Telling Nashville's Story

I never know what to say when people ask me where I'm from. A part of me wants to answer, "I'm a Mississippi girl," because the truth is that I've spent the vast majority of my life in the Magnolia State. But another part of me wants to answer, "Nashville," because that's where my parents live. It's where I learned to drive. Where I went to high school. Where I spent a summer working. Where I was baptized {again}. Where I accepted a call to ministry. Where I spend holidays. It's the place I go when I go home.

So you can imagine how absolutely horrifying it is to see pictures of a submerged Music City in facebook pictures and on youtube. It breaks my heart to see the city that I love so much under water.

photo courtesy of Rachael Moore

It's shocking to view pictures of the Opryland Hotel literally filled with water.

I never took Micah there.

Just a week and a half ago, we spent the weekend in Nashville visiting with the fam, and we spent a day at Opry Mills. Stacy {my sister} mentioned going to the Hotel so we could take a few pictures. But by the time we finished shopping, Micah was cranky, we were all tired, and we piled into the van and went home.

It's something I regret now.

Because the Hotel's gorgeous atrium is now a swamp.

Photo courtesy of Stephen Lee

And what fan of country music wouldn't be dismayed to see this image from the Opry house?

Photo courtesy of The Grand Ole Opry

Billions of dollars worth of damage. Dozens of lives lost. Thousands of lives changed. An entire city devastated by the monumental amount of rain that deluged the city over the weekend.

Let's not forget all the people who are going to need help recovering from this disaster. Let's not ignore the devastation of a 1,000-year flood. Let's not pretend that nothing happened.

Let's remember.

And let's do something about it.

Let's tell Nashville's story.

Let's give our money.

Let's give our time.

Let's give our attention.

Let's give our love.

Let's give our prayers.

Until next time, grace and peace.

How High's the Water, Mama?

How high's the water, mama?Five feet high and risin' How high's the water, papa? Five feet high and risin'

Well, the rails are washed out north of town We gotta head for higher ground We can't come back till the water comes down, Five feet high and risin'

Well, it's five feet high and risin'

{Johnny Cash: Five Feet High and Risin'}

Unless you've been stuck under a rock for the past few days, you know that it's a little...soggy...down here in the southeast. It's not so bad here in North Mississippi, although we did get stuck in Corinth yesterday when we were trying to get home from Starkville. Water flooded the main thoroughfare, and we were hardpressed to get through. We finally made it home, but only after we backtracked out of Corinth, drove south to Rienzi and turned east again.

I don't guess I'll be going to Kroger to do my grocery shopping this week. Or anytime soon.

It's wet down here. And at home. Home is Franklin, Tennessee, a suburb of Nashville.

Don't worry, my parents haven't floated away yet.

But that's only because they live at the top of a hill.

Seriously, though. Downtown Nashville is a mess. It's strange to see images of home flash across the news. It's going to be a long time before life is back to normal up there.

The buckets of rain that God poured on us over the weekend washed away most of our plans to watch Mississippi State play baseball, but we were able to get in some good eating at some of our favorite Starkville restaurants. We played with our niece and nephew and visited with the family. It was nice.

But I'm glad to be home. And I'm thankful that our house is nice, and safe and dry. No more travels for a while. Next time, people are coming to us.

That means that I should probably clean the bathrooms this week.

Just wanted to let you know that we're high and dry here in Iuka.

Until next time, grace and peace.

Looking Back: Cape Coast Castle

As I turned on the news this morning, images of President Obama touring Cape Coast Castle in Ghana and speaking to the Ghanaian people greeted me.  Just a year and a half ago, I walked through the same slave fortress and saw the same sights, and viewing them on TV brought the memories to the forefront of my mind.  In honor of Obama's Ghanaian visit, I thought I would post a journal entry I wrote shortly after returning home about my experience at Cape Coast.  It was a sobering and powerful time, and I will never forget it. For some background information, Cape Coast is just one of several slave fortresses along the African coast. It was a holding tank for Africans while their handlers waited for boats from the Americas to arrive and carry them out.

When we arrived at Cape Coast, I didn't really know what to expect or the proper way to react. I took several pictures there, but none of me because I didn't think it was appropriate to smile happily like I was at any other tourist destination. This was a slave fortress. People suffered and died there.

I cannot describe to you the conditions of the dungeons that they held the slaves in before the boats arrived to carry them away. It was horrific. No light, save for tiny ventilation windows far above. A rough-cut channel running through the middle of the floor for urine. Troughs along the edges for feces. I know we've all heard about the conditions before, but hearing about it and walking around in it is another matter. I have no words. This photo is from the female slave dungeon. It was terrifyingly dark, except for one window.

As I walked through the dungeons where so many died and thought about the inhumanity of it all, I wondered what the African American students on our trip were thinking. I kept wondering if they were seriously disturbed by their surroundings, knowing that their ancestors passed through dungeons similar to those. And then I started wondering about my own ancestors. Did they own slaves? Did they go to church and give glory to God while they bought and sold human beings alongside fabric and crops? These are the things I wonder.

No one woke up one morning and decided it would be a good day to start selling people. It just...developed...as Africans brought other Africans to trade with Europeans for guns and dishes and other such meaningless items. And the Europeans took them. Somehow it escalated, until over 12 million people were shipped out of Africa, all the while their European handlers worshiped God in churches above the very dungeons that swallowed the Africans. Somehow they justified it, thought it was OK, and it scares me to death.

Sin can get so out of control. We are all absolutely hopeless. Slavery and genocide are just two highly visible examples of the wickedness of humanity. If we allow sin to go untreated and compromise God's standards, what will be our slavery or Holocaust? These weren't heathen men. They were Christians who told themselves that what they were doing was alright. What are we supposed to do with that? There are many questions to consider and concerns to raise.

One of the most poignant moments at the slave castles came when our guide led us to the "Door of No Return," the door that led to waiting ships. When Africans set foot out that door, they never set foot on African soil again, and when he opened the door, I was shocked by the brilliance and vibrancy of life outside it.

I couldn't believe that life went on as usual outside those doors. And that's when I understood that we have to get over the demons in our past. Life goes on, and we can look back and learn from our mistakes, but we don't have to let them paralyze us. God is gracious, merciful and kind. Despite the sin and wretchedness, there's also beauty and love in this world.

As we turned around, we walked back through the door into the fort and did something none of the slaves were ever able to do. We returned to our lives, and we kept going.