Introverted Sundays ~ an unintentional dispensation on worship and emotions

One of my internet friends has been tackling the phrase 'worship experience' lately along with probing the idea that worship is something we "feel" or an environment we can create on Sunday mornings.



As a person with a more reserved personality, this topic resonates with me and while I never feel that I have the answers, I am learning to join the conversation.



My churched background has afforded many opportunities to feel pressure from the platform or my gathering of friends to 'perform' worship in a way that is more visible and animated than my comfort level.



I have prayed beside people offering their prayers in tongues unknown.

I have been told that my faith was only genuine if I was willing to pick up a snake. (There were no snakes present in the Kroger where this conversation occurred, thankfully - but it was a real conversation)

I have scoffed at fog machines and cameramen running across the stage to get the next shot.

I have scoffed at three piece suits and kicked up sawdust.

I have heard seminary students be offered a little cash incentive to whoop and holler, to loosen up and help set the tone of a 'Baptistcostal' service.

I have felt the strain of an extended alter call when the desired emotional response was not forthcoming.

I have had a pastor fix his gaze on me specifically and say "Everyone raise your hands" when I was the only one in the room not raising my hands.



This has led to a strange sort of resistance anytime there's an audible directive from a worship leader or song lyric to "...just lift my hands toward Heaven and praise the Lord..."



If I was going to (which I probably wasn't) now there's no question that I won't be able to because you told me to... it's too much like *Simon Says now and not enough like genuine expression.



I start thinking about those Pharisee guys who prayed to be heard and contorted their faces as visual evidence of their spirituality. I think about closets and how that's where we're told to do our praying. I lean back into my personality type - one who brings a book to a football game. There's very little I get worked up about in the first place, my feelings are anchored to a concrete post of reasonableness and decorum.



And yet, when I see a withered old hand lifted to Heaven in the midst of a song, I find it beautiful and moving (internally- because, as I have established, I'm a stick in the proverbial mud)



I have heard an old woman's hallelujah and been encouraged that if the Lord was faithful to her, I can also trust Him.



I've been learning some stuff recently, here's some of it:



Worship can involve an emotional response from me. It rarely evokes a visible response.



Sometimes this response is present on Sunday morning, during the set time we sing and pray. Other times, it is Monday in my car or on the shower floor, and sounds more like questions or despair.



Many times, everything feels flat and doesn't seem to touch me at all.

I'm finding the consistent factor in that scenario is often me.



Did I go to bed at a decent hour on Saturday night? Do I have coffee gut? Am I actively participating or going through the motions? Are there issues I'm refusing to surrender to God? Did I greet a lot of people on my way in? Wouldn't I rather just go hide in the nursery or take a nap in the puppet booth this morning?  (the answer to this one is almost always yes)



When the answer is yes, I might as well be watching The Rockafire Explosion. ( Confession: sometimes, my visible response in church is to smirk at the thought of our musicians dressed up as The Rockafire Explosion.)



I remember as a kid trying to see the circuitry under the drummer dog's sleeve. I remember one time the power went out and the animatronic band froze mid-song. I remember ascribing feelings and emotions to these robots based on what they had been programmed to sing and say. Even as a kid, it was easy for me to lose the forest for close observation of each tree.



Some Sunday mornings,  it's the same. I'm looking at all the shoes on stage or everyone's facial expressions. Who fought on their way here this morning? Why does everyone seem to raise their hands on the same note - did they rehearse that part, too? The music becomes secondary, a backdrop for robot observation.

But... I am also finding that, if I was in the trenches with my brothers and sisters this week... if I see this one who has been waking up under the wet blanket of anxiety all week with his hands aloft in as much a plea as decree that God is good, or a tear steal across my sister's cheek because of that thing she's been walking through.. I have found that I can actually feel that.



I can be confounded by an abundance of animation in one's worship style, but I am struck by the beauty of the contrast of it, too.



 Like watching a foreign film with subtitles; it is not my native tongue, but I am able to understand, especially the more of life I share in with my animated brothers and sisters.



Even when it comes from a struggle, I am finding that there can be an air of celebration when we purpose to lift our hearts as one, whether we lift our hands or not.



We aren't alone. We are here together, hopeful, grateful and unashamed.



Relationship is an essential key to feeling like a participant instead of an observer.

