FRIDAY THOUGHTS: I'M JUST A LUCKY SO-AND-SO

Last night I had the privilege of experiencing Arena Stage's production of "Duke Ellington's Sophisticated Ladies" at The Lincoln Theater. 

There are times when your ability to control yourself, your sense of decorum, and proper behavior are so vital. 

If I'd had even the slightest aggressive bone in my body I would have walked down the aisle and asked for a microphone. The production literally made me want to sing!

The sets and costumes were superb, as was the band. 

I do so love the music of Duke Ellington, and the night was chock full of it. 

Maurice Hines, remarkably fit and agile in his 60's, even choreographed a dance for President Obama. 

I'd love to be a fly on the wall when the POTUS dons those shoes, and cuts that step as a way of shaking off "those pesky Republicans"...lol

As delightful as the whole production was, I was most impressed, however, with the Manzani brothers- John and Leo.

It is always lovely to meet polite, focused, intelligent young people. Their performance with Mr. Hines was the highlight of the show for me. 

I'm so glad that the Washington Post gave these talented young men space in today's news. So often the media flocks to report about tragedies and senseless foolishness wrought by DC youth. Clearly every young man in the city is not an indifferent, disrespectful, foul-mouthed, school-ditching, underwear-revealing, criminal-in-training with a death wish, and aspirations to further poison and populate their neighborhoods, or occupy a jail cell. 

Mr. Hines spoke so highly of the brothers, during the chat following the performance. Their mom was acknowledged as well. I can't say it enough. Good, positive home training is crucial.

It was also nice to meet fellow Howard University alum Marva Hicks, and actress Suzzanne Douglas at the Delta Research and Education Foundation reception following the cast chat.

(The shrimp wasn't bad, either.)

I'm feeling especially grateful today. I've experienced wonderful unexpected opportunities lately that have been most enjoyable...: )

WAKING THOUGHTS

Yes. Someone is always watching you. The good thing is that everyone watching is not an enemy. Someone is watching and saying, "Yes. An excellent choice. Make the call".

 

Others may see your potential even when you don't. Don't allow your own fears and insecurities to rob you of the life you could have. 

Make the decision today to see yourself the way God sees you.

Never complain about whether or not you will ever use the knowledge you gain. Never mind how long it takes to learn a lesson. Just learn it, and be prepared to apply what you've learned. Even if the opportunity tarries, be ready.

The affirming words of those who matter most, are like medicine.

WEDNESDAY THOUGHTS: THAT "GOIN' UP TO YONDER" GIRL

When I sang in the choir at Bethlehem Baptist Church as a teenager, there was another Vanessa in the alto section, Vanessa Laureia Bradley. She had a clear, strong, confident voice. I thought she was doing quite well with the lead that evening at rehearsal. 

I'd only joined the choir because my Mom insisted that my older sister and I find something to do at church besides occupy a pew. I had no aspirations to sing solos, and was perfectly comfortable standing between Janice Barmore and Sharon Sneed in the soprano section. They were taller than I was, and sang much louder than me. I didn't have to do much if I stood anywhere near them, and so began my fulfillment of my mother's wishes-- and my tendency to hide.

There was a nice, slow part at the end of the song that Vanessa didn't want to sing. 

The director, as usual, asked for volunteers to sing it, as opposed to just ending it and abandoning the way the song was recorded. 

I was never one to volunteer to sing alone. 

When no one responded, he started picking singers at random. When he got to me, I was terrified and shook my head, "No". He said that he was going to keep playing the intro until I started singing. I really didn't want to, and was hoping he would just get tired of waiting and call on someone else. Time was passing, and the whole choir was looking at me. Then choruses of "Just go ahead", and "Come on, you can do it" began. 

I had never sung alone in public in my life. (Even at the talent show at Abram Simon Elementary school when I was in 5th grade, there were four other people including my sister on stage with me as we sang "Just My Imagination".)

I could feel my stomach tightening and wished I could disappear. I hated that I had been put on the spot. There was plenty of encouragement, and plenty of impatience, too. Finally I heard and exasperated, "Now look, we don't have all day". It was clear that the director wasn't going on until I sang something. I closed my eyes, and thought about the beautiful voice I'd recently heard for the first time. It was stunning and rich. It flowed and was flawless. It wasn't reserved for Sunday record playing like Mahalia's and Sister Rosetta's had been. I wanted to listen to that voice every day. I wanted to sound just like her. I heard the intro once more and thought, "Sing like her. Try to sing it like Tramaine."

I opened my mouth and sang:

"Because, I can take the pain, yeah,

And I can take the heartache, the heartache pain brings,

Lord, Lord, the heartache that pain brings.

Because I know there's a comfort,

A comfort in know-e-e-e-e-e-e-ng

One of these old days,

One of these old days, one of these old days,

I'll soon, I'll soon be go-o-o-o-ne

Yeah, and as God, as God gives me grace,

I've got to run, I've got to run,

I've got to run, I'm gonna run on,

I'm gonna run on, I'm gonna run on,

I'm gonna run on, run on to that ra-a-a-a-a-ce

Until I see Jesus, until I see Jesus,

until I see Jesus face, face face ,

face, face to fa-a-a-a-a-a-ce!

I, I-I-I-I-I-I , I-I OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

The choir came in with "Goin' up yonder!", and the other Vanessa picked up the adlibs from there. People were patting me on the back and clapping. I wanted to faint, and was so glad it was over. 

I was confident that I would never do that again. It was nerve wracking. Other than singing along with records in our basement, 

I really had never paid attention to the sound of my own voice. 

I didn't know the first thing about heartache or pain. I was terrified of dying, and anything death related, and wasn't that big on running anywhere. That day, I just wanted to sing like Tramaine. 

I think the whole thing began my need to search scriptures for the validity of a song. I didn't just want to sing, I wanted to understand what I was singing. I wasn't sure, but I had a feeling that there was more to Tramaine's singing than just a nice voice. There was some experience that I was missing. Life hadn't happened yet. I didn't know what I was asking for when I desired a voice like that, but then most of us have no idea what we're requesting when we covet what belongs to someone else. A lot of crosses accompany the crowns that we see. We only see the shimmer and shine. The wearers know the story behind it. At the time, though, I just wanted God to let me sound like her. I thought it was over that night at rehearsal. I didn't know I would have to sing it again the following Sunday morning.

I've been singing ever since. I sing alone a lot, but I much rather singing with others. I'm still nervous sometimes. I still adore hearing harmony. I still think that Tramaine Hawkins has one of the greatest voices in the universe. Many singers' voices fade, change, weaken, or just shut down altogether. Not hers. Her voice is still as vibrant and powerful as it was the first time I put that "Love Alive" vinyl on my turntable. I became a fan or all things Hawkins. I think I may have been just about 15 years old.

