The Sacred

The Blanket

It’s 2 AM as I finally crawl into the hotel bed after sitting on the floor for almost 3 hours. Hugh’s blood sugar has plummeted after a long day at a school convention out of town. As hard as I try, his blood sugar stubbornly careens to levels that would put a grown man in the hospital. 

I give him 4 juice boxes to bring it up as I crouch next to the air mattress he is sleeping on. He wakes up on his second juice box, nauseated and disoriented from the crashing low. I bring a trash can over to his bedside. I wipe his forehead with my hands. I shove candy into the side of his mouth so it will absorb through his cheeks. 

He tells me he feels horrible, like his entire body is on fire. He groans and grits his teeth. I tell him he’s ok, that his blood sugar will be coming up soon. I don’t completely believe what I’m telling him. My hands are shaking, but I don’t want Hugh to see that, so I quickly tuck them under my legs. 

I google when I should administer the life-saving glucagon we carry with us at all times – the medicine I give him if his body loses the fight with his blood sugar. I know the answer, of course. I don’t need google to tell me it’s only when he is unconscious. But I do it anyway. Because I feel lost and scared and somehow, google knows all the answers. 

Slowly, painfully, Hugh’s blood sugar begins to rise. He is safe for now. Three hours of sitting on the floor has caused my joints to stiffen. I limp as I stand up. 

I feel his face one more time before I collapse into bed. I brush my hands over his forehead, his cheeks, his hair. He’s ok. We will sleep for a few hours before waking up at 7 for another full day of activities. We won’t tell anyone about the scare this night. Not because we don’t want to talk about it, but because no one will really understand. 

As I lay with my cheek on the pillow, facing Hugh in case he needs me again, I feel it once more. Anger. Hot, boiling, seething, red anger – and it settles around me like an old, heavy blanket. Cumbersome and oppressing, yet familiar and comfortable. 

I’ve worn this blanket before. And sometimes it feels good to wrap it around me. It feels deserving – even justified. 

I’m angry at myself, for missing the cues that Hugh was dropping low. Good heavens, Sally. You would think after 9 years of doing this you could get it right. You should be able to keep him safe. How could you have let this happen? 

I’m angry at you – all of you who don’t have to live this life. Everyone who sleeps soundly at night with no alarms and no blood sugar checks. All of you who have healthy children. My anger burns hot toward the naive and the un-tested. 

And I’m angry at the Man Upstairs, who could allow this to happen to an innocent child. A child who only deserves good and pure things in this world. What kind of God gives this burden to a boy?

I pull my blanket of anger tighter around my shoulders. I like the way it feels tonight. The blanket settles around me and keeps me warm. It gives me the excuse I need to spew flames into the world. 

As I grip my blanket tighter, as the justified anger seeps into my bones, as I begin to allow it to stick around, Hugh rolls over and looks at me. “Thanks, Mom” he says sleepily and then closes his eyes. 

“You’re welcome, baby” I whisper into the dark. 

And I slowly unwrap the blanket from my shoulders. I fold it neatly and smooth out the wrinkles. I give it one last squeeze, then I place it in the closet and close the door. I know it will always be there, but I also know there is only one thing that can free me from it. 

I’m sure you know what that one thing is too, but I’ll go ahead and tell you. It’s Love. 

Love wins every time. Love gently unwraps the heavy blanket of anger or fear or pride or hurt and replaces it with arms that embrace me instead. 

Love turns my head to see you – because you’re wearing a blanket too, sometimes. 

Love helps me notice that we all have blankets of anger. And while your’s may not be because of diabetes, it’s there just the same. Maybe it’s given to you after a divorce or a death or a failure or a betrayal. Maybe you try to hide it by hurting others or seeing the world as a dark and scary place. But Love shows me that what really is going on is that blanket – The one you can’t quite ever leave behind. 

And yet, Love whispers to me and to you again and again that when life is hard, when we hurt, when we are afraid, when our anger takes over, we can turn to Love. 

Love will hold our hand. Love will walk with us. Love won’t make us feel comfortable, but will give us joy beyond belief. And in this Love, we will want to share it with the whole world. 

So take off your blankets with me, dear friends, and join me in the One who Loves. I have been told that our lives will never be the same. 

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The Secret to Happiness

There was a song I learned when I was a little girl in my Sunday School class that went something like this –

I’ve got the joy, joy, joy, joy down in my heart. Where? Down in My heart. Where? 

Down in My Heart.

If you know it, I’m sure you’re humming along at this point. 

And I’m so happy. So very happy. I’ve got the love of Jesus in my he-aaaaaa-rt. 

And of course, every kids favorite part – 

And if the Devil doesn’t like it he can sit on a tack. Ouch! Sit on a tack! Ouch! Sit on a tack! 

None of us kids really knew what a tack was, but we got to jump up out of our seats and grab our behinds, so that was all that really mattered. 

Even now, I bet if I started singing the first few notes of that song all my Baptist friends would join right in and still grab their tushies when the Devil sits on a tack. 

But something has happened between being kids who sang that song unashamedly and growing into adults who seem to have forgotten all about joy. 

I think a lot of us pushed that joy really far down in our hearts. Like way too far down. So way, way down that the joy doesn’t show up very often anymore. 

Have you noticed it too? 

There’s a whole lot of people who seem angry. And jealous. And mean. And just plain tired. 

Where did the joy go? 

In my extensive research and thorough investigation (ok, more like just thinking about it for 5 minutes at the end of the day before my head hits the pillow), I decided to list all the happy people I knew and what they had in common. A little dorky? Yes. But insightful? Also yes. 

