A Little Salty to Cut the Sweet

by Sophie Hudson

  “No way!” he answered.

  “Way!” I replied. And then I laughed so hard I clapped my hands. If I’d been in Myrtlewood, I think I would’ve chest-bumped my mother-in-law. Gently. What with me being two of her and all.

  Now that Martha has conquered the Kindle, I have high hopes that there’s even more technology in her future. Who knows? She might even have an e-mail address sometime soon. She might upgrade to an iPad. She might buy a computer.

  But make no mistake: if the extent of Martha’s technological progress is that she downloads a Mary Higgins Clark book to her Kindle once a quarter, that’s fine by us. Because while it may have taken fifteen years, downloading those books assures us of something that would have seemed impossible when David and I first married: Martha finally knows how to use the Amazon-dot-C-zero-M.

  It’s probably not a miracle, but it’s close.

  And now we just have to teach her how to set that clock on her coffeepot.

  Be near, Lord Jesus.

  Be near.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  That Whole Table Thing Is Pretty Symbolic, Y’all

  LATE ONE AFTERNOON when Alex was seven years old, we were looking through one of my old photo albums when we ran across several family Easter pictures from the ’70s and ’80s. It was hilarious to see how Mama’s and Chox’s hairstyles evolved over the years—with my favorite being their sassy Mia Farrow–esque pixie cuts—and everybody’s dress choices cut a wide fashion swath, to say the least. There were miniskirts, jersey ensembles, Laura Ashley florals, and Gunne Sax prairie dresses, along with some pleated, pearl-buttoned numbers from an Easter when Paige and I were clearly drawn to anything pastel and chiffon.

  I blame our chiffon phase on watching too many reruns of The Lawrence Welk Show. Cissy’s skirts always looked so pretty when she danced.

  Taking an Easter picture was a nonnegotiable annual event in our family, and the backdrop was typically daffodils or azaleas, depending on which were in bloom at the time. Pictures always preceded Easter lunch, another annual event where Mama and Chox coordinated the food and alternated hosting duties. As kids we never knew who else might be joining us—it might be the minister of music or maybe some cousins or maybe even the preacher and his wife. Plus, Easter always meant that Sister and Brother would be home, and if Sister was home, that meant that she and Chox would exchange a seemingly endless supply of post-lunch stories that afternoon.

  The food was great, but the stories and the laughter were always my favorite parts.

  Over the last ten or fifteen years, there has been a little bit more of a rotation in terms of who might be in Myrtlewood for Easter. Mama and Daddy still sing in the choir, and Daddy still teaches Sunday school, so they’re locked in at Mission Hill UMC every Easter. Their presence in my hometown is never in question. But all “the children” are grown now, and we have responsibilities at our own churches that sometimes make it difficult to travel Easter weekend. No matter who can be in Myrtlewood, Mama is always a little sad about the ones who can’t be there, and a few years ago, when she was bemoaning the absence of some branch of the family, I reminded her that if her children weren’t serving in their home churches, she’d be worried to death that she and Daddy had FAILED AT PARENTING.

  She agreed, but that didn’t change the fact that she wanted all her children around her table, just like it was back in the day when all the men in the family wore three-piece suits and ties so wide you’d swear they were napkins. Or like it was when I was nineteen and wore a floral skirt with a floral jacket and a floral shirt underneath. It would’ve been way too much floral if I hadn’t neutralized the whole outfit with my neon-pink shoes.

  Last spring Mama and Daddy both turned eighty within a week of each other, and as I was driving back to Birmingham after a surprise birthday luncheon for Mama, something shifted in me. I tried my best to shake it, but that something kept reminding me that, as clichéd as it sounds, time is precious—and somehow, when I wasn’t really paying attention, everybody got older. Honestly, I’ve never really paid much attention to the aging process; I’m a forty-two-year-old who feels about twenty-seven and tries not to devote much energy to counting all those pesky, crinkly lines around my eyes. In fact, I’m still shocked when someone asks my age and I have to say a number that is IN THE FORTIES, MY WORD. I keep my friends and family tucked away in the same little ageless bubble, but there’s really no denying that the time, it is a-passin’ when you’ve just celebrated your mother’s eightieth birthday.