Last night I went to the rehearsal for the Joyful Sounds concert being held at the Kennedy Center this coming Saturday night. All of this week, the KC is opening its prestigious doors to sacred music. The Washington Performing Arts Society's Men and Women of the Gospel along with the National Symphony Orchestra will be on hand, and Nolan Williams has been charged with spearheading the events and arranging the music for the culminating concert. 

When I arrived at Mt. Sinai Baptist Church, I saw conductor Stanley Thurston. He greeted me, and I had one of those, "What in the world am I doing here" moments. I can't read a piece of music if my life depended upon it! I was happy as friends Francese Brooks, Dennis Sawyers, Duawne Starling and Larry Hylton arrived, too. Although I've worked with each of them at one time or another, for one event or another, we'd never sung together as a group before. In addition to hymns and spirituals, Nolan has arranged a lovely medley of gospel music penned by Walter Hawkins. Before the choir arrived, he taught us our parts. 

When I saw Francese, I was sure I would be singing my favorite alto, but Nolan informed me I'd be singing soprano. I knew that I would be a part of the medley. I didn't know I'd be singing leads. I almost cried when I found out that on Saturday night, I'll be singing "Goin' Up Yonder". (I'm laughing to myself now, because I suppose our Young Adult Choir sang it so much, back then, that a little kid named Tara Thomas used to call me "that goin' up to yonder girl".) This time, though, I'll be on stage at the John F. Kennedy Center with my friends, and accompanied by the National Symphony Orchestra. This time, the song has new meaning and personal points of reference. This time it's not about hitting the right notes or matching riffs and runs. This time, I know a lot about pain, heartache, and the hope that comes as a result or a relationship with Christ. This time I know about faith and victory, and steps ordered by God. This time there's no fear.

This time, the incomparable Walter Hawkins himself will be there.

 

WEDNESDAY THOUGHTS: SOCIAL ORDER

There are some days when I wonder if I bumped my head for getting involved in social media. 

I wonder about the state of communication. Are we listening to what people are actually saying, or what we think they mean? 

Are we reading and comprehending what's on the lines, or reading between them, and infusing our own biases and notions? 

Are we looking for confrontation? 

Are we so busy following, adding friends, and making lists, that we're speaking and responding before we think? 

Are we sure that we're communicating effectively ourselves? 

Does spelling and grammar matter anymore?

Do we weigh the consequences of our words before we click "send" or "enter"?

As nice as one tries to be, someone will ultimately be offended by something you’ve posted. 

As vulgar or profane as one purposes to be, one will always wonder what the uproar is about when people, who happen to see their cry for attention, decide to cry foul. 

There are calls for some to lighten up, and calls for others to rein it in. Everyone is looking, and comparing, exposing and sharing. 

It's all so interesting:
*Tagging people in notes, pictures and videos in which they don't even appear

*Sending out invitations to events knowing the people getting them can't possibly show up because they don't live anywhere near the venue, or even in the same state 

*"Friending" enemies just to keep tabs

*"Friending" people that one doesn't even speak to when one sees them in public 

*Soliciting fans before the prospective fans can get a taste of what they're supposed to be fanatical about...

Social networking is a wonderful, helpful, valuable concept to some, and an unwise, creepy, dangerous, and unbelievable waste of energy and time to others. Some love it for it's immediacy, and others brand it as the murderer of actual human contact, conversation and hand written notes.

I suppose it would be safe to say that social networkers are fairly open, outgoing individuals. Even people who try to limit access to themselves, by protecting, blocking, hiding and deleting, still betray the whole "I want my privacy" thing by being a part of the network in the first place.

I wonder why some people friend me at all. I think some people have forgotten that they did. There are just some things that I don't want to see or know about them. 

I'm very concerned about the young people who clearly think that their walls and pages have extraordinary super powers to render themselves invisible to all but a select few. Some of the most out of control, careless "networkers" are young people who are regular church goers (and their pastors and at least one parent are among their top friends). 

I have never seen so much gratuitous profanity, misspelled words, disagreeable subjects and verbs, and credibility suicides in all my life. 

All in the name of fun, I fear that scholarships, jobs, and sought after opportunities are being lost by the "keepin' it real" and "do you" generation. 

Yes. Some days I feel like a very old person. I just want to ask them if they know how much they are harming and debasing themselves. Some days I wish I didn't care so much.

I know. There is nothing new under the sun. Just different players with updated toys. The new toy is social networking. Folks my age have enthusiastically jumped onto the bandwagon, much to the dismay of our students, mentees, young neighbors and relatives. We're seeing too much, calling stuff out, interjecting our two cents into conversations, sending warning messages, offering unsolicited advice, and cramping the styles of the youngsters among us. 

Even as we're unfriended and deleted, I say, cramp away. It's our duty as budding old people. We have to keep the tradition alive.

It gets frustrating, though, when you realize that some people don't care, or simply don't know any better.

I spent a good deal of time last year trying to run interference, and be the voice of reason. I have decided to hang up my den mother hat this year. I like facebook, myspace and twitter. I haven't exactly been discriminating when it comes to accepting friends. I generally accept anyone who asks. Folks who don’t get deleted, are usually those who quickly demonstrate that they obviously have aspirations to work full time for the devil. 

I try to give people the benefit of the doubt. It's kind of odd, though, when the request picture looks like it fell off of the family channel, and then you look again a few days later, and there are butt cheeks staring you in the face.

I sent a message to two church-going young people about their posts. One took the advice and removed it. The other essentially told me to mind my business. I would love to have minded my business, except that their wackadoo conversation showed up in my timeline...

*sigh*

Some days, I think about deleting ALL of my pages. I wonder what I was doing before social networking. It occurred to me that have never said, "Happy Birthday" and “Happy Anniversary” to so many people in all my life.

Sometimes I wonder if I skipped the chapter on social networking rules, or if some people make up rules for themselves that they expect everyone else to follow. 

I've been asked by Christians (who I thought kinda loved Jesus), why I post passages of scripture. I've been told that "that's not what facebook is for". Why does the Bible bother people who supposedly own one and read it? 

Someone always wants to know why my wall or page is not like theirs. A young preacher wrote about an impending lap dance. Another person told what they thought about a very well known person's attire. Yet another decided it would be a good idea to discuss the state of their winter-battered feet. 

Countless people complain about their supervisors and co-workers, wives, husbands and children. 

If I see one more self-portrait, obviously taken in a bathroom, I don't know what I'm going to do. 