This is true in most things.



On Mother's Day, I was in church without some of my children. Their absence was more noticeable on this particular holiday and my situation is no secret.



 I'm not sure this Sunday was my first awareness  that everyone knowing my story was an act of public nakedness, but it was one day that I recall the vulnerability being heightened. Last year, I was given one of those little congregational awards for having the most children in attendance with me at church on Mother's Day. This year, I've been accused of being such a terrible mom that some of my children have stopped speaking to me. It's a story line I've been walking out in front of others, whether I wanted to or not.



And on that day, I felt a deeper sympathy and empathy for those who no longer have their mom. What I found was there were almost as many at church that day without their mom or with a strained relationship with their mom as those who were on their way to brunch with Mom.



Last year, I probably walked past just as many hurting people on my way to claim that prize without a thought at all about Mothers' Day for the motherless. Now, I see.



On Father's Day, when the importance of a godly dad was emphasized  and the plight of too many single moms proved bleak in the shared statistics, one friend, realizing that I may be hearing a more discouraging message than my well-married counterparts, texted me a compliment about being a good parent (yes, during the service - we're modern like that).

It was encouraging that I wasn't lost in the shuffle of that Sunday's theme. Someone was mindful of me and wanted to lift my countenance.



Getting to know those I experience worship with and allowing myself to be known by them, too has deepened the experience for me.



Having others come alongside me, draping their own garments over what has been laid bare, has stripped a layer of my life-long reserve.



I still get distracted by moving lights or something on-screen. I still get kind of scoffy at "setting an environment", but as I am getting to know my brothers and sisters who help with that, I understand better that they are bringing what they have to the table on Sunday mornings. They are sharing their time and talents. They are giving their best, at the very least, I can give grace.



I could get caught up in motivations- sometimes, being honest, I still do. There have been worship leaders in my life who wanted to go to Nashville and it showed (and no big surprise, they went to Nashville). That used to bug me a lot more than it does now, but I've had enough time to see that these aren't really issues. They are choices.



If I have chosen to worship with a group whose leader wants a recording label, I can wish him all the success that Amy Grant or Mercy Me has known, and for God's glory.



I may decide his skinny jeans and trending hair is too distracting to continue to meet together starting next week, but in this moment, even as he's doing something showy, I must choose to focus on why I am here, too. If I don't, I am as guilty as Mr. Nashville of putting on a show, only it is a smaller, more secretive show. Honestly, his show is at least entertaining, mine is just pathetic.



 Do I want the lens turned on me? Have I ever appreciated being judged as 'not worshipping' because my hands are in my pockets or my body language always naturally returns to a comforting and constricting arm cross? I must leave hearts to the one who can see them and focus instead on the boundless grace I've been given.



If you need me, I'll just be in the puppet booth, digging this log out of my eye.



This is not to say there's no place for making sure motives are right and worship is the true object of our gathering and activity,  but this is not a scathing discernment blog. It is more so a challenge to self to practice one of the first rules in critical thinking: start with the benefit of the doubt, ascribe no ill intent without cause. 

*~*

I am still the girl who gravitates to an outlying corner. I prefer holding up walls to hands. I will always be me, I bet. But I have had some expansion of my thinking on the subject in recent days.



I recently shared that I had finally embraced my "Type 9" diagnosis. One of the cautions for the nine personality types is to  "Remember you have a body as well as a soul"



Perhaps my movement level is affected by forgetting that I've been given a body as well as a soul - or some level of shame over my body that is also to blame for my complete lack of dancing ability.



I'm not sure. But what got me to thinking about it originally was not the personality test. It was David Bowie's video for Black Star.



In that video, the dancers' bodies move in an unearthly way. It is almost disturbing. The movements are coupled with imagery that goes on to push the whole thing over the line into 'actually disturbing'.



I'm sure that 'unease' was part of Bowie's artistic goal. His inclusion of a mock crucifixion, for whatever other statement being made, created a link in my mind between bodily movement and spiritual themes.



It made me think of all the stories I'd heard about spiritual forces seeking to invade the human realm and footage of supposed supernatural "possessions" I had seen featuring human bodies moving in unnatural ways, but always with little control or direction.



I thought of the demoniac in the Bible, unable to stay clothed and bent on self harm.



