Well, butter my butt and call me a biscuit!

One of my Christmas presents was a little desk calendar titled “Butter My Butt and Call Me A Biscuit.” Every day has a short folk wisdom reminder for the day. One of my mother’s favorite descriptive phrases... He’s too poor to have a pot to pee in or a window to throw it out of... is in there.
My Grandma introduced me to the wonderful world of wisdom phrases. If wishes were horses, beggars would ride... You can’t make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear... Pretty is as pretty does...Don’t count your chickens before they’re hatched. Every occasion had a saying that matched what was happening. The images in these sayings are often funny... a buttered butt or a sow’s ear purse... but the humor carries a pithy message. And even if you are dumb as a post or a brick shy of a load, you can catch the drift of its meaning.
Every culture since time began has had its own brand of wisdom phrases. The Bible is full of them. The book of Proverbs is nothing but “Sayings of admonition and knowledge to show you what is right and true.” My Grandma quoted these, too. Train up a child in the way he should go and when he is old, he will not depart from it. A good name is to be chosen rather than great riches.
My Grandfather’s motto could have been “A soft answer turns away wrath, but a harsh word stirs up anger.” He was known for his gentleness, my first experience with meekness. His strength was in his ability to return good for evil, an acceptance of the realities of life without being defeated by them. He lived through two world wars, one great depression, raised his family without much money on a farm that fed them, saw his son wounded in war, lived and died in the same community into which he was born. He is buried in the churchyard of the church he attended all his life surrounded by other family members laid to rest around him... a baby boy who died at birth lies near him and my Grandma.
When I remember him, I see him standing under the old trees in the front yard of Cloverly, dressed in his khaki work clothes with his straw hat on his head, smiling at us. His gentle hands played horseshoes or croquet with us and I never heard his soft voice raised in anger. When he was angry, his voice remained at the same level as when he was pleased but times of anger were rare indeed. Some of his sweet spirit lives on in his grandsons and great-grandsons. I catch a glimpse of Granddaddy in my son Adam sometimes and it takes my breath away.
This Christmastide I want to practice being meek... not mellow wishy washy butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth meek... but to be seemly and forbearing while strong enough to resist aggression. This will be a challenge since I have much of my Grandma’s tart tongued manner. Perhaps I can find the balancing point between mushy mealy mouthed meekness and sharp sword tongued large mouth cleverness.
This hymn, written as a poem for children by Charles Wesley, captures some of what Jesus must have meant when he said, “Truly, I say to you, whoever does not receive the kingdom of God like a child shall not enter it.”
“Gentle Jesus, meek and mild,
Look upon a little child;
Pity my simplicity,
Suffer me to come to thee...
Live Thyself within my heart.
Loving Jesus, gentle Lamb,
In Thy gracious hands I am;
Make me Saviour, what Thou art...
I shall then show forth Thy praise,
Serve Thee all my happy days;
Then the world shall always see
Christ, the Holy Child, in me.
So for today, I will practice being meek and simple like a child, powerless and yet filled with the power of loving obedience to the One who first loved me. I rest in God’s gracious hands and trust that my desire to become more like Jesus will please my Creator. May it be so.