meanderings

legacies

my mother is pretty fragile mentally. that's always been true to a certain extent but age has exaggerated it. i was with her today with a lot of other worries on my mind so i did my usual half listen grunt and nod as she rambled on about this and that. but at one point i started to listen because what she said was unexpected and i think shows her greatest gift to me, a way of looking at people that is atypical. she was talking about singing with the choir and how this very fragile, elderly woman was hanging on to her walker singing with them with such obvious pleasure; and she told me how wonderful it was for her to see that woman's pleasure. now i may be wrong, but 1) not everybody would have noticed that woman 2) some would have found it pitiful 3) most would have said how wonderful it was that they had come to sing for this old woman........
not my mother. it was a blessing to share in this woman's joy.
it's a different way of looking.
thank you, my sweet, slightly demented mother, sometimes you see best of all
and sometimes, i'm listening

sunday morning sadness

perhaps this blog shouldn't be public. perhaps it is my very cost effective therapy.

the news is now saying that the earthquake in iran has taken 40,000 lives. that's beyond my imagination for tragedy. that's almost 10 times the number of people killed on 9/11 and the ripple effects of that among friends and families was incredible. it seems impossible to me that you could live in iran and not know someone who died.... 40,000 men, women and children.

and i'm thinking how unfair it is that i have had so many blessings and so little suffering. i don't want suffering. i'm not that kind of sick. but it bothers me so much that so many people do suffer, and most of it from "unnatural" disasters, from the evil of men's desire for control. all over the world today, people are hungry.... and i need to work out to rid myself of holiday and pre-holiday overeating. people are shivering in the cold in the streets of my country's cities, in the winter of the middle east and asia, and i find myself too warm under my new electric blanket. parents search the rubble for their children, and i have just had all of mine under my roof and in my arms. children are dying of diarrhea, and i am able to give mine a huge array of preventative and anti-biotic drugs.

do i want less for myself? no. i want more for others.
but could i live with less? of course.
the question is two-fold: will i? and will others?

christmas eve

if you are my child. do not read this yet. i'm putting this year's story here. you must hear it from me first as our tradition has always been.


i can remember when i wrote my story weeks in advance and sometimes could not wait until christmas to read it. inspiration and time have come later and later in the last few years. i finally finished my story this morning. as usual it is little edited with no polish, but it is a glimpse into the figment of my imagination when i read the bible. all my christmas stories are about grace. my children complain that they are all tear jerkers. i don't think this year's is. it is a labor of love and longing. i live in a world desperate for grace.


