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

Less Striving, More Slowing

A few weeks ago I realized I was ready to write again.

I have filled several journals with my words these past months.  My fingers found their place curled around a pen, rather than dancing across a keyboard.  But lately, I have felt them restless for a dance.  Today I am turning them loose.

For nearly 6 months now,  I have been moving slow through my hours alone.  I have lingered.  I have sacrificed productivity for healing.  Of course, nothing could have been more productive for me in this season than healing.

Mountains have been moved.  Wounds have been bound up and grown over with fresh skin.  Miracles keep blossoming like the star magnolia outside my office window, scattering white petals across the yard below.  Sometimes the most significant things in our lives come slowly.

But, still, I have not felt productive - and with good reason.

The kind of work that needed to be done this past year was beyond my capability.
I could. not. do it.
I had to let it be done to me.  It feels like little effort yet, for me, restraining the striving takes tremendous effort - a kind I typically avoid.

Why is it easier to strive than to stand still?  To sit, listen, let the layers fall away and then, stay.  To resist the instinct to run.

Perhaps running is my addiction, and so to stop it, release it, sends me into withdrawal.  I hunger for the movement.  I watch enviously as others get ahead, at breakneck speed, leaving me behind.  I don't like being left behind.  This has been the gift of stepping completely away from social media for an extended time.  I don't spend my time observing other people's apparent forward movement, while my life appears to be in a holding pattern.  This is one way I am cultivating habits to curb my addiction to forward movement.

Despite my fear that something awful might happen if I'm not keeping up with the rest of the ambitious pack, I have found that the further away the front runners get, the quieter and calmer I find my surroundings to be.  I hear the bluebirds singing spring back to us.  I see the blades of grass in a dense dance.  I see the squirrel peeking through my office window with an acorn in his mouth.  I watch my son's finger trail beneath the words of the Book of Common Prayer during an Ash Wednesday service, and I am stunned to tears.  Stunned at all I have run from.  Stunned by the realization that there is far more beauty and truth here, where I am, than up there wherever I was headed.  

This beauty is real, not anticipated.  It is tangible, touchable, not just imaginable.  Oliver leans his head onto my shoulder as we remember the story of our dusty beginning and our dusty ending, and I know that this in-between place is meant to be seen, tasted, touched, heard.  I could squander this time following signs pointing only to tomorrow, running down that road of aspirations.   Instead I am daily choosing the present over the future and walking over running, as I wait for quiet revelation and restoration, right where I am.

if you're tired of letting anger lead the way

Everything was perfectly prepared.

The chocolate croissant had been proofed overnight and then baked to golden goodness after I returned from my morning workout.

The tea was hot and steamy in my favorite mug.

My books and journal were piled up and ready for me to dive into them.

I even found the most awesome pen in the world {I promise} without having to dig through every drawer and bag in the house.

I stepped outside into the unusually cool summer morning, holding everything I needed for a perfect quiet time and then, it happened.

I'm not completely sure what set off the sequence of awkward events.  All I know is the ceramic plate went down, shattering into dozens of pieces on the patio, as my precious croissant flew into a pile of dirt and leaves.  Tea splattered all over my books and I was left standing there in the middle of the mess.

UGGGGGHHHHH!  I grunted.  I wanted to say more.  The poison was gurgling up inside of me.  But before I could even bend down to closely survey the damage Lucy was bursting through the door and out to assist me.  Bless her.

What happened, Mommy?!  Oh no.  Your croissant!  I'm so sad for you.  I can clean it up.  Do you want me to fix you one of those English muffins?

That sweet girl knows I love a good chocolate croissant - and my morning quiet time.  With her standing right there to witness it I almost succumbed to the anger and frustration.  I could have hauled off and kicked that dirty piece of pastry across the yard and then stomped on it for good measure.  I could have jumped right on that train of thought taunting me with half-truths - You got up early, packed lunches, prepared breakfasts, set out clothes, wiped down counters...all you wanted was a nice breakfast and a little time to read on your own.  Oh well - that's not gonna happen.  So. not. fair.  Day ruined!

