Befriended

The floor was mopped, the tea was made, cookies were arranged on a platter and orange, plastic chairs curved in a circle.  Everything was ready.  Soon, people would show up.  

While my husband, Bobby, and I were missionaries in Austria from 1995 to 1997, this was our normal Friday night thing. Bible study. Those invited were the refugees we spent our time visiting and praying for. These gatherings began with singing, moved on to a Bible lesson, and ended with food. 

Bobby dreaded Friday nights, but not because of the Bible studies. He loved those. He just knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep for hours after drinking even one cup of hot, black tea and I would want him to stay awake with me and talk. 

Bobby and our teammate, Miriam, left me to finish setting up while they drove to a nearby refugee pension to collect our regular attenders. Miriam could fit four people in her tiny, powder blue Fiat Panda and we could fit that many in our Honda Kombi wagon. 

Two people I hoped to see that night were Ramin and Leila. Their children, Vahid and Ashti, though they were quite young, would undoubtedly come too.

Ramin and Leila were new friends of ours, recently arrived from Iran. They weren’t Believers in Jesus. But, like many refugees we befriended, they would sit through just about anything for the chance at a night out. Our Friday night studies delivered a chance for these men and women to feel valuable. For a few hours, they were everyday people, not one of a herd, shuffled to meals and lawyer appointments and clothing rooms, one of the masses. On Friday nights they were human again, part of a small group, talked with, listened to and served. 

Ramin and Leila were Muslim, and openly so. They didn’t give the impression of being particularly religious and they weren’t planning on converting to Christianity, unless it made their asylum chances better. If you’ve been persecuted at home because of religious reasons, you’re more likely to make your case for shelter in another country. But you must prove it.

Ramin and Leila were a little older than Bobby and me and already had kids. Ramin was tall and imposing with thick, curly hair. He rarely smiled and spoke near perfect English. His wife, Leila, was petite, quiet and anxious. She had expected their journey to be much easier, much quicker. She was surprised to find herself living in a room with her husband and children for months on end. They had no money and few possessions. 

Ramin and Leila’s children were tiny, beautiful people. Their daughter, Ashti, had shiny, straight, dark hair.  Their son, Vahid, had curly black hair like his dad’s. The kids were rambunctious and happy, not old enough to truly understand what was going on. They were on an adventure, meeting strange and interesting people. Too young for school, they were spared the confusion and frustration of being thrust into a room all day, away from their parents, not understanding a word of what was happening. 

One day, I had Leila over for lunch along with her children.  We ate on my porch and walked around in slippers. The children played on the stairs leading to our loft bedroom.  I remember Leila almost falling, slipping on the wood floor in her borrowed slippers and the children giggling a lot.  I don’t remember what we ate or what we talked about. But I remember the look on her face when she walked into our modest, but homey house, shock and joy and jealousy and relief. It was so much smaller than where she had lived in Iran she said, and so much bigger than the room she presently occupied.

Leila told wistful stories about her house back in Iran; the smoky brown, glass cups she drank tea from, the patio on the roof of the home she shared with Ramin’s parents, the lavish clothes she wore to parties. I wondered once why she had left. The stories she told made Iran sound exotic, elaborate and opulent. Asking her to explain, Leila just shook her head and clicked her tongue. “There’s no future there,” she said. Life was hard in Iran and getting worse.

Leila's sister and her family traveled to Austria with Ramin and Leila. They lived next door to each other in the pension. Ramin and Leila, along with Leila’s sister and her family, had hopes of going to America or Canada. They knew people who had gone before them and would help them when they arrived. In Austria they didn’t know anyone. 

At one point Leila’s sister and her family decided to leave Austria. They had waited long enough and made the risky move of forging ahead, uninvited, to another country. Ramin and Leila chose to stay put. I don’t know if fear or common sense or a lack of money caused them to say goodbye. But I know parting was terribly hard on those sisters. And I don’t know where Leila’s sister and her family ended up.

Ramin didn’t ask many questions or talk much during those Friday night Bible studies. But he would translate for his wife and any other Farsi speakers. He once said, "We should pray to God. We pray to Mohammed, and he doesn't help us." I wasn't entirely sure God was going to help them in the way Ramin wanted. But I was excited he might give it a try.