Merry Christmas Shosha, Maura and Nicholas, my beloved children

She leaned appreciatively against the cold stone. The coldness was a balm to her aching back and shoulders. But, praise Yahweh, she would have food tonight for her efforts. Cradled in her lap lay close to half an ephah of grain gleaned from leavings of Reuben, son of Ephraim's harvest. It would be enough food to last her for several weeks if she was careful. Reuben was such a generous man. She could gather more in one day’s work in his fields than through gleaning in three days of his neighbor’s. They all knew the law requiring the workers to leave some for the poor, but the others left just enough to be within the law, while Reuben left enough to actually supply food to poor women like herself. Praise Yahweh for men like Reuben. She remembered him as a child. Even then, he was a serious, thoughtful boy. He had grown to be a good man.
The wind crept easily into her wraps. She felt faint with hunger. She had not eaten since yesterday when she had eaten the last of her grain. She ate it raw and slowly, savoring each crunchy morsel. Sometimes she ground the grain into boiled water to make a soft gruel. She used to have the luxury of salt in her water, but that was before Rebekah had left with her mother-in-law. Such a sad time that was. Young and hard-working, Rebekah’s husband had nonetheless succumbed to the illness that had taken six children and two old men from their village.
And so Rebekah had left to live with her husband's family. She would not be a burden to them. She had born two sons before her husband’s death. But it was more than that. Rebekah was the kind of person to take pity on an old widow, giving her salt and sometimes fruit to supplement her meager diet. Rebekah was cheerful and kind. She was always thinking of others and lending them a hand. There would be warmth in any home where Rebekah lived.
The old woman sighed deeply. She missed Rebekah's kindness more than the salt. Her own husband had died early of a fever, leaving her without children; and his family lived so far away that she had not seen them since their wedding day. A widow without children was completely invisible in this land. No one spoke to her. No one noticed her in the streets or in the fields. Her last embrace with Rebekah was the last time she had been touched. She shook the sad thoughts from her head. The cold had stopped being a comfort as her muscles stiffened and cramped from her long sitting position.
She reached into her wrap for her other treasure… dates, another blessing left for her on Reuben’s farm. Part of her wanted to save them all for later, but she knew her energy was already spent and she still had the long walk home and to the well for water. Shadows were creeping across the marketplace as the sellers began to pack their wares for home and prayers.
A young woman caught her eye at the baker’s stall, or rather the babe in her arms did. The young woman was so absorbed with her argument with the baker that the old woman was afraid she might drop the small one. The babe clung tightly to his mother’s cloak but the way the woman was gesticulating with her hands, he was sure to land on the rough stones soon. The old woman moved forward as quickly as her aching bones would carry her.
“Ah, a son!” the old woman cooed. “ Can I hold him for you while you do your business?” The younger woman stopped her discussion to give the older one a sharp scrutiny. Deciding she was harmless, she handed the child over and continued her tirade with the baker.
The old woman shifted the child’s weight and inspected his face. His nose was crusted with snot and his hair matted with sweat. He looked as if he’d given up on crying long ago and was staring in exhaustion. The old woman continued to speak soft murmurs into the boy’s ear as she spat on her own thin cloak and began to work on his face. She removed the dirt as gently as she could and smiled at the dark brown eyes that looked so solemnly into hers. With great seriousness, he lifted his finger and inspected her face, thrusting his thumb up her nose. She snorted it out and was rewarded by a slow smile.
The old woman revelled in the feel of the soft baby skin and the touch of that small hand on her face. She reached without hesitation and offered him one of her precious dates. He held it uncertainly in his hand. A tentative tongue reached out to lick it. Then the date disappeared into his mouth and he begin to suck it. Immediately the smile returned. When she shifted his weight again and touched his dampened hair, he retrieved the wet, chewed morsel and offered it back to her. This brought a huge, unexpected laugh to the old woman who had never known the joy of her own child and was thoroughly enjoying her time with this one.
Her laugh must have reminded the younger woman of her responsibilities. She concluded her transaction and reached for her child. The old woman reluctantly relinquished the boy to his mother. The younger woman looked more closely at the old woman and pulled two pence from her purse. “Thank you for your help.”
“It was nothing,” the old woman insisted. “It was my pleasure!” But the younger woman had already turned, grabbed her packages and headed in the other direction.
The old woman stood watching her go, amazed at her good fortune. In one day’s time, she had gathered enough food to feed herself, been cuddled by a baby and held the only money she’d had in years in the palm of her hand. ”Blessed be Thou, Oh Lord, King of the Universe,” she exclaimed. No one seemed to notice. The baker was busy gathering what he had not sold to return to his house. Others bustled through the streets making their way around her without a word, as if she were a bush or a tree. But she didn’t care. She had been thrice blessed this day. Instead of going home, she changed her direction and headed to the temple. Where else would she go on a day of such blessing?
She approached timidly. It was very crowded today. There was a traveling teacher with his disciples to one side. Others were gathered near the temple box where many were putting in large amounts of gold coins.
“How beautiful this temple is,” she thought, “and how many wonderful things will be added for worship with all these coins. How I wish that I could give something!” She looked down at her two small coins. It had seemed such a treasure to her. With it, she could buy spices or vegetables or so many other things that would meet her need for food. And what would her two coins mean to the temple. What could it purchase? Oil for a lamp, perhaps, incense to be burned… The thought warmed her. It wouldn’t be much, but she now had a gift for theworship of Yahweh. When would she ever have this opportunity again!
Should she keep one and give the other? She clinched both coins tightly in her fist. No! She would give them both! Having reached her decision, she raised her head and began a silent vigil, waiting for a moment when she could make her gift, waiting for the rich men of the village to leave. When all had left, she made her slow but determined way to the temple box. She lingered, enjoying the sound of her two coins as they clinked against all the others that had gone before. She felt a glow of good feeling, and something else. Someone was watching her. She could feel a strong and steady gaze upon her. She looked around bewildered. Her eyes met those of the itinerant teacher. She felt that he had been watching her not only as she placed her gift into the box, but as she had made her decision to do it. He nodded his head in her direction and smiled, as if he knew the joy that was in her heart. She lowered her head, confused. What a strange day this had been!
She walked without regret but with a growling stomach in the direction of her home. There was food for today. She must trust in the Lord for the tomorrows of her life. Yahweh is good. She had not starved yet, and she would sleep this night with the memory of a tiny hand upon her face and a stranger’s smile across the temple court.
Her walk was interrupted by a young man calling to her from behind. She turned and looked at him with no recognition. “I am Ephram, son of Joshua,” he told her. “I am a follower of Jesus. I want you to come to my house today to live with my family.”
The old woman was now completely baffled. She stuttered and took hold of his arm. “What is this you are saying?”
He spoke calmly but firmly. “I am taking you home to my house where I want you to live to the end of your days.
“But you don’t even know me?” the old woman replied.
“But I will,” he said with a smile.

