Ham Sandwiches and Contemplative Practices

My grandparents didn't buy pre-sliced deli meat in a package.  They baked a ham, carved it themselves, served it for supper, then covered the rest with foil and kept it in their refrigerator for sandwiches.  My little brother and I were frequently the beneficiaries of the leftovers.  

I remember sitting at the table in the center of their sunny little kitchen watching my Gran unwind the bag of Pepperidge Farm thin-sliced white bread.  As she broke open the interior white packaging I was reminded - this is the fancy bread.  Once the two pieces were on the plate, she would dip a knife into a jar of Duke's mayonnaise and spread it on the bread.  Then she would turn to the ham, carefully pulling pink meat from around the bone and arranging it like puzzle pieces on the bread.  Once the sandwich was assembled she would sit it down in front of me with a smile.


If I close my eyes and transport myself back to that Clemson kitchen on some afternoon in the early 1980's, I can see every detail.  I can taste them too - the soft, sweet bread moistened with mayonnaise, up against the salty, tender ham.  There were no cell phones chirping with texts during lunch at my grandparents' house, only birds chirping with song outside the double window framed with homemade yellow checkered curtains over the sink.  There were no people gathering in virtual spaces without me, just my grandaddy, out in the garden, gathering tomatoes and okra.

My family and I live in the very same little town where I grew up eating ham sandwiches with my grandparents.  Everywhere I go there are memories of my childhood.  It wasn't a perfect childhood.  In fact, on some days, it was filled with trauma and heartbreak, but it was also filled with ham sandwiches and grandparents' gardens.  What it was not filled with was constant digital distraction.  I wonder, if it had been, if I would remember the bright pink, velvety details of the camellias my Gran clipped from the yard and set in a tiny crystal bowl on the table, or the sound of the whirly gig in the backyard, creaking and squealing as my brother and I pumped our legs and arms back and forth to send ourselves in flying circles.

I didn't set out writing down memories in order to prove a point about the dangers of digital technology.  It was only as I was forming the words and time traveling in my mind, that I noticed the absence of cell phones and computers and wondered what kind of difference that made in my childhood.  And what kind of difference their presence will make in my children's childhood.  

For reasons I may one day share in greater detail, my family took a big step back from our phones and computers last year.  For me, it was intended to be temporary, but I unintentionally discovered a life I liked better apart from it.  A life in which my ears are more attuned to leaves rustling and birds singing than phones buzzing and dinging.  A life in which I look much more forward to what new flower has bloomed in my yard today than what new post has been made on Instagram.  A life in which I prefer the real time, real life interactions with the people in my physical world to the carefully crafted ones in the virtual world.  

I am a grown adult, and yet I still have a lot to learn about how to handle technology.  As I fumble my way through figuring it out, I've decided that it is probably better to err on the side of not enough use than too much.  COVID-19 has our family of four home together for an indefinite amount of time without much physical contact with the rest of the world.  I can see how that could lead someone to seek out more virtual contact than usual.  In some ways, that might be healthy and helpful.  For me, however, it could have been a too-important pastime turning into a full-blown addiction.  Thankfully, however, because I have been retrained to look more into the eyes of my husband and children than into the screen of a phone, this whole homebound things seems to be going far better than expected.  

Our kids know when we are trying to escape them.  They also learn from us to escape in the very same ways.  And the next thing we know, we are all trying to escape each other, which means we are under the false impression that we are trapped.  And that false impression is actually the trap.  True freedom comes only when we expose the lie that our real, right here, right now life is something that needs to be escaped from instead of embraced (warts and all).  By the grace of God (and an intentional step back from technology),   I find that we are no longer escaping, but engaging.  It is making all the difference.

Just now the bells of Tillman Hall are ringing in the hour from campus and the brightest red cardinal landed on the cedar log outside my office door.  The forsythia stand tall behind him dressed in yellow - head to toe.  I can't explain the deep joy and peace this scene offers me but I can tell you it is a sensation I have only found in my undistracted, right here, right now world.  Even if I took a picture and posted it on Instagram, that feeling could not be replicated.  I hear the kids upstairs.  They are awake and sound like a herd of elephants (even though there are only two of them).

Here's to engaging, not escaping.  Here's to not only savoring your ham sandwich, but also the way in which it was the prepared and the person whose hands prepared it.

If you want to hear more about specifically how we are doing that as a family, Joey and I are talking about it on the podcast these days.  Perhaps now more than ever we all need our Breathing Room (you're already supposed to be getting at least 6 feet away from others, so...perfect opportunity : )

True happiness is found in seemingly unremarkable things.  But to be aware of little, quiet things, you need to be quiet inside.  A high degree of alertness is required.  Be still.  Look.  Listen.  Be present.

Eckhart Tolle