A GodWink: The Personal, Handwritten Note

Alright texters, hear this:   You can exchange quick little snippets day and night on your mobile devices, laughing out loud, rolling on the floor or whatever, but you've not really lived until you've received a card via U.S. mail (you might call it "snail mail"), handwritten, addressed directly to you, and inside a note, handwritten, to you, and to you only.  


Today I retrieved such a treasure from my post office box, sent by a wonderful woman, a member of my church  whom I rarely see, and usually then only from a distance, but whose countenance and spirit exude such peace and love that it is just a good thing to behold her, wave to her and exchange smiles from across a room or down a hallway.  Her smile spreads warmth that can be felt, like a nice Pashmina draped over shivering shoulders, or the hooded "house coat" that belonged to my Sweet Pea's paternal grandmother, and in which Sweet Pea likes to wrap herself and hunker down for comfort.


On a day like today, [of which I wrote in my previous blog (Remembering Mr. G)], haunted by a premonition that something wasn't quite right, I received this precious and priceless gift of spiritual affirmation and encouragement, opening it just at the moment when I was about to lecture God on the relevance of human contact.  (Yes, I do have some nerve!)   Before I could plow into my soapbox speech (Now, God, I know You see me down here . . . . .), as I opened the card and began reading, God winked at me, and stilled my tongue and my thoughts.


So what's the big deal?   Think about what goes into the production of The Personal, Handwritten Note.

• someone has to think of you
• the thought of you has to be so compelling that the thinker is prompted to act
• in case you haven't tried it lately, and especially if your handwriting is like mine, some effort is invested to write complete, coherent thoughts that another person will be able to read, filter and understand the intended message
• there is some sacrifice involved, as in placing one's thoughts on paper, the writer is sending a part of him/herself
• the writer invests resources of paper, ink, envelope and stamp (for some this may not be a big deal, but whether great or small, the person who thought of you evidently thinks you're worth the effort)

As one who lives closely with Technology (yes, just as The Personal, Handwritten Note is capitalized, so has Technology taken personage, just like The Weight [lots of which I need to lose, but that's for another blog on another day]), and as much as I appreciate Technology which affords me abilities beyond my own humanity, the satisfaction of acquiring the many computers and peripheral devices I have acquired over the last 20 years, or working my magic as one of my lawyers still says today (even after 22 years of magic), cannot in any way measure up to the warmth and gratification of receiving The Personal, Handwritten Note.

Remembering Mr. G

Just now I learned that I lost a friend.  One might think us an unlikely pair to befriend each other.  He was old enough to be my father and from a socio-economic background and a side of Houston that in my childhood I would not have known existed. but for television.  Still, we had some crucial commonalities:  belief in God, a sense of fairness, trying to do the right thing, wanting to make things right when they're not, what marriage is supposed to be about (even though we are both divorced), an observation of folks' penchant for power and the corruptibility of such.   He was no saint, and would freely admit it.  Although I knew his name well and had known of him for 30 years or so, had he not needed my legal support services, we would never have met.

We had not known each other long, and our visits were generally no more frequent than bi-weekly.  But during those visits when our work was done, we took time to converse.  The subject matter of our discussions was not frivolous, nor their content pretty or politically correct.  We both spoke in a plain, straight-forward manner, and while respectful of each other, we never shied away from the issues of race, gender, wealth, professions, or any other factor pertinent to our discourse.  While we did not butt heads, he did observe and respect my willingness to question his positions and my unwillingness to rubber-stamp his declarations.  

I expected to see him yesterday, but never received a call to establish a time for our visit.  Since I last spoke with him either Christmas Eve or the day before (right now I'm now quite sure which), he has weighed heavily on my mind, more so than usual.  As I thought of him early this morning, I realized that I was more concerned about not having heard from him for the sake of hearing from him, than not having heard from him for the sake of whatever task he would ask me to tackle next.  And in my driving around Houston yesterday and today, I realized that I was thinking of him more than I was listening to my own music.  Now I understand why.  

My friend was as genuine and down-to-earth as any man or woman I have ever known.  His voice was as rich and resonant as his face was smiling and friendly.  His parents named him well, as in many ways he was his name personified, even while, during the time of our acquaintance, the last year of his life, he admits that he did not always do that name justice.

I soon recovered from the initial shock of the news.  So, why speak of my friend now, especially in a way that says he is not due to be canonized?  It is simply for the reason that I am reminded that none of us have come here to stay -- even if we want to, or try to.  Life is a gift of indeterminate ticks of the clock.  True, many of those ticks have been wasted by all of us in some quantity or another.  In hindsight my friend saw that waste and was trying to do better.  And today each of our "hindsights" can be used to plot a clearer, surer, more sustainable path to the future.  Notice I did not say an easier path.  As some of us can attest, it is one's quest for the easier path that can cause one to waste many ticks of the clock.

Well?  What about you?

The Real Joy of Christmas -- Part II

Here it is:  the evening of Christmas Day.


This writer's premature commencement of celebrating the Day began in early December with active participation in Christmas concerts with the Houston Choral Society and Antioch Baptist Church, followed by the mid-month Christmas Candlelight Concert at South Main Baptist Church, and then two Christmas Eve worship services (5:00 p.m. and 11:00 p.m.) at South Main, and two really nice gatherings -- one with family and one with friends.  


And what about today?  The Day?  
Events?  Nicht
Concerts?  Nada
Parties?  Nein
Lots and lots of presents?  Beaucoup -- but not the tangible ones of which most folks will think.


Today was a day of uncommon peace.  No frenzied phone calls.  No traffic.  No let me think about it response after I laid out a myriad of reasons why The "X" Plan is right for my audience.  No.  No.  No.  Today I overslept, not being fully awake until 9:00 -- that's normally mid-morning.  So what was the day all about?  Nothing.  And everything.


Today I joined my daughter and her husband for an afternoon meal at one of the finest rehabilitation facilities, located in the Texas Medical Center.   We joined a close family friend who has been encsconced there for a few weeks now.  We ate a meal prepared and served by folks who were not on "holiday," which made me try to imagine what was going through one man's mind as he handed me a plate of Cornish hen, yams, green bean casserole and a wheat roll, with a smile and a Merry Christmas!.  The free-flowing fountain of carbonated beverages was bypassed in favor of a bottle of Tropicana Pure Premium orange juice with some pulp.  (Why drink trashily when there's good stuff to be had?)  I stood at the checkout, wondering what happened to the cashier, and when I stopped a passing employee, she said It's on us today.  Merry Christmas!


Visiting a place like TIRR can put one face-to-face with the results of one's mistakes or the bad decisions of others, resulting in severely broken bodies, or, as in the case of our friend, an illness visited upon him without invitation or provocation; it just sneaked in one day and made itself at home.  Our quiet visit was often interrupted by my son-in-law (truly he is an angel on special assignment to see after my Sweet Pea), as he would leave our table to assist other TIRR residents in their high-tech wheelchairs, and their guests as they maneuvered among the tables to be seated.


In the countenance of a young teen we saw the rawest anger, so strong that it pierced my heart.   We saw a woman, perhaps my age or a little older, with the sweetest spirit, so sweet that Daughter could not help but comment.   In a moment of bare-naked candor, Daughter asked our TIRR resident:  When did you stop being angry?  He replied, I was never angry, just afraid.  I would wake up and survey my body, starting with my toes and working my way up to determine if anything was different; and sometimes there were differences; that would make me afraid.  But after the second surgery, I wasn't afraid anymore.  