american education

when i travel and i stay in hotels, i sometimes resort to television. it educates me more to the american mind than anything else.... much more than merely living and working as a native born citizen. what passes as normal drives me crazy. how can you maintain any focus when you are interrupted every 7-8 minutes by commercials. how can anyone watch a real movie that way?? i have seen "made for tv" movies. they have automatic pauses for the commercials. it's shallow and hard to do but at least it's less disruptive than the arbitrary stoppage when regular movies are adapted to commercial tv.
of course, i should have already learned from my students how unfamiliar they are to absorbing information of any depth. if their questions are not answered by a simple sound bite, then they think i am speaking in some foreign language. the sad thing is that once they get used to me and my way of answering questions with more questions until they have to answer their own questions by doing their own thinking, they are really quite capable of handling more information and more depth than they are ever given.
and then there's the prostitution of soldiers. these men and women deserve all the compassion we can give them, but the commercialization of their hardships is nothing short of public masturbation. our soldiers are dying and being maimed every day. i am not denying their sacrifices. i am denying that they are somehow protecting "our" freedom or making US safer. Minds and money that were concentrated on al qaeda have been dilluted by bush's vengeful war against the "man who tried to murder my daddy". the man his daddy supported while brutalizing his own people and iranians when he was one of our good guys. while saddam was in power, al qaeda had no access to iraq... osama bin laden issued a fatwah approving saddam's death at one point... and saddam's brutal methods were effective if immoral at preventing his enemies from operating on his territory. and what about afghanistan??? remember how we were going to liberate them. all but kabul are back to the warlords. the un aid agencies can't do anything for the danger to their workers. and back in iraq, our soldiers are providing target practice for the discontented (a group that grows daily with the lack of electricity, gasoline and the other basic necessities) and creating more enemies when they react with reasonable fear to a populace where the enemy is elusive and unknown. so what do we get at home? bad country music videos with soldiers saying goodbye to their beautiful white children and blonde wives being sung by some bearded country singer who's pulling in thousands. but what does our army look like??? for the most part they're people of color who can get benefits from the army that are denied them from most jobs they can get in the usa.
and i'm watching this and thinking i want to turn it off or at least switch stations and i realize that the lady who is providing my breakfast this morning in a white shirt, black pants and uncomfortable shoes is enjoying this video. it makes her feel good about being an american and doing good in the world. and i don't have the time or relationship with this woman to make even a tiny dent in her thinking. and so i say nothing. and the sad part is that if i could put in into a 60 second visually appealing jingle, then i could probably sway her feelings. but i would have done nothing to bring her closer to a truth that will not fit on a commercial, no matter how cleverly produced.

we don't know; and when it's put before us, we choose not to believe.

most my friends tolerate my political views. sometimes i make them uncomfortable, but i'm really pretty nice and for the most part i live a humble, compassionate life that's hard to object to. (my extended family just thinks i was brainwashed in the '60s and '70s and never got over it.)

most people are so busy with their daily concerns that they can't really keep up with what's happening in their "personal" world... so what's happening in the rest of the world never touches them except maybe on the boob tube when it catches them between sit coms... if that can even legitimately be called "touched".

and who wants to hear such negative stuff! we want to hear things that will encourage us, that will lift us up and help us to live better lives.... except that these things are really happening to real people. people i believe that god loves as much as i am loved. that's a christian perspective in a nation that loves to call itself christian. so why the conflict??????

i listened to a young man from california on the radio yesterday. an american citizen. his dad was from afghanistan and returned there to his village under american invitation to take over as leader of his former home city. the young man was visiting his father. - the short version is that the american forces were seeking a suspect.... read suspect, not known terrorist..... the afghan young man had heard horrible tales of what the americans do. the father and son convince him to travel many miles and turn himself in for questioning. they are able to do so by the father offering to send his american son (read the jesus parable of the man thinking that surely they will respect my son and you get some of what this offer involved for a non-western culture) with him. the afghan man goes into american custody. the young american man pats him on the shoulder, tells him not to be afraid, just to tell the truth.
two days later the american son is asked to come view the body of the 28 year old afghan man he convinced to turn himself in. "we want you to view the body to see that there are no marks on him so you can tell the people we didn't hurt him. he just collapsed. he may have hit his head on the wall a couple of times when he was in shackles. he had a problem with that. but we want you to see that he wasn't tortured." in his taped diary, this young man does not accuse the american authorites with breaking his trust. he is simply too shocked at seeing this young man dead at 28. what could have killed him???

and then this morning i read that the UN may have to pull out of afghanistan because the security is so bad that they can't protect their aid workers. (they've already had to pull out of iraq for the same reason) and do you know who makes up the bulk of security forces in afghanistan... canada and germany. two of the countries that aren't getting any access to american business contracts for rebuilding iraq because they didn't agree with us on the war there.... could it be they just wanted to finish "freeing" one country before we started "freeing" another. which brings us to the blip in newsweek ( a pretty mainstream magazine) which just has 15 MILLION - the amount given to an American company to rebuild something in iraq, 80,000 - the cost for an iraqi company to do the same thing when there were problems with the contract. that's 14 million, 20,000 dollars of our tax dollars given to big business for nothing, and in my republican dominated southern state i am a lonely voice of protest.

how do they get away with selling this as fighting for OUR freedom???? how is it even for the freedom of the afghans or iraqis? these people are whoring in the worst way. they are selling american's trust in them as just leaders to the highest bidder.

but the question that bothers me most is why they are getting away with it? what will it take for people, who are really good people, to look past the christian rhetoric to the evil that is being done.... because the answers are not easy. the solution will be complicated and messy. there are no clear good guys and bad guys like there are in a john wayne movie. but there are people suffering that cry out for us to do the hard work of thinking for ourselves and not accepting the 30 second soundbite that makes us feel good about what we're doing and contemptuous of those who aren't appreciating all our generosity.