I considered 'worship' may be the genuine article being counterfeited by dark entities. My thinking was turned to rocks and trees crying out...to the dancing, undignified King David and to that notoriously long list of instruments in Psalms which we are told to use in praise.



Then, this song came along and directed my thinking some more...

If the stars were made to worship so will I

If the mountains bow in reverence so will I

If the oceans roar Your greatness so will I

For if everything exists to lift You high so will I

If the wind goes where You send it so will I

If the rocks cry out in silence so will I

 ~*~

I've been given a body as well as a soul, and I have full autonomy.

I have hands that clap and raise and can offer comfort to others.

My voice can raise a hallelujah or whisper out a desperate plea.

I am not a special edition human, devoid of tears - I have them; sometimes from sorrow, but at other times, gratitude and joy.



I can allow my body to reflect what my soul is navigating. In doing so, I may just encourage someone else looking on "If God has been faithful to her, I can trust Him also"

I remember a recent moment when something felt different as we sang together 

 "...this is how I fight my battles..."

The lady singing that day shared that she hadn't really wanted to sing the song, even as more and more people suggested she should sing it. She had, quite frankly, been wondering where God even was these days. She shared some of her story and the reasons she had been struggling with questions too big for any of us to answer. And then, she sang the song in an act of obedience and faith. 

Before the song ended, I thought some of our group might actually take to the streets, ready to fight every injustice we came across. 

We do have a large number of military and retired military families, so there is always the risk of marching, but I believe the palpability came from singing through the hurt and in our singing with her. 

"It may look like we're surrounded, but we're surrounded by You..." 

Like the exchange of oxygen with trees, she was reminding us of truth and, in an instant echo, truth was exhaled back into her own lungs... 

As I looked around the room that day, I realized that I was singing for all their sakes as much as for mine. I love them. I want them to be okay. I want to see God move on their behalf. You wouldn't have known it to look at me, but I felt something. Surely it was emotion. 

And surely it was worship.

*~*

The last thing I'll share about is a personal paradigm shift: allowing what I'm singing to be personal. 

I learned a long time ago that remembering my own pit and living with gratitude for my rescue was spiritually transformational. 

In one congregation, we sang "How Deep The Father's Love For Us" almost every week. I remember my attention settling on the line "...ashamed I hear my mocking voice, cry out among the scoffers"  (which is the purpose of that line- to implicate us) 

Letting that line be about me has been transformational, indeed. 

Remembering the pit from whence I was lifted is good, but I've been finding that falling into a fresh pit and needing new rescue is also an effective method for converting my worship into high definition. 

I've been walking through a season of suffering and loss. 

I've been accused and left exposed. 

I've needed the services of a human advocate. 

I've had case stated to a judge. 

I've had my physical and financial needs met.

I've been shown mercy. And grace. 

I've been met in the road by my dad - who came running from a long way off. 

I have been given a robe and ring and there's to be a big party.

These things have come to life. They have given me a physical glimpse of spiritual concepts. I've experienced being defended, being in need and being provided for.  I've seen new things about a father's love and experienced anew the deep, gulping relief found in being forgiven...again and again. 

I think my little legalistic heart needed to go into an actual legal setting to appreciate grace all the more.  

So, whether we are singing "...your love defends me..." "...you're a good, good father..." or any one of the many songs about the goodness we've received, I've got newfound appreciation for the words that are coming out of my mouth. They have been defined as I am being refined. 

I'm still the girl quietly wringing my hands behind my back, but like a wooden puppet becoming human, I can't lie: I felt my heart leap at the wonder of it all.  

"...If You gladly chose surrender so will I"

Someone's In The Kitchen With Momma: Seven Bananas Pudding

Chapter 1: BiLo 



Sometimes her list would require six, but usually, scrawled in blue Bic ink beside 'bananas' was a (7) in parentheses; a week’s supply of potassium until the next shopping day rolled around.



I try to remember now who did her shopping before it became our job. Likely an array of her extended network of family and friends, for though she didn't drive, Aunt Nellie June was well-known, and well-liked.

She needn't go out, we came to her. And truly, it was our pleasure to help; to just be in her orbit. 

