In 2007 while on sabbatical I flew enough to gain special status. This was especially appreciated the following spring. Nora flew to NYC for her semester there with 2 checked bags. Then the airlines changed their baggage policy. Roger and I met her there to see her art show and help her move home. As a preferred flyer I was able to check her luggage for free.
Since then I have not flown enough to maintain that status. However this year I gained gold status at Starbucks. They sent me a gold card with my name on it because I bought so many cups of hot chocolate.
I am thrilled by such special attention. Great marketing.
Recently I detoxed my system and discovered that hot chocolate gives me headaches. You can't imagine how much I depend on this comforting drink during the long dreary days of winter.
I am so grateful for how energetic I have felt lately, that has to outweigh the savoring of a drink that leaves me aching the next morning. But o what a loss! My Starbucks gold status has already been assured for another year, but alas, after that, I think it will fall by the way of airline privileges. At least I hope so.
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
Competition
Last week I had the privilege of attending events at the World Equestrian Games. During the jumping competition, contestants are penalized for knocking down any part of a fence, refusing to jump, or going over the time limit.
The first several horses received faults, mostly for knocking down rails on fences. Finally a horse ran the course clear, and the crowd responded with thunderous applause. After some individual jumpers, we entered the team competition.
Each of 10 teams had 4 riders, and the US came in to the evening in third place. As each horse and rider traversed the course, the crowd held its breath, willing the horses to clear the jumps. With no music or commentary, the venue remained silent for the 84 seconds allotted each round. If a horse did hit a jump, a collective sigh rose from the crowd. If the horse seemed to falter and risk falling, the crowd gasped involuntarily.
After each round, the applause rose immediately following the final jump, regardless of the country of the rider. Our US team had some disastrous rounds, and dropped to 10th in the competition. Yet despite the audience being mostly American, they clapped for each competitor, as if they were rooting for the horses to succeed, despite nationality. And of course, the horses have no idea of national loyalty anyway.
I love my Kentucky Wildcats and my Cincinnati Reds, and enjoy rooting for them. Part of the typical ballgame experience is rooting against the competition. Yet the absence of that kind of malice at this event refreshed me. I enjoyed just encouraging all the competitors instead of disdaining the "enemy."
Would that life had more such moments.
The first several horses received faults, mostly for knocking down rails on fences. Finally a horse ran the course clear, and the crowd responded with thunderous applause. After some individual jumpers, we entered the team competition.
Each of 10 teams had 4 riders, and the US came in to the evening in third place. As each horse and rider traversed the course, the crowd held its breath, willing the horses to clear the jumps. With no music or commentary, the venue remained silent for the 84 seconds allotted each round. If a horse did hit a jump, a collective sigh rose from the crowd. If the horse seemed to falter and risk falling, the crowd gasped involuntarily.
After each round, the applause rose immediately following the final jump, regardless of the country of the rider. Our US team had some disastrous rounds, and dropped to 10th in the competition. Yet despite the audience being mostly American, they clapped for each competitor, as if they were rooting for the horses to succeed, despite nationality. And of course, the horses have no idea of national loyalty anyway.
I love my Kentucky Wildcats and my Cincinnati Reds, and enjoy rooting for them. Part of the typical ballgame experience is rooting against the competition. Yet the absence of that kind of malice at this event refreshed me. I enjoyed just encouraging all the competitors instead of disdaining the "enemy."
Would that life had more such moments.
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
Loyalties
My friend Dennis and his third and last child Becca had to discuss her options for college related to Dennis' wardrobe. Would Becca's dad wear Tennessee orange? No, he had to admit he couldn't do that.
You see Dennis and I both grew up in the Bluegrass state, and most of the commonwealth bleeds blue, with the exception of that small corner that should just push itself over the Ohio River into Indiana.
Growing up blue makes it hard to even think about wearing Tennessee orange, Duke's version of blue, and never Cardinal red.
My daughters both attended Wheaton, a division 3 school, not a competitor in the big dance, so I wear their alma mater shirts with pride. My first son Luke decided to make wearing Kentucky blue a full-time occupation, so that was easy. The best part of visiting UK on a college visit was both of us stocking up on new shirts while in Lexington. Neither of Dennis' older daughter's attended a division 1 school, so he has worn their college spirit wear willingly as well.
Now my last child Wesley is considering Illinois, Purdue, Georgia Tech, IIT and Johns Hopkins. JHU and IIT are division 3 schools, so no conflict there. To make it worse, the color of Illinois is orange, and Ga Tech is yellow, two colors that do not exist in my wardrobe, and for good reason, not in my family of colors at all.
So, how do we choose a college? Should Dennis and I get to pick for our offspring based on the implications for spirit wear for the next four years and beyond?
Some of you are thinking this is the silliest thing you've ever heard, that's the reaction I got from one friend. And at one level, you are absolutely right. I truly want Wesley to go to the best possible college he can, and the one he most prefers, regardless of any preferences I have about the clothing commitment controversy.
The problem is, I'm Irish. Sounds silly. But it did help me to learn about my heritage that fierce loyalty is a common trait. I would feel a sense of divided loyalties and almost betrayal not wearing Kentucky blue, but at least Wesley isn't considering Tennessee or Louisville.
In this case, I must bend my loyalties for colleges to a wider and deeper arc of loyalty to my son, and support what he cares about.
Yet I am glad for the part of my personality that makes me so fiercely loyal. Though sometimes misguided, that same faithful doggedness keeps me engaged with my family, and hopefully with my God.
In a sense every day I am supposed to don the spirit of Christ. That should be my clothing, and what everyone sees when they look at me. I should be many times more adamant in my loyalty to that attire than any other garment. When I am challenged to adopt the popular fashion of the world, and by that I mean more than physical clothing, I should protest and remain clothed only in Christ. Would that as I dress myself each morning, I would remember this underlying truth.
You see Dennis and I both grew up in the Bluegrass state, and most of the commonwealth bleeds blue, with the exception of that small corner that should just push itself over the Ohio River into Indiana.
Growing up blue makes it hard to even think about wearing Tennessee orange, Duke's version of blue, and never Cardinal red.
My daughters both attended Wheaton, a division 3 school, not a competitor in the big dance, so I wear their alma mater shirts with pride. My first son Luke decided to make wearing Kentucky blue a full-time occupation, so that was easy. The best part of visiting UK on a college visit was both of us stocking up on new shirts while in Lexington. Neither of Dennis' older daughter's attended a division 1 school, so he has worn their college spirit wear willingly as well.
Now my last child Wesley is considering Illinois, Purdue, Georgia Tech, IIT and Johns Hopkins. JHU and IIT are division 3 schools, so no conflict there. To make it worse, the color of Illinois is orange, and Ga Tech is yellow, two colors that do not exist in my wardrobe, and for good reason, not in my family of colors at all.
So, how do we choose a college? Should Dennis and I get to pick for our offspring based on the implications for spirit wear for the next four years and beyond?
Some of you are thinking this is the silliest thing you've ever heard, that's the reaction I got from one friend. And at one level, you are absolutely right. I truly want Wesley to go to the best possible college he can, and the one he most prefers, regardless of any preferences I have about the clothing commitment controversy.
The problem is, I'm Irish. Sounds silly. But it did help me to learn about my heritage that fierce loyalty is a common trait. I would feel a sense of divided loyalties and almost betrayal not wearing Kentucky blue, but at least Wesley isn't considering Tennessee or Louisville.
In this case, I must bend my loyalties for colleges to a wider and deeper arc of loyalty to my son, and support what he cares about.
Yet I am glad for the part of my personality that makes me so fiercely loyal. Though sometimes misguided, that same faithful doggedness keeps me engaged with my family, and hopefully with my God.
In a sense every day I am supposed to don the spirit of Christ. That should be my clothing, and what everyone sees when they look at me. I should be many times more adamant in my loyalty to that attire than any other garment. When I am challenged to adopt the popular fashion of the world, and by that I mean more than physical clothing, I should protest and remain clothed only in Christ. Would that as I dress myself each morning, I would remember this underlying truth.
