Scott Sullivan

Author: Scott Sullivan

  • The Place I Call Home

    When I tell people I’m from Mississippi, many of them are quick to tell me about all the bad things associated with my home. Yes, we have our problems. Like many other places, we still struggle with race issues. In many economic studies, it’s easier to find out how we rank if you start from the bottom and work your way up. Our state bird, in my mind, should really be the mosquito. And we have a hot season that runs generally from early spring until just before Thanksgiving. People point out that parts of the state have run-down areas; these are rearranged every few years by tornadoes and hurricanes. So, yes, we do have some problems. But I’ve found that most of those folks who point out all the problems in Mississippi…have never lived in Mississippi. They have never called it home.

    Having lived all my life on the Mississippi Gulf Coast, I want to brag a little…or a lot…about the place I call home.

    Every so often, there are studies published that focus on charitable giving as a share of income. Mississippi has a long history of ranking among the nation’s most charitable states when giving is measured as a share of income. That’s pretty impressive for a state that so many people look down on because of our economy. Take that, Wall Street.

    Let’s think about that for a minute. Mississippi historically ranks at the bottom or near the bottom in average household income. Giving someone $100 when your paycheck is big is much easier than giving away money when you are trying to keep the lights on and food on the table. But we do it anyway.

    Mississippi generosity isn’t just tied to cash. Giving sometimes comes as a casserole, cutting a neighbor’s yard, having a fish fry to help someone who is sick and needs a hand, or simply stopping on the side of the road and helping someone whose car is in revolt…because someone helped you when you needed it.

    This is the place I call home.

    Part of this charitable mindset comes because in most places in the state, you can’t swing a pair of white shrimp boots without hitting a church. The church taught us to give, because we had been given much. The church allowed us to see what generosity looked like when people were hurting. In some places, you can’t look up without seeing a Starbucks. In Mississippi, we have more churches than Starbucks, McDonald’s, and Dollar General combined.

    This is the place I call home.

    Mississippi is also packed full of culture. I used to have a Mississippi T-shirt that said, “Yes, we can read. A few of us can write.” It then listed Mississippians such as William Faulkner, Eudora Welty, Tennessee Williams, John Grisham, Willie Morris, Shelby Foote, and Walker Percy.

    Yeah, I think they might have known their way around a sentence.

    Mississippi has produced more than its share of great writers. The same holds true for music. Musicians such as Elvis, Jimmy Buffett, Jimmie Rodgers, B.B. King, Robert Johnson, Muddy Waters, Faith Hill, and even Britney Spears have called Mississippi home. Add to this long list people like Jerry Clower, Medgar Evers, Morgan Freeman, and Jim Henson.

    This is the place I call home.

    And there is more…

    Mississippi has also given the world Barq’s Root Beer, Pine-Sol, the soft toilet seat, and the first bottled Coca-Cola. Mississippi is also where the teddy bear story began, after President Theodore Roosevelt famously refused to shoot a bear during a 1902 hunting trip in the Mississippi Delta. And Mississippi’s Dr. James Hardy performed the first human lung transplant and the world’s first cardiac transplant using a chimpanzee heart.

    Somewhere today, someone will devour a plate of hot, crisp catfish…and there is a good chance it came from Mississippi, and they don’t even know it. We supply so much of the nation’s chicken that I feel like it should replace the mockingbird as the state bird.

    To the rest of the world, “You are welcome.”

    This is the place I call home and the place I love.

    I was recently talking to my brother, who traveled for much of his career. He said that he has been all over and he hasn’t really found anything in other places that he misses. He said a Wendy’s in Ohio tastes about like a Wendy’s in Mississippi.

    I love this place.

    I love the smell of the Gulf. The Gulf is part of my internal compass. No matter where I am in the state or when I’m out of state…I know where the water is. I know that’s where home is.

    That’s where you find oysters, shrimp po-boys, and some of the most beautiful sunsets God ever painted. That’s where some of the most generous folks in the country live. That’s where I enjoy good food, good books, and wonderful people surrounded by moss-draped live oak trees. That’s where I worship. That’s where people I love are buried, and I will probably be buried one day. That’s where my girls were born. That’s where I met my favorite person in the world and coerced her into marrying me.