  It gets your attention. For sure.

  I’ve never had a midlife crisis, but that day, as I drove down the interstate, I think I had a midlife wake-up call. And what hit me—or smacked me in the face, to be honest—is that I really don’t want to trade time with my parents for serving some pound cake at my church. I’m not saying I can’t do both—of course, I can—but I am saying that over the course of the last seven or eight years, I fell into the trap of thinking that, as a grown-up, I was indispensable at my church and inconsequential around my parents’ table.

  And that’s just not true. Neither of those things is true. I just got so busy doing what was good that I lost sight of what, at this particular stage in my life, might be better.

  So last Easter we did things a little differently. My little family went to the early service at our church in Birmingham, and after church was over, we drove to my hometown for Easter lunch. Over the last few years we’ve gradually transitioned to having Thanksgiving and Christmas at our house, but Mama and Chox still wanted to host Easter lunch in Myrtlewood. So instead of trying to convince Mama why she shouldn’t go to any trouble and why she didn’t need to wear herself out and why it would all be easier if she let everybody pick up food instead of trying to cook it herself and why and why and why, I just shut my mouth and showed up. And oh, was I ever glad I did.

  As she has done all my life, Mama prepared a wonderful meal for us. Maybe it was because we’d just celebrated her eightieth birthday, but I found myself eyeing Mama like I was watching a movie, doing my best to take in her mannerisms and her expressions as she carefully stirred the contents of one pot and then the next, as she leaned down to check on the rolls in the oven, as she moved from one side of the kitchen to the other to make sure there was plenty of ice in the freezer. Her movements were more hesitant than they used to be, and she’d occasionally use the countertop to steady herself before pulling a platter from the cabinet or putting the iced tea in the refrigerator. Every once in a while she’d ask one of us to help her move a large dish to the buffet, but I thought it was pretty remarkable that Mama was still setting a gorgeous table and serving us so cheerfully—just a little more slowly than she used to.

  Once everybody had fixed their plates and we settled in to the meal, I looked at all the children around Mama’s kitchen table. My adorable nephews were at that age where even their weariness with adults (eye roll) who are, like, so lame (eye roll) because they still use words like lame (eye roll) and don’t know any of their music (eye roll) and can barely operate an iPad (eye roll) still can’t conceal a deep, underlying, pinch-their-cheeks sweetness. It thrills me to pieces to think about what they’ll be doing in five or ten years, what God-given passions they’ll be chasing. My cousin Benji’s girls are more beautiful every time I see them, and even though I want to put bricks on their respective heads to make them quit all that growing, they’re kindhearted and quick witted, and they make friends faster than anyone I’ve ever known. Give those two a pool full of kids, and they’ll find new BFFs in four minutes flat. I love that about them.

  And then there’s our little guy and Paige’s little boy, Joseph. I like to call them Papaw and Scooter McGee, since Alex is a sixty-year-old man in a nine-year-old body and Joseph tends to operate at an energy level that can only be described as WIDE OPEN. They are polar opposites personality-wise but couldn’t adore each other more. Papaw likes being responsible, following the rules, making a list and checking it twice. Scooter likes
keeping his options open and charting his own course, often grabbing a guitar and singing some old Elvis songs just for kicks and grins. But both of them are full of life, full of wonder, and full of laughter. I’m so thankful for those little stinkers.

  And what I know beyond a shadow of a doubt—at least when it comes to my husband and me, to my siblings, to my in-laws and cousins and friends—is that if our generation wants the phrase legacy of faith to mean anything at all to those kids around the table—if we want to go beyond spouting one more piece of Christian lingo that sounds real pretty but holds precious little significance in their lives—then we have to share our stories with them. We have to write them down, we have to say them out loud, we have to put away our phones and close our computers and linger at the table long after the meal is over. We have to make much of what God has done in our lives and what He continues to do.

  After all, why in the world would we keep our firsthand experiences with His faithfulness, His grace, His kindness, His mercy, and His joy to ourselves?

  As Papaw Davis used to say, “That don’t even make good sense.”

