Grandmother's Church

My grandmother was a conservative Christian woman from South Carolina. As such, she centered her life around God, her church, and her family. When me and my sister visited my grandparents during the summer, my mother always threw a couple of dresses and a pair of sandals in our suitcases to ensure we had something to wear when we went to church. Most summers our visit included a week of Bible school, church on Sunday mornings and Sunday nights, as well as church on Wednesday nights. Scheduled less frequently were week long revival services, intended to reign back in the hearts of backsliders, and encourage everyone else to do better. Revival attendees were treated to special gospel singers and guest pastors from neighboring churches who sermonized, at length, about how to get to Heaven, how to avoid Hell, and how to love thy neighbor at the same time.

Although I dare not underestimate the positive impact these gatherings had upon my youthful soul, the event that created a lasting impression on me past my formative years was the all night prayer meeting. These meetings were similar to revivals in that they featured songs of praise and vigorous preaching, however, those who attended prayer meetings were usually pretty sure of their salvation. During a prayer meeting, one could expect to hear personal testimonies of God's goodness, random shouts of "amen" or "hallelujah" as needed, and audible prayers of thanks to God. And true to their name, these meetings seemed to last all night. So, after singing until our throats were dry, squinting our eyes and holding our breath for most of the prayers, and chewing all of the Wrigley's spearmint gum from the bottom of my grandmother's purse, my sister and I would stretch out on one of the church pews and fall asleep. When the meeting was over, my grandmother would wake us up and take us home. Well-rested and sanctified, we'd get up the next morning full of energy, ready to go. And my grandmother? She was up as well, heating water on the stove so my sister and I could wash our faces, cooking eggs and bacon for our breakfast, ready to prepare us not just for the day, but for the days to come.

Pruning The Party Line

My grandparents did not have a telephone in their home for many years, relying instead on family and friends to interchange information as needed. Eventually, they purchased a rotary phone with a handheld receiver and a clear plastic circle attached to the front for dialing phone numbers. If executed correctly, someone with nimble fingers and a small amount of patience could usually make a call in two to three minutes.

Their telephone number was connected to a party line, a circuit shared by multiple users. This meant if you picked up the phone to make a call and someone was already in the middle of a conversation, you quietly replaced the receiver and tried again later. Consequently, it was not unusual to be on a call and hear a click followed by subdued breathing, both indicators someone was listening to your conversation. If you confronted the eavesdropper and asked them to hang up and allow you to finish your discussion, you may or may not be the recipient of a few choice words. The party line afforded little privacy in a small neighborhood where most people prided themselves on knowing the business of everyone around them. Despite the rude interruptions of nosy neighbors, my grandmother rarely complained about the party line. Happy to have a way to communicate with her family and friends, she waited until the line was free to make her calls.


A party line is reminiscent of the weeds that grow in your garden and flowerbeds. Oftentimes, to cultivate the areas you want to fertilize and sow, you have to snip, trim, pinch back, and remove that which is unruly, that which is disagreeable. Hence, to create the optimum environment for strong and healthy growth, you have to prune the party line.

Big Imaginations Big Fish

I've always liked to fish. As a kid, my dad used to take me and my sister fishing in the lake at the end of our street.  We'd walk out to the middle of one of the docks, cast our lines into the waves, and wait patiently for our poles to arch and our red and white bobbers to disappear from view. Most of the fish we snagged were crappie, a very popular fish in the area, and if we caught enough, my dad would fillet the lot, then hand them off to my mother to fry for dinner.

One afternoon while playing on the shallow end of the docks, fishing poles in tow, my sister and I found a huge dead carp washed up on the shore. Although its gills were somewhat bloated, its body was still firm and intact. Employing child-like logic, we decided to bring home our fish for dinner. With great effort, we secured the fleshy lip of the carp onto the hook of one of the fishing poles, locked the reel, and leaving just enough line free to drag him on the ground behind us, we started for the house. That's when we saw my dad and my uncle walking down the hill toward us. As they drew closer, we launched into our big fish story and attempted to answer their questions. Yes, we'd been fishing. Yes, we hooked the fish and together, pulled him to shore where he instantly died. No, we did not know the type of fish we'd caught, but we knew he was big enough to feed everyone in the family. A carp, you say. We caught a carp? Not a crappie, but a carp? Wow - well what do you know!

