When it feels like it's still Saturday....

So, this morning, I woke up early, cut my Sabbath "quiet time" short so I could make the 25-minute drive to Shannondale Nursing Home to get my mom ready and take her back to First Baptist Concord for Easter service. 

Earlier this morning in a Facebook post, I had boldly reminded myself and anyone who chose to read it that "a far-off battle" has made all the difference, even in a world that feels like it is still under the control of a foreign, oppressive power. And, on the drive, I had been singing loud and strong: 

"Hear the bells ringing, they're singing that we can be born again.

Hear the bells ringing, they're singing Christ is risen from the dead...."

As I walked through Shannondale's front doors, I gave my best "Happy Easter" to everyone in the lobby, then got on the elevator and hit the 5th floor button. But, for some reason, that elevator stopped on every single floor and, when the doors opened, this was pretty much the scene I saw on floors 1, 2, 3 and 4: 

By the time I arrived on the 5th floor, my smile was gone, my song was silent, and my heart was heavy. It no longer felt like Easter Sunday--and the power of the Resurrection seemed far away. The faces I saw and the heart inside me felt like it was still some sort of perpetual Saturday. 

But, as I stepped off the elevator and saw my mama's waiting face...already dressed in a winter sweater...I tried to push my sudden sadness aside. (The physical activity involved in getting my wheelchair-bound mama anywhere is a great distraction to whatever is going on inside my head at the moment.) 

After getting her wheelchair loaded in the back and getting her in her seat and buckled in, she and I head toward the Easter hymns and the ancient greeting and response of  

"He is risen!...He is risen indeed!" 

Along the 20-minute drive, her frequent, repeated question began to grate: "Today's Saturday, right?"...to which I reply, "No, mom, today is Sunday...Easter Sunday...we're going to church." 

Well, we get there...and, miracles of miracles, there's actually a handicapped parking space...(so my mood begins to brighten). Then, a kind usher finds a pew where I can easily park mom's wheelchair next to my pew. Then, my two handsome sons actually find mom and me...and sit beside me on the pew. 

My emotions are always a bit ragged on Easter...overflowing with gratitude for the cost of my salvation and for the promise of eternal life because of the Resurrection. And, I don't remember the last time I made it through a Sunday service without wishing I had more tissues.

But...today...this Easter Sunday...was some sort of powerful parable that will probably take me awhile to "read." With my beautiful, gifted, Jesus-loving husband in front of me playing in the orchestra; my two beautiful, gifted, Jesus-loving sons on one side of me; and my beautiful, gifted, Jesus-loving, stroke-and-Alzheimer's-damaged mother on the other side...well...quite honestly...I was a puddle. 

Then, as if God wasn't already speaking loudly enough, Pastor Avant began to talk about one of life's hardest "stones" to deal with--the "stone" of Alzheimer's. He read two incredibly beautiful letters from husband to wife...and from wife to husband...who were locked in the battle with this disease. Then, my youngest son, who was sitting closest to me, reached over and patted my knee, and....well...I just lost it...the kind of crying that's just plain old ugly. 

But, service ended. I recovered. I wheeled mom out. My three beautiful, gifted, Jesus-loving guys and I took her to Cracker Barrel where she ate her favorites--beans and greens, okra and cole slaw. Then, I loaded her back in the van, and we headed to the place that has come to represent all that is "fallen" to me--sickness, brokenness, loneliness, dementia, death. 

On the way, she asked many times, "When am I going to see the boys?"...."When am I going home?"...."Today's Saturday, right?"....

And, at that point, it sure felt like Saturday...like that in-between time...when those first followers must have felt like the enemy had won...like their hopes and dreams had been nailed to the same piece of ragged wood as their Rabbi. 

But, as I drove, I remembered two of Pastor Avant's words after he read those sad, beautiful letters--"God remembers." 

And, when my mama can't remember that it's Easter...when she can no longer remember the cross and the Resurrection... can no longer remember the words of the long-sung hymns...can no longer remember our names...her name...God remembers.

And, even though...for now...she is locked in some sort of perpetual-in-between Saturday, not remembering that it's Sunday...not remembering that it's Easter...unaware of the Resurrection and all that it means...one day...she will. His voice will remind her. His voice will call her name--Joyce--in a way that heals and resurrects her broken body and mind. 

And, when she hears Him, all the sorrow, hurt and hardness, which sometimes led her nearly to despair, will be burned away by the joyful brightness of His love and light.

"Love never dies. 

Inspired speech will be over some day;

praying in tongues will end;

understanding will reach its limit. 

We know only a portion of the truth,

and what we say about God 
is always incomplete.

But when the Complete arrives,

our incompletes will be canceled….

We don’t yet see things clearly.

We’re squinting in a fog, 
peering through a mist.

But it won’t be long 
before the weather clears

and the sun shines bright!

We’ll see it all then,

see it all as clearly as God sees us,

knowing him just as he knows us!

But for right now, until that completeness,

we have three things to do

to lead us toward that consummation:

Trust steadily in God,

hope unswervingly,

love extravagantly.

And the best of the three is love."