As far as I know Ramin and Leila are still living in Austria. We believe they received asylum, permission to live there permanently. 

We tried to introduce Ramin and Leila to the One who could give them a future and a hope. Though we didn’t see them make a decision to follow Christ, we heard they did just after we left. 

I hope and pray it’s true. 

“Refugees didn’t just escape a place. They had to escape a thousand memories until they’d put enough time and distance between them and their misery to wake to a better day.”

Nadia Hashimi

Sequins, Hair Spray, and Boots

Oh shoot! I hadn’t thought this part through. 

There I was, dancing away, in downtown Lanett. The Lanett High School Golden Panther Marching Band was nearing the end of a rousing number during a community pep rally, the crowd was cheering, and we, the LHS Majorette line, were about to finish our dance with a fun move designed for the football field. We were each going to kick our right leg then swing it to the left as we bent down to the ground, rolled onto our stomachs, and completed the move with a perky head pop and our left toes pointed to the sky. 

It was a cute move, but we were not on a grass football field. We were on the open road. Granted the road was closed off, but the asphalt was kind of hot in Alabama even in October. The road that carried people to and from jobs and school each day was unmentionably dirty and gross, and we were about to lie on it. 

The first girl on the end of the majorette line, DeAnna, realized what was about to happen as she kicked her leg, then she sank to the road in the slowest possible motion, hoping, as I was, that we’d find some way out of this without having to belly flop onto the blacktop. The next girl in line dropped to the ground without hesitation, so I followed suit. And that’s how I ended up lying face down on the street in downtown Lanett. 

This was one of the highlights of my high school years. Not lying on the street between the post office and the First Christian Church but being a high school majorette. I loved to dance and twirl my baton. I loved putting on my sequin uniform and knee-high boots. 

I loved curling my hair with hot rollers then shellacking it with Aqua Net Super Extra Hold hair spray. I loved the make-up and the sparkle. I loved dancing and catching my baton at the exact moment as my fellow majorettes. The lights. The noise of the crowd. The drums beating out the tempo for our opening number. 

It was the chance to be someone else and, during the 8 minutes our halftime show lasted, it was magical. 

I know many people who were high school majorettes. We laugh about the boots, the hairspray, and whether we still have our batons. Most of us do. I’ve lived in fourteen homes and except for a two-year stint in Austria, those batons have been my most faithful companion. They’re tucked safely away in a black and white carrying case, my name spelled out in orange tape on the cover. 

I was good at being a majorette. I could probably count the number of times I’ve said that in my life, “I was good.” But I was. I lived for Friday nights in the fall. 

I wish things we do as adults garnered the same type of celebration as catching a really high baton toss. When I set up appointments for my boss, he doesn’t applaud and cheer. When I manage to plan and cook a week’s worth of dinners, my family members don’t jump to their feet and high five each other. It’s just not the same. 

So, maybe it’s not going feel the same as marching off the field after an amazing halftime performance, comparing how many times I “dropped” with my fellow majorettes. But how can I carry over some part of that to my adult life? How can I first acknowledge and then celebrate the things I work hard for and do well? How can I celebrate those things I see in others?

I have a tear off notepad on my desk at work with the words “Awesome Citation” across the top. Under the heading it says, “You’ve been pretty awesome lately, completely outdoing yourself and outshining everyone else. It hasn’t gone unnoticed. Nice work.” Under that you can choose from a list of things to recognize someone for – blatant likeability, excessive good hair days, popularity with children, style for days. Then, at the bottom, there are a couple of lines for you to fill in. 

It's cute. You can get one here and I suggest you do. I’ve enjoyed filling these out and giving them to co-workers at my school. It means something when someone else takes a minute to affirm who you are and how you’re doing. I’ve spotted Awesome Citations in a couple of people’s classrooms, tacked to a bulletin board or taped to a desk. 

But everything we do isn’t going to be applauded. No one is going to be excited about me cleaning the bathroom. I’m not going to get a high five for reminding my boss that he has a meeting. 

Maybe there won’t ever be the public celebration and communal victory in everyday life that we experience at sporting events. And maybe that’s okay. I don’t know if I could live through that much excitement day in and day out. But it would be nice to capture some of that Friday night magic, some of that joy and passion and celebration of a job well done. 

