Finding My Place to Be Still

I’m sitting in front of the fire at one of my favorite places on earth. The Cove is a unique place, filled with the best people, and the coziest spaces. 

My writing friends and I come every year in February for a writing conference. This is our place to retreat from the world and focus on the written word. We share our hopes, plans, struggles, successes, and of course good food and conversation. The Cove is known for their delicious meals, and this year is no exception.

This place has a spiritual presence that I haven’t found anywhere else. God’s word is spoken here daily, His name is lifted high in praise as well. It’s as if this is but a glimpse of what awaits us in heaven. It’s a place to meet like-minded believers with a common goal of sharing the gospel through books, devotionals, music, articles, and social media posts.

 

I come to this mountain expecting to hear from God, and He never disappoints. His word says, “Be still and know that I am God…” and this place is the soil where I plant my vision for future words. When I’m finally still, I feel His presence and know He is with me, and has given me a message to share, whether through a book, poetry, devotionals, or blog posts.

 

I pray you have a place where you can be still and know that He is God. You will be filled with such joy and peace that your soul will want you to return year after year. And that, my friends, is something money can’t buy.

When One Phone Call Changed My Life

I woke up very early this morning in a hotel about thirty minutes from my hometown, thinking about the life-changing event that took place fifty years ago today. 

Have you had a before and after event in your life that changed everything? Of course you have, we all have if we’re human. My event occurred on Saturday, December 14, 1974 when I picked up the phone beside my bed. It was a doctor in Morgantown at the WV University Medical Center. Here is an excerpt from the book I’m writing:

     “I was sleeping soundly when the phone beside my bed rang. Assuming it was the doctor calling to say my mom could come home that day, I answered the call, only to hear my dad on the other phone. I hung up and went back to sleep. My brother came into my room, shaking me awake said, “Sissy, Daddy is crying.”

     I moved quickly down the hall to my parent’s bedroom. Dad told us to sit down so we could talk. He said, “Your mommy isn’t coming home, she went to be with Jesus.”

     Shock and disbelief washed over me like a tidal wave. This couldn’t be true, she was coming home today after a two week stay at the West Virginia University Medical Center in Morgantown. The surgery she’d had to deaden the nerves connected to her hip was a success. The excruciating pain she’d endured over the last couple of years was over and now she could come home and get better. These were my thoughts as I tried to process the devastating news that my beautiful mother was gone. Gone, as in never coming home. Gone, as in I would never see her again this side of heaven. Gone.”

The purpose of my trip is to visit the graves of my parents and decorate them for Christmas. I’ve never been able to be here at this time of year because of church commitments as well as the Christmas season in general. This year is different though. I felt pulled here as if by an unseen hand. I felt a need to return on this anniversary to honor her and remember her. She was an incredible woman who loved God first and then her family. I felt a need to return to the place where I suffered so much pain. I want to sit with my fifteen-year-old self, hold her, comfort her, and tell her that everything will truly be okay. She was young and naïve and didn’t deserve all the bad things that happened after that phone call.

My before and after has a happy ending after decades. God stepped in and miraculously healed every broken place, and today I needed to return to the place where my parents' bodies lie side by side waiting for the glorious resurrection when Jesus returns. One day I’ll join them beyond the veil, but until then, I’ll place flowers in the vase and remember. 

A Recipe and a Memory

I was planning my Thanksgiving meal on this quiet Friday morning, after Thanksgiving. While most people are shopping on “Black Friday,” I’m strolling down memory lane by way of my old recipe box. Does anyone still keep a box of handwritten recipes? Probably not, but mine is full of treasures.

 

We're having our traditional meal on Saturday after Thanksgiving due to traveling. I’m feeling very festive and nostalgic at the same time. There are many things to do to prepare for Christmas, but I decided to focus on our meal and add a few extra touches. One recipe led to another, and before I knew it I was searching for a cheese ball recipe with a precious memory attached. 

 

When I was a young bride, I went back home to visit my other mother, Wilma. The local grocery store was a fixture in our community for as long as I can remember. The ladies who bought it from the original Ball family were usually behind the counter making something delicious for their lunch. This particular day, we walked to the store to get a couple of things, and when we arrived, they had made a cheese ball and wanted us to try it. They hadn’t even shaped it into a ball yet, because it was so delicious they were spreading it on crackers right out of the bowl. So, of course we had to have some for ourselves. And let me tell you, it was absolutely heavenly. This was in the early 80’s when cheese balls were generally made with cheddar cheese. This one was different, made with cream cheese, and we were hooked. They gave us the recipe, and we went home and made it that day. Wilma scribbled it out on a card for me, and that’s what I was searching for in my box. I still haven’t found it, but I found many others. That brings me to the point of this blog post. 

 

Do we write things that stand the test of time? Is our handwriting on record for future generations to read and enjoy? As I flipped through dozens of recipes, I see more than a recipe’s ingredients–I see love and attention. I see the care my loved ones took to record delicious food to nourish a family, feed a sweet tooth, or take to a covered dish gathering. When I see the handwriting of Wilma or my mother, it brings back images of how they imprinted my life. Wilma and I sent hundreds of letters and cards to each other, filled with the everydayness of life. She always recorded the date of every recipe, letter, or card. She never missed a birthday of mine from the time I was born until she no longer remembered who I was because of illness. Her letters kept me in her daily life and I will forever be thankful for that, and her.

