities, so I'm hoping to keep up with the boys while I'm gone. We'll see how that goes. And I'll have time to do some writing on the plane, and probably on the ground in Africa, since we often have quite a bit of free time between meetings.
I'll be back! Thanks for reading. See you soon.
Anyway, thanks faithful friends. I'll try to post some more in coming days, but it will be spotty, since I don't know when I'll have web access. I have the cutest new Mini-Notebook, with Skype capabilities, so I'm hoping to keep up with the boys while I'm gone. We'll see how that goes. And I'll have time to do some writing on the plane, and probably on the ground in Africa, since we often have quite a bit of free time between meetings.
I'll be back! Thanks for reading. See you soon.
Saturday, January 30, 2010
Turning 50 -- 56 Days to Go -- My Towns
My dad became a pastor back in the days when tenure was short in each church and moves were typically made every three to four years. Thus, by the time I was eleven years old and Dad was going into fulltime evangelism, we had lived in three different communities. Lambert was the first, and then came Columbus, MS, and Broadacres United Methodist Church. I was barely three years old when we moved there and so many of my memories are sketchy, but I can certainly say that a number of experiences there remain etched in my memory.
There was the day my brother and his friend, Jerry, were shooting fireworks in Jerry's backyard. One of them failed to let go of the cherry bomb soon enough and nearly got his fingers blown off. Then there was the day we were visiting parishioners and their German Shepherd bit my on the collar bone -- 44 years later, I still have a scar to show for it...and a healthy respect for guard dogs. And again, my mother had to be admitted to the hospital for an ectopic pregnancy and I was left with another church family. By then, I think I was five and their son about the same age when he pulled a butcher knife out of the kitchen drawer, said "En Guarde!" and sliced my left ring finger. Got my first stitches with that one, and still have a scar to show for it, too. And there was the night that we were walking in the neighborhood (yep, the same one of the thunderstorm on my daddy's shoulders) and I felt down, cracking my head on the edge of a pot-hole -- more stitches.
I never shall forget the day Mama took me with her to a very fancy lady's house -- at least that's the way I remember it. We were poor as church mice and lived at the end of a dead-end street in a very nondescript frame house, among a neighborhood of nondescript plain houses, none of which could have been more than 1000 square feet in size. This family lived in a lovely hillside mansion, with landscaped gardens terraced behind the picture window off their kitchen and den. While the ladies were talking, I went out back and picked several lovely flowers for my mother, which I did often from our abundant crop of dandelions. When I came back in with a fistful of beautiful tulips for my mother, I received a severe tongue-lashing for my indiscretion. I'm sure my mother felt badly for that, as I have when I scolded my son for doing the "wrong thing" but with the best of intentions. Why can't we parents see the heart, first, as Jesus does? How many times must he praise us for our efforts at love, even when the action falls far short of perfection?
It was in Columbus that I first was introduced to the notion that Santa Claus might not be real. We were in church, the night before Christmas, and some little boy -- maybe the same one with the butcher knife; sounds like him, doesn't it? -- asked me if I knew there really wasn't a Santa Claus. What I remember most is my mother's outrage that he had burst her baby's bubble. And then I turned right around and asked some other child the same thing, and another mother came to her, just as incensed that I had stolen this last bastion of childhood innocence from her little one. Oh my, the tangled web we weave. I'm sure my own seven year old must have pondered the reality of the fat dude who comes down the chimney, especially now that we have a chimney-less fireplace, but he refuses to face that reality, and this mother is grateful that he is truly innocent and trusting.
In Columbus, our church had a fair sprinkling of military families, since the Air Force base was only a few miles down the road from the church. My mother befriended several military "widows" and at least one of them, another Norma, stayed in our home with some frequency while her husband was deployed. She was working on a degree at Mississippi University for Women, and while she stayed with us, she was doing a project with baby chicks. I begged for a chick, and sure enough, I had one delivered to me. I was so proud of that tiny bundle of yellow feathers, and begged for permission to take it to the skating rink on Saturday morning. Mama finally relented, and it must have been the cacophony of rubber wheels on wooden floors, and shouting chicken, and The Baby Elephant Walk that did him in. That night, I sat on a quit on the floor furnace and tried to nurse that tiny creature back to life, but it was no good. The next morning, he lay cold and dead. And the quilt was burned, too, with the criss-cross pattern of the furnace forever marking the death of my beloved pet.
My dad became the possessor of a German Shepherd dog while we lived there, presented to me and my big brother, Sam, on Christmas morning. The neighbor boys tormented him ruthlessly and precious, gentle Little Ruff became a mean, uncontrollable bully. There was no fence around the yard, so Dad was forced to chain him to the clothes-line. The chain was loose, so he could run back and forth, but he couldn't run away. It just left him defenseless to the neighbor boys. One day, my mother and I were near him, perhaps to pet him or feed him, and he wrapped our legs completely in his chain, bruising both of us from ankle to thigh. We were both terrified and helpless.
One day, Dad came out to find one of those mean neighbor boys on the ground, with Ruff standing over him, still chained to the clothes line, growling and drooling. Another moment and that child might have met his end. The next day, Ruff was sold to my dad's cousin, who needed a guard dog for protection during a particularly tough season of race relations. Years later, their son returned home from college and when he entered the house, with no one else at home, Ruff attacked him and tore his flesh down to the bone. When his wife insisted that they have him put down, he said, "No, that's exactly what we need him for. We'll just teach him to love Junior."
Those boys truly were mean. Treats, special gifts, were a truly rare occasion in our house. There just was nothing extra to go around. And so, when my daddy bought me a pom-pom on a stick (you know, the kind they hand out to the cheering crowds at football games; not the real ones the cheer leaders use), I thought I was the toast of the town. Less than 30 minutes later, one of those mean boys took a match, while I was still holding the stick, and burned my prize possession in one blaze of glory. My daddy took that stick and tanned that little boy's hide with it. I was afraid to go anywhere near him for the remainder of our time in that town, but I was so grateful my daddy stood up for me against that bully. And I don't remember that he ever taunted us again.
Not everything in Columbus was terrifying and tragic. I also had two of the best school teachers I have ever known. It began with Miss Lola and the Peter Pan Kindergarten. I loved going to school, and had actually attended preschool at the lab school at Delta State University when we lived in Lambert and Mama did a couple of years toward her degree there. I remember little of that experience, excepting watching huge earth-moving equipment work just on the other side of the school fence.
But Miss Lola's place was where imagination was born. I remember the shelves loaded with wooden blocks, those old brick-painted cardboard building blocks, shelf after shelf of books, wooden furniture, paints, crayons, construction paper. It was a child's dream world. At the close of every day, we spent a few minutes in show and tell. Parents were gathering by then, and waiting, in clement weather, outside the sliding glass doors, peering in to admire their perfect children.