My friends and I were discussing this very subject in a text thread this week. One of us found an old video of The Golden Panther Marching Band. It’s a video that resurfaces on Facebook occasionally. Our formations on the football field were crisp and precise. The music was peppy, loud, and beautiful. In this old video you can’t tell much about the majorettes, but we were there, doing our thing, laying on the grass at the end of the second number. It never fails to choke me up and make me wish I could be there again. 

Even though we all miss band and bus trips and practice, we all long for that same affirmation. I may not show up at my friend’s house on vacuuming day to cheer her on, but I can recognize and make sure to tell her what an amazing, strong mother she is. I can write another friend a letter telling her how proud I am of how she’s embraced her new role as “Mimi.” And I can tell myself that I’m doing a good job loving my husband and my mom and my job even when it feels overwhelming and like I’m not doing much. 

I guess I’ll have to come to terms with the fact that my adult accomplishments just aren’t going to be celebrated in the same way they were in high school. But that doesn’t mean I sometimes don’t still long to pull those boots out of the storage chest at my mom’s house or that I don’t twirl my batons just for the sheer pleasure of it. I just need to get better at affirming other people. And I really need to get better at affirming myself. 

And maybe that will be enough. 

You Seem a Decent Fellow, I Hate to Kill You

It’s just a plant. On some level I know that. But, on another level, it’s much more. It’s a tree actually; a Dracaena Lemon Lime. A dear friend sent this little tree to my family about four years ago when my grandmother passed away. It was a beautiful gesture, and I am still touched by her thoughtfulness.

But, what’s utterly amazing is that somehow, I’ve kept this plant alive. It’s in the corner of my dining room by a window. It soaks up the afternoon sun and gets watered when I think about it. I rotate the tree when I water it, hoping to keep it from getting too much sun on one side, just like when you’re sunbathing on the beach.

Thriving in my dark office

I don’t have a good track record with keeping plants alive. I killed a succulent that lived for months on my sunny kitchen table. The Confederate Roses (you’re probably supposed to call them something else now) I planted in my backyard got waterlogged and never bloomed. And, a lovely Tobacco Plant died over Christmas break when I decided it would be fine to leave it for two weeks on a pedestal beside my office at school.

So, it wasn’t a huge surprise when, in the last year or so, the Dracaena Lemon Lime hasn’t looked its best. I tried watering it less, cutting off brown parts of its leaves, even ignoring it (my preferred plant parenting strategy). Nothing worked. This Dracaena Lemon Lime is dead.

I thought it was dead once before. I was sad and tried to overlook the fact that it had lost some leaves and the ones that were left were looking either peaky or crispy and brown. But, amazingly, after a few weeks, a new leaf or two sprouted, light green and perky from the top of the little tree. It rebounded with a bit of determination and gusto. Short-lived but even so.

It’s not going to happen this time. I should come to terms with it and let it go. Somehow, I can’t bring myself to throw it away. It seems cruel and unnecessary, like I’m giving up on my grandmother and life and hope.

Yes, I realize that sounds dramatic. I also realize it’s just a plant.

I had a similar situation after our last move. Eighteen years earlier, my father passed away and I was gifted a beautiful Peace Lily. It lived through moves from Texas to Nebraska and from Nebraska to Pennsylvania, then from Pennsylvania to Alabama. I think Jesus knew I wouldn’t be able to handle it if this particular plant died. I did my usual ignoring thing, hoping to find a place where the Peace Lily happened to thrive. And, it worked, for a while. Years actually. But, one day I noticed that the Peace Lily only had a leaf or two. Then, one of the leaves got a brown spot that started creeping its way toward the roots.

I tried to water it a little more, then I tried to water it a little less. Nothing slowed the deadly progression. I even called my mom, my plant guru, and she said something really helpful like, “Oh Amy, just stick your finger in the dirt to see if it feels dry.” I did that, but either my finger doesn’t detect dryness or the plant never looked like it needed a drink.

A bold gift from a friend

Then, one day, the Peace Lily was gone. All that was left was a brown stick coming out of the soil. Eventually, even that disappeared. Unable to throw the Peace Lily away, I moved the pot to the top of the freezer in my laundry room. I saw it regularly, but rarely thought about it. The Peace Lily didn’t get watered or talked to. I went on about my life, finding a new job, taking care of the Dracaena Lemon Lime, mourning my grandmother.