When I get the suggestions as to what I need to put on my page or wall to spice it up a bit, I just type the smiley face and keep it moving. 

I guess it wouldn't be nice to say, "Because it's MY wall. if you don't like it, delete me".
I could have said that this morning, but I didn't. 

THEM: Explain.
ME: Huh?
THEM:"Why did you delete my comment?"
ME:"What was your comment?"

They couldn't even remember it. They just knew it was deleted. I was wondering why I was being interrogated. I explained that I often read and delete comments that I perceive to be for my eyes only. Unfortunately, that didn't suffice. The individual had clearly been watching my wall, and commenced to tell me about all of the other comments that I had not deleted. 

Now that, my friends, is bordering on stalking. 

Then it hit me. Some people post comments to your wall and page, not for YOU to see, but for OTHERS to see. I had apparently removed their poorly created networking opportunity. (Yes. Graphics and grammar matter to me.)

Did I really have to explain why I deleted a comment off of the wall that I set up? Apparently, yes. 

I couldn't recall what the comment was, but I would have probably fared better if I'd said, "Because your post and comment was an eyesore. It was ignorant, in poor taste, and had absolutely no bearing to the topic at hand, or anything I ever want on my page. I could have left it there so that everyone could see what an complete idiot you are, but I decided to rescue you from the swift, intelligent, witty, and brutally critical individuals who populate my friends list."

I COULD have said that, or worse, but I didn't. It wouldn't have been nice.

SUNDAY THOUGHTS: THE REALITY OF DREAMS

I woke up exhausted, as if I'd been doing heavy, manual labor all night. 

My dream was extremely stressful. 

The bold woman in my dream looked like me, but she was not running or backing down from a thief who, for some reason, had keys to my home. 

"Dream Me" was demanding answers and facing her enemy. She wasn't allowing harsh words, bullying, reverse psychology, or manipulative tactics to affect her at all. She looked the thief directly in the eye. She was relentless. 

I was admiring her spunk and bravery, but it was definitely a dream. 

I know, had it been a real occurrence, I would have been on the phone to police dispatch, or trying to find a window to climb out of! 

Perhaps it was yet another heavenly-generated pop quiz in how to deal with difficult people--a subject I have flunked more times than I want to admit. I'm am determined, however, to master that art sooner than later.

When I woke up, rattling to my nerves as it was, I didn't want to forget my dream. I grabbed my computer and started tweeting. (Twitter is an excellent note pad.) I don't know why I didn't blog first. (duh) 
After I'd written as many details as I could remember, Donald Lawrence tweeted, "Vanessa??!! I'm going to need you not to write a short story this AM". 

That made me laugh, but it didn't deter me from purging as much as I could before the memory faded-- like it usually does if you don't write or record it immediately after waking up. 

Just as I'd asked out loud, "Lord, what did that mean?", the Twitter responses came:

Rajul Sahih wrote:
"Thief = the Enemy; he was in the form of a Lady, meaning a degree of familiarity; possibly one close to you. 
Keys = Access; Prayer builds the hedge, the "neighbors" would be those "near to you" that pray for you,helping to maintain the hedge of protection, especially in prayer. 
The Conversation = prayer, not about the situation, but to the situation; speak directly to the Enemy, forbidding entrance in to your House - including Home, Church and Body. Your consistent stance was proof that you CAN withstand the Enemy, even in your face. 

The 3 represent the Trinity - Father, Son, Holy Ghost; Prayer, Praise and Worship; even 3 key people in your Life"

Yes. His thoughtful response required him to "twit longer", and I for one, was glad he'd signed up for more that 140 characters. He had carefully read what I'd written:

"I woke up exhausted. In my dream I startled the woman who was trying to get into my home and was asking her, "Where did you get those keys?"

"I suppose I was "Bold, Confrontational Vanessa" in my dream. It never occurred to "Dream Me" that one of us could have gotten hurt..."

"I remember asking her, "What makes you think that you should have access to my home? She said, "I thought my sister lived in there".

"Other people began circling the situation. They wanted to know why she was trying to break in, too. "Dream Me" wasn't backing down..."

"Dream Me" never left the doorway. The thief tried to run down the stairs. I asked again. "What makes you think you should have access here?"

"Each time "Dream Me" asked, the thief's lies got bigger. Then she tried to turn the tables. "Why is your door so weak? Why did my keys work?"

"I'm amazed at how tiring a liar can be-- even in a dream...but I'm concerned now about what the dream meant. Need to pray..."

"I was standing at the top of the stairs, staring down at the thief in my dream. Three tall people were surrounding me. They had questions..."

"The thief tried to lie to the three tall people, too. They were better at asking questions than "Dream Me" had been..."

"The three tall people's questions made the thief extremely defensive and angry. The thief tried to talk to "Dream Me", but they stopped her..."

"Dream Me" noticed that the three tall people never raised their voices, they just kept asking questions. The thief threw down the keys..."

I was typing furiously. I knew I was going to write more. Maybe it was good that I saw Donald's message when I did. I'd remembered my dream clearly, it troubled me, and I was probably going to over analyze it unnecessarily. 

Messages from others started pouring in. Donald and Rajul weren't the only ones looking at what was scrolling on my timeline. While Donald and Dion were being light and humorous, others like Rajul were tapping in to wisdom. For them, it wasn't a laughing matter, but a spiritual one.

Sabrina wrote:
"You don't know me, but I believe your dream was visitation. The enemy is trying to enter your life through lies. (Consider new friendships...) However, you are able to discern these people and cut them off. The tall people may represent those that you trust wholeheartedly- or even angels...hence him becoming angry and retreating. Stay alert and prayerful. Examine friendships and conversations; If things seem "shady" they probably are."

Richard wrote:
"Van, this means guard your heart under lock and key, and if anyone tries to steal it, beat the stew out of them. LOL"
(That made me laugh and smile-- as did Dion's message in which he identified the "three tall people" in my dream as "Hickory, Dickory and Doc".)

Jocelyn wrote:
"That can be a sermon! Why did my key work?! Wow!!!!!"

Each note I read made me feel so much better. I didn't like waking up feeling so fearful. I was even more determined to get to church. Sabrina said that my dream encouraged to press her way to her place of worship. That made me smile, too.

I am not spooky by any stretch of the imagination, but I greatly appreciated the way people took the time to pray and share.
Their responses inspired me to write:
"Answers don't take all day to arrive when you're looking for them...."

I'm back at home now. I'm full. I'm happy. It's 6:33 PM. Worship at Zion Church was so refreshing, and it was nice to have dinner with family afterward. The stress from my dream has faded. My gratitude hasn't.