My great grandfather was a great storyteller. He was famous for his Uncle Remus tales. One of my earliest memories is of sitting in his lap (I was the youngest) and listening to his stories. I remember more about the sound of his voice and the warmth and feel of the chair and the room than I do about his stories, but storytelling is a great tradition in my family. Actually, I think every Southerner has a bit of storyteller in him or her.
Anyway, my uncle began giving his children a Christmas story each year in addition to all the soon forgotten toys under the tree. When my girls were young, I decided to join him.
You'd think I had every one, but the truth is that many are on this old computer that threatens to give up the ghost quite often, and some have just been plain lost because they were on the computer that died before this one.... so maybe they were not so different from the toys under the tree. However, I'm going to attempt to salvage them as I find them and hope this blog lasts a bit longer....


Truth is Greater Than Fiction
Christmas, 2002

The birth of my last child began as my first, when I wet the bed. I had almost given up hope, not because I was late. My due date was still three weeks away, but I had spent the whole of Friday cleaning my storage room at school and there was a new moon. All my babies were to be born under a new moon, the first and last on a Sunday. I was afraid that if I didn't go soon, I would have to wait another month.
Kerry was upstairs writing. I had been lying down, tired as always, but in the last stages of pregnancy, the release of sleep captive to the discomfort of an oversized body with the unaccustomed weight of an active entity pressing on my insides. I never learned to love being pregnant, even though I could often lose myself in the miracle of being inhabited by a new human being. Too little control over my body and my emotions, I suppose. We all want to live with the illusion that we have control over our lives. I believe we only have choices about how we respond to our life as it is given to us.
Anyway, my water breaking was a sure sign. I went upstairs to tell Kerry.
"I guess that puts me on a deadline," he replied.
"No hurry, " I assured him, "I'm not even having contractions yet."
How different this was turning out from my last delivery. Maura gave me little warning and was in a hurry. It hadn't seemed to hurt enough to be real labor so I put off leaving for the hospital for so long that we almost didn't make it. I can still remember riding down Academy Street well after midnight with Shosha talking a mile a minute in the backseat and me thinking why in the hell was my husband slowing down for yellow lights at this time of night. We made it, barely. When my water broke with Maura it happened in the hospital, and sounded like an explosion. I still don't know how Kerry remained standing.
This was more like Shosha, which edged my excitement with the shadow grief of a great sadness. That was 10 years ago. Don't make that comparison I told myself as I went to awaken the blessed fruit of that first pregnancy... my sweet Shosha. She awoke quickly and quietly and began her serious preparation for our journey to the hospital.
I waited until the last minute to wake up Maura, which may have been a mistake. She informed me immediately that she wasn't ready yet. I tried to explain that the time had come and we really couldn't put it off. She was not happy. And about this time I realized that Shosha was on her second or third trip to the bathroom. I was touched by their worry, another sign of what sensitive children I had been blessed with. And now another was on its way. Curiosity surfaced, as I would soon know what my baby would be. Two ultrasounds had not revealed that secret. I didn't know yet if it would be Nicholas Alexander or Lillie Corinne. Time would soon tell.
Time gets fuzzy here in my aging mind. I don't really remember the ride over. It seems like my mother met us there but maybe not. What I remember most is Maura missing the homecoming of her brother due to a high fever, and Shosha visiting the hospital restroom.
My labor didn't start. I walked all around the hospital wings, up and down the stairs. I only lay down when I was too tired to walk anymore, but I was so anxious for my labor to begin that I would soon be pacing again. I'm sure Kerry was there, but all I remember was walking.
When the doctor arrived the next morning, he wanted to put me on the drip to start my labor. He was new and young and didn't remember my first time. I couldn't stop my tears. I didn't think I could go back there. I didn't want to relive those memories. "I don't want to think about Courtney," I pleaded with Kerry, as if he could stop it. The nurse looked puzzled and he explained. Bless her kind heart, she went immediately to talk to the doctor. He gave me another hour to start my labor.
And suddenly I did. Nicholas Alexander was beginning his arrival in earnest. I told Kerry to be ready with the camera. I never wanted a video of the event, but Kerry was so good at capturing the beauty of children that we both wanted him to record these first moments. It was a good decision. I love my wet baby pictures.
There came a point where my labor was both too fast and too slow. I wanted to take a break. Even though there were breaks in the pain, my transition labor seemed too much for me. But nature takes over. We have strength we never know about until we need it. Giving birth is always a miracle.
"You have a big boy!" was the announcement.
I looked at that beautiful, small, wet miracle in their hands and said, "He is not. He's little."
And he was. He was my smallest child at seven pounds eleven ounces, and I fell in love with him at once.
But this was a different experience. Kerry put the camera down and was the first to hold our son. I must admit to a twinge of jealousy. I had been the first to hold our girls. But this was an act of great mercy, the beginning of a father-son relationship that is a great blessing.
Like the first Christmas, we had been given the wondrous gift of a son, a child much anticipated and received with great joy. And I believe the angels rejoiced at his birth as well. The face of God is in the face of every child, of every brother and sister on earth.
The story this Christmas is our story, the story of the blessings of our family and the love we have for each other. Each child God has given us has brought us a greater understanding of God's love. That my last child came during the Christmas season was an added bonus.
My wish for us this Christmas, and every Christmas, is that we can spread that love. That we can see in every child, the face of God, and that we will show our love for God in the love we show each other. Life is short even if it lasts a hundred years. I never want to miss telling you how much I love you and how much you have blessed my life.
Merry Christmas!
Mama