(1 Corinthians 13:8-13 The Message)

"I Thirst for You"

"I looked for love, but there was none;...for my thirst, they gave me vinegar to drink." (Psalm 60:20,21)

"....Knowing that everything had now been finished, and so that Scripture would be fulfilled, Jesus said, 'I am thirsty.' A jar of wine vinegar was there, so they soaked a sponge in it, put the sponge on a stalk of the hyssop plant, and lifted it to Jesus’ lips. (John 19:28-29)

These are the words this thirsty One longs for you to hear:

"I know you through and through--everything about you....Nothing in your life is unimportant to me; I have followed you through the years, and I have always loved you--even in your wanderings. I know every one of your problems. I know your need and your worries. 

And, yes, I know all your sins. But, I tell you again that I love you--not for what you have or haven't done--I love you for you, FOR THE BEAUTY AND DIGNITY MY FATHER GAVE YOU BY CREATING YOU IN HIS OWN IMAGE. It is a dignity you have often forgotten, a beauty you have tarnished by sin. 

But, I love you as you are, and I have shed my blood to win you back. If you will only ask me with faith, my grace will touch all that needs changing in your life, and I will give you strength to (be) free from sin and all its destructive power. 

I know what is in your heart--I know your loneliness and all your hurts--the rejection, judgments, humiliations....I carried it all or you, so that you might share my strength and victory. 

I especially know your need for love--how you are thirsting to be loved, cherished, (respected). But, how often have you thirsted in vain,...striving to fill the emptiness inside you with passing pleasures--(which leave you) with even greater emptiness. 

I thirst for you. Yes, that is the only way to even begin to describe my love for you. I THIRST FOR YOU. I thirst to love and to be loved by you--that is how precious you are to me. I thirst for you. Come to me and fill your heart and heal your wounds.

If you feel unimportant in the eyes of the world, that matters not at all. For me, there is no one any more important in the entire world than you.

....My Father already has a perfect plan to transform your life, beginning from this moment. Trust in Me. Every day ask Me to enter and take care of your life--and I will. I promise you before my Father in heaven that I will work miracles in your life. Why would I do this? Because I THIRST FOR YOU. All I ask is that you entrust yourself to Me completely. I will do the rest.

Even now I behold the place My Father has prepared for you in My Kingdom. Remember that you are a pilgrim in this life, on a journey home. Sin can never satisfy you or bring you the peace you seek....Above all, do not run from Me when you fall. Come to Me without delay. When you give Me your sins, you give Me the joy of being your Savior. There is nothing I cannot forgive and heal; so come now, and unburden your soul.

I THIRST FOR YOU. Open to me, come to me, thirst for me, give me your life--and I will prove to you how important you are to my heart. No matter how far you wander, no matter how often you forget me, no matter how many crosses you may bear in this life, there is one thing I want you to remember always, one thing that will never change: I THIRST FOR YOU--just as you are. You don't need to change to believe in my love, FOR IT WILL BE YOUR BELIEF IN MY LOVE THAT WILL CHANGE YOU. 

You forget me, and yet I am seeking you every moment of the day--standing at the door of your heart, and knocking. Do you find this hard to believe? Then look at the cross, look at my heart that was pierced for you. Have you not understood my cross? Then listen again to the words I spoke there--for they tell you clearly why I endured all this FOR YOU. 

....Yes, I thirst for you....All your life I have been looking for your love--I have never stopped seeking to love and be loved by you. You have tried many other things in your search for happiness; why not try opening your heart to me, right now, more than you ever have before. Whenever you do...you will hear me say to you again and again, not in mere human words but in (your) spirit: "No matter what you have done, I love you for your own sake."
Come to me with your misery and your sins, with your trouble and needs and with all your longing to be loved (and respected). I stand at the door of your heart and knock. Open to me, for I thirst for you." 
(The heart of Jesus Christ for you through the words of Mother Teresa)

Right into God-forsakenness....

For the past few years, I've revisited a Lent devotional that, with each reading, speaks to me in new ways, "Bread and Wine, Readings for Lent and Easter." But, this year...this morning...words fail to describe how the following words from John Stott and Peter Kreeft moved me.

I don't know why, but I believe I'm supposed to share them here...with you. Maybe you're in a dark place and need to be reminded, "No matter how deep our darkness, He is deeper still." (Corrie ten Boom).

Wherever you are...whatever you are going through...be reminded--God is with you...right there...right now.
--------------------------------------------------------------
"I could never believe in God if it were not for the cross. The only God I believe in is the one Nietzsche ridiculed as 'God on the Cross'." In the real world of pain, how could one worship a God who was immune to it? I've entered many Buddhist temples and stood respectfully before his statue--his legs crossed, arms folded, eyes closed, the ghost of a smile playing round his mouth, a remote look on his face, detached from the agonies of the world. But, each time, after awhile I've had to turn away and, in my imagination, I've turned instead to that lonely twisted, tortured figure on the cross, nails through hands and feet, back lacerated, limbs wrenched, brow bleeding from thorns, mouth dry and intolerably thirsty, PLUNGED IN GOD-FORSAKEN DARKNESS. THAT IS THE GOD FOR ME! He laid aside his immunity to pain. He entered our world of flesh and blood, tears and death. He suffered for us." (John Stott)
--------------------------------

"Calvary is Judo. The enemy's own power is used to defeat him. Satan's craftily orchestrated plot, rolled along according to plan by his agents--Judas, Pilate, Herod, Caiphas--and culminated in the death of God. And, this very event, Satan's conclusion, was God's premise. Satan's end was God's means. God won Satan's captives--us--back to himself by freely dying in our place.