One week, and I vaguely remember the experience, my daddy took me with him to a funeral. What I remember is standing on the steps of an old house, peering into the parlour, where the dead guy was laid out for observation, and family and friends trooped by to pay their respects. I remember a song, a sermon, and a few words of appreciation.
So, for show and tell that week, I asked Miss Lola if I could arrange a funeral. She told me that I could, but that I would have to put it all together by myself. Ever one for a good show, I did just that. I had 3 little girls sing a trio, one appropriately serious little boy give the sermon and eulogy, and I was the dead guy, all laid out in a casket made of brick-painted cardboard boxes.
I saw Miss Lola 30 years later while I was leading a revival in Columbus and she still remembered that day, too. But what she remembered was how nervous she was getting as the funeral wore on and on and parents were arriving and she wondered what they would think of letting her let 5 and 6 year old children conduct a funeral. Long after the service had ended and the benediction was said, I still didn't move from my pretend casket. After several impassioned appeals from Miss Lola, ending with, "Lee Ann Williamson, get up and return to your seat now!" I finally raised up from the dead and said, "Whew! It's harder to be dead that I thought it was!"
And that is ever the case. Until it is really so, I suppose.
My second wonderful teacher was Miss Fannie George, the world's best first grade teacher, at Franklin Academy, just two blocks off Main. The school was close enough to our house that a big gang of us kids walked to and from school every day. I think the journey took 30 minutes or more, but we loved the time and freedom.
I was Miss George's teacher's pet. There. It's been said. And as I write it, I realize that she is just the sort of teacher who would have had the genius to make every child in the room feel the same way. I remember that I was asked to read to the entire class, that I was told to supervise when she had to step out of the room, that I was given special privileges. But I suppose the rest were equally treasured. She moved to Starkville years later and joined the church our family attended. What a joy to reconnect with her.
AT the end of one grade period, we were each given our report cards. Mine usually recorded straight A's, but this week, when I opened the envelope outside the building, I saw one long list of the blackest, roundest zeroes that have ever been recorded. I wept all the way that long walk home, and dreaded what I would find when I got there -- surely a fate worse than Ruff's chains.
When the long walk finally ended, Mama greeted us at the door and saw my grief. I thrust the horrible grade card into her hands and burst into a fresh round of crying. She took one look at it, picked up the phone, and spoke immediately to Miss George. The story was...Miss George had recorded my grades in the 3rd quarter column instead of the 2nd quarter column, so she had very carefully covered each A with a dark, round circle, and then backed up to the proper position to record my usual straight A's. I think those grades were the sweetest I ever received. And the good laugh it gave Mama and Miss George, for years to come, was almost worth the angst I suffered on that long walk home.
My dad endured the most difficult pastorate he ever had in that town, though with some of the sweetest rewards of forgivness and reconciliation, and a completely new understanding of the power and person of the Holy Spirit. My parents survived the rockiest season of their marriage in that town and came to know that with God, they could keep the vows they had made before Him, and move on to renewed trust and affection. My mother lost two babies while we lived in that town,but did manage to finally finish her college education, after five or six schools in as many communities. Columbus was an eventful three years in our family's life. We will certainly not ever forget the precious people who helped us to survive the tough times, and who poured into our lives the goodness and gentleness of God's grace.
There was the day my brother and his friend, Jerry, were shooting fireworks in Jerry's backyard. One of them failed to let go of the cherry bomb soon enough and nearly got his fingers blown off. Then there was the day we were visiting parishioners and their German Shepherd bit my on the collar bone -- 44 years later, I still have a scar to show for it...and a healthy respect for guard dogs. And again, my mother had to be admitted to the hospital for an ectopic pregnancy and I was left with another church family. By then, I think I was five and their son about the same age when he pulled a butcher knife out of the kitchen drawer, said "En Guarde!" and sliced my left ring finger. Got my first stitches with that one, and still have a scar to show for it, too. And there was the night that we were walking in the neighborhood (yep, the same one of the thunderstorm on my daddy's shoulders) and I felt down, cracking my head on the edge of a pot-hole -- more stitches.
I never shall forget the day Mama took me with her to a very fancy lady's house -- at least that's the way I remember it. We were poor as church mice and lived at the end of a dead-end street in a very nondescript frame house, among a neighborhood of nondescript plain houses, none of which could have been more than 1000 square feet in size. This family lived in a lovely hillside mansion, with landscaped gardens terraced behind the picture window off their kitchen and den. While the ladies were talking, I went out back and picked several lovely flowers for my mother, which I did often from our abundant crop of dandelions. When I came back in with a fistful of beautiful tulips for my mother, I received a severe tongue-lashing for my indiscretion. I'm sure my mother felt badly for that, as I have when I scolded my son for doing the "wrong thing" but with the best of intentions. Why can't we parents see the heart, first, as Jesus does? How many times must he praise us for our efforts at love, even when the action falls far short of perfection?
It was in Columbus that I first was introduced to the notion that Santa Claus might not be real. We were in church, the night before Christmas, and some little boy -- maybe the same one with the butcher knife; sounds like him, doesn't it? -- asked me if I knew there really wasn't a Santa Claus. What I remember most is my mother's outrage that he had burst her baby's bubble. And then I turned right around and asked some other child the same thing, and another mother came to her, just as incensed that I had stolen this last bastion of childhood innocence from her little one. Oh my, the tangled web we weave. I'm sure my own seven year old must have pondered the reality of the fat dude who comes down the chimney, especially now that we have a chimney-less fireplace, but he refuses to face that reality, and this mother is grateful that he is truly innocent and trusting.
In Columbus, our church had a fair sprinkling of military families, since the Air Force base was only a few miles down the road from the church. My mother befriended several military "widows" and at least one of them, another Norma, stayed in our home with some frequency while her husband was deployed. She was working on a degree at Mississippi University for Women, and while she stayed with us, she was doing a project with baby chicks. I begged for a chick, and sure enough, I had one delivered to me. I was so proud of that tiny bundle of yellow feathers, and begged for permission to take it to the skating rink on Saturday morning. Mama finally relented, and it must have been the cacophony of rubber wheels on wooden floors, and shouting chicken, and The Baby Elephant Walk that did him in. That night, I sat on a quit on the floor furnace and tried to nurse that tiny creature back to life, but it was no good. The next morning, he lay cold and dead. And the quilt was burned, too, with the criss-cross pattern of the furnace forever marking the death of my beloved pet.