So it was, back when we were not just kinfolk but also neighbors, I would take the list she had made after consulting the weekly circular, along with her envelope of carefully counted money, to the Bi-Lo on the corner, and do her weekly shopping. 

Her list was quite specific, calculated for maximum savings and minimal waste.

Seventy years in one primary location had worn a groove in her routine.



Amongst a rotation of seasonal produce and various household products, every week her list included the same fare: 

• Whole milk (PET brand only) 


• One pack of hot dogs (Oscar Myer or Carolina Pride) 


• Cool Whip (the plastic container to be recycled as food storage) 


• Pepsi (an anomaly in Coca-Cola's dixieland domain, but she was a woman confident in her choices)


• Butter pecan or cherry vanilla ice cream (as much for her neighbors as for herself, but she did have a sweet tooth or three ) 


• Bananas (6 or 7) 

I still count bananas in the store, or tell my children how many to get when I ask them to walk back to Produce for things I inevitably remember I've forgotten (but only after crossing at least 2/3 the length of the store)



I always get (6) or (7), not less or more.

Chapter 2: Rodger, that!



Mary Rodgers was the graceful wife of Roger.

That's right, Roger Rodgers.



Mary and Roger served in the church I grew up in for many, many years.



Mr. Rodgers owned an old fashioned barber shop in town, complete with barber pole out front and Mayberry atmosphere inside.



Mrs. Rodgers was gifted in the art of hospitality and often opened her home to our family.



One of my favorite dishes Mrs. Mary served was a thick and creamy banana pudding unlike any found in the Corningware dishes of the other saintly church ladies or served at our myriad local BBQ restaurants.

I was too young to decipher her recipe back then, but the development of my own "kitchen presence" as a young bride coincided with the rise of Google, Food Network and Paula Deen.



I may have never learned the recipe's secret  if not for the ability to cross-reference keywords against a database of tried and true Southern recipes; those iconic Chessmen cookies my Rosetta Stone.  

Chapter 3: Let's Go Krogering 



I am the sum of all my parts, as I believe we all are.

I have been shaped by different environments, exposures and experiences.

I am grateful for them all.



I am thankful for Aunt Nellie June and Mrs. Mary Rodgers as well as a host of other influential souls.

I am thankful for the time they shared with me, the space they created for me in their homes and kitchens and the recipes for life they left for me to follow.



Tonight, as I prepared for the Freewheeling Widows to drop by, I realized banana pudding would be agreeable to all.

In this way, these two precious ladies who've gone-on-to-Glory were welcome in my kitchen as I got ready for two precious ladies who are still going-along-with-me.



I went Krogering to count bananas and gather the following supplies:

• 1 Quart of Heavy Whipping Cream (the secret ingredient, shhh!)  


• One large box of instant vanilla pudding


• One large box of instant banana cream pudding 


• One tub of Cool Whip or can of whipped cream 


• Chessmen Cookies and/or 


• Nilla Wafers (for the purists) 


• Bananas (6 or 7)

Chapter 4: Redeeming The Spotty Ones

I mashed up two leftover bananas that were too far gone for cereal but not yet brown enough for banana bread then added the pudding mix and heavy whipping cream.

I think bananas go spotty like they do to teach us about redemption, if we're inclined to learn.



I included both kinds of cookies because when I am faced with a decision where one person may be disappointed, I become paralyzed with indecision. As a result, I have developed a coping mechanism called 'overcompensation'. When I am in a hurry and can't make up my mind, I jump straight over 'either/or' to 'both and all'



Someday, it will sink in that I really cannot please all the people, all the time and should therefore just pick one already...but, until then, double cookies!

Seems completely healthy and reasonable, no?

I'm sure Cookie Monster approves. 

I layered everything lasagna style and almost alphabetically: "cookies-bananas-pudding-whipped cream-repeat" then chilled the whole thing until the Freewheelers arrived.



We ate tiny glazed Ham on Hawaiian sandwiches and watched Mr. Magorium's Wonder Emporium before I scooped banana pudding into the Atlanta Braves helmet bowls I'd picked up on Kroger's clearance aisle - for only thirty-five cents each!



Southern Grocery Shopping Rule #1 : The hurry is never too big to bypass clearance. You never know, what you need may be on those shelves. What you don't know you need is probably there, too. 





