Homeless Children: Do Something Today

On FB this morning, friend Ada posted C. S. Lewis' beautiful quote about children not being a distraction from our work, but actually being our most important work.

The very next post (who says the Holy Spirit doesn't pay attention to FB?) was a story reporting record numbers of homeless children in the United States, which suggests that we've not done a good job at recalling C. S. Lewis' advice to remember the importance of children.  Common Dreams

The inspiration of a well-timed word is valuable.
But to borrow from the acerbic biblical writer known as James, If a brother or sister is naked and lacks daily food, and one of you says to them, “Go in peace; keep warm and eat your fill,” and yet you do not supply their bodily needs, what is the good of that?  So faith by itself, if it has no works, is dead.  But someone will say, “You have faith and I have works.” Show me your faith apart from your works, and I by my works will show you my faith.  James 2.15-18 (NRSV).

It is perhaps no accident that C. S. Lewis’ inspirational quote was followed immediately with a sharp reminder that we seem to have forgotten entirely the importance of children – everybody’s children.

So as we in these United States begin to be inundated with advertisements to buy more and more and more, maybe we might share some of what we were going to spend for the holidays for our own children to help someone else’s children – not out of guilt or shame (although there is that), but out of the realization that real lives will be changed by what we do or fail to do.

And those lives matter.

They matter to God.  They matter to themselves.  They matter (or they should) to us.

Here, then is a link to Charity Navigator, listing the top charities in the United States that deal specifically with homelessness.

They’ve done the homework for you.  All you have to do is pick one and make a donation.

I’m going with Caritas in Texas, simply because it seems the most acute needs are in the south.

How about you?

Oh Happy Day

As I drove home last night, tunneling through the leaves cast in greys by the darkness, I reflected on my day and sighed the contentment of happiness.

This perfect gift of a day, this gift of God, wrapped in love and tied with the bow of surprise, unfolded in ways I had not planned – all the better.

Laundry danced on the lines, dried by sunshine, whipped into shape by the wondrous winds of fall, bringing that sense of accomplishment and satisfaction it always does.  If I think of purity as a Christian at all, it is like this – clean laundry on a crisp fall day.  The doing of the laundry I had planned, but the redoing, the rehanging, as piece after piece flew off, I had not.  It made me laugh, this fighting the wind – does not the wind always win?

Then there was raking leaves with two little citizens of this burg I call home, creating a pile for jumping larger and larger with each jump.  A great fan of leaf jumping myself, this time I was content to watch their jumping, running, laughing, gleeful faces and call myself blessed.  And even the tears of a small boy filled my heart, the tears shed in sorrow at the leaving, this little one who enjoys my company as I so enjoy his.

They were an interruption to my own plans, these little ones, as I agreed to watch a little girl as her mother took her baby boy across the mountains for yet another doctor’s appointment in this child’s harrowing journey towards health and wellness (Lord, may it come soon), happy to be able to serve in a small way, having the time to give, the day to share.

A friend stopped to chat.

Women spoke of important things into the night.

Prayers were shared.

Hope was spoken into being.

Poetry was shared.

Children gathered around a table and it was the joyful feast.

Another friend named the pleasure of my company out loud.

And the moon so bright it cast shadows shone on a land at peace with itself – oh, lucky, happy, blessed we.

Nothing particularly extraordinary happened, yet it was all wondrous.

A happy day indeed.


May you be blessed with the happiness of days spent well in the company of those who bring joy by their presence.

Through the Eyes of a Child

Good, faithful friend, neighbor and bringer of magic to little boys, in the ways of men and tinkering, riding, loud, moving, mowing, grinding, things – Larry, who died, left his mark in so many ways.

One small boy, my grandson, calls Larry his friend, for the times when Larry took him riding and mowing grass, letting him believe he was doing the steering (maybe he was - who am I to say otherwise?), and earning himself hero status in the process.