My dad became the possessor of a German Shepherd dog while we lived there, presented to me and my big brother, Sam, on Christmas morning. The neighbor boys tormented him ruthlessly and precious, gentle Little Ruff became a mean, uncontrollable bully. There was no fence around the yard, so Dad was forced to chain him to the clothes-line. The chain was loose, so he could run back and forth, but he couldn't run away. It just left him defenseless to the neighbor boys. One day, my mother and I were near him, perhaps to pet him or feed him, and he wrapped our legs completely in his chain, bruising both of us from ankle to thigh. We were both terrified and helpless.
One day, Dad came out to find one of those mean neighbor boys on the ground, with Ruff standing over him, still chained to the clothes line, growling and drooling. Another moment and that child might have met his end. The next day, Ruff was sold to my dad's cousin, who needed a guard dog for protection during a particularly tough season of race relations. Years later, their son returned home from college and when he entered the house, with no one else at home, Ruff attacked him and tore his flesh down to the bone. When his wife insisted that they have him put down, he said, "No, that's exactly what we need him for. We'll just teach him to love Junior."
Those boys truly were mean. Treats, special gifts, were a truly rare occasion in our house. There just was nothing extra to go around. And so, when my daddy bought me a pom-pom on a stick (you know, the kind they hand out to the cheering crowds at football games; not the real ones the cheer leaders use), I thought I was the toast of the town. Less than 30 minutes later, one of those mean boys took a match, while I was still holding the stick, and burned my prize possession in one blaze of glory. My daddy took that stick and tanned that little boy's hide with it. I was afraid to go anywhere near him for the remainder of our time in that town, but I was so grateful my daddy stood up for me against that bully. And I don't remember that he ever taunted us again.
Not everything in Columbus was terrifying and tragic. I also had two of the best school teachers I have ever known. It began with Miss Lola and the Peter Pan Kindergarten. I loved going to school, and had actually attended preschool at the lab school at Delta State University when we lived in Lambert and Mama did a couple of years toward her degree there. I remember little of that experience, excepting watching huge earth-moving equipment work just on the other side of the school fence.
But Miss Lola's place was where imagination was born. I remember the shelves loaded with wooden blocks, those old brick-painted cardboard building blocks, shelf after shelf of books, wooden furniture, paints, crayons, construction paper. It was a child's dream world. At the close of every day, we spent a few minutes in show and tell. Parents were gathering by then, and waiting, in clement weather, outside the sliding glass doors, peering in to admire their perfect children.
One week, and I vaguely remember the experience, my daddy took me with him to a funeral. What I remember is standing on the steps of an old house, peering into the parlour, where the dead guy was laid out for observation, and family and friends trooped by to pay their respects. I remember a song, a sermon, and a few words of appreciation.
So, for show and tell that week, I asked Miss Lola if I could arrange a funeral. She told me that I could, but that I would have to put it all together by myself. Ever one for a good show, I did just that. I had 3 little girls sing a trio, one appropriately serious little boy give the sermon and eulogy, and I was the dead guy, all laid out in a casket made of brick-painted cardboard boxes.
I saw Miss Lola 30 years later while I was leading a revival in Columbus and she still remembered that day, too. But what she remembered was how nervous she was getting as the funeral wore on and on and parents were arriving and she wondered what they would think of letting her let 5 and 6 year old children conduct a funeral. Long after the service had ended and the benediction was said, I still didn't move from my pretend casket. After several impassioned appeals from Miss Lola, ending with, "Lee Ann Williamson, get up and return to your seat now!" I finally raised up from the dead and said, "Whew! It's harder to be dead that I thought it was!"
And that is ever the case. Until it is really so, I suppose.
My second wonderful teacher was Miss Fannie George, the world's best first grade teacher, at Franklin Academy, just two blocks off Main. The school was close enough to our house that a big gang of us kids walked to and from school every day. I think the journey took 30 minutes or more, but we loved the time and freedom.
I was Miss George's teacher's pet. There. It's been said. And as I write it, I realize that she is just the sort of teacher who would have had the genius to make every child in the room feel the same way. I remember that I was asked to read to the entire class, that I was told to supervise when she had to step out of the room, that I was given special privileges. But I suppose the rest were equally treasured. She moved to Starkville years later and joined the church our family attended. What a joy to reconnect with her.
AT the end of one grade period, we were each given our report cards. Mine usually recorded straight A's, but this week, when I opened the envelope outside the building, I saw one long list of the blackest, roundest zeroes that have ever been recorded. I wept all the way that long walk home, and dreaded what I would find when I got there -- surely a fate worse than Ruff's chains.
When the long walk finally ended, Mama greeted us at the door and saw my grief. I thrust the horrible grade card into her hands and burst into a fresh round of crying. She took one look at it, picked up the phone, and spoke immediately to Miss George. The story was...Miss George had recorded my grades in the 3rd quarter column instead of the 2nd quarter column, so she had very carefully covered each A with a dark, round circle, and then backed up to the proper position to record my usual straight A's. I think those grades were the sweetest I ever received. And the good laugh it gave Mama and Miss George, for years to come, was almost worth the angst I suffered on that long walk home.
My dad endured the most difficult pastorate he ever had in that town, though with some of the sweetest rewards of forgivness and reconciliation, and a completely new understanding of the power and person of the Holy Spirit. My parents survived the rockiest season of their marriage in that town and came to know that with God, they could keep the vows they had made before Him, and move on to renewed trust and affection. My mother lost two babies while we lived in that town,but did manage to finally finish her college education, after five or six schools in as many communities. Columbus was an eventful three years in our family's life. We will certainly not ever forget the precious people who helped us to survive the tough times, and who poured into our lives the goodness and gentleness of God's grace.
Friday, January 29, 2010
Turning 50 - 57 Days to Go -- My Towns
About a month after my birth, Daddy finished his Master of Divinity program at Chandler and took an appointment as pastor in Lambert, a tiny community in the Mississippi Delta, populated mostly by farmers, and the town folk who provided necessary support -- grocery, pharmacy, bank, lawyer, school, etc. We were there for three years and frankly, I remember almost nothing about that time.
My folks loved that community and the people there immensely, and the fact that they remained in touch with several families for many years bears testimony to the fact that they were well-loved, too. The Puckett family were among our favorites, full of teenage girls who sang, and a much-younger sister who was my best friend. I would love to reconnect with them and see how their families have developed.
I have two very vague memories of our time there, both of which resulted in fears that I dealt with for many years. The first involved my brother and I camping out in a pup tent in the yard, which was between the parsonage and the church. I recall rolling out from under the tent and into the bushes, and being found there by Mama the next day. Did that really happen? Was it only a dream?
