Home Is Where My People Are: The Roads That Lead Us to Where We Belong (11 page)

Waverly Hill was a working horse farm, so there was a real-live family that lived in the Greek Revival–style home on the property. The owner, a man named Mr. Anderson, could have just as easily been the patriarch in a Tennessee Williams play. The combination of his silver hair, a stature that testified to his love for good food and good liquor, and the omnipresent
cigar in his mouth always made me feel like his name should have been “Big Daddy.” He called everybody “sugar,” “dahlin’,” or “good man,” and it only took about five minutes in his presence to figure out that he had a flair for the eccentric.

It was after eleven when the last guest drove away from the party, and the McMahon Lee Designs crew was exhausted. Since the U-Haul had to be returned the next day, we were loading it as quickly as we could, and I was in the middle of handing a box to Paige when I heard Mr. Anderson’s bourbon-soaked drawl behind me.

“Well, sugar
 
—did everything go okay tonight?”

Paige and I turned around at the same time and were equally bewildered by the sight before us. Mr. Anderson was sporting a driving cap, smoking a cigar, and wearing nothing but a V-neck undershirt and boxers.

I don’t know that we’ve ever worked harder to maintain direct, uninterrupted eye contact in our lives.

We even answered in unison: “Oh, yes, sir! It was great!”

However, what we wanted to say was, “Everything has been fantastic up until this point, but honestly, you’ve sort of put a damper on things, considering that YOU’RE NOT WEARING PANTS, SIR.”

Mr. Anderson seemed not one bit fazed by his attire. He just puffed his cigar, turned the other direction, and walked the expanse of his property like a pants-less king.

The next day Paige went to visit her then-boyfriend.

(This is an epic tale in and of itself, and I don’t have time to tell it.)

(But just know that my personal favorite moment in their relationship was when we were going to Mississippi one weekend, and Boyfriend wouldn’t leave the electric locks on Paige’s car alone. So she pulled off the interstate, put the car in park, turned to face him, and said, “If you click those locks one more time, you are going to have to figure out a way to walk to Mississippi.”)

(And then she eased back onto the road, turned up the radio, and started to sing.)

(It was fantastic.)

Anyway, Paige was with Boyfriend, so Sister, Barry, and I spent the morning running some post-party errands. We were that kind of tired where everything is either utterly hysterical or utterly annoying, and truth be told, we were mostly landing on the “annoying” side of the equation. It was one of those summer days where even the trees seemed hot, and all three of us were ready to wrap up the errands, grab some lunch at El Toro, and then sleep for four or ten hours, preferably underneath the chill of a window unit that had been cranked down to “frigid.” But finally
 
—mercifully
 
—we only had one more thing on the must-do list: return the U-Haul that Sister had driven to Waverly Hill.

Since the U-Haul place was just a few minutes down the road
 
—and since we’d left Sister’s car there the day before
 
—she asked Barry to go ahead and get a table at El Toro while we returned the U-Haul. We figured it wouldn’t take more than fifteen minutes to get everything taken care of, so after we checked the back of the U-Haul to make sure the truck was empty and the dolly that we’d rented was still there, we shut the door and climbed in the cab. Sister was driving; I was mainly there to provide navigational support and perhaps some mild comic relief.

Sister didn’t want to have to drive in reverse on any part of the narrow residential streets in Kerri’s neighborhood, so we took a slightly roundabout route up to Peachtree Road, where Sister managed to make a tight left turn without incident. We slowly moved past all the places that had become so familiar to me over the course of the summer: Turtle’s Records, where I’d purchased way too many cassette singles; Oxford Books, where I’d discovered the writing wonder that is Anne Rivers Siddons; El Toro, where at least once a week I commiserated with Sister, Barry, and Paige; and Pier 1, where I’d walked the aisles and wondered if I’d ever be cool enough to own a futon.

Dreams are pretty simple when you’re eighteen, aren’t they?

Sister was doing her best to stay in the far right lane on Peachtree, which was no small feat, considering the size of that U-Haul and the cramped lanes on a busy stretch of road. We eventually came to a stop at a red light on a hill just past the Pier 1, and I was about to share my Meaningful
Summer Memories with Sister when we heard a sound from the back of the truck that was most definitely an explosion.