After our meal we returned our TIRR resident to his room, and as he got situated, Daughter said you know, any of us could be in here.  I know I've had some close calls.  But this has made me mindful to be careful.  Our TIRR resident agreed, adding that he knows that, comparatively speaking, he's still in pretty good shape.  


I stood at the window, looking out over the forest of concrete and steel in the Texas Medical Center, thinking about all that our TIRR friend has endured:  an illness that spans three decades, the unjust, unfair and unwarranted treatment visited upon him, the  people who could and should have stood by him and did not, and how when he answers his phone and is asked How're you doing? -- will always answer -- Pretty good.




So what about This Day?   That's what I've been talking about here.  Can't you see?  This day of uncommon peace had nothing to do with brightly wrapped packages containing tangible gifts.  The gift of this day is the uncommon peace -- the kind of peace in knowing that even though things are not as they once were, I'm still okay; that undeserved gifts and consequences deserved but withheld (we Believers refer them as Grace and Mercy) are blessings that go far beyond the inventories of the finest stores.  The gift of this day is the uncommon peace in seeing one who has every reason to be bitter and angry, resentful and hateful, and instead enjoys moments of scathing humor on the one hand, and deep-seated gratitude on the other.  After all, he's still in pretty good shape.


This day we celebrate what was, what is, and what is to come:  God in the flesh, coming to earth as a baby, growing into a man, gathering disciples, teaching them how to live, love, suffer, endure, and make more disciples, teaching them the same.  And one day, He will return.  That is the real joy of Christmas.

The Real Joy of Christmas: Part I

The Christmas season has become the most commercial time of the year, and each year it seems to start earlier than the year before.  Now, instead of the day after Thanksgiving, there is evidence of Christmas in retail stores before Halloween.

Every year we rack our brains

Trying to find the ultimate things.

When if we just sat still awhile,

We would save quite a mile

Of running hither and thither and yonder.

Running frantically, full of wonder.

What could it be that I could get

To give ultimate pleasure without much debt?

And all the while we wonder

If we will receive what we most want

What would it be like if we kept the Christmas sprit throughout the year?  – gifting our family and friends and the folks we don’t know that some of us only think about in December – we call them the poor  . . . the homeless.

What if we just gave from our hearts all through the year?  Would we be more reasonable and prudent with our resources?  Is there any other time of the year that folks typically go way overboard and beyond the bounds of their budgets?

Wouldn’t it be great to remember those who have less – or little – throughout the year?  I’ll bet you won’t believe this – but I tell you it’s the truth: you have never seen real gratitude until you have given a hungry person some food.

And you know what I’ve found?  When I really feel down, one thing that can pick me up is doing something for someone else.  It’s a whole lot better than searching for that perfect present – that car – that fur coat – that humongous chunk of compressed carbon (you may want to call it a diamond) – that Wii that's now $50 off and still too pricey -- that "free" $500 phone that enslaves you by means of a two-year contract -- and giving it to someone who may value the thing more than he or she values you.  (Take it from someone who was not valued by one who vowed to do so 'til death they parted!)  Don’t you think you’re worth more than a car?  A phone?  A fur?   A Wii?  Or a chunk of compressed carbon?

A Wealthy Woman Indeed

Thanksgiving Day 2008 marked the beginning of the end of my life as it had been for several years.  What followed were events that, even in retrospect and without experiencing the agonizing pain that accompanied them, I believe were the most egregious of my little life.  And right here, right now, on this Thanksgiving Eve 2009, I cannot help but have a profound sense of gratitude for the many ways God carried, consoled, encouraged, rescued and loved me.  He used the hands, arms, eyes, ears, feet and hearts of my family by birth and law, my family of faith at South Main Baptist Church, my business clients who are so much more than that, and two wonderfully gifted women who welcomed me into their labor of love for spreading the Good News through music.  And He used for good the acts that others meant to do me harm, all the while teaching me some painful and now much appreciated lessons.   My life is different now; a new chapter is in the making.  And most of all, I am at peace.  That makes me one of the richest people on earth -- a wealthy woman indeed.  What more is there?

My prayer for you, is that even in the darkest hour of your day, on the worst day of your life, and all others as well, that you know the peace of God which transcends all understanding, and that His peace will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.

And as my pastor Steve Wells would say:  Go with God's blessings; go with God's peace.

.

Obstacles: Keeping the Main Thing the Main Thing (Part III)

Just a reminder:

1. This writing is not about bashing your religion.
2. This writing is not about bashing your denomination.
3. This writing is not about bashing you.
4. If you take offense, well, I'll finish this item 4 later . . .

In Part I of this writing, we discussed how one's appearance can be used to include or exclude one from the "table."

In Part II we talked about the woman factor -- how male dominance of today's religious organizations is based, at least in part, on a misinterpretation and mistranslation of the Scriptures.  We also talked about traditions, and how maintaining the status quo can hinder the work of the Kingdom.

Let us turn to circumstances.  What do you mean circumstances?  You know -- STUFF.   The stuff that you think YOU have to change BEFORE you accept the Main Thing.   The stuff that YOU think gets in the way of your getting to the Main Thing.

Last week, I believe, the three CSI series -- the "original" set in Las Vegas, along with the Miami and New York spinoffs, devoted their episodes for the week to a three-part story about the present-day exploitation of  young women in very ugly ways (and, frankly, some way beyond this writer's ability to conjure).  Having dutifully recorded each of the three shows, I watched them back-to-back.  A focal character, common to all three, was a young woman whose mother reported her missing.

Sidebar:  Throughout my viewing of these three episodes, I could not help but think how real the kinds of incidents incorporated into these works of fiction, really are, and that somewhere, right now in the United States, just as in other parts of the world, these things are happening for real.  I  thought of my Sunday School classmate and Facebook friend, Dr. Joan D___, whose daughter works tirelessly to fight 21st century slavery right here in the good old U.S.A.  

One can surmise that throughout the CSI three-parter, bodies and body parts were in good supply.  But at the very end, the young woman was found.  I'll spare you the gory details of all that happened to her; feel free to use your imagination.  When the young woman approaches Dr. Whomever (I don't know the CSI character's name, and it really isn't relevant), she asks:

How can I go back after all that has happened?

His reply is something to this effect:  All you have to do is walk through the door.


The young woman, via the "CSI," had received a text message from her mother which said, in essence:  I love you, I miss you, please come home, I want you back.

That really does say it all:  I love you, I miss you, please come home, I want you back.  So, I ask you this:

Have you ever done something so terrible that when you think about it you just cringe?  You might even shiver a little bit and wonder however could I have done that?  Something that you're absolutely not proud of and you a very ashamed of?  It just makes you groan inwardly when you hear about it or even think about it.  It just tears your heart out.

We've all done things of which we are not proud, of which we are ashamed.  But there is some good news here:  I am reminded of a sermon about second chances.  In this sermon were mentioned several folks --  well-known Biblical characters who are just like us.  They have problems and obstacles and challenges and successes and relationships.  And some of them abused their relationships, taking people for granted, and really messed over them, really bad.  But at the same time, those folks, when they realized the wrong that they had done, and were grievously sorry for it – do you know what they did?  They went to God and confessed their wrongdoing and asked Him for forgiveness.  And you know what?  In seeing them in their sorrow and knowing their hearts, He forgave them and gave them a second chance.


Most times, it takes more than a second chance; often there are third, fourth and even more chances - because we fall down.  The key is to get up.  God is so merciful that if your heart is sincere, He'll give you the chance you need to get up and try again.  Isn't that wonderful to know, that there is One to whom we can go, Who will wipe our slate clean and give us another chance?
 