It is, of course, the most often-told story in the world. Yet, it is also the strangest, and has never lost its strangeness, its awe, and will not even in eternity, where angels tremble to gaze upon things at which we yawn.

(But), however strange, it is the only key that fits the lock of our tortured lives and needs. We needed a surgeon. He came and reached into our wounds with bloody hands. He didn't give us a placebo or a pill or good advice. He gave us Himself.

He came. He entered space and time and suffering. He came, like a lover. He did the most important thing and He gave the most important gift: Himself. It is a lover's gift.

Out of our tears, our waiting, our darkness, our agonized aloneness, out of our weeping and wondering, out of our cry, 'My God, my God, why have You forsaken Me?' He came, all the way, right into that cry.

He sits beside us in the lowest places of our lives, like water. Are we broken? He is broken with us. Are we rejected...despised? He was 'despised and rejected of men.' Do we weep? Is grief our familiar spirit, our horrifying familiar ghost? Do we ever say, 'Oh, no, not again! I can't take it any more!'? Do people misunderstand us, turn away from us?...

Is our love betrayed? Are our tenderest relationships broken? He loved and was betrayed by the very ones He loved....

Does it seem sometimes as if life has passed us by or cast us out, as if we are sinking into uselessness and oblivion? He sinks with us. He too is passed over by the world. His way of suffering love is rejected; his own followers often the most guilty of all; they have made His name a scandal, especially among His own chosen people....We have made it nearly impossible for His own people to love Him, to see Him as He is, free from the smoke of (prejudice), battle and holocaust.

How does He look upon us now? With continual sorrow, but never with scorn....We, His beloved and longed for and passionately desired, are constantly cold, correct and distant to Him. And still He keeps brooding...like a mother who has had all her beloved children turn against her: 'Could a mother desert her young? Even so I could not desert you.'

He sits beside us not only in our sufferings but even in our sins. He does not turn His face from us, however much we turn our face from Him.

Does He descend into all our hells? Yes. In the unforgettable line of Corrie ten Boom from the depths of a Nazi death camp, 'No matter how deep our darkness, He is deeper still.'

Does He descend into violence? Yes, by suffering it and leaving us the solution that, to this day, only a few brave souls have dared to try....

Does He descend into insanity? Yes, into that darkness too. Even into the insanity of suicide? Can He be there too? Yes, He can. 'Even the darkness is not dark to Him.' He make light even there,...though perhaps not until the next world, until death's release.

LOVE is WHY He came. It's all love. The buzzing flies around the cross, the stroke of the Roman hammer as the nails tear into His screaming flesh, the infinitely harder stroke of His own people's hammering hatred, hammering at His heart.

Why? For LOVE....

(From this moment on), when we feel the hammers of life beating on our heads or hearts, we can know--we MUST know--that He is here with us, taking our blows. Every tear we shed becomes His tear. He may not yet wipe them away, but He makes them His. Would we rather have our own dry eyes, or His tear-filled ones?

He came. He is here. That is the salient fact. If He does not heal all our broken bones and loves and lives now, He comes into them and is broken, like bread, and we are nourished.

And, He shows us that (from this moment on), we can use our very brokenness as nourishment for those we love. SINCE WE ARE HIS BODY, we too are the bread that is broken for others. Our very failures help heal other lives; our very tears help wipe away tears; our being hated helps those we love....

God's answer to the problem of suffering not only really happened more than 2,000 years ago, it is still happening in our own lives....All our suffering can become part of His work, the greatest work ever done--the work of salvation--of helping to win eternal joy for those we love."
("Shared Hells" by Peter Kreeft)

They stood firm a little....

Today (March 6th), they would have been married 60 years. My mama and daddy. 

This is one of my favorite pictures of them. So young, fresh, in love. In it, mama is looking uncharacteristically shy and is dressed in a white blouse, light-colored skirt and black, peek-a-boo high heels with thin little straps around her thin little ankles. My daddy seems to be the one in charge of the moment, dressed in a crisp, short sleeved shirt and snazzy, pleated pants with a trim belt--looking very "James Deanish."

What I've noticed about this photo is the road they're standing on. It's dirt...with rocks scattered around...full of ruts...not a perfect road by any standards...especially for two young, beautiful people who look so fresh, so dressed up, so ready for life.

This photo has become a picture of marriage to me...heck, a picture of life itself. We start out young, fresh, dressed and seemingly ready for life. Then, we stumble over a few rocks, get caught in a few ruts. But, usually, nothing too serious. And, eventually, we pick ourselves up and dust ourselves off--perhaps just a bit more cautious before setting off on our next journey.

Then, we meet our "other." And, in our passionate, 'til-death-do-us-part-altered state, we just know the road is gonna be less rocky...less rut-filled. Or, at the very least, we believe we now have someone to move the rocks out of our way.

But, truth be told, once the honeymoon wears off (usually quickly), this "other" only doubles the number of rocks and ruts. Their own rocks and ruts and their reactions to them somehow become ours. (And...to be fair...ours become theirs.)