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Shedding
In the winter horses accumulate a thick coat to protect them from the weather. Come spring, it falls off in huge pieces. I could stand and groom Mr. Asia who looked like he had wallpaper falling off his sides and after some work with the shedding blade, a beautiful shiny coat would emerge.
However Sunny my shepherd mutt sheds all year. I can see chunks of hair protruding from her coat. I pull them off, but if I decide to brush her, no matter how long I brush, when I stop hair always floats loose on her coat, so I'm never really done and little progress can be seen, despite the pile of hair that could stuff a pillow.
Lately God's theme for me has been dying to self. I would like to brush away my "self" like I used to a horse's coat, in large satisfying pieces that left a sheen underneath. Or better yet like a snake sheds skin in one miraculously removed piece. But instead my self clings to me like Sunny's hair, always needing daily removal, constant vigilance. Lord give me perseverance to keep shedding.
However Sunny my shepherd mutt sheds all year. I can see chunks of hair protruding from her coat. I pull them off, but if I decide to brush her, no matter how long I brush, when I stop hair always floats loose on her coat, so I'm never really done and little progress can be seen, despite the pile of hair that could stuff a pillow.
Lately God's theme for me has been dying to self. I would like to brush away my "self" like I used to a horse's coat, in large satisfying pieces that left a sheen underneath. Or better yet like a snake sheds skin in one miraculously removed piece. But instead my self clings to me like Sunny's hair, always needing daily removal, constant vigilance. Lord give me perseverance to keep shedding.
Saturday, July 24, 2010
The Future
Easily obsessed with change and the end of the world, Americans think little about the future past their own lifetime. We plan to be sure we have enough in the retirement account, but we rarely build anything that will last beyond our days on earth.
My friend Bud planted walnut trees when he was 60. Instead of looking for a harvest of nuts, he pruned the trees while young to provide long straight lumber someday. That day would come long after his graduation to heaven, but Bud increased the value of his property for his descendants. He was thinking past his own life span and concerns.
Too often we are short-sighted and self-focused. We don't think about our own family descendants and the legacy we are leaving them, much less how we are impacting the earth for coming generations.
Rumors swirl that the world will end in 2012, but that's not the first time that has happened. Such rumors circulated multiple times since Jesus left the earth, and the world may well last another 2000 years before its renewal in God's Kingdom. So we need to be responsible with creation, and with each other.
Bud didn't just plant trees for his family's future. He is a kind and gentle man, who has also passed on a firm foundation of spiritual nurture and health to his family. That will guide their future even more than trees.
What are you planting that will influence others?
My friend Bud planted walnut trees when he was 60. Instead of looking for a harvest of nuts, he pruned the trees while young to provide long straight lumber someday. That day would come long after his graduation to heaven, but Bud increased the value of his property for his descendants. He was thinking past his own life span and concerns.
Too often we are short-sighted and self-focused. We don't think about our own family descendants and the legacy we are leaving them, much less how we are impacting the earth for coming generations.
Rumors swirl that the world will end in 2012, but that's not the first time that has happened. Such rumors circulated multiple times since Jesus left the earth, and the world may well last another 2000 years before its renewal in God's Kingdom. So we need to be responsible with creation, and with each other.
Bud didn't just plant trees for his family's future. He is a kind and gentle man, who has also passed on a firm foundation of spiritual nurture and health to his family. That will guide their future even more than trees.
What are you planting that will influence others?
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
Summer
Summer is kids out of school. Early morning sunshine. Hot afternoons. Late evening sunsets. Time with family.
Summer is less on the schedule. More interests pulling every direction. Sweating. Swimming.
Summer is family time. Vacation. Reunions. Love.
Summer is my favorite time of year.
Summer is less on the schedule. More interests pulling every direction. Sweating. Swimming.
Summer is family time. Vacation. Reunions. Love.
Summer is my favorite time of year.
Saturday, July 3, 2010
Looking Ahead
Planning vacations is my favorite pastime. I might just prefer it to going on them. After all, when the actual time arrives, so many events can fall short of expectation, but while they are still ideas, it sounds like the most fantastic week ever!
This year we begin by driving to see Nora's graduate exhibit in Baltimore. Check it out at: http://www.mica.edu/News/MACA_Thesis_Exhibition_Explores_Issues_of_Social_Justice_July_15-31.html
Her dad hasn't been to her school yet, and he'll get to see Nora in full force, with a crowd of people admiring her unique work.
From there we crash that night at the Faulkners, friends willing to let us use their floor to save money on a motel even though we don't have time to really stay. Then it's on to Boston, where Nora will read in her college roommate Farrell's wedding.
The next evening we visit Ben's church plant, another college friend of Nora's. Then we drive to the far west corner of Massachusetts to see the MassMoCA, the Massachusetts Museum of Contemporary Art, where they have some galleries as big as a football field to display large pieces.
That afternoon we will drive to the top of the highest peak in Massachusetts, before meandering south to camp in Connecticut so we can mark off another state visited.
Wednesday, which happens to be my birthday, we have three hours to drive with NY city in the middle, worth a stop for an urban fix. Pommes Frites and a walk across the Brooklyn Bridge.
Then on to a Doubletree in Wilmington, which I got for a great price on Priceline, warm chocolate chip cookies here we come. The next day we visit Du Pont gunpowder factory for Wesley, as well as driving to Dover to see their air command museum.
That night we sleep on Assateague Island, and the next morning visit the wild ponies I grew up loving from Marguerite Henry's book Misty. A childhood dream finally realized.
From there a stop at a NASA post, a drive by Annapolis, then back to Baltimore. Our last day will include a sport legends museum for Luke, an Orioles game, and somewhere in there some delicious gelato.
A month from now I'll be living this, and I hope it meets expectations. Typically part of it will, and part of it won't, and I only hope I can roll with it. Just being with the whole family will be the best part, especially since we don't know when that will stop being a vacation privilege.
When I consider my yearly ritual, planning a vacation, then living it, I am glad that one final "vacation" will exceed expectations. I really don't even have to plan, I already have my reservation. Just believing in Jesus means he's planning for me, he's got a deluxe room waiting. The weather will be blissful, the activities ample, and the fellowship literally divine. And my yearly stress reliever will become a never ending way of life.
May this year's vacation be a little taste of that coming reality.
This year we begin by driving to see Nora's graduate exhibit in Baltimore. Check it out at: http://www.mica.edu/News/MACA_Thesis_Exhibition_Explores_Issues_of_Social_Justice_July_15-31.html
Her dad hasn't been to her school yet, and he'll get to see Nora in full force, with a crowd of people admiring her unique work.
From there we crash that night at the Faulkners, friends willing to let us use their floor to save money on a motel even though we don't have time to really stay. Then it's on to Boston, where Nora will read in her college roommate Farrell's wedding.
The next evening we visit Ben's church plant, another college friend of Nora's. Then we drive to the far west corner of Massachusetts to see the MassMoCA, the Massachusetts Museum of Contemporary Art, where they have some galleries as big as a football field to display large pieces.
That afternoon we will drive to the top of the highest peak in Massachusetts, before meandering south to camp in Connecticut so we can mark off another state visited.
Wednesday, which happens to be my birthday, we have three hours to drive with NY city in the middle, worth a stop for an urban fix. Pommes Frites and a walk across the Brooklyn Bridge.
Then on to a Doubletree in Wilmington, which I got for a great price on Priceline, warm chocolate chip cookies here we come. The next day we visit Du Pont gunpowder factory for Wesley, as well as driving to Dover to see their air command museum.
That night we sleep on Assateague Island, and the next morning visit the wild ponies I grew up loving from Marguerite Henry's book Misty. A childhood dream finally realized.
From there a stop at a NASA post, a drive by Annapolis, then back to Baltimore. Our last day will include a sport legends museum for Luke, an Orioles game, and somewhere in there some delicious gelato.
A month from now I'll be living this, and I hope it meets expectations. Typically part of it will, and part of it won't, and I only hope I can roll with it. Just being with the whole family will be the best part, especially since we don't know when that will stop being a vacation privilege.