Then one day I decided to clean off the top of the freezer and lo and behold, there was a tender, green leaf coming out of the dead Peace Lily. There was much rejoicing as I decided to start caring for the plant again. But all too soon, the Peace Lily gave up the ghost and I found the strength to throw it in the trash can just outside the laundry room window.

Funny, isn’t it, how something as insignificant as a plant can make or break you. It’s not like I’m throwing away my dad or all my memories of him. I’m not tossing the butterfly pin that belonged to my grandmother or her kitchen table.

But, letting go of these plants kind of feels like I’m letting go of something much more precious, something much more tender than a new leaf, much more beautiful than a healthy, lush plant in the corner of my dining room.

And why do people give you plants when a loved one dies anyway? How did that tradition begin? You’re at your most vulnerable and tired and preoccupied. You probably aren’t taking great care of yourself, so how can you be expected to take care of a fragile plant as well? Maybe that’s the point.

A plant needs you. It needs you to crawl out of the recliner and give it water. It needs you to dust off the coffee table to make space for something beautiful. And, maybe it’s more important to be needed in the midst of your grief than it is to sleep a bit more or watch another movie.

Missing people makes you do some silly things, like hanging onto chairs that are broken because they were hers or picking up the phone to call someone who isn’t there when you want to cook a slab of ribs. But I know what my grandmom and my dad would say about me keeping these plants. They’d think I was crazy and they’d say, “Throw that old, ugly plant away, Amy. It isn’t doing anything for you.”

I should listen to them and honor that thought. But this time, I don’t really have the strength to toss the Dracaena Lemon Lime. Not yet. Maybe I’ll just move it to the top of the freezer in my laundry room and hope for the best.

"Use For Vacation"

“People don’t take trips, trips take people.” 

-John Steinbeck 

While we were missionaries in Austria, many people gave money to support us and our work. One of these wonderful people was my Aunt Sally. When we got pictures of the checks our faithful friends and family had sent, Aunt Sally’s check would have a note on the memo line. “For vacation” she would write, every single month. Seeing this I would smile, say a prayer of thankfulness for Aunt Sally, and go about my business. 

We had been living in Europe for two years when I finally talked my husband into visiting Egypt. I had great reasons why now was the time to go including how close-ish we were. Plus, we wouldn’t just ramble our way through so unfamiliar a locale. We wouldn’t set off alone to explore like we had in Venice or Prague or Paris. We would take a tour. We would be on a bus with other loud Americans, all wearing white socks and telling everyone our life’s story at the drop of a hat. Aside from the bus, our other mode of transportation would be a cruise ship on the Nile, for heaven’s sake. How could Bobby possibly say no to that? 

Turns out he couldn’t. Bobby reluctantly agreed. 

I had always wanted to go to Egypt. The depth of history, the exotic nature of the land, the underlying sense of danger. It seemed romantic and mysterious. 

When I was in elementary school, just starting to pick my own books at the Bradshaw Library, I chose and read a book about King Tut. The book said in the process of readying the boy king’s body for burial, the Egyptians used a hook to pull his brain out of his head through his nose. I mean, who wouldn’t want to visit the land where that happened? 

However, on September 18, 1997, less than one month before our trip, gunmen attacked tourist buses parked outside the Egyptian Museum in Tahrir Square, killing nine. We checked with the American embassy in Vienna who said we should go ahead with our plans. 

So, on October 8 we arrived in Cairo. The trip had been long. We took a train from our home in Baden, Austria to Vienna. There we got on another train which took us to Budapest, Hungary where we got on a brand new 737 operated by Malev, the Hungarian airline. From Hungary, we flew across the Mediterranean Sea in the middle of the night to Cairo. The upside of the odd flight time was the plethora of empty seats. We could each lay down and try to sleep. 

When we arrived in Cairo it was still dark. We were greeted by a shuttle driver sent by the tour company. He helped us load our suitcases into his van, then sped us across the countryside with his lights off, flashing them only to let oncoming traffic know he was there. We were relieved and exhausted when we arrived at our hotel. 

