"Pro Se" is Not a Disease

This is not an attack on lawyers (after all, a few are among my real friends [and real friends are scant in my life]); but it is what it is.

In case you're not familiar with the term pro se, it is a Latin phrase meaning "for oneself." In courts of law in the United States, one has the right to represent oneself without a lawyer. One is referred to as a pro se party. I am one.

Since February I have been involved in a very unpleasant case. I was sued by a person who made an agreement with me in very specific terms and from day one chose not to honor the agreement. I am even enjoined by a court order from speaking of my adversary, even though what I have spoken of my adversary has been the truth. My adversary retained counsel who repeatedly broke rules of our local courts, rules of disciplinary conduct and the rules of civil procedure of our state. I repeatedly called attention to that counsel's disregard of the rules. Yet, who gets the blame when we stand at the bench for the "umpteenth" time? Why, the pro separty of course. Me.

So what's the big deal? Well, consider the cost. And not in terms of money. We all know most legal matters are very expensive and beyond the ability of most folks with modest means to pay for. Consider the cost in terms of your rights as a citizen of this country. Consider your peace of mind and that of your family and friends, and how you, and by extension they, live your legal skirmishes. Consider how the folks who write our laws (more often than not, lawyers), have made them so convoluted and difficult to understand that most folks simply cannot. In fact, our statutes and codes are so needlessly wordy that one has to chop them up into little pieces to attempt to grasp the meaning of the whole. (They're kind of like the gibberish those purportedly well-meaning rich-but-socially-conscious idiots in Ayn Rand's Atlas Shrugged offer up as fodder for why doing business and making profits are to be considered with so much disdain.) Consider that just a few weeks ago one of my lawyers and I toiled over a particular section of the Texas Business Corporations Act for more than an hour, arguing about the establishment of a time line, and trying to make sure that we "got it." We could not help ourselves, as we marveled at the stupidly twisted verbiage that our lawmakers passed. (They must have had a really bad day that day.) Alright -- I'm getting off topic here. But if you have read my blogs, you know that getting off topic just happens all too often. Chalk it up to my unprofessionalism (more about that later) -- after all I am a lowly amateur writer. But . . . I'm really not that far off base. Here's why:

This is one of those instances where ignorance is not bliss. Think about this: we elect people to our legislature. They spend their time doing God only knows what -- that is to say any, and every thing not in the best interest of their constituents (that's you and me [note to self: write a blog about the American people]) but for the betterment of their buddies and themselves. Then, they regurgitate some garbage that would put most teachers and professors of English or any writing course in cardiac arrest. So . . . when you have that little conflict, and you take it upon yourself to take care of it without consulting a lawyer (how dare you!!), you are castigated for exercising your right to do so -- by 1) the judiciary (those folks who were first lawyers and now sit on the bench and selectively enforce the rules their peers have promulgated); 2) the members of the bar (those folks, most of whom lied, cheated and stole their way through law school, somehow managed to pass the bar exam and get an 8-digit number [in Texas] from the State Bar, and who selectively follow the rules their peers have promulgated, and who condescend to those who did not lie, cheat and steal their way through law school, but still manage to have a modicum of understanding with regard to the verbiage their peers have spewed forth and tagged as law). And then, there are the folks who think they have the upper hand because they have retained a lawyer. I will speak only of one -- my adversary.

By the way, my adversary no longer has a lawyer. Why? Well, I'm glad you asked. It was all my fault, of course. Opposing counsel withdrew, stating in her motion to withdraw that I am unprofessional and belligerent (translated: I did not allow counsel to interrupt me when we conferred, and I called to the attention of counsel and the court every broken rule -- especially when the breaking of such a rule was to give counsel an unfair advantage over this writer. The bottom line is that counsel thought this case would be a cakewalk. Fortunately for me, I am very comfortable with my belligerence and unprofessionalism -- that is, if it means that I persist and leave no stone unturned (including citing all rules broken by the enemy) and I follow the rules and exhaust all possibilities to sustain my cause. AND --- if it means I refuse to allow anyone to condescend to me or even speak over me because she managed to pass the bar. Whoop-de-doo.

This blog was started a few months ago, but today, July 27, 2009, is a fitting day to finish it, because today for the umpteenth time I have stood at the bench and been told to get a lawyer. The funny thing about it is that I had all my ducks in a row -- pre-trial motions, current pleadings, a cheat sheet for objections, three sets of exhibits, rules of civil procedure, rules of evidence, my entire file -- everything. I was cool, calm, collected and all of that good stuff. The butterflies I have experienced at hearings previously were nonexistent. I could actually look at my adversary without my stomach flipping. If I were clueless as to how to proceed (like my adversary), I could well understand the Court telling me to "get a lawyer." But competence could not possibly have anything do with such a mandate that in itself attempts to deprive me of my constitutional right to represent myself. The only thing I can think of is that by not having a lawyer, I am depriving a member of the bar the right to my truly-hard-earned dollars. News flash: that right has not been conferred by me upon any member of the bar; therefore, thatright simply does not exist, nor has it ever.

Why is this so important? Consider the way of laws and regulations these days. They are monstrous tentacles ferreting through every aspect of our society -- going to and fro seeking some weak spot in the membrane of our very being -- some place to which they can attach and suck dry the very essence of what lies beyond. Watch out for what might come in the future. The day may come when it is mandatory for all to have a lawyer for even minor traffic offenses. (Note to self: find a lawyer to defend against photo traffic ticket.) The county law library will be closed to all except card-carrying members of the state bar. It will be illegal to own even a Black's Law Dictionary -- especially the older editions that have not been purged and bastardized.