Chapter 5: Time and Togetherness 



From Bi-Lo to Kroger, there have been many good-byes that came as a surprise.



I'd go back, pay closer attention,  and take more notes if life weren't so insistent about this forward staccato marching we do.



We are allowed only to glance back, not turn back, so we plan for the future ever crossing new horizons.

Tucked in our pockets of memory, or transcribed on a notepad in shaky blue Bic ink, we bring with us instructions from time, left behind.



My freewheelin' gals took leftover sandwiches and pudding home with them, because I'm still learning to cook for just a few.



They also took a little bit of Aunt Nellie June, Mrs. Mary Rodgers and a piece of my heart, too.



We're getting together for Chinese take-out and a Dolly Parton movie soon, because time and togetherness are key ingredients to a life, well-recalled.

"Your life is an occasion, rise to it." 

                                            ~Magorium

To Peel An Apple

When I was in grade school, our class took a field trip to the house of another student.



I don't recall everything we did there, but I do recall learning to make cinnamon applesauce.



It must have been Fall.



The lady allowed us each to turn the crank on her apple coring machine.



I thought it was the niftiest thing.



And I have wanted a machine of my own ever since.



They always felt like an indulgence at $20 or even $15 apiece.



But this weekend, I found one brand new, on sale at a thrift store for $3.



I'm tempted to say my life is now complete, but really it is just a tad more sweet.



Apple curls, anyone?

little kite

East coast girl with your sun tanned skin

Salt in your hair, kissed by the wind

You're wild and free to live and let be

Strings let go you'll soar and sink low

Follow the river away from the sea 

Float the Savannah, back home to me.

I once wiped the tears of a young girl's eyes 

Real life is tested by whether we cry.

Feel and allow it, for though there is pain 

A life without contrast is one built in vain.

Salt and fresh water, shadow and light 

Opposing angles build houses upright

I sit in my own house, thinking of you, 

little kite tattered, lost in the blue

I bottle my question and fling it to sea: 

Were sandcastles and kite flying only for me?

The First Meeting of the Freewheeling Widows' Society

Friday night and we are out to eat, two widows proper and me, widowed by the death of a girlish dream.



Our waitress leads us to a four top, one empty chair for the phantoms we bring.



We three share genes and a bloodline, but have different ideas about dressing a biscuit.



My aunt asks for apple butter, my cousin requests honey from a bear and I opt for maple's syrup.



The phantoms are silent. No one asks what they would have liked.



My aunt, alone the longest and of a quiet nature,  is content to share our company.



My cousin, twice widowed yet too young to retire, is - unbeknownst to our waitress - a former five star general in the order of Cracker Barrels.



I feel the need to create content, to lift countenances; we are not begged by little voices to please, pretty please, play checkers.



The phantoms clear their throats and I push the peg game meant for one in front of their empty chair.



"I wonder if they have blueberry muffins tonight?" my cousin asks aloud

"Oooh, mmm!" my aunt replies.



They've been here before, done this a time or two.

But now we are three. And tonight, we are all free.



Freewheelers... like three, but free.



When our Rising Star appears beside the table, our general in disguise requests three blueberry muffins, sliced and thrown onto the grill.

Most people don't know you can do that.



I object. I've already had a syrupy biscuit and a corn muffin is promised with my meal.

Too much bread, daily.



"Trust us, you want one." they agree



We linger, not over coffee, for our cadet is struggling to learn the juggle.



Sometimes, as we chat,  a phantom gets a nod, for our lives and theirs used to be one.



We box up the abundance, including three blueberry muffins, sliced and grilled through the middle.

"That will be just the thing with your coffee in the morning" the experienced widows tell me.



A curl of smoke rises from my cousin's porch rocker to the Gospel music playing overhead.

My aunt rocks on steady, watching the clouds change color, as the sun sets behind the Lowes across the street.

They have chosen rockers on either side of an old church pew.



"Are you guys saying I need to go to church?"

I sit on the pew with my leftovers and a bag of general store goods.



"If the shoe fits!" laughs the rocker to my left.

And it is accidentally, instantly funny, for I've invited them to church with me countless times.

But on Sundays,  I sit alone.



We each take home a miniature toy that represents childhood joy,

reminders that we've come far and do not walk alone.



The phantoms let us open our own car door, withholding their good night kisses.