Two statements that Pastor Keith Battle made this afternoon, struck me concerning my dream:
1. "It ain't no fun when the rabbit got the gun".

2. "You've got to be more than strategic. You've got to have action".

Pastor Battle was referring to our propensity to be judgmental instead of loving, and unable to swallow our own words when judgment ricochets back in our direction. I received what he was saying concerning the giving of gifts, and loving effectively, but the underlying, bonus message for me was, "

The enemy can't have the upper hand. He has lost. You have no business ever running scared, or wasting time defending yourself against his tactics, lies and accusations. Knowing the right words to use means nothing when circumstances come that require activity." 

I realize that I have to know what to do and say, and not be intimidated or afraid--especially when truth is on my side. Backing down, bowing out, or quitting altogether is always an option, but not always the best one.

I looked for a little additional advice for myself and read Colossians 4:2.

"Devote yourselves to prayer, being watchful and thankful." 

I can't think of a better idea.

SATURDAY THOUGHTS: PEOPLE YOU DON'T EVEN KNOW

One of my Mom's best friends, Allen Ward, passed away this week. 

I think I loved her, not only because she was a kind, delightful, wise woman, but because she really WAS such a good friend to my Mom. 

When I needed a listening ear after my Mom died, she made herself available. 

It would seem only natural for me to be saddened by the news of her death. I knew her. 

She was my friend, too.

I just read that Meinhardt Raabe has died. 

He was 94 years old. 

He played the part of the Munchkin coroner in "The Wizard of Oz". 

Everyone who knows me, is well aware of my great affection for the film. 

When I read the article about Mr. Raabe, my reaction startled me. 

As I read, there were tears in my eyes. 

Why on earth was I crying? 

I didn't know him, and he certainly didn't know me, but every time he sang those few lines about thoroughly examining a vicious enemy who had terrorized innocent people, and declared her "most sincerely dead", something inside me always rejoiced--and still does.

What is it about the death of a total stranger that moves us to sadness or tears?

When Lucy died, the phone rang all day, and I could hear the trembling in the voices of my friends, who like me, loved Lucy. 

I never met her either- ever. But when she died, I was so hurt. I knew that if I needed a laugh I could count on those episodes of "I Love Lucy". 

They were made before I was even born, and the series ended when I was still a very little girl.

 
There's something about good comedy. It transcends time. Funny is funny no matter who, what, when or where. When Lucy died, no one said, "Lucille Ball passed away". No, that would have been like talking about a stranger. Lucy was no stranger- at least that's the way it seemed. 

Although we didn't go to the memorial service, send flowers or cards, we still felt as if someone very near and dear was suddenly out of our lives. 

The same thing happened that Saturday morning when I sat down to check my e-mail, and saw the wonderfully joyous face of the impeccably groomed Bernie Mac. The words that accompanied the photo didn't make sense at all. 

I stared at the picture, and then stared at the words. The picture was registering but the words were not. 

I wasn't ready for that one. Was I supposed to be? I didn't know him either. 

It was weird. 

Yes. People die every day.

I sing fairly often at the funeral services of people I never knew--and yeah, my friends tease me about it all the time. But you still feel the loss whether you knew the deceased or not. 

Everyone has been touched by death. If you have a pulse, death- especially the death of someone who has had any impact on you at all- does something to your day. 

Why is it that when SOME strangers die, there's a peculiar shock followed by sadness that you can't immediately shake? 

Is it that you realize that even the remotest possibility of meeting them is suddenly gone? 

Is it that you anxiously awaited the next thing their life would bring? 

Was there surely something else that they would do in their lives that would brighten your own? 

I admit it. When I read the news of Bernie Mac's death I needed a little consoling! Not Uncle Bernie! Just as I'd done following my knowledge of the deaths of Meinhardt Rabbe, Lucille Ball, Bernie Mac, Michael Jackson, and others, I immediately wanted to see a picture or video. 

I wanted to hear a voice. 

I wanted them to make me smile, and entertain me as they had always done.

I suppose when you contribute to the human fund, compassion is one of the consequences. 

When my daughter came into my room and I said, "The coroner died". She knew exactly who I meant. 

I remember when Bernie Mac died, the phone rang. I answered  "hello", but instead of returning my hello, the caller sighed, "Bernie Mac passed away?" 

It was as if we were each hoping the other would expose yet another urban legend. 

I was hoping that some overzealous news media outlet had been too eager to spread bad news before all of the facts were in. 

But, as in every case, it too, was true. 

Someone dear was dead.

We can't do a thing about the deaths of celebrities, and have no ties except through a TV screen, radio, computer, or theater, but we hurt just the same. 

It's an odd kind of hurt though, that I'm not sure has a name. 

We ask ourselves, "Why didn't I know he was in the hospital?", or "Did you know he was sick?" 

We find ourselves acting as if we're supposed to be privy to that information.

It's what we do, I guess. 

It's a strange kind of concern.

As strangers pursue their dreams and aim to entertain us, we become the play relatives, friends, fans, critics, judges and juries. 

We act as if we have rights and privileges, and develop rather nasty attitudes when they just want the precious privacy that we demand for our own lives. 

The joy is that, we can still break out our CD's, DVD's, and other media, and get the fix that hooked us in the first place. 

We can laugh until we cry, or cry until we laugh, but in the back of our minds, lines are repeating, 

"Wow. 

He's not here anymore. 

She's gone. 

What a shame. 

He sure was funny. 

She sure was great".

For us millions of strangers, our beloved celebrities can still be funny, clever and convincing anytime we want them to be, and without any commitment or work on our parts. 

Our home media keeps our favorites alive. 

The truth is, that is as close as we ever were--unless we were fortunate enough to have had seats in some theater somewhere--and even then, we left with a ticket stub, a tee shirt, a poster, and memories. 

The "relationship" was over when the curtain went down. The "love" was exchanged, and then it's on to the next town for them, and back home for us. Somewhere, though, are their actual blood relations and friends who are hurting and devastated. 

We will also probably never meet them, either. 

They need our real prayers, and if we can't do anything else, we can surely pray.

It was impossible not to hear the pain and sincerity in the voices of the Kings of Comedy as they reminisced on Steve Harvey's show after Bernie Mac died. 

Media outlets can go on for hours and days with retrospectives and memorials. 

I remember Steve Harvey saying that when you're hurting, you don't need anything new. 

So after he reminded a few people whose show it was, he reached back and got "Heaven Must Be Like This" and "Devotion". 

I have to admit, old school worked for me, too that day. The Kings of Comedy did what they did best. They laughed and joked their way through their pain and, in turn, encouraged everyone who was listening.