Am I writing of all lawyers? Absolutely not. But lawyers are just like everyone else -- they come in all shapes, sizes, colors and degrees of good, bad, mediocre, competent, expert, lazy, unethical -- blah, blah, blah. Just as I'd rather have a friend's husband do a "brake job" on my Jeep (because he's honest about whether or not my Jeep really needs a brake job), or I'd rather ride out a bout of sinusitis instead of running to see my doctor, I ought to have a choice as to whether or not I want to spend money on a lawyer.

The bottom line is this: the fruits of my labor are mine to consume as I wish. If I do myself harm in the courtroom, it is the bed I make and the one in which I will lie. On the other hand, if a lawyer, through incompetence or carelessness, causes me harm in the courtroom, it is the bedhe makes, but still the one in which I must lie. It is often said that the person who represents himself in court has a fool for a client. That may be so, but as I am my own woman, I'd rather be my own fool than the fool of one for whose services I have paid. Take my adversary, for instance . . .

It's Not Just About Henry Gates, and Unfortunately, it Really is a Black Thing

Recently I expressed to a friend that the first thing people see when they see me is the color of my skin. He probably will never understand my saying that -- but he'll never have to live in my skin (or any like it). But every now and then unspoken truths have a way of finding voice and amplification, taking shape, becoming flesh and dwelling among us. Then the world hears -- and sees their beauty -- or in this case, their ugliness.

Sometime ago I wrote on my Facebook page that I am comfortable in my skin, but I wish it was just one shade of brown. I still wish it was just one brown. Parts of me are like black coffee with a hint of creamer while others are like the chocolate chip cookies I make with dark brown sugar, and still others are more like caramel. There's a little patch under my lower lip that is quite light. Chalk that up to my stereotypical Negroid lips providing that little patch with shade 24/365 . (I wonder if the Afrocentrists among us will protest my use of the adjective Negroid.) Years ago, my mom was as fair as any one of the paler nation.* And while quite brown, my father's legs were as light as my mom's face. I often wonder how they bore this chocolate bunny and her two siblings. And we are truly their children in every sense of the word. And, as usual, I digress. Moving right along . . .

One might ask why bring this issue to the forefront at all? I ask, why not? To go from one day to the next, pretending that all is well, is like living at the base of a volcano. Things have a way of heating up. And erupting. And spreading. And leaving death and devastation all around. And that is not to have anyone in fear of his life; we all have the capacity for many deaths other than physical: mental, psychological, emotional, aspirational, spiritual (the big one), etc. So much for shotgunning;** let's get to the point.

The point is this: for all of my different hues, and there are many, my skin does not define me.

The problem is this: for all of my different hues, and there are many, there are folks (lots, in fact) who not only define me (and people like me) by my skin, they also indict, try, condemn, sentence and execute me (and people like me) before I have flashed them a smile with time-worn but twinkling eyes, or opened my mouth to use tongue, teeth and lips to demonstrate my command of my native language (English), which is generally as good as most and better than others.

And why is this a problem? Well, I'm glad you asked. This problem affects every facet of my life (and the lives of people like me). People of the darker nation, while going about their daily tasks, often mentally absorbed in the same cares that haunt the thoughts of everyone else (you know, the mortgage, the environment, marketing strategies, business development, lesson plans, causes of action, the kids -- stuff like that), are often blindsided by some overt or covert act that reminds them of the singular distinction of their dark skin. It is that singularity that for many of the rest of the world indicates we are unintelligent, unambitious, foul-speaking, unqualified, less studious, dishonest, untrustworthy, belligerent, lawless, and lest I start shotgunning again, any other negatively descriptive word one might want to assign. (However, I simply must add "undeserving", as no matter how qualified we are, often we do not get the job, the promotion, the bonus, or even the recognition or credit for doing well that we have rightfully earned.) For purposes of discussion, consider these two examples:

1. In the past I have spent considerable time searching for a job in my field. I have not had a viable job offer in more than a decade. First it was because even though I had the right experience I didn't have a college degree. After I ticked that minor inconvenience off my "to-do" list, the reason morphed into my having too much experience. Duh --- how can one have too much experience? Does that mean that after 10 years or so one should change professions -- or retire -- lie about it -- or just die and get life over with??? Solution to problem: nix the job search. (Still, if anyone is interested in a seasoned paralegal, I am not opposed to being contacted.)

2. Even in volunteer situations the black thing is problematic. As a member of a non-profit organization, I once expressed a desire to volunteer my time and skills for a particular project and was asked for a resume. I walked away wondering if the Toms, Dicks and Harrys of the group were ever asked for their resumes. Solution to problem: don't volunteer. I now share what time, talent and skills I can with those who ask for my help.

Another aspect of the problem: Have you ever been told that you (or something about you) are "too white for black and too black for white?" If so, welcome to my world. My interests and proclivities span broadly spaced points on most spectra. I am open to listening to most music except rap, heavy metal, and meaningless gospel. To this writer rap and heavy metal are not valid forms of music, and meaningless gospel may have good rhythm, structure, harmonies and all of the elements of music, but its message (a snippet of the "Good News") is either Scripturally invalid or just plain, well, meaningless. I love singing Handel's Messiah and Glen Burleigh's Order My Steps. In years past I've had season tickets for the opera but not any team sport. For the record, I grew up on Mozart, The Supremes, Dorothy Norwood, Beethoven, James Cleveland, The Righteous Brothers, Haydn, Debussy, The Temptations, Bach, Aretha Franklin, Art Blakey, Roy Head, Cannonball Adderly, Lou Rawls, Gene Chandler, Gladys Knight and James Cleveland. My reading (or most often now, my listening) includes Josephus, Shakespeare, Patterson, Sheen, Gibran, Millay, the Brownings, and my all time favorites, David, John and the Apostle Paul. I dare you to not see some diversity here.