And right there is where the crisis comes: "What are we gonna do about all these rocks and ruts?"

These days, when I pick up this picture to dust underneath it, I find myself wondering, "Would it have made a difference if they had known the road they were in for?"

I don't think it would have. That handsome young man loved that curly-haired girl. Not perfectly. Sometimes, not even well. But, he loved her. He did the best he could with the rocks and ruts he encountered.

And she loved him. Not perfectly. Sometimes, not even well. But, she loved him. She did the best she could with the rocks and ruts she encountered.

When the crises came and they each asked, "What are we gonna do?" They decided to just keep dealing with it all...one step...one rock...one rut at a time...together.

They did not do it perfectly. Some days, they did not even do it well. Before they had ever met, life had already seen to it that they were each a bit  "broken." War had taken its toll on daddy; and, at the tender age of 12, my mama's mother had died, leaving her with an alcoholic father and 5-year-old and 3-year-old brothers to help raise.

I'm sure they would admit to stumbling and falling...wishing they had never spoken certain words, or taken certain actions. And, I'm sure each of them had many moments when they each wanted to just go off and find a new road, one less rocky, one less filled with those bone-jarring ruts.

But...they didn't. They stayed. They "stood firm a little"... for better and for worse... in sickness and in health... until death did them part. There is something sacred about that right there. And I believe they would tell you that, on that road...together...they even found moments of joy.

Last year, when mama was recovering from surgery, she experienced what the Celts described as "thin places," when this world and the next seem to be closer than we ever imagine. During one of these thin moments, my brother got to listen in on a conversation mama was having with daddy, where she told him, "Honey, let's go sit over there by that shade tree and sit down and rest awhile." 

One day, mama. One day....

Third re-run of "My Cousin Barney is a Liar"

(Today's Kimberly story was "told" to me by Jeff Easter, one of my dearest, kindest, funniest friends. He has made me laugh on some of my saddest days and cry from laughter on some of my happiest. The other character in the story is my friend, Barney, who was always my family's version of 911, and a pretty funny guy in his own right--that's him in the picture. I love them both. I'm re-running this story in honor of Jeff's birthday.)

-----------------------------

"It's an easy job. All you gotta do is answer the phone."

I should've known better. After all, my cousin Barney is a liar.

I should've paid attention to the chill that ran up my spine as I thought of the shadowy, casket-lined rooms and the pre-recorded, macabre organ music piping out strains of "Rock of Ages." I don't even like that song. Nor do I care for the smell of carnations--the funeral bud of choice among lower-income Southern mourners.

What if I got trapped in the embalming room? Or had to touch a dead person? Doesn't the Old Testament speak against such things?

But, Barney kept assuring me, "All you gotta do is answer the phone!" (At that point in his vast and sundry career, Barney was apparently serving as Messmer Funeral Home's human resources director.)

Truth be told, it was sort of expected of me. I was a 16-year-old Harden, and working for Mr. Messmer had become a rite of passage for us Harden men.

Besides, I'd make three dollars and fifty cents an hour. I'd be rich!

So, I said "OK, I'll do it."

My boss was Mr. Messmer himself, a kind and portly man who had earned the trust and, therefore, the newly-passed members of most families in the Kimberly-Warrior metropolitan area.

My first assignment was the Thursday night viewing for the newly-passed Mrs. Taylor. The plan was for Mr. Messmer to greet the grieving family, get them settled in and then leave me to "answer the phone."

At 5 o'clock sharp, the mourning Taylors arrived en masse. There were tall Taylors, short Taylors, fat Taylors and skinny Taylors. There were ugly Taylors and foxy Taylors. Taylors in suits and Taylors in overalls. There seemed to be a thousand Taylors, all packed into the small confines of the parlor, which was unchangingly decorated in faux-wood paneling, naugahyde chairs and crushed-velvet drapes.

Shortly before 6 o'clock, with Mr. Messmer long gone, a steady stream of grievers began arriving to pay their respects and to comment on how "natural" Mrs. Taylor looked--yet another reason Mr. Messmer was the regional undertaker of choice.

At four minutes past 6--I noted the time because it was my first official duty--the phone rang. "Messmer Funeral Home," I said, with a sudden swell of manly-Harden pride.

"Who's dead?" screeched the voice on the other side of the phone.

Somewhat rattled by the irreverent inquiry, I blurted back, "Mrs. Taylor. She's being buried tomorrow. Thanks for calling." And hung up.

Just then, a wiry Taylor woman, with a trail of what appeared to be dried snuff running down her chin, marched up and informed me, "There ain't no toilet paper."

As I sat there, blinking at her snuff trail, the only thought I could muster was, "Is that my problem?...My job is to answer the phone. Barney said so." But Snuffy just stood there, chewing on something, clearly expecting me to solve the encroaching toilet paper crisis.

Well, before I could get up out of my chair, both phone lines lit up. "One minute," I signaled to Snuffy....And there it was again...that screeching voice. Only this time it was angry and crackling, insinuating that I had hung up on her.