Listeners heard the so-often said "I wish I had called", and "I wish I had the opportunity to say I love you".

I watch tapes of "I Love Lucy" regularly. 

I can't count the number of times I've seen the "Wizard of Oz". 

I watch reruns of The Bernie Mac Show. 

I love history-based programming, and classic television, so I'm always seeing the faces of those long gone, and often wondering if they had any idea of the impact and relevance they would still have in the future.

I can still see Lucy and Ricky, Fred and Ethel, Barney Fife, Fred Sanford, Mr. Humphries, Jack Tripper, Florida Evans, Maude, Samantha and Darrin, Jed and Granny, Uncle Bernie, and all of the Munchkins, any time I like. 

I suppose, as the reruns run, and the DVD's are made available, I'll have at least 100 different times to still listen to a hilarious contemporary storyteller called the Mac Man. 

I can celebrate someone who believed in himself and worked to make his dreams come true. I can laugh and smile as he talks to me and the rest of America, and says all the things we can't- or won't.
I can search YouTube, to my heart's content, for another dose of the talents of people I didn't even know, long after their lives are over. As I enjoy their gifts and talents, I can thank God for those who purposed to bring smiles and happiness into the lives of others. 

I can also thank him for the ability to feel sympathy and empathy.

We've gone through yet another Easter season of celebrating good news. 

The irony is that the good news involved death. 

The better news is that none of our stories have to end in a cemetery. 

Whether a brief life, or a long one like Meinhardt Raabe's we have a blessed hope that there's more. 

Perhaps the sadness we feel over an individual's death, whether they be a stranger or acquaintance, is that they're finished, and we're not. 

Their work is concluded, and ours isn't.

 

Perhaps the strange concern and sadness isn't about the deceased, after all.

SCIENCE PROJECTS

People listen to music. They don't watch it. I'm all for the Arts, but not so in favor of what often amounts to sensory deception. When I listen to a CD, then hear a live performance, I shouldn't feel an uproar welling up in my belly. My face shouldn't be marred by puzzled and painful expressions. I shouldn't feel the urge to call 911 and insist upon an immediate manhunt for the person or persons who kidnapped the artist and replaced him or her with a vocally challenged imposter.

"Project" is, sadly, just the right term to use in so many cases--a recording studio engineers' SCIENCE project to be exact. The fact that so many are merely focused on cranking out "projects" alone, adequately explains why considerable time and attention is given to what listeners' eyes will see, as opposed to what their ears will hear. How one looks, what one wears, and how physically fit one may be, means very little to a listener, if when a favorite artist opens his or her mouth, the only sounds that proceed out can only be described as "a spicy hot mess". It's just not cool to promise a musical performance, but in actuality, deliver a mere fashion show.
What's the point in one presenting oneself as if one has stock in Neiman Marcus, unlimited access to the finest spas, the make-up artistry of Derrick Rutledge, the latest in Christian Louboutin, and the personal trainer from "The Biggest Loser"? Why bother if, when it's time to actually SING, one appears physically stunning, but cancels the image out completely by committing first-degree assault on the auditory nerves of everyone within an 8 mile radius?
Since I listen to music, I appreciate those who sensitively, and seriously concentrate on sound. I keep hearing "whole package", and I don't have an aversion to presenting oneself in a decent manner. But, I'm going to borrow a friend's simple command. FOCUS! While brawn and beauty, fashion sense and style are wonderful things to have inside, I just wonder if there's room in the box for sound. A live performance isn't a live performance just because a live body is present. Listeners want to hear what they heard emanating from the speakers of their cars, ipods, and computers, or better--certainly not horribly worse.

THURSDAY THOUGHTS: THE GOOD OL' DAYS

To say that today was beautiful would be an understatement. 

I'm glad that I went out, took a walk, and even browsed in a few stores. 

While in one store, I saw packages of old-fashioned ginger snaps. I had no plans to buy cookies today, but they reminded me of the story my Dad told my daughter and me on Easter Sunday. 

He was talking about his grandfather. I learned that my great-grandfather was a straw boss on a plantation, wore overalls most of the time, walked around with an 8-plait whip flung over his shoulder, and could make mules "behave". 

He must have been an expert with that whip to be able to crack it and sting a mule on the back of its ear. 

According to Daddy, his grandfather talked to the mules. "Come on now. Get it together", he would warn them. 

"Those mules would do whatever he told them", Daddy said. 

Apparently, when it came to people, my great-grandfather was a man of few words. 

"I never heard him say 'Good Morning', 'Hi, How're you doing', 'Hello'. Nothing. 

He'd just raise his arm and say "Ay hah!" 

Daddy said he still doesn't know what that means, but he knew that his grandfather loved him, and that was all that mattered.

My Dad is 83 years old, but there was a twinkle in his eye like a little child's as he talked about his grandfather. 

"He used to take me to the store and sit me on a big rice sack." 

Daddy extended his arms to demonstrate just how huge the sacks were. 

"He would buy me a gingerbread plank and a strawberry soda. That's why I like strawberry soda so much! He told me that he put me on the sack so I would 'stay out the people's way', and I would just sit there and enjoy myself. I would be full! To me, those were the good ol' days. 

I don't know what other people are talking about when they say 'the good ol' days'. That was it for me". 

He talked about his time in the Navy, how much he loved fishing in Massachusetts and on the bayou in Louisiana, the grocery store he used to own, (and how it burned down because of a faulty kerosene heater), and the best way to use the dried shrimp he was giving to me. He said all I needed was some okra, tomato sauce and rice, and I had a meal. 

The recipe was only too familiar. 

It's what Mommy used to make sometimes.

I laugh now when I find myself reminiscing about things. 

I remember when I used to think that anyone 30 years old was really old. 

Consequently I thought that anyone almost 50 years of age, like me, was as old as dirt's grandmother.

Seeing so many former students a few weeks ago, all grown up, and with their own children in tow, was a huge memory trigger. 

Trying to struggle through music the other day that someone assured me was "dope" (but it sounded more like the person who created it was ON dope) made me deliberately find something more "my speed". 

I remembered when people paid more attention to what a listener's ears would hear, as opposed to what their eyes would see. 

Choosing something I already owned to wear to church on Easter Sunday, only reminded me of my late Mother's annual effort to sew new dresses, and shop for new accessories for me and my sisters.

Being startled by the "Good Morning" of a total stranger, as he walked down the hill, reminded me that at one time, there was nothing odd about people greeting each other out of sheer courtesy. 