When I consider my yearly ritual, planning a vacation, then living it, I am glad that one final "vacation" will exceed expectations. I really don't even have to plan, I already have my reservation. Just believing in Jesus means he's planning for me, he's got a deluxe room waiting. The weather will be blissful, the activities ample, and the fellowship literally divine. And my yearly stress reliever will become a never ending way of life.
May this year's vacation be a little taste of that coming reality.
Monday, June 7, 2010
More Haiku
June comes finally
But not yet Junia so
Can’t really be June.
Sending out children
Like bread cast on the water
To be found again?
But not yet Junia so
Can’t really be June.
Sending out children
Like bread cast on the water
To be found again?
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
Opportunities Missed
My sons are watching an action show. In action shows people burst into doors and spray the room with bullets and people die.
This happens in real life too. I’ve seen the photos, the blood splattered against the wall where the bullet hit an artery, and the body slumped open-eyed at the bottom of the stairs. Eighteen casings from a AK 47 strewn across the house.
And in the mess photographed by the police to document the crime scene, a book lying on the floor, The Purpose Driven Life. A few years back, like many others, our church participated in this book and series. Unlike many churches who followed the program, we probably had some folks reading that book that could have lived in a house like these victims, who were raising pit bulls (illegal in my city) and marijuana (illegal anywhere in our country).
Who gave these two young men that book? Did they read it? Might it have mattered?
During the trial a woman I am confident is the mother of the deceased man sat and cried as she saw her son’s photograph used for identification. She left before the gory pictures, I was glad.
I can only imagine her going through his belongings after his death, and seeing that book on the floor, and if by any chance she had given it to him, wondering, what if?
It’s so easy to not feel responsible for other people. And in the end, we can only do so much. Someone tried to reach these two guys. But if they had, if their attempt had succeeded, their lives might have been so different, the one still alive. And the survivor, what happened to him? Has he changed? Has he cleaned up his act, gotten out of the drug business? He’s currently facing charges on the drug count. Did he read the book? Would he now?
I wrote these musings after seeing that photograph. The next day, that survivor sat in the witness stand. He told the story of the events, and how he seized an opportunity and ran. He tried to call the police to help his roommate, but heard a volley of shots before help arrived.
When he reached the part of the narration where he related that his roommate was killed, he cried. Two years later. A strong, macho male, in front of a courtroom of people. The prosecutor quietly walked to a desk and placed some Kleenex in front of him. Even the defense attorney was moved by this moment of raw emotion, a young man remembering the horror of his friend's death, and reliving his own guilt, because the grow operation in the house was his own. His friend died, he survived, but the drugs were his.
We also learned that the upstairs bedroom was the survivor's. That photograph captured the book The Purpose Driven Life, also the book 1984, and a handgun. What a capsule of that young man's life. When he retrieved his belongings, did he keep the book? Has he read it since? Do I ask?
This happens in real life too. I’ve seen the photos, the blood splattered against the wall where the bullet hit an artery, and the body slumped open-eyed at the bottom of the stairs. Eighteen casings from a AK 47 strewn across the house.
And in the mess photographed by the police to document the crime scene, a book lying on the floor, The Purpose Driven Life. A few years back, like many others, our church participated in this book and series. Unlike many churches who followed the program, we probably had some folks reading that book that could have lived in a house like these victims, who were raising pit bulls (illegal in my city) and marijuana (illegal anywhere in our country).
Who gave these two young men that book? Did they read it? Might it have mattered?
During the trial a woman I am confident is the mother of the deceased man sat and cried as she saw her son’s photograph used for identification. She left before the gory pictures, I was glad.
I can only imagine her going through his belongings after his death, and seeing that book on the floor, and if by any chance she had given it to him, wondering, what if?
It’s so easy to not feel responsible for other people. And in the end, we can only do so much. Someone tried to reach these two guys. But if they had, if their attempt had succeeded, their lives might have been so different, the one still alive. And the survivor, what happened to him? Has he changed? Has he cleaned up his act, gotten out of the drug business? He’s currently facing charges on the drug count. Did he read the book? Would he now?
I wrote these musings after seeing that photograph. The next day, that survivor sat in the witness stand. He told the story of the events, and how he seized an opportunity and ran. He tried to call the police to help his roommate, but heard a volley of shots before help arrived.
When he reached the part of the narration where he related that his roommate was killed, he cried. Two years later. A strong, macho male, in front of a courtroom of people. The prosecutor quietly walked to a desk and placed some Kleenex in front of him. Even the defense attorney was moved by this moment of raw emotion, a young man remembering the horror of his friend's death, and reliving his own guilt, because the grow operation in the house was his own. His friend died, he survived, but the drugs were his.
We also learned that the upstairs bedroom was the survivor's. That photograph captured the book The Purpose Driven Life, also the book 1984, and a handgun. What a capsule of that young man's life. When he retrieved his belongings, did he keep the book? Has he read it since? Do I ask?
Courtroom Haiku
Mothers of victims
Sitting in courtrooms crying
Like Jesus’ mother.
Witnesses from jail
Spilling what they know or don’t
Hoping for freedom
Sitting in courtrooms crying
Like Jesus’ mother.
Witnesses from jail
Spilling what they know or don’t
Hoping for freedom
Monday, May 17, 2010
Pain from Head to Toe
Have you ever noticed than when something hurts, then stops, we tend to touch it or move it or bother it to see if it still hurts, setting off the pain again? Why do we do that!
I broke my toe last night. I kept trying to decide if it was really broken so if it ever stopped hurting I'd wiggle it and sure enough, it would send shoots of pain out to tell me the truth.
After my second Monday at court my brain was fried. Sundays are the most draining day of my week, all that people time for my introverted self. Usually on Mondays I retreat, work at home, or do errands, but not heavy on people.
Instead today I spent the whole day with my 14 new best friends (12 jurors and 3 alternates makes 15 including me) and a courtroom of lawyers and witnesses, listening intently to conflicts and confusion.
So my toe hurts, and so does my head. I'm going to bed.
I broke my toe last night. I kept trying to decide if it was really broken so if it ever stopped hurting I'd wiggle it and sure enough, it would send shoots of pain out to tell me the truth.
After my second Monday at court my brain was fried. Sundays are the most draining day of my week, all that people time for my introverted self. Usually on Mondays I retreat, work at home, or do errands, but not heavy on people.
Instead today I spent the whole day with my 14 new best friends (12 jurors and 3 alternates makes 15 including me) and a courtroom of lawyers and witnesses, listening intently to conflicts and confusion.
So my toe hurts, and so does my head. I'm going to bed.
Thursday, May 13, 2010
Work
When my oldest was born I moved my office home and began decades of multi-tasking. Yes, I was terribly busy, but I could do the laundry, watch the kids and write my sermons on the same day.
This week and next I am serving on a jury, more on that when it's over. So I have to leave the house every day like most working women and try to fit everything else in after.
Two things have made this manageable. Luke is home from college and has stepped up to help at home. And this week's previously picked sermon passage dovetailed with an article I wrote, so my sermon is actually done already. Thank you Jesus!
So the end result is I have a heightened respect for all my sisters who do it all.
This week and next I am serving on a jury, more on that when it's over. So I have to leave the house every day like most working women and try to fit everything else in after.
Two things have made this manageable. Luke is home from college and has stepped up to help at home. And this week's previously picked sermon passage dovetailed with an article I wrote, so my sermon is actually done already. Thank you Jesus!
So the end result is I have a heightened respect for all my sisters who do it all.
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Pennies Equal Millions
Today I picked up a penny from the sidewalk, which I don't normally bother to do. It wasn't because I read that sweet email about the penny saying "In God We Trust." Rather, yesterday I read in my son's economic textbook that each month the government must replace $50 MILLION in pennies.
Not 50 million pennies, but 50 million DOLLARS in pennies.
All those pennies we walk past, put on railroad tracks, throw in fountains and turn into souvenirs at tourist traps.
Can you imagine what we could do to solve social problems with the $50 million wasted each month by disregarding pennies? And that's an old figure.
I know picking up that one penny didn't fix the problem for April. But at least I didn't contribute to the problem, just this once. If everyone always took responsibility for their corner of the planet, not just with pennies, we'd live in a different world.
