Christmas Past

To speak to memories on this Christmas Eve is somewhat overwhelming. I'll let the "1,000 Words" each picture is worth speak.

Happy Advent

Over the past several years I have been in a habit of wishing those I pass a “Merry Christmas”. Your immediate response might be “so...what’s the big deal”. “Merry Christmas” is a staple during this season. But......

It is not uncommon for me on January 9 or March 23 or some other arbitrary day to say “Merry Christmas” to individuals I encounter. This is atypical. My out-of-season “Merry Christmas” often evokes the response of...”aren’t you a little late for that”. My usual response is “no...I wanted to be the first to wish you a Merry Christmas for this year”.

Anyone who has gone through this script (at least has gone through it for the first time) almost always responds with a smile. With the smile comes an affirmation that this is indeed their first “Merry Christmas” for the year. My intent with this exercise is to offer levity and encouragement. I certainly have no intent to treat the holiday flagrantly.

This exercise was recently turned “on its head”. Earlier this fall a new friend emailed me an innocuous question. He was in need of some pertinent information. I recall I did not have the information but referred him to someone who might have it. I added to the email something to the effect “that if no one has wished you a Merry Christmas this year, allow me to be the first....Merry Christmas”.

Until earlier this fall I had only known this friend through business. It was business that provided the opportunity for us to become more acquainted. Through business I found a friend who dwells in a genuine and profound Christian faith.

My friend responded to my forwarded recommendation with “thank you”. He responded to my “Merry Christmas” with a wish for the blessing of a Happy Advent. His response was gracious and intended.

My initial response to his return email was a quaint nod, inward smile and quick dismissal. I recall a brief thought that “we expressed a mutual wish”. Merry Christmas and Happy Advent are the same, aren’t they?  With that I archived the email and marked our business complete. I moved on to other tasks. I gave no further thought to the comment.

It was  few days later in the course of my morning routine I heard the echo of “Happy Advent” and my immediate thought was “Merry Christmas is insufficient; it’s  incomplete”. Merry Christmas and Happy Advent ARE NOT NECESSARILY same.

Southern Baptists generally are not acquainted with the Christian Liturgical Calendar. Its cycle is not familiar and its symbolism and meaning are generally avoided.It was not too many years ago that I developed even a minimal understanding of Advent and the Christian Calendar in general.

I can blame my lack of liturgical heritage for my ignorance and subsequent lack of regard for the great celebration that is the season of Advent. I desire to no longer confine my remembrance and celebration to the birth of Christ only. I pray my remembrance encompasses His coming.

Like the prophets, may I anticipate the redeeming work of Messiah.
Like the angels, may I proclaim His coming.
Like the Shepherds, may I kneel before HIm.
Like the Wise Men, may I worship Him.
Like Mary, may I surrender in obedience to the will of the Father.

Emmanuel---God with us!

Happy Advent.

I Will...

...Always Be the Baby!

From Left to Right Dede (Darsey) Holden, Steve Darsey, Rusty Darsey, T.R. Darsey

From Left to Right Dede (Darsey) Holden, Steve Darsey, Rusty Darsey, T.R. Darsey

Deliberate Pause

When a child is given a piece of candy or has kind words spoken to him or her or is given a gift, the parent might well say “now what do you say to the nice person?” The child, following script, says “thank you”.

This is not an unfamiliar script. Most of us, whether child, parent, teacher or significant adult, have more than likely played the role both as child and adult.

This script provides a “deliberate pause” in the child’s agenda. It is a “deliberate pause” that is designed to encourage the child to “thanksgiving”.

Thanksgiving Day brings a “deliberate pause” in schedules and lives. It is a time afforded to“give thanks” for abundance and blessings. Thoughts and voices will speak this day to bounty and provision.

The United States government established “Thanksgiving Day” as a legal holiday. It was established to “prompt” Americans to say “thank you” to “the nice person”.

“When I was a child, I said thank you as I child, I was grateful like a child, I was limited in my understanding of gratitude like a child. Now that I am grown, may I put away childish thanksgiving and ‘give thanks’ from a heart that is a ‘grateful heart’”

From a heart that is at this moment filled with gratitude I say “Thank you Heavenly Father. Thank you for your bounty and provision. Thank you for heavenly relationship with you, with family and with loved ones.”