That relief was unfortunately brief. We were soon told we couldn’t check into our room for several hours. I was so disappointed. All I wanted was sleep. While I was preparing to get embarrassingly comfortable on the plush lobby couch and begin snoring, loudly, in hopes of getting us into a room faster, Bobby was cooking up a plan of his own. 

He suggested we take a taxi to the pyramids and hopefully see the sunrise. “What a glorious idea," thought my 25 year old naive self. What an adventure! 

There just happened to be an unoccupied cab in the hotel parking lot and we were able to stow our bags in a secure room off the hotel lobby. The taxi driver assured us he “knew a guy” who could get us in to see the pyramids. 

So, off we went in the pre-dawn Cairo hours, Bobby and I, snug in the back of a very old taxi, bumping down tiny backroads in a nondescript neighborhood. The driver stopped by what appeared to be an open garage. He excused himself and ducked into the house. Minutes later he reemerged with another man who jumped into the passenger seat of the car. “You want to see the pyramids, yes?” he said, amazingly cheery for being woken at such an early hour. We agreed and off we went again. 

A few minutes later we emerged from the streets of the crowded, maze-like neighborhood to face a tall chain link fence enclosing sand as far as we could see. The taxi stopped. Our driver and his friend got out beckoning us to follow. We walked through a hole in the fence and were soon approached by a man in a turban and robe. Our taxi driver’s friend spoke with him and the man turned away, evidently satisfied with whatever explanation was given. 

We made our clumsy way forward, up one of the mountains of sand and there they were. The pyramids. I was awestruck. They were sitting a mile away from us in a sea of sand, the ancient tombs blurry in the haze of the early morning. 

The taxi driver’s friend interrupted our staring and asked if he could take our picture. We happily agreed. Then, thinking he was clever, the friend told me to raise my arm high over my head pretending to hold the point of the Great Pyramid of Giza. I complied, feeling a little silly, but willing. 

Weeks later when we finally developed our film, I was excited to see those “first glimpse of the pyramids” pictures. To our great amusement, the pictures showed that I was standing with my hand hovering above the horizon while the pyramids were over my opposite shoulder. My hair was standing on end and the dress, tights, and flats I was wearing (what was I thinking?!) were all looking crumpled and schmutzy. 

My first thought about my appearance was, “I don’t remember it being windy. But, it must have been. My hair looks crazy.” But, no. Other pictures of us during this early morning jaunt revealed that my hair looked like that the whole time. No wind needed. 

In this state of disarray, we slid down the sand dune where we had been trespassing and climbed back into our taxi. After dropping the friend off at his home, we were delivered back to the hotel where our room was finally ready and we were able to clean up and take a much needed nap. 

The rest of our tour was beautifully choreographed. Our guide was suave, but likable and spoke English like an American. He told jokes and stories and taught us history that was alive and exciting. We visited tombs and markets, gardens and shops. We ate exotic foods in interesting restaurants with spices I had never tasted. We sailed, played games, danced, and bought souvenirs. 

We saw where the Lighthouse of Alexandria once stood and museum displays with artifacts thousands of years old. The tour guide who led us around Alexandria seemed to grow bored of her own tour, walking quickly past museum displays with a wave of her hand and hardly an explanation. Everything is so old it’s hard to distinguish one amazing find from another. 

We walked around temple columns so big it would take six long-armed people to join hands around them. We fought off beggars and declined to buy smooth, mass produced vases. We saw then-president Mubarak in the Luxor airport less than 20 feet away across the baggage claim. I got disapproving looks when I thoughtlessly wore a sleeveless shirt to a public market. 

We also got sick, like many of our traveling companions. I was the first in our group to feel the effects of being in such a different place. So careful to drink bottled water and wash my hands, I still found myself lying on a few pieces of lumber in the dust outside an ageless temple. There was a friendly dog (we nicknamed him Rover-afa) lying beside me and my husband standing guard nearby. After my little rest, I was able to rejoin our group heading to the next destination. 

One night, as I was brushing my teeth and complaining about being sick, I told Bobby I was puzzled about how it had happened. I dutifully swished my mouth with bottled water, then rinsed my toothbrush under the bathroom tap. You’re not supposed to do that. Ah. Mystery solved. 