So what am I saying? Simply this: my skin, like everyone's, is the largest organ of my body. It is a network of portals to my body and protects the inner works as only God created it to work. However, other than its physiological functioning, it has no bearing on how I live, except to the extent that others make it a factor.

The bright side to this dilemma is there is a solution. The drawback is that the solution is about as effective as Nancy Reagan's "JUST SAY NO" mantra. Historically we have been conditioned to make skin a factor. JUST IGNORE IT is just not that easy. How about being mindful that it could be a factor, and making a decision for it not to be.

And finally, there are people on both sides of the equation who tend to stigmatize others thusly. Darker nation folks look at paler nation folks and do to them what paler nation folks do to darker nation folks: they prejudge. We all have something to work on.

The last word: What happened to Henry Gates is an abominable bastardization of authority by the police. I pity the darker nation police who stood in support of their coworker. It is sad to be so beholden to a job, and to so desperately fear the loss of that job, or worse, to be brainwashed into thinking that James Crowley was right, that one would stand in support of Crowley's behavior. How pathetic is that? I cannot help but wonder: how would that officer, a person of the darker nation, feel if police arrested him in his own home as they did Professor Gates?

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Footnotes ...

*Again I thank Stephen Carter for the terms darker nation and paler nation, which I find more palatable, and more accurate, than black person or white person, as none of us is either. Carter is the author of a work of fiction [The Emperor of Ocean Park, commended to me by a wonderful woman of the paler nation, and which I recommend to whomever reads this footnote] and truly substantial works of nonfiction [including Integrity, which I am now reading on occasions of my sitting down to dinner]. Evidently folks who tend to prejudge on the basis of skin color have not read The Emperor of Ocean Park. And, sadly, some elected officials and rabbis in New Jersey no nothing of Integrity.

**shotgunning -- in paralegal school this is something I was warned to avoid -- and something lawyers do all the time -- the stringing along of words ad nauseum when one or two will do. For example: instead of saying produce all the documents (pretty concise, don't you agree?), another way of saying that would be produce any and all documents of every kind and character, whether handwritten, typewritten, printed, engraved, mimeographed, photographed, photocopied or by any other means created. That's shotgunning.

There Ain't No Such Thing as UNJOY!

For those of you who cannot abide another's reality, you may want to skip this one; it is intensely personal. One might ask Why would she want to write something so personal? Well, I'm glad you asked. Consider that if I were a so-called celebrity -- you know -- celebrity -- one of those women who has babies out of wedlock and it makes the news because she's been on television or in a movie (all action, no acting) or made a recording that while commercially successful, there was more substance in the accompaniment than the words to the song, and the video was much more successful because she had an opportunity to bare her buttocks, gyrate her body and make a lot of little girls and young teens want to emulate her behavior -- you know -- a celebrity -- folks would be dying to know. Sad, sad, sad commentary. It is not that I desire to air my personal affairs -- quite the contrary. In fact, when I was young I wanted to be involved in local politics. I really believed I had something to offer other than hot air puffery -- some actual solutions instead. My unwillingness to reveal when I lost my virginity and bounced my first check stifled my political ambitions. Those tidbits of information would have been far more interesting to media and electorate, rather than substantive solutions.

Yes, this writing is personal. But on the other hand, this writing is necessary. It is more than a purification ritual for me. It's not even part of the grieving process (that ended a long time ago). This is so personal that when I started it on December 19, 2008, I decided to put it away. Since then I have looked at the title but continued to write other stuff. But today, July 21, 2009, is the day this blog will be published.

Why today??? Why not? So much has happened since December 19 last year, and still this transition is not quite over. In fact most of the events between then and now I am not even allowed to write about. It would be a violation for me to say something disparaging, even if true. Now, how sad is that? Is it my fault that there may be one who is so ashamed of his actions that he doesn't want others to know of them? Are we to coddle and protect those who trespass against others because it humiliates them for others to know of their infractions??? Are the rights of the trespassers superior to those whom they trespass against? Let's get real here. I'm not talking about a minor; I'm talking about a supposed adult - definitely old enough -- way old enough -- even though that particular adult's behavior is more representative of a juvenile.

Because of those prohibitions, you, the reader, will be spared the gory details. So you are invited to use your imagination and think of all the ugly, truly ugly occurrences that might transpire between two people when one seeks a peaceful resolution of a dispute based on what is fair and the other's attitude is what makes you think life is fair?

Have you ever felt as if you were lying on the ground while others took turns kicking you -- the blows to your legs, hands, chest, back and head continuing relentlessly as you lay, helpless and unable to defend yourself? Earlier this year I actually envisioned such a spectacle, and in my vision I was the recipient of the Well-Placed Foot. But somewhere in the deep recesses of my mind, I eventually remembered (not soon enough, but at least I remembered) that as a Believer, my fight is not with the foot or the person to whom it belongs; nor is it with the one who strikes blows for which no physical contact is made, the emotional blows that can be even more painful than ones to the body.

I am reminded of an often quoted passage of scripture: For our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the powers of this dark world and against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly realms. (Ephesians 6:12, NIV).

Perhaps you're more comfortable with the KJV: For we wrestle not against flesh and blood, but against principalities, against powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this world, againstspiritual wickedness in high places.

But if the Word is not something you're accustomed to reading, check out this paraphrased version, courtesy of John Peterson's The Message: This is no afternoon athletic contest that we’ll walk away from and forget about in a couple of hours. This is for keeps, a life-or-death fight to the finish against the Devil and all his angels.