I was so close to pulling myself up onto that car and riding it all the way down the rails of resentment, but first - I breathed.  One long, deep drink of oxygen.  That was it.  I took it in slowly and then I looked up at Lucy and forced a smile.  {believe me when I say I forced it!}  I chose, instead, the words I knew.  Not the ones I felt, but the ones I knew.

Good thing it's just a piece of bread, huh?  Oh man.  Sure would have been tasty, but I don't really need it.  And I guess we've got a dozen more plates in there.  This will be one less to wash.  Can you believe such a little plate could break into so many pieces!

Lucy laughed and suddenly the words felt true, no longer forced.  And with every step I took back from the Anger Express I felt my blood pressure lower and a sense of calm return.  By the time we had finished the clean up I felt something else too - something good and deep.  I couldn't identify it in the moment, but once I settled into my spot at the round table under the turquoise umbrella with the birds singing a song of redemption over me, I found the words.

Keep a cool head. Stay alert. The Devil is poised to pounce, and would like nothing better than to catch you napping. Keep your guard up. You’re not the only ones plunged into these hard times. It’s the same with Christians all over the world. So keep a firm grip on the faith. The suffering won’t last forever. 

I promise I am not trying to compare my silly little mishap to the persecution of the early church {which Peter was referring to in that passage}.  But I do believe serious damage can be done to ourselves and those around us if we don't stay alert to the internal war waged on us in seemingly benign everyday struggles.

Just three days ago I stood on a stage and spoke through a microphone about the importance of being rooted in the love of Christ if we are going to endure the storms of life.  I warned against not only the really big catastrophic ones, but also the pop-up thundershowers that can happen on any old given day.  I had just weathered a pop-up.

I don't know about you, but these days I tend to keep my cool relatively well when something really big and life-altering comes along.  However, I am much more susceptible to the enemy's attacks when a quick, anger-inducing situation pops up.  This is where I am learning to 'stay alert'.

That feeling I had after I weathered the storm of a perfect morning quiet time derailed?  That feeling was this - victory.  It was the sweet taste of victory over an enemy who sneaks into my daily inconveniences and frustrations with half-truths and a misplaced sense of entitlement.  It tasted ten times better than that croissant ever would.

Joey wandered outside and I shared that passage with him.  I was honest about my struggles and how that bit of truth helped increase my awareness of attack and provided an armor of protection.  I had no idea we would both need it hours later.

As we sat together reviewing plans and projects for our publishing company the thunder began to rumble in the distance.  I felt the atmospheric pressure change.  Anger Express came barreling by and the enemy reached out his hand to pull me on board.  I almost let him.  I took a step in his direction and then I remembered -
Stay alert!
I turned and saw the signs of where that train was headed.  I didn't want to go there.  It was a dead end.  Instead I turned towards Joey.  I saw that foundation of a wall being erected between us and with all the strength I could muster I kicked it down.  We would stand firm together.  We would not be devoured.

Breathe.  Deep and long.

I reminded Joey of that passage we read earlier and committed to fighting our common enemy alongside him.  In that place and time it meant listening to each other, making compromises, speaking the truth in love, and desiring a working towards a resolution that was best for both of us.  It wasn't easy but we got there.  The feeling returned.  Good and deep.  Victory.

As the day went on we worked together to film and edit videos for my new study.  We chatted over lunch.  We dreamed about our next steps.  We recognized further attacks for what the were and from whence they came.  We talked honestly, but kindly, about our struggles.

It was one of my most favorite days ever.
And to think it all began with broken dishes and a ruined breakfast.

That's what happens when you refuse to let anger lead you.  I fail miserably at that so often, but I won't stop trying.

Post this at all the intersections, dear friends:
Lead with your ears,
follow up with your tongue,
and let anger straggle along in the rear.

Anger should be your captive, not your captor.  Maybe today when we find ourselves at the intersection of anger and joy we can more readily remember which way to turn.  It's the difference between a day that's ruined and one that's redeemed.