We, busy making plans for next time, gladly fail to notice.



~*~



I scrawl this out over rapidly cooling coffee, the crumbs of a grilled blueberry muffin sinking into silt at the bottom of my mug.



They were right, it was delicious, and just the thing to start a Saturday morning in a house devoid of children. They have more than muffins to teach me, I know.



I'm looking forward to our next Freewheeling Adventure, I hear Fuddruckers might be involved.



Meanwhile, I'm happy and content.

Alone, but not lonely.

In my quiet house, 'where no one now is sleeping...'

trending: telling the girl what to do

Girl, wash your face and count to three...(he ran to someone who wasn’t me).

Girl, stop apologizing and just breathe...(this is where you see you're free).

Girl, open your eyes wide and see... (fairytales are cautionary).

Girl, wash your face or leave and make do...(streaked mascara as a face tattoo).

Girl, stop apologizing for wrongs that aren’t yours...(salvage the damage and build a door).

Girl, open your eyes and take a look...(it’s about time to write that book).

~~~*~~~

:: One year and a handful of months later, I wrote on the last page of my Morning Pages journal today. It is literally time to start a fresh chapter, and even a whole new book ::

Shine On

Last night, I accompanied Fisher to volunteer as a buddy at Night To Shine- an event to serve and celebrate the special needs community. We were at the Christ Church location in Jax. Oh, what a night. If you can name an emotion, it was available somewhere on the premises. Of the many impressions the night made on me, these are the thoughts still lingering in the afternoon aftermath of the following day.

*UPDATE- It has taken an extra day and a half to edit and upload this post properly. 

 >>Fisher<<

 This past year, Fisher and I discussed that he has a soft place in his heart for the special needs community. When two of his particular heroes (Brant Hansen & Tim Tebow)  both promoted Night To Shine, it seemed providential to participate. I hope that the desire to love and serve others is a quality that continues to snowball downhill into his life.

 >>Valor<<

These are real men. Manly men. Valiant leaders who love and serve others. The sort I hope will find my daughters in years to come and the kind I hope my sons continue to become. Because, it is indeed becoming.

 >>Virtue<<

And these are the sort of gals I hope my three sons seek to find, the kind of ladies I hope my daughters remain.  Compassionate and patient, the sort unafraid to take the hand of an underdog and dance the night away. Because, as it turns out, we are all underdogs.

 >>Value <<

From where I was standing, we never knew who was walking in on the red carpet. And it didn't matter- we were there to cheer and celebrate everyone.  We would hear applause rising from outside and watch as each new guest rode a wave of celebration in the door. Lord, help this be my default position with everyone I meet.

>>Take Care<<

 I really hoped that parents and caretakers felt clapped for as well... because I was celebrating them too. While we enjoyed working together as a team of volunteers to throw a party for a few hours, and while we could all grin and shake our heads at how much energy was expended to pull it all off, it is the caretakers who attend the needs of our guests on a daily basis. It isn't festive nor glamorous. There aren't a team of volunteers. Every day is not a dance floor, but every day they extend their energies once more. They are faithful, tenacious people and they have my applause.

>>Silent Applause<<

When we make up our mind to, we can work together for the sake of even just one person. We can ascertain what is needed and adjust to accommodate.  Obviously this is true of a large event requiring volunteers and attention to details medical and minute. But the picture of cooperation and deference was most vivid to me when we had sound sensitive or hearing impaired guests make their entrance. Less than 50 ft stretched between us and the start of the red carpet. Even so, we were quick to assess which kind of applause was called for and adjust our clapping into silent waves accordingly.

 >>Kinfolk<<

Sometimes, "church" makes me break out in bouts of hives and 'to-Heck-with-its', other times I'm right proud to be kin. This was the kind of family gathering that made me beam...look at great aunt Sally serving carrots and there goes cousin George doing the Electric Slide... we were all there of one accord and it was beautiful.

>>Night To Shoe Shine<<

Shoe shining needs to make a comeback into our everyday lives. There'd be less call for bartenders if more folks kicked their day off with a shine. 

SIDENOTE: Fisher may have been the only fella donning white shoes at our location. At the end of the night, the shoeshine guys bestowed him with admiration and their sole can of white polish- unopened.

>>Big C, Little C<<

Best. Church. Service. Ever.