So, how can you go back after all that has happened?  All you have to do is take the first step through that Door.  As one of my favorite songs goes:  Everytime I run back to Him, He is waiting with open arms . . .  Just as the mother waits for her wayward child to come back, even more so does the Father.  The obstacles that keep us from the Main Thing are not of his doing, but are those of others, and perhaps even yours.  The sad part is that the very ones who would serve to block others from the Main Thing, are as messed up as the rest of us.  In their ignorance, they let their rules, regulations, rituals, sorry Scriptural interpretations and traditions keep others -- and themselves -- from experiencing the joy of the Main Thing.


Well?  What obstacles prohibit you from keeping the Main Thing the Main Thing?  What is more important than being made righteous by faith in Jesus Christ?  Does your new suit do it for you?  How about those new pumps and matching purse?  Perhaps more to your liking is the ill-prepared, aliterate self-proclaimed prophet, who speaks poetically, peppering his/her verbiage with alliterative points which tickle your ears without speaking to your heart.


On the other hand, what obstacles do you cast before others that keep the Main Thing from being the Main Thing for them?   Your dress code?   The little doily things that add no significance to anything, and definitely do not serve as a conduit of justification?  Perhaps you have a residential zip code requirement?  Or, maybe everyone must look, act and speak like you?  How boring is that?

And finally,

1. This writing is not about bashing your religion.
2. This writing is not about bashing your denomination.
3. This writing is not about bashing you.
4. If you take offense, well, look in the mirror and ask yourself why.  If you deem any rule, regulation or standard you adhere to more important than anyone's relationship with the Almighty, perhaps you should rethink your position.

Obstacles: Keeping the Main Thing the Main Thing (Part II)

Just a reminder:

1. This writing is not about bashing your religion.
2. This writing is not about bashing your denomination.
3. This writing is not about bashing you.
4. If you take offense, well, I'll finish this item 4 later . . .

In Part I of this writing, we discussed how clothing can be used to include or exclude one from the "table."   But what about other exclusionary devices -- tactics -- TRADITIONS???

What about this one:

• You simply cannot go to worship there; they have a woman for a pastor!
• Or -- as I was told recently:  Oh, I see you're an ordained minister, but I don't allow women in my pulpit.

My Sunday School class just finished a short study of women in the Bible.  While some of the actual female characters in the Bible were discussed, the study was as much about the fallacies regarding women in the Old and New Testaments (with some mention of the Torah), the misuse and misapplication of gender in many versions of the Bible, and the effects thereof.

A little sidebar here:  Recently I happened on the website of a "church" which describes itself thusly:

We are a local New Testament church reaching the [city name] Area with the gospel of Jesus Christ. Don't expect anything contemporary or liberal. We are an old-fashioned, independent, fundamental, King James Bible only, separated Baptist church and not ashamed to say so.

My first thoughts upon reading that little snippet:  Doesn't he realize King James is a version of the Bible and not an accurate translation?  Was Jesus a fundamentalist?  Was Jesus a separatist?  If Jesus was "old-fashioned" and "separatist" how could He have possibly reached the folks whose lives he changed, and who in turn lived the Great Commission?  How could he sit "at table" with loose women and tax collectors and all those other sinners?  Just curious.   


As a child, I wondered why pulpits were populated by men -- and only men; why women ministers were curiosities and had celebrity status; why women were systematically assigned to missionary work as if being called thusly was not as significant as being called to preach the Gospel.  Why did all women go to "mission" meetings and men to "brotherhood" meetings?  Were men ever missionaries?  Did women ever have "sisterhood" meetings?  

So, what's the deal?   This writer sees it like this:  Sometimes traditions are perpetuated to maintain the status quo, thereby depriving others -- in this case, women -- access to all of the rights, privileges and responsibilities, of being true believers in The Way, The Truth, The Life -- in Jesus, the Christ.  In Galatians, Paul makes clear that we are one in Jesus Christ -- that there is neither Jew nor Greek, slave nor free, male nor female (Galatians 3:28).  So, why do some folks insist on defining a believer's role in the building of the Kingdom God based on one's gender?  Simple.  One can-be-and-in-this-case-is-nasty little word:  TRADITION.


Were one to take a look at the big picture, one might agree with this writer:  WE SIMPLY DON'T HAVE TIME FOR SOME TRADITIONS.   The harvest is plentiful, but the workers are few. (Luke 10:2).  There are more people on the face of the earth than ever before.  There are more churches on the face of the earth than ever before.  Still, we lose ground with petty territorialism, insecurities and jealousy, because:

• The Church is not your church
• Those who are lost do not have the luxury of waiting for you to choose your successor
• Your successor is not necessarily your biological son (the laws of descent and distribution of your state do not apply to God's Kingdom)
• Your son in the ministry is not yours (God has children, not grandchildren)
• Even if you/your family own the real estate on which your subset of the Family of God meets for worship, study and fellowship, it is still not yours (the earth is the Lord's -- and everything in it)
• Yes, there are actually others who have studied the Word and have something substantial to impart to God's people.  They study with their hearts and minds, not their genitalia.  Their filter is the Holy Spirit, not their hormones.

 Note to pastor who informed me that he does not allow women in his pupit:  Where is GOD in YOUR pulpit? And what makes you think I want to be anywhere near YOUR pulpit?


While I do not advocate abdicating our sense of how to effectively "do church" for the sake of hyped commercialism and  marketing, I do advocate the adoption of a Paulinian mindset:  in Jesus Christ there is no male nor female.



While some bask in the glow of their positions, standing on what has always been and sitting on their responsibilities, the harvest is rotting in the fields.  

Because of tradition.

While those who have called themselves warm the benches of the dugouts (oops - pulpits) of many churches, the truly called are precluded from going to bat or into the field.  

Because of tradition


While some man, woman, boy or girl would hear in the firm, strong, and gentle voice of another, a message of love, hope and salvation, he or she is instead subjected to the rantings of one who did not take the time to be still and listen for and prepare a message from the One who is waiting with open arms to receiving His children.

Because of tradition.

Traditions aren't all they're cracked up to be, according to Paul in the second chapter of Galatians.

News flash: Not only is it not about tradition, it's not about the rituals. And it's not even about the religion. But it's all about the relationship.


Keeping the Main Thing the Main Thing may require the emptying of oneself to allow room for the Main Thing to come in .  If your traditions take up too much space, there may not be room for the Main Thing.  


What baggage do you need to throw overboard to allow the Main Thing in your boat?

to be concluded in Part III.

Remembering Daddy

Lewis Hoxie, Jr. was born 102 years ago today, in his home on Detering Street just off what is now Memorial Drive.  At the time of his birth, his maternal grandfather, Anthony Gonder, owned acreage in that area, now priced well beyond my ability to pay.  I think of my father often.  Even though he died when I was 14 years old, he left a lot of himself in me.

For my short stint with Daddy, he was self-employed.  He rented a lot on Telephone Road near the Gulf Freeway (just north of the railroad track, next to Manning Machine Shop).  He sold soils, fertilizers and sand.

As I wrote "He sold soils, fertilizers and sand" I remember that I wrote of my father in my never-completed series REAL DADS OF THE DARKER NATION, so I went back to my archives and found the article, coincidentally published on November 5, 2008.  Rather than repeat myself here, I commend the reader to that blog.  [I've always wanted to "commend" someone to a writing -- it's what lawyers do when they're supposed to be presenting in those much-too pricey continuing legal education courses that are required for lawyers and board certified paralegals.  I've often wondered, why stand in front of me, all motor-mouthed, if all you're going to do is "commend" me to the paper?  Anyway, back to Daddy.