When Rowen’s parents let him know that Larry, whom he had visited just a few weeks back, had died, he called me to tell me he was sorry.  We talked about Larry, this small boy of my heart and I.  And we spoke of other things.  And I suggested he might make Larry’s family a card, to which he readily agreed, evidence in his desire (an unusual thing) of his own loss, his own caring.

And I am touched beyond measure, loving even more (if that be possible) this tiny boy who carries my heart.

I am perpetually astonished at the world seen through the eyes of a child, for children do know the important things – playing with friends, shouting for the sheer joy of existence, weeping openly when they are sad, making a card to say sorry – moment by moment do they live.

And that, I suspect, is as it should be.

The Memories of a Three-Year-Old

It’s July in the mountains, which means it can be hot or it can be cold. . . it can be sunshine or it can be rain . . . often on the same day – you just never know.

But it’s July in the mountains, so with great hope and anticipation, having forgotten for the moment the vagaries of long winters, we come outdoors and we garden and tend and visit and plan . . . and God smiles.

So it was on Sunday – with a confidence I did not feel, in answer to daily inquiries, I kept to the plan – yes, the Carnival will go on . . . yes, I know they’re calling for thunderstorms and hail . . . we’ll just wait and see . . . yes, bring the bouncy castle . . . yes, unless it’s storming at the time, we will go on.

To plan in the mountains requires the memory of a three-year old, like my buddy Braiden – you have to be willing to simply believe in your plans and keep moving until you can’t.

It tickles me beyond measure that Braiden was looking forward to the carnival, having come to the last one

and having had such a good time – who knew that when you’re three, you can actually remember what happened when you were two?  But Braiden does.

So he was sure there would be a carnival – because we had one last year and Beth said we would have one again this year – and that was good enough for him.

It’s such a gift – having your word be taken as true by one so small.

So it was that the skies parted for a time and the sun shone on our little carnival.  Did God part the skies for a little country fun?  Or was it just the right time in God’s scheme for such a thing?

All I know is that it happened and Braiden was glad because he remembered and it was every bit as good as he knew it would be.

And if it had rained?  If it hadn’t happened?

Oh well – those things happen.

How is it that three-year olds understand so well?

I wish I knew.  All I can do is say thanks to Braiden and Kaden and all the little ones who look forward in faith always with the ability to take disappointment in stride when the rains come.

Maybe that’s what Jesus meant when he spoke of coming to him like a little child – with hearts filled with faith whether the sun is shining or the rains are pouring. . . saying yes even when you know your yes may be turned in to a no by things beyond your own control.

I like to think so.

Cantos Musing Muse ’Mused

Life is my canto
this but a pause
in a moment
of a life as lived
too short to count
as canto, I find
I can’t surrender
the cant and it
doth make me smile

***

It is the moment-upon us
Christmas coming Advent
waiting almost over now
time, this Eve of Christ’s
Mass – body brought
of course it will be broken
it is the way of bodies
this deconstruction of the
certain thing, the finite thing –
it will not – for it cannot – last

***

Mary moves
          from girlhood to womanhood
          from naivete to wisdom
          from mother of a boy to mother of the world

Where, oh where, are the paintings of dancing Mary?

***

Image for depression – the sink hole –
we fill and fill and fill and is never,
because it cannot be, enough to fill
the hole, for the hole is endless . . .
what to do with that?  Is it really endless
or does it just seem so?  Does it matter
when we’re feeling, living in, the hole?
I suspect not.  But what to do?
I wish I knew
for there are many – too many –
so filled with sadness there seems
no room – like Motel 6 already
booked to the brim – for anything
else and the sadness of the sad
breaks my heart if not me

***

The depression of not having enough is one thing
of (the fear of) not being enough is quite another

***

Those living in the time of fulfillment
have no need of hope,
they are living the thing hoped for
Hope is for the needful
we think here on earthscape
it good to be full
but full of need?
Aren’t we breathing all
all in need of a next breath?
Who will provide that?
Hope

***

It is not cowardly to die,
but it is incredibly brave to live

***

Messiahs do not come in good times
for we have no need of saving
when things go well

***

Children are our greatest joy and our greatest sorrow . . .
and so it is the fervent prayer, spoken or unspoken . . .
known or unknown . . . of every parent of every child . . .
please, please, please, let my child outlive me . . .
born to die, please do not make me bear witness . . .