As usual, I walk around the tree (would one rather I say beat around the bush?) before I sit. This is what I'm saying: Every facet of our lives represents a possibility for pain and conflict, as well as joy, a sense of well-being, and a lot of other warm fuzzy stuff. Sometimes the pain and conflict are self-inflicted when we make wrong choices. But sometimes the pain and conflict are instigated by others who make wrong choices. Whether by our own choice, or that of someone else, we can be subjected to excruciatingly painful experiences. The key, at least for me in the midst of this year's unpleasantries, is to remember that my struggle is not with the "kicker" but rather with the spirit of the one with the Well-Placed Foot. In the moments of absolute agony experienced this year, I am blessed to have been reminded by folks who care for me, that neither physically or spiritually am I alone. At the core of not being alone, whenever the clouds were blackest and thickest, the silver lining revealed the One who always listens and reminds me of the joy that transcends being kicked, literally and figuratively, whether by one imp of the enemy or the man-contrived system we call justice (talk about the bastardization of a word -- but I'll save that for another time).

So despite there being, from time to time, an absence of happiness, the joy is always there. The happiness -- the contentment and satisfaction of the moment or circumstance, can be pivotal. I see the "h" word as conditional. One can be happy one moment, and unhappy the next. But then there is the "J" word. Joy is not for the moment. Joy is despite the moment. It is despite the blows to one's body and one's mind. The Joy in knowing that there is One Who grants us new mercies each morning, Who never changes, whose faithfulness is sooooo great, Who is strength for today and gives us hope for tomorrow, and that will dwell in you, if you let Him, makesunhappy pale in comparison, for there is no such thing as unjoy.

The bottom line is this: stuff happens in life all the time. Before the fecal matter hits the circular rotary blades, may I suggest latching onto the One Who won't leave you in those unhappy moments, and Who will give you a measure of grace, peace, and a huge dose of Joy to carry you through the times when the stuff stinks?

Many thanks to Phyllis T for planting the seed that compelled me to finish this writing.

It's Not in Your Incantations

For too long I have suffered through e-mails from well-intended folks (at least on the surface they appear to be), badgering and bullying me to 1) read it (if we can take the time to read long jokes, stories, etc., we should give the same respect to this prayer); and 2) share it (forward this to 20 people). As I scan the message, written in various colors and a 40 pt. typeface, I see that the writer prays for 1) those who will delete it without passing it on; and 2) those who do not believe. And then the writer thanks God that he/she believes. And for a final flourish, the writer then says "Don't ignore this and God will bless you."

Well, I confess. I deleted it. I did not share it. I suppose, though, that since a discusssion of "it" is the introductory paragraph of this writing, I cannot say I ignored it. Perhaps I am disqualified because my not ignoring it adheres to the letter of the admonition, but not its spirit.

To the well-intentioned folks who send this stuff, please understand that:

1. many folks receive literally HUNDREDS of e-mails everyday, and many of them merely scan the subject matter or a little snippet to see if it merits a thorough reading. No offense, but there are only so many hours in the day and only so much of it can be devoted to reading e-mails that, for folks like me, are not work or business related;
2. if your emails are not shared as you wish them to be, that does not mean you are not loved;
3. if your emails are not shared as you wish them to be, that does not mean the recipient does not love God;
4. if your emails are not shared as you wish them to be, that does not mean they are not appreciated;
5. no incantations suggested in your emails are magic words that will make the remainder of anyone's life rosey. It is not in the "rosey" that we achieve anything --rather, it is the labor of violent changes and how we adapt to them or transcend them that matters. While the prayers of the righteous availeth much, faith without work does not cut it.

As for this writer, I am blessed beyond measure by the mere fact that I woke up this morning. My prayers each night, regardless of what other content there may be, always end with "help me keep my home, and bless me so that I may be a blessing to others." The remaining content of my prayers, as is this standard, is whatever comes from my heart.

Well, what am I saying? Just this: God knows your heart. Speak to Him from your heart. If you get in a tight squeeze (as I was earlier this year), and cannot form the words to say to Him, He still knows your heart. But if it will help you, call a friend and ask him/her to pray for you. And if you cannot find anyone, call me.

Real Dads of the Darker Nation Pt III

I recently met a man who has two children -- a son and a daughter. He refers to them freely in those terms: my son . . . my daughter. What I later learned was that he fathered neither of his children in the biological sense. Yet he raised them as his own and in every meaningful sense of the word, he fathered them.

So what is fathering all about? Do we ask that about mothering? I think not -- at least not as often. Many think of fathers as the go-to guy for money and things -- stuff. Sadly, many women who intentionally allow themselves to be impregnated don't have a clue as to the significance their Johnny Appleseed should play in their children's lives. And as sad, many men who plant those seeds think of the products of their acts as nothing more than notches on a bedpost, something that gives them bragging rights. What utter rubbish. But, as usual, I digress; moving right along . . .

The man of whom I write today reminds me of my own daughter's father, right down to his choosing the right schools -- even the ones that our tax dollars don't fund and require a hefty outlay of cash. He has been with them for all of the joys and sorrows, and triumphs and tragedies of their childhood. He was not just the go-to guy for money and stuff, but for encouragement, assurance, discipline and love.

He has been Father to them for 25 years of their 30-plus-year-old lives. I wonder if they realize how special that is? I wonder do they realize he is so much more their real father than their real father. I wonder if they make the distinction? I don't know, but these are my hopes and the substance of my prayer for them -- and him: that if they don't know now, they will soon realize that he carried them as his children as God carried the Israelites into their Promised Land; that he sacrificed for them as any father who loves and cares for his children would do -- as my father did for me and my daughter's father did for her; that the father they had and have in him was and is their blessing from God.

And while the world might say blood is thicker than water, it is water that brings refreshment and life wherever it goes. In their childhood they drank freely from the fountain of his fathering. As adults, may they remember the depth of his love for them. He chose to father them. There was no trickery or deceit -- no surprise or blaming faulty contraceptive drugs or devices. It was simply a choice. He could have chosen to walk away -- that would have been easy. But instead he chose to take them as his own, to love them. And by doing so he willingly exposed himself to not just the joys and triumphs of fatherhood, but the sorrows and tragedies as well.