An internet story about a child who smashed his iphone, and is seeking to sue his mother for invading his facebook privacy, reminded me that when I was little, I had no privacy to speak of, nor did I need any. I was a child, whose existence was dependent upon the kindness, care and generosity of my parents. Had I purposely lost my mind and broken anything that either of my parents worked hard to pay for, I venture to think that typing might be a little difficult for me right now. Sue my parents? I don't even have a point of reference for that one...

I suppose everyone gets to a point when they start talking about the "good ol' days". 

It's usually when we're appalled, repelled, shocked, disappointed, confused, laughing hysterically about, or unwilling to conform to something new. Fortunately, thoughts of days gone by also come when something makes our hearts glad, and brings a smile to our faces.

I'm still listening to the rain now...or perhaps I'm listening to the sounds of everything else interacting with the rain. 

I'm glad it came. 

Everything outside had been blanketed with pollen, and I'd spoken to one to many persons who seemed to be hoarse, laboring to breathe, or singing the praises of their favorite decongestant or antihistamine. 

At some point late this afternoon, I just knew that all of the allergy sufferers would get some relief. 

You know. It's that feeling you get that rain is coming. It did get a little darker and cloudier, but nothing happened. 

I thought perhaps my instincts had been wrong. 

All of a sudden, not long after I was safely inside, the wind started blowing, and even the branches of bigger trees seemed to be bending beyond their usual limits. My first thought was of the farmhand in the earlier minutes of "The Wizard of Oz", screaming, "It's a twister!" 

I was glad that my daughter checked in to let me know that she was okay. 

My next thought was to see who was tweeting on twitter about the weather. (I definitely wouldn't have done that a year ago. Now it seems that "The News" gets the news from social networking sites just like the rest of us.) 

The National Weather Service reported a severe thunderstorm warning, but noted how swiftly the storm would be moving out of the area. It's long past 8:30, however, and it's still raining. I should have taken the ginger snaps to my Dad when I thought about it. 

Maybe tomorrow.

The wind has died down, so I opened a window. 

I love what the rain does to the air. 

It's so fresh and clean. 

Other than the sound of vehicles splashing along on the wet streets, it's peaceful--like the "good ol' days".

CHAMPIONS AND MOUNTAINS AND MOLEHILLS, OH MY!

The day is coming to a close. There's still a little daylight left. I just finished tweaking my resume. Every now and then I admit I get a little antsy about the uncertainty of my vocation. Sometimes there's lots to do, and places to go. Sometimes there's nothing to do, and for someone like me who always had a regular job, the notion of being idle isn't a welcomed one. 
What I don't want to do is engage in activity out of sheer boredom. Perhaps everything doesn't have to be meaningful or purposeful, but it is nice to know that whatever one does, it's in some way helpful.

The new resume is now saved. A possible job opportunity prompted me to look it over and dust it off. I was all ready to click "send" when I realized that there was one major qualification of the job with which I would not be able to comply. Still, my resume is cleaned up, the shrimp with garlic sauce was delicious, I had a necessary and productive conversation with a friend, and I found something I thought was lost, so it hasn't been a wasted day.

As I was sifting through e-mails I came across this passage of scripture which brought a smile to my face:
"Be strong and of good courage, do not fear nor be afraid of them; for the LORD your God, He is the One who goes with you. He will not leave you nor forsake you." Deuteronomy 31:6

I suppose that "them" aren't necessarily people. "Them" can be negative thoughts, feelings of anxiety, doubts, disappointments, or momentary lapses of memory concerning what God has done in the past. In a matter of seconds, God reminded me, "I've got you. In me, you can do all things".

The same loving message resonated from the songs I downloaded this morning. The first was the empowering "Conqueror", by Darwin Hobbs. It's so motivating and happy! It's not syrupy and wimpy happy, but like a really efficient cheerleader who knows the team is going to win. It's the kind of song that would make you think you could actually sprout strong wings and fly. There's a nice war cry-like beginning, and the confident, crisp, uplifting lyrics don't leave much room for sadness or self-doubt. After the singers affirm their own ability in Christ, they declare the listener's ability, and you can't help but believe-- if you didn't already know it-- that "You're a champion".

The second song that has transcended entertainment and ministered to me today is entitled "Mountains and Molehills. It begins so sweetly with a few harmonious "ooh's" and the sound of an actual piano is enough to capture my attention. If one is impatient and doesn't listen, it could be misconstrued as a bit of a downer, but as PJ Morton passionately, yet plainly sings each verse about "this girl from a small town", your heart soon knows, that the story won't resolve in sympathy or sorrow. This song is having none of that. It's almost like the way Dr. Huxtable flipped the script and stunned the audience after they'd applauded Theo's touching lines in one of my favorite Cosby Show episodes. After hearing his son pour out his frustration and make a plea for his unconditional love, Dr. Huxtable told the complacent, educationally unmotivated Theo, "That's the dumbest thing I ever heard!" PJ Morton does a similar thing. He beautifully tells a story in song, that has the potential to invoke pity, but lets NONE of us off the hook. Bad circumstances or not, he sings, "Stop the excuses. Don't believe the lies. Make up your mind, and you've got to try instead of making mountains out of molehills--when they're not even real. Need to go and follow your dreams--not as hard as it seems. You've got to try...You won't know unless you try..." 

Advice taken.

I've said this before. I have enjoyed music for as long as I can remember. Some songs, however have an immediate impact upon me. The only way I can describe them is healing and therapeutic. They speak to a place deep inside and I embrace and revisit them often. 
There's a very long list that includes, Richard Smallwood's "I Love The Lord", Quincy Jones' "What Good Is A Song", Stevie Wonder's "Joy Inside My Tears", Tramaine Hawkins' "Lord I Try", Googie and Tom Coppola's "Joyous Flame", Tim Foot's "Grace", Lizz Wright's "Salt", Maurette Brown Clark's "Why Not Give the Lord A Try", "Bill Cantos' "Love Wins", Donald Lawrence's "There Is A King In You", Puff Johnson's "Over and Over", Joe Sample and Lalah Hathaway's "When Your Life Was Low", Chaka Khan's "Love Has Fallen On Me", Vanessa Bell Armstrong's "Father I Stretch", Bob Schneider's "World Exploded Into Love", Ledisi's "It's Alright", Stuart Townend's "My God", and Seawind's "Follow Your Road". I've recently added worship leader, Alex Williams' moving, prayerful declaration in song, "Everybody Needs A Hero" and today, I've added "Champion" and "Mountains and Molehills".