Stuff my Daddy taught me:

- If you see something that's not right, it's your responsibility to fix it, and if you can't, make the situation known so that it can be fixed.

- If you're big enough to invite someone to "whatever", you'd better be big enough to pick up the tab.

- If you want to eat, go to work.  Daddy once "floored" a guy who announced to my father that he was "retiring" and "going on welfare."

- Don't talk ugly around the children (especially his).  Daddy once jumped a fence after asking a guy next door to hold down the foul language because his kids were playing outside.  The guy's response was more vituperative utterings, so Daddy jumped the fence and belted him.

- Prayer meeting is not just for when we're at church.  So we had prayer at home -- the whole famn damily.

- A man can only take so much.  A woman, too.

One of the great things about being a daughter of Lewis Hoxie, Jr., was being able to roam the neighborhood freely and not be bothered by anyone.   Just the suggestion that I might tell my daddy was sufficient for the biggest neighborhood bully to leave me alone.  Daddy wasn't as tall as my mom (and she was 5'8" back then), but he was stocky and as solid as a brick wall.

Was my Daddy perfect?  Absolutely not!  But he was my Daddy.  He is still my Daddy.  And even 40 years, 9 months and 1 week after his death, I still think of him.

There's Room at the Table -- If You Want There to Be

There was a wedding, attended by lots of folks connected to the bride, groom and their respective families via business relations, church membership, neighborhoods, and other ways. At the reception, Mr. & Mrs. Newbee staked out a table with other guests whom they knew. Upon leaving the the round table set for 10, to visit the buffet of sumptuous fare, Mrs. Newbee left her purse in her chair and Mr. Newbee left his hat in his.

Upon returning to "their" table, they found their chairs occupied by Mr. & Mrs. Ikkslusiv. Mr. Newbee's hat and Mrs. Newbee's purse had been placed on a ledge behind the Ikklusivs. As the Newbees stood, looking in wonderment, eyeing the empty chairs at the table, Mrs. Ikklusiv spread her arms wide and said these are all taken. Mrs. Newbee replied, yes, I know, they are ours. That's my purse and my husband's hat. And that sitting in front of you is my half-emptied water glass. Mr. Newbee leaned into his wife and said let's just find another table.

The Newbees turned around to the adjacent table, which was empty. They sat. Shortly thereafter, Mrs. Barnabas approached. As Mr. Newbee looked up and saw Mrs. Barnabas, he began to explain how they had been displaced. Well, these are tall take -- but we can make this work. Before either of the Newbees could react, Mrs. Barnabas began shifting chairs around.

As the evening progressed Mrs. Newbee sat back and surveyed the very full table. Her husband was deeply engaged in conversation with Mrs. Barnabas. All around the table were smiles and lots of chatter. No one seemed uncomfortable. In fact, there seemed to be ample elbow room, and everyone appeared to be having a great time of fellowship and celebration at this wedding feast.

I really don't believe it necessary to say anything else here.

Thanks to Pastor Steve Wells, whose dissection of Galatians 2:11-4 yesterday evening, prompted me to make this record of a true incident which happened not too long ago.

And I'm tempted to ask one question -- okay -- a compound question: Who is it that you would exclude from the table, and who would exclude you?

Obstacles: Keeping the Main Thing the Main Thing (Part I)

There's nothing like a good Bible Study to stir the pen. Okay, the keyboard.

I'll keep this short, but first a little housekeeping:

1. This writing is not about bashing your religion.
2. This writing is not about bashing your denomination.
3. This writing is not about bashing you.
4. If you take offense, well, I'll finish this item 4 later . . .

I'm sure you know the story of the woman who always cut a head of cabbage in half, cooked one half and discarded the other, because that's they way her mother did it, and that's the way her mother's mother did it. It turns out that her grandmother did it that way because her pot could only hold half a head of cabbage.

Alright, it might have not been a head of cabbage, but surely you see the message here: Oftentimes we do things out of tradition. At least that's the word that is frequently tossed about as the salve to heal all frustrations spawned by the never-ending question: Why? Why? Why this way and not that? Why?

Earlier this year while conducting a choir rehearsal this exchange took place:

Andrea: You know folks, I only see you a couple of times a year and we have a limited time to prepare for worship, so would you hold down the excess talk so we can get through this?

Male choir member: Well, you know, we have our traditions.

Andrea: Yes, and your traditions might take you straight to hell.

As a child I wondered why we do some of the things we do, especially among our church congregations and in our houses of worship. Why must we wear white on first Sunday? Why must someone plop that little doily thing on my head while I'm playing the communion service? What do you mean I have to cover my head? What do you think that stuff that grows out of my scalp is for? (Not intentionally, but since I tend to move around a bit when playing the piano, that little doily thing often landed on the floor.)

And just a few years ago, my best friend said to me: I'd love to come to your Christmas concert but I just have on a plain dress. My reply: Well, I'm sure you'll fit in just fine. Why was this little exchange so weird to me? As usual, I'm glad you asked. Until recently I suffered tremendously with insomnia, sometimes going for three or four days without real sleep. I decided to try a change of venue and checked into a downtown hotel for a couple of nights. (Checking into hometown hotels was nothing new for me. I did the same thing while in seminary when I had writer's block.) After checking out of the Crowne Plaza, I drove straight down Main Street, and as I approached my Place of worship, and it being Sunday and all, I had a tremendous yearning to attend the 8:30 worship service as I normally do. I parked my Jeep in the usual spot, and approached the side entrance, tentatively, just as our Minister of Music arrived. He greeted me with his normal gigantic smile, eyes twinkling, teeth flashing, and greeted me: hey girl! Come on in here! What was so unusual about that? Girl was sporting a warmup suit and athletic shoes.

The really cool thing is that no one who spoke to me that day gave any indication that I grossed them out because of my attire. They looked at me -- not my togs.

Now, before I dwell on clothing and the reader thinks it's just about fashion, let's move on. Since I promised to keep this short, I'll have to deem this writing Part I, and will end with this:

Traditions aren't all they're cracked up to be, according to Paul in the second chapter of Galatians.

News flash: Not only is it not about tradition, it's not about the rituals. And it's not even about the religion. But it's all about the relationship.

Welcome to South Main Baptist Church

Title: Welcome to South Main Baptist Church
Link: http://www.smbc.org/

A couple of months ago I was reminded of why I chose to become a member of a particular congregation. We sometimes refer to ourselves as the family of God in this place. This place is our campus -- where we meet for worship, to learn, to fellowship, and to celebrate weddings and new babies and souls gone on with beautiful memorial services that celebrate life. We dedicate babies and commit to supporting their nurture, growth and development. We baptize new believers. We pray with an for each other and others. We encourage and commission missionaries who go near and far to spread the Gospel of Jesus. We have fun and food -- fun for the entire family and food that is consistently good.

About 11 years ago I started going to worship at the 8:30 service at that place when I still held leadership positions in music ministry. That was my hour of worship, unencumbered by worry or wondering -- whether "she" would properly execute her solo, or if "he" would be on time, or whether the drummer would be too loud -- too fast -- too slow -- or too much. Some percussionists don't understand that they are most often accompanists for the accompanists (primary instruments [piano and organ]), who are accompanying the real messengers -- the singers. In that hour I was free to commune with God and His family in that place.