  A few years ago I visited Nashville for a couple of days, mainly just to hang out with Sister and make the rounds to see a few friends. After two of the most relational days of my life—filled with loads of conversation and a week’s worth of caffeine—I called my friend Angela on the way out of town and asked if I could stop by her house for a few minutes. My plan was to stay for half an hour, tops, and then get back on the road. No lollygagging.

  Somehow, though, one conversational topic led to another and to another and to another, and around hour three of our visit, I mentioned to Angela that there was one particular area of my life where I felt completely numb, where I didn’t know how to pray anymore because I was just tired all the way to my bones of dealing with that situation.

  “I get it,” Angela responded. “I really do.”

  We sat in silence for several seconds before she continued. “You know, one thing that always helps me when I’m struggling with what to pray or how to pray is to just remember. Remember.”

  “Remember?” I asked.

  “Yes. Remember. Actively remember the Lord’s goodness. Say it out loud. Thank Him for what He’s done for you in the past. Make a list of what you’ve seen Him do in your life. Speak it. REMEMBER.”

  Angela was right on target, of course, and somehow our attention turned to Psalm 77:11-15—a passage that couldn’t have been timelier:

  I will remember the deeds of the LORD;

  yes, I will remember your wonders of old.

  I will ponder all your work,

  and meditate on your mighty deeds.

  Your way, O God, is holy.

  What god is great like our God?

  You are the God who works wonders;

  you have made known your might among the peoples.

  You with your arm redeemed your people,

  the children of Jacob and Joseph.

  Well. All righty then.

  An hour or so later I managed to tear myself away from Angela’s kitchen table so I could drive back to Birmingham. Once I navigated my way to I-65, I settled into the right lane, turned down my radio, and started talking to the Lord. Out loud.

  Make no mistake. At first I felt as crazy as a Betsy bug. Cuckoo. I tried to tell myself that nobody was paying attention to me, that I really wasn’t that conspicuous, but I still longed to grab a giant bullhorn, roll down my window, and scream, “Don’t mind me, fellow travelers. I’m just cruising down the interstate, talking out loud and weeping openly, and YES, I REALIZE THAT YOU CANNOT IN FACT SEE ANYONE ELSE IN MY VEHICLE, BUT I PROMISE THAT GOD IS HERE, AND ALSO I AM REALLY VERY NORMAL.”

  Unfortunately there weren’t any giant bullhorns available.

  And what I realized fairly quickly was that I didn’t need to worry about what people in other cars might be thinking. Because the more I talked, the more I remembered. And the more I remembered, the more I rested in the assurance that there has not been one instance in my life where God has left me or forsaken me. He has worked so intricately in the midst of my circumstances that it’s almost impossible for me to comprehend His creativity as He moved me from point A to point B. But He somehow did it. He is doing it. He has saved me from myself over and over again. And somewhere around the Alabama line, the dam in my heart—the one built out of not really knowing how to pray and wondering if God even had a clue about how exhausted I was from dealing with that particular problem—well, it began to give way.

  And listen. I’m not saying that the reason we need to actively remember what God has done is so we can all have a big, touchy-feely, emotional moment that makes us feel better for a day or two before we jump right back into the worry again. I’m not saying that at all. But I am saying that when we take time to see God’s intention as He acts, His deliberate nature as He unfolds His plan, and His faithfulness as He watches after every detail of our lives, we’re reminded of His character. We’re reminded of His love for us. We’re reminded of the truth of Psalm 143:5-6:

  I remember the days of old;

  I meditate on all that you have done;

  I ponder the work of your hands.

  I stretch out my hands to you;

  my soul thirsts for you like a parched land.

  We see evidence of His provision. We see the consistency of His care.

  And that’s what happened that afternoon in the car. I realized that IF HE ORDAINED ALL THAT STUFF I’M REMEMBERING, HE HAS A PLAN FOR THIS STUFF, TOO. And He’s writing a story that goes far beyond the here and now.

  I knew that already, of course. I knew it in my head, at least. Somewhere along the way, though, frustration with the situation shifted my focus—and I’d forgotten it in my heart.