The second was a night of terrible storms and tornadoes. Mama was at home with Sammy and me when the tornado passed directly over our house, not touching down, but kicking up quite a mess. The windows and doors were blown open, and Mama put me in a chair while she rushed to try to find a way to protect us from the fierce winds -- close the door, cover us with a blanket, I don't know. In those days, there was no advance warning of storms, no sirens, no radio or television alarms, just the sudden on-set of that train-like roar, the severe drop in air pressure, and the ferocious wind.
For years, I was afraid to sleep alone, and many was the night that I flipped off my light switch, ran as fast as I could, and leapt from 10 feet away to land in my bed without getting to close to the monsters under it. I would not let a hand or foot dangle from the edge of the bed, certain that whatever lurked beneath would use a tiny appendage to reel me in and gobble me up. Why does it never occur to a child that if a monster is going to get you, it's probably just going to come out and do it, whether you attract it with a finger or not!
I slept with my mother occasionally, especially after Daddy started traveling, until I was 13 years old, and especially if the weather was bad. My fear of storms was epic. My seventh grade history teacher, Carmen Haynes, will remind me of that to this day. When there were storm warnings at school, I would run to her room, with or without permission, to seek shelter. She was downstairs, yes, but I think it was the comfort of her presence that was the greatest help to me.
When Daddy was appointed to Broadacres UMC in Columbus, following Lambert, we often took family strolls through our tiny, l-shaped street of a neighborhood, especially in the evening. I often rode on his shoulders, and I remember there being a loud clap of thunder one night while I was on my high perch. I screamed to get down and he thought it a fun trick - for a very short minute - to keep me up there. It took a long time for me to forgive him for that mean trick, too.
My fear of storms finally ended, truly, when I was about 26 years old. By then, I had established Grace & Gladness Ministries and was traveling by myself all around the world. It does not behoove one to be afraid of things that creep in the dark or of bad weather when one is "adventuring" in mostly remote and dangerous places. Anyway, in one trip out west, I had crossed the San Francisco mountains just before sunset and found a hotel room in Seligman or Prescott. I heard quite a commotion on the 2nd story landing and stepped out to find a couple of dozen fellow travelers enjoying a powerful thunderstorm that was coming over the mountains. It was truly beautiful, a heavenly lightshow that dazzled and electrified. I made some good friends that night, sharing God's beauty. Then I took my Chinese take-out in the room and ate dinner in front of the TV until the storm reached us and plunged us into darkness. That night, as the storm raged around me, I realized that for the first time in my life, I was not afraid. Somehow, embracing the beauty of the storm, in spite of its potential devastation, had set me free from fear.
I have a healthy appreciation of the power of weather, and I take appropriate precautions. But I do not quake with fear as I did for so many years.
Dad and I returned to Lambert for revivals on several occasions through the years, with him preaching and me leading singing. Those were sweet times and it was fun to be welcomed into the community as an adult by the parishioners my parents had loved so well, so many years before. Lambert is even tinier now, going the way of so many farming communities as the family farm gets swallowed up by the corporate monstrosities that are so common today. I haven't been back there for at least 20 years.
Maybe that's something I need to do as I turn 50 -- make a day-long journey to these wonderful cradles of my childhood. Most of them are within a 2-3 hour drive. I think I shall plan to do that.
My folks loved that community and the people there immensely, and the fact that they remained in touch with several families for many years bears testimony to the fact that they were well-loved, too. The Puckett family were among our favorites, full of teenage girls who sang, and a much-younger sister who was my best friend. I would love to reconnect with them and see how their families have developed.
I have two very vague memories of our time there, both of which resulted in fears that I dealt with for many years. The first involved my brother and I camping out in a pup tent in the yard, which was between the parsonage and the church. I recall rolling out from under the tent and into the bushes, and being found there by Mama the next day. Did that really happen? Was it only a dream?
The second was a night of terrible storms and tornadoes. Mama was at home with Sammy and me when the tornado passed directly over our house, not touching down, but kicking up quite a mess. The windows and doors were blown open, and Mama put me in a chair while she rushed to try to find a way to protect us from the fierce winds -- close the door, cover us with a blanket, I don't know. In those days, there was no advance warning of storms, no sirens, no radio or television alarms, just the sudden on-set of that train-like roar, the severe drop in air pressure, and the ferocious wind.
For years, I was afraid to sleep alone, and many was the night that I flipped off my light switch, ran as fast as I could, and leapt from 10 feet away to land in my bed without getting to close to the monsters under it. I would not let a hand or foot dangle from the edge of the bed, certain that whatever lurked beneath would use a tiny appendage to reel me in and gobble me up. Why does it never occur to a child that if a monster is going to get you, it's probably just going to come out and do it, whether you attract it with a finger or not!
I slept with my mother occasionally, especially after Daddy started traveling, until I was 13 years old, and especially if the weather was bad. My fear of storms was epic. My seventh grade history teacher, Carmen Haynes, will remind me of that to this day. When there were storm warnings at school, I would run to her room, with or without permission, to seek shelter. She was downstairs, yes, but I think it was the comfort of her presence that was the greatest help to me.
When Daddy was appointed to Broadacres UMC in Columbus, following Lambert, we often took family strolls through our tiny, l-shaped street of a neighborhood, especially in the evening. I often rode on his shoulders, and I remember there being a loud clap of thunder one night while I was on my high perch. I screamed to get down and he thought it a fun trick - for a very short minute - to keep me up there. It took a long time for me to forgive him for that mean trick, too.
My fear of storms finally ended, truly, when I was about 26 years old. By then, I had established Grace & Gladness Ministries and was traveling by myself all around the world. It does not behoove one to be afraid of things that creep in the dark or of bad weather when one is "adventuring" in mostly remote and dangerous places. Anyway, in one trip out west, I had crossed the San Francisco mountains just before sunset and found a hotel room in Seligman or Prescott. I heard quite a commotion on the 2nd story landing and stepped out to find a couple of dozen fellow travelers enjoying a powerful thunderstorm that was coming over the mountains. It was truly beautiful, a heavenly lightshow that dazzled and electrified. I made some good friends that night, sharing God's beauty. Then I took my Chinese take-out in the room and ate dinner in front of the TV until the storm reached us and plunged us into darkness. That night, as the storm raged around me, I realized that for the first time in my life, I was not afraid. Somehow, embracing the beauty of the storm, in spite of its potential devastation, had set me free from fear.
I have a healthy appreciation of the power of weather, and I take appropriate precautions. But I do not quake with fear as I did for so many years.