It turned out that the family of God in that place are really nice folks. They not only speak to strangers, but do so with a smile, a firm handshake, a pat on the arm or shoulder or back, a real greeting, a there's a seat up there -- it's a little closer -- do you want to come up? kind of invitation. The kinds of smiles, handshakes and invitations that say we're really glad you're here. While I am pitiful about remembering names, there were faces that had become familiar to me, and to whom mine had become familiar as well. Okay, you're probably asking how do you know your face became familiar to them? Well, it's like this: miss a couple of Sundays and then go back. The welcome to South Main greetings are tossed in favor of it's so good to see you again.

When I left music ministry in 2003 I visited a few churches closer to my home, but on that first Sunday in April 2003 I went back to that place where I had been welcomed so frequently. I have been there since. I cannot say unequivocally that there is no other place like it because I have not been to all of God's places. What I can say is there is none other that I know. Yes, ourplace is a nice campus that's well cared for. But what makes our place special is not the campus layout or the buildings, but the family.

So what happened? I'll spare you the gory details. After having written this, the unpleasant incident is no longer remembered. And I continue to visit my place, commune with my family, have a little dinner, then prayer, Bible study and choir rehearsal. That incident is nothing more than an inconsequential blink on the spectrum of eternity.

So, why revise and repost this blog today? Well, I'm glad you asked. I was out of town this past Sunday, and I just visited our website and looked at the Sunday worship guide. I missed being at our place and thought of it as I arrived at the airport about the time I should be taking my seat in the choir loft. What I now know is that I missed some really special stuff: our former pastor returned to the pulpit to share a message, the hymns that were sung are among my most favorite, and a truly brilliant pianist played an arrangement of Amazing Grace. He and his beautiful family will be greatly missed, but I'm sure they know there will always be room for them in our place.

Like a Bad Penny: Sarcoidosis Update Part II

Sarcoidosis manifests itself in many different ways. For me, although it was found in my lungs and my left eye, my problems are most often bone, joint and muscle related. For a pianist, even a middle-of-the-road, fair-to-midlin', just-a-hair-to-the-right-of mediocre one like me, it is a really big deal. Let me veer off the road for a moment:

Before being diagnosed in 1996, one Sunday afternoon, in fit of rebellion, I decided to go for a walk in the park. No big deal, right? Not for me. I spent hours walking every week. At least I had until the first week of April '96. Oh -- that "no big deal" question -- yes, a big deal. When one is dragging the right side of one's body and is in indescribable pain, a walk in the park is a bit problematic at the least. The park was only four houses away at the dead end of Lawnhaven -- about 300 feet. I made it to the edge of the park and could go no further; so I sat down on the curb and waited for "M" to figure I've been gone long enough and he should come and look for me. In my anger at not being in control, my confusion in not knowing why, and the very pain itself, I cried. No, I bawled. And, finally regaining control of my blubbering and tears, I prayed: Lord, I don't know what's happening to me, but if you just let me play [piano], I'll be okay.

It's like this: I figured I could get along without my left foot, and an eye, and if necessary, perhaps being too weak to walk. But I needed my hands, and I needed to have use of my right foot, even if it was almost as big as a football. Because I needed to play the piano. For the 18 months or so that I could do practically nothing, I could play piano. I may have had to go to a hospital on Sunday afternoon, but on Sunday morning I sat at "my" grand piano at the church where I served, and played the entire worship service. I may have conducted choir rehearsal with everyone singing a capella but on Sunday morning I played. Sometimes my back and arms were ripped to shreds by surgeons' scalpels -- or so I envisioned, but even then I could play.

So why am I remembering such an awful, but wonderful thing today? I really love these easy questions. I don't have to haw and stammer like a politician; I can simply answer. Let me get back on the road and tell you my answer, which has two parts:

First, I have to play this evening. A few weeks ago before my condition worsened, I was asked to play this evening at 6:30. I've had a pity party today about not feeling well. A friend called me this morning and asked how I was, and I said I'm down to about 30%. In retrospect, that's 29% more than many folks with whom we share this so-called orphan disease. How dare I indulge in a woe-is-me session on a fine Friday afternoon with 45 percent humidity and a 77-degree temperature in HOUSTON TEXAS????!!! That means I can go outside!!! Hellooooooo patio! I'm reminded of that song that ends:

Wait a minute, it stopped raining

Guys are swimming, guys are sailing

Playing baseball, gee that's better

Mother, father, kindly disregard this letter

Alright, I'm going out to the patio right now.

Second, this is an opportunity for me to remind readers -- again -- yes, again -- about the upcoming Sarcoidosis walk-a-thon. And yes, I'm going to post the link again.

Alright, I said this was a two-part answer, but let me leave you with this "part third:"

Like many chronic conditions, Sarcoidosis not only robs one of vitality of the body, but can zap the psyche as well. Sometimes until one utters (or writes) those sentiments of dread, one is totally oblivious of being unable to see the forest for the trees. Such is the case here, in which my temporary amnesia blotted from my mind the fact that the God to whom I prayed 13-1/2 years ago is the same God who had sustained me from my premature birth when few thought I would survive, and all the 42 years prior to that mid-1996 diagnosis, who has been with me through every illness, car accident (especially the one where I knew I was going to die [yeah, okay, what do I know?]), the birth of my Sweet Pea, and everything else, is the same God, the One and Only, the Great I Am, who will be with me this evening when I sit at a piano on a campus in a house of worship, consecrated for use by His people to His glory, to praise Him, and to grow His Kingdom. As my pastor Steve would say: Well? What about you? And for this blog, he might ask: On whom will you relyto get you through your next challenge? This day? The rest of your life?

http://www.jsof.org/events/2009_08_01_archive.html

Like a Bad Penny: Sarcoidosis Update

I am out of remission. That in itself is nothing new. Since being declared "symptom free" of Sarcoidosis in January 1998, I have regularly phased in and out of remission every year. Talk about showing up like a bad penny, it never really goes away. This time, however, is different. The pain is just a hair on the wrong side of unbearable, and my legs have become undependable. I'm trying to decide if I need to buy a walking stick (I went so long without using mine that I gave away both).

This past Sunday I stopped at the H.E.B. on Westheimer @ Fountainview. Prudence prevailed over my being self-conscience, so I used a mart cart, which I drove through the checkout and onto the parking lot next to my Jeep. A woman who appeared to be of sufficient age to be my mother (for the record, I am 55) offered to help me with my one bag in the parking lot of H.E.B. on Westheimer @ Fountain View!!! While it was really sweet of her to offer, that made me wonder am I really moving that poorly? Still, I am more fortunate than many who live with this so-called "orphan" disease.

So, why am I bringing this up again? I could get argumentative and ask would you say that if the subject was some other, more popular disease? Instead, I'll just reply thusly: Simple. There are some events coming up to highlight Sarcoidosis and raise funds to support related research, and I want to share them with you. So here they are ---

Janine Sarcoidosis Outreach Foundation will be a guest on KPFT 90.1 FM Radio's October 18, 2009, Panafrican Journal program at 8:05 p.m. KPFT is a media sponsor of the Janine Sarcoidosis Outreach Foundation.

On Wednesday, October 21, 2009, the honorary guest for the Janine Sarcoidosis Outreach Foundation's 5th Annual Walk for a Cure, Dr. Marc A Judson of the University South Carolina Medical Center's Sarcoidosis Clinic, will be a guest on KPFT 90.1's Connect the Dots Program, from 3:30 to 3:45 pm. (Note to the fabulous Texas Medical Center: how about a Sarcoidosis clinic for Houston?)