After repeating the newly-passed Mrs. Taylor's arrangements--twice--I finally began making my way through the sea of grievers in search of toilet paper...all the while doing everything I could to avoid "Snuffy," who had stomped off in a huff while I was dealing with Screecher.

As I maneuvered toward the mystifying no-man's land of the ladies' room, carrying an armload of toilet paper, I remember thinking, "I could be at home watching Gilligan's Island."

Now, for some unfathomable reason, Mrs. Taylor had chosen to pass in late July, the very apex of the Great State of Alabama's annual inferno. Each time the doors opened to welcome the seemingly endless tide of friends, neighbors and church "family," the evening's hot, humid blanket rolled in with them.
Who was this woman? How could one gain so many admirers in one short lifetime?

But, apparently, Mr. Messmer's air conditioner was no respecter of persons and, on that Taylor-congested evening, it decided to give up the ghost. Within seconds of its final, sputtering, lukewarm puffs, I was sweating life a farm animal.

Right then, one of the short Taylors in overalls reached out and grabbed my arm, practically shouting, "I been lookin for you everwhere. I think there's somethin wrong with that-there air condition."

"Ya think, Shorty?" was what I wanted to say...right after a much-needed cussin fit.

Instead, I strived to assume the kind countenance of a funeral home director, which seemed to work so well for Mr. Messmer, and told Shorty, "I'll see what I can do."

By this time, the smell in the over-Taylored parlor was a hot, cloying concoction of body odor, perfume, spearmint gum, Aqua Net and those blasted carnations.

I wound my way back to the desk where both phone lines were blinking...holding my breath and loosening my suffocating necktie.

And...I kid you not...as if on cue..."Rock of Ages" began piping through the speakers. At that moment, I would have gladly traded places with the newly-passed Mrs. Taylor.

As I sat there...phone lines still blinking...the ugly truth hit me. I couldn't call Mr. Messmer. I couldn't fix the "air condition." I couldn't stand on my desk and shout, "Will all you people just please go home?"

We were stuck...together...me and those sweaty grievers...in that stinking, hot place of death. Hell took on a whole new meaning.

At 8:35...with just 25 minutes to go...I thought I saw the proverbial light at the end of the proverbial tunnel...until I realized it was just a reflection off the sweaty forehead of the rapidly-approaching, panicked-looking Taylor woman.

"May I help you?", I reluctantly asked. To which she responded by covering her mouth and speaking to me in low, hushed tones, as if we were sharing some long-held secret.

"Umh," she began. "I really don't know how to...umh...tell you this. But, you see, Mrs. Taylor is my sister, and...well...y'all have too much 'stuff' up there," she stammered, gently patting her own well-endowed chest area. "Could you possibly take a little out?"

What!...Could I what? That was definitely NOT in my job description. I had never touched a live woman's chest...I was certainly not about to touch a dead one!

"I'll tell Mr. Messmer," I spewed, as I took her by the elbow and ushered her out the door.
Forget Gilligan's Island. I'd rot in the Jefferson County Jail for murdering that lying, no-good Barney before I'd ever do this again!

By that point, I had shed my tie and jacket--a certain violation of Messmer's employee policy. (Good thing I'd listened to mama and put on clean underwear because the pit-stained, blue Oxford was the next thing about to be shed.) But, just as I began unbuttoning it, I happened to glance at the clock and noticed that its little hand was on the longed-for 9. "Thank you, sweet Jesus!"

Thankfully, one endearing quality of Southern mourners is that, except for the few disturbed outliers who threaten to fling themselves into their loved-one's casket for the night, they know when to call it a day. (After all, the food's back at the house.)

So, at 9:01 sharp, the tired, hungry Taylors began emptying the foodless, inferno-like parlor. By 9:05, everyone was gone...except for me and the newly-passed, newly-endowed Mrs. Taylor.

After tucking her in for the night, I snapped off the organ music--how could Rock of Ages possibly be playing again?--and, with neck hairs standing on end, beat a hasty path through the shadowy, casket-lined room and out the back door to sweet, blessed freedom.

....My cousin Barney is such a liar!

For everything there is a season,

a time to be born and a time to die....

a time to cry and a time to laugh....

a time to grieve and a time to dance....

(from Ecclesiastes 3 NLT)

"The Mighty Yazoo" by Greg Easter

In our family, major purchases came from one of two places--Sears Roebuck or Western Auto. My daddy, Fred, had credit at both! And, as a United States Postal Worker, who delivered mail in Tarrant City, Alabama, his post office was a mere block from each. 

On a special Friday payday, in July 1967, on his way home, daddy stopped by Western Auto to pay his monthly bill. He called from the store phone and alerted my mama (Joann), my brother Jeff and me that he was on his way home with “something special” in the trunk of the Plymouth.

After hanging up the phone, mama guessed excitedly, “Maybe it’s a new TV.  Oooh, won’t it be wonderful to watch that handsome Dean Martin and The Fugitive in living color.” 

But I had a much better guess. It could only be that gold-colored, 20-inch racer bike with butterfly handlebars and a rippled plastic banana seat that daddy knew I wanted. I was already planning how I would mesmerize my friends with wheelies, ramp jumps over small Volkswagens and my sheer speed.

My four-years-younger brother, Jeff, murmured something about a swing set with ropes and a slide…something only meaningful to juvenile eight-year olds.