 

Looking for that recipe caused me to stop this morning and remember someone who had an eternal impact on my life. What words will you leave behind to remind your family and friends of your love? 

 

I’m a word person. I take it seriously because I know the joy of reading something from those I can no longer touch, or talk to this side of heaven. So, on this Thanksgiving 2024, I celebrate and honor the simple words recorded on a recipe card, and thank God for the legacy left to me to continue with my family. 

 

For all the ways she loved me, this post is in memory of Wilma Summers. If there’s food in heaven, I will be first in line at her table.

Barefoot in the Garden

 I spent my childhood in the late sixties playing outside until dark, catching lightning bugs, riding my bike, playing tag and whiffle ball. Television was reserved for the evening, or cartoons on Saturday morning, and we had three channels to choose from. There were no electronics, no Chick-Fil-A playgrounds, no trampoline or water parks. We had the city pool where everyone was welcome. Our family didn’t take major vacations every year, maybe every five years, and those were usually connected to visiting relatives.

There were no “healthy snacks,” unless you count homemade popcorn or cookies, although watermelon and cantaloupe were in abundance during the summer. We drank Kool-Aid, and our source of water while playing outside came from the water hose. 

 

I feel blessed to have lived in this generation. My life was full and contented during these years of early childhood.

 

I helped my mom with cleaning and laundry chores, and anything else she needed me to do. She battled cancer most of those years and my help was necessary. I’m thankful for all she taught me. I knew how to manage a household before I could legally drive a car.

 

As I watched my grandchildren play outside over the weekend, these memories surfaced. There’s something about bare feet in the dirt that stirs heartfelt longings for them to experience a simple childhood.

 

They trudged through Pop Pop’s garden, following close behind him as he dug hills of potatoes. They held their produce up in the air like discovered treasure. They inspected the progress of other veggies, gathering cucumbers and squash as they meandered down the rows. Bare feet squished through the fertile soil leaving prints of ten toes. Their smiles and laughter sprang from the freedom to be in the moment, the joy of being with family while harvesting the bounty of God’s provision.

 

As they wandered out of the garden, little hands picked flowers for Gigi. Dirt-stained hands offered stems of pink and purple, happy to share the beauty of their fun evening.

 

The best memories come from experiencing the simple things. I hope they always remember meals around Gigi and Pop Pop’s table, Mule rides and the silly things we say, counting hay bales in the field, and eating popsicles until they drip red, purple, and orange goodness down their bellies. I hope they remember the prayers we pray, and the songs we sing. I hope one day when they’re grown, they will remember all the love we shared living in the country. I hope the bonds of love made with their cousins bring laughter when they reminisce about their childhood days at Pop Pop and Gigi’s house. Maybe, just maybe, they’ll feel as blessed and happy as I feel writing these words.

The Heart of Appalachia

Growing up in the heart of Appalachia, I didn’t see poverty, and didn’t understand why the world laughed at us. Outsiders defined our language as back woods and ignorant, yet to our ears, we spoke in syllables of kindness, love, and familiarity. A hand shake was proof of your honesty; a wave of the hand on a two-lane, dirt road said “howdy,” even if you didn’t know them.

After a long day underground, face covered in coal soot, a miner could expect a hot meal of pinto beans, fried potatoes, and cornbread, slathered with honey or homemade apple butter.

I grew up going to church twice on Sundays, and Wednesday night prayer meeting. Hymn singing and testimony time were a natural response to our simple way of living, thankful to the God who provided for and sustained us. Neighbors talked over fences, taking a quick respite from hanging laundry on the clothesline, children and meal preparation the most common topic.

Multiple generations slept under the same roof on feather ticks made from yard chickens, snuggled under quilts made of hand-me-down dresses. Nothing was wasted in the homes of Appalachia.

Memorial Day Weekend was a sacred holiday to honor deceased family members. It was a special time of visiting the cemetery, placing flowers on loved ones' graves, and of course picture taking. A picnic sometimes followed, a time of reuniting with those who lived out of state. Oh, how I long for one more gathering with parents, cousins, aunts, uncles, and grandparents, whose graves I now decorate.

Sunday afternoons were made for driving country roads. Weathered barns with Mail Pouch Tobacco painted on the side lined the highway, along with corn fields and vegetable gardens. Families gathered on the porch swatting flies while children played in the yard. Stories abound on those sacred Sundays, no television in sight. It was a tradition, a time of catching up, connecting with your people.

The world sees poverty, I see wealth that money can’t buy. The world sees ignorance, I see wisdom beyond reproach. The world identifies us as the butt of their jokes, somehow invoking permission to humiliate us. 

I identify Appalachia as the breeding ground of humble, hard-working, family centered people who understand the value of relationships over things, a culture tethered to their roots, yet free to fly far and wide, secure in the knowledge that home is truly where the heart is.