We visited a Nubian village with the added adventure of riding camels. My camel had woken up in a bad mood and needed to be led to our stop, yelling the whole way. At some point in the journey, Bobby, who’s camel was completely fine and had clearly made the trek to the village before, passed me with a smug smile (Bobby, not the camel), in complete control. 

We met lots of people; a young Australian woman who was traveling around the world by herself, a couple from South Carolina who tried, unsuccessfully, to teach us how to play bridge, a pilot and his wife from Texas who got to sit in the very front of our plane. I continue to be fascinated by the history and culture, and I’m still particularly amazed when I read the parts of the Bible that take place in Egypt. 

After our 10 day trip, we returned to Austria. We needed to pack and ship our things, decide what work we would do when we returned to the U.S., and say goodbye to our friends. But, I continued to reflect on this trip to Africa and what it had taught me. I learned once again that travel is good and taking advantage of your opportunities is good too. But, you should always be thankful for those who help you along the way. 

Back when Bobby finally agreed to the tour of Egypt, we had lots of things to figure out; is it really ok to leave our passports at the Egyptian embassy in Vienna in order to get a visa to travel there, can a woman wear shorts in a Muslim country, and is there any way we had saved enough money for this? We were missionaries, after all, and we never wanted to be flippant or careless in how we spent those dollars. Then, I remembered the monthly checks from Aunt Sally. I figured out how much she had given us over our two year stay in Austria and compared it to what our trip would cost. 

In Aunt Sally’s desire for us to use her contribution for vacation, she had given us just what we needed for that trip to Egypt. Thanks to Aunt Sally, we got to go. 

The Luxor Massacre took place on November 17, 1997 just a month after our return. We had visited the very same site where 62 people were killed. That effectively ended any hope of Bobby Britton returning to Egypt, ever. 

"Ancient Egyptians believed that upon death they would be asked two questions and their answers would determine whether they could continue their journey in the afterlife. The first question was “Did you bring joy?” the second was “Did you find joy?” 

– Leo Buscaglia

The picture quality is not great, I realize. But you're more than welcome to come by my house any time to see the whole story lovingly memorialized in our scrapbook. 

I Have a Brother

    

A couple of years ago at Mothers of Preschoolers (MOPS) in Bloomsburg, PA, where I was a mentor mom, we talked about awareness of and compassion for others. I offered to do a short devotion at the beginning of one of our monthly meetings where we were talking about the subject. After thinking and praying about it a lot, my devotion went something like this…

Compassion is one of those ideals that is easy to brush off. We think we know what compassion means. We think we know what it looks like. Maybe we do. Maybe we’ve been fortunate enough to experience it. 

I usually begin studying a concept by looking it up in the dictionary. So, I looked up “compassion.” The definition says compassion is “concern for the suffering and misfortune of others.” From that definition, I started thinking about Philippians 2:1-8. 

Philippians is a book of the Bible in the New Testament which was mostly written about the life of Jesus and about the church that Jesus started. Philippians was written by a man named Paul. Paul at one point had been not only anti-Christian, but he had been aggressively and violently anti-all-things-Jesus. 

Then, Jesus dramatically saved Paul from all that. Paul was never the same again. He even became a missionary where he traveled around to parts of Europe and Asia and started churches. On his second missionary journey he went to what is now Greece to a town called Philippi. He was warmly welcomed, and a church was started. Paul taught the Philippians everything he knew, fathering them in their new way of life. Things went smoothly for Paul, which wasn’t always the case. So, this church held a special place in his heart. 

Paul was probably in Rome when he wrote this letter to the Philippians, and he was probably in prison. When the church at Philippi heard about Paul’s predicament, they sent him a gift. Paul wrote a thank you note to the church in Philippi for that gift, cause his momma raised him right. The book of Philippians is Paul’s thank you note to the church in Philippi. He tells them how he’s doing and, like any good “dad,” he takes the opportunity to teach a little. 

In the second chapter of Philippians in verses 1 and 2 Paul says, 

“Is there any encouragement from belonging to Christ? Any comfort from his love? Any fellowship together in the Spirit? Are your hearts tender and compassionate?  Then make me truly happy by agreeing wholeheartedly with each other, loving one another, and working together with one mind and purpose.”