I'm on the lookout. For pennies, and other lost things.
Not 50 million pennies, but 50 million DOLLARS in pennies.
All those pennies we walk past, put on railroad tracks, throw in fountains and turn into souvenirs at tourist traps.
Can you imagine what we could do to solve social problems with the $50 million wasted each month by disregarding pennies? And that's an old figure.
I know picking up that one penny didn't fix the problem for April. But at least I didn't contribute to the problem, just this once. If everyone always took responsibility for their corner of the planet, not just with pennies, we'd live in a different world.
I'm on the lookout. For pennies, and other lost things.
Monday, April 26, 2010
Clark Races to the Top!
Our high school is a finalist in the Obama Race to the Top, if they win the President will speak at graduation! This would be a great boon for Wesley as a junior to put on college applications, to say his high school was chosen as a model for the nation!
This isn't about political parties, but honoring the students and teachers for their hard work.
I am moved by the video our students produced, not because of its production quality, although that is fine, but the stories that they shared. Those stories were not created because the spotlight is on our school, they are stories from years of teachers caring about students.
Way to go Clark! We hope you win!
Help by voting:
http://www.whitehouse.gov/commencement#vote-top
You don't have to sign in, just click 5 as many times as you like!
This isn't about political parties, but honoring the students and teachers for their hard work.
I am moved by the video our students produced, not because of its production quality, although that is fine, but the stories that they shared. Those stories were not created because the spotlight is on our school, they are stories from years of teachers caring about students.
Way to go Clark! We hope you win!
Help by voting:
http://www.whitehouse.gov/commencement#vote-top
You don't have to sign in, just click 5 as many times as you like!
Friday, April 23, 2010
The Help and My World
Recently I have been reading The Help. This novel tells the story of black maids working for white women in Jackson, Mississippi just as the Civil Rights Movement breaks into their world. A white woman aspiring to be a journalist collects stories from the maids about their working experiences, stories that include both terrible cruelty and great love, ironically twisted together.
Today is my day off, and I was reading in bed, then laid the book down to rest a moment. I heard a knock on my back door, a common occurrence, as we have a basketball hoop that neighborhood kids are allowed to use, but only if they ask first. I can see the back door from my second story window, and looked out to see who was knocking. I can often just wave my acceptance without going downstairs.
A small boy held up my keys, which I had obviously left in my back door, hanging from the lock, inviting anyone to enter the house at will or alternately steal my car, borrower's choice, not the first time I've done this.
I ran down to retrieve them, and thanked the child and asked his name and the name of his sister, and told them my name. I assumed he wanted to play ball then noticed the keys. I told him I was glad he noticed instead of someone not so nice discovering them. Then I learned he didn't want to play at all, he was just riding his bike past and noticed them, and decided to knock on the door and give them to me. I was even more impressed and grateful that he took the trouble to help me. I thanked him again, and as he rode away he said, "You're welcome, Ms. Kathy."
At first knock I was annoyed at the interruption in my rest. I left my back door being grateful for his kindness. And I thought of the book I was reading and complicated relationships we still have across racial lines. Little people like my visitor are doing their part to change that.
Today is my day off, and I was reading in bed, then laid the book down to rest a moment. I heard a knock on my back door, a common occurrence, as we have a basketball hoop that neighborhood kids are allowed to use, but only if they ask first. I can see the back door from my second story window, and looked out to see who was knocking. I can often just wave my acceptance without going downstairs.
A small boy held up my keys, which I had obviously left in my back door, hanging from the lock, inviting anyone to enter the house at will or alternately steal my car, borrower's choice, not the first time I've done this.
I ran down to retrieve them, and thanked the child and asked his name and the name of his sister, and told them my name. I assumed he wanted to play ball then noticed the keys. I told him I was glad he noticed instead of someone not so nice discovering them. Then I learned he didn't want to play at all, he was just riding his bike past and noticed them, and decided to knock on the door and give them to me. I was even more impressed and grateful that he took the trouble to help me. I thanked him again, and as he rode away he said, "You're welcome, Ms. Kathy."
At first knock I was annoyed at the interruption in my rest. I left my back door being grateful for his kindness. And I thought of the book I was reading and complicated relationships we still have across racial lines. Little people like my visitor are doing their part to change that.
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Thanks IRS
The IRS is a favorite target of hate and resentment, stealing our hard earned dollars, threatening us with repercussions if we don't fill out our forms correctly, so that many spend more hard earned dollars having the pros do it.
My husband fills out our taxes, except for the year my mother died leaving us with a new tangle of issues. We had the pros do it and they made a mistake. Figures. So typically Roger does it, and worries that we'll get audited because our numbers are so odd. I am self employed and we have a lot of deductions, so he figures we are screaming for extra attention.
This year he felt extra worried. During 2009 we had 3 children in college, so we qualified for 3 of the new college tax credits, resulting in a huge refund in addition to the decent sized one we already were due. The money arrived in our account online, so I breathed a small sigh of relief.
Then yesterday the envelope arrived with the IRS return address, a dreaded omen. I opened it to see what they had to say, and sure enough, we had made a mistake. We didn't take a new credit we were due. They corrected it and we got an extra $800 we hadn't claimed.
This actually happened to us once before, they corrected a child credit we didn't see. I am frankly amazed. It makes sense to me that if we mess up and owe them more, they are going to correct it and demand their money. But I think it's remarkable that when we don't claim a credit, they fix it. It doesn't seem like they'd be obligated to bless us in that way.
We were trying to figure out how to fund Nora's grad school next year, and the government has practically paid for her first semester. Thanks, IRS! God can use anything, that's all I can say.
My husband fills out our taxes, except for the year my mother died leaving us with a new tangle of issues. We had the pros do it and they made a mistake. Figures. So typically Roger does it, and worries that we'll get audited because our numbers are so odd. I am self employed and we have a lot of deductions, so he figures we are screaming for extra attention.
This year he felt extra worried. During 2009 we had 3 children in college, so we qualified for 3 of the new college tax credits, resulting in a huge refund in addition to the decent sized one we already were due. The money arrived in our account online, so I breathed a small sigh of relief.
Then yesterday the envelope arrived with the IRS return address, a dreaded omen. I opened it to see what they had to say, and sure enough, we had made a mistake. We didn't take a new credit we were due. They corrected it and we got an extra $800 we hadn't claimed.
This actually happened to us once before, they corrected a child credit we didn't see. I am frankly amazed. It makes sense to me that if we mess up and owe them more, they are going to correct it and demand their money. But I think it's remarkable that when we don't claim a credit, they fix it. It doesn't seem like they'd be obligated to bless us in that way.
We were trying to figure out how to fund Nora's grad school next year, and the government has practically paid for her first semester. Thanks, IRS! God can use anything, that's all I can say.
Saturday, April 10, 2010
April 10
Today would have been my dad's birthday. This is the third one he hasn't been around for, so it's getting easier, but I still don't like it.
For some reason, perhaps the unexpected nature of my mother's death, her death anniversary has been the sad date in missing her. But for Dad, it has been his birthday.
Christmas of course is sad without him, but there are other people to enjoy and celebrate, and after all, it's Jesus' birthday first and foremost.
But on this date when I would normally celebrate my father, it is sad to not have him around to enjoy. The greatest loss is not having him here to rejoice with his grandchildren, rooting for their endeavors, being proud of their accomplishments. We attend yet another graduation this May without him.
When Junia graduated from high school four years ago Dad was not only present, we didn't even know he had cancer. We have photos of that day of celebration. Those are the last photos of Dad looking normal, as the following month brought his diagnosis, chemo, and a swift three month march to the grave.
So it's especially poignant to approach Junia's graduation four years later, and to realize all he has missed. I expect he's quite aware although in a different reality, yet we still can't hear his words of praise or feel his hug of congratulations.
Dad, I'll always miss you on April 10. You were a great dad and grandfather. Thanks for loving us all so well.
For some reason, perhaps the unexpected nature of my mother's death, her death anniversary has been the sad date in missing her. But for Dad, it has been his birthday.
Christmas of course is sad without him, but there are other people to enjoy and celebrate, and after all, it's Jesus' birthday first and foremost.