To all men everywhere who are fathers to children of their seed or another's, who choose to take on the challenging responsibility of fatherhood in meaningful, tangible and intangible ways -- HAPPY FATHER'S DAY.

Today

It's supposed to rain today -- my first thought upon realizing that I survived the night (it's not guaranteed, you know). So what does one wear on one of the most celebrated days (by believers and non-believers alike) of the year -- when ideally the sun should be shining brightly and the temperature in the mid 70s?? Does one insist on tradition? A pastel dress? A light-colored suit? A spring hat? And what about the hair??? And those cute little open-toe slingbacks? Or strappy sandals? Some folks think of these things at least the night before. Not this "folk."

Dear old practical me. I got out of bed, plodded down that 20-foot path for the basic grooming routine. "Forget the hair," I said to myself. "It's going to rain and even as short as you've had it cut, it will fall anyway." "Okay," I agreed without argument. Dear old practical me. While chewing 1000 milligrams of Vitamin C, I choose a pair of tan trousers, a shirt of similar color, some brown pumps and a navy jacket. In lieu of the fancy beaded eyeglass holder I made the night before using tiger eye beads, freshwater pearls and some gold accents, I pulled out the plain gold corded eyeglass holder and popped a pearl stud in each ear.

Downstairs I popped my morning supplements -- niacin, potassium and B complex, washing them down with a glass of juice that's supposedly chocked full of antioxidants (can we get enough of those?).

I felt really blah; imps had grabbed ahold of my ankles and calves, and were pulling me down to the bowels of the darkest pit imaginable, and despite my weight (though 22 pounds lighter, still quite hefty), the little devils were winning the tug-of-war. But it's Resurrection Day (okay -- "Easter" for most folks) -- and what am I supposed to do if not go to worship? Somehow I shake loose of the imps, but not the blahs. After all, I made a commitment, and I will stick to it.

At the door leading to the garage I pick up the stuff I'm supposed to take with me (yep -- I lean stuff against the door that I don't want to forget) and step into the dark garage, pushing the huge square that activates the door. As the garage door lifts, I'm still standing in the dark. The sun decided to take the morning off. It is more than overcast; daylight was skipped in favor of dusk. After loading up the Jeep and coasting down the driveway, I hit the street, circling around to the next driveway and back to make sure I lowered the garage door, then headed out again. As I entered the tollway the tears came, and fell like rain through my entrance to the freeway and exit to the South Main campus several miles later. I didn't bother to ask myself why I was crying. It could have been the headache from the atmospheric pressure, or the heartache and exhaustion of my current life-changing struggle. I won't try to figure it out; what I do know is the tears I shed were not tears of joy.

After parking the Jeep near the educational building and my stuff in my Sunday School classroom, I proceeded to the elevator in the Loessner building. Stepping out of the elevator on the second floor, I was slapped in the face by the fragrance of the flowers, even though they were nowhere in sight. The tears were gone, but there arose a concern that the Zyrtec, taken the night before, would not hold up against the flowers.

Walking down the hall of the Loessner building, I passed Nina and another woman whose face I knew, but not her name. She began to match my step, and spoke favorably of my vocal contribution to Wednesday's noonday service, adding that she couldn't sing, to which I replied "we can all sing." Contradicting me, she replied "I can't carry a tune," to which I replied "oh, yes, we all carry a tune, and the only one that's really important to God is the one in our hearts." "Well, when you put it like that," she said . . .

Arriving in the music suite, I checked myself in and went to the women's robing room where I shed my blazer for #55 -- my robe and stole -- and took my place as others streamed in. After a warmup and review, I filed out and retraced my steps down the 2nd floor hall in the Loessner building, crossing over to the foyer of the Sanctuary where on cue, we filed down the middle isles of the Sanctuary and started to sing PRAISE, PRAISE, PRAISE THE LORD, PRAISE HIS HOLY NAME, ALLELUIA. PRAISE HIS HOLY NAME, ALLELUIA, PRAISE HIS HOLY NAME, ALLELUIA. My right hand -- the empty one -- began slapping my thigh on the 2nd and 4th beats. A little voice (probably one of those imps) told me to stop, but I couldn't. The song is simple, but infectious. By the time I reached my seat in the choir loft, I dropped my folder containing the very serious Jubilate Deo (a Psalm to be sung in Latin, no less), and Worthy is the Lamb and Hallelujah (from Handel's Messiah), and was clapping my hands with a side-to-side rock on PRAISE, PRAISE, PRAISE THE LORD. The neighboring Alto joined in, as did others. And suddenly, and too soon, we sang the last ALLELULIA. "I really need just one more round of that", I thought, but that's not my call. :(

The worship service progressed with heartfelt hymns and choral works accompanied by our prodigy-organist, brass ensemble, and an out-of-town guest producing the sweetest violin strains that could be heard over everything else. Then Steve delivered a way awesome message, followed by HALLELUJAH -- FOR THE LORD GOD OMNIPOTENT REIGNETH -- AND HE SHALL REIGN FOREVER AND EVER -- HALLELUJAH!!! And then it was done.

Off to Sunday School. The tears were not only gone, but forgotten. A wonderful close to a study of the book of Nehemiah. Nehe---who??? (Yep, I later admitted to half of the teaching team in the ladies robing room that I really wasnt gung-ho about the subject matter, but learned a lot of not only historical stuff, but practical applications as well.)