    I’ve traveled enough to know there are beautiful places all over this country. There are places with better weather, better roads, better economies, and probably fewer mosquitoes. But when I’m away from Mississippi, some part of me is always looking for the water. I don’t have to see it. I just need to know which way it is.

    That’s the place I call home.

    And if you enjoyed this little trip around the place I call home, I hope you’ll come back and spend some time with me here at The Notebook. I’ll be sharing more stories, devotions, and quotes from time to time. If you’d like to have them sent your way, consider subscribing to The Notebook.

    I’d be glad to have you along.

  • Name Calling

    Kids, as well as adults, can be brutal when it comes to name calling. Early in life, one that came my way was simply “punk.”

    Now, sometimes someone can act like a punk. Squealing on a buddy would get you called a punk. Reminding the teacher that she forgot to assign homework would get you labeled as a punk and might require you to fight your way home. But most of the time, kids were called punks simply because they were the tag-along younger brother. If that’s the case, I was a punk growing up, and I guess I’m still a punk.

    Growing up in the ’70s, people were called turkeys. Turkeys were just goofy, foolish kids. We all knew people who were dumb-dumbs, goobers, crybabies, know-it-alls, and show-offs. There were also a lot of other names that aren’t fit to print.

    If we think back real hard, there were probably times when we could have worn most of these names. Yes, I’ve been a dumb-dumb and a goober. Still am at times. Was I ever a crybaby? My mother used to drop me off every morning at daycare, and I would stand at the fence and cry every morning. How could she love me…and just leave me?

    I’ve gone by Trub. This was the name my dad called me up until the day he died. In case you were wondering, it’s short for trouble.

    Trouble?

    I claim that I was misunderstood. I don’t think Trub was meant as an insult. I think it just shows that my dad had insight and wisdom. He knew when I was up to something. What some people might call mischievous, I simply referred to as testing my boundaries. When I crossed the line, he was always there to “lovingly” correct me. We were deep-water Baptists, but on more than one occasion he “laid hands on me” and spoke in a tongue I couldn’t make out. So the name Trub stuck.

    In addition to being called a son, I was also a brother. The youngest. The baby.

    I always thought I was the favorite child…because my mother told me that. But one night, I heard her telling my other brother that he was the favorite. She was just trying to make him feel better. I knew the truth.

    Having brothers, you learn things. You learn what to do, what not to do, and how to do things you shouldn’t do and get away with it. I learned from my oldest brother that after getting worn out by my dad and being asked if he was going to do whatever the offense was again, the proper answer is not, “Yes, if I get a chance.” It’s better to learn from other people’s mistakes than your own.

    Later in life, I took to being called a husband. This is a title I never thought I would own and, for many years, one I never wanted. But at 33 years old, just like the Lord at 33, I laid down my life.

    Husband is the sterile name.

    When I’m being a punk or a know-it-all, my bride refers to me as “Sweetie.” This sounds nicer than it’s intended. It’s just a word she can use rather than calling me what she really wants to call me. It requires less confession than the ones floating around in her mind.

    One of the greatest names I’ve ever been called is Dad.

    There are few things in life that are better than hearing my girls call me Dad. There isn’t much I wouldn’t do for my girls. There are things I’ve wanted to do but haven’t been able to do. But I’ve tried…and tried. Sometimes it’s just good to know that somebody needs you.

    What may surprise many people is how often the Bible tells us what someone was called. For instance, in James 2:23, Abraham is called a friend of God. In Acts 4:36, Joseph is called Barnabas, “The Son of Encouragement,” by the apostles. In Acts 11:26, the followers of Jesus were first called Christians. In John 1:42, Jesus tells Simon that he will be called Cephas, or Peter, which means rock.

    Think back to some of the name calling you have endured. Think now about some of the names you are called by. Now, think about what you are called by the Lord. Are you His child? Are you called a member of His family?

    Those are names worth keeping.

    Don’t try to earn those titles. Just accept them from Him.

    Thank you for reading. To find other devotions and stories like this go to www.scottsullivanwrites.com

  • Grace in the Waiting

    Psalm 27:14 — “Wait for the LORD; be strong, and let your heart be courageous. Wait for the LORD.”