But on this date when I would normally celebrate my father, it is sad to not have him around to enjoy. The greatest loss is not having him here to rejoice with his grandchildren, rooting for their endeavors, being proud of their accomplishments. We attend yet another graduation this May without him.
When Junia graduated from high school four years ago Dad was not only present, we didn't even know he had cancer. We have photos of that day of celebration. Those are the last photos of Dad looking normal, as the following month brought his diagnosis, chemo, and a swift three month march to the grave.
So it's especially poignant to approach Junia's graduation four years later, and to realize all he has missed. I expect he's quite aware although in a different reality, yet we still can't hear his words of praise or feel his hug of congratulations.
Dad, I'll always miss you on April 10. You were a great dad and grandfather. Thanks for loving us all so well.
Sunday, March 28, 2010
The Least
Having left town for three days to take my youngest son college visiting, I had only two days to prepare for Sunday. Since Saturday my husband Roger and I had to teach a workshop, getting that planned with him became the priority before I left. We finished that, and I got worship planned, but no sermon.
That sermon, normally done by Thursday at the latest, didn't come together until Sunday.
So this morning, unlike my usual Sunday morning, I had to finish the sermon. Print a retreat application for a parishioner. Practice a ministry in music which I rarely do. Play not just the opening choruses, but also the other songs as our pianist was elsewhere. Do the children's moment at the last moment instead of the youth pastor. After worship practice special music for next week .
Then I walked in the bathroom and discovered a paper towel in the toilet. Our septic system doesn't need that kind of challenge. So I had to fish it out.
It was the perfect cap to the morning. Not that the day is over. My son needs clothes washed (normally a Sabbath off limits task) for his school trip to Costa Rica that leaves about 4 a.m. Monday. And I have to plan our evening youth experience.
The joys of ministry! Truly it is a privilege and I am grateful. As we enter Holy Week, I cannot begin to show my gratitude to Christ for His sacrifice. The least I can do is fish a paper towel out of the toilet.
That sermon, normally done by Thursday at the latest, didn't come together until Sunday.
So this morning, unlike my usual Sunday morning, I had to finish the sermon. Print a retreat application for a parishioner. Practice a ministry in music which I rarely do. Play not just the opening choruses, but also the other songs as our pianist was elsewhere. Do the children's moment at the last moment instead of the youth pastor. After worship practice special music for next week .
Then I walked in the bathroom and discovered a paper towel in the toilet. Our septic system doesn't need that kind of challenge. So I had to fish it out.
It was the perfect cap to the morning. Not that the day is over. My son needs clothes washed (normally a Sabbath off limits task) for his school trip to Costa Rica that leaves about 4 a.m. Monday. And I have to plan our evening youth experience.
The joys of ministry! Truly it is a privilege and I am grateful. As we enter Holy Week, I cannot begin to show my gratitude to Christ for His sacrifice. The least I can do is fish a paper towel out of the toilet.
Monday, March 8, 2010
Pain and Progress
My status update on Facebook caused some thinking. I started with Passion plus purpose equals progress but through pain. My friend David suggested this formula: "think you're missing something ... the impetus that gets us actually moving. i propose that (Passion + Purpose) * movement = progress - (pain / n) where n is obedience to the Word of God."
To which I countered: Passion + Purpose x Power (Holy Spirit) equals Progress...but I don't think the Pain is divided by obedience. Ask Jesus in the garden. Obedience makes pain worthwhile, but it still hurts. And I don't think pain necessarily subtracts from progress either, but often is required. Again, think of Jesus in the Garden.
Does all good progress have to be filtered by pain? I wish it were not so, but I'm not sure painless progress exists. Even happy things are fraught with the pain of change. A child walks and we rejoice, but we are also letting go of that child a little bit.
Not all pain is debilitating. And it can achieve a purpose itself, and usually does. Referencing Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane again, the greatest pain ever experienced brought the greatest progress ever made, victory over sin and death. Well worthwhile pain.
Some pain seems pointless. In the middle of suffering we often can't see past the tears on our pillow. But the same God who never misses a tear drop does not allow those tears to fall to the ground without refining our character, the salt in those very tears etching away at our selfishness, our pride, our resistance to God's ultimate purposes.
O Lord, that it would not be so, that we could walk the upward way without pain, but thank You that You go with us as we travel, and that every pain we feel in our steps forward You sense the echoes of from centuries ago. We walk no path that You have not already trod.
God does seem to allow us seasons without suffering. We rest and recuperate. But I can't say we are making much progress in those times. So at some point, we reenter the fray, if we really want to live, and not just mark time.
As I write this, I wonder if I have a warped view of life. This has been my experience, living on the front lines as I do, which is why Roger and I choose comedies when we watch a movie, too much pain in the real life we experience. That doesn't mean the pain is all my own, I am grateful for the unscathed life I live, no great illness, no children in tragedy, no relational heartbreak. But I cannot watch the world around me with an unfeeling heart.
So I hurt. And I grow. It must cause some "pain" for a young plant to break out of its seed pod. And someday, we will truly break free, and finally arrive where there is no more crying or pain. And that will be real progress.
To which I countered: Passion + Purpose x Power (Holy Spirit) equals Progress...but I don't think the Pain is divided by obedience. Ask Jesus in the garden. Obedience makes pain worthwhile, but it still hurts. And I don't think pain necessarily subtracts from progress either, but often is required. Again, think of Jesus in the Garden.
Does all good progress have to be filtered by pain? I wish it were not so, but I'm not sure painless progress exists. Even happy things are fraught with the pain of change. A child walks and we rejoice, but we are also letting go of that child a little bit.
Not all pain is debilitating. And it can achieve a purpose itself, and usually does. Referencing Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane again, the greatest pain ever experienced brought the greatest progress ever made, victory over sin and death. Well worthwhile pain.
Some pain seems pointless. In the middle of suffering we often can't see past the tears on our pillow. But the same God who never misses a tear drop does not allow those tears to fall to the ground without refining our character, the salt in those very tears etching away at our selfishness, our pride, our resistance to God's ultimate purposes.
O Lord, that it would not be so, that we could walk the upward way without pain, but thank You that You go with us as we travel, and that every pain we feel in our steps forward You sense the echoes of from centuries ago. We walk no path that You have not already trod.
God does seem to allow us seasons without suffering. We rest and recuperate. But I can't say we are making much progress in those times. So at some point, we reenter the fray, if we really want to live, and not just mark time.
As I write this, I wonder if I have a warped view of life. This has been my experience, living on the front lines as I do, which is why Roger and I choose comedies when we watch a movie, too much pain in the real life we experience. That doesn't mean the pain is all my own, I am grateful for the unscathed life I live, no great illness, no children in tragedy, no relational heartbreak. But I cannot watch the world around me with an unfeeling heart.
So I hurt. And I grow. It must cause some "pain" for a young plant to break out of its seed pod. And someday, we will truly break free, and finally arrive where there is no more crying or pain. And that will be real progress.
Thursday, February 18, 2010
Mothers are Professionals.
After 23 years of parenting, putting four children through school, I am ready for some official recognition of my credentials. I would love to create an official licensing service for parents, to recognize their expertise. I might not be an expert in all children, but I sure am about mine.
My kids struggle to overcome dyslexia. This gift and disability means their full potential which is sky high finds itself earthbound by their struggles to communicate what they understand and know.
Those professional educators who have the privilege of teaching my children know a lot about education and teaching techniques. I appreciate their knowledge and training. But they do not understand how dyslexia functions and how to best unlock it.
In a nutshell, they believe if my kids would just try harder, practice more, do more exercises and learn more tricks, they could perform like everyone else, which quite frankly, is actually less than they are capable of given the right opportunity.
Our high school desperately needs a workshop to educate the teachers on this issue, as do colleges, especially where my girls attended. But when I discussed this yesterday, one of the advocates for this said, "We'd have to bring in professionals."
