thankful thursday #73

The world we live in is beyond materialistic.  I know this.  I struggle with that sin to a point, although I rarely think of myself as having outrageous amounts of stuff (save for the closet and pantry purges of 2011).

For the past two weeks, though, I’ve not had a clear path to walk in my apartment, thanks to all my possessions coming out of hiding and into stacks of boxes.

The movers have told me they will call me tomorrow for a final box count, so they’ll know what size truck to bring.  I haven’t counted the boxes yet; it will probably be embarrassing.

So here I sit, writing my final Thankful Thursday from this address.  I move in less than 48 hours to a new home – just up the road, not far – and I’m looking quite forward to new.  New space.  New décor.  New projects.  New memories.

But alas, saying hello to new means saying goodbye to old.  Not surprisingly, the ol’ nostalgia is kicking in, and I can’t help but feel grateful tonight for ...

The awesome neighbors I’ve had here, whose median age is 70, and who do not party hard.

The pristine landscaping my landlord demands.

The prompt maintenance service I’ve received, but only needed on a few occasions.

The tiny increase in my rent, which happened only once in five years.

The nearby trail that I accidentally discovered last spring.

The accessibility I’ve enjoyed to everywhere in Birmingham.  Location is king.

Living five minutes from Lori.

The friendships born here that grew into the accountability group I adore.

Stay tuned for more fun facts about the “new” that’s around the corner for me, but in the meantime, celebrate some “old” in your own life, and for the goodness therein.  Go on, be grateful!

thankful thursday #72, a maundy thursday edition

It is a special Thursday in the Church's calendar, and one with a Lenten service I love.

Today marks the day of the intimate Passover meal that Jesus shared with His disciples on the eve of His crucifixion.

If we're honest with ourselves, we relate to Judas Iscariot, who betrayed Jesus, yet was still seated at the table as His guest of honor.

We remember the command given to His people, to love one another, as He loved us (John 13:34).  And not the flippant kind of love, but the sacrificial, servant, wash-another's-feet kind of love.

We confess, accept forgiveness, and receive communion with the Body of Christ, in remembrance of Him and His sacrifice.

The paraments are carried away from the altar, and the ritual symbolizes the arrest, stripping, and beating Jesus endured before His death.  It is solemn, reverent, gut-wrenching.

I was thankful today for the Maundy Thursday service I attended, and for the opportunity to settle in to its liturgical rhythm.

Be blessed -- and grateful -- this weekend.  He is risen!

God of grace, may we who have celebrated your Son's great love, never forget that despite our unworthiness, He serves and welcomes us.  Remind us always that He was broken that we might be made whole.  May we show in our lives the fruits of His redemption; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns forever.  Amen.

-- Selected prayers, Maundy Thursday service, Independent Presbyterian Church, Birmingham, Alabama

big easy, big memories

I've been in New Orleans this weekend.  The baby bro is completing his internship here; the dad is working; and I'm just being a plain ol' fan at the Final Four.  Good times.

It's no secret I'm a sucker for nostalgia, so while putzing around town today, I decided to check in on my little studio apartment off of West Napoleon Avenue. 

It was eleven years ago that I moved out of New Orleans, out of my very first apartment.  On the day I moved out, New Orleans had a flash flood (don't be shocked).  I remember the waters in my parking lot were knee-deep, and Mom and Dad had to wait until the waters receded before they could come and load the car.

The memories were a little like that.  They flooded, and I let them wash over me, and settle over the next few minutes in their own time.

In the parking lot, I remembered the pang of watching Mom and Dad's tail lights as they left me to my first bout with adulthood.  I bawled like a baby.  The ugly girl cry!  Help them that day, I did not.

I saw the pool, where I spent most weekend afternoons.  I was dirt poor, and reading library books poolside was a free activity.  The first friend I met in New Orleans introduced herself to me there.  I was searching for low-cost recipes in a cook book, and she was interested as a recent graduate of culinary school.

I saw the corner apartment where she lived.  Chef Kami, as I called her, was interning at one of Emeril's restaurants, launching her career as a fine, fine pastry chef.  She taught me baking tricks, and I loved her for making cookies for no reason.

I remembered keeping a list of every book I'd read, and movie I'd watched, since graduation.  Every one of them came from the local library, because goodness knows my intern salary could not afford otherwise.

Despite going to a Southern Baptist-affiliated university, contemporary Christian music became a favorite genre of mine for the first time.  Again, since I had no extra income to purchase CD's, I'd record local stations' playlists on cassette tapes in my apartment.  With the radio host's commentary cutting in to the end of the tune.  (Don't tell me I was the only one.)  Those were the days.

This was the place I morphed into an adult.  I paid my own bills.  I worked a job.  I met my own friends.  I grocery shopped and cooked for myself.

It's crazy to think of all that has transpired in the past eleven years, and crazy to think how quickly it's passed.

Big Easy, you are a wild place, and a place that is the opposite of my heart, if there is such a place.  But you still have a little piece of me anyway.  Thanks for the memories.