“Transformation happens on the other side of surrender.”
As a kid, it was a common to wake up, make the trek downstairs and mom would ask me to start dialing (I mean dialing; a rotary phone) the neighborhood coffee ladies. I don’t recall if this was always on a Saturday morning. I don’t believe it was. Although, when I was solicited to help it may have been as I was just a kid and had school of course. The summer months being an exception. I think it was when the mood struck and mom decided she needed, what some may now refer to as girlfriend time.
The neighborhood women took turns hosting this frequent event, my mom seemed to be the ringleader though, most frequently occurring at her home on East Third Street.
As she stood at the kitchen counter, flour everywhere, she would yell out a name Ver Jean, Bev, Ella, Shirely, Mae, June, Gladdy, Tootsie, they were the regulars There were others as time went on, some passed away, others moved in or an occasional “extra” may show up as a guest. After a name was called out she would continue with 4 numbers – their phone number minus the 235 prefix. Eventually I did not need the number provided as they became committed to my memory.
I would proceed to call and alert the neighbor that coffee was on at Florence’s at 10:00, the usual gathering time.
They would knock on the door and enter, usually without a response to the knock; Ver Jean always arriving via the back door. Back in the day, a knock was meant as a warning one was coming through the door, not necessarily a request to enter. One by one, some with their own coffee cup (not mug) in hand. Ma would have spent the previous couple of hours preparing something yummy (donuts were very popular) and they would sit around the dining room table which was fully dressed; lace table cloth, fresh flowers from the garden and set with her good china and silver.
As a kid, these events were routine in our neighborhood. As I look back at this sweet memory it reminds me of the genuine love she had for her neighborhood gal pals. Her desire and need to spend time with her friends seemed so normal and maybe even necessary.
They would sit for hours, sipping, chatting about everything; all of them around my mother’s dining room table enjoying her sweets and her company and she theirs.
Gone are the days of walking next door, climbing up the hill or making the trek around the block to sit at your neighbor’s table leisurely sipping coffee (caffeinated) and enjoying homemade sweets (with lots of calories). A modern day equivalent would be a trip to Starbucks with a friend or two, purchasing the coffee and treat and straining to hear the conversation amidst a busy, bustling store front café; still a valuable time spent with friend(s) but not the same somehow.
Recently, I had the pleasure of speaking with one of the “regulars”, the last surviving member of the group, Bev. She shared with me how much she loved and missed my mother. Two sentiments I can relate to for sure. She was one in a gazillion that mom of mine. She did not have riches (in the worldly sense) but was abundantly wealthy when it came to her love of others. Coffee parties and her sweet treats was just one way she shared her love and a piece of herself with her beloved neighbors. I think they would have all agreed that they were all richer for it.
One of my favorite book series is The Mitford Series by Jan Karon. I have grown attached to the main character, Father Tim, an Episcopalian priest residing in North Carolina. Although he is a fictional character, I have found great wisdom in his actions and words. His supposed simple life as a country parson is met with life challenges that are inevitable to us all; seeming to turn the simple into complex. Over and over again throughout the ongoing saga he reminds those he loves to “pray the prayer that never fails”; “Thy Will Done”. As he touches the lives of the other characters, they adopt his mantra and grow to believe in it – the hand of faith touches their hearts. As they begin to realize this phrase from a well known prayer, their lives are transformed; still complex but yet simple.
At one point in the story he is remembering a time when he was young and was quizzed on the definition of prayer. “Prayer is getting into relationship with God. It isn’t about asking for things we want. He already knows what we want and what we need. Prayer is about getting to know Him, and worshiping Him and trusting Him, and thanking Him”.
I must confess that I have not used prayer as a way to develop my relationship with him, not in the way He intended. And I am guilty of “asking”, many times without faith or believing and most times without thanking. I feel like when things don’t go my way He is not listening and the silence is deafening. In reality I am praying for my will, not Thy will.
Like the characters in the story, I find myself longing for simplicity. Trudging along trying to make it happen which in itself wreaks of irony. Essentially, I am just chasing my tail; longing for simple but not allowing it to happen.
Praying the prayer that never fails, Thy Will Be Done ………… and mean it ………. the beginning of true and lasting simplification.
Oh, and the best part about praying the prayer that never fails is that it never fails.
“Believing in the power or prayer does not mean leaning on the shovel praying for a hole to get dug”
The journey you take with your teammates is a gift. It is special, exhilarating, challenging, unforgettable, frustrating, worth it and is part of who you are and who you will become.
For many years now, each Thursday and Sunday morning I make the trek down the street to visit the canal cats. This began when Kari befriended a tiny, emaciated kitten which she named Grease. While Bella was living he would hear the jingle of her collar and come running to rub on her, go nose to nose with her; they were best buds. Then when Bella died, I continued without her, jingling a set of keys in hope that he would continue this love affair with me. He did. There were a few times when I did not see him, but those times were rare. Each visit, I would jingle my keys, call for him and wait. He would come running and I would say “I see you, Greasy”.
This past Thursday, I did the same but this time he did not come running. I found him lying near where I always fed him as if he knew I would be coming that day and at that time. I went to him thinking he was already gone. When I touched him, he lifted his head as if to say “I am here”. On the few occasions when he did not partake in the food I left, he always made sure I knew he was there before he would wander off. This morning was no different, except he did not have the strength to wander off. I wrapped him in my jacket, carried him home. His heart beat was faint but he was still alive, but barely. With heavy hearts Kari and I took him to the vet and helped him end his pain.
As gut wrenching as this was, I received one of the most beautiful gifts that morning; being able to hold him in my arms for the first, last and only time. He is buried under Eugene with a host of other much loved critters – he is finally home. RIP Grease, forever with my Bella and forever part of my heart.
I wrote this on a Christmas card back in 2009. And this particular blog post I am including the scripture instead of insisting you look it up yourself. I re-read it again today the day after Christmas and think it is a good reminder everyday, not just at Christmas. 
The Shepherds and Angels
That night there were shepherds staying in the fields nearby, guarding their flocks of sheep. Suddenly, an angel of the Lord appeared among them, and the radiance of the Lord’s glory surrounded them. They were terrified, but the angel reassured them. “DON’T BE AFRAID!” he said. “I bring you good news that will bring great joy to all people. The Savior—yes, the Messiah, the Lord—has been born today in Bethlehem, the city of David! And you will recognize him by this sign: You will find a baby wrapped snugly in strips of cloth, lying in a manger.
I love the part in the Christmas story about the shepherds and the angels. What it must have been like to be going about their business, taking care of the animals only to have an Angel appear out of nowhere. How totally freaked out they must have been.
I think many of us can understand being fearful today. Not because angels or any other heavenly beings have appeared to us while we were working, but we may be living in fear of an uncertain future on this earth. Times are tough, people are hurting.
When the shepherds got over their initial fright they were INSPIRED. They set off to find the child they were told about, a tiny baby that offered HOPE to all mankind.
So maybe we can all learn from the shepherds: Don’t be afraid, Be inspired!
Be inspired to make a difference. Be inspired to make positive changes in your life. Be inspired to speak the truth in love. Be inspired to take a leap of faith when your heart tells you to try something new.
And while you are at it, BE INSPIRED to tell others about the true gift of Christmas, Jesus.
“Always be kinder than you feel”
jobadiah 