Christmas 2001

She saw the tabby colored cat out of the corner of her eye. It was slinking past her in the shadows on her right. Suddenly it turned and gave a harsh meow. The woman turned slowly, fear sending chills through her body, which seemed to be moving in slow motion. The cat's cries crescendoed into shrieks. She awoke with a start.
The warmth of her bed, soft and sure beneath her, felt strange in the aftermath of her dream. The more familiar ache and stiffness of muscles succumbing to a relentless aging process did more to bring her back to reality. It was the baby, and she was screaming unremittingly.
Her mind wandered back. She had put her down at 11, bundled and happy. She reached for her glasses to read a clock that provided no information without them. 1:03. Way too soon to be hungry. Whatever it was, she was not happy.
The woman glanced beside her at the man snoring slightly, facing the wall. A cross-country truck run carrying auto parts had left him too tired for the unusual cries of a baby in the house to awaken him. And Heather had taken care to close the doors and muffle the sound as best she could. That little girl must really be screaming to penetrate to their bedroom.
She slipped silently from the bed and walked across the room. When she opened the door, the screams were even louder. Closing the door softly behind her, she rushed down the hall to Heather's old room, now a guest room. The sight that met her when she opened the door sent an ache through to her stomach. Her daughter and granddaughter were clinging to each other, both with tears running down their cheeks. The baby's face was red with exertion and her screams were coming in gasps, and Heather's eyes were so full of desperation that for a moment she didn't know which one to grab.
"It's too early for her to be hungry," she said as she relieved Heather of the crying infant. Almost instantly, the baby slowed her sobs as her tiny body melted into the old woman's arms.... If a baby's unhappy, change something ... a hard and fast rule that she had followed with all her children. Heather's look vacillated between frustration and relief as her daughter slowly soothed herself against the chest that had so often comforted her as a baby.
"She's been up four times already," she said, all her frustration and weariness apparent in her voice.
" I'll take care of her," the woman said firmly. "You go to bed and get some rest. I remember how to do this." And then she smiled, because she did. The baby felt warm and sweet beneath her chin, her fragrant baby smell taking her back in time to precious moments with the hurting child in front of her now, no longer able to be soothed with mere words and cuddling. "We'll be fine. You look so tired."
She watched Heather struggle. Heather wanted to be the one to give comfort, but she simply didn't have any left. A new baby and a husband across the ocean in a war that was no war and hard to understand had left her with no strength to win this late night battle with pain. "Okay," she sighed, and then smiled, because her mother would remember. Because Heather remembered those strong, relentless arms that would never let her go.
Woman and baby walked down the hall to the living room where the rocker was waiting. It was an old wooden rocker that had seen many nights of use before. It served her well as she eased their weight down and began the slow, steady rhythm, her voice automatically whispering low, soothing words flowing without much meaning; the tone and the hum of her voice so much more important than whatever nonsense came forth.
The baby began to hiccup slightly, recovering slowly from her previous distress. Her cherub face still flushed from her crying, the baby lay exhausted in the crook of her arms looking as angelic as babies always do. The woman gave a sign of contentment that no amount of tiredness could diminish. This was one of God's greatest gifts.
The baby slept deeply, her small body racked periodically by small gulps leftover from her crying. The woman squeezed her gently, savoring the feel of her soft, miniature body, and counting her blessings once again. She sent up a silent prayer for protection for this baby's poor father, sleeping who knows where tonight, in what kind of conditions. That it would be lonely and cold was without doubt.
She didn't know the answer to the violence and hatred rampant in the world today, but she knew all too well who would be the ones to suffer. The ones who always suffer in war... children, mothers, the old, the poor, the foot soldiers who served as shields and pawns to men of power who think nothing of the lives they sacrifice for their cause. And men can always seem to find a cause, especially men of power.
She wondered as she had wondered countless times before, why God allowed it. But there was no answer. The only answer was resting peacefully now in her arms. One baby, one person at a time. If there was anything that her years had taught her, it was that the world was too big to save. You can only do what you can, where you are. "And you are our hope," she whispered softly to the obliviously sleeping child as she leaned closer to gather in her baby smell. "You and all the other precious children that are being embraced by mothers and fathers and grandparents tonight.
She couldn't let herself think of the atrocities done to children. And yet the picture of that poor Afghan man holding the lifeless body of his two-year-old son would not go away. She had helped pay for those bombs. It was her country that had taken his life... in the name of freedom.
And she couldn't forget the names of the families, parents and their children, in a cold list of the dead on Flight 000. Each name representing another innocent sacrificed to the evil done in God's name. There seemed to be no good guys in this conflict of ideas that spread its carnage in murdered families. She held the tiny baby tighter wanting desperately to protect her from the evil world into which she had so recently entered.
"I can't protect you from the evil of men," she murmured to the sleeping child, her own tears now falling upon her wrinkled cheek. "But you will be loved through it all." And by a love greater than her own. She wondered sometimes how she could still believe. But she did. She held fast to a faith in the love of the father and of a man who lived without hatred, a man who showed the way to loving and living life as it was meant to be lived. There was an angel over the battered body of that two-year-old boy, enfolding his spirit, wanting to bring comfort to his grieving father. There was a multitude of angels reaching out their arms on that fateful day in September, waiting to embrace those who were finally released from their pain. God's presence patiently awaits. That was the basis of her faith.
The baby fidgeted in her arms and a frown crossed her tender face. The woman shifted her to her shoulder and rubbed her warm back, cooing softly until she settled her cheek beneath her chin. "What a wise daughter I have," she thought as she held tightly to a child named Hope.