Echoes

There are a few things I remember about the lake. I recall there was a water well with a hand pump. There were two reasons a very young boy would be attracted to well pump.


First, it was fascinating to figure how this mechanism could cause water to come out. Second,...I was constantly being told to “leave it alone”. Those are the real magic words to make it irresistible.

I remember the lake because Rusty found a “snapping turtle”. He put it on top of a “coke can”. I step away for a moment to share this editorial. Just as we do in the south today “coke can” was generic. It could have been any flavor soft drink. For all I know it could have been beer can. “Coke” meant any beverage.

In my early years drink cans were made of “tin” instead of recyclable aluminium. It was opened by a removable “pull tab”. Some purported to have actually collected “pull tabs”. This may be true but I never believed it.

The “utility” or “multi-function” of the “coke can” is what is called to attention. Rusty was able to put the turtle on top of the can. Once again, two things were accomplished. First, it kept the turtle from escaping. Second, it created the penultimate platform for “close-in” turtle observation. The “close-in” part is what established this turtle to be a “snapping turtle”. Nuff said.

I step aside from the narrative again. The "turtle on the can" reminds me of an idiom I heard several years ago. “If you see a turtle on a top of a fence post, you can bet he didn’t get there on his own”. This is a truth I have stated in other conversations on a regular basis.

I once remember swimming in the lake. I repeatedly opened my eyes under water and developed “pink eye”. (Yes..I actually remember opening my eyes under water)  By the time we got home I would not open my eyes. I remember how sensitive my eyes were to the light. Mama and Daddy had to literally force my eyes open to treat them with medicated drops.

There are facts about the lake that remain unclear. I cannot recall who owned the property. “Uncle Earl”?. There was a second man who would come to the lake. Perhaps he too was an owner.

I recall this second man because he always had mints, gum or a bag of Funyuns in his car. They represented a potential treat for me. He kept them “to eat to cover up the smell of drinking if ever stopped by the police”. Funny how I remember that detail.

I seem to recall a structure on the other side of the lake. Maybe it was an old rail car or something unique that had been moved to the property. Daddy spent time there working. Once he was  was using a welder or cutting torch. Something happened and the structure burned.

Early memories for me are generally impressions. Details and specifics are limited.The integrity of details is “up for grabs”. However, there is one vivid and irrevocable memory I have about the lake. It is the first memory I have of an echo. I can see the lake and vista spread before me. I can hear the return of the voice. It is one of my most fascinating memories.

Over recent days I have been plagued with the “sinus crud” suffered by others; the runny nose, the sneezing, the coughing and hacking....the coughing and hacking...the coughing and hacking. Daddy must have it too because I’ve heard him coughing and hacking....or is there an echo in here?

Grown Ups

It's easy to see from the photos how the years have made their mark. I thought these photos might serve as a reminder of our many blessings as the 2011 Holiday Season begins.

Mountaintop Experience

I've been away for the past several weeks...at least I’ve been away from “Hidden Lunch Boxes”. Several things have been going on. I’ve been helping acclimate our (new) pastor to his service at First Baptist Church, Winona.

My siblings and I also continue the “process of processing” our parents earthly belongings. That continues to be a “process” that “keeps on getting...”. I encourage you NOT to make an assumption about this statement. It has several meanings for me.....

The past several weeks has also held a “mountaintop” experience”; literally and figuratively. I mentioned in a previous blog my involvement with the Mississippi Singing Churchmen. I joined this organization when Judy and I returned to Mississippi almost twenty-two years ago.

The Mississippi Singing Churchmen are about singing. The Mississippi Singing Churchmen are also about missions; missions support and missions action. Its missions action includes sponsoring international mission efforts. The most recent international work was a few weeks ago to the country of Peru. Our group had worked there previously and this was a continuation of that work.

Several of us from the larger group departed a couple of days ahead so we could visit various Inca ruins in Peru prior to the beginning of our mission work. The “pinnacle” experience was a visit to one of the “wonders of the world”, the ruins of Machu Picchu. It was truly a wondrous experience.

Our guide was educational and communicated clearly. The design and engineering details of Machu Picchu were fascinating. The work of the ancient Incas would rival that of other ancient civilizations such as the Egyptians.