We are now ready for the 11:00 worship service -- slightly different from 8:30. As we process again, the urge to keep time with the singing overtakes me again, and Right Hand (capped because it seems to have taken a personality and mind of its own) starts slapping my thigh as we proceed to the choir loft. The Room is packed -- even the balcony. The cameras are on and we are webcasting. Still, I succumb to the urge to PRAISE, PRAISE, PRAISE THE LORD. Many of us do. As the choir sits, Pastor Steve begins a baptism. Another difference in this worship service is the children's message, which, for those of us who will admit it, adults often find not only funny and entertaining, but substantially thought-provoking -- as it was this morning.

Fast-forward to the end of worship. As we sang HALLELUJAH from Handel's Messiah, the three pairs of doors from the foyer to the Sanctuary are flung open, then the doors from the foyer to the outside. As we stand there singing HALLELUJAH I am staring all the way outside. Rain is pouring down so hard that I cannot distinguish between it and the water from the large fountain in front of the Sanctuary building. And even though it is pouring rain, and I cannot see the sun, I feel the warmth and love of the Son whose ressurection we celebrate. Without that Son we all live in darkness. Without Him the tears would never stop. Without Him life is not worth living. Today my prayer is for all to know the Son.

'TIL DEATH?

Here we are again -- another designated day on which we are supposed to be programmed to act a certain way, make or utter certain sentiments, and otherwise lie, cheat and be hypocritical. And with tomorrow being Sunday, the hypocrisy will probably continue -- especially for those phoney church folks (if you're not one [phoney] you shouldn't get huffy or be offended) until Monday morning -- then all hell will break loose again and folks will be their normal nasty, discourteous, ungodly and hateful selves.

Another "Christian" holiday is now taken to the extreme.  Candy, jewelry, lingerie, "for-the-moment" proposals sure to morph into something putrid in 24 hours, cards that cost much too much money, dinners at fancy restaurants that cost some folks a day's pay, something new to wear for the occasion, perfume, blah, blah, blah.  Just one question about all these trappings:  Is there some real love involved here???  Just curious.

Alright -- that was a bit much for an introduction.  And then again, perhaps not.   How many of us get married and stay married -- the first time?  What about the second?   There was an average of 6,000 marriages per day in the United States in 2007.  Yet, depending on whose research you use, 41% to 50% of 1st marriages end in divorce, 60% to 67% of 2nd marriages end in divorce, and 73% to 74% of 3rd marriages end in divorce.   If those numbers are extrapolated, at some point one will get pretty doggone close to 100%.  So, what about the 6th marriage?  Or the 7th?  I suppose by the time one gets to the 7th, the divorce documents should be prepared a within a month or so the marriage ceremony and just kept in a computer file until needed.   (This has actually happened.)

Excuse me -- but do you see a trend here?  I suppose it gets easier everytime you do it -- that is, get a divorce.  It's like having children.  The first one generally involves some really hard, long, intense labor.  (I wouldn't know about that; I did Lamaze training, arrived at Rosewood at 7:30 a.m., had labor induced, and Sweet Pea arrived about 2:30 that afternoon).  But that 3rd or 4th just pops out with little effort.   (Don't know this from personal experience, just talking to folks who've had multiple babes.)

The problem here is that the more people resort to putting asunder what God has supposedly joined together, the more they treat others like used toilet paper.  (I meant to say that -- hopefully it will gross out someone and make one think about discarding one's mate in a callous manner.)  The bigger problem here is that when folks start tossing mates aside like so much trash (or, should I say, flushing them down the toilet?), they have already tossed God out of the mix -- that is, if He was ever invited to the marriage in the first place.

Here are a few suggestions about the "M" word.  Do each other and yourselves a favor:

• if you're doing it just for the romance, DON'T.  
• if it sounds like a good idea, and that's the only reason, DON'T.
• if your motive is anything other than to build a life with someone else for the duration of your own, DON'T.
• if you've done it before and treated it like a temporary assignment, DON'T.
• if you're unwilling to resolve your conflicts quickly, DON'T.
• if you cannot see past doing what you want to do, DON'T.
• if you don't understand the concept of sharing, DON'T.
• if you're doing it because she/he looks good to you, and that's all you can say, DON'T.  
• if you're unwilling to truly invest yourself, DON'T.
• if you think he/she will change, DON'T.
• if you won't share yourself in the most intimate way, DON'T.
• if you think you're both so good-looking that you will produce gorgeous kids, FORGET IT.
• if you're just doing it to legitimize your lifestyle, DON'T.
• if you think marriage vows are not to be lived out, DON'T.
• if you don't love yourself, DON'T.

Real Dads of the Darker Nation Part II

Warning -- this is not going to be pleasant.  

There are dads out there who are nothing more than 20th and 21st century Johnny Appleseeds.  They spread their seeds wherever they go, many of them sprouting.  While these sprouts get some kind of nourishment, they get very little nurturing from their male planters.  The Johnny Appleseed types don't stick around to provide nurturing, and contribute little to the sprouts' nourishment, hence the need for motions for contempt in family courts across the nation.  

Many of the little sprouts, despite their lack of proper attention from their dads, grow to be not just big and strong, but mature, responsibile, compassionate, caring and considerate adults -- like the 44th POTUS.  Other sprouts grow to be big and strong too, but they become drug dealers and/or abusers of drugs, their women, children, and anyone unfortunate to cross their paths, oftentimes perpetuating the abusive behaviors of whomever planted their seeds.  

And then there are those who are chameleons, taking on whatever persona suits them at the moment.  These are the ones we should all stay away from.  They are very dangerous, and any contact with them can be lethal.  One minute they can be the most righteous, holier-than-thou, Bible thumping, first-row-in-the-sanctuary-sitting, always-shouting and raising holy hands men, all the while wondering why no one else feels what they feel, and grieving over the seeds they planted that grew into those who are the exact opposite of the 44th POTUS.  The next minute they can be as cold, dispassionate, uncaring, and sociopathetic as any rightfully convicted serial-killer-death-row inmate.  They can parasitically suck one's resources of every kind and character dry, lay waste to lives and think nothing of it, even as they counsel others, employing Biblical principals to help them live theirs better.