Christmas 2000


The cool salty air ruffled their feathers as they flew. The sound of their chatter sifted through the wind and was carried down the beach. It was a beautiful, wintry day. The young gulls flew for short distances across the waves, then settled on the shoreline for a quick snack. Food was not as plentiful as during the warm summer months, but no one was going hungry; and the camaraderie of the young birds more than made up for any scarcity of food.
Running Water watched as Breeze lifted her graceful body into the wind, flapping her wings to remain in a stationary position. Breeze wasn't the best, but she was the one who practiced most diligently.
Running Water was the one who first introduced Breeze to the tourist habit of throwing popcorn to gulls that hovered around them. Breeze had taken to the sport, as Running Water had known she would, with her usual enthusiasm and determination. She would be the first to approach a bag toting family, anxiously waiting to see what treat would emerge.
No longer a participant herself, Running Water preferred the steady ritual of following the waves upon the sand for her "treats". The tourists made her nervous with their children nearly running the gulls down, flapping their arms wildly in the air, screaming raucously. But Breeze enjoyed the challenge. Breeze enjoyed most challenges.
Running Water ate her fill and headed out to sea. She enjoyed the company of her friends and their shoreline games, but she also felt the strong call of the wide-open sea. She loved the solitude of skimming the sky above the waves and feeling the sun warming her windblown feathers. She loved the sound of the moving water swishing in constant rhythm below her. She gazed appreciatively as three pelicans passed her, their awkward bodies made beautiful in flight. She smiled at the mullet popping through the waves. Life on the ocean was a thing of beauty. Sometimes it overwhelmed her with its complexity and wonder, and her heart swelled with love for the Creator. Flight was a gift beyond compare.
As dusk approached the water, Running Water shifted her direction and began the journey back to land. The burning orange light reflected in the water before her as the air began to chill and make her gladly anticipate her warm sleeping place, sheltered from the night wind. As she drew closer to the sands blowing in the early evening wind, she noticed a group of her friends chattering uncharacteristically at the edge of the dunes. She spread her wings to drop her body, already weary from its long flight, into the midst of the juvenile birds who were running frantically from one spot to another over the shell spotted sand.
"Breeze's gone! An alligator got her over by Willow Creek!"
An alligator. Alligators don't attack juvenile birds. Alligators prey on the old and slow. How could it take a young, healthy animal like Breeze? Something was wrong. How could Breeze have been killed? It was not in the Creator's plan for a gull like Breeze to be taken by an alligator. Running Water had been with her only a few hours ago. She hadn't even said good-bye. Why would she? How was she to know that she would never see Breeze again?
Shock and grief swept over the group of young birds like waves of nausea. The pain would bend them in its intensity to be followed by the numbness of disbelief. Running Water huddled with her friends, chilled by something so much more powerful than the frigid night air. But she couldn't be still. None of them could. They drifted from dune to dune and back to the sea, as if they could escape the inescapable truth. Gradually, they departed, in twos and threes, returning exhausted to their awaiting families, families that held them tighter for the unaccustomed awareness of the uncertainty of life.
Running Water awoke to an unexpected heaviness. Memory came back slowly, painfully, erasing the lightness of the morning sun. With a previously unknown stiffness in her wings, she made her way back to the shore and her friends.
"She was careless. She shouldn't have been so close to the creek's edge."
"I heard that she taunted the alligator."
" My mother says it was a lesson from the Creator for all of us to do what our parents say."
Running Water couldn't believe it. How could they say such things! Breeze was their friend. How could they think the Creator would do something like that to one of them? Their words cut her worse than the cruelest hunger she had ever felt. She couldn't stay. She had to get away. She rushed her spindly feet over the sand and into flight. Her anger gave strength to her wings as she accelerated into the air, leaving their hurtful babble behind.
Without thought, her wings took her out to the sea, to the noisy calm of the ocean waters. She flew into the wind long and hard before her anger and confusion finally abated into exhaustion. She took refuge on the top line of a passing shrimper. She breathed deeply as she watched the life and death dance below her. It wasn't as if she was unaware of death. She herself killed every day to nourish her body. Below her was the sacrifice of thousands. Life and death coexisted on the ocean as morning and evening. But it had never come so close, so suddenly and so out of kilter with the order of life as she knew it. Why had Breeze been taken so early and so needlessly? Why Breeze and not Running Water, or Sun's Reflection, or Swirling Sand? Why was Breeze chosen from among all her friends? Was there a reason to this? Could her friends possibly be right about the Creator?
Running Water sighed with the burden of her thoughts. She looked to the sky for an answer. The wind blew gently over her feathers; the sun touched warmly on her back. Perhaps that was all the answer the Creator allowed. The smell of the dying fish brought to her a hunger she had not allowed herself to feel, but that now pulled her back to the living. Her flight to the shore and to certain food would be a long one. She sprang into a strong current and lifted her wings tenderly to save her strength for the journey home. The grief was with her still and would return, but for now, she felt an unexplained calmness in her slow flight over the sea that was her passion, her life. She was going home to the family that loved her, on wings that were the gift of her creator, into the known and the unknowable.