When daddy’s Plymouth turned onto Manning Street, I was perched and waiting. From a distance, I saw that something special hanging out the trunk, held secure under a beehive of twine, plastic and pieces of torn cloth.

But, my heart sunk fast. Daddy was smiling way too big for that beehive to contain a bicycle. 

Maybe it was its bright, new shininess. Or, maybe a long-held dream just overcame him as he stood there paying off his Western Auto bill. Or, maybe he just liked Jerry Clower. But, whatever the reason, on that July-payday-Friday, daddy brought home a Yazoo.

Mama’s now-deflated voice spoke first, “Fred, it’s a lawn mower!” Daddy began his pitch: “Joann, this ain’t no ordinary lawn mower! This is a Yazoo! This machine is a prime example of American Craftsmanship manufactured in Yazoo City, Mississippi. Honey, this lawn mower is the Cadillac of lawn equipment!” But, Mama just disappeared inside, unimpressed. She'd have to keep making do with her black-and-white Dean Martin.

"The Mighty Yazoo"

Daddy continued his speech on me: “Greg, this is one powerful machine, much better than our old Sears’ mower.” After a moment of grief over the death of my imagined stunts and escapades, daddy’s excitement began to rub off.

That new Yazoo had two large bicycle-sized tires on the rear, two smaller tires on front and, come to think of it, the handle even looked like butterfly handlebars.

 

According to daddy, the extra leverage provided by the large rear tires allowed a person to “expand their boundaries into heavy brush and even mow down small sapling trees.”

Although, as the oldest son, grass-cutting duties belonged to me, it was only right that daddy got to take her out for a test mow. After carefully cutting the front yard with straight lines and 90-degree turns, he ceremoniously turned her over to me. Manhood had arrived!

I mowed the front yard. I mowed the side yard. I mowed the back yard. I mowed all the way down the hill to Stouts Road. I was goose-stepping through that high grass like a German soldier marching into battle. By the time I finished, it was getting dark, so I parked her under the house for the night.

That night, I lay in bed thinking about my new Yazoo. In my mind, I traced Stouts Road from Kimberly Church of God all the way to Morris Cemetery. I made mental notes of all my future lawn-care customers. The cash windfall my Yazoo was gonna earn me was unimaginable. Twenty dollars a week was well within my reach. By next summer I could own a fleet of Yazoos. The sky was the limit.

Next mornin’, I was up early--an uncommon Saturday occurrence for me. Normally, I slept in, then woke up and ate a few bowls of Krispy Kritters while checking on the latest adventures of Bugs Bunny and Wiley Coyote. Our black-and-white TV carried two channels, and I could usually squeeze in four cartoons before the Dialing-for-Dollars scary movies started at noon.

But, that Saturday, I was on a mission. Since I had cut our grass the day before, I started on my BamMaw’s grass next door. Her yard was bigger and had more hills, but me and my Yazoo conquered a half-day job in less than two hours.

When BamMaw returned from getting her hair done down the hill at Margie Kelley’s beauty shop, she beamed with pride at her newly-cut lawn. For a few minutes, I was her favorite grandchild. She bent down--the smell of Aqua Net still fresh on her stacked-up curls, which were reinforced by hairpins and a net--and kissed my sweaty cheek. 

I was a grass-cuttin’ superhero. Onto bigger challenges.

What happened next was…well…back then, I called it a vision. These days, I realize it was probably a mixture of over-inflated ego, dehydration and inhaled Aqua Net.

But, I suddenly “saw myself” mowing a path from our backyard to Walter Kelley’s General Store. (Those Kelleys were entrepreneurs.)

So, I plotted my mission. If I wanted a direct shot from my house to Walter's store, I’d have to mow a 100-yard-long path through six-foot high weeds, and then mow across a corner of Sister Creel’s hayfield. But, the sheer amount of time this shortcut would save me to get from my back yard to Walter’s candy counter would be worth the challenge.

Most certainly, this path would cause me and my Yazoo to face and mow unthinkable heights. But, I believed it could be done. After all, daddy said that Yazoo would allow me to “expand my boundaries into heavy brush and even mow down small sapling trees.”

So…I rared up the front tires and began to mow over high weeds. Ten, twenty, thirty yards…deep into the heavy-brush jungle. In my dehydrated, Aqua-netted imagination, weeds towered three or four feet above my head, and all sorts of wild things cowered before the power of my mighty Yazoo.

Eventually, Walter Kelley’s general store towered in front of me like a welcoming beacon. We had done it.

I shut off the mower and looked back over my shoulder. Like God's parting of the Red Sea, I had parted Sister Creel’s hayfield. The Promised Land lay just across Stouts Road.

I pushed my beautiful Yazoo back home through the newly-parted hayfield, head held high. Mama greeted me. She was beaming as she complimented and rewarded her industrious son. “Take this and buy you and your brother something,” she said as she dropped a dime and a quarter in my sunburned, sweaty palm. Thirty-five cents! That could buy a boy and his brother an array items from Walter’s candy case.

As I proudly marched through my newly-conquered shortcut, tightly gripping that dime and quarter, I contemplated how I would spend it. But, come to think of it, why did Jeff deserve a reward? I was the hot, sweaty son. All Jeff did was sit on the couch and watch Lassie. Why should he get any of my thirty-five cents?