Dad and I returned to Lambert for revivals on several occasions through the years, with him preaching and me leading singing. Those were sweet times and it was fun to be welcomed into the community as an adult by the parishioners my parents had loved so well, so many years before. Lambert is even tinier now, going the way of so many farming communities as the family farm gets swallowed up by the corporate monstrosities that are so common today. I haven't been back there for at least 20 years.
Maybe that's something I need to do as I turn 50 -- make a day-long journey to these wonderful cradles of my childhood. Most of them are within a 2-3 hour drive. I think I shall plan to do that.
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Turning 50 -- 59 Days to Go -- My Towns
Moving back to the community in which I spent most of my adolescence and early-adulthood has been a journey in itself. I find that a 13 year absence really has made a difference, in me and in the town. We are not the same! And I believe that both of us have grown in mostly good ways - like the new openness we both have to people and ideas - and some not-so-good - like my literal weight-gain, and the town's endless proliferation of tacky apartment complexes. Eventually I will come back to this experience, but I thought I would "start at the very beginning," where I was born.
My parents married in 1953, very shortly after my dad's college graduation. They immediately moved to Atlanta, GA, where Dad enrolled in seminary at Chandler School of Theology, Emery University, and Mama went to work as secretary to the dean of some science department. The expense of school sent them back to Mississippi on two occasions before he graduated, during which time he served churches and my older brother was born in 1956, in the Leflore County Hospital in Greenwood, MS. During their last stint in school, I made my arrival, while Daddy was serving a local church and they were living in Gainesville, GA.
And so, here is the story of my first arrival in that first town:
From his earliest days in ministry, Dad had a passion for evangelism and church renewal. He eventually became a very good preacher, but in the early days, he used his very good singing voice to lead music in revivals with other preachers. And so, that is where he was on the day of my arrival, March 27, 1960. It was a Sunday, and Mama was at home with 3 year old Sammy, aware that the new baby could arrive at any time. Late that afternoon, she realized the time had come and sent Sammy down the street to the church yard, where the youth group was gathered. He was instructed to tell Miss Debbie (name is fiction) that Mama said she needed help, the new baby was coming.
Well, as most three year olds are wont to do, Sammy got interested in the play of the older kids and completely forgot about the urgent message. Some time later, Miss Debbie noticed him there, thought it unusual that he would be allowed to wander down the street on his own, and asked if everything was alright. "Yeah, it's okay, Miss Debbie. But, oh! Mama said it's time for the new baby to come."
She rushed down the street, horrified at what she might find, and got Mama to the Gainesville hospital in plenty of time for the new baby to arrive under the supervision of trained medical staff. At 10:20, after a difficult breach delivery, I finally poked my head into the world and probably screamed with gusto. Been doing it ever since, don't know why I wouldn't have started out that way, too!
Daddy arrived later that night (I think) to welcome his baby daughter, and when he graduated one month later, we moved back to Mississippi and he took his first appointment as an elder in the Methodist Church.
I visited Gainesville again as a young adult, this time to be courted by another young Methodist preacher, and spend some time with his family. We visited their vacation house on Lake Lanier and saw just the edges of my birth place. Someone was having a birthday while we were there (could have been mine...I just don't remember) and we went out for Chinese food. In the style of that wonderful movie The Christmas Story, the wait staff sang, "Highpy Bighsday to Yow!"
And that is what I remember, or have been told, about my first town. A difficult start, with a bit of delay and tension, but fond thoughts of laughter and God's providence and protection. Not a bad way to begin!
And so, here is the story of my first arrival in that first town:
From his earliest days in ministry, Dad had a passion for evangelism and church renewal. He eventually became a very good preacher, but in the early days, he used his very good singing voice to lead music in revivals with other preachers. And so, that is where he was on the day of my arrival, March 27, 1960. It was a Sunday, and Mama was at home with 3 year old Sammy, aware that the new baby could arrive at any time. Late that afternoon, she realized the time had come and sent Sammy down the street to the church yard, where the youth group was gathered. He was instructed to tell Miss Debbie (name is fiction) that Mama said she needed help, the new baby was coming.
Well, as most three year olds are wont to do, Sammy got interested in the play of the older kids and completely forgot about the urgent message. Some time later, Miss Debbie noticed him there, thought it unusual that he would be allowed to wander down the street on his own, and asked if everything was alright. "Yeah, it's okay, Miss Debbie. But, oh! Mama said it's time for the new baby to come."
She rushed down the street, horrified at what she might find, and got Mama to the Gainesville hospital in plenty of time for the new baby to arrive under the supervision of trained medical staff. At 10:20, after a difficult breach delivery, I finally poked my head into the world and probably screamed with gusto. Been doing it ever since, don't know why I wouldn't have started out that way, too!
Daddy arrived later that night (I think) to welcome his baby daughter, and when he graduated one month later, we moved back to Mississippi and he took his first appointment as an elder in the Methodist Church.
I visited Gainesville again as a young adult, this time to be courted by another young Methodist preacher, and spend some time with his family. We visited their vacation house on Lake Lanier and saw just the edges of my birth place. Someone was having a birthday while we were there (could have been mine...I just don't remember) and we went out for Chinese food. In the style of that wonderful movie The Christmas Story, the wait staff sang, "Highpy Bighsday to Yow!"
And that is what I remember, or have been told, about my first town. A difficult start, with a bit of delay and tension, but fond thoughts of laughter and God's providence and protection. Not a bad way to begin!
Monday, January 25, 2010
Turning 50 -- 60 Days to Go!
Okay, I managed the title and even an exclamation point. But I am sick and that's about all you're going to get tonight! If you're reading, please pray for my dad. He's had flu-like symptoms since about the 16th, with a low-grade fever and dizziness. Today, he went in for a second round of IV fluids, and several friends from church came over to pray for him. We are scheduled to leave for 3 weeks in Africa next Wed, 2/3, but at this rate, our team may be lacking its leader. Thank you for remembering us!
Sunday, January 24, 2010
Turning 50 -- 61 Days To Go -- Mama's Friends
The last friend of Mama's is one who stands alone. While she and Mama were in Bible study together, it was not the larger group that defined their friendship, but the special personal relationship they shared with one another. I certainly have not "covered" all of Mama's friends, and have failed to even mention many, many, many precious people who graced her life with love, joy, and generosity. But I'm hitting the highlights, and the one I have saved for "last" had a deep impact on both of our lives.
Less than 5 months ago, I moved back into the neighborhood of most Mama's friends. Some have gone on with her, and they're enjoying Celestial Seasonings now. (Ha ha! I make myself laugh!) Several live in other cities, but the majority are still right here in the small town that has been our family home since 1971. A wonderful town...the university opens the door for exposure to a variety of cultures, ideas, and worldviews that are not usually present in provincial small town America. When I was growing up, we didn't avail ourselves of much of the university scene, but it touched us, nonetheless, in the daily brush of elbows around town.