Seriously, why isn't this just another Sunday morning ? Aren't we celebrating then too? Then again, aside from some charismatic auditoriums, if this were a Sunday morning, we'd all be featured on an episode of Wretched, I have no doubt. 

* A bunny trail of additional thoughts were here but they were distracting, and anyway, I accidentally lost them while trying to find the least distracting place to footnote them. I know there are friends who will not be comfortable with the secular nature of this event. I have other friends who would mistakenly label those friends as legalistic. I get where both are coming from and find that I come down wobbly right on the blurry dividing line. I can be reached via comments or email if either party feels my two cents worth will help them sleep better tonight... ha! 

 >>Diamonds<<

Riley made a new friend, Renae. They both like Elsa and their conversations were filled with sporadic hugs. At the end of the night, as they said goodbye, Renae gave Riley her special Night To Shine medal. It was a gesture my first reflex was to protest ("Thank you, but that's your special medal to remember the night by.") and yet how could I interfere with such a selfless act of friendship? Rye wants me to set up a play date ASAP and spent the day writing many letters to her new friend.

She later expressed that her friend was 'just there for fun. I don't think she had special needs.'  Without labels, people are just friends. Children seem to grasp that a whole lot better than us older, supposedly wiser folks.

Everyone was wearing lanyards (you could even think of them as actual labels if you wanted to) - the volunteers wore them to declare what their specialty was, the buddies to identify their place alongside a party guest and the party guests to identify any diet or medical information the buddy might need to know.  At various stations throughout the night, I watched exchanges where volunteers weren't immediately clear who was who. In those moments, until a closer look at one's lanyard was taken, the presumption was to treat everyone with kindness and deference, as an invited guest.

In these fleeting moments, how we ought to behave towards each other was made breathtakingly clear, like diamonds held to light.

I still feel guilty about the medal.  

>>Candice <<

Riley needed a pit stop so we found ourselves in the ladies room just off the main dance floor. As we were washing hands to leave, a tall party guest in a beautiful purple dress and crystal tiara walked in looking very regal. She immediately smiled real big and threw her arms wide open. We hugged like old friends before she pulled back and said "I love you." I told her that I love her too...for indeed, instantly it was true. Her friend and I hugged as well. We all shared a wonderful chat about the fire alarm ("Don't touch it." said Candice, "I won't." I promised)

I thought briefly to take their picture before deciding against the ladies room as a backdrop. Though we crossed paths again I never did get to snap a picture with either of them. It is my only regret from the evening.

But such a nice exchange, I won't soon forget.

It made me realize that we were not in attendance as volunteers after all. We were exceptionally well paid to be there. As it turns out, we volunteers arrived with similar needs as our invited guests: friendship and unflinching love. All along we'd been under the impression we were there to meet their needs, but in the end, they had spent the evening meeting ours. 

We were made to feel welcome by a group of people who could've easily dismissed us over differences. We were invited to forget about our burden-laden selves and dance like no one was watching. We laughed and embraced, we sang and made many new friends. 

We were loved instantly, just the way we are. 

Where, this side of Heaven, can you find anything richer than that?

 

 

See More Photos From Night To Shine Jax 2016

Cup of Irony, Cup of No

A well endowed house save a few essentials...

I woke up in Madame Blueberry 's house (in a tree and everything.)

My mother-in-law is a woman who has just about everything...two and three of some things...but yesterday morning, she had no coffee pods. Lots of tea [which I love] but not a drop of the kick-in-the-pants-in-a-cup that I needed to get me up and get me thinking this particular morning.

And my father-in-law Charlie runs a proud "gourmet" kitchen... he even went to a Johnson & Wales Camp once upon a time.  Imagine my surprise when I  discovered the man has no French press,  no grinder. 

And that's what made the bag of whole coffee beans ironic.

Or was it that they were the only coffee to be found in all the house? 

Either way.

I am here to tell you that I was undeterred.

I am also here to tell you that determination alone does not the cup of coffee make.

You need many other elements.