    Waiting is hard. There is something in our nature that causes us to want to do something…instead of waiting. One of the things our passage points out about waiting is something we seldom think about…waiting involves courage. The Psalmist clearly tells us to “let your heart be courageous.”

    Waiting may seem weak at times. Think back to the old western movies. There would be some priest waiting and praying…and the hero would ride along on some beautiful horse and take off after the bad guys. We felt the good guy on the white horse was the hero because he was doing something. We looked at the praying priest as the weakling…because he just sat by waiting.

    But it takes real courage to entrust our problems to the Lord and trust Him to act and do what only He can do. As you wait and pray…know that you are showing courage by not taking matters into your own hands.

    The second thing I see in this passage is similar to the first…waiting requires trust. Why can I wait? Because I’m waiting on the Lord. I trust that He knows what to do…when to do it…and how it should be done.

    This is different from waiting on another flawed human. I may not have complete confidence that they know what needs to be done…and they certainly may not understand the urgency of the matter. But the Lord does…and because He is the Lord, I can and will trust Him.

    Today, as you continue to pray…my prayer is that you do so with a heart filled with courage and trust.

    “Wait on the Lord; be strong, and let your heart be courageous. Wait for the Lord.”

  • McLellan’s

              I think one of the signs of growing older is that we spend more time thinking about the “Good Old Days.”  I have lived all my life in Pascagoula, Mississippi. Pascagoula is known for shipbuilding, aliens, and as the birthplace of Jimmy Buffett. To me, it’s just home, and it dictates the pace at which life should be lived. I love going to the mountains and hanging out at the beach with my little family…operating on “beach time.”  But I also love fast-paced places like Chicago and New York City. I love seeing different cultures, meeting different people, and trying new things. But there is nothing like home. One of the joys of every extended trip I’ve been on is seeing the first road sign that says, “Pascagoula.” I can relax; I’m back where I’m supposed to be.

              Pascagoula is like many small towns. The new businesses decided to move out on the highway, and downtown became the hiding place of lawyers and city offices. Thankfully, this is changing. We actually have places to go without leaving the old part of town…or as I call it “The good part of town.”  As a child, downtown was where you got your blue jeans for school, toys, medicine, and books from the library. The first sign that summer was drawing to a close was when my mother would take me and my two brothers downtown to get jeans and shirts for the new school year. I liked the clothes, but I hated the reasoning behind the trip. I was a chubby kid. Some marketing genius labeled us as “husky.”  I would rather just be called chubby. My mother could find pants that fit me in the waist, or she could find pants that fit me in length…but she could never find a pair that fit both. We would leave my pants to be hemmed. When I got them back, they had to cut half the leg off to make them the right length. I had bell-bottoms when they were popular and a long time after they were popular.

              One of the businesses downtown was the only place you could get Boy Scout/Cub Scout uniforms. I wasn’t really interested in joining either of these groups, but I did like the uniforms. The uniforms consisted of a shirt, shorts, a hat, a belt, and a neckerchief slide. I’d had shirts and pants and belts…but I had never been privy to a neckerchief slide. I decided that I needed one, even if it forced me to enlist. I remember the day my mother took me to the store, and I was issued the official Cub Scout gear. She actually bought it, but it sounds better to say it was issued. Fate was on my side. Something happened, and our troop never formed.  But I had my uniform and slide. Life was good.

              My favorite place downtown was McLellan’s. It was the classic five-and-dime store. When I walked in, it was like I was entering another world. It had old wooden floors that squeaked when you walked. The original shine had long since been walked off, but it was replaced by a shine from the smoothness of the boards. Like many people, my dad got paid on Fridays, and we were allowed to walk downtown and get a toy. Did you catch what I said there, “We were allowed to walk downtown…” I remember going all over town, going to the library, going fishing at the river without any fear. I don’t know what’s changed. I have some theories…coming to a sermon near you. My favorite purchase at McLellan’s was Matchbox cars. A boy could never have too many cars to play with. I remember one time my parents got me a racetrack for my Matchbox cars for Christmas, and they also got me a toy truck that looked like the kind that delivered new cars to the car lot. We had Christmas at my grandparents in the “country,” and I remember thinking how cool it would be if these new cars got into a fiery crash. I promptly stuffed plastic Army men inside the cars and ramped them off into the fireplace. A child today who did that might be sent to counseling. My dad thought that was unnecessary and had other ways of helping me through this troubled period of my life. It’s not something I’m proud of, but you have really crossed a line when you get a spanking on Christmas morning.

