Chester Drawrs and Holy Ground
This beautiful Sunday morning provided a bit of comic relief.
Before I begin, though, it is probably best practice to announce this is not just about this morning, but an untangling of the day, with a little nostalgia mixed into the recipe.
Rewind to this morning, which by now (supper) feels like a week ago already – and I find myself standing at my makeup mirror trying to hold in my laugh (which, really isn’t an easy thing after birthing several children).
In this rare moment, I do not have a child tethered to my leg or waist. Or tapping on me while simultaneously saying, “MommaMommaMommaMommaMommaMommaMOMMA”, before my brain registers that I am supposed to respond. Or sifting through my makeup bag and carrying off what I need to put on this face so that I don’t scare the fellow church attending folks that they have confronted the walking dead.
See, there is this very real – almost seems magical – but quite real and tangible thing that happens to mothers. Especially when they are in the middle of a task. Points double if she is tending to herself. Points multiply by one thousand million should Momma need to visit the potty for a tinkle. By a gazillion if she answers the phone.
Every child whether they be six or twenty-six years of age, suddenly needs Momma.
It is emergent.
Immediate.
Must attend STAT.
On this Sunday, after I’d had my my face soaped up, felt an arm reach around me to turn the shower tap down from boiling to ice cold and had the first little person join, just because. (This repeated twice over, and now, I will be the one who makes us late to Sunday School, again.)
After I’d almost broken my nose, tripping over three pairs of feet while brushing hair, listening to last night’s good dream and the sad one – oh, and the scary one, the one that they couldn’t sleep after. (I’m not real sure how those dreams kept anybody awake because I was right there, hanging off a corner of the king-size and they all seemed to be sleeping real fine.)
After someone needed a second breakfast, then all needed second breakfast (yes, Hobbits. All of them); sometime after all of this, I…was….alone… at my bathroom vanity. Putting on my lippy-stips and trying to do something with menopausal hair that used to be so long and thick it broke ponytail holders and would give me a headache from the weight even if I tried.
“Hey! Whoa. Whoa. WHOA. Why are you getting into my things?! No – wait – stop! Why would you touch that?! It’s my brand new deodorant and I don’t need to open it until this one has run out. What in the – what are you guys doing over here in all my things?!”
A few simultaneous thoughts…
Number one, y’all know that is the yankee and not me due to the phrase “you guys”, ‘nuff said.
Number two, he has things that don’t get to be messed with. What a revelation!
Number three, back up deodorant so you don’t run out?! What are these tricks to the trade?!
Number four, this is why his vanity/counter/whatchamacallit is always pristine. And mine is… well. It just is. Kinda like my closet. And shoe rack. And Chester Drawrs.
Which reminded me of my Great Grandmaw Austin calling from the kitchen “y’all don’t be plunderin’ in my Chester Drawrs!”
This morning, our children were plunderin’ in Daddy’s things. I thought it was hilarious. His britches were gettin’ all twisted into a wad.
Then, that Grandmaw Austin memory made me remember that I didn’t know until my mid-twenties some man named Chester, did not, in fact, create bedroom furniture capable of storing folded clothing.
It also invoked the feeling of peace and humidity and happiness sitting with her on the screened porch, gently swinging and snapping peas from Paw Paw Austin’s garden. And watching him, in Liberty jean overalls, tending to his peppers. Those peppers. I remember thinking we were going to have to call the ambulance at dinner – his face bright red, sweat dripping across his brow, breathing becoming labored... just eating pepper after pepper.
By now, everyone is in our minivan, Bluey (yes, I do have a “Nice parking spot, Rita” sticker on the back), and I am not.
And as usual, once I fly out the door with a necklace and shoes in hand, I have to make two trips back inside for whatever I forgot.
On the way to service, I opened my email and read an article from Sean Dietrich about legal pet raccoons in Tennessee. He also mentioned a few of those dumb state laws we all inevitably have found and makes us chuckle.
In Gainesville, Georgia, it is illegal to eat fried chicken with any utensil other than your hands.
That made me smile and then frown and then smile again.
I have an aversion to eating fried chicken in public.
One Sunday afternoon, many Sundays ago, at the Country Club, I was harshly admonished by a parental figure over my fingers and a fried chicken breast.
I don’t care much for Country Clubs either.
But, on this Sunday, the sermon was on the Transfiguration of Jesus. It was good.
And, as many times as I have spoken on this breathtaking scene from Scripture, God does what God tends to do if we listen carefully.
As Peter, Matthew, and John woke up to a light-filled scene of Jesus, Moses, and Elijah talking – Peter did what Peter does and starts talking, too.
God envelops them all and says “This is my beloved Son. In whom I am well pleased. Listen to him.” – (Matthew 17:5)
When I imagine it, I think about hearing God’s voice all around and also within the body and the mind. They dropped to the ground and covered their faces. Like many in the Holy Bible when encountering angels or God’s voice.
I cannot imagine how altogether overwhelming, frightening, and altogether incredible that moment must have been.
But then, Jesus touched them. “Look at me. Do not be afraid.” (v. 6).
Look at Him. Stay focused on Him. Do not be afraid.
Whether it’s a piece of fried chicken with a memory of disappointment or the latest unsettling news around the globe.
Look at Jesus. Do not be afraid.