Makes sense, and I hope they do it. But just once I'd love to stand before them all and give them my parent's perspective, tell them what its like to watch a kid not be able to read an assignment, even a prompt for one, to not be able to tell one homonym from another, to misspell things so extremely that the spell checker can't figure it out, or even worse, supplies a different word that does not fit, and worst of all, to watch them sit frozen unable to unleash the torrent of ideas in their brilliant minds in a fashion that the verbal world can understand.
I won't get to do that, so forgive me for taking it out on you, kind reader, who bother to come here and see what I have to say.
My kids struggle to overcome dyslexia. This gift and disability means their full potential which is sky high finds itself earthbound by their struggles to communicate what they understand and know.
Those professional educators who have the privilege of teaching my children know a lot about education and teaching techniques. I appreciate their knowledge and training. But they do not understand how dyslexia functions and how to best unlock it.
In a nutshell, they believe if my kids would just try harder, practice more, do more exercises and learn more tricks, they could perform like everyone else, which quite frankly, is actually less than they are capable of given the right opportunity.
Our high school desperately needs a workshop to educate the teachers on this issue, as do colleges, especially where my girls attended. But when I discussed this yesterday, one of the advocates for this said, "We'd have to bring in professionals."
Makes sense, and I hope they do it. But just once I'd love to stand before them all and give them my parent's perspective, tell them what its like to watch a kid not be able to read an assignment, even a prompt for one, to not be able to tell one homonym from another, to misspell things so extremely that the spell checker can't figure it out, or even worse, supplies a different word that does not fit, and worst of all, to watch them sit frozen unable to unleash the torrent of ideas in their brilliant minds in a fashion that the verbal world can understand.
I won't get to do that, so forgive me for taking it out on you, kind reader, who bother to come here and see what I have to say.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
To Be Known
This week I had two interactions with classmates of my children, now grown or almost. The first encounter occurred at the grocery store. I thought I recognized a young woman the age of my oldest, 23. Her maturity took me aback, having not seen her for so long, but I decided that indeed she must be who I thought she was.
When she ended up next to me in line I said her name and she acknowledged that she had recognized me, even though she remained reticent to talk to me until I persisted. We compared notes on the latest on our families.
Later that night after a swim meet at a local private school I was standing in the hall and a young man I did not recognize said to me, "I'm Jermaine" (not his real name). We began to talk and he remembered not only Wesley, his kindergarten classmate and friend, but Junia who broke her arm on a bike ride when Jermaine was present.
The attitude of the first young woman seems more typical, to respond when approached, but not to initiate a conversation with a mother of one of your contemporaries you haven't seen in years.
I am still intrigued by this young man's statement to me, "I'm Jermaine," obviously wanting to be known, saying his name and expecting that would call up my memory and I would know him.
Beyond our school connection Jermaine and his family had briefly participated in our church, which is how he was present on that bike ride. I felt sad when they drifted away, and encountering him so many years later renews that longing to connect with this family spiritually.
And I think his statement also reminds me of our innermost longing, to be known. To be recognized. To be remembered. And expecting that the stating of our name would awaken that recognition in others.
I anticipate the day when not only will I meet Jesus face to face and he will know me by name, but he will give me a new name, which no one else knows, and in that moment of renaming I will become more fully myself than I have ever been.
Meanwhile, I am looking for those I know, to acknowledge and validate their existence. Thank you, Jermaine.
When she ended up next to me in line I said her name and she acknowledged that she had recognized me, even though she remained reticent to talk to me until I persisted. We compared notes on the latest on our families.
Later that night after a swim meet at a local private school I was standing in the hall and a young man I did not recognize said to me, "I'm Jermaine" (not his real name). We began to talk and he remembered not only Wesley, his kindergarten classmate and friend, but Junia who broke her arm on a bike ride when Jermaine was present.
The attitude of the first young woman seems more typical, to respond when approached, but not to initiate a conversation with a mother of one of your contemporaries you haven't seen in years.
I am still intrigued by this young man's statement to me, "I'm Jermaine," obviously wanting to be known, saying his name and expecting that would call up my memory and I would know him.
Beyond our school connection Jermaine and his family had briefly participated in our church, which is how he was present on that bike ride. I felt sad when they drifted away, and encountering him so many years later renews that longing to connect with this family spiritually.
And I think his statement also reminds me of our innermost longing, to be known. To be recognized. To be remembered. And expecting that the stating of our name would awaken that recognition in others.
I anticipate the day when not only will I meet Jesus face to face and he will know me by name, but he will give me a new name, which no one else knows, and in that moment of renaming I will become more fully myself than I have ever been.
Meanwhile, I am looking for those I know, to acknowledge and validate their existence. Thank you, Jermaine.
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
The Night Before Bliss
Twenty-three years ago tonight I went to bed totally unaware of the bliss to dawn the next morning. I was 10 days away from my expected due date for my first-born child. I awoke that morning with my water breaking. I went to my computer and put finishing touches on church work so I could be off for the next 6 weeks.
Later on February 4 I held in my arms a healthy daughter we named Nora after my mother, who was there to witness her birth. I figured by the time my six weeks of maternity leave ended, I'd be chomping at the bit to get back to work.
When that day came, I would have walked away from my job had I not felt as responsible for my new church as I felt for my new child. So I juggled both parenting jobs together, the pastorate and the baby.
I loved that first edition so much, we had three more. People used to say to me when they saw me dragging around four children born within six years of each other, "You've got your hands full." My comeback became, "Joyfully so." I wrote a song about it later that asked, "Who wants empty hands?"
My hands are becoming empty these days. Nora attends grad school in Baltimore, Junia is graduating from Wheaton this year, Luke is now a freshman at UK, and Wesley will launch to college in less than two years. I'm losing my favorite job.
On this eve of the day I became a mother 23 years ago, I praise God for the blessing of four amazing children. They challenge me daily with their wisdom, compassion and capacity for growth.
This week also holds other memories. Saturday will be nine years since my mother died. Her only ambition in life was to be a mother, and I didn't really grasp until she was gone how grateful I was for her legacy in that vein.
So Nora, as you reach a new milestone, thank you for who you are. And to the rest of my children, for being more of a good thing. And Roger, you've been a great partner in parenting.
I'll miss seeing my girl tomorrow. But I am glad she is happily occupied in her own world. Keep it up beautiful daughter!
Later on February 4 I held in my arms a healthy daughter we named Nora after my mother, who was there to witness her birth. I figured by the time my six weeks of maternity leave ended, I'd be chomping at the bit to get back to work.
When that day came, I would have walked away from my job had I not felt as responsible for my new church as I felt for my new child. So I juggled both parenting jobs together, the pastorate and the baby.
I loved that first edition so much, we had three more. People used to say to me when they saw me dragging around four children born within six years of each other, "You've got your hands full." My comeback became, "Joyfully so." I wrote a song about it later that asked, "Who wants empty hands?"
My hands are becoming empty these days. Nora attends grad school in Baltimore, Junia is graduating from Wheaton this year, Luke is now a freshman at UK, and Wesley will launch to college in less than two years. I'm losing my favorite job.
On this eve of the day I became a mother 23 years ago, I praise God for the blessing of four amazing children. They challenge me daily with their wisdom, compassion and capacity for growth.
This week also holds other memories. Saturday will be nine years since my mother died. Her only ambition in life was to be a mother, and I didn't really grasp until she was gone how grateful I was for her legacy in that vein.
So Nora, as you reach a new milestone, thank you for who you are. And to the rest of my children, for being more of a good thing. And Roger, you've been a great partner in parenting.
I'll miss seeing my girl tomorrow. But I am glad she is happily occupied in her own world. Keep it up beautiful daughter!
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Haiti Three Weeks In
Yesterday I felt drained from all the crises of my week, three deaths (see previous blog), a very ill friend in the hospital, another whose husband left her. I knew I needed Holy Spirit help to be able to preach this morning.
Then I got an email asking for prayer for our superintendents and pastors in Haiti, who were at the breaking point from shepherding their people in such pain and grief. Death and disease multiplied many times over what I had experienced this week.
This morning when I didn't want to get out of my comfortable bed to get started, I remembered my Haitian brothers again, and realized they didn't have this problem. They didn't have a bed to get out of, so it was easy to get up in the morning, as soon as the sun peeked under their tarp, they might as well get off the hard concrete and start their day.