Dealing with the first two "dad" types -- the 44th POTUS and the exact counterparts of same, is no big deal.  Why?  Because, basically, WYSIWYG is the catch phrase of the day for them:  what you see is what you get.  But beware of the third "dad" type -- the chameleon.   You will never know what persona he will take.  What you will learn, however, is that no matter how wrong he is about any situation, everyone under the sun will be to blame -- but never him.  He will break the law and try to justify it.  He will lie to the courts and hide behind some duped or duplicitous or just plain old greedy lawyer.   But take heart:  as my dad (see Real Dads of the Darker Nation Part 1) was known for saying -- 

• time will tell
• you might get by but you won't get away

So a word to all the chameleon types of the world:  your time is coming.

    

The Good Shepherd?

You know the Bible story, don't you?   A man, on his way from Jerusalem, traveling on a road to Jericho, is beset upon, robbed, beaten, stripped of his clothing and left half dead.   A priest and a Levite, rather than stop and render aid, pass him by on the other side of the road.  Along comes a Samaritan -- you know -- a not-so-desirable person -- who sees to the needs of the victim.  What of the priest?   The Levite?  Well, you know, some folks just don't merit their attention.

Fast-forward to the 21st century.  A woman in distress, concerned for her family, attempts to seek help from a local church.  She's not asking for a handout.  She doesn't want money.  She is asking for counsel for her family.  She feels justified in contacting this church because her family is part of that congregation.  No messages are acknowledged.  No calls are returned.   No responses to her urgent letters materialize.    She takes it one step farther and writes directly to the shepherd of the flock.  Again, no response.  

Yet, there he is, entering the sanctuary amidst a raucous noise that substitutes for real music.   In the preferred seating section are local celebrities, just behind the shepherd's row.  For a fleeting second the woman sees a glimpse of her family among the congregants as she watches on her laptop.    There he is again, standing in front of his congregation, speaking a word of prosperity in the New Year, blah, blah, blah.  Folks are in a frenzy, running down the aisles, laying offerings on the steps leading to the platform.  Watchers via the internet are encouraged to text/e-mail/tweet their prayer requests.  Whoop-de-doo.   The new year comes in the middle of the shepherd's prayer asking God to do everything (as usual):   heal the sick, visit the prisons, mend broken hearts, broken homes, broken marriages, do this, do that ad nausem.  The shepherd of the flock is escorted away, his entourage swarming like flies on a fresh corpse.   "A corpse" thinks the woman:  "a perfect way to describe my family."

The woman has a final thought:  why are they protecting the shepherd?  Isn't he supposed to protect the flock?   Doesn't it matter that one has gone astray?  Obviously note.  But it matters to Jesus.   

Back then -- and now -- they all matter to Jesus.   Thank God He didn't send a priest, a Levite, or a 21st century shepherd of a flock so well-numbered that he is sequestered from them.   Unless we are rich, famous or both, we would all be going to hell with no chance of redemption.  

God, help me to remember that You are the Creator of us all, and that You love all of us as much as You love any one of us, and each of us as if there is only one to love.

P.S.  Thank you for my shepherd.

Broken But Not Broke

There are so many ways to be broken -- spiritually, mentally, physically, financially, emotionally, politically, and the list goes on.   When you contemplate your existence, do you think in terms of the positive aspects or the negatives aspects -- or both?  And if both which do you think of first? Or do you do a "this is okay, but that really stinks" kind of back-and-forth thing?  Or worse, do you compare yourself with someone else?  You know -- "I'm in this hole but her situation is so much worse."  Come on folks -- you know very well of what I speak.  

We can all talk about the stuff of life.  It happens to all of us.   We all have our ups and downs.  Some days are better than others.   But generally there's a cycle:  we're either about to go into a conflict, we're in a conflict, or we're coming out of a conflict.  (For those of you who don't like the word "conflict," just pick one that makes you feel better about it.  Whatever word you decide to use will not change the outcome of the cycle.)

While for some of us the path is pretty well laid out straight and flat, others live on roller-coasters.  I think about a little girl I know.  Well, she was a little girl at one time in her life, and grew into a fairly decent young woman.  Despite the many challenges of childhood, the ugliness of public school and the cruelty of many of her peers, she graduated from high school (with honors), went straight to a respected university (with an academic scholarship), graduated in four years, went to work thereafter, continued the next layer of her education with a graduate degree, and a few years ago married an angel whom God kicked out of heaven just for her.   Of course, even the straightest, flattest path can have some bumps in the road, but even those did not break her.  She now devotes her career to kids whose paths have been neither straight, flat or smooth.   

That young woman's mother's path has been remarkably different.   Although a fairly good student, no scholarships paved her way to college.  Blessed with a modicum of talent, a measure of intelligence and a few skills, she has had three distinctly different careers, each ending by no choice of hers.   As has gone her professional life, so has gone her personal life.  Bruised and broken by an orphan disease for which comparatively little research is done, the prejudice of a system that denied her what she rightfully earned, the early loss of father and father figures, the realization that relationships intended to be permanent more often than not are only temporary -- or sometimes just wispy ideas that are never intended (by the other party thereto) to be tangibly realized, and the fluctuation of her ability to be self-sustaining, are just a few factors that might cause others to want to end their own lives.     

(Speaking of folks who want to end their own lives, let's digress for a moment from this woman of modest means.   Recent news reports are fraught with accountings of wealthy folks committing suicide.   What's up with that?   Society places so much importance on wealth.  The problem is, society's only measure of wealth seems to be one's accumulation of money.  Many mistakenly believe that money is the answer to every problem.  News flash:  NOT SO!!!  It is truly unfortunate because there are folks who think that their money makes them more desirable that others, better than others, more entitled than others, blah, blah blah.  There are even bigger fools who think that spending their time with monied folks somehow translates into them being better, more desirable, more entitled, blah, blah blah.)    

