The Summer of Elvis

Dear Friends,

With summer coming to a close, many of you have asked me about our Summer of Elvis. (For those of you who are new, I am a little strange in the fact that I like to name my summers. If you haven’t read about The Summer of No, you can read it here.) I’ve had a few weeks to think about our Summer of Elvis and to really contemplate what I gained from it. I’ve thought about why Elvis became so important to my little family, how sometimes we can glean meaning from the oddest things, and what specifically the Summer of Elvis has taught me.

Listen carefully, because I’m going to share with you the important things I learned from our summer.

Are you ready?

You might want to grab a pencil and notepad to write this down.

This summer, The Summer of Elvis, I learned this . . .

Nothing.

Nada.

Not one darn thing.

I haven’t got anything important to tell you about what I took away from The Summer of Elvis because frankly, I didn’t take away anything from it.

It was just really fun. And that’s it.

Scott, I, and the kids visited Graceland at the end of May and we were all touched and surprised at the life of Elvis. We learned little things about his life and growing up in the South, something we could all relate to. We visited his gravesite which was quiet and beautiful. Then we rolled our windows down and blasted Elvis music all the way home. We were hooked.

This summer we listened to all the Elvis songs we could find. We helped Hugh search music shops for old Elvis records. We listened to podcasts about Elvis (my favorite is Malcom Gladwell’s podcast called Analysis, Parapraxis, Elvis). Hugh learned to play “Suspicious Minds” on the piano and we would all sing along as he played – Hugh taking the lead with Amelia on back-up vocals. We got Elvis books from the library. We researched how Elvis died, where Priscilla is now, and who is in charge of his vast fortune.

There were late night discussions with friends around our dining room table about whether Elvis was the real deal or if he had stolen his style from less famous R&B singers from the South. The kids learned that their grandparents had once been crazy teenage Elvis fans who had actually gotten to attend some of his concerts. We learned about young Elvis, movie star Elvis, and not-so-healthy chubby Elvis (but like Amelia says, “We don’t talk about fat Elvis”). We soon realized that Elvis is something you can discuss with almost anyone. Elvis was connecting us to all sorts of people in a lot of different ways.

So maybe there is a lesson in The Summer of Elvis after all. Maybe the lesson is that there are times when we just need to have some fun. Maybe we need to step off the ladder, put on an Elvis record, and sing as loud as we can. Maybe it’s ok to do something just for the joy of it all – with no other reason than that.

I’m sure there have been times in your life, as there has been in mine, when there isn’t much fun happening. When Hugh was first diagnosed with Type 1 Diabetes and we were in the hospital with him, I couldn’t imagine ever having fun again. I thought our life was going to be a nightmare of shots and constant worry and numbers that I didn’t even understand. There wasn’t any laughter and there was definitely no fun.

But you know what? That was over 5 years ago and we have had so much fun since then. I guess I could have said no to all the fun – I could have used Diabetes as an excuse to never laugh, never play, never indulge in the joy of life. But, literally, where is the fun in that?????

Life is a lot of hard things, but it’s also a lot of fun. There are times to work hard, there are times that are painful, there are times when we just can’t laugh, but there are also times when the fun returns. I promise it will. You just have to open yourself up to it.

And if you’re kind of stuck right now, maybe in a place where there’s not a lot of joy and not a lot of fun, may I suggest putting on an Elvis record or downloading his greatest hits? Close the door and practice your best Elvis dance moves, sing until you are out of breath, and whenever you leave the room, announce that Elvis has left the building. It’s not magic, but it is a start.

After all, Elvis would want you to have a little fun.                   

Thank you, thank you very much.