  But then I remembered.

  After Easter lunch was over, Paige and I served ice cream to the kids. They’d stayed in their seats at the table because, well, ICE CREAM, and as we scooped out Blue Bell Homemade Vanilla for the young’uns, Brother started talking about how different things had been when we were younger. He and Benji were laughing about some of their childhood mischief in Mamaw and Papaw’s pasture—tales that always seem to involve a horse, a truck, or both—when Brother suddenly sat straight up in his chair and said, “Hey! Do y’all remember when we had a garbage man who was always at odds with the dogs on Mama and Daddy’s road?”

  Whether he meant to or not, he had instantly secured the undivided attention of every single child at the table.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I said, looking over my shoulder as I carried another couple of dinner plates to the kitchen sink.

  “Me neither,” Paige echoed.

  “Yeah, you do,” Brother insisted. “Remember? It was back before there were real garbage trucks, back when Mr. Vaughn would drive his pickup from house to house and pick up everybody’s trash.”

  That detail rang a little bitty bell in the back of my head.

  “Remember? He would drive from house to house, and nobody had to put their trash at the street or anything, so he’d come down the driveway and have to get out of his truck and grab the garbage cans from behind the house.”

  “OH, YEAH,” Paige, Benji, and I said in unison.

  The children’s spoons were still suspended in midair.

  “Well,” Brother said, “since he had to get out of his truck, he had to deal with everybody’s dogs. That was before neighborhoods had rules about dogs being inside fences—they were all just free to wander. And since some of those dogs were pretty mean, Mr. Vaughn figured out a way to handle ’em.”

  Joseph’s eyes were as big as Mama’s dinner plates. “What’d he do? What’d he do to those dogs?”

  “Keep in mind this was back in the early ’70s,” Brother said. “Back before people put their dogs in sweaters and took ’em to special beauty shops. Dogs were just dogs back then. And since Mr. Vaughn didn’t want any of the dogs on our road to bite him, he’d scare ’em off.
”

  “What’d he do? What’d he do to those dogs?” Joseph repeated.

  “Aw, nothing that bad,” Brother answered. “But if he was about to pick up trash at a house where the dogs liked to jump and snarl, he’d turn into the driveway, roll down his window, and throw a few lit firecrackers into the yard. That KAPOW! would always make the dogs run. He didn’t hurt ’em or anything. Just reminded ’em that he was there. And that’s how we could tell that the garbage man was coming—we’d hear KAPOW! KAPOW! KAPOW! and know that he was just a few houses away.”

  The children collapsed into a fit of giggles. The grown-ups did too. And at that point we were off to the story races. Mama and Chox joined us at the table, and one story led to another and another and another. When the kids started to get restless, we moved to the table on the deck and continued the conversation while they ran around the yard, climbed trees, and threw makeshift Frisbees.

  The setting was completely different, of course, but in so many ways and for so many reasons it was like we were sitting in Mamaw and Papaw Davis’s kitchen all over again, listening to Mama and Chox and their kinfolk hold court for the better part of an afternoon.

  As we sat on the deck and soaked up the sunshine, it dawned on me that it won’t be long before my little guy’s generation literally and figuratively sits where my generation sits right now—with their children and nieces and nephews on the other side of the table. It’s sweet to think about that.

  And it’s sobering.

  We live in a world where, if we’re honest, we have to admit that people sometimes know more about the Kardashians than they do about the folks who are sleeping right down the hall. In fact, I recently overheard (okay, I was eavesdropping again, but I was at Starbucks and the ceilings there are twenty feet tall and the people were talking very loudly) a conversation where two girls were talking about the stars of Twilight like they’re close, personal friends who regularly hang out together. And I guess I understand why. Anyone who’s looking for an unmerited sense of closeness or maybe just an easy way to disconnect from reality can pick up a phone, consult the Google, and spend the better part of an afternoon gathering all manner of interesting trivia about the celebrity obsession of the moment. Considering I personally devoted countless hours of my life to a careful, Internet-based study of Faith Hill’s hairstyles in 2001 and 2002, I can speak with some degree of authority on this subject.