              The greatest thing about McLellan’s, though, was the smell. It smelled of polished wood and popcorn. Popcorn in little paper bags that got wet from shaking it into your mouth. You didn’t have time to use your fingers; they were busy checking out the latest thing you “needed” from the toy aisle. Popcorn in paper bags and at the theatre always tastes better than the same popcorn at home. I think it tasted so good at McLellan’s because we were just excited to be there. We would also walk downtown, drag home boxes, and make forts and spaceships out of them. That still happens today.  It just looks different. Kids aren’t dumpster diving behind the local five-and-dime. No, their parents spend months picking out the perfect gift and pay more than they should, only to have the child play with the box it came in.

              But I’m sitting here thinking about the smell and salty taste of that McLellan’s popcorn. It makes me think about parents who did whatever they needed to do in order for three boys to have clothes that were as nice as everyone else (even if the label said Husky) and spending money on toys that weren’t needed, but couldn’t be passed up because of the joy they brought to a little boy’s eyes…just before he set them on fire. Life in Pascagoula is good…but it was really good when McLellan’s was around.

  • I Hate Being Late

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    Late…and on time…have different meanings to different people. I’m one of those annoying people who feels like fifteen minutes early is actually being on time. To get somewhere at the exact time you are told an event is starting…is late.

    This comes from the fact that I don’t like to be or feel rushed. Getting to where I need to be a few minutes before it starts lets me compose myself (Lord, don’t I need that) and feel prepared. My internal clock is pretty good. I always have a good idea of what time it is…but there is no rush hour in my makeup. There isn’t a speed cycle in me.

    They are making new cars that have eight, nine, or even ten gears. I’m an old standard-shift three-speed. But a three-speed still gets you there on time.

    Now, this may not be the wisest thing to do, but I live in a house of ladies who define time differently than I do.

    When I say we need to leave in twenty minutes…that means in twenty minutes the car should be leaving the driveway. Tires should be rolling. That does not mean that you are wrapping up the getting-ready-to-leave process.

    Getting ready for me can happen literally in ten minutes. My hair is already done. After some basic hygiene issues and picking out a pair of pants and a shirt that is comfortable…I’m good to go.

    It seems to take ten minutes for curling irons to get warm and ready to go battle in my home.

    There are stages, I’ve noticed. There is a hair stage. A makeup stage. A sit-around-and-aggravate-Dad-because-the-clock-is-ticking stage. There is a stage of dressing and picking out shoes…followed by a reassessment of clothing selection and footwear.

    There are also certain smells that develop during the female preparation stages.

    Curling irons and burning hair with 1,800 watts of electricity produce a certain smell. Sprays and lotions have their own smells. The final step of covering all that involves a tiny, expensive bottle of perfume that finishes off the concoction of smells.

    A friend of mine, who is blessed with girls also, says that teenage girls and brownies are the same…when you start to smell them, you know they’re almost done.

    As you can see, we are dealing with two different ideas about time and preparation.

    At some point, out of frustration, I’ll just tell everyone, “I’ll be waiting in the car.”

    This doesn’t change the time we will actually leave. It just gets me out of the way.

    Waiting drives me crazy when I know there is a simple solution.

    Solution: Just get ready like I do…think like I do…and let’s get going.

    It’s that simple.

    And actually, it’s silly when I think about it.

    If we are not careful, we can have this same kind of attitude when it comes to the workings of God.

    We have a simple idea of what needs to happen.

    “God, do this, at this time, and it will work out.”

    Amazing that we have been promoted to God’s advisory committee.

    But God does not always operate on our schedule.

    Take, for instance, the death of Lazarus in John 11. Jesus received word that Lazarus’s physical condition was serious. And…then He waited two days before going to Lazarus’s house.

    He waited two days.

    When He did arrive, Lazarus was no longer sick…he was dead.

    Jesus waited two days.

    However, this waiting allowed for a greater miracle to happen. Rather than healing a sick man, Jesus raised a dead man. God received glory. People wondered if this might be the Messiah. Word about Lazarus spread throughout the region.