I started with money and good health – two things that should insure happiness. But I quickly had to scratch those off, as none of the happy people I knew had an abundance of either one. Nice homes? Some were a yes, some were a no. Stress free lives? Absolutely not – the stress for these people was the same as for anyone else. 

Secure marriages? Maybe. Although some of the happy people were on their second go round at it. Living in beautiful cities or neighborhoods? Not at all. Perfect children? Nope. Beautiful faces and model bodies? Nada. Jobs they loved and gave them purpose? Sometimes, but not always. 

My list was getting longer. It was harder than I thought to find something in common amongst the joyful people I knew. But I persevered. And just as I was about to give up, I hit upon two traits that every single one of my happy friends shared.

First  – all my happy friends have an abundance of generosity and love for others. Not just a little bit. Not only to people they like. But to everyone. These happy people open their arms and their hearts wide, they invite all into their lives, they are generous to the extreme, and they always think of others first. They are the type of people who give money to strangers, who invite the new neighbor to the block party, who drop everything to help someone in need. Their joy in helping others has no limits. And they do it with a smile on their face.

Second – and this one surprised me – all my happy friends love to eat. Not in an unhealthy way, but in a delightful way. Food to these friends is something to be enjoyed. Something to look forward to. There is always lots of talk about dinner plans and exciting new dishes they have tried. Getting together over a meal is something that all my happy friends love to do. Fish fries, crawfish boils, pot-luck lunches after church. My happy friends all savor the experience that a good meal can bring. Afterall, it makes sense. Have you ever seen a grumpy person eating lemon ice-boxed pie? I didn’t think so. 

Jesus once told the story of a man who had a son. This son was no-good, took his father’s money, wasted it all, and then when he was broke and despondent, decided to return home to beg for forgiveness. Jesus says when the father saw his son walking on the road back home, he ran to him and smothered him in hugs and kisses, his arms open wide to welcome his precious child. He did not stop to say “I need some time to think about this” or “I can forgive you but I won’t forget” or “It’s really not fair what you did to me.” No, this father’s joy was abundant. He never closed his heart to a returning son. 

And not only that, but what did the father say? “Go buy the biggest crawfish you can find. Get that boudin out of the freezer that we’ve been saving for a special occasion. Put the pots on to boil. We’re havin’ us a party tonight!” Or something like that. 

Now I am not a theological expert, or have spent too much time studying the nuances of Jesus’ parables, or even have a degree that would give me permission to dissect this story, but I just wonder if it’s a coincidence that the joyous Father in this story is also a Generous, People Loving, Arms Open Wide, Feaster too? 

Maybe it’s that simple. Maybe Jesus was telling us the way to happiness all those years ago with a story. Maybe he knew that finding our joy would be hard some days, so he was pointing us toward the way. 

Go love people. Even when it’s hard. Even when they don’t love you back. Even when they have hurt you. Open your arms wide to others and the happiness will flow in, like a child running into his Father’s arms. Give, and the joy will be abundant. 

Then, go enjoy a really good meal together. 

And if the Devil doesn’t like it he can sit on a tack. 

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The Mockingbird

A mockingbird has taken up residence in the crepe myrtle tree beside our bedroom window. On warm and moonlit summer nights, he sings me to sleep with his vast repertoire of melodies. He croons them over and over with a chorus of locusts and crickets as his choir, until my eyes start to feel heavy and I drift off to sleep. 

It amazes me that this Louisiana land can create something as beautiful as the mockingbird, while also growing evil mosquitos the size of my fist, killer fire ants, and red wasps that will send you to the hospital. I guess that’s the trade-off with living here – the beauty comes with the danger. You can’t get one without the other. 

My Audubon Field Guide to Birds book tells me the mockingbird can mimic up to 36 calls of his neighboring birds. I’ve counted up to 12 so far. The book also tells me that the mockingbird is a small bird, with not many distinctive features and no striking good looks. I’ve never actually seen the mockingbird outside my window, but that’s ok. He tells me he’s there every night with his songs. 

I’ve named him Atticus, for obvious reasons. I imagine Atticus flying around the neighborhood during the day, visiting with the cardinals and robins. Listening to the doves and sparrows. He flies from tree to tree, paying attention to the songs of his bird people. He might hang out with the white egret that fishes for minnows in the bayou nearby, or sit in a tree while the red headed woodpecker pecks for bugs. I like to think that no matter where he goes, he’s always listening the songs of those around him. 

Atticus probably has good days and bad days. Sometimes the summer sun is searing and water is hard to find. Other times the rains come and he enjoys a nice long soak in the puddles in the backyard. He might fly far from home one day and wonder if he will make it back to his tree. He might get tangled up with a snake or have to hide from territorial neighborhood dogs.

But whatever the circumstances, I can count on Atticus singing me his song at the end of the day, bidding the world good night the only way he knows how. He repeats the melodies of the birds he met that day, he lets me know all is well in the backyard by the calls of his friends. When I close my eyes and listen, I’m reminded that Atticus has no song of his own to sing. His lullaby is made up of all the beautiful sounds of those around him. 

And as I bow my head to sing my song, to breathe my prayer as the world goes to sleep, I try to remember that mine is not the only song there is to sing. I think of Atticus and wonder if he’s been trying to tell me something all along. 

Maybe instead of attempting to change the world with my song, I should simply be more like Atticus. Maybe I need to remember that everyone has a beautiful song and it may not always sound like my own. Maybe I need to pay attention to what the others are singing. Maybe, when I can repeat the melodies of those I meet, when I can listen to their song, when I can put all those hearts and souls together, it will make the most beautiful music of all. 

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