Experienced in the ways of fishing and lying little girls, it didn't take my dad and uncle long to figure out we'd tied a dead fish to the end of our line, and made up the rest of the story. After a little laughter, a little shaking of their heads, and a lecture as to why dead bloated fish are not good to eat, they unhooked the carp from the line, and escorted us, along with our big imaginations, home.

When I tell this story, I am reminded of how life often imitates fishing. We chase our dreams and strive on a daily basis to reach our goals. However, as life progresses, we grow weary, and become bogged down due to stress, failure,and fear. As our disillusionment increases, our imaginations often decrease and as a result, we lose our focus, and our drive. In essence, we become mediocre fisherman with modified standards, content to tie our line to any type of method, even a dead one, just to say we made the effort.  If we truly want to progress, however, we have to let go of what weighs us down. We can't rely on shortcuts and ineffective techniques. Instead, we must commit on a daily basis to reactivate our imaginations, cast our lines into fresh waters, and seize new opportunities.

  

The Barn Run

I am a runner. To help alleviate boredom and challenge myself, I run several pathways during the week. One of my favorite running paths I have affectionately named The Barn Run for the simple reason that the path runs up a small hill, curves ever so slightly to the right, shifts back to the left, and then wanders up by an old barn that sits on my property. I usually run this pathway a couple of times a week. This summer, however, several construction companies began building new homes on either side of my land. In order to avoid all of the hammering and noise, I had to temporarily abandon The Barn Run, and instead run on the trails in the woods behind my house.

After the houses were finished and the machinery and racket had moved on, I was anxious to resume running on my barn path. During my absence, however, time and nature had prevailed and the old path was so cluttered with leaves and small sticks from the trees that tower over it, I could barely make out where I was going. Consequently, I became frustrated that I had been away long enough for the pathway to collect so much debris. After a few unpleasant thoughts and a few more deep breaths, I reminded myself the trail was still there, I just had to reestablish it. So, I fixed my eyes on the ever-present barn, plowed through the leaves, smashed the twigs underfoot, and reclaimed my favorite pathway.

Regardless of how much we prepare and plan, life changes from one day to the next. If we're not careful, these changes, both big and small, can result in an unhealthy, negative paradigm shift that clouds our judgement and steals our happiness.When the variables start to add up, you need a bright spot, a beacon if you will, to help realign your focus and cut through the rubbish. For me, it was an old barn. For you, it will be something else. Whatever you decide to focus on, may it shine brightly and propel you forward as you run on your own pathway. 

Losing Your Footing

When I was a kid, I tripped over some flower pots and collided with the stove that heated my grandmother's house. It was winter and the thing was packed with coal and blowing hot. As I tumbled forward, I thrust out my arms to catch myself, and in doing so, caused the palms of my hands to make contact with the side of the burning stove. I don't remember if I pushed myself back from the hot surface, or if my grandmother pulled me back, but I do know the burns on my hands, while painful, were not as bad as they could have been, and before long, I was up and running again. 

Falling down is never easy. It is seldom planned, it hurts, and even if no one is watching, it's embarrassing. The injuries sustained, both physical and emotional, can slow us down, leave scars, and in worst-case scenarios, traumatize us for life. However, the most difficult part of falling down is not the fall itself; it's getting back up. To be more precise, it's that moment when you decide staying down is not an option, when, despite the pain, regardless of the embarrassment, you choose to rise and continue forward, with or without the help of someone else. We all lose our footing from time to time. However, when we make a habit of getting up and proceeding onward, albeit with caution, we become sure-footed, stronger, and more resilient when facing future falls.

Me in my grandmother's living room. The heating stove is to the right.