These days, television and the Internet have made the entire world more accessible, and even those in remotest hamlets can be bombarded by the larger world's ways and wonders. I lived away from this fascinating place for 13 years, and upon my return, have found that it has changed in some pretty remarkable ways. It has grown in population, and the international flavor seems to be much richer. Among houses of worship are now included a Mosque and a Buddhist temple. The eating establishments and shopping venues have multiplied, and while we are missing some of our favorites in KC (Red Robin, Carrabba's, Zone 510, Kohl's, Hobby Lobby), there are places aplenty to choose from, and franchises are near enough for a nice, day-long shopping trip.
Because of the university, the population here is fairly mobile, making it inevitable that dear friends will move away, and new ones will come in to make their own place, even temporarily. Just a couple of weeks ago, we learned that the only real friend the boys have made at our "new" church will be moving away in June so that his father can take an engineering job in Huntsville. They were heart-broken, and we said silent prayers of gratitude for the multitude of little boys in the neighborhood.
In spite of the mobility, the exposure to cultures and ideas, and the sense of other-ness that a university town affords, there is still much about small-town America, particularly southern, that flavors Starkville. For the most part, wonderfully articulate southerners still take twice as long to drawl out their dialogue as our mid-western friends. A large part of the population speaks in a way that we are having a hard time interpreting to our two little Chinese transplants. Last week, while doing business at a favorite drive-thru in Missouri, one of them remarked, "I can understand these people better than the ones in our new town." Me, too! Case in point...at the grocery store a few weeks ago, I overheard one small boy ask another, "Wachu gifa Crimma?" Took me 10 minutes to figure that one out -- I didn't have the benefit of the capitalization!
So, you ask, why all this elaborate detail about the community when my aim is to share about our phenomenal friend, Kay? Kay embodies the best of both -- the inquisitive, open mind that isn't satisfied with provincial thinking, and the appreciation of things that never change and give us a solid foundation for life. She finished Bachelor and Master's degrees in French in less time than it takes most of us to finish one degree. She stood beside her husband, a member of the School of Business faculty for years until he moved into administration, entertaining fellow faculty and state government officials with grace and ease. She is also an avid Bulldogs fan -- that would be the Mississippi State team in maroon and white, make no mistake.
She has taught the youth Sunday School class in her tiny rural church for decades, and averaged just 3 or 4 pupils during most of those years. I participated in just one of the many women's Bible studies she has led since the mid-70's, and I can truthfully say that I was challenged not only by the depth of new information she offered through exhaustive study, but by a constant call to go deeper and higher with the Lord.
For years, Mama and Kay talked on the phone at least once a day, sometimes more than that. They shared a sour-dough bread recipe (Muriel, another stalwart friend and lover of Jesus, supplied the starter) that has come to define homemade bread for many-a-household in the tri-county area. I'm quite sure the woes they faced with Mama's 4 children and Kay's 1 occupied many hours of conversation. But Mama told me on more than one occasion that she never had a friend with whom she shared her life on a deeper level. It wasn't just the amount of time they spent together or talking on the phone, it was the content of the conversation. They might cover every current event in their personal and community lives, but it was done in the context of followers of Christ who were earnestly striving to live out the Great Commission in their own backyards.
Kay and my mother touched this community with a breadth of influence that would rival any local pastor or politician. Kay's influence was through university friendships, and primarily, through the many Bible studies she taught in churches and homes, which reached across racial and denominational and gender lines. Mama's influence was through her newspaper writings (from feature to opinion), the weekly talk show she co-hosted for a number of years on the local television station, and her leadership roles in church.
I don't think they ever made a plan to influence the community, the way some of us resort to publicity campaigns and advertising in order to get our message out. They just remained engaged with their friends and neighbors, and stayed prayerfully connected to God, continually asking what their part was in His Work. Neither of them sought acclaim or fame, and both of them remained well-grounded in faith and family.
When I was a teenager, I used to ask Mama to make lists of her favorite scripture passages for me. When I became a young adult, Kay led me to books like My Friend the Bible and Into the Glory, which shaped my love for and dependence on God's Word and will. Mama wrote volumes of letters to me during my college years. Kay read books on tape to occupy me during long hours in transit during the five years I traveled alone. Mama and I read Shakespeare plays together and cut up on the piano bench, butchering easy 4 hand duets. Kay and I shared our mutual love for the worship music of the early '80's and spent hours discussing discipleship.
Even the best of friendships must weather some storms, and ours with Kay was no different. But when Mama died, there was really no one else to whom we could turn to speak at her funeral. I've tried to find a way to end this particular musing, and have decided to let Kay's words speak of their friendship. I will weep as I post it here, with warmth for the memories, with loss of that precious one, and with gratitude that Kay has made my life so very rich, long after Mama's passing. Enjoy:
"Like many of you, I knew Norma - or felt I did - before I met her because of her articles in the Mississippi United Methodist Advocate. I was fascinated by all the tales of the Williamson household and amazed that she survived, even seemed to thrive on the activities.
"I had a regular husband who went to work in the mornings and came home in the afternoons and who took care of things around the house. Norma had a husband who traveled the world preaching the Gospel, came home occasionally to whip things into shape and drive the family around while asleep at the wheel!
"I had one son who was quiet and rather bookish and at 31 still has never seen the inside of an emergency room. Norma had four non-stop adventurers who kept her on her toes and in the emergency room on a regular basis.
"I would read and wonder, fascinated by her ability to take the ordinary (to her) situations that arose and with great wit and insight, and a deep faith that was obvious even when not overtly stated, draw lessons from them to which we all could relate.
"Shortly after I began volunteering in Cecil's ministry office I met Norma in person, home from a visit to Sam (oldest son) in Hawaii where her stay had been slightly extended by her emergency surgery. It was love at first sight and thereafter we were fast friends who talked on the phone at least once a day when we were both in town, shared frequent meals, walked miles, cooked together, shared our love of music, commiserated about husbands, children, and the state of affairs of the world, studied and prayed together.
"Scripture tells us that as believers in Jesus we're all gifted in some way to help the Body of Christ function as it was intended to do. Some of us are minimally gifted; Norma was not of our group; she got more than a double dip in the gift department. In addition to her genius with words and keen insights which enabled her to write and teach so well, she was the hostess with the mostest. A really good cook, she not only fed you well but made you feel as if her home were yours. She loved to garden, from the digging and dunging all the way to the finished product, was a talented musician, a wonderful wife, mother, and friend, and always looked as if she had just stepped from a band box.
