Inspirational Ink: Insight for a Woman’s Life

WHAT I LEARNED FROM SUNDAY BASKET MEETING

by Tammi Ector Fisse

Throughout my childhood, autumn meant time for Sunday Basket Meeting. Less country folk may have referred to it as our family reunion. Although my brother and I were city kids and far too cool to let on that a trip to a backwoods town in Kentucky was anything special, on the morning of the trip excitement swirled around us, tangible as the leaves falling from the trees. Still, we were Cincinnatians and had an image to maintain. Little did we know it, but we “city slickers” could stand to learn a lesson or two from our “country bumpkin” cousins.

Country Road Take Me Home

Long before we arrived in the Bluegrass State, our barely concealed excitement would have made itself evident by causing us to abandon traveling games and to revert to our homebound pastime: bickering. Our tolerance for being cooped up in the back seat

decreased along with the miles to go, but somehow the sight of the “Welcome to New Liberty” sign restored peace. Perhaps the step back in time we took as we entered the quintessentially rural town – into a slower, more relaxed pace – miraculously slowed our paces and relaxed us as well.

Get Me to the Church on Time

Approaching the small white church, complete with steeple and cemetery, we’d hear the melodious strains of the closing hymns and benediction and be amazed by how that tiny church was chock full of angelic, recording artist quality voices.

Though not attending morning service, it would have been disgraceful to turn up in anything other than our Sunday best. That being the case, we’d tumble out of the car in clothes that had been meticulously ironed the night before, looking as if we’d then slept in them. All the kissing, hugging and squeezing with which we were greeted did nothing positive for our rumpled appearance. In awe of our fancy clothes, our cousins would ooh and aah. There was no mistaking their compliments for anything other than what they were – genuine.

My Brother’s Keeper

Like the myriad dogs who romped freely, we’d fall into playing with our innumerable cousins as if we saw them every day instead of once a year. And as was the case every year, I’d soon begin to notice things. Youngsters were free to roam, and there were always little ones in tow. The sentiment was not so much that someone would see after them, but that everyone would. The way the older siblings watched after their younger ones, vigilantly, and without complaint, put me to shame. I was always daunted by a few hours of latch key duty minding my brother and protested it vociferously, yet it was clear to me who had the greater responsibility.

Let Us Therefore Be Content

Our young hosts and hostesses took their duties seriously and were far more attentive and polite than we would have been had the roles been reversed. They’d offer us icy bottles of “Coke-ola” from the plentiful buckets set out for the occasion. Vending machines were few and far between. Cold drinks were among the many things they didn’t take for granted.

Inside the fellowship hall, tables decked out in crisp white tablecloths groaned beneath the weight of their bounty: basket after basket of food brought to share. For every delicious dish there was a delectable dessert. I can almost smell the mouth-watering aromas, hear the constant laughter and see the vibrant plumes that adorned the ladies’ “going to meeting” hats. Glorious though these were, they couldn’t compare to the gold and russet raiment of the simple wildflower bouquet centerpieces.

In The Living Years

For all our supposed sophistication, we didn’t understand the importance of making the rounds. “Let’s call on so and so,” was our cousins’ repeated refrain as they led us from house to house. Overwhelmed by this point, we’d wonder if we had to see every relative and would promise to see some the next time. But no, that wouldn’t do.

They were appalled at the thought of not visiting even one who was housebound due to age, illness or both. For them, having our family cemetery nearby was a potent reminder that next time couldn’t be promised.

Do Unto Others

Marveling at the fact that most of the kids were blissfully barefoot by then, I’d limp down the unpaved roads. Wincing at every rock that stabbed through my patent leather Mary Janes, I’d attempt to gauge if I could postpone using the restroom until we were back in the city with its indoor commodes. I’d yet to make peace with the outhouses that dotted many of the backyards. Eventually I’d share my dilemma with a female cousin. She’d take pity on me and either accompany me to the dreaded outhouse or escort me to the nearest home with indoor facilities – relative’s or not. There my heroine would describe my plight, taking care not to embarrass me. Though I’d be well beyond pride by that point, in my mind’s eye, I’d humbly tear a page from what I thought of as, My Country Cousins’ Book of Etiquette.

Come Sit a Spell

The pleasures of the porch were truly appreciated in that old-fashioned setting. With few telephones, porches were where most “calling” took place. Urban girl that I was, I’d sit there creaking away in an old rump sprung rocker, spellbound by the stories of our history and Christian faith passed down with eloquence and pride, held captive by the yarns woven with wit, humor and a twang. It may have grown chilly, but I’d feel so warm, comfortable and at home that I’d wish it didn’t have to come to an end.

Faith Ties That Bind

Swiping at tears, our country cousins would echo my wish aloud. There was no mistaking their lamentations for anything other than what they were – heartfelt. They were graciousness personified. This was yet another lesson to be learned from them, yet another page to tear from their book.

When I returned from these gatherings, reluctantly, I willingly took the lessons learned and the pages torn while in the country home with me and have lived with them ever since. Pages torn, not from an imaginary book of etiquette, but from the Good Book after which my Christian cousins patterned their lives.

Because I came to pattern mine after it as well, the traditions, values and feelings associated with our family reunions haven’t come to an end. My rocking chair wish came true after all.

Blank Pages before Us

Each fall that I attended Sunday Basket Meeting, the countryside became my classroom. Through my cousins’ Christ like examples (Matthew 5:16), I learned the truth of the saying, “Your life may be the only Bible some people read”.

In this season of harvest, let us strive to live our lives worthy to be read…and torn.

Tammi Ector Fisse is a writer, speaker and singer who is passionate about sharing stories for God’s glory. As a domestic violence survivor, Tammiâ’s own story contains a great deal of hurt, but it is also full of healing and hope. God not only transformed her from a victim into a victor through Christ, He turned her trials into her testimony. Though this process was painful and sometimes still is, Tammi longs to encourage other women, whatever their circumstances, by sharing in the “comfort wherewith she is comforted” (I Cor. 1:3-4). She also seeks to educate others about domestic abuse. Tammi is currently working on her first novel. To schedule Tammi to speak or sing, please contact her at tfisse@roadrunner.com . You may also visit her blog “True Confessions of A Christian Girl” at www.trulytammi.blogspot.com .