I found the closest thing to a grinder and made. . . well, ...I made coffee nibs if we're being honest. . . but since I was already squinting, my vision unaided by "the best part of waking up",  it wasn't SO hard to believe it was just a coarse grind. . . until I tried to brew it.

The water did change colors,  I'll give me that.

No French Press,  no coffee grinder and not a single mesh strainer to be found. 

 He does have a flour sifter though.

 Oh, yes I did. 

No,  no it did not.

What I discovered was that,  however coarsely ground those beans had been, they were not too chunky to sneak through the sifter and into the mug...not to mention my mouth.

Coffee nibs are chewy bits of goodness when mixed in chocolate, not so much the morning cup of joe, in this case a morning cup of 'No'. 

I mentally demoted Charlie from Grandfather Gourmet  to chief coup stirrer. No man can climb past that rank without a mesh sieve. It just can't be done.

:: rinse everything,  load the weeble wagon and hug the folks at Baker's Pride, who not only have an appropriate cup of coffee at the ready, but a danish to wash it down with::

Pancake Art

We're no Tiger Tomato  but we do love pancake art. 

We made one whole box  of pancake batter, added food color in small batches and funneled  into our "pancake crayons".

Then we played with our food. 

Sneak Attack

Sneak Attack!

ba-rix

Tonight,  I saw an unanticipated result of our current administration's influence on today's youth.

Chandler was describing an efficiency report for Fort Stewart that he had accidentally  "over-seen" while we were in Savannah recently.



His grandfather, an engineering contractor for McLean, had some reports lying on a desk, in a closed binder in the same room the boys were bunking.

Total happenstance report reading,  really.

What Chan was impressed by was the efficiency of the Army as detailed in the report.He was describing how the report listed amount of wattage used per army barrack.

And that's when I spotted it. 

He said "Army Buh-Rocks"

Bunk houses by this name would be the current President of the United States.

(And I'm pretty sure he didn't serve...) 

We often tease ChanMan about his creative pronunciation skills, and it is a homonym, so, I won't devote any more of this post to something that may embarrass him.

However, it is an ideal time to tack on a little praise-worthy note.

For all the things they are learning to pronounce or spell or do in life, I believe these Brewer kids are well on their way to becoming fine adult human beings.  

 (May this post serve ever a reminder of this worthy expectaion) 

 Chandler especially leads the charge in this thing I describe to you now, the others participating with joie de vivre:

They have learned to spot the bright yellow embroidery on  jackets, hats and patches denoting a seasoned veteran from aisles and aisles away. 

They know IwoJima, Vietnam, Korea, WWII.

 They stand on perpetual watch for the tell-tale car tags and camo fatigues of our service men and women.  

 They are ever-ready and ever-eager to grab a door, extend a hand, offer the respect they feel is  due:

"Thank you for serving our country" 

And to our local First Responders I often hear:

"Thank you for serving our community" 

Even the Coast Guard have met with their appreciation... 

 ...and when they were younger, Mall Security and  Citadel recruits too. 

(a uniform by any other name still respect demands)

They really are a good bunch.

I'm proud of you, BrewCrew. 

Lunch &amp; Learning on Lazaretto

Lazaretto Creek is one of my favorite spots [so far,  life is young yet...oh,  but not as young as she used to be] 

Whether we're headed towards the ocean or away from her,  I enjoy crossing over the scenic spot: boats of all sorts to one side,  lonesome Cockspur Light on the other.

I enjoy spending time down near the docks even more.

Yesterday's lunch found us creekside @ CoCo's finishing arithmetic [1 Million ÷ 25] over sandwiches featuring melted cheese (there were other ingredients but it is only ever the cheese that matters) and counting our fingers to the rhythm of the music from many decades and genres .

That's all really. 

Just a nickel for the Nice Day jar. 

Thanks for listening.

Bonus Nickel: I learned more about lazarettos than I previously knew when getting ready to frilly up this post with links.

Double Bonus Nickels [dime?]: I learned more about Lazaretto Creek's unique history, too. And as is often the case, learning backstory plunged me deeper in love.

Triple Nickels: Discovered this song along the way. While I have not been a regular Jack White listener, connecting the rather obscure term to any correlating music is just the sort of thing I'm prone to do.  I would probably like this song on that basis alone but I also like the foundation described in this All Songs Considered interview for compiling this song's album [of the same name] in which a bunch of random journal scraps became music.

I guess the song's not ALL that terrible either.

I rather like this line: " When I say nothing,  I say everything. "