***

These, then, are the thoughts of an old woman
on a particular day of advent on a particular year
on a particular planet . . . oh, how lucky,
how blessed, are we, to bear witness to their birth,
these children of the world we abuse so easily . . .
how cursed are we that they too will die. . .
and in the meantime, blessed or cursed . . .
therein is the pilgrimage sometimes of our own making. . .
sometimes not . . . and its name is joy.

Miss-Communication

Communication is fundamental to my line of work.  Always has been.  And I happen to think I’m pretty good at it – most of the time.

But every now and then, I get it oh, so wrong – or someone else does – usually results in laughs (although not always).

A funny one happened when my son called to brag a bit about his son’s school progress and goals scored in soccer.

We both ooohed and aaahed appropriately.  Then Ben told me the parents had taken Rowen to Toys R Us to get a prize for doing so well in school.

I then asked, what did he get? to which Ben replied, Ma, they don’t do grades at this age; it’s all different now.  (Son loves to remind Mom that things have changed since dinosaur-roaming days when she was in school).

But this was one of those miscommunication moments, as I clarified, Not his report card – what did he pick out for his toy?

This Gran is always more interested in the toys, the bling, the celebration.

We laughed, son (so serious as a parent now himself) and I, at the crossed ships (although there was no night) – even more with the answer: Rowen picked out a garbage truck.

I love that boy’s sensibilities.  And that’s why I always want to know not what happened to him, but what he did about it.  It’s always a surprise.  And who doesn’t love a surprise?

And so I remain (at least in my own head) Miss Communication.

(There really should be a prize for that too.)

Wars & World Leaders: What I Want From You

When you want to kill

other human beings

I want you to look

sad and not angry

When you want to send

our children a world away

to kill and fight and die

I want you to look

remorseful not presidential

When you make and make

possible guns and nukes

and bombs and such

I want you to look

chagrined – recognizing

the already failure of your

acts that it is instead of

gleeful at anticipated success

When the children – anyone’s

children – die, I want you to

confess instead of count

as if it were a basketball score

And speaking of the children –

when you decide it’s killing time

I want – no, I demand –

that you not do it on the backs

of dead children – they are 

beyond your saving and your

anger will not bring them back

and I care about them and all

the others and I do not need

pictures of bloody corpses

of the too-young to decide

whether the living children

can be saved by this course

and I resent and tremble in

my own anger that you would

use them to make you sleep

better at night for the children

still breathing you would risk

to avenge they who need no

vengeance for they are far

past caring about such things

I want you not to stand on

their corpses – that’s what 

I want

When the temptation to the 

killing fields comes, I want

you to eschew the language

of heroes and wonder if you

would go or send your own

beloved where you would

so easily dispatch mine

Who am I to want so much

from you?  I am citizen.

VBS Day 5

A little boy runs across the parking lot and gives me a hug, then runs back to the sidewalk and runs back and forth between me and the sidewalk hugging and running . . . a sheet filled with red hands as young and old alike learn to stand up and speak out against injustice – the injustice of children being used by adults around the world to fight their battles for them . . . grass everywhere – the combination of cut grass + a wet day + lots of little (and bit) feet coming in and out and in and out of he church – what a glorious sight . . . singing softly until we get to the parts everybody knows when shouts of joy and recognition emerge . . . same little boy handing out music sheets like a pro as we progress from song to song to song . . . babies sleeping on mom shoulders . . . activity sheets strewn everywhere . . . old friendships strengthened and new ones forged . . . VBS is over and it was good.

VBS Day 3

VBS Day3

Rise and shine and give God the glory, glory . . . 

All God’s critters got a place in the choir . . . 