It's been a peaceful, but wonderfully musical day. PJ Morton's "Let Go" is playing now. Daniel Moore was so right. "People still want good music". 
I know. Art is subjective and everyone has differing tastes, and music is always evolving...blah, blah, blah. I just know what my own ears, heart and mind respond to and what, on the other hand makes me want to take cover and buy stock in Tylenol. Good music doesn't bludgeon your senses to a slow and agonizing death, and material gain isn't the seed from which it originates. But then, that's just the two cents of someone who's creeping up on 50 very quickly.
By the way, Daniel's song "Say Something" (also on the list)is a perfect song for those like me whose primary love language is "Words of Affirmation". (Yes, I'm reading Dr. Gary Chapman's book.)
Silence can be positively deafening, but there's joy in knowing that even if no one else is saying a word, God is speaking all the time.

TUESDAY THOUGHTS: WHOSE HOUSE IS IT, ANYWAY?

When I walk into my home, there are things that I'll notice immediately if they're not quite right. 

A crooked picture. 

A plant that needs watering. A dripping faucet. 

An open window. 

I'll know if my daughter is at home or not. 

Lights will be on. 

A television may be on, or she may be reading, or talking on the phone. 

I may smell what I cooked before I left, something new cooking, or the remnants of whatever she may have cooked, or picked up from a restaurant on her way home. 

Most times she will bring something for me. Sometimes, she will rightly assume that I have already eaten. Other times, I will come in with something for her, and we will laugh and decide that whatever it is will be the next day's meal. 

When I walk into my house, there are things I expect to see. 

I'll know if things have been rearranged. 

I’ll know if there has been an accident. 

I'll know if something is missing or broken. 

I'll know if I forgot to take the trash out to the dumpster, or if something in the refrigerator has passed its expiration date. 

When I walk into my home I expect certain things.

My Mom instilled in me a love of cleanliness and neatness. She said that if a thing is supposed to be white, it should be white. 

If it is supposed to shine, keep it shining. 

Like Mommy, I realize that here are some things that I demand in my home that are not negotiable. 

Peace is among the most important. 
I detest unnecessary noise. Smoking is prohibited. 

I hate arguments and fighting. 

I remember telling my daughter once, that no matter what was going on outside, we would have peace in our home. 

Even between us, there would be no strife. 

When I come into my home I want things to be as I enjoy them. No one will come into my home and do anything that I wouldn't do. No one will disrespect my home. No one will hang, display, spray, or leave anything of which I do not approve. 

I care about what goes on in my house. 

No one can come in and treat it in a manner that is not acceptable to me. 

It's ever so humble, but it's my house. It's my home. 

It has a purpose. 

It reflects my daughter and me. 

It will not be used for anything other than that for which it is intended. 

There are laws against me using my home for anything else other than a dwelling place. 

If I have such an extensive, concrete list of do's and don'ts for my house, why would I, then, mistreat, debase, trivialize, ignore, or disrespect the House of God? Yes, God is omnipresent. No he is not tucked away in our handmade boxes, but doesn't the house of worship have standards, too?

How seriously do we approach worship, and our roles in the House of God? How much of what we do is out of order, unnecessary, silly, frivolous, inappropriate, self-serving or just plain wrong? 

Are we engaged in activity that God has not commanded? 

Is what we do for our own gratification and benefit, or to the glory of God? 

Is there a way to assess whether our activity is in line with what God wants to take place in His house? Are the houses that bear his name in varying, creative, and sometimes absurd and silly ways, even his houses at all? 

Is he even welcome?

In the Old Testament, Nadab and Abihu, Aaron's sons, the nephews of Moses and Miriam, probably meant no harm, but their actions still cost them their lives. 

We can’t dwell upon, mourn or justify wrongdoing. 

If you have believed not just ABOUT Jesus, but IN Jesus, then staying near to him, and learning of him, and adhering to his teaching is so important. We can’t ever find ourselves carried away because of disobedience and ignorance, or careless because of a lack of respect. 

We can’t ignore the consequences of someone else's antics, and assume that they won’t happen again, or happen to US if we engage in unwise endeavors and practices. 

Experience is a good teacher, but the experiences of someone else are master instructors. It's always wise to remember where we are, and know what behavior is expected, authorized and acceptable. We just might want to return there one day.

There are times when the Bible screams loudly that it is not just a collection of nice stories, but a priceless blueprint for life. Obedience is not an option. Reverence for God and the things of God is not an option. After all, the Earth is his, and everything that is in, and upon it. I suppose that means that we should be mindful of our deportment no matter where we happen to be. 

God walks among us, but what is he stepping in as he walks? Has a way been prepared for the Lord in our lives, and the things we do in His name? 

What is he smelling and seeing? 

Do we care about the poop we drop that we think is wonderful?

Are we serious about the presence of God? 

What are we leaving around for a holy God to trample through? 

Is much of what we do only worthy to be scraped off of the Lord’s feet? Would we want it on our own? 

Do we care what the Lord experiences in the places we call his?

SATURDAY THOUGHTS: EASTER EVE: SHOE MEMORIES

At about this time, back in 1972, my Mom asked my Dad to take my big sister and me shoe shopping. 

I hated shoe shopping back then. I vaguely recall thinking that Orthopedic was a person. I never understood why Mr. Arthur Pedic couldn't use his cobbling skills to make a pretty shoe. 

The usual stop was Stride Rite in Eastover Shopping Center, or Boyce and Lewis in NW, DC on 7th Street. 

It was unusual on this Easter eve, that Mommy was still sewing. 

She'd selected a lovely McCalls, Butterick, or Simplicity pattern for me. It allowed for a print fabric at the top of the dress, and a plain fabric for the skirt. 

I liked the lavender she'd selected and the pretty floral matched perfectly. 

Mommy loved to sew. She had to make three Easter outfits after my little sister was born in 1967. 

For some Easter celebrations, she’d even made coats for us.

I always wondered why she preferred to sew. 

I learned it wasn't always a matter of economics. 

She'd go to stores like Greta Stevens, Woodward and Lothrop, Landsburg's, or Garfinkle’s, and not only look at the clothes, but the seams, hems, top stitching, linings, and buttonholes. 

I could always tell when she was intent on sewing. 

"Look at this. The edges aren't even finished. I can make this a lot better, and for a lot less". 

She was right. She could. She was an amazing seamstress. To her, sewing was an stress-relieving hobby. 

It was important to her that her children be presentable. She felt that it was her responsibility. She wasn’t going to be dressed up while her daughters looked like vagabonds, or raggamuffins.

Mommy would go without certain things for herself, so that we could have. 

She never complained, but I knew it. 

I always thought she could have made quite a living just sewing. Her creations really did look better than everything in the stores. 

She could spend hours in fabric stores choosing material, or leafing through the huge pattern books.

I remember asking her why she rarely sewed for other people. She always said that she knew she could please herself.  It was a little more difficult trying to please someone else. She didn't want to deal with someone being dissatisfied with the work she'd done. She didn't want pressure, stress, or criticism being applied to something that she loved to do.