However, my visit has left me with larger questions. My questions are the same questions that visitors to Machu Picchu have asked and continue to ask. First, why did the Incas build it? Scholars can strongly speculate the reasons why Machu Picchu was constructed. It obviously was a sacred site for the Incas. Although that sacredness is understood there is still question as to why it was built.

The setting of Machu Picchu brings another question. To reduce the journey to Machu Picchu with the lone description of “scenic” is a massive understatement. It’s like saying the Pacific Ocean is a big lake or the Grand Canyon is a big hole in the ground. Description is inadaquate.

Machu Picchu is atop a mountain in the Peruvian Andes. It is a single mountain among scores of mountains in the same area. The mountains are similar and the one on which it is built is not the highest. So the second question is “why that particular mountain top?” “Why out of all the possible mountains was that particular mountain designate for Machu Picchu?

For me these questions will remain unanswered. It is not the purpose of this post to answer these questions  much less exhaust the considered responses. However, part of my mountaintop experience at Machu Picchu is searching these unanswerable questions and taking on their challenge to my thought.

Another reason my journey to Machu Picchu was such a “mountaintop experience” was because it was my 50th birthday. It was totally coincidental that we visited Machu Picchu on this particular day. It proved to be most memorable. My only stated regret was that I was not with my family. However, I was with a great group of friends.

In the days leading up to our departure I asked myself several times, “I wonder how many people have celebrated their 50th birthday at Machu Picchu”? I am aware with the masses that have visited any number of individuals might have celebrated significant birthdays at Machu Picchu.

I do know of one other individual who celebrated a significant birthday at Machu Picchu. Our group was standing on the sidewalk in front of our hotel in Aguas Calientes. One of our group pulled out a bag of “50th Birthday Stuff” my family had asked him to smuggle. I adorned the various paraphernalia and our group begin to take pictures.

At this point II saw a lady cross the railroad track/street. (Yes..the street has a train that runs through it.) She walked up to our group, and addressed me. “Is this your birthday?’ “Yes it is” I responded. “And you are going to Machu Picchu for your birthday?” “I am” I responded.

This lady, whose name I don’t recall, stated how the previous day was her birthday and she and her husband celebrated it by hiking into Machu Picchu for a sunrise visit. I certainly was elated at the coincidence.

She then asked my age. I responded I was turning 50 years old. It then became a great coincidence that she had turned 50 years old the day before at Machu Picchu. I remembered asking myself about others celebrating significant birthdays at Machu Picchu and I rejoiced at the coincidence. It added to my “mountaintop experience”.

“Mountaintop Experiences”. A great blessing! They should be counted as such. “Down in the valley”. A great blessing! Yes, the valleys are low. However, the valley is where you find the river. Perhaps I will learn to always take peace that no matter where I am, God remains.

Mama Beehive

Music is a tool for ministry, at least for me. I am a music minister in a local church and have been for over thirty years. I also participate in music ministry that is an extension of the local church.

My extended ministry is through the Mississippi Singing Churchmen. This is a statewide men's choir whose membership consists of music ministers from across the state. It has been my privilege to be a part of this group for more than twenty-one years.

This organization meets periodically throughout the year to rehearse, sing, minister and fellowship. There are times in the course of rehearsals or concerts our group can be enveloped by a phenomena. It happens when very familiar selections are being sung. Our director makes us aware of it by announcing, “you guys are in auto pilot”.

I think for the most part my parents adored the “auto pilot switch”. Our family had some simple yet meaningful rituals. Some of these rituals were annual. Each October when the fair was in town, my father would take us. We would go on Tuesday afternoon as soon as we got home from school. Why? It was his day off and I think my mother despised the fair.

Like most, Christmas eve had its rituals. In the afternoon we would visit extended family on my mother’s side and would ride to look at Christmas decorations after dark. We would also spend MUCH ENERGY trying to go to sleep.

My father was much about ritual. He seldom varied from his wake-up time. He was usually up at 4am, drinking coffee and armed with HIS pertinent reading material. I’m not convinced my mother was as attached to this routine. but she was usually not far behind him in the activities that heralded the new day.

Sunday morning...Sunday mornings were a ritual unto themselves. We did attend church as children. Our parents did not attend with us until we were a little older. Church was an important part of the life of our family, but the focus of this memory is not church. It was the activities before church.