* * *

As Running Water made her slow way home, in a place others could only dream about, Breeze lifted her wings slightly in the Creator's wind, experiencing the sweetest flight she had ever known.


Christmas 99

In a galaxy tucked away in a remote part of the universe, there exists a moderately sized blue planet amid a solar system of nine planets. The blue planet is beautiful to behold, boasting its abundant life in a dazzling display of color in an otherwise black and white piece of space. All the messengers of the Emperor gladly anticipate the opportunity for a mission there, but there are many worlds to attend in the Emperor’s kingdom and few were sent to that far away planet whose inhabitants call it Earth.
When Earth was formed the Emperor set in motion a plan as is always done with a new creation. From time to time, a messenger would be sent to do the Emperor’s bidding, but all messengers were sworn to secrecy and only reported to the Emperor upon their return. Some messengers resented this, and early in Earth’s history, the greatest of all the messengers rebelled against the Emperor and located his rebellion forces on the beautiful blue planet. Many of the messengers wept and moaned at the loss of their peers and the destruction that was done to the planet called Earth, but the Emperor seemed unperturbed in his seat of power.
Periodically, more messengers were sent, and many were thought to have done battle with the rebellious ones, but only the Emperor knew the details of what was happening on the blue planet. But then there came a day when all the messengers knew what the Emperor had done because all felt the change and knew it could mean only one thing… the Emperor’s spirit had descended to the planet in the form of an Earth inhabitant. The messengers felt the transference as the spirit moved into an infant Earthling. Upon entering the Earthling, the spirit lost its universal memory in the limitations of the form in which it resided and only through time would the spirit regain the knowledge of the Emperor’s identity.
Many messengers were now sent. One of the highest regard was sent to the young female in whose body the spirit was placed. Another was sent to the male who was to be caretaker of both the female and the child. A host of messengers were sent to a small green hillside to a small group of male Earthlings tending to even smaller creatures of the blue planet. One messenger was sent to merely glow above the planet with the brightness of the Emperor. All were ecstatic to be taking part in this momentous event. All returned too excited to keep their secret. Can you believe the Emperor’s spirit has inhabited a human form on the blue planet? (Human is the name Earth inhabitants call themselves) It was a truly amazing occasion!
The messengers waited in keen anticipation to see what the Emperor would do and how the Earthlings would respond to having the Emperor of the Universe in their midst.
For many Earth years, the Emperor did nothing. He had taken the form of a male human in the lower social strata of the planet’s structure and lived simply. He cared for his mother and brothers and sisters, never moving more than a hundred miles from where he had been born. When finally he began to tell of the mysteries of the Universe, (for by this time he had regained his memory of the spirit) he did so to a very limited number of the people. He still never traveled a hundred miles from his own home, spoke primarily to the people within his own social strata, and rarely used his tremendous powers. And then only to heal various illnesses of the Earthlings around him. Messengers visited him frequently, but mostly in solitude, far from his fellow humans.
Then came the darkest time of the universe. Some of the Earthlings loved the Emperor, although none truly understood who he was. But there were others who hated him, hated the mysteries he explained to them. And these were inspired and supported by the rebellious messengers who had made their home on this blue planet. The same messengers who encouraged darkness and destruction on Earth and its inhabitants now turned the people against the Emperor. And the Emperor allowed them to do it!!
The faithful messengers watched in agony, begging the Emperor to let them intervene, surrounding the Emperor in ready silence as the Earth people tortured him and destroyed the body the Emperor had inhabited. The rebellious messengers screamed in delight as the Emperor’s spirit left his body. They foolishly thought that if they destroyed the body the Emperor’s spirit was held in, then the Emperor would lose power. Little did they know that the Emperor’s spirit was already setting free those Earth people who had lived under the curse that hung over the blue planet as long as the rebellious messengers had hidden there.
The Emperor then returned to his simple group of followers and gave to each a small portion of the Emperor’s spirit. The messengers were allowed to participate and spoke through these Earthling peoples as they realized part of the Emperor’s plan had been to share his spirit with this blessed planet’s people from its very beginnings. The rebellion had been allowed but had not altered the plan. As the humans began to understand the mysteries of the Emperor, they found that the Emperor’s spirit within them began to grow. And not only to grow, but to spread to others. The blue planet began to glow with a greater color than it had held before. The Life of the Emperor’s kingdom began to take hold.
And there were many battles with the rebellious messengers. There were and still are periods of time when the color ebbs and flows. But the plan unfolds in the Emperor’s perfect timing. The more the Spirit grows in Earth’ s people, the more powerfully the planet glows. The messengers have been promised a huge visit, when the rebellious messengers will finally be removed from the blue planet forever. But for now, the messengers eagerly await a mission to the place the Emperor’s spirit once lived as a man and where his spirit still exists in simple human beings.

proud of my country

i've been needing something to remind me that americans' sense of justice is not gone. the conviction of a powerful south dakota senator by a jury of his peers for killing a 55 year old farmer on a motorcycle does that for me. even though the jury was not allowed access to his horrendous driving record or bragging about his spending bravado, they still had the good common horse sense to make this man pay for the life he took with his carelessness. god bless america!..... and the rest of the world!