Share This:

The Lamkin Home

Several years ago, Scott and I bought a house not too far from here. When we first moved in, we noticed an old doorbell outside the front doors, with a small, rectangular nameplate above it. In neatly typed letters was the last name “Lamkin”. We soon discovered that the man who built our home in the early 1960s was named Mr. Lamkin, and he was a gifted architect in his time. We also discovered that when people would ask us what house we moved into in the neighborhood, we could simply say, “The Lamkin Home” and they would instantly know which house we were talking about.
People told us stories of when the house was first built – how Mr. Lamkin used bricks from an old school to build the house and the extensive courtyards. We were told that he and Mrs. Lamkin loved to entertain and would throw huge parties for family and friends. The dining room was long enough to fit a table for 20 people, and the conversations would flow for hours around that table. Sometimes guests lingered well after midnight, enjoying good food and good friends. The pool was built close to the house, and we’ve been told it was the first non-rectangular pool in the neighborhood – a feature Mr. Lamkin insisted upon. Doors slid open wide from every room in the house, allowing the outside to mingle with the inside. There were fountains in the courtyards, a fish pond in the back, and if memories are correct, a huge LSU mural decorated one entire wall of the kitchen. There were lots of parties, lots of laughter, lots of friends and lots of memories made in this house. This house was built to be loved, and this house was built to be shared.
Sadly, Mr. Lamkin died a few years after building his home. Mrs. Lamkin lingered on for many more years, but fell into ill health in her older age. The house declined with Mrs. Lamkin, and after her death, was sold several times. Through the years the fountains in the courtyards stopped working, the fish pond dried up, the brick outer wall crumbled in places, and the long dining room table disappeared. When we bought the home, it had been stripped of many original mirrors, light fixtures, drapery, and hardware. But the nameplate remained outside the front doors. We have never even considered removing it. This was the Lamkin Home, we were just borrowing it for a little while.
In the years since we have moved in, we have tried to restore a little bit of the life that was taken from the house. We’ve repaired brick walls, cleaned outside courtyards, hung pictures, painted ceilings. We placed rocking chairs on the front porch again, planted a garden, got a dog. Our summers are filled with family and friends swimming in the uniquely un-rectangular pool, kids running in and out of the open doors, and late nights around the fire pit. We linger over shared meals in the dining room, laughter and noise fill the house once more.
And do you know something? If the sun hits the water on the pool just right, and it’s a certain time of day, and if I squint my eyes just a little, I can see Mr. Lamkin outside, walking around the yard – talking to his guests and enjoying the beautiful home he created. I like to think that Mr. Lamkin is looking down on us, watching us as we make his house a home. And I like to think that he is happy.
It may sound a little silly, but I think that if our church had a doorbell right outside our front doors, the nameplate would say “God” on it. And we would know this is not our house, but that we are just borrowing it for a little while. Over the years bricks might have crumbled around some exterior walls, windows may have rotted in places, water may have leaked in. We’ve had our share of building problems and it’s been a long, extensive process to begin repairing those problems. But slowly, we are giving our old building life again. Soon there will be light and laughter and children on the third floor, where once it was dark and silent. We will linger once more around dining tables with good food and good friends downstairs in the fellowship hall. We will fill this space with love and friendship, and we will open the doors wide for anyone who wants to join us. This house was built to be loved and this house was built to be shared.
There were architects at this church, once, who dreamed of and designed this space. There were people – moms and dads, students, children – who wanted to create a place where all were welcome. They sacrificed for not just themselves, but for those of us who would come many years later, seeking the same love and friendship that can only be found in God’s house. Their memories linger on in the walls of this sacred space. We hear stories of weddings, births, funerals, parties, banquets, and musicals. We have never even considered erasing those memories. They tell us of a God who loves, who endures, who delights in his people.
And if the sun hits the rose window just right, and it’s the right time of day, and we squint our eyes just a little, we might be able to see God – walking around, talking to his guests and enjoying the beautiful home he created. I like to think that He is looking down on us now, watching us as we make his house a home. And I like to think that He is happy.

