I’m standing, head bowed over a coffee table, holding hands with my sweet sisters in Christ. We are praying as tears roll. I open my eyes during this sacred moment to glimpse beautiful women with heads bowed and hearts open. My eyes flicker across a lovely offering of tasty cheeses and fruits and bread and I see in my recent memory strong, beautiful, loving hands reaching across the table, gathering food as our hearts are gathering words of encouragement and love. Sweet strawberries to balance searching hearts. Laughter ringing through the room, surprise and concern mixed with sweet mint tea and sisters. Women called together to ask for direction from their Father, friends unified in purpose—to equip women, to make disciples, to give Him glory. I drink it in, knowing it is an uncommon occurrence in today’s society.
Closing my eyes again, I thank God for the hours of getting to know these ladies: praying with them, mourning with them, and celebrating spiritual breakthroughs. Holding hands in prayer is a beautiful habit of ours. These precious hands have worked together, worshipped together, and lifted each other up. Young hands, mothers, wives, daughters and grandmothers hands, professional, academic hands, retired hands, creative hands. Loving hands that have rocked babies and strong hands that have built fences. Hands joined together, uniting lives and families and tender hearts. We understand clearly that we are to be God’s hands in this world.
Tonight our questions and fears have been addressed and once again eased. We rest in knowing that God holds our small circle in His embrace and that what He has joined together has an earthly purpose as well as an eternal goal. Peace floods my soul as whispered amens are lifted to the Father’s ears and we rejoice in His presence. Deep in my soul I hear the Spirit whisper the words of Jesus, “They will know you are my disciples by the love you have for one another.”
This was written 3 years before my mother passed away. She suffered greatly from dementia for approximately 10 years as we lost her little by little. I held her hand as she took her last breath on earth, and although I miss her being here, I know she is whole again and in the arms of our Savior.
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My sweet Momma, I’ve missed you for so long! I miss your quick wit and protective hand. I miss your laughter and the hymns we sang together in the kitchen while cooking dinner: I’ll Fly Away, What a Friend we Have in Jesus, When the Roll is Called Up Yonder and so many more. I miss the stories of you and your brothers running barefoot on the mountains in your youth. You giggled every time you told about knocking one of your six brothers out with a perfectly placed uppercut to the jaw, and how as kids you helped Grandma put a wax shine on the hardwood floor by pulling her across it on a blanket while you all laughed so hard you cried. The time your ornery brothers talked you into holding onto a bent tree branch while they let go, flinging you high up into the air, and when neighbors would come over to sing and play music while your momma and daddy made doughnuts that were sweet and hot and wonderful.
My hands look like yours did, years ago when you would brush my hair out of my eyes and tell me it was a wonder I could see anything out of my filthy glasses and “Give them here and let me clean them.”
I miss your wise words that were always sound and comforting, and always challenging me to seek the Lord in prayer. Strangely, I miss your handwriting. I saw it so many places, in notes and letters, in poems you wrote for friends, and in the beautiful notations you left in your Bible.
You never thought you were pretty, momma, but every inch of your face was lovely to me and the way your green eyes sparkled with joy when you watched your grandchildren play made you the most beautiful woman in my life. You are still beautiful, mom. Only now your green eyes are worried and confused and I miss who you were but I am so blessed to still be able to hug you and hold your hand. And we have begun our long goodbye, it started years ago and I didn’t want to see you slipping away, but you did, you are.
I miss you as I sit and hold your hand and talk about the same thing. And later we will talk about it again and we will laugh every time, and I love that. I love you. And I will cherish our new memories and I will do my best to remember the old ones, like the time we sang “I’ll Meet You in the Morning” together at Trinity Church, and the way we got so tickled during revival once we embarrassed ourselves because we started giggling and just.could.not.stop.