Jesus loves me, this I know . . . 

He’s got the whole world in his hands . . . 

Singing and laughing and lots of hand motions
Observing the bold children mistaking their way through
and the less sure, some afraid to try lest they get it wrong
All of them jumping up and down today
midway time of running and playing
and Jesus – where is Jesus in all this?
I’m pretty sure Jesus is there in the grass
running and laughing and playing with the best of them
Do I worry about whether they ‘get’ the lesson?
Not so much
I’m figuring any time spent in sheer joy
that’s associated with Jesus
and church is a good thing –
a worthy memory for a child
to carry into adulthood
Oh, and there’s Miss Wilma’s cookies too

VBS Day 2

• Bread made by 3, 4 and 5-year olds (with a whole lot of help from Caroline) - awesome
• Peacocks and swans from paper plates – I love the versatility of paper plates and the mind that could behold that simple white circle and see a beautiful bird
• Food bank procession of cans – one of the sweetest things I’ve seen as little ones reminded moms and dads to bring their cans and placed them gently, ever so gently in the tub so other people can eat tonight
• The sheer joy of running and playing and laughing and being with other kids
• Me - “what did you learn tonight?” Braiden - “Jesus!”   Love that wee boy!
• The big kids helping the little kids – kindness
• One bleeding lip and one cry for mommie – crises met with love and first aid and mommie’s arms
• Austin jumping out of the van and shouting his excitement to me that his young cousin came too – and taking care of her each step of the way
• Sitting bathed in the night sky with a friend when it’s all over while her daughter makes us laugh and ponder when we last jumped for joy as Maggie jumps and jumps and jumps some more, managing in the middle to sit for a quiet moment and hear the water and the sheep settling down for the night – one lone fellow (young, I imagine) determined not to let sleep overtake him just yet

Another good day.

Social Experiment

He’s here – my grandson is here!  And boy are we having fun.  One of my favorite things he does, he did this evening.

Taking his brand-new boy-sized folding chair out to the end of the sidewalk, he sat down and watched traffic pass by, waving at each vehicle – sometimes from his seated perch, and sometimes with the standing enthusiasm of a Dallas Cowboys cheerleader.

Sometimes folk responded.

Sometimes they didn’t.

Each lack of return wave solicited disappointment and sadness and a report back to Gran on the porch: they didn’t wave.

As I watch this wee boyo, I am struck that there is a social experiment happening right before my very eyes: who waves and who doesn’t?

Rowen draws no conclusions about the character of the non-wavers.  This is not a social experiment to him.  This is part of the magic and charm of country life, that he might expect a wave.

His sheer delight in the wavers is something the non-wavers might want to ponder.

I know I do.

And then I wonder: who would wittingly disappoint the heart of an almost-6-year-old boy?

Saturday Respite

Between intensities
in this week we name holy

in the hell-gap
the in the meantime
measure of things
from a Friday named Good
with no irony intended
to a Sunday that promises
spring and springing
life and living

sits this day – Saturday

somber in the church calendar
I mark it in a different way

for this Saturday is a day
if not of rest, of breath
and breathing –
breathing in the possibility of
tomorrow
breathing out the ashy sorrow of
yesterday

until it is reversed

until reversed again, it is neither
and Saturday stands on its own
with neither its reference point

and that is good

and so it is that the child’s entry
with laughter and running glee
hide-and-seek adventures
that turn an ordinary bush
into a massive jungle to be explored
that brings a woman old enough
to know better along for the ride

and it is good
and very good

Saturday

Best Valentine Ever

So I hate Valentine’s Day as an event.  I’m not a card curmudgeon or some sort of purist about St. Valentine.  There’s just too much painful history there lurking in the recesses of my mind whenever February 14 rolls around on the calendar.

This year I took a different tack and sent my family Valentine gifts – something I haven’t done since the kids were kids.  It felt good and right and done in advance, I could and did retire the day from my consciousness.