Here he basically says, “If our time together, if our relationship, means anything to you, then you need to act right. Y’all get along and work as a team. That’s what I taught you to do, and I hope that’s what you’re doing now.”  

Then, in verses 3 and 4 Paul says, 

“Don’t be selfish; don’t try to impress others. Be humble, thinking of others as better than yourselves. Don’t look out only for your own interests, but take an interest in others, too.”

Here Jesus says don’t look out for yourself alone, don’t act like you don’t see a friend or a stranger struggling. Take your eyes off yourself, look out there and think of them before you think of yourself.

    My husband, Bobby, and I often quoted verses 3 and 4 to our children. “Each of you should look not only to his own interests, but also to the interests of others.” We just hoped the boys would love each other. We hoped and prayed they would get along and be good friends. I still hope and pray for that. But I want them to be so confident in their relationship with each other, so confident that God knows them and loves them completely, that they’re free and willing and eager to take care of other people.  

In verses 5-8 Paul says, 

“You must have the same attitude that Christ Jesus had. Though he was God, he did not think of equality with God as something to cling to. Instead, he gave up his divine privilege; he took the humble position of a slave and was born as a human being. When he appeared in human form, he humbled himself in obedience to God and died a criminal’s death on a cross.”

Paul gives us the example of Jesus. He says Jesus had more reason than anyone ever to say “no thank you” to being humble. He was GOD. But He didn’t grab that identity, He didn’t insist that everyone honor him and bow down. He humbled himself to being born as a human baby in a stable and He humbled himself to dying like a criminal.

Paul is basically saying, “If Jesus was able to look out for us first even as he died, then you should be able to tell a friend that she still has a curler in her hair. Or, if Jesus could come to this messed up world to save us, giving up Paradise for a time, then surely you can realize that the family down the street who just got a positive COVID test needs those pizzas in your freezer more than you do.” 

One day when my twin boys were about two or three, I had the rare opportunity to take just one of them to Costco. I put Allen in the buggy, and we cruised around the store, picking up the things we needed, and having fun together. When you have twins there’s not much one-on-one time. We paid for our things and headed to the exit. When we got close to the door one of the Costco workers who was checking receipts stopped us. He checked over our cart and then asked Allen if he wanted a sucker. Allen looked at me to make sure it was ok, and I said yes. Pleased with his sucker, Allen looked at me again and I gave him the standard mom reminder to be thankful, “Allen, what do you say?” Sweet, innocent Allen looked at the man who had given him the sucker, held out his hand and said, “I have a brother.”

I think that’s kind of how compassion is supposed to look. God doesn’t tell us in Philippians to look out ONLY for the interests of others. He says to look out ALSO for the interests of others. 

So, absolutely, say “thank you” for the gifts you’ve been given. But don’t be afraid to say to God or to the world, “You know what? I have a brother.” 

I love y’all. I want you to know you’re doing a great job. If you made it out of the house today and you and your children have some sort of clothing on and ate a little something for breakfast (whether it was fruit and yogurt or leftover pizza) you have already won. It is already a good day. If you don’t do anything else today but hug your children and tell them you love them and hug your husband and tell him you’re proud of him and you love him too, you have had a great day.

    Now, go love your brother.

 Commune with Us

When the pandemic began. I was one week into a brand new job, one of my sons was in Lanett with me after deciding to take a semester break from college, the other son was 30 minutes away working at a bank and living in Auburn, and Bobby was way up in Pennsylvania working on an oil and gas project. 

This was fairly normal for our family, but the lock down hit us just as hard as everyone else. We were new to Lanett, even though I grew up here. We had my mom and old friends, but we didn’t know many other people. 

In that year when everything stopped, on a dime, in a second, everything shifted. Everything changed. School looked remarkably like homeschooling for everyone. Work, even when you were working on a team, was done solo. And, church, well, church made me feel more remote than anything.

The shut down in Alabama started about a week before my husband and I were going to join a new church. I was looking forward to getting to know people. Having lunch with ladies I wanted to discuss missions and service opportunities with, having people over for meals that started out slightly awkward then ended in sighs and thankfulness over true connection. I was looking forward to beginnings.

But, we were all sent home to work alone, learn alone and even worship alone.