Pancakes...pancakes were an important part of Sunday mornings. Sunday morning breakfast might also include grits, scrambled  or poached eggs and bacon or sausage. Breakfast was a memorable Sunday morning ritual, but it isn’t what stands out the most. What stands out the most about Sunday morning? Music!!

Again, my father had some “very clear” rituals and Sunday morning music was one of them. I wonder to this day if we would remember how to chew and swallow our food if the Sunday morning music had not been playing.

I cannot recall an “established order”. There may not have been one. However, the same “players” were always present. Each Sunday morning we could count on the likes of Patsy Cline and Floyd Cramer to join us for breakfast.

We were in “auto pilot” as the Sunday morning music played. “We knew every part by heart”. We could find the key before the next song began to play on the old LPs. “In the misty moonlight, by the flickering firelight”, Jim Reeves would serenade each Sunday.

The television was also part of the Sunday morning music repertoire.. My father would turn on the television at the appointed time and we would hear:

Jubilee, Jubilee, you’re invited to this happy Jubilee

Jubilee, Jubilee, you’re invited to this happy Jubilee

Our Sunday morning was also filled with “The Florida Boys” and “The Blackwood Brothers”. However, this dimmed in comparison to the group we hoped would be on for the week....you guessed it...”The Happy Goodman Family”. We anticipated them the most because of their beloved matriarch, Sister Vestal Goodman.

Why her? Was it the music? It really was quit simple...her hair. My mother’s routine had her at the hairdresser two days a week. Saturday was “wash and set”. Tuesday was for a “tease”. The occasional “perm” always led to a residential exodus until the “perm odor” had subsided. My mother had “BIG HAIR”. My mother was no match in the hair department to “Mama Beehive”.

Certainly ours is not the only family to tag Sister Vestal Goodman as “Mama Beehive”. It is for us a moniker that recalls a picture of “large hair”. It is also a moniker that recalls a wealth of routine that is now a crystallized heritage.

"The Help"er

“Read the book, don’t wait for the movie”. Presently both can be experienced with “The Help”. The book and the movie are popular, especially in our “neck of the woods”. The book was set in the Greater Jackson area and the movie was filmed in the Mississippi delta community of Greenwood.

Set in the mid-twentieth century, “The Help” is a story of the racial and societal tensions and dynamics that have haunted the American landscape, particularly the deep south, for generations.

“The Help” is a story of what might be identified as a generation of secondary slavery. It is also a story of resiliency of the human spirit. It shows that the heart will seek to rise above adversity and oppression with which it is sometimes bridled.

My parents were not of substantial fiscal resources. My mother and father were both in the work force. However, my parents found it necessary provide child care and household support throughout my early childhood. Although memories are sparse, “The Help” in my family has given me images and experiences that are vivid in my mind’s eye.

Maggie “helped” my Mom and Dad. I have not thought to ask when Maggie started “helping” my family. She was present in my earliest memories. Memories of her remain into my early elementary years. She performed household duties such as cleaning and laundry. She also provided childcare. As the youngest of four children I was its most direct recipient

My memory of Maggie is immune to the drama and dynamics of adulthood. I know that her time with my family was not without some tension and conflict. However, she is now frozen in my “childhood eyes” and has coalesced into figure that remains above reproach. She remains as a mother figure to me.

In birth order and character I have served well as “the baby”. If memory serves me correctly Maggie regularly referred to me in some derivative as “the baby”. Growing up being “the baby” was not cherished. My life is now at mid-point and I wear the moniker “the baby” as a badge of honor.

Maggie, whether knowingly or unknowingly,  served as an integral part of my defense strategy in my sometimes misguided role as a “sibling terrorist”. Younger siblings sometime employ covert and subversive actions to counteract the regime of oppression that the “cast system of birth order” brings.

I waged guerrilla warfare on my siblings. My siblings were older and bigger so I took it upon myself to address this environmental discrepancy by provoking them to adverse and counter-productive responses. I’d “drive them to the brink of their endurance”. (see “Brink Driving”)

When they would get to their “brink”, my siblings would retaliate. I would then retreat to “The Help”, fall behind the defensive line of her behind, and watch as she would defend the injustice of the “bigger-older” attack on the “younger-smaller” innocence. At the time it felt wonderful.