So it was that yesterday I was vaguely aware of the day as I went about my pastor duties and that was good enough.

At Mark’s funeral, I mentioned the cruel irony of bidding a husband farewell on Valentine’s Day and then spoke about how life is not a Hallmark card.  That was my observance of Valentine’s Day, and that was good enough.

In the evening, I visited with Cindy and Brenda to prepare for Guy’s funeral this afternoon.  We sat at Cindy’s kitchen table and remembered Guy as Kirsten came to sit for a moment on her mother’s lap and left, returning to give her grandmother a green duct-tape purse, which I admired greatly.  Off she went again, only to return some time later with a bright pink duct-tape purse for me, which she then filled with candy from her own white paper bag filled with cards and treats from her school Valentine’s exchange.  I loved that custom when I was in school and was delighted when Kirsten shared with me, with the very special bonus of a new purse.

Coming from West Virginia as I do, I’ve long known duct tape is the solution to the world’s problems.  I’ve made an emergency belt out of duct tape, after all.  But a duct-tape purse?  Now that’s special – for yesterday, it mended a wounded heart.

Shopping for Jesus

Yesterday I went with Laura and Priscilla to town.  The occasion?  To buy Christmas gifts for three Angel-Tree children on behalf of the church.  Presents may not buy or even bring happiness, but they are tangible evidence of important things – things like: you are loved; the spirit of Santa is real; you matter; life isn’t always about too little; giving is at least as good as getting; time spent with friends is never wasted; knowing each other is crucial to genuine gifting – it’s hard to pick the right jacket for a wee one you’ve never met; and perhaps most of all, how very, very, blessed I am.

I actually get to help a family bring a small measure of Christmas joy to its children.

I just hope Jesus likes the presents we picked; after all, they’re mostly for him.

When You're Five

When you’re five . . .

When you’re five,
a beetle escaping
your intense study
is a tragedy of epic
tear-filled proportions

When you’re five,
sickness and
old age are
puzzling mysteries

When you’re five,
things like going
to the bathroom
are extremely
annoying inconveniences
getting in the way of
so much
life
to be lived

When you’re five,
everyone your own size
is an immediate friend

When you’re five,
every new lightening bug
is experienced as if for
the first time –
with awe and wonder
and delight

When you’re five,
you’re not too big
to be rocked –
by your Gran

When you’re five,
peach pits are
magic and you
can hardly wait
to see the tree
it will become

When you’re five,
the world is your
oyster –
which is as it
should be
when you’re five

____________
Dedicated to all the five-year-olds discovering their world with eyes that see close to the ground and as far as the stars.

Scotland -- Day Three

Failford Inn for soup (cumin & parsnip - tasty) and crusty bread and warming up after a good hike (what my friends would call a walk – I’m left wondering what the difference is and am thinking that hike, suggestive of the more strenuous, is for old chubby out-of-shape gals like me to describe the amiable stroll my younger and more fit companions and I were enjoying) . . .

We walked to Peden’s Cove, the site of Alexander Peden’s preaching from one of the Covenanters’ pulpits – apparently there are at least three locations referred to as Peden’s Pulpit – places from which Prophet Peden illegally preached, which raises an interesting question – how can preaching the gospel, especially in a land claiming to follow that self same gospel, be illegal?  Who ‘owns’ the rights to The Word?  Who gets to mediate what can be said and by whom it can be said?

With all these high and lofty religious thoughts swimming around about my head, I am minded of more pressing things, like the love of a mother for her children – as I watched Liz walking arm-in-arm with daughter Zara and then side-by-side with son Ruaridh . . . I watch and listen and smile . . . and ponder . . .

How do you explain to the golden child stretching his wings and preparing to leave the nest how she hungers for him . . . for time spent with . . . for words of sharing from . . . how do we explain to these creatures we spawned in a way they can understand that their absence from our lives is a physical loss and that the hunger their absence creates is one filled only by their presence?

It was a good day today – children present, safe, and hungers held at bay – for a time.