But I know beyond a doubt that someday when I meet you in the morning by the bright riverside, our long goodbye will turn into an eternal hello! Until then I will accept what you have left to give in this life, and I will not let today destroy my sweet memories of you. You are a wonderful mother: yesterday, today, and forever.
I love the early morning of Thanksgiving Day. I’m usually alone in my kitchen, preparing the bird while my family sleeps. Our little girls are teens now, and our oldest is married with children. I know they will be joining me soon to help prepare the familiar family dishes, set the table, and help find enough serving spoons (where do they go?). Their laughter will fill the house and after dinner we will play cards and games and eat pie and enjoy our time together.
But for now, in my quiet kitchen, I am joined by others in my mind. I cut up onions and celery and cook them in butter, and the smell reminds me of the many Thanksgivings of my childhood. I would smell this and know that momma was getting ready to make her cornbread dressing. This smell is the beginning of the holiday for me, as my momma joins me in my kitchen. Green bean casserole is up next, and I remember when the preparation was passed to me as an eleven year old. My Grandma Gray, mom’s mom, lived next door to us and she would buy the ingredients and have mom send me over to put it together. It was then and is now one of my favorites and no thanksgiving is complete without it. This morning I can almost feel Grandma sitting at the table watching mom and I.
The marshmallow fluff was a traditional dish my Grandma Powell would bring. She and Grandpa would come to the house after most of the meal was prepared and ready to put on the table. The recipe is easy enough: two cans of fruit cocktail, a can of Mandarin oranges, maraschino cherries and crushed pineapple, all drained. Mix in cool whip, some pecans, and mini marshmallows, and it’s a perfect side complete with spoonfuls of memories; my favorite being when Grandpa would come in like the giant man he was, and bellow, “The name’s Powell, but you can call me anything as long as you call me to dinner!”
When I was small, I would watch the parade on tv with the men, but growing up meant being allowed in the kitchen to help. The bustling of us women in the kitchen was one of my favorite times of the day, and even cleaning the dishes after the great meal wasn’t so bad when done together.
Over the years, as my sweet elders passed on, Thanksgiving began to change. Babies were born and families grew and now I find myself alone in the early morning, preparing the meal that is not just food, but memories and smells and tastes of by-gone days and home. I am thankful for it all, past and present, and I hope my girls will cherish more than the food and good times. I know they don’t have my memories to keep them company, but they will have their own, and I hope I will have passed on more than a few Thanksgiving recipes. I hope they will feel the love that was handed down from grandmother, to mother, to daughter, to them. I am truly blessed, and so very grateful.
Based on the story of Jesus in the Gospel of John, Chapter 4: The Samaritan woman at the well. Please begin by reading the scripture if you are not familiar with the story.
There was only one reason the woman came to Jacob’s well. She, like many others, had a fundamental need. She was thirsty, and it was the only place she could go to meet that need. This well had become a scary place for her. In the cool of the morning, the other Samaritan women came to draw water for their families. During that time it was a bustling place; most likely filled with children’s laughter and women’s voices calling to each other. The women of Samaria would visit the ancient site carrying their jars and buckets to fill with water for the day. However; this woman wasn’t like the others. She carried much more with her than a vessel for water. Those things caused her to wait for the crowd to leave in order to draw her water alone. She didn’t want to meet the condemning eyes of the community, so she traveled the path alone in the heat of the day.
She was surprised when Jesus met her there. He was a pure Jew, not a half-blood like she was, and He was a respected Rabbi. He held himself in a way that revealed his authority and yet He was tender and accepting of her. He began a conversation, asking her for a drink. As she stumbled over what to say, her surprise was evident as Jesus described the truth about who she was. Those things she had been carrying inside: shame, hurt, fear, regret–He didn’t condemn her for those; He offered help. He wanted her to choose more. He told her of Life-giving water that would quench her thirst forever. I believe her heart leaped out of her chest when she understood the forgiveness and new life He offered.