Okay. So it wasn’t really an explosion. But I’ll be doggone if it didn’t sound like one. Sister and I stared at each other for a split second, neither of us having any earthly idea what had happened, and just as I was getting ready to ask Sister if maybe someone had hit us from behind, I looked in the side mirror and realized that we must not have fastened the back door as securely as we thought we had.

Because that dolly we’d rented from the U-Haul folks was sliding down Peachtree Road faster than a redneck driving in an ice storm on bald tires.

Sister threw the U-Haul into park, and we both jumped out. We were like Jill and Kris Munroe on
Charlie’s Angels
 
—except we were chasing a dolly instead of, you know, an evil hypnotist or the head of an underground gambling ring. And also we weren’t private detectives and had never to my knowledge driven Mustangs. Even still, I remember thinking very clearly that there was no way we were going to catch that dolly unless a car or a curb got in its way.

Or maybe Sabrina Duncan could come to our rescue. She always seemed to run superfast, whereas Kelly Garrett seemed much more concerned about her hair.

Fortunately
 
—mercifully
 
—the dolly took a turn and ran into the curb. Sister and I managed to corral it and wheel it back to the truck, where we hoisted it into the back and made sure the lock was fully fastened and secure this time. The oddity of the whole experience was lost on us until the second Sister turned the lock
 
—and then we started to laugh so hard we couldn’t breathe. I don’t think either one of us made a sound as our mouths hung open and the tears ran down our faces; we were so stooped over from hysterics that it was a battle to even walk back to the cab of the truck. I finally had to stop and will myself to stand up straight, and when I did, I added one more Peachtree Road memory to my personal collection.

I’d bought music there. I’d read books there. I’d window-shopped for furniture there. And thanks to the rogue dolly that escaped the confines of our U-Haul, I’d also wet my pants there.

Amen and amen.

Just between us, I was kind of a hot mess when I was eighteen. Oh, I was sweet enough and nice enough and knew how to play the good little church girl as well as anybody. I kept my public rebellion to a minimum because I didn’t want anybody to talk about me, but I was way more interested in a good reputation than a transformed heart (this is a pattern that I would not lay down for several more years). And I certainly didn’t have enough sense to “invest” in my family relationships
 
—because as far as I was concerned, the world sort of revolved around me. I went to Atlanta for purely selfish reasons: I thought it would be a whole lot more fun than spending the summer in my hometown. It never occurred to me that it would be a great opportunity to spend time with my relatives. Even after I got there and the “fun” part started to seem less likely, I just figured that, worst-case scenario, I was going to spend the summer balancing bank statements and talking to clients and figuring out all the features of WordPerfect.

And I did do those things.

But I also learned lessons I never expected. For one thing, I learned that Paige, Sister, and I share way more than a bloodline. I learned that, oddly enough, all three of us are people who are willing to literally walk on each other’s backs to guarantee a good “pop” (maybe that’s why I’m typing this twenty-six years later and wondering what that nagging pain in my neck might be). I learned that even if you graduated from high school more than a decade apart, Boz Scaggs and James Taylor will always provide some musical common ground. I learned that a whole host of life’s problems can be solved with chips, cheese dip, and people who love you sitting around the table.

And I learned that even if Sister and Paige weren’t related to me, I’d still think that they were two of the most kind, creative, hilarious people I’d ever known.

Because when I got to Atlanta, they were my family.

But when I left Atlanta, they were my friends.

I’d call that a win.

A
T THE BEGINNING
of my sophomore year at State, I would have told you that I was full to the brim in the friends department. I’d found my tribe, so to speak, and one of the people in that tribe was Daphne, a beautiful, hilarious, athletic girl from Starkville whose skin and hair were a point of borderline obsession for my mama. In fact, I couldn’t even mention Daph’s name without Mama saying, “Oh, Sophie. I do know that she has THE MOST GORGEOUS skin and hair I have ever seen. She is just STUNNING.” Mama was right. She was also thrilled when I told her that Daph and I had decided to room together our sophomore year, and I think she secretly hoped that living with Daphne might reinforce Mama’s lifelong instruction to take off my makeup every night before I went to bed and maybe even to exfoliate regularly.