Share This:

Remember This Day

Every year, on February 4, our family celebrates the day that Hugh was diagnosed with Type 1 Diabetes. It’s a little strange, I’m sure, to you non-diabetic families, to celebrate a day that brought us such an awful diagnosis. But I guess I should say that every year we celebrate the day that Hugh overcame his diagnosis of Type 1 Diabetes.

February 4 – on that day I thought our normal life was over. At least the only life I had ever known with two small children would be over. No more spontaneous trips out of town. No more carefree meals with friends. No more going anywhere without supplies and food. I thought Diabetes was bondage – a slavery made out of blood sugar numbers and insulin shots.

And it was bondage, for a long time. The days were an endless nightmare of holding my son down to give him another shot and him telling me he hated me every time I did it. There were so many tears, so many nights where I didn’t sleep at all, so many angry remarks to God about the pain and the unfairness of it all. 

I wish I could tell you that one day it instantly all changed and I realized how fortunate we really were. But it didn’t happen in just one day. Little victories weaved together over the years to create this new normal for us. One night I went to a party and didn’t talk about diabetes at all. One day Hugh checked his own blood sugar without my help. We went out to eat at a restaurant and I didn’t panic when it was time to order Hugh’s meal. We took a vacation. We sent him to school. We laughed again.

And now the impossible has happened – 5 years have passed and we are doing ok. No, we are doing more than ok. We are happy. We are surrounded by the best friends and family, Hugh loves school, his sister takes care of him with the fiercest kind of loyalty, we take those trips and have those dinner parties and love the life we have been given.

So on February 4, we celebrate. We celebrate with a meal. Not anything special, but we always eat together. I usually buy cupcakes or a favorite cake and get Hugh and Amelia a little gift. I tell Hugh how proud we are of him and I tell Amelia what a great sister she is to Hugh. It’s fun to celebrate together and talk about the progress we have seen over the years.

And yet, and yet . . .

I remember the day.

I remember the panic and the fear. I remember the rush of throwing clothes in a suitcase to get to the hospital as quickly as possible. I remember not having the words to tell my son he was very sick. I remember hugging my baby girl good-bye and not knowing how many days I would be away from her. I remember not knowing what to feed my own child for fear of killing him.

I remember the bondage.

I cry the salty tears.

I taste the bitter herbs and they burn as I swallow.

I eat with haste, with my travel clothes on and my staff in my hand.

That night, every February 4, is my Passover meal.

Why do I have to remember? Why do I re-live the pain of that day?

Why can’t God allow us to forget the pain and the hard days, and just live in the present? Why does he require a Passover meal?

Well, I’m obviously not God, but if I had to guess, I think it would be because of this – First, God wants us to remember the bondage so we can remember who rescued us from it. He wants us to remember that He is loving and caring and there is nothing more that he wants to do than to save us, to bring us out of that place and into the land of milk and honey. He is there and He is waiting with His hand outstretched, ready to grab hold of us and never let us go.

But second, and possibly even more importantly, I think he wants us to remember the bondage because he wants us to see it in others.

Maybe if we forget our slavery, we will not have the eyes to see it in this world. Maybe if we don’t think about the most difficult days, we don’t remember how hard it is for some people in this very moment. Maybe if we dismiss our pain, we will never have the compassion to reach out a hand to the suffering, the hopeless, the dis-heartened, the least among us.

Maybe if we don’t celebrate Passover, we don’t invite others to the Feast.

For we all have been in bondage. We all have been broken.

I’m not sure what your Passover meal looks like, but I bet you have one too. I bet there are times when you remember the pain, the sadness, the grief. But I hope you realize, as I have, that there is a beauty in our Passover meals that we would never have without the bitterness of our tears. I hope you remember who brought you out of the house of bondage. And I hope you remember to invite others to the Feast.

“And Moses said unto the people, Remember this day, in which ye came out from Egypt, out of the house of bondage; for by strength of hand the LORD brought you out from this place: there shall no leavened bread be eaten.” Exodus 13:3

Share This:

« Older posts
Newer posts »