Showing all posts in August 2020

The title of this blog post puts me in a Christmas mood. I think all of us are ready to usher in December because that means 2021 is close. I don’t know what we expect a calendar change to do exactly, but never have we wanted a new year more than now.

Today’s words are not the ones I set out to share this week. I had an entirely different post planned and mustered the courage to start writing it Saturday night. But it required emotion I couldn’t quite express the way I wanted.

I’ll try again next week.

The sermon from my church’s online worship service Sunday morning inspired this substitute writing. Our pastor spoke of the ways nature “preaches” the presence of God. I was immediately transported to Lake Placid, New York and a wonderful summer I spent in 1997.

I still have the handful of cards and letters my daddy mailed me during those months. I searched them for an excerpt to accompany today’s reflection, which I originally posted to Facebook in June 2019. These words seem entirely appropriate for this season we are in:

“Hi Julie Doll!!! There is no greater security or peace than in the hands of our Savior. Do not depend on what you can do but put your faith in what God has done & what he can continue to do. It was a joy & blessing to talk to you the other night. Pray fervently – serve Him diligently and worship Him always!”

God was very near to me in Lake Placid. I saw Him in the magnificence of His creation, and still carry close those encounters.

(Originally posted to Facebook on June 14, 2019)

This mild weather has triggered memories of the summer of ’97 when I served 10 weeks as a BCM student missionary in Lake Placid, NY. We spent a lot of days exploring mountains and creeks, and wearing sweatshirts more than you’d expect in June. July 4th was cold and rainy. I bundled up in blankets to watch fireworks.

I experienced God’s presence in Lake Placid in ways I hadn’t before. I remember talking to Him as we drove along winding roads on our way to some hideaway creek. I remember sitting in a folding chair for Father’s Day services with majestic mountains as a backdrop instead of the more traditional baptistry.

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I remember how well my host family, The Hodges, loved me and also how well they loved each other. I remember another family, the Appletons, and Bible verses displayed on cabinet doors, walls and furniture inside their home, and thinking I wanted my grown-up home to reflect Jesus like that.

My travels seem pretty plain sometimes. I am happiest at home. But on a 60-degrees June morning in Alabama, home is not a bad place to be.

“The heavens declare the glory of God, and the sky proclaims the work of His hands.”

(Psalm 19:1)

Fried pork skins are not a usual grocery purchase. They feed my soul more than my stomach, a different kind of nourishment. When nostalgia sets in, I let the potato chip aisle take me home. I bought a bag last Tuesday and munched through it as I sat in car line.

My Pawpaw Carlisle ate fried pork skins, Golden Flake brand of course because it’s a Birmingham, Alabama staple.  A clear, plastic bag bearing the bright yellow-and-red logo sat chip-clipped on Granny Carlisle’s kitchen counter almost every time I visited.

Those visits became fewer when I was diagnosed with allergies. Cigarette smoke was a severe trigger and Pawpaw smoked a lot so I couldn’t be around him very much.

He wasn’t usually home anyway. He loved to fish and would be found in his boat on Bayview Lake more than his living room couch. His signature orange toboggan (a hat here in the south) could not be missed against the backdrop of trees as our car crossed Bayview Bridge, nor could the fuzzy white dog called Snowball who accompanied Pawpaw wherever he went and especially on his boat.

Pawpaw picked up aluminum cans that were cast alongside the road so that he could cash them in for money. On my way to school in the mornings I would see him walking, carrying a black garbage bag and wearing, still, a toboggan. 

Pawpaw died in 1998, my junior year in college.  He asked my daddy to give final words at his funeral. I have the index cards with daddy’s sentiments. In red ink he wrote:

“Lawrence Carlisle was just a simple man enjoying the simple things of life.”

Simple things. Fried pork skins. Fishing. Aluminum cans. A dog named Snowball.

Pawpaw was not a man of many words, and when he did talk the things he would sometimes say we weren’t allowed to repeat.  You might curse too if you raised seven daughters in a house with one bathroom. So, it’s surprising that my warmest memory of him is, in fact, his words.

I was visiting Pawpaw and Granny before leaving for college, and in a rare moment Pawpaw joined the conversation and offered me this advice:

“Don’t take anyone’s opinion. Find out for yourself.”

He was talking specifically about people and the importance of knowing someone personally before making a judgment.

I put Pawpaw’s advice into practice pretty quickly.

The name McKerral struck fear in many students at Troy State University’s Hall School of Journalism.  Temper. Terror. I didn’t know these things – how could I? – when I received a letter naming Gordon “Mac” McKerral as my academic advisor. I was sitting at the Dairy Queen in Troy prior to the start of freshman year when I shared Mac’s name with a senior student who knew him well. She extended me her sympathies.

As predicted and described, Mac was shouting into the workroom of the Tropolitan (the school newspaper of which he was the advisor) when I arrived at the Hall School’s lobby to meet him.  He was angry or aggravated or whatever emotion causes teachers to burst. My usual brisk walk turned timid with trepidation as I all but tiptoed toward his office. I tapped on his door and he turned to greet me… with a smile.

Mac was never anything but kind to me. I was not his student, technically, because he left Troy State before I could complete the pre-requisite courses for his Media Law class. And since I was on a broadcast journalism track, I did not work for him at the “Trop.”  My opinion of him may have been different if either of those had transpired.  Instead, I have a treasured postcard from him dated 1997 and a favorite picture of us together in front of the Hall School of Journalism where I had the good fortune to know him.