    The story has been retold and preached for thousands of years…because Jesus waited two days.

    God does not operate based on a clock. He isn’t confined to time. The Bible speaks of God working in “due season.”

    When we finally realize that “due season” is better for us, we will look at things differently.

    That prayer that you have been praying, and you are on the verge of dropping from your prayer life…keep praying until it’s “due season.”

    That lost soul that you have shared with and thrown a bushel of seed on…don’t give up. It’s not “due season” yet.

    God is never late…never early…He is always perfect in His timing.

    Excuse me while I go sit in the car.

    Until the next line…

    Scott Sullivan

    The Notebook

  • Headed Towards Home

    On a recent drive to Hattiesburg to surprise my daughter in college, it started to hit me how long a short ride can be. It’s only ninety miles, but it seemed like forever.

    The trip to Hattiesburg isn’t listed on any magazine’s list of “must-do” road trips in the South. You will see a lot of pine trees…and more pine trees. I always chuckle to myself when I make drives like this through Mississippi that there are places in the world fretting about overpopulation. The telephone poles vastly outnumber the population. It’s beautiful land filled with good people…but it can make for a long drive. Over each hill, you think, “Am I there yet?”

    Now, why does a ninety-mile drive seem to take so long? Because I have something in Hattiesburg now that I love. I don’t want to waste what part of the day I have driving; I want to spend that time with my daughter. She is legally an “adult”…but she is still my little girl.

    What’s funny about this, though, is that when I leave Hattiesburg, the ride home seems long, too. Now, technically, the ride south from Hattiesburg is longer. I’m serious. The northbound lane of Highway 49 is flatter than the southbound lane. When the southbound lane was built, very little fill dirt was used, and you have a lot more hills headed south. Over time, it makes the trip just a little longer.

    But it’s not the extra few tenths of a mile that makes it a long drive…it’s because I’m ready to get home…and I have two people I love at home waiting on me.  

    On almost every trip I’ve been on, the return trip seems longer. Why? Because I’m ready to be home.

    Home for the Christian is not this world.

    I love the old songs. I love to sing, “This world is not my home, I’m just passing through, my treasures are laid up, somewhere beyond the blue.”

    Vance Havner said, “If you are a Christian, you are not a citizen of this world trying to get to heaven; you are a citizen of heaven making your way through this world.”

    Our home is not here…our home awaits us.

    Sometimes we have a longing for something that we just can’t put our finger on. We are longing for home. We are longing for a great reunion day. We are looking forward to seeing loved ones again. We long to see Jesus Christ…the One we have read about and sung about…face-to-face.

    The trip can be long when you are looking forward to being with someone you love.

    Keep moving. Keep your eyes fixed and your path straight. Over the next hill…you may be home.

    Second Corinthians 5:1 tells us, “…we have a building from God, an eternal dwelling in the heavens, not made with hands.”

    Until the next page…

    Scott Sullivan

    The Notebook

  • Christian Fortune Cookie – Vance Havner

    “Worry, like a rocking chair, will give you something to do, but it won’t get you anywhere.”

    Some things we spend a lot of time doing…don’t actually move us forward. Worry is one of them.

    Vance Havner had a way of saying simple things that made you stop and think. We can rock all day long, but eventually we have to get out of the chair and trust God with what we cannot control.

    Maybe that’s your reminder for today.

  • Never quit

    Luke 5:4–6 — “Put out into deep water and let down your nets for a catch.” Simon replied, “Master, we’ve worked hard all night long and caught nothing. But if you say so, I’ll let down the nets.” When they did this, they caught a great number of fish, and their nets began to tear.

    I’ve always been intrigued by this fishing story. Jesus chose several fishermen to be His disciples. Why fishermen? Perhaps because they understood something about failure. They knew what it was like to work all night and catch nothing, yet they also knew you don’t quit fishing because yesterday was unsuccessful. You go back out and try again.

    Simon was a professional fisherman. He knew his trade. He knew the water, the weather, and the fish. He had worked hard all night and had nothing to show for it. Then Jesus told him to go back out and let down the nets.

    Simon could have argued. He could have explained why it wouldn’t work. Instead, he simply said, “But if you say so.”