When I had trouble turning off the warm soothing shower, I knew they didn't have that problem either, no showers much less warm ones, not even adequate water to drink. So getting ready for church would be much simpler than my experience here.
Our family enjoys backpacking because we like to get out into the wilderness where cars do not intrude, where few humans enjoy that bit of God's creation. But I don't especially like the deprivations of camping, even though we have a nice tent, sleeping bags, pads and soft ground to sleep on. I am always glad to get home to my warm bed and modern bathroom.
In Haiti right now a whole city of people are sleeping on concrete with only tarps to shade the sun, no beds, no adequate protection from rain, no bathroom facilities, not even adequate water to drink. And no end in sight.
Rescue attempts are still focused on basic needs, building new houses remains far in the future.
We must keep praying and supporting our brothers and sisters there, not just when the news is full of the disaster, but in the weeks and years to come. The physical situation alone would drain anyone's energy, much less the great sense of loss for those who didn't survive.
Lord, pour out your grace on Haiti. Keep us alert to their needs. Don't allow our comfort to become complacency.
Then I got an email asking for prayer for our superintendents and pastors in Haiti, who were at the breaking point from shepherding their people in such pain and grief. Death and disease multiplied many times over what I had experienced this week.
This morning when I didn't want to get out of my comfortable bed to get started, I remembered my Haitian brothers again, and realized they didn't have this problem. They didn't have a bed to get out of, so it was easy to get up in the morning, as soon as the sun peeked under their tarp, they might as well get off the hard concrete and start their day.
When I had trouble turning off the warm soothing shower, I knew they didn't have that problem either, no showers much less warm ones, not even adequate water to drink. So getting ready for church would be much simpler than my experience here.
Our family enjoys backpacking because we like to get out into the wilderness where cars do not intrude, where few humans enjoy that bit of God's creation. But I don't especially like the deprivations of camping, even though we have a nice tent, sleeping bags, pads and soft ground to sleep on. I am always glad to get home to my warm bed and modern bathroom.
In Haiti right now a whole city of people are sleeping on concrete with only tarps to shade the sun, no beds, no adequate protection from rain, no bathroom facilities, not even adequate water to drink. And no end in sight.
Rescue attempts are still focused on basic needs, building new houses remains far in the future.
We must keep praying and supporting our brothers and sisters there, not just when the news is full of the disaster, but in the weeks and years to come. The physical situation alone would drain anyone's energy, much less the great sense of loss for those who didn't survive.
Lord, pour out your grace on Haiti. Keep us alert to their needs. Don't allow our comfort to become complacency.
Friday, January 29, 2010
You Give and Take Away
Monday the elderly father of one of our church folks died peacefully ending his long life. His daughter and son-in-law were by his bed while he slowly slipped into his eternal rest. He left behind family and friends who dearly loved him but were ready to release him to a fuller life.
That same day the brother of my dear friend ended his life with a bad combination of alcohol and meds, ending his struggles with bipolar disease and alcoholism. He left behind waves of guilt and pain as his family has to ask what they might have done to avoid this outcome.
Wednesday night one of my son's college friends returned to his dorm room after Bible study to find his roommate unconscious on the floor, and his attempts at resuscitation and the subsequent attempts at the hospital could not revive him. He left behind his roommate wishing he had stayed back from Bible study to be there when his roommate needed him, and his parents wondered what could have happened, and many friends missing him.
The elderly man had suffered for years from Alzheimer's, so his death was truly a ticket to healing. It's still sad to lose your dad and grandfather though.
The middle aged man had suffered for years from addiction and mental illness, so his death was also an end to much pain, yet left his family with deep layers of guilt and pain to unravel.
The young man had not been ill, and was not abusing substances, the autopsy will give the last word on what caused his untimely death. His death seems unwarranted, untimely, and unnecessary, leaving behind great grief and a sense of his lost potential.
I don't know if they have orientation in heaven, but if so perhaps these three met up having arrived in close succession. They certainly had different stories to tell of their lives on earth, and different experiences in dying. Yet they have this in common, I'm guessing even the college student wouldn't trade his current setting to return to his dorm room.
That just leaves the rest of us missing them. That leaves us wondering why at different levels. That can even leave those still here questioning how God could allow such.
This has been a week I won't soon forget, and not a good one. But for those three men, if you look at it from their perspective, it's their first week of eternity, and that gives it a whole new twist.
Our church loves to sing Blessed Be Your Name, which borrows words from Job, "You give and take away, blessed be Your name." I have always marveled at Job being able to say that about God taking away his children. However God may take folks to heaven, and we think of it as a subtraction, but for those who arrive in God's presence, it's an addition. They are receiving. And when we allow God to help us with the pain of being left behind, he will take that away too. He truly does give and take away, we just feel a bit mixed up sometimes about the blessing part.
Blessed be the name of the Lord.
That same day the brother of my dear friend ended his life with a bad combination of alcohol and meds, ending his struggles with bipolar disease and alcoholism. He left behind waves of guilt and pain as his family has to ask what they might have done to avoid this outcome.
Wednesday night one of my son's college friends returned to his dorm room after Bible study to find his roommate unconscious on the floor, and his attempts at resuscitation and the subsequent attempts at the hospital could not revive him. He left behind his roommate wishing he had stayed back from Bible study to be there when his roommate needed him, and his parents wondered what could have happened, and many friends missing him.
The elderly man had suffered for years from Alzheimer's, so his death was truly a ticket to healing. It's still sad to lose your dad and grandfather though.
The middle aged man had suffered for years from addiction and mental illness, so his death was also an end to much pain, yet left his family with deep layers of guilt and pain to unravel.
The young man had not been ill, and was not abusing substances, the autopsy will give the last word on what caused his untimely death. His death seems unwarranted, untimely, and unnecessary, leaving behind great grief and a sense of his lost potential.
I don't know if they have orientation in heaven, but if so perhaps these three met up having arrived in close succession. They certainly had different stories to tell of their lives on earth, and different experiences in dying. Yet they have this in common, I'm guessing even the college student wouldn't trade his current setting to return to his dorm room.
That just leaves the rest of us missing them. That leaves us wondering why at different levels. That can even leave those still here questioning how God could allow such.
This has been a week I won't soon forget, and not a good one. But for those three men, if you look at it from their perspective, it's their first week of eternity, and that gives it a whole new twist.
Our church loves to sing Blessed Be Your Name, which borrows words from Job, "You give and take away, blessed be Your name." I have always marveled at Job being able to say that about God taking away his children. However God may take folks to heaven, and we think of it as a subtraction, but for those who arrive in God's presence, it's an addition. They are receiving. And when we allow God to help us with the pain of being left behind, he will take that away too. He truly does give and take away, we just feel a bit mixed up sometimes about the blessing part.
Blessed be the name of the Lord.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
A Week's Reflection
A week ago I took my son back to college. His older sisters had left already, leaving only his younger brother at home now. I took Luke to campus, we ate together, and it was time for me to leave.
He is attending school in my hometown, and I had trouble leaving. I didn't want to leave him behind, didn't want to drive away from my hometown, and found myself in the local city cemetery where my great uncle was buried. I hadn't even remembered that for years.
I knew if I drove straight home, to an empty house because my husband and last child were at swim practice, I would have felt terribly depressed. So I went directly to a movie instead. I don't remember ever going to a movie theatre alone before, but it worked wonderfully, avoiding the darkness that would have awaited me at home. When I did arrive, my husband and son were already home, the house was full of light and life.
Meanwhile, the greatest tragedy playing out in recent history rocked Haiti. The quake happened about the time I was driving aimlessly around the cemetery. While I was absorbed in my personal woes, my brothers and sisters in Haiti fell beneath the crush of concrete and mortar. I had no idea of their pain as I enjoyed my movie.
Thankfully my strategy worked in keeping me from the slough of despond for the week. And I was able to focus prayers on Haiti and feel compassion for my fallen and wounded and heartsick brothers and sisters.
On Wednesday it seemed my Facebook friends fell into two categories, those with status posts about Haiti, and those with status posts about Pants on the Ground from American Idol.