Okay -- back to the mother:  During a period of unrest, transition and uncertainty in this older woman's life, in a matter of days she lost the one whom she had thought would be a lifetime mate, and she lost one whom she thought was a dear friend.    Having long accepted that no one lives forever, had these folks for whom she cares deeply actually died, the pain would not have been seemingly unbearable, and instead of a myriad of questions -- espcecially the "whys" -- she would have had a measure of peace.  Needless to say these folks are still living and breathing and going on as if they just took out the day's trash.  After days of tormenting unrest, anguish, and ugliness, the woman found peace.

I asked this woman how it is that the uncertainty of her future, the loss of her husband and friend, and her present inability to sustain herself have not driven her over the edge.  She admitted to me that just at the moment when she felt most broken, she found peace.  Her situation did not change, but she saw it from a different perspective.  "And then" she tells me, "I had the pleasure of seeing my daughter, who can be so wise beyond her years, and who reminded me that even now God knows what I'm going through, and that He has always kept me and will continue to do so."   

Unlike the so-called wealthy, this woman, who for a season is broken mentally, emotionally, physically and financially by failed relationships, lost business opportunities, an orphan disease, and the prejudicially biased rulings of federal administrative judges, is not broke.  She is wealthy far beyond the measure of any of this world's wealth.   Not once has she thought of giving up on life because she is financially challenged.  And unlike the wealthy who have lost millions and are still millionaires (or billionaires), for this woman there is still much too much month at the end of the money.  Even so, she is rich with the overflowing love of the Giver of Life.  It is because of Him that she gets up everyday and works at whatever tasks are put before her.  It may be that because of him or her, husband (especially him) or friend, that her way to others may seem bleak, but it is because of Him that she can sing "His Eye is on the Sparrow" and truly mean it.  The true capital of her life does not start with a dollar sign, but with a G, an S and an H.  For God, the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit, her Creator, her Savior and her Guide protect her, sustain her and guide her, especially when she is broken.   But because of her God in three persons, she is truly wealthy and never, never broke.

Now unto him that is able to keep you from falling, and to present you faultless before the presence of his glory with exceeding joy, to the only wise God our Saviour, be glory and majesty, dominion and power, both now and ever.  Amen.  (Jude 1:24)

Soli Deo gloria.

Happy Holidays??? Leave it to us to bastardize another word.

THIS RANT IS RATED "E" FOR EVERYONE.

Holiday is a word derived from the combination of holy and day -- a day set aside for a religious observance.   We took it a step further with our national days of observance -- Lincoln's birthday (now Presidents' Day), Independence Day, Memorial Labor Day, blah, blah, blah.  

When I was a kid we had time off for school at the end of the year and it was the Christmas break.  We actually had Christmas programs -- not Holiday programs -- at school -- complete with manger scenes and the singing of O Come All Ye Faithful and other such tunes that dare mention the Christ Child -- or Jesus.  And now, self-appointed PC police in every state of the nation have stifled even so-called Christians from saying Merry Christmas.  To display a manger scene in certain areas is verboten.   Happy Holidays is the catch-phrase of the season, which each year looks less and less like the celebration of the birth of the Savior of the World (at least for those of us who believe), and more like the season to create nostalgic moments of family gatherings for the primary purpose of exchanging gifts -- or regifting gifts -- all for the sake of some commercial bottom line.   

It is not lost on me that Jesus was probably born in what we now call March or April (or sometime around those months) and that to relate His birth to sleighbells and snow is ludicrous whimsy.  I made peace with that a long time ago.   What I refuse to make peace with is the commercial madness of this time of year.  

Perhaps it would be better to move Christmas -- the real Christmas -- the celebration of Jesus's birth -- to another time of year.  But I suppose things would really be thrown off if we were celebrating his birth around the same time of year he was crucified and resurrected.  It would throw off everyone's social calendar.  Can you imagine purple-draped crosses and hay-filled mangers side-by-side?  Or for one's heathen neighbor, Easter bunnies and reindeer on your neighbor's front lawn?  Have you ever thought of the logistics of some commercial concerns that rely on the Christmas season to make or break their year's profits???

To my Christian friends:  Do you say happy holidays?  Or do you say Merry Christmas?  Or does it vary depending on to whom you are speaking and whether you are at work or home or out and about?   Just curious.

And to my Jewish friends:  Do you say happy holidays?  Or do you say happy Hanukkah?   And if you say the latter, do you say it to everyone or just your fellow congregants?   Just curious.

And to my unbelieving friends (yep, got those too):  What do you really make of this day -- other than determining how many presents you need to purchase and for whom, and how many presents you expect to receive and from whom?  Do you get those warm, fuzzy feelings from attending family gatherings?  Or do you get wasted at your firm's holiday party?  Or both?

It seems that of all the religions in the world, Christianity, which accounts for about 33%(half of which are unfortunately Roman Catholic, but that's for another day) (according to the CIA's world fact book), is the one religion that is stifled in its attempts to celebrate God, at least in the United States.   The Constitutional right of free speech is easily tossed aside if Jesus is the subject.  Oh, it seems to be okay if one is Buddhist or Hindu or whatever else.  And, by all means, the Satanists and Wiccans must be allowed to practice their craft or whatever they call it.  But let anyone talk about Jesus.  Heads turn, eyes are cast down, and under-the-breath mutterings commence.  

News flash to Christians:  if you are ashamed to own Him, He will be ashamed to own you (see Luke 9:26).

One last thing about the process of