    That is obedience.

    Simon didn’t know what was going to happen. He simply trusted the One who told him to go.

    And look what happened. His obedience led to a catch so great that the nets began to tear.

    There is another part of this story that encourages me even more. Jesus didn’t quit working on Simon. He was preparing him for something far greater than catching fish. Aren’t you glad Jesus hasn’t quit working on you and me?

    There will be days when you are tired. There will be times when you have worked hard and have little to show for it. You may even wonder if it is worth trying one more time.

    When those moments come, remember Simon’s words: “But if you say so.”

    Obedience doesn’t always guarantee immediate results, but quitting guarantees that we will never see what God intended to do through our obedience.

    Think back today to a time when you wanted to quit but remained faithful. Remember what God did through that obedience.

    Never quit. Never quit.

    Quitting never honors God.

  • The Dreams of a Boy

    As a somewhat fully functioning adult, I was thinking the other day about the dreams I had as a child.

    Every child has dreams. Doctors, lawyers, firemen, nurses, and teachers all originate in the hearts and minds of dreaming children. Family can play a part in this. Police work seems to run in the veins of some families. Often, preachers beget preachers. What we see as children impacts our dreams.

    Likewise, geography may shape our dreams. You won’t find many kids here in the Mississippi heat who aspire to be hockey players. Nor will you find a child in Kansas breaking the news to his parents that he wants to be a shrimper.

    Growing up on the Mississippi Gulf Coast in Pascagoula, there were many young boys of my generation who dreamed of operating the drawbridge.

    Pascagoula sits on a little point of land that is almost an island. Rivers wrap around the western and northern perimeter, and the Gulf lies to the south. If you have a fear of bridges and need to flee, you will have to head east toward Mobile.

    While the drawbridge fascinated young boys, it caused those in a hurry to say things that would later have to be confessed in prayer.

    I vividly recall one day riding in the backseat of my parents’ car over the drawbridge into Pascagoula when a shift change was taking place. The man coming on duty was carrying a guitar. There was a small television set in the booth.

    And you got to work the drawbridge.

    I had a dream.

    More than one person has told me that they dreamed of riding on the back of the garbage truck growing up.

    The garbage truck, to young eyes, is impressive. It’s loud. Garbage trucks don’t tiptoe around in the morning. They beep and bang, I think, in part to let sleeping folks know they’re already at work.

    I remember my brother-in-law telling me that one time, when he was in high school, he overslept because he had mistaken his alarm clock for the sound the garbage truck made while backing up.

    What got my attention was the place on the side of the truck where the workers stood.

    For kids who explored town on bicycles, riding through neighborhoods while hanging on for dear life seemed like an adventure not often found in Pascagoula.

    I had a dream.

    Most of those dreams, of course, never panned out. But one dream I think about occasionally took place while I was attending Central Elementary.

    Around the fourth grade, we got a new student by the name of Polly.

    Polly was confined to a wheelchair. She struggled when she spoke. Watching her struggle saddened me.

    In my child’s mind, I just felt like if someone had enough money, they could take Polly somewhere and she could be cured.

    At the time, I lived and breathed baseball. I made up my mind that if I ever got rich playing baseball, I would “cure” Polly.

    Oh, if life were that easy.

    Sorry, Polly.

    These were the things I dreamed about. Things that had I achieved them, I thought would make me happy.

    One dream I never had was… being married and having children.

    While some kids, especially little girls, grow up dreaming about their wedding day, it never really was something that was on my radar. I wasn’t against the idea. It just wasn’t something I aspired to.

    But now, after twenty-five years of marriage and two teenage daughters, I have come to realize something:

    Sometimes we don’t know we are dreaming until we find ourselves in the middle of a dream.

    Perhaps today you look back at your life and realize it hasn’t turned out the way you had dreamed it would. Maybe the dreams you had as a child never panned out.

    Pause. Think about all the ways you have been blessed. Think about the people you love. The people who love you. The things you never planned but wouldn’t trade for anything.

    And realize that perhaps you are in the middle of a dream right now.

  • Christian Fortune Cookie – Manley Beasley

     “When we get to the end of ourselves, it is then that He takes over. When we recognize our weakness, it is then that God will show Himself adequate for whatever the situation may be.”