Daph and I lived on the south side of campus in a huge dorm that we wholeheartedly believe is responsible for at least 95 percent of the sinus
infections we’ve enjoyed since we left it. Mold spores aside, though, living with Daph meant that I spent a good part of every night alternating between hysterical laughter and deep, philosophical conversations that made my head hurt (this is still my preferred structure to daily life, by the way). When Daph wasn’t around, I’d devote thirty or forty-five minutes to playing Whitney Houston’s “One Moment in Time” over and over at an annoyingly high volume, and inevitably I’d walk down the hall to find some company. My Myrtlewood friend Marion and her roommate, Wendi, were two doors down, and their room was always an excellent home base before we’d make our afternoon rounds. Having so many good friends on the same hall ensured that there was always somebody to talk to, and even though my classes were more demanding and my schedule was less wide open than it was during my freshman year, I thrived on that near-constant social interaction.

(This was a few years before my inner introvert very timidly raised her hand and then politely asked if we could please figure out a way to find a little more quiet in the day-to-day.)

(As long as everybody else felt like it was a good idea.)

(And if it wouldn’t inconvenience anyone, of course.)

So for that first half of my sophomore year, the recurring theme or motif or whatever you want to call it was ALL THE PEOPLE. We went out to dinner, we took road trips (including one particularly memorable one when Daph and I listened to the Doobie Brothers all the way to New Orleans and back, but I will not share the details of that trip at this juncture since I have a son who can in fact read and I would prefer not to be a stumbling block on his personal path to godly behavior and also holiness), we cheered at football games, we visited each other’s hometowns, we hung out in our dorm rooms, we sang together in our cars, we spied on crushes, and we raided the giant Magic Markers in the Chi O house so we could make each other door signs for birthdays or big dates.

A big ole pile-o-relational-fun is what it was.

But what I couldn’t seem to figure out
 
—wonder though I did
 
—was how to incorporate all the “walking with Jesus” business into my life at college. Oh, I gave it mighty good lip service and might have even cracked
open my Bible a time or three, but to put it in Southern Baptist terms: I was strugglin’. I don’t know that anyone had me on a prayer list or anything like that, but I was standing on the edge of the wilderness.

And something about that wide-open wilderness
 
—even though I knew it was vast and endless and lonely
 
—was strangely appealing to me.

Late October was when the Chi Os usually held officer elections for the next calendar year. And listen. I know that for lots of folks the whole sorority/fraternity thing isn’t worth much more than an eye roll. I get it. In fact, now that I’m a mama, I have approximately zero desire for Alex Hudson to join a fraternity when he gets to college. That being said, my own experience with sorority life was pretty idyllic, and my memories are happy ones.

I’m glad we had this talk.

So when elections rolled around the fall of my sophomore year, I didn’t really have any burning desire to take on a pressure-packed leadership position. Come to think of it, I’ve
rarely
had a desire to take on a pressure-packed leadership position. I love to be involved with different organizations and causes, but my preferred place for doing that is at a considerable distance from any sort of spotlight and/or attention. Perhaps this is why, when I was in seventh grade and had my first opportunity to run for a student government office, I looked at all the options and thought,
Well, assistant secretary seems like it will be just my speed.

In fact, I’ll never forget the night I asked my daddy to sign the permission slip so I could run.

“I think it’s great that you’re running,” he said. “But don’t you want to aim a little higher? Maybe take on a little more responsibility?”

“No, sir,” I replied. “I think I’m good. This will be perfect.”

It was maximum involvement with minimum risk, a pattern that I’m sort of ashamed to tell you has held steady for the better part of thirty years. Keep in mind that from the time I was sixteen until I was about twenty-eight, there was nothing that seemed more appealing to me than working as a background singer for James Taylor. To my way of thinking, it was the
perfect job: not too mainstream, not too trendy
 
—but a loyal, established audience that makes for a safe performance environment.

(The fact that I had next to no talent in terms of singing was never a consideration.)

(I felt certain that we’d work out all of those pretend details for my pretend job at my pretend audition.)