{NOTE:  Lucy had her own pop-up thundershower when unloading the dishwasher yesterday afternoon.  In addition to some helpful passages of scripture we added a song as a reminder when the Anger Express is after us.  It starts off like this -
I've got that joy, joy, joy, joy down in my heart.  Where?!  Down in my heart.  Where?! Down in my heart.
I've got that joy, joy, joy, joy down in my heart.  Down in my heart to STAY.
Remember that one?!  It had us both cracking up as we wiped up the giant puddle of coffee and water on the floor.  Joy in suffering.  It's a promise God will make good on if we keep anger straggling along behind and let the listening lead us.}

{UPDATE: My friend, Suzanne reminded me of one of the other verses of that song...
And if the devil doesn't like it he can sit on a tack!  What?  Sit on a tack!  What?  Sit on a tack!
We're definitely adding that to our repertoire!}

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the gift of staying

Most writing days I want to get away – to a coffee shop, the lobby of the local Inn, a well-manicured botanical garden. 

Today I felt like staying. 

We are easing into Joey’s summer schedule of flexible hours so he has taken over with the kids this morning – making sure they are eating, learning, not killing each other or doing any permanent damage to the house.  I hear their footsteps, the opening and closing of doors, and the muffled conversations.  I remove the piles of books and clothes and pictures frames and a dozen other odds and ends from the table beneath the double windows in my bedroom.  I stack them all on top of the white coverlet of my bed.  Maybe I will put everything in its place later, or maybe I will just transfer it all back.  For now it is behind me and the green of our lawn framed by the row of white hydrangea and the towering trees of the woods are in front of me.  

A wide, open space.  

A spacious place.  

God keeps calling me back there.  

There is room to move and breathe and it is quiet enough for listening without distraction. 

More and more I am listening for the things my ears cannot hear and looking for the things my eyes cannot see. 

I am finding them. 

Sometime easily and abundantly. 

Other times the going is slow and the rewards are sparse, but still I persevere because always, always, it is worth it.

I don’t have a perfect work space in my house.  I’ve found I don’t need one.  The weathered aqua blue side table that is just barely tall enough to slide a chair underneath is the only piece of furniture I could fit into the small space of our bedroom.  Our bedroom is the quietest place in the house with a lockable door.  It works fine. 

I have opened up the blinds and cracked the window because it is unseasonable cool this morning.  The camellia bush a few feet beyond the glass has grown too high and has too many wayward branches poking out of its core.  Trimming it is on our to-do list, but not the top of it. 

Despite the obstructed view I can look to the left and see the edge of our vegetable garden peaking out from behind the hedge separating the upper yard from the terraced section.  The runner beans are beginning to stretch up the rows of string woven through stakes meant to provide a path for their growth.  If I squint I can even make out the tiny purple blooms amongst the leaves, promising a harvest. 

To the right of the monstrous camellia the grassy hill leads past the concrete bird bath, along the overgrown garden of spider lilies and Lenten rose up to the play house.  The white curtains I hung on the front are frayed at the bottom but they look lovely billowing slowly in the breeze.  The paneling Joey carefully erected on top of the raised deck foundation he built is painted a creamy white making the simple gray-brown shutters my brother helped me construct out of reclaimed barn board stand out.  The roof panels are brown and rippled and always remind me of Spanish architecture which I was unusually drawn to as a child.  The slide hung from the front is yellow and the wagon parked underneath is red, but otherwise the whole structure blends unobtrusively into its surroundings.  The chalkboard wall is weathered and peeling off the back side.  I can barely see it from where I sit, but I know what bad shape it’s in.  It’s on the list too. 

There are many things in need of our doing out there on the other side of the windows, but I don’t feel the weight of them right now. 

Even after all these years of practice I still have to make a conscious effort to shift from doing mode to being mode.  In this place, I can be fully present and fully appreciative of what exists without any help from me. 

There will always be things to do clambering for our attention, but there will also always be a need to be whispered in longing. 

Just as I finished typing that last sentence I heard footsteps and the slow turn of the doorknob.  For some reason I chose not to lock myself in this time.  That is always a risk, but today I wanted to be tucked away yet accessible.  Lucy entered on unusually gentle feet and whispered kindly, “Mommy, can I ask you a question?” 