lucifer, angel of light

sometimes i amaze myself with my naivity. i thought i was beyond being really hurt by church. i thought my expectations were sufficiently low.
wrong.
i really like my church. i feel great affinity for the inclusivity demonstrated by the front row parking places for the motorcyclist. the minister is as encouraging and loving a person as i have seen in a church. the people are friendly and mostly tolerant. the music is uplifting and inspiring, even if it is a little slick for my personal taste. the flag waving bothered me, but it was contained to certain parts of the year and certainly a huge part of the american church... a huge part of churches in canada's acadian areas for that matter.
so what could church do to jab the knife beneath my ribs and twist. i still can't quite believe it. i still can't think what possible rationalization would allow them to do it! it just blew me totally out of the water.
as the music was playing before the service began and as soon as the service officially ended, commercials were shown on all the big screens.... car sales, diabetic equipment, stores..... there seemed to be no discrimination whatsoever, not that it would have mattered, although in retrospect there were of course no beer or wine advertisements. when i first saw them, it just tore me apart. i was trying to discreetly wipe the tears that were streaming down my face. all i could see was jesus with his whips overturning the moneychangers from the temple. i didn't think i could sit through it. but i did. i wanted eddie to say something, to find a way to reconcile this with all the true and needed things he says about saying no to the things in our culture that keep us from experiencing and sharing god's love. i just felt and still feel so incredibly sad. this is not a bad man. these are not bad people. and i don't really feel that it's my job to sit in judgement. but at the same time, i don't think i can go back. for me, it's the equivalent of asking a fundamentalist in the traditional sense to watch people having sex in the aisles. it is such an immense act of immorality. how can i continue to bring my son (who thank god for the first time for their age segregation policies was not with me, but in youth church) to a place where i feel god is so blasphemed by capitalistic means.
i'm over the pain now. i think it was the shock of it. i was so unprepared. maybe some people wouldn't think it such a big deal. i can't think of it any other way. i hate the idea of "shopping around" for a church that agrees with me. i don't have to agree with everything that a church does, much less what everyone in it thinks..... but i think this crosses a line with me of what i can accept.
what happened the day after jesus cleared the temple? tables were set up, animals were brought back and it was business as usual. i'm not sure of the chronology, whether jesus returned to the temple again or if he was crucified first. theologans never agree on much, but most think it's one of the last of his public "events". so what does it mean for me??? it certainly wasn't the first time they were there. he spend all his life going into the temple and seeing their desecration. what happened to make him go for the whips?
i want church. i want the community of believers. i want fellowship and tradition for my son. i don't know what to do. i have no desire to search for another place. but i don't think i can live with this.
father in heaven, have mercy on me, a sinner.

this is a test for steve

color and talents

i wanted my next blog to blast the way the republicans have cornered the market on professed christians when nine-tenths of their platform is anti-christ..... but i have been moved into another direction

ironically, with the passing of the brilliant colors of our deciduous autumn display, i seem even more aware of the wonderful array of beauty in the variations of color on earth. no blade of grass, no two portions of dirt are exactly the same shade.... and it's all about light. it totally fascinates me that all the color that we perceive is the effect of light reflection. and obviously light is reflected and expressed as color in an infinity of variation.
the favorite metaphor for the divine is light. it is used throughout the bible, but in other holy scriptures as well. if light is the metaphor for god, then it stands to reason that our understanding of god can be viewed as color. all i have to do is open my eyes to see that color is only an act of beauty in its variation. if our neighbor is not the same color green as we are... or god-forbid, an orange or something... it does not mean that either is wrong. but it does mean that both reflect only in part. the apostle paul said something to that effect as well in his letter to the corinthians.
so i'm mulling around this idea of our understanding of god being the color that we bring to the world, and our morning bible story is about the parable of the three men and their 10, five and one talent. The first two doubled their money and gave it back to the master. The last buried it and gave it back intact. The master was NOT pleased. and i've always heard that story explained as either the material goods that god gives us or the natural abilities we have that we need to use for god's glory. both are fine interpretations.
but what if there is another. what if the talents are our knowledge of god. wasn't jesus trying to teach his disciples as much as he could before he left. wasn't it preceded or paired with (most likely) the parables of the bridesmaids and the need to be prepared. what if the more we know of god, the more we are to seek god and enrich the color with which we live our lives. what if the man of one talent did not want to know more of something that he could never possess. what if his knowledge of god might press him into the uncomfortable and scary.... better to bury it and give it back with himself unchanged.
the pharisees didn't want new knowledge of god. they had god in a controllable package where they could follow a set of rules.... a tough set, mind you, but one in which they could take well earned pride in their ability to adhere to... AND, so importantly, one that could make them feel superior to those less able to withstand the rigor. how much easier to follow a stringent ritual than to follow that slippery unmanageable demand to love your neighbor as yourself.
color is beauty and beauty is a necessity of life. from the prehistoric cave drawings to the graffiti that colors our city streets and railroad cars, humankind has known the need for color and its essential beauty.
whatever our color today, let us rejoice in it.