I am still amazed at my stubborn short-sightedness and even rank stupidity. Maggie was not always present. I could not always retreat behind the “behind”. I paid and sometimes I paid dearly. You know...it taken years for me to realize my siblings were not necessarily mean, I was however necessarily obnoxious.

I have novel memories of “The Help”. Maggie was not to be disturbed when she watched her “soaps”. She regularly needed a “BC Powder” and I was sent to fetch one from the store on the other side of our block. Yes..I would go as a young child...by myself...around the corner...out of sight... to the store to purchase Maggie a “BC Powder” and “pop”.

I recall how Maggie would iron clothes with starch. She would mix the starch in a 12oz Coke bottle. It had a top that could be inserted and the top would sprinkle the starch water on the clothes for proper ironing. I recall her need to “warm” during the cold months. She would back up to the spot heater in our living room, hike her skirt just a bit, and warm herself.

I still feel the security. I now realize her security was fragile. Truth be known, she was probably as scared of life as me. Yet, for me, I was sheltered. I had physical and emotional shelter provided by loving parents. Part of their provision for their “baby” was “The Help”.

Birthday Ball

Happy 50th Birthday to the Wiffle Ball. Seems that when we played on the streets and yards of South Side we might have pronounced it "Wuffle Ball". Whatever the name, like most neighborhood kids, if we could swing a bat at it we would. FYI....cracked Wiffle Balls are afforded a few more miles when repaired with your father's electrical tape.

Don't Blink

The crossing of a milestone brings a pause; a time of introspection and self-evaluation. Milestones can cause an individual to recognize they “are walking where they’ve never walked before”.

Birthdays, graduations, weddings, births and funerals are some of the milestones. Employment related experiences such as a new job or significant promotion might be included in this list. New love and relational experiences are sometimes in the census. The circumstances that bring the milestones can be numerous; the contemplative “pause” is the common thread.

When an individual comes to such a “pause”, he or she might speak about it. After all it is usually a significant life event. When spoken, it is almost inevitable the individual encounters a well-meaning “chronologically advanced” person who will claim the right to sober the moment.

These well meaning “wise guys” (in this case "guys" is not gender specific) say such things as “oh, you’re just a ‘spring chicken’” or “I’m old enough to be your parent” or “you haven’t seen anything yet”. They might add encouragement by quickly letting it be know that your experience “pales” in comparison to their own.

This thought has come full circle for me. Over recent years my wife and I have experienced a significant life event...GRADUATION. Our children have graduated high school and are now approaching completion of their college and graduate experiences. However, this is not the graduation to which I refer.

My wife and I are now graduated to the class of “empty nesters”. It is a unique class. It’s a pretty good class actually. It has caused us both to “pause” as we realize that we “walk where we’ve never walked before”.

It has been a healthy adjustment. We’ve manged to not “helicopter” our children. We do enjoy the opportunity to occasionally visit with them. As college students, they seem to enjoy such visits because it usually comes with free food. They don’t seem to mind the occasional company either but we recognize they don’t want too much of a good thing.

Our “empty nest pause” has brought me to a sobering awareness. I acknowledge my recent awareness with this disclaimer: “I now renege on my promise that I would NEVER repeat one particular “wise guy-ism” that I heard way to much in the early years of raising our children”. I’ll attempt to explain the statement.

I refer to the time our children were in diapers. The early years of raising children hold a rigor all their own. There is no physical boredom and the need to be mentally engaged in the process holds no vacation.

As I recall this time the mantra of parents, mentors and other well-meaning “wise guys” begins to echo n my ears. “Don’t blink”. “Don’t blink”, they would say... “Don’t blink, they’ll be grown before you know it”.

Yeah...right....in the midst of all this non-boredom....blink....who has time to blink. If I blink another crisis will have time to “sneak up”.

I recall the cataclysmic incidents like the time I was called to “quickly find an industrial carpet cleaner before the gallon of paint that was just spilled has time to dry and stain”. I weep at the thoughts of the countless times that potty-training children can find bizarre places to create new potty-training facilities, especially sleepy potty-training children.

When children are small there is no doubt the days are long. Day after day there is an ever present need and call for attention. Yes, there are days of respite and the occasional break. Even then the thought of the parent seems to remain on the child.

