Too lazy to stop...

Abraham Lincoln: I could write shorter sermons but when I get started I'm too lazy to stop.

I watched the new "Lincoln" movie last week and left the theater inspired -- not about American politics, you understand.  Can anyone truly be inspired about that anymore?  Sorry, didn't mean to let my cynicism show so quickly.  I love this nation and I am completely addicted to the political process and the intrigue that surrounds it.  I believe that America still holds enormous hope to influence the world in a great way -- but only if the church influences America in an even greater way.

But, I digress.  No, I didn't leave the theater that evening inspired about American politics.  I left the theater inspired about the work I do, the phenomenal, utterly life-changing, life-giving, nothing-more-important-than-this labor of love that I rise to undertake every single day. Nothing is more important that what I do.

No, I don't rise with excitement or even eager anticipation about it every day.  In fact, some days I grow really weary of what can seem like a never-ending marathon to reach a goal that stretches out into infinity.  I am wearied of the mundane tasks that eat up enormous chunks of my time, frustrated by the malaise I find in others and myself, and overwhelmed by this work of ultimate importance that so many seem to completely disregard.  No, I am not always inspired - and certainly not inspiring - but when you believe in your gut that what you do is the most important thing anywhere, anytime, then you don't quit. 

What is that work?  I tell others about the love of God, expressed through His Son, Jesus Christ, when He died on a cross to pay the penalty for our sins and give us the opportunity to be in relationship with God, once again.  Simply put, there is nothing more important in all the world than helping others understand this simple Truth.  Some days I want to throw up my hands and go get a job in which I could work for someone else, let the buck stop on their desk, and simply add the bling to someone else's dream.  But I'm just too lazy to stop!

I got started a long time ago, and I just can't stop!  When I first started, I really didn't know just how important this work is, and the reality is that I'm pretty sure I'm still just beginning to understand the ultimacy of it.  As I write this, I can feel the proverbial pat on the head from some of my friends, and the eye-roll from others.  "There she goes again...she has to believe that everything in life is for a purpose and that her purpose is the most important in the world." 

Yep.  That's about it. I'm all absorbed in my life, and there's no way around that.  I admit it.  But you see, it's not really my life, at all.  Years ago, I prayed a little prayer, giving up my rights to myself, and since then, I have taken that little prayer much deeper -- my life is no longer my own, it is Christ's.  The life I live in this body I live by faith in Him -- the One Who loved me and gave Himself up for me. 

I love Him!  Oh, He doesn't always do things the way I would like -- sometimes I think He's too slow, or indifferent, or preoccupied, or even callous and cold.  But when you love Someone like this, you begin to realize pretty quickly that all of those feelings you have come from a very limited understanding of the One you love. 

Just when you think He's too slow, you realize that He was just trying to hold you off long enough to show you that He had something much better in mind.  And just when you thought He was indifferent, you feel the tremble of His passion in your heart.  And when you think He is preoccupied, you see that He is trying to redirect your gaze to something higher.  Or when you think that He is callous or cold or unkind or distant - well, then you realize that He is agonized by the restrictions He has put on Himself so that we could be free to choose Him or not.   You realize that He is the mother throwing herself in front of the train to save her child; He is the soldier facing the foulest enemy to secure our freedom; He is the general, calling His army to be all they can be; He is the Savior Whose heart beats for us everywhere, at all times, in every circumstance.

I love Him!  I've been at this a long time - telling others about Him - and sometimes my "sermon" gets a little too long.  I'm just too lazy to stop! 

Turning 50 -- plus 46 days, and this is the last time I'm going to count

Almost two months into the new half-century, I still enjoy getting older.  While it took a little mental adjusting to hear everyone in Africa calling me "Mommy," and everyone in Mississippi saying, "Yes, Ma'am," I think I can adjust to being the world's grandma.  I kind of like it -- after all, I'm kind of fluffy, like a sweet, old grandma with a wide lap, ample bosom, and broad shoulders to lean on.  I can do this!  It did sting when the AARP sent me my invitation to join, three months before my fiftieth birthday, but I got my card in the mail this week, and I think I'm going to enjoy the new status.  I hope they're as good as their hype!  (Yes, I hid the card in my wallet where no one will accidentally see it.  But I'll use it when I need to.  I promise.  Maybe.)

One of the things I've realized these last few months is my new embrace of my single status.  When I was a little girl, I always thought I would be married.  Most of the games I played with my best friend, Penny, had to do with baby dolls, Barbie and Ken, and playing house.  We day-dreamed about becoming mommies and having the most handsome husband in the world. 

When I was a teenager, I was almost never without a boyfriend.  Some lasted longer than others, but it reinforced my belief that marriage was inevitable and would occur early in my young adulthood.  In college, I continued to date some, but by the time I started my first job as a youth minister, I began to realize that one could be truly passionate about other things -- particularly about sharing the love of God.  I also had the biggest heartbreak of my young life, ending a relationship with the only boy I had ever really loved.  On that sad occasion, I asked God to guard my heart and help me be content until He showed me His man, in His time.  He has honored that prayer.

When I graduated from college and began a fulltime career in ministry, I mentally put romance on the back burner, and I believe I even remember telling myself that 35 would be soon enough to marry.  I had a brief relationship with a businessman from Nebraska, but knew that he was not "the man."  And that was that.  Since that time, I have not dated, found a man to pine over, or felt that my life suffered from the lack of a husband.  Somehow, God has kept me contented.  I am thoroughly amazed by that.

What I have realized in the last few months is that as a young woman, the ache of my heart was to be married, at any cost.  Marriage was the issue, sharing my life, finding a mate, having children.  It wasn't about any particular person, it was all about the idea of marriage.  Now, in my fifties (are you laughing, neophyte that I am to the 2nd half crowd?), I realize that I have grown so far beyond that longing to be married.  The truth is, I would only marry now if I found someone I couldn't live without!  It's not the institution that matters, it's the relationship, and that takes a person.

A couple of weeks ago, one of our ministry partners in India announced that he had arranged his daughter's marriage and that she would meet her husband soon.  That was in March.  Their engagement is to be announced in early May, and they will be married on May 21.  For all persons who pooh-pooh internet dating and e-match-making, take note:  our techno-driven romance system has NOTHING on the ancient practice of marriage arrangement!  Can you imagine?  I told my dad not to get any ideas!

I have no doubt that this young girl's marriage will thrive.  They will be surrounded by godly families and friends who will make sure that they receive the nurture and support that they need.  And, after all, she has been instructed throughout her life that this was the way it would happen -- her daddy would choose her husband, and she would make the match, whether or not she was ready.  She is a Godly girl...I'm sure she's handling it all with grace and joy.  Her father is a Godly man...I'm sure he has chosen well.

As for me, I continue my prayer -- Keep me content; guard my heart -- until and IF You have a man for me.  And thank You for the rich store of friends and family who make my life complete.  Shoot, Lord, You are the One who makes my life complete.  You told Hosea, "Someday you will no longer call Me 'Master,' you will call me 'husband.'  Yes, You have completed me.  Thank you.

Turning 50 -- 26 Days to Go -- Home from Africa

"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!

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.

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.

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.

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!