Of course.

She cracked open the library book in her hand, “I know we are reading a different chapter book right now but I am doing my 20 minutes of quiet reading and wondered if it would be okay if I finished this one instead.”

Sure.  That’s a fine idea, honey.

"Ok," she said with a soft smile.  As she pulled the door closed behind her she turned, “I love you.”

I love you too.

Sometimes I am deeply drawn to having us all under the same roof.  Even if we are each involved in our separate things and there is work to be done, I find comfort in knowing we can whisper our “I love yous” to each other any time we please.

the discipline of missing out

In my youth, and particularly as a teenager, I worked overtime at one job more than any other.  

No, it wasn't the one in the shoe department at Belk 

or the one as a day camp counselor over the summer 

or the countless babysitting gigs.  

The job I put the most blood, sweat, and tears into was the job of not. missing. out. on. anything.  

As an extrovert with closet insecurities, I felt a burning need to always be ‘in the know’ - to maintain my acceptance by peers, increase my influence over others,  and preserve my privilege of inclusion.  Sometimes it truly felt like a full-time job {and we didn’t even have cell phones or texting back then!}.  I spent a lot of time on my Victorian style phone with creamy coil connecting the vintage-looking receiver to its gold plastic base.  I wanted to be a part of
all the conversations and
all the parties and
all the sleepovers and
all the road trips
and I feared missing anything because maybe I wouldn’t know about the next thing 

or the next thing 

and eventually I wouldn’t just be missing out, I would BE out.  

On my own.  No longer a part of the ‘in’ crowd. 

This morning as I sat alone fully embracing the fact that there were many things I was voluntarily missing out on in order to reap the benefits of solitude, I got a text from one of my college girls.  Anna is working at a camp in Texas over the summer and she has been struggling with spending a month in a new place away from everyone she knows.  She has a heart for God so she knows there is a bigger picture.  I think she was just wishing she could see it.  She wrote to tell me she had been so encouraged by something from one of my books she just read.  I went back to read the section she referred to and I had a lightbulb moment.

The piece Anna was referencing was about Moses and how even {or especially} the unglamorous seasons of his life when he found himself alone, an outsider, far from ‘in the know’, were preparing him for something greater.  I realized there may be some advantage to the discipline of missing out.  

It is solitude on steroids.  

It is voluntarily choosing to remove yourself from the people who know and accept you to do something else, on your own.  When I was in college that prospect might have terrified me.  Anna is much more spiritually mature than I was at her age. 

I can’t be sure, but I’m wondering if there is a slight fear of missing out in her heart.  I’m wondering if she feels lonely and her mind wanders to others who are off on fun vacations with their friends or back home relaxing with their families.  Those thoughts could create a longing, a desire to escape, for anyone.  There is an allure to the easier, bustling, more familiar path all your friends are taking and an aversion to the unknown, quiet one you take alone with fallen tree limbs to step over and hidden rocks that could cause you to trip and face plant.  

When we remove ourselves from what is familiar and comfortable there can be a painful transition period, but on the other side is something worth all the heartache.  On the other side is a clarity of vision for who we are and who God is.  That could never be obtained when so much of our energy and attention is taken up by not missing out.  When we are constantly in the presence of friends and family we begin to adopt an identity defined by them and we lose the essence of our identity defined by God.

All our efforts to not miss out on what is happening in the temporary world around us actually cause us to miss out on what God wants to do with the eternal world within us.  So I’m praying Anna through the transition, knowing God’s reward for her is on the other side - the IN-side {not the IN crowd} will be rich.  I’m proud of her for being brave enough to go to a place where she is unknown by others so that she might be more fully known in the presence of her Creator.

From where I sit I can see the vegetable garden in my back yard.  Just yesterday hard and heavy rains pelted those tender runner beans that had just begun to stretch towards the sky.  It’s not easy to stand there on your own and endure that kind of discomfort, but today they stand taller and their purple blossoms have been revealed.  God knew standing alone in the hard and heavy rains were exactly what they needed in this season of their growth.  Very soon they will produce the harvest they were created to produce - and so will we.