The truth is, it is far too easy to continue in our complacency while others suffer. Most foreigners were quickly shipped out of Haiti, while the natives remain to deal with the chaos.
I remember previously when the political situation sent everyone foreign from Haiti, and my daughter Junia remarked that the native people had no escape, so why should others leave?
With the needs for basic life necessities right now, what Haiti doesn't need is a large influx of foreigners using up the necessary supplies. But I hope we continue to pray and give, not just for a week, or a month, or even a year, but long term.
New Orleans has still not recovered from Katrina. And this new tragedy has been stated to be 100 times greater in its damage. May we commit ourselves to long term concern and compassion, even though we may continue our daily lives, let us hold onto hope for those in need of such help, for years even, until Haiti is truly healed.
He is attending school in my hometown, and I had trouble leaving. I didn't want to leave him behind, didn't want to drive away from my hometown, and found myself in the local city cemetery where my great uncle was buried. I hadn't even remembered that for years.
I knew if I drove straight home, to an empty house because my husband and last child were at swim practice, I would have felt terribly depressed. So I went directly to a movie instead. I don't remember ever going to a movie theatre alone before, but it worked wonderfully, avoiding the darkness that would have awaited me at home. When I did arrive, my husband and son were already home, the house was full of light and life.
Meanwhile, the greatest tragedy playing out in recent history rocked Haiti. The quake happened about the time I was driving aimlessly around the cemetery. While I was absorbed in my personal woes, my brothers and sisters in Haiti fell beneath the crush of concrete and mortar. I had no idea of their pain as I enjoyed my movie.
Thankfully my strategy worked in keeping me from the slough of despond for the week. And I was able to focus prayers on Haiti and feel compassion for my fallen and wounded and heartsick brothers and sisters.
On Wednesday it seemed my Facebook friends fell into two categories, those with status posts about Haiti, and those with status posts about Pants on the Ground from American Idol.
The truth is, it is far too easy to continue in our complacency while others suffer. Most foreigners were quickly shipped out of Haiti, while the natives remain to deal with the chaos.
I remember previously when the political situation sent everyone foreign from Haiti, and my daughter Junia remarked that the native people had no escape, so why should others leave?
With the needs for basic life necessities right now, what Haiti doesn't need is a large influx of foreigners using up the necessary supplies. But I hope we continue to pray and give, not just for a week, or a month, or even a year, but long term.
New Orleans has still not recovered from Katrina. And this new tragedy has been stated to be 100 times greater in its damage. May we commit ourselves to long term concern and compassion, even though we may continue our daily lives, let us hold onto hope for those in need of such help, for years even, until Haiti is truly healed.
Thursday, January 14, 2010
Death of the Innocents
Last Sunday, January 10, I preached on a passage I have always avoided, the murder of the innocents, Matthew 2:13-18. God sends an angel to warn Joseph to get Jesus out of town to escape Herod. Why couldn't God warn all the other fathers of boys two and under? Why did they have to die?
I just finished reading Randy Alcorn's book Is God Good? Alcorn does a good job dealing with the hard questions of faith. I appreciate his honesty about the dilemmas people struggle with related to suffering and pain and death.
I can't say why God didn't warn those families to save their sons. But I do understand why he did warn Joseph. He had a bigger plan, and Jesus needed to live past two to accomplish it. He didn't really spare Jesus, who had to be beaten and hung on a cross, becoming sin for us, suffering separation from the heavenly Father. He didn't spare Mary who instead of losing her two-year-old son in a swift murder saw her 30-something-year-old die slowly amidst taunts. But God made sure that the master plan worked, that Jesus lived past two so he could die at the right moment, a death that meant something.
And why did Haiti have to crumble to its foundations on January 12? Why are so many buried beneath the rubble, innocent children of all ages, faithful followers, diligent workers, those with much left to accomplish for the Kingdom?
I don't know that either. But I am confident that God is where He always is when crises happen, with those who are hurting. Strengthening those digging through the rubble. Holding the hand of those still trapped awaiting rescue. And resurrecting those who will no longer call this earth home.
And I am grateful God preserved the two-year-old Jesus to complete the plan. Despite the despair that pervades Haiti right now, that nation too can rise in hope. Let us pray and give to be sure that is so.
Check out helphaitiheal.org for updates and a way to give that goes 100% to the need.
I just finished reading Randy Alcorn's book Is God Good? Alcorn does a good job dealing with the hard questions of faith. I appreciate his honesty about the dilemmas people struggle with related to suffering and pain and death.
I can't say why God didn't warn those families to save their sons. But I do understand why he did warn Joseph. He had a bigger plan, and Jesus needed to live past two to accomplish it. He didn't really spare Jesus, who had to be beaten and hung on a cross, becoming sin for us, suffering separation from the heavenly Father. He didn't spare Mary who instead of losing her two-year-old son in a swift murder saw her 30-something-year-old die slowly amidst taunts. But God made sure that the master plan worked, that Jesus lived past two so he could die at the right moment, a death that meant something.
And why did Haiti have to crumble to its foundations on January 12? Why are so many buried beneath the rubble, innocent children of all ages, faithful followers, diligent workers, those with much left to accomplish for the Kingdom?
I don't know that either. But I am confident that God is where He always is when crises happen, with those who are hurting. Strengthening those digging through the rubble. Holding the hand of those still trapped awaiting rescue. And resurrecting those who will no longer call this earth home.
And I am grateful God preserved the two-year-old Jesus to complete the plan. Despite the despair that pervades Haiti right now, that nation too can rise in hope. Let us pray and give to be sure that is so.
Check out helphaitiheal.org for updates and a way to give that goes 100% to the need.
Saturday, January 2, 2010
Silence
My voice is missing. I have had this problem before. Another time it was also Christmas. I had to do a wedding. Roger helped me with it. During the sermon, my voice got stronger and stronger. The wedding couple called it the miracle of the voice.
Another time was right after Easter. I remember visiting my dad and he was SO annoyed that I couldn't talk to him. He was such an extrovert and it drove him crazy that I couldn't talk.
My kids were young then and driving in the van was the biggest challenge, trying to communicate to people behind me with no voice while driving.
Every time I lose my voice I learn something about silence. It truly is golden. It doesn't bother me too much not to talk, as an introvert I rather enjoy the opportunity to be quiet. However it does make me value communication.
I learn how many things don't need to be said. When you have to strain to talk or write it down or text it, you realize how many things can just be left unsaid, only the valuable things are worth all that effort. That's a lesson that can carry over to full-voiced moments.
I was supposed to lead a meeting today that typically involves a lot of teaching from me. But everyone had read a book this time, so it was easy for Roger to facilitate. God provided. For tomorrow at church I had already planned instead of a sermon to have a Wesley Covenant service and communion. I delegated leading those. God provided again.
My family is always relieved when I can talk again. It is frustrating not to be able to call my daughters and talk on the phone. But meanwhile, I pray I learn a bit more about the value of silence. And that when my voice does return, I will use it wisely.
Another time was right after Easter. I remember visiting my dad and he was SO annoyed that I couldn't talk to him. He was such an extrovert and it drove him crazy that I couldn't talk.
My kids were young then and driving in the van was the biggest challenge, trying to communicate to people behind me with no voice while driving.
Every time I lose my voice I learn something about silence. It truly is golden. It doesn't bother me too much not to talk, as an introvert I rather enjoy the opportunity to be quiet. However it does make me value communication.
I learn how many things don't need to be said. When you have to strain to talk or write it down or text it, you realize how many things can just be left unsaid, only the valuable things are worth all that effort. That's a lesson that can carry over to full-voiced moments.
I was supposed to lead a meeting today that typically involves a lot of teaching from me. But everyone had read a book this time, so it was easy for Roger to facilitate. God provided. For tomorrow at church I had already planned instead of a sermon to have a Wesley Covenant service and communion. I delegated leading those. God provided again.
My family is always relieved when I can talk again. It is frustrating not to be able to call my daughters and talk on the phone. But meanwhile, I pray I learn a bit more about the value of silence. And that when my voice does return, I will use it wisely.
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