"One of the things she did well was proof-read, and one of our favorite times of the month was newsletter time. Cecil would give me the handwritten copy of his article which I would type and edit, almost always having to resort to calling Norma for help with the final product. I saved all the misspelled words and the quaint turns of phrases and we would howl with laughter as we tried to figure out exactly what it was Cecil wanted to express. We threatened more than once to send out the article in its original form just so people would understand how important we were to the ministry.
"Norma never pretended to have all the answers or have it all together. She was a fellow struggler who is not being nominated for sainthood today. But we who knew her recognize that a very ordinary but gifted lady made an extraordinary impact on those privileged to have their lives touched by hers. We don't know why one so gifted was slowly stripped of all that made her her, but we do know that she fought a good fight, she has finished her course, and is now perfected, enjoying the presence of the Savior she loved and served so faithfully.
"Today, I echo her final words in the moving tribute she wrote when her sister, Betty, died in the late '80's: 'I am glad for a faith that says life is worthwhile, good is ultimately stronger than evil, and the resurrection is real.' Her winter is past, the rain is over and gone, and the flowers and the singing of birds fill her life. If I know Norma, she's already settling into her nest, and I look forward to having her show me around when I join her in heaven.
"You, her family, have a wonderful heritage. May God bless you."
Kay included this P.S. to me when I asked for a copy of her eulogy:
"LAW - knowing I had only a few minutes to say more than could be said in many, I omitted something that came back to me as I meditated on what and how to express my love for your mom. Many years ago, when you were in the first apartment on Gillespie, you had her, me, and some others over for a pre-Christmas lunch. Norma had found a lump in her breast and was going after lunch to have it checked out, obviously somewhat concerned. As I prayed for her that morning, the Lord gave me Psalm 72:6: 'He shall come down like rain upon the mown grass, like showers that water the earth.' Now, I haven't a foggy notion how that could have said anything to her that day, but I remember discussing it with her.
"Today (and I mean no disrespect for the Messianic Psalm, here!), I sense an application to Norma: Some people are a bit heavy-handed, some of us bulldoze over others, but Norma was like a gentle spring shower who watered tender plants that could easily have been trampled underfoot by one less sensitive than she. She had hurt in enough places that she could empathize with others in many different situations and she seemed always to have a word of comfort and encouragement.
"As I write this and as I read back over her book and the articles I dug up while meditating, the word that comes to mind is 'bereft.' I'm so glad she's free from this body of death, but so conscious of the treasure that we have lost. As you work through this last stage of grief may God lead you gently and bring comfort in all those hidden, perhaps forgotten places. Love you. K"
Well, I guess I have a post-script of my own. Mama and Kay both led me to Jesus. Neither was heavy-handed or bumbling. Both were and are like a gentle spring shower. And as I return to this "garden" where I grew up, Kay is once again helping to tend my life, with grace and sensitivity, and prayer, and the never-failing Word of God. My goodness. To have known these two women, my mother and Kay Verrall, is to have been blessed beyond one's wildest hopes.
Mama has gone ahead. Kay and I, and so many others, will join her in the future. I'm glad I'm near enough to Kay to re-kindle the friendship. And to remember Mama with someone who loved her as much as I.
Less than 5 months ago, I moved back into the neighborhood of most Mama's friends. Some have gone on with her, and they're enjoying Celestial Seasonings now. (Ha ha! I make myself laugh!) Several live in other cities, but the majority are still right here in the small town that has been our family home since 1971. A wonderful town...the university opens the door for exposure to a variety of cultures, ideas, and worldviews that are not usually present in provincial small town America. When I was growing up, we didn't avail ourselves of much of the university scene, but it touched us, nonetheless, in the daily brush of elbows around town.
These days, television and the Internet have made the entire world more accessible, and even those in remotest hamlets can be bombarded by the larger world's ways and wonders. I lived away from this fascinating place for 13 years, and upon my return, have found that it has changed in some pretty remarkable ways. It has grown in population, and the international flavor seems to be much richer. Among houses of worship are now included a Mosque and a Buddhist temple. The eating establishments and shopping venues have multiplied, and while we are missing some of our favorites in KC (Red Robin, Carrabba's, Zone 510, Kohl's, Hobby Lobby), there are places aplenty to choose from, and franchises are near enough for a nice, day-long shopping trip.
Because of the university, the population here is fairly mobile, making it inevitable that dear friends will move away, and new ones will come in to make their own place, even temporarily. Just a couple of weeks ago, we learned that the only real friend the boys have made at our "new" church will be moving away in June so that his father can take an engineering job in Huntsville. They were heart-broken, and we said silent prayers of gratitude for the multitude of little boys in the neighborhood.
In spite of the mobility, the exposure to cultures and ideas, and the sense of other-ness that a university town affords, there is still much about small-town America, particularly southern, that flavors Starkville. For the most part, wonderfully articulate southerners still take twice as long to drawl out their dialogue as our mid-western friends. A large part of the population speaks in a way that we are having a hard time interpreting to our two little Chinese transplants. Last week, while doing business at a favorite drive-thru in Missouri, one of them remarked, "I can understand these people better than the ones in our new town." Me, too! Case in point...at the grocery store a few weeks ago, I overheard one small boy ask another, "Wachu gifa Crimma?" Took me 10 minutes to figure that one out -- I didn't have the benefit of the capitalization!
So, you ask, why all this elaborate detail about the community when my aim is to share about our phenomenal friend, Kay? Kay embodies the best of both -- the inquisitive, open mind that isn't satisfied with provincial thinking, and the appreciation of things that never change and give us a solid foundation for life. She finished Bachelor and Master's degrees in French in less time than it takes most of us to finish one degree. She stood beside her husband, a member of the School of Business faculty for years until he moved into administration, entertaining fellow faculty and state government officials with grace and ease. She is also an avid Bulldogs fan -- that would be the Mississippi State team in maroon and white, make no mistake.
She has taught the youth Sunday School class in her tiny rural church for decades, and averaged just 3 or 4 pupils during most of those years. I participated in just one of the many women's Bible studies she has led since the mid-70's, and I can truthfully say that I was challenged not only by the depth of new information she offered through exhaustive study, but by a constant call to go deeper and higher with the Lord.
For years, Mama and Kay talked on the phone at least once a day, sometimes more than that. They shared a sour-dough bread recipe (Muriel, another stalwart friend and lover of Jesus, supplied the starter) that has come to define homemade bread for many-a-household in the tri-county area. I'm quite sure the woes they faced with Mama's 4 children and Kay's 1 occupied many hours of conversation. But Mama told me on more than one occasion that she never had a friend with whom she shared her life on a deeper level. It wasn't just the amount of time they spent together or talking on the phone, it was the content of the conversation. They might cover every current event in their personal and community lives, but it was done in the context of followers of Christ who were earnestly striving to live out the Great Commission in their own backyards.