Well.

When that year’s Chi O officer elections were over, I was the new corresponding secretary, a role that couldn’t have been more perfect for my behind-the-scenes-please personality. The corresponding secretary had two primary responsibilities
 
—checking the mail and writing thank-you notes
 
—and since I could do both of those things in my sweats and/or pajamas, I felt like the required skills were well within my personal wheelhouse. I may not be good at much, people, but I can for sure unlock a post office box and write some sentences thanking a bunch of fraternity boys for, like, THE BEST SWAP EVER. I was perfectly comfortable with my ability to fulfill my duties.

However, there was one part of being an officer that gave me pause: I was going to have to move into the sorority house, which meant I was going to have to leave my beloved Daph. Granted, I’m sure Daph and I did things to get on each other’s nerves when we lived together, but we were both night owls, we were both overthinkers, and we were both far too familiar with all the John Hughes movies. That was all we needed.

Since there was only one other sophomore officer
 
—a blonde, green-eyed girl from Alabama who was the new pledge trainer
 
—I suspected we’d be roommates when we moved into the house in January. And keep in mind: I wasn’t looking for any new close friends. Emma Kate and I actually lived across the hall from each other in the dorm, but we’d never really run in the same circles. In addition to being a very busy marketing major, Emma Kate was superinvolved in a couple of campus ministries (which I was, um, NOT), so she liked to “wake up early” and “get dressed for the day” and “schedule her time.” This level of discipline didn’t necessarily line up with my personal approach to college life, which was more along the lines of “HEY! I know I have a botany test at eight tomorrow morning, but
if we go to the Randy Travis concert and stop by Allgood’s for cheeseburgers after and then ride around and sing old Steve Miller Band songs until about two in the morning, I can still study for FIVE HOURS before I take a quick shower and go to class!”

I am not saying that my methods were successful. I am simply saying that they were my methods.

And I am also saying that I was somewhat delusional.

Even though Emma Kate and I had never hung out very much, we certainly weren’t strangers. We’d visited off and on throughout that fall semester and started to get to know each other when I knocked on her door after I realized that I’d been hearing the same Amy Grant song playing on the other side of her door for the better part of two weeks. As it turned out, Emma Kate had been asked to sing a solo at the next Fellowship of Christian Athletes meeting, so she’d been practicing “In a Little While” like crazy. I thought she had to be about ninety-four varieties of brave since she’d agreed to sing in front of other people, but Emma Kate, who tackles every challenge in her life head-on, wasn’t fazed in the least.

One afternoon I even sat in EK’s dorm room and listened to her practice her song a couple of times
 
—a process that just fascinated me to no end because, as a general rule, I never like to rehearse anything in front of anybody because I am far too self-conscious. Emma Kate, on the other hand, has always valued feedback and constructive criticism, and EVEN NOW I CANNOT BEGIN TO TELL YOU HOW UNCOMFORTABLE THIS LEVEL OF VULNERABILITY MAKES ME.

Please pardon me for one moment while I take some deep breaths and lo, perhaps even a dab of anti-anxiety medication.

I told Emma Kate that I thought her song was real pretty, and after she talked for a minute or so about whether she needed to sing a certain part higher or lower, she said, “Hey! Why don’t you go
with
me to FCA this week? It’ll make it easier for me to sing if there’s a friendly face, and besides, you’ll get to hear a good message from the speaker!”

And then I think she may have winked.

My affection for sleeping in on Sunday mornings wasn’t exactly a big secret.

But that affection had never run up against the persistent evangelism of a sassy little firecracker from Hamilton, Alabama.

Now this is only my opinion
 
—certainly not some proven theory
 
—but in many cases, I think, moving our faith from the (mostly) safe environments of our home churches and our childhood homes into dorm rooms and first apartments and college literature classes involves a fair amount of spiritual wrestling. Because while I know with everything in me
 
—and the Lord and I have discussed this on countless occasions
 
—that He “began a good work in [me]” (Philippians 1:6) when I was in ninth grade at Camp Wesley Pines, there was a point around seventeen or eighteen when that “good work” was like a boat with a flooded engine.