On October 14, 2009, the Houston Texas Sarcoidosis Support Group will be audience members for the live taping of of KHOU 11 TV's Great Day Houston program with Debra Duncan.

October 24, 2009, the 5th Annual Sarcoidosis Walk for a Cause and Cure will take place in Houston Texas. There will be a special appearance by the awesome jazz saxophonist, Rachella Parks, who has had three hip replacements due to Sarcoidosis complications. You can get more information about the walk by clicking here: http://www.jsof.org/events.html

I invite you to tune in to learn more about Sarcoidosis, and for those of you who can, participate in the "walk" -- something that I had hoped to do this year. If the walk took place today I could not. But -- there's always tomorrow.

Tomorrow might be better.

Some of Him in Each of Us

Today I played for a funeral. It was a nice celebration of a man whom I met just a few years ago. Most of the time I spent with him was in family settings at his home and the home of others of his family. We shared little one-on-one time. Actually, I can remember only one such time during which we spoke of shared passions: love of family, technology, music and the Lord.

The "service" began at 11:00 this morning with an hour for visitation prior to that. As is my custom, I arrived at 10:00 and began playing without interruption until the procession of clergy and family at 11:00. I mention this part (about my playing) with intent. Normally when I play piano for an extended period of time, my surroundings become a blur. When not playing in private, part of me manages to remain mindful that I am treading on someone else's space and maintain a modicum of alertness. This morning I was aware of the movement of folks up and down the aisle and occasionally a few passed by to speak to me. (I'm really not fond of conversing while playing, but one has to be polite, so I speak, or nod, or make some kind of gesture in response.)

Now, imagine. There I sit, moving seamlessly (well, most of the time seamlessly) from one hymn or gospel song to the next. In my mind I hear those songs being sung, and the end of one tends to lead me into the beginning of another. Those who know me well know that despite the hundreds of songs I have learned in the past 50 years or so, I tend to draw on songs I learned in my childhood first, and the preponderance of those are hymns. I good hymn suits me just fine. Oh -- you say you don't know any hymns that are good? Then perhaps you don't know ANY. Before I get of track, I'm making a note to revisit that "hymn" issue. Anyway, in the midst of my playing and responding to an occasional greeting, I am accosted by a woman whose visage was most unpleasant. Actually, there was something spiritually maligned about her -- something I was loathe to deal with. She introduced herself using ALL THREE of her names: I'm A-B-C. Okay, I'm Andrea Hoxie. She then made a point to inform me of her position. My thought: Do I really care? I'll let you answer that. My only response to her was that my presence had been requested, and I continued to play. Needless to say, at the first opportunity she "got me" but good. At least, she probably thinks she did. While her interrupting my acoustic piano with some electronically enhanced stuff caused me to stop playing to avoid the dissonant clash of instruments, it reminded me of one reason why I quit music ministry, which I shall save for another blog. So, what does that have to do with SOME OF HIM IN EACH OF US? Keep reading, and I'll tell you.

During the funeral service, several of the Decedent's co-workers, friends and family spoke. This gave me more insight to this man whom I had known only a few years. I learned quite a bit which made me appreciate him all the more. Was he a saint? Absolutely not! As none of us is. And while nice things were said about him, there was no attempt to canonize him. (Why we tend to canonize the departed is something I have never understood, and having played for at least a thousand funerals [no exaggeration], it's something folks tend to do; but I'll save that for another time.) And I learned that he was at peace with what he knew was the end of this little finite period we call life.

As I sat through the eulogy, this is what stayed with me: God has put Himself (I'll not quibble over the gender issue or try to be poilitically correct here -- I mean HIMself -- refer to Him however you want in your own blog) in each of us. Whether we let Him out is entirely up to each of us. Ms. Three Names who made it a point to treat me with hostility, although I had been invited into her "home" by her "family," chose to cast the spotlight on herself. When we are seeking opportunities to be seen, we are so full of ourselves that we are choking out God like weeds in a field of lilies. (Okay, test: who are we --- the weeds or the lilies?) Rather than show a little grace and welcome me to her space, she was gruff and territorial. (Perhaps I should invite her to my home -- South Main Baptist -- so that she can experience examples of real warmth and welcoming --- perhaps.) On the other hand, the Decedent, whose life we celebrated today, reminded me that God in us will work through us, if we let Him.

So, here's my thought: there is Go[o]d in the worst of us and evil in the best of us, and if we ever get ourselves out of His way, His love will come through us and reach others.

Have you ever considered the many ways we can reach others? It might start with a smile, a gesture, an open door, a note, a word of encouragement. We don't have to be Billy Graham clones to make a difference in the lives of folks whose paths we cross -- sometimes daily.

Leaving you now, with this question: If each of us would get out of God's way, and allow His love to flow through us in even small ways to others, can you imagine the pandemic change in humankind?

Each one who knows Him, reach one. It's not a new concept, but from where I sit it has yet to go viral.

The Next Wave of Hot Careers

Do you remember when becoming a paralegal was all the rave? How about dental assistant? Medical transcriptionist? Massage therapist? And we must not forget electronics and information technology. Training institutions and business colleges sprang up like weeds after a heavy rain. The default rate of their students' "student" loans was comparatively horrific compared to traditional institutions of higher learning.

So what? Well, I've got news for you!!! Whether you're just getting started and haven't decided what you want to do with your life, or contemplating a career change, consider this:

Caveat: I have no statistics, but all you have to do is open your eyes and see that --

1. An alarming number of men wear clothing several sizes too large. What is problematic is that their trousers, those garments designed to fit around the waste, are being worn several inches below the waist -- sometimes below the buttocks. Aside from the flashing of boxer shorts, which this writer simply cannot understand why this fashion statement is "in" -- have you ever noticed how one must walk when one's trousers are much too large and worn well below the waste? Even when secured by a belt, it is necessary for the wearer of such foolishness to walk with his legs farther apart than is natural. It is doubtful folks who wear baggy trousers have given little consideration to the long-term effects of poor walking posture. Our bodies are a delicate balance of chemicals and minerals comprising systems of muscle, tissue, bone, connective tissue -- blah, blah, blah. We are engineering marvels of the Creator, and He did not create us to walk in such unnatural ways as required by baggy pants.

2. An alarming number of women wear extremely high heels -- all the time. This writer actually knows a woman who claims not to be able to wear flat shoes! What is problematic is that over time the wearing of high heels damages muscles and joints.

So what does all this have to do with the next wave of hot careers??? Well, I'm glad you asked. I figure in the next 10 to 20 years we're going to need a lot more podiatrists, orthopedic surgeons, chiropractors, manufacturers of durable medical equipment for stuff that hasn't even been invented yet, special insurance plans to pay for all this crap (you know -- like you can buy a cancer policy today that pays in the event of that kind of diagnosis).

Yessiree, buddy: the fashion industry is going to do for us what the pharmaceutical industry has done. Just as legal drugs are destroying our bodies from the inside out with side-effects and organ damage,* baggy pants and high heels are damaging our musculature and spines.

I suppose, however, that it is unfair to blame the fashion industry. Is there a gun to our heads? Are we under threat of the loss of life if we don't buy trousers that don't fit? Or shoes that make us as tall as we want to be? (Like -- I am vertically challenged and wish I could be as tall as my Sweet Pea, who has literally looked down on me since she was 14 years old.)

Just a little something to think about this evening. Now -- I need to go take inventory of my shoes . . .