I have not talked to Mac since he left Troy. To my knowledge, he is still teaching (and maybe terrifying?) college students. And while I was never officially one of his students, Mac did teach me a lesson that I still apply: to remember Pawpaw and his sage advice.

“Don’t take anyone’s opinion. Find out for yourself.”

Wise words.
Precious memories.
Simple things.

They feed my soul. Just like fried pork skins.

“…For the Lord sees not as man sees: man looks on the outward appearance, but the Lord looks on the heart.”

(1 Samuel 16:7)

It is presumptuous to think any of my words are profound, but today’s post seems exceedingly simple.

It’s about an old, white, wooden box.

The box sat behind the altar at my childhood church. It was a drop spot for missions money; tape on the top with hand-written words designated three ministries.

To me, the box was a birthday tradition.

Services at Bayview Baptist Church began on Sunday morning with a brief devotion and song prior to the start of Sunday School.  Before we dismissed, anyone with a birthday was invited to stand by the box at the altar for the congregation to sing “Happy Birthday.”

An offering for the birthday box was encouraged. Some years I slipped a quarter through the slot, others I dropped a dollar bill. In hindsight it doesn’t seem like much. But God doesn’t need much, does He?

Fish and bread.

A widow’s mite.

The faith of a mustard seed.

I visited the church, alone, in March as COVID dictated social distancing. As I walked through, I noticed the box was absent from the altar. I found it stacked on a bookshelf in a room now used for storage. I brought it home with me, anticipating that I would write about it one day.

Sunday was my birthday, and it seemed an appropriate time to tell the story.  The box has given me a tangible memory to hold onto, a reminder of my belonging at Bayview Baptist Church. Not just in the building, but with its people.

I celebrated my birthday in pajamas, eating pizza and reading a plethora of meaningful birthday messages.  The birthday box was close by.

It is a cue to celebrate the gift of my life, but more importantly to consider the gift my life should be to others.

“For we are God’s handiwork, created in Christ Jesus to do good works, which God prepared in advance for us to do.”

(Ephesians 2:10)

My bathroom counter is covered in an assortment of accessories: eyeglasses, earrings, and bangle bracelets bearing quippy quotes. The glasses I wear as a headband more often than I use them to adjust my sight. They’re tossed sink-side at the end of the day when I pull my hair into a ponytail.

As I removed my contact lenses during my bedtime routine recently, I glanced the pile of glasses and considered the ways they help me see.

The readers allow me to enjoy Harry Potter books with my daughters. My doctor-prescribed pair helps me see at a distance, for example the TV screen or the clock across the room, when I don’t want to wear my contacts. Sunglasses shield my eyes so I can drive safely and more comfortably.

I have long required some sort of assistance to see. An eye doctor prescribed my first specs when I was in the 8^th grade. They were enormous and aqua-green, and I can’t believe my mother allowed me to pick such an egregious pair.

I digress.

In high school I began to wear contact lenses. My eye health remained relatively neutral until I neared middle-age. When I turned 42 my eyes demanded readers to, well, read.

Then, after registering high pressure in my eyes for more than half of my life, I was diagnosed with glaucoma. The optic nerve in my left eye shows deterioration so my doctor monitors it every 3-6 months. There’s no real concern of vision loss, thankfully, as long as I abide by her instructions.

Glasses, contact lenses and eye drops keep my physical sight in acceptable health.  Spiritual vision is not maintained as easily. My outlook has tendency to fix on what needs to be done today, not on why it will matter 10 years from today. True vision, I suppose, is found in balancing the two.

My daddy tried to teach me this. He connected my eyes to my heart, recognizing one would influence the other, and wrote often to tell me so.

“May your vision both physical and spiritual always be clear and your heart focused on God.” (September 9, 1995)

“Keep your vision clear and your heart open.” (July 24, 1996)
 
“I hope that the problems you are having go away or get move to somewhere else. But don’t let it blur your vision or hinder you from reaching your goals. Smooth seas never made a skillful sailor. Overcoming obstacles build character and strength in your confidence.” (September 22, 1998)

“Keep your eye upon the path and your heart tune to God.” (May 21, 1999)

“Keep your eyes open – guard your heart – do not be deceived.” (Undated)

Eyes and heart. I don’t need glasses to see the connection now.

Daddy also reminded me regularly that he could see things I could not.  Now, as a parent, I understand.

“Watch where you’re going!” is a familiar phrase to my daughters, though it’s meant with the most literal intentions. Scooting the sidewalk so they are aware of cars. Walking a store aisle so they don’t bump other customers. Climbing the stairs at home with eyes on their iPad instead of where their feet are stepping.

I’m pretty sure the only impact my words have on their eyes right now is when they roll them at me. I wonder if my daddy felt the same.

One meaningful-to-me Bible verse about vision is recited in my favorite musical, The Sound of Music. I watched it on VHS many times as a teenager, relying on my enormous aqua-green glasses to see the TV perched on top of the chest of drawers in my bedroom.

As the Von Trapp family is executing their secret escape over the Alps, Mother Abbess tells them:

“Remember: ‘I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills from whence cometh my help.” (Psalm 121:1)

My Bible translates “hills” to “mountains.” The word stirs specific images in my mind’s eye, no glasses, contact lenses or eyedrops required.

Majesty.

Grandeur.

God.

The difficult days we are living have certainly directed my vision “unto the hills.”  But really, I don’t have to look that far to find my Help.

He is always close.

Even at a bathroom counter covered in an assortment of accessories.

“I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills from whence cometh my help.”

(Psalm 121:1)