Our new outfits would usually be pressed and hanging on hangers, by the time Good Friday rolled around, but she'd gotten behind schedule in 1972. She was a teacher, too, and I now realize just how much she had on her plate. 

She didn't have to sew. 

She wanted to, and time was ticking away as the needle and thread struck the fabric that Saturday. 

We were supposed to go shopping for shoes, and it was beginning to look like we would be wearing shoes we already had. 

It was no problem in my mind, but Mommy wanted us to have new shoes. (This new outfit would not only satisfy the Easter tradition, but it would be carefully worn to school on Picture Day.)
I remember her asking my Dad if he would take us shoe shopping, so that she could finish our dresses. 

My Dad was not the shopping bunny. His idea of shopping was to know what was being sought after ahead of time, go into the store, get it, and leave. 

He reiterated this same philosophy as we rode from our house to the same J.C. Penney where Mommy shopped for the fabric. 

The shoe department was at the back of the store, on the first level. Daddy said, "Look around and get what you want". 

I still remember being completely stunned. Mommy never said anything like that. She was always concerned about comfort, fit, and durability. “Ruining” our feet was a concern of hers. Every now and then, I'd emerge with a shoe I liked, but never one that I loved. 

I suppose I should be grateful for a mom who was concerned about the health of my feet--which were, and still are larger than both my sisters'. 

Robyn could pick out a cute shoe, and I could pick the same shoe, but when it emerged from the box, it never looked the same…lol

I hated shoe shopping--that is, until that Easter Eve. 
On the shelf was a white, patent leather, t-strapped pump, with a semi-chunky 2.5 inch heel. 

It was calling my name, and I answered. 

I would be celebrating my 12th birthday that year. 

I had never worn heels in my life. 

My sister spied a white, patent leather, round-toed, sling-back pump. 

We looked at each other, smiled, then took our selections to Daddy, who'd found a seat as soon as we got there. 

I was waiting for him to say something like, "Are you crazy?" or "Pick something else. They're too grown-up". Instead, he said, "Is that what you all want?" 

We both said an enthusiastic "Yes Sir!" 

Daddy gave the shoes to the salesman, and we sat waiting for our dream shoes to return. 

I prayed that he wouldn't come back and say, "I'm sorry Honey. We don't have YOUR size, but we have THESE. 

"THESE" had always been some hideous, brogan-plank of a shoe, that made me hate my feet. 

Who knew that, at the time (and even now), the shoes I always chose were never in stock because my shoe size was so common?
The salesman came back and handed us the boxes. 

He helped both of us put on our new shoes. 

I stood up and walked all over the shoe department. The carpet allowed me to glide and turn like a dancer. The heels miraculously made my feet look smaller. 

I think it was the first time in my life that I smiled in a shoe department. 

I even wanted to wear them out of the store. 

I'd never wanted to do that before.

As Daddy paid for our new shoes, Robyn and I were giggling like the school girls we were. 

As we left the store, each one of us were swinging our bags. We smiled all the way home. 

I can't count how many times I peeked into the box at my shoes. I loved them, and couldn't believe they were mine.

When we got back home, Mommy asked to see our shoes. When she saw them, the smile left her face. 

She was not happy. 

They were not the suitable, flat Mary Jane's that she'd anticipated. 

She asked my Dad if he had picked out the shoes. 

I could tell that she regretted asking him to take us, and it was too late by then to take them back. 

For the rest of the evening, she shook her head and muttered about our shoes, as she continued to sew. 

I didn't like that Mommy was so unhappy, but nothing could take away the joy I felt. 

Finally, there would be pretty shoes on my feet. 

I decided that day that it would always be that way. 

I was glad that Mommy cheered up when we got dressed. Our new shoes really did complement the beautiful dresses she'd made, and we didn't "break our necks", trying to walk in them, either.

I know that the death, burial and resurrection of Christ have absolutely nothing to do with shoes or apparel. 

I understand the concepts of newness of life, redemption, cleansing, and starting over. It's been a long time since I've deliberately shopped for Easter. 

I carried on the tradition when I became a mother, and dyed eggs, bought baskets, and dolled up my daughter in frilly dresses, lacy socks or tights, and patent leather Buster Brown’s shoes, until she could communicate that the dolling-up was no longer necessary. 

She has the same approach to shopping that my Dad has. She also knows that this season has a much loftier focus than deciding what one is going to purchase in order to impress other people. 

My daughter accepted Christ as her Lord and Savior, and that makes me incredibly glad. What she also inherited was the love of shoes that my mother had, and that I have, and her choices are stunning.

We don't need an occasion. There's something about a new pair of shoes that brightens the day. I don't know. Maybe it's the consistency and variety of footwear. When everything else changes, and makes it necessary to adjust, the shoe experience never disappoints.

I remember that Easter Sunday morning as we prepared to go to church. Baskets that had been hidden, suddenly appeared in the living room. 

Daddy had his Polaroid camera ready to take pictures of us. 

As I sat down in the chair, I remember asking him, "Daddy, can you see my shoes?" 

He nodded that he could. Mommy had made a lovely dress, and she even pressed and pin-curled my hair. 

That day, I felt good about myself. I was happy the entire day. I felt blessed. I'd been given a gift. 

We weren't spoiled by any stretch of the imagination. We had what we needed, and wants were relegated to birthdays and Christmas. Easter 1972 was like Christmas and my birthday combined.

It's always wise to learn of the significance of the things you do, and not just blindly adopt practices just because of tradition. There are things that we do that are harmless and fun, enjoyable and refreshing. When we attach God to our practices, we really have to make sure that we don't trivialize his place in our lives. We have to make sure that the things we do don't overshadow the lessons he wants us to learn. We have to keep our focus on what's important.

I have a pair of white patent leather pumps somewhere in my closet. I doubt if I'll break them out tomorrow. Although I still wear them on occasion, I'm not so eager to be flung up in high-heeled shoes these days. 

It seems that Mommy was right about the vulnerability of ankles and knees. 

Cute is rapidly giving way to comfort, but when the occasion calls for it, I still have choices, and those choices have a strict time limit.

My mom passed away in 2003, but I can still hear the sound of her sewing machine. She was a believer in the finished work of Calvary-- and a believer in going to the house of God in your best attire. I'm sure she would have had a new suit, shoes, and a say-something hat to wear tomorrow (as would all of her contemporaries), and she would have been beautiful as she worshiped.

Traditions are lovely. 

So are good memories. 

I'm looking forward to going to church tomorrow. 

Happy Easter.