That brings me back to my renege. I have said and will say again....”Don’t blink, don’t blink, they’ll be grown before you know it”. I say this now even at the risk of “causing an increase of pressure” in a young parent.

I do so because of a statement I heard that must be added to this mantra. The statement I now add says “always remember, when it comes to raising children....the days are long....but the years are so very short”.

Good Grief?

The movie “Twister” is a quasi-sci-fi-action-adventure movie of the 1980’s starring Helen Hunt and Bill Paxton. I often watch “at movies” years after their release. I view them in bits and pieces as they are shown for a season on channels like TBS or FX. This is the scenario I recall seeing the final action scene of “Twister”.

I’ll issue a “spoiler” alert. I’m going to speak to the final scene of this movie. If you have plans to watch it you may want to turn away from my short narrative.

The culminating scene of “Twister” has the two main characters, an estranged husband and wife storm chasing duo, taking their last chance to “fly” a homemade data gathering weather instrument into the mother of all tornadoes. Since this was the final action scene they succeeded.

Understandably the climate-curious duo is not going to win and walk. On cue the tornado literally turns and chases them. As if angered, the tornado grows larger and more menacing. The hero pair do everything they can to save themselves. As the monster closes in, the pair grab heavy canvas strapping and tether themselves to the head of a deeply drilled water well.

In fine action-escapist form, the exact moment they are secure, they are consumed by the monster tornado. Instead of being “sucked up” into the tornado to meet their demise, they begin to float. They levitate in the core of the beastly storm all while tethered to their secure grounding.

I’ll not trace the plot, but for Helen Hunt’s character this deadly experience becomes a momentous occasion. She looks down the throat of her lifelong nemeses and admires the wonder of it, if only for a moment..

This scene has these two characters in the most violent, destructive and deadly situation they could possibly find themselves. Yet they are able to find a reverent, respectful awe and wonder for that which would surely kill them.

I have several books on the subject of grief. In reading about and talking with others about grief I have arrived at a couple of absolutes. Absolute is a strong word and it becomes stronger when it is attached to grief. If I am claiming certainties I guess I better be certain, right?

What is certain about grief? First of all, grief is certain. The death of those we love is not the only thing that pushes us into a journey through grief. Death is likely the most profound cause of grief but it is not the only culprit. Significant losses of any kind cause grief and no one is immune from loss. Therefore, grief is certain and certain for all.

What is the second certainty? It would be that no two people journey through grief on the same exact path. Grief seems to be as unique as the individual who is grieving. There are identifiable similarities on individual journeys, but there is no standardized grief. Individuals are not required to experience each similarity. It is certain that grief is an individual journey.

In these short paragraphs I have spoken to two diverse and unattached subjects. What might “tie” the two together? The writings of C.S. Lewis might be a place to consider. If you are unfamiliar with C.S. Lewis his work would be highly recommended. He was a brilliant person. Moreover, he was strong in Christian faith. His ethics an theology are deep and profound.

C.S. Lewis married late in life. After only a few short years of marriage his wife contracted an illness and subsequently died. In the weeks and months following her death C.S. Lewis kept a journal of his journey through grief. “A Grief Observed” is an account of his journey.

In “A Grief Observed” Lewis bares his heart and shares the raw emotions that accompanied his grief. The struggle with his faith escalated to the point of crisis. He was a believer living through the tumultuous winds of loss and grief.

Like the characters in “Twister” C.S. Lewis was pursued by a storm that might subsequently destroy him. Yet, like the characters in the movie, he was grounded by being attached to strength and security.

Faith in Jesus Christ did not deflect the storm that turned and pursued C.S. Lewis. In the midst of the storm he was not immune to the ravages and dangers inherent in the storm. He was tossed and “flown” by the violent event that surrounded him. His emotions responded to the destruction. Yet, as C.S. Lewis was “bound to Christ eternally by loves strong cord” he was able to stare down the throat of destruction and find a reverence in its passage.

Oh...may I learn to live DAILY in the assurance of the flawless, never failing bonds of Christ.

Till the storm passes over

Till the thunder sounds no more

Till the clouds roll forever from the sky

Hold me fast, let me stand

In the hollow of Thy hand

Keep me safe till the storm passes by