Still contemplating, I walked in the store and said “mornin” to Walter, who was leaning over the counter talking to Bo Waddell. Bo sat at his usual spot, perched on top of an RC Cola crate turned on its side. They were immersed in smoking Winstons and discussing how George Wallace and his wife, Lurleen, were going to save us all.

Quickly, I surveyed the pegboard wall behind the cash register that held a little bit of everything--including batteries for your flashlight and, way up high on the top pegboard, a real transistor radio sealed in plastic covered with a thin layer of dust.

On the shelves, many of the canned goods held two or three price stickers on top of each other, cataloging the rising inflation and the length of time they had sat on the shelves. There were loaves of Merita Bread, cans of Vienna sausages and small silver tins of Bruton snuff. The glass-domed cooler at the back of the store held bacon, eggs, butter, those delicious Stewart sandwiches, whole milk, buttermilk and chocolate milk.

The metal racks at the front of the store held banana flips, honey buns, fried pies and all sorts of candy. Man, did I love those flips and candy! Spoken by a boy who wore “husky jeans” from Sears Roebuck. And, as if the icy-cold drinks in the dark confines of the CoCola ice boxes weren’t enough, on hot summer days, those boxes were also home to GooGoo Clusters.

So…as you see, I had to be careful and maximize my purchasing power. But, unbeknownst to Walter, I had become skilled at beating the system. I had learned that, with thirty-five cents, I could save three cents worth of tax if I made purchases of ten-cents or less, since no tax was charged on items costing less than 15 cents.

First, I purchased a Dr. Pepper for 10 cents. I drained the entire bottle in a single swallow. Now, with only twenty-five cents left, I had to purchase my main course and still buy something for that undeserving Jeff.

As I stood there surveying my limitless choices, it dawned on me. I’d buy the pack of pink marshmallow/coconut/chocolate Snowballs. That way, I got two cakes for the price of one—one for me and one for Jeff. And, dadgum it, I ended up spending my last dime on a Dr. Pepper for the Lassie-watchin’ freeloader.

After I completed my purchases, I retired outside to enjoy my Snowball, leaving Walter and Bo inside, engulfed in their Winston cloud, dreaming about the glory days ahead with George and Lurleen at the wheel.

Life was good! I sat down next to Walter’s gas pumps, leaning against the 55-gallon drum he had cut in half and filled with water. Walter would dip tires in this mosquito-larvae-wiggly-tail infested water to check for flats.

Sitting there, looking up that 100-yard-long path directly to my back door, holding my delicious Snowball, I savored the moment, reflecting on what a wondrous person I must be to have accomplished God’s will by “subduing the earth” with my wondrous Yazoo.

I savored each fluffy, pink bite until my Snowball was gone. After a bit more daydreaming about my greatness, I looked down and realized I had drunk Jeff’s Dr. Pepper. Mama was gonna kill me!

Maybe I could say there were ants in it…or that Bo Waddell had wrestled me to the ground for it…I could come up with something. After all, I was the boy who had both subdued the earth AND beaten the State of Alabama’s tax system.

While sitting there trying to invent a good story, I took a big bite out of Jeff’s Snowball. Apparently, the devil was now in me!

And, at that very moment,  I looked up, and there, walking down my newly-mowed, shortcut, comes Cottontop himself—Jeff—my undeserving, heathen brother.

"CottonTop" (aka Jeff)

So, I shoved the remaining evidence into my mouth. I tried to swallow, but dry cake and sticky marshmallow only lodged in my throat. It would not come up. It would not go down. That Snowball was stuck. I had no Dr. Pepper. I had no money. I was getting light headed. I was going to die!

I looked around, desperate, panicked. Then, I remembered the tire barrel I was leaning against. So I jumped up and was just about to gulp down a two-cupped-handful of mosquito-larvae-wiggly-tail infested-flat-tire water, when God (or maybe it was my jumping) caused that fist-sized pink conglomeration to burst forth from my windpipe.

Evidently, it was not Jesus’ time for me to go. I would live to mow another lawn with my mighty Yazoo. To eat another pink Snowball and drink another cold Dr. Pepper!

....That is, if Ol’ Cottontop didn’t kill me first for enjoying his.

But, what was I thinking--my mighty Yazoo could handle him.

By: Greg Easter 

A Lenten love story

The first Ash Wednesday service I ever attended was a bit of a comedy of errors. I'm sure everyone realized, "She's never done this before." (Frankly, I've decided Catholics and Episcopalians have strong synapses and amazingly good motor skills, because much multitasking is involved in their services--at least the ones I've been to.) The ability to juggle the bulletin, Book of Common Prayer, hymnal and pew altar at designated points in the service requires focus and dexterity! 

At this busy (but beautiful) Ash Wednesday service, through song, sermon and prayer, the minister called us to repentance. However, I must confess that his only words I remember are the ones he spoke as he painted the cross-shaped ashes on my forehead: 
"Remember you are dust, and to dust you shall return."

Looking back, I realize the reason these words affected me so deeply was the frail, elderly couple sitting two rows in front of me. They “preached” me a crystal-clear sermon about just how quickly all of us "return to dust," and how we are called to live and to love in the meantime.