As she faced that choice, scenes from her past must have haunted her. So many men, so many mistakes—and this man wanted her to accept what He had to offer. Could she trust Him? She realized that she had to respond to the truth about who He was, and who she was meant to be. Would she believe and let go of her past, or would she continue to draw from the well of her life that had left her thirsty?
Her decision was obvious, and her smile must have been brilliant. She left her jar behind as she ran to tell the community that had judged her for so long. This man! He told her everything, He gave her back her future and she no longer feared the people. She suddenly felt the overwhelming need to share the life-giving truth with them.
The same thing happened to me.
Just like the woman at the well, we all have needs: a hunger and thirst that go much deeper than food and water; a desire to be loved, to feel worthy, to have a purpose that is more than just what we see in this life. Nothing physical can meet these needs, they are spiritual, and only Jesus can satisfy those desires in our soul.
We are like jars that Jesus wants to fill with Living Water. The problem is, many times we want to fill our jars on our own, or we end up with things inside our jars that weren’t meant to be there. My jar was filled with stones when I met Jesus at the well. I was building a life for myself. Defining myself by what I did, who I was, what I had accomplished, and where I was going. My jar was full and heavy, but it didn’t contain water.
I had loved Jesus from childhood. I sang songs about Him in Sunday School. As a teenager, I fell in love with Him and wrote poems and stories about Him. But as a young adult, I began to treat Jesus like an old boyfriend: we were still friends, but I just didn’t love Him like I had before. I smiled when I thought of Him, but there was no passion. No motivation to draw me closer. But lately I had begun to thirst. Yes, my jar was heavy, and it was lovely on the outside. But I had begun to realize that it was full of things that just didn’t quench my thirst.
I was surprised when I met Jesus again after years of disobedience. He wasn’t like I had remembered. He was kind, but He was persistent about helping me take the rocks out of my jar. Like He did the woman at the well, He told me the truth about who He was, and the hardest part: the truth about who I was.
Inside the jar I carried so tightly was my hidden self. Stones that defined me. Here was a stone called pride, another called fear (that was a big one), and yet another called regret. Lessons that life had taught me had given me stones that I didn’t want: abandonment, loneliness, pain. Some of them the church I had grown up in had placed in my jar: mistrust, judgment, legalism. Rocks were given to me by well intentioned people like: conformity and perfectionism. Some stones were just part of my fallen humanity: stubbornness, need for comfort, apathy, denial, greed, sorrow. Sin. The big one: the one I can’t name because of the shame. The one I couldn’t admit or show to anyone for fear of judgment. Jesus wanted that one too. Reluctantly, I gave them to Him. Some all at once, some little by little until there was room in my jar for what He had for me. He asked me to choose Him, to walk with Him and to learn from Him. Suddenly, the Living Water He spoke about began to overflow in my life. It changed me. It made me stronger and weaker. It burdened me and set me free.
Am I still afraid? Of course! Sometimes what He asks me to do scares me to death. But the fear of not doing what He has asked me to do frightens me even more. I know that every time I choose my own way, it’s like putting a rock in my jar. It’s like I’m replacing that Life-giving water with a hard, cold rock. And my relationship with Jesus suffers when I choose other things over Him. I’ll be 50 years old soon. For some of you, that is as ancient as a rock! But many of you understand how quickly life flies by. I lost my mom last month. It made me realize many things, one of which is the fact that life is short and time is not promised. I only have a little while longer to run and tell people about Jesus like the woman at the well did. I only have a short time to let Jesus fill me with Living Water as I am obedient to His call. And the truth that I face is the same truth we all face. What will you carry in your jar? A little splash of Jesus on the top is not going to quench your thirst for what God planned for you from the beginning. Will you let Jesus reveal those things to you that might be taking the place of what He has for you? Will you offer Him the stones that are making your heart heavy? Please trust Him to fill you with Life-giving water and He will begin to quench the thirst in your soul. Then–be the woman at the well, and run and tell!
Alabaster Jar 