Kay and my mother touched this community with a breadth of influence that would rival any local pastor or politician. Kay's influence was through university friendships, and primarily, through the many Bible studies she taught in churches and homes, which reached across racial and denominational and gender lines. Mama's influence was through her newspaper writings (from feature to opinion), the weekly talk show she co-hosted for a number of years on the local television station, and her leadership roles in church.
I don't think they ever made a plan to influence the community, the way some of us resort to publicity campaigns and advertising in order to get our message out. They just remained engaged with their friends and neighbors, and stayed prayerfully connected to God, continually asking what their part was in His Work. Neither of them sought acclaim or fame, and both of them remained well-grounded in faith and family.
When I was a teenager, I used to ask Mama to make lists of her favorite scripture passages for me. When I became a young adult, Kay led me to books like My Friend the Bible and Into the Glory, which shaped my love for and dependence on God's Word and will. Mama wrote volumes of letters to me during my college years. Kay read books on tape to occupy me during long hours in transit during the five years I traveled alone. Mama and I read Shakespeare plays together and cut up on the piano bench, butchering easy 4 hand duets. Kay and I shared our mutual love for the worship music of the early '80's and spent hours discussing discipleship.
Even the best of friendships must weather some storms, and ours with Kay was no different. But when Mama died, there was really no one else to whom we could turn to speak at her funeral. I've tried to find a way to end this particular musing, and have decided to let Kay's words speak of their friendship. I will weep as I post it here, with warmth for the memories, with loss of that precious one, and with gratitude that Kay has made my life so very rich, long after Mama's passing. Enjoy:
"Like many of you, I knew Norma - or felt I did - before I met her because of her articles in the Mississippi United Methodist Advocate. I was fascinated by all the tales of the Williamson household and amazed that she survived, even seemed to thrive on the activities.
"I had a regular husband who went to work in the mornings and came home in the afternoons and who took care of things around the house. Norma had a husband who traveled the world preaching the Gospel, came home occasionally to whip things into shape and drive the family around while asleep at the wheel!
"I had one son who was quiet and rather bookish and at 31 still has never seen the inside of an emergency room. Norma had four non-stop adventurers who kept her on her toes and in the emergency room on a regular basis.
"I would read and wonder, fascinated by her ability to take the ordinary (to her) situations that arose and with great wit and insight, and a deep faith that was obvious even when not overtly stated, draw lessons from them to which we all could relate.
"Shortly after I began volunteering in Cecil's ministry office I met Norma in person, home from a visit to Sam (oldest son) in Hawaii where her stay had been slightly extended by her emergency surgery. It was love at first sight and thereafter we were fast friends who talked on the phone at least once a day when we were both in town, shared frequent meals, walked miles, cooked together, shared our love of music, commiserated about husbands, children, and the state of affairs of the world, studied and prayed together.
"Scripture tells us that as believers in Jesus we're all gifted in some way to help the Body of Christ function as it was intended to do. Some of us are minimally gifted; Norma was not of our group; she got more than a double dip in the gift department. In addition to her genius with words and keen insights which enabled her to write and teach so well, she was the hostess with the mostest. A really good cook, she not only fed you well but made you feel as if her home were yours. She loved to garden, from the digging and dunging all the way to the finished product, was a talented musician, a wonderful wife, mother, and friend, and always looked as if she had just stepped from a band box.
"One of the things she did well was proof-read, and one of our favorite times of the month was newsletter time. Cecil would give me the handwritten copy of his article which I would type and edit, almost always having to resort to calling Norma for help with the final product. I saved all the misspelled words and the quaint turns of phrases and we would howl with laughter as we tried to figure out exactly what it was Cecil wanted to express. We threatened more than once to send out the article in its original form just so people would understand how important we were to the ministry.
"Norma never pretended to have all the answers or have it all together. She was a fellow struggler who is not being nominated for sainthood today. But we who knew her recognize that a very ordinary but gifted lady made an extraordinary impact on those privileged to have their lives touched by hers. We don't know why one so gifted was slowly stripped of all that made her her, but we do know that she fought a good fight, she has finished her course, and is now perfected, enjoying the presence of the Savior she loved and served so faithfully.
"Today, I echo her final words in the moving tribute she wrote when her sister, Betty, died in the late '80's: 'I am glad for a faith that says life is worthwhile, good is ultimately stronger than evil, and the resurrection is real.' Her winter is past, the rain is over and gone, and the flowers and the singing of birds fill her life. If I know Norma, she's already settling into her nest, and I look forward to having her show me around when I join her in heaven.
"You, her family, have a wonderful heritage. May God bless you."
Kay included this P.S. to me when I asked for a copy of her eulogy:
"LAW - knowing I had only a few minutes to say more than could be said in many, I omitted something that came back to me as I meditated on what and how to express my love for your mom. Many years ago, when you were in the first apartment on Gillespie, you had her, me, and some others over for a pre-Christmas lunch. Norma had found a lump in her breast and was going after lunch to have it checked out, obviously somewhat concerned. As I prayed for her that morning, the Lord gave me Psalm 72:6: 'He shall come down like rain upon the mown grass, like showers that water the earth.' Now, I haven't a foggy notion how that could have said anything to her that day, but I remember discussing it with her.
"Today (and I mean no disrespect for the Messianic Psalm, here!), I sense an application to Norma: Some people are a bit heavy-handed, some of us bulldoze over others, but Norma was like a gentle spring shower who watered tender plants that could easily have been trampled underfoot by one less sensitive than she. She had hurt in enough places that she could empathize with others in many different situations and she seemed always to have a word of comfort and encouragement.
"As I write this and as I read back over her book and the articles I dug up while meditating, the word that comes to mind is 'bereft.' I'm so glad she's free from this body of death, but so conscious of the treasure that we have lost. As you work through this last stage of grief may God lead you gently and bring comfort in all those hidden, perhaps forgotten places. Love you. K"
Well, I guess I have a post-script of my own. Mama and Kay both led me to Jesus. Neither was heavy-handed or bumbling. Both were and are like a gentle spring shower. And as I return to this "garden" where I grew up, Kay is once again helping to tend my life, with grace and sensitivity, and prayer, and the never-failing Word of God. My goodness. To have known these two women, my mother and Kay Verrall, is to have been blessed beyond one's wildest hopes.
Mama has gone ahead. Kay and I, and so many others, will join her in the future. I'm glad I'm near enough to Kay to re-kindle the friendship. And to remember Mama with someone who loved her as much as I.
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