You see, when it was time for me to go receive communion and the "imposition of ashes" (as they call it), I waited at the end of this couple's row to let them step in front of me. All the way out the pew and up the aisle, the husband took halting, shuffled steps, which seemed possible only with the help of his wife's tiny, mottled arm, which wrapped protectively around him.

I wondered how he would ever manage to kneel and get back up but, with her help, he did. While I did not see him take the bread and cup, I couldn't help but hear him because...every movement, every breath...was labored...costly...seemingly uncertain.

The two of them lingered there...kneeling at that altar...for several moments, with her frail little arm never unwrapping from him.

As I watched them laboriously rise from that altar and walk back down the aisle and into their pew, I wondered what sort of devotion was required to get one’s self and one’s frail husband dressed and into the car…one’s self and one’s frail husband out of the car and into the church…one’s self and one’s frail husband up the aisle to painstakingly kneel at an altar to take the bread and the cup and to get back up again.

Watching the two of them, with the newly-painted ashen crosses marking their foreheads...well...it made me sob...and I bowed my head to try to pull myself back together.

When I opened my eyes, I noticed tiny gray spots on the pages of the Book of Common Prayer, which lay open in my lap. I touched one of these spots, and it smudged. When I saw another one drifting down and landing on the page, I realized what was happening--the ashes from the newly-painted cross on my forehead were flaking off.

As I tried to brush them away without smudging the pages, I realized, “That’s where such determined devotion begins…in the flaking off…the flaking off of selfishness…the flaking off of "the old me.”

And, Jesus' cross...the forgiveness and power found there...is the only way that “flaking off” can ever begin and can ever endure.

I've often wondered about that couple. I feel quite certain that was the last time those ashes were painted on his forehead...perhaps the last time he ever took the bread and drank the cup. But what a beautiful picture of a sacred, foot-washing kind of love he and his bride painted for us that night. 

In his book, "The Voyage of the Dawn Treader," C. S. Lewis also paints a beautiful picture of this "flaking off." One of the book's characters, Eustace, through pride, self-pity and greed, has taken actions that have caused him to be turned into a dragon. But, once the newness of being a fierce dragon wears off, he is miserable and very sorry for how he has treated everyone. Listen to what happens:
"I looked up and saw the very last thing I expected: a huge lion coming toward me...It told me to follow...And I knew I had to do what it told me, so I got up and followed it. And it led me to...a garden. In the middle of it was a well, which was more like a very big round bath...and I thought, 'If I could get in there and bathe, it would ease the pain in my leg' (from the jeweled bracelet that had become more like a shackle).
But the lion told me I must undress first....so I started scratching, and my scales began coming off all over the place. And then, I scratched a little deeper,...and my whole skin started peeling off beautifully...as if I was a banana...In a minute or two, I just stepped out of it. I could see it laying there beside me, looking rather nasty. It was a most lovely feeling. So I started to go down into the well for my bath.
But, just as I was going to put my feet into the water, I looked down and saw that they were all hard and rough and wrinkly and scaly just as they had been before....So I scratched and tore again and (it) peeled off beautifully again and out I stepped...and went down to the well for my bath. And exactly the same thing happened again, and I thought, 'Oh, dear, how ever many skins have I got to take off?'...
Then the lion said, 'You will have to let me undress you.' I was afraid of his claws, but I was pretty nearly desperate now. So I just lay down and let him do it.
The very first tear he made was so deep that I thought it had gone right into my heart. And when he began pulling the skin off, it hurt worse than anything I've ever felt. The only thing that made me able to bear it was just the pleasure of feeling the old stuff peel off....
Well, he peeled the beastly stuff right off...And there I was as smooth and as soft as a peeled switch and smaller than I had been. Then he caught hold of me--I didn't like that very much for I was very tender now that I had no skin on--and he threw me into the water. It smarted like anything but only for a moment. After that, it became perfectly delicious and as soon as I started swimming and splashing, I found that all the pain had gone....
After a bit, the lion took me out and dressed me...in new clothes....And then, suddenly, I was back here...
Then Eustace asked, 'What do you think it was?'
And Edmund answered, 'I think you've seen Aslan.'....
Now, it would be nice and fairly nearly true, to say that from that time forth Eustace was a different boy. But, to be strictly accurate, he (only) began to be a different boy. He had relapses. There were still many days when he could be very tiresome. But...the cure had begun."

"Before the Passover celebration,

Jesus knew his hour had come to leave this world

and return to his Father.

He had loved his disciples during his ministry on earth,

and now he loved them to the very end....

Jesus knew the Father had given him authority over everything

and that he had come from God and would return to God.

So he got up from the table, took off his robe,

wrapped a towel around his waist, and poured water into a basin.

Then he began to wash the disciples’ feet,

drying them with the towel he had around him.

When Jesus came to Simon Peter,

Peter said to him, “Lord, are you going to wash my feet?”

Jesus replied, “You don’t understand now what I am doing,

but someday you will.”

“No,” Peter protested, “you will never ever wash my feet!”

Jesus replied, “Unless I wash you, you won’t belong to me.”

(John 13:1-8, NLT)