Bread and fish after an Easter Sunday service
standing by Niagra Falls

During the first Facebook service our church offered, my son, Allen, and I sang along to worship songs and read the scripture text for the morning. We listened to the sermon and bowed our heads in prayer. Molly, our dog, enjoyed the service with us, snuggled in Allen’s lap. Then, communion. 

The person leading the communion part of the service asked those at home to take a minute to “gather supplies.” Allen and I paused the video then scampered into the kitchen to lay our hands on the first things we could find. Anything that might work as a stand in for bread and wine, anything that might somehow help us turn our thoughts to the sacrifice of Christ.

I’ll admit this was kind of hard for me to begin with. I once had a friend describe communion at a camp her family attended. The children and adults at the camp shared in a communion meal of Coke and donuts. I kind of thought that was stretching the bounds of acceptable church behavior. Not sacrilegious, but getting there. 

So, it was with a bit of unease that I grabbed the first things my eyes landed on, leftover Domino’s garlic knots from dinner the night before and Milo’s sweet tea from the refrigerator. I cut two small pieces of buttery, parsley-flecked bread and put them on a small plate. I poured a couple of ounces of sweet tea into two, small, SEC Hall of Fame, plastic cups. I carried them to the family room and sat them on the trunk we use for a coffee table.

As the service continued, we were asked to share the elements with each other. 

“The body of Christ. 

Thanks be to God. 

The blood of Christ. 

Thanks be to God.” 

Allen and I took turns holding the plate, shyly and awkwardly saying the words. We each took our cup afterward and briefly held the tea aloft, almost toasting each other before taking a sip. 

Then, it was quiet. We listened to the music being played on Spring Road Christian Church’s Facebook page and settled back into our places on the couch. I closed my eyes thanking the Lord for all He has done, for all He continues to do for me - in me and around me. 

And, in that moment I felt peaceful, loved. Like God was present in the room, the smell of garlic hanging in the air like incense, the tumble of blankets on the couch needing to be folded. Like He didn’t care what we had eaten for communion, He just wanted to commune with us. To be invited, to be remembered. 

And, He was, even with such humble elements made holy by His very presence.

A gift of wine
brewed in a college fermenting class

Before the pandemic most of my experiences with communion were very reverent and saintly. Like the time I met a young woman who had briefly lived in the home of a pastor. She said every Saturday he ground wheat kernels by hand and baked bread loaves for communion at his church the next day. 

Or at my wedding where we had a freshly made, beautiful loaf of bread made by our pastor’s wife. We also had Sprite. Someone, me probably, had forgotten we needed grape juice for the communion part of our ceremony. I wondered why Brother Webb was looking at me so intently as I took the chalice. I didn’t stop to think about it in the moment, but I did briefly wonder why there were bubbles in the “juice.”

The lock down chipped away at some of my closely held ideals of what communion should look like. During the pandemic, in our communion celebrations, we shared cheese straws and water, pieces of sandwich bread and orange juice, crackers and Coke. It hasn’t been the same communion meal twice, but it was special and sweet and, dare I say it, holy, every time. 

Because the thing about communion isn’t what you’re eating, grape juice and hard, tiny wafers or wine and bread, or Coke and donuts, it’s what you’re remembering. It’s what you’re choosing to partake in. And, that’s the Body and Blood of Christ. 

Sitting in an easily accessible place on the shelf in my kitchen is a book called Bread and Wine. It’s a book with stories about food and meals and friends. It has the biscuit recipe I make many Sunday nights, a delicious vinaigrette salad dressing, and the decadent sounding Dark Chocolate Sea Salted Toffee. In this book, Shauna Niequist, the author, talks about how important bread and wine are not only as elements that fill our bodies, but as indelible marks on the life of a believer in Jesus. She says,

“Bread is bread, and wine is wine, but bread-and-wine is another thing entirely. 

The two together are the sacred and the material at once, 

the heaven and the earth, the divine and the daily.”

Shauna Niequist, Bread and Wine 

I’m so thankful the lock down is behind us, that we gather each Sunday, together, to worship and pray, to hug each other and shake hands, to hear the Word of God and take communion. Beautiful loaves of white bread, dipped in a bowl of scarlet juice. But, Allen would like everyone to know he’d appreciate more opportunities to have church with his dog.