___________________________

*Organ damage: NSAIDs (non-steroidal anti-inflammatory drugs) and ACE (angiotensin-converting enzyme) inhibitors)= are culprits that can cause renal failure. NSAIDs include some popular over-the-counter drugs. ACEs can constrict blood vessels and cause hypertension. Having Sarcoidosis, I am prone to have high levels of ACEs, which is why I have high blood pressure, something I never had before the big S. Have you noticed how many dialysis centers have been built in the last 10 years?

What Do You Do When You Don't Get Your Way?

Yesterday was Wednesday -- "hump" day -- the middle of the week. The day following our President's speech directed to children -- encouraging them to stay and do well in school -- a speech that too many folks did not want him to make. As one man put it: I don't want my child to be a little community organizer. This week I am listening to Mr. Obama's first book as I tool around the city in my Jeep. I spend a lot of time in my Jeep it seems. When I first heard the term community organizer I had an inkling, but now have learned a little more. In essence, what Mr. Obama did as a community organizer, was bring people together to work on problems to benefit their individual and common good -- the kind of stuff that many take for granted. (stuff we take for granted will be addressed at another time.) It turns out that when one reaps an individual benefit, it does affect the common good. But, again, I'll save that for another time. Back to the issue at hand -- Wednesday -- hump day.

Wednesday is a really special day. No matter how grueling it is, I try really hard to end it by four o'clock. If it all possible I like to spend 30 minutes or so with the beautiful rosewood Steinway that sits in the sanctuary of That Place where my family of God assembles for a myriad of reasons and activities (see previous blog). I missed that time yesterday, but arrived in time for dinner --- succulent, juicy, well-seasoned chicken breast tenders, a baked potato (custom loaded by yours truly), fresh leafy salad (they even remember I'm allergic to tomatoes), a roll that rivals any (even those from my mom's kitchen [don't tell her I said that -- even at 90 her baked goods are as scrumptious as they were 50 years ago]), and finished with a perfect peanut butter cookie (baked in our Place's kitchen, of course). Hmm. Anyway, trust me, I don't just go for the food. More importantly, I go for the fellowship and all that word encompasses.

There is something special about communing with a group of folks who share a common belief. It is the tie that binds our hearts in (at least in this case) Christian love. The fellowship part includes my pastor visiting our tables, taking a few moments for us to catch up with each other. Then we review our newsletter and get updates on what's happening with our friends and family. Then we have prayer. And then we begin Bible study, which brings us to the question pastor Steve asked yesterday evening: What do you do when you don't get your way?

I have yet to shake that question from the forefront of my thoughts. After Bible study I went to choir rehearsal -- as usual a mixed bag of musical genres. And, confronted with two pieces I really don't feel yet -- one in Spanish and another in a language I dare not even guess (something from Africa [no offense to my African brothers and sisters]), that question loomed in my mind: What do you do when you don't get your way? After rehearsal, getting into my second home (the Jeep [perhaps I should give it a name -- something gender nonspecific]), I received a phone call, and after my usual greeting -- this is Andrea -- what I heard was not hey, how're ya' doin' -- or the more gutteral vernacular -- whassup? -- but instead: did you hear that #!!*@??? (Remember Watergate? -- expletive deleted.) Anyway, no, I did not hear Joe Wilson. By now, most folks know who he is, so I'll just move right along. But after hearing the Joe Wilson excercise in uncivilized behavior (at least here in the United States -- not so in England or some Asian countries), there was that question again: What do you do when you don't get your way?

So, what about that question? Here are some broad strokes on the complicated canvass we call life (trite, huh?).

1. You remember your commitment. If you made it, you should honor it.

Is your commitment to your political party, or the people you represent, or to yourself? Is the oath you took a meaningless jumble of words -- you know, allegiance to the Constitution of the United States, swearing to well and faithfully discharge duties, blah, blah blah? These are questions -- particularly to legislators who enjoy great medical insurance and retirement benefits that are the envy of the folks they represent -- that merit answers. And don't forget these little gems: How many lobbyists do you actually know? Commune with? accept gifts from?

Suggestion to all: ask your legislator (how about all of them?) where his* loyalty lies.

2. You remember who's in charge. If you're not the leader, then you're a follower. If you dont' want to follow, get the heck out of the way.

Is your commitment to be the best choir member you can be, by following the instructions of the director, knowing that despite the numbers of bodies, there is only one soprano, one alto, one tenor, one bass (meaning if you screw it up there goes the whole section -- whether 2 or 12 or 20)? Is your commitment to serve at your whim, or to serve your God (mine gets the capital "G" -- how about yours) and minister to His people through music?

Note to self: review the Spanish and African language songs at home so you won't feel like a large-lipped bungling idiot trying to pronounce "mbwe" while in choir rehearsal.

3. You remember that He is the way -- so make your way His way. (Warning: you may not get with this blurb. That's okay for now; I pray that one day you will).

I have learned that most times our way is not the right way. We devise and scheme, plot and plan to shape, form and fashion what is right according to our own whims. Actually, we give little thought to the "rightness" of it all. Sure, we sometimes whitewash it in some lie on the Lord or Holy Spirt. You know of what I speak: I prayed and I prayed and the Lord showed me . . . The Lord led me to . . . The Spirit spoke to me and said . . . . Am I sayingHe doesn't speak to us? Absolutely not! He's always speaking to us; the problem is we are rarely listening. Why? Because usually we are hell bent on having our way. And most likely, that is where our way will take us: straight to hell. (Or as one man told me when I, substituting for his church's minister of music, asked the choir to reign in their conduct: Well, you know, we have our traditions, to which I replied: Yeah, and your traditions might take you straight to hell. Anyway, moving right along. . . .

The truth be told (another trite little saying), if we listened more often, we would have our way a lot less. But, we forge ahead with whatever, and when we get ourselves in another mess, He is still there. As the song says: Everytime I come back to Him, He is waiting with open arms, and I see once again He's been faithful to me. (That's really a nice song. Thank you, Carol Cymbala of Brooklyn Tabernacle.)

Sometimes not having our way is painful. This year has been chocked full of the most gut-wrenching pain I have ever experienced. I lost someone very dear to me in a most unsettling way -- not to a natural death, which is a natural progression of life -- but to divorce, which is the crudest tearing away (I rate it right up there with murder). If I had gotten my way, rather than having grieved over the loss of possibilities and potential, we would now be nurturing the growth and development of a viable means of help others. My thought about this last night: sometimes when we don't get our way it is because we have no control. And that thought begs the question: what do we do when we don't have control? Well, I'm glad you asked.

Even when I don't have control, The Way -- the Maker and Creator of us all -- is in control. He did not call Himself a Christian; He called Himself The Way. So whether it is a control issue or a getting my way issue (is there any difference? I think not), I choose to focus on Him. Only He has the ability to make sense out of confusion, turn darkness to light, open blind eyes and deaf ears that truth may be seen and heard, to melt hearts of stone. I pray for the day that my steps -- not some, but all -- are ordered in The Way -- the Word, the Truth, the Light. The Way is all that and much more.

____________________

*Please be reminded I care nothing for being politically correct. Use whatever gender pronoun you deem appropriate.

The Family of God for Me in That Place

This evening I was reminded of why I chose to become a member of a particular congregation. We sometimes refer to ourselves as the family of God in this place. This place is our campus -- where we meet for worship, to learn, to fellowship, and to celebrate weddings and new babies and souls gone on with beautiful memorial services that celebrate life. We dedicate babies and commit to supporting their nurture, growth and development. We baptize new believers. We pray with an for each other and others. We encourage and commission missionaries who go near and far to spread the Gospel of Jesus. We have fun and food -- fun for the entire family and food that is consistently good.

About 11 years ago I started going to worship at the 8:30 service at that place when I still held leadership positions in music ministry. That was my hour of worship, unencumbered by worry or wondering -- whether "she" would properly execute her solo, or if "he" would be on time, or whether the drummer would be too loud -- too fast -- too slow -- or too much. Some percussionists don't understand that they are most often accompanists for the accompanists (primary instruments [piano and organ]), who are accompanying the real messengers -- the singers. In that hour I was free to commune with God and His family in that place.

It turned out that the family of God in that place are really nice folks. They not only speak to strangers, but do so with a smile, a firm handshake, a pat on the arm or shoulder or back, a real greeting, a there's a seat up there -- it's a little closer -- do you want to come up? kind of invitation. The kinds of smiles, handshakes and invitations that say we're really glad you're here. While I am pitiful about remembering names, there were faces that had become familiar to me, and to whom mine had become familiar as well. Okay, you're probably asking how do you know your face became familiar to them? Well, it's like this: miss a couple of Sundays and then go back. The welcome to South Main greetings are tossed in favor of it's so good to see you again.

When I left music ministry in 2003 I visited a few churches closer to my home, but on that first Sunday in April 2003 I went back to that place where I had been welcomed so frequently. I have been there since. I cannot say unequivocally that there is no other place like it because I have not been to all of God's places. What I can say is there is none other that I know. Yes, our place is a nice campus that's well cared for. But what makes our place special is not the campus layout or the buildings, but the family.

So what happened? I'll spare you the gory details. After having written this, the unpleasant incident is a fading memory. Tomorrow I shall visit my place, commune with my family, have a little dinner, then prayer, Bible study and choir rehearsal. And it will be as if the memory of this evening that is now fading, was an inconsequential blink on the spectrum of eternity.

Let He Who is Without Sin . . . Call the Kettle Black

You've probably heard these before: "Let he who is without sin cast the first stone" and "the pot calling the kettle black." I'll let you decide if the two are relative. They are to me. These are the phrases of which I thought when I started reading one of the many emails I receive daily from some guy (for this piece, I'll call him "CL") who is evidently retired and hasn't figured out that there is more to life than "passing on" his political views via email ad nauseum. Why I haven't blocked him is a writing for another day. Now, on to the subject: the late Senator Edward Kennedy.

As we all will one day, Mr. Kennedy has passed from this life into whatever eternity awaits him. While this writer never attempted to deify or canonize the man, there are some who did. This is nothing extraordinary when it comes to losing a loved one. We tend to want to see and remember what is best in them. That's just the way we are. Seeing the good in a decedent often helps those who are left to better deal with their loss. (I do admit this can get out of hand. Several years ago I went to a funeral, and, sitting next to my brother, asked this question of him when folks stood to speak of the departed one: Brer, are you sure we're at the right funeral? Are they talking about ________? The contrast of what I heard and what I knew of the deceased was so profound that I excused myself and walked home.) Now, moving right a long. . .

The email I received today from CL was a laundry list of events in Mr. Kennedy's life which would tend to detract from whatever good he has done. At least, that appears to be CL's intent. While it is apparent that Mr. Kennedy will have a special place in American history, considering the collective contributions of his family, there is neither a need to deify or demonize him. He was a man, and just like other men he made some mistakes. As we all do. But as privileged as he was, he lacked what most of us have: a great degree of privacy in our lives. When Kennedy made a mess, the whole nation could smell it. For any one of us whose life goes on daily without close scrutiny, when a mess is made, there is no accompanying fuss on a national scale. The mess still stinks, but only a few smell it. Generally we get hose down our messes and scatter them around until they blend into the environment.

What I am saying is this: There are things that I have done in my life of which I am not proud; in fact, of which I am ashamed. Just the thought of them makes me shudder spasmatically, look away from the mirror. At such thoughts, bile rises in my gut to tease my esophagus, threatening to spew its way out to show me once again the ugliness and stench of my wrongdoing. Sometimes I just groan inwardly and hang my head. Get the picture? I dare say that anyone reading this blog, who has any inkling of right and wrong -- whether man, woman, boy or girl -- professional, skilled tradesman or day laborer -- black, white, red, yellow -- Christian, Jew, Atheist, Muslim, Buddhist or Wiccan -- young or old -- or whatever -- may sometimes react in similar fashion at the thought of his or her past deeds. If not he (or she) is probably too narcisistic or sociopathic to think she (or he) may have committed a wrong in the first place.

So? So what? So . . . are you the pot calling the kettle black? Or the milk calling the rice white? Or the one without sin who will try, judge and execute the rest of us? If so, righteous one, cast the first stone. Otherwise get a grip, and be glad you have another day, and therefore another opportunity, to get your own life straight, to act justly, love mercy, and walk humbly.

Am I a Kennedy fan? Not particularly. But neither am I a fan of any self-proclaimed righteous, holier-than-thou 21st century pontifex.

The bottom line is this: there is some good in the worst of us and some evil in the best of us. So put the stone down and do something for good.

Sarcoidosis -- Part III: Why Talk About it Now?

Why not? I know -- you have your hands full with cancer, and HIV AIDS and muscular dystrophy and multiple sclerosis. I understand. I've lost folks to cancer, AIDS, and muscular dystrophy. I know folks with multiple sclerosis. But since being diagnosed with Sarcoidosis 13 years ago, I have met scores of folks in my tiny little circle who either have it, knows someone who has it, or lost someone because of it.

After being diagnosed I learned how little research had been done about Sarcoidosis. It was not until four or five years ago that it was learned how this "orphan" disease, having been discovered more than 200 years ago, functions. It simply does not have widespread popularity and support. And because of the difficulty in properly diagnosing it, there are most likely lots of people who have suffered from it, even for years, without knowing why they feel so crappy all of the time. (From the first "S" book I read, I recall the story of a woman whose doctor told her she would feel better if she stopped being so lazy and got a little exercise. It was 15 years before she was properly diagnosed.)

Finally, while I hope these little snippets have raised awareness of the disease, I want to invite you, and the folks with whom you share this blog (and if you never share my blogs, please share just this one), to participate in a Sarcoidosis walk for a cure. The walk is scheduled for October 24, 2009. Please copy and paste this link into your browser's address window for more information: http://www.jsof.org/events.html

Or contact me.

Thanks for reading.

Sarcoidosis -- Part II: What the Heck is It?

Here's the short answer: Sarcoidosis is a multi system disorder characterized in affected organs by a type of inflammation called granulomas.

Here are a few tidbits I have learned about "S."

In North America it occurs among a higher percentage of folks of the darker nation. In northern Europe it occurs among a higher percentage of folks of the paler nation.

It generally is found in people between the ages of 20 and 40. I was 42 when I was diagnosed.

While any organ can be affected, in 80% of the cases there is pulmonary involvement. Skin, liver, spleen, bone marrow and lymph node involvement are common. It's in my lungs and left eye. (Why, then, are my bones, joints and muscles affected?)

It manifests itself in different ways but the formation of granulomas is a common element.

It is considered an "orphan" disease and was discovered more than 200 years ago.

What happens in the body: The blood cells that are supposed to defend the body against infectious diseases and foreign materials, surround those enemies, and instead of killing them, give them a place to stay. Welcome! Come on in! Make yourselves at home. Be fruitful. Multiply. And when you outgrow this space we'll just add another room to the house.

Chronic fatigue is a huge factor.

High blood pressure comes with the package.

It is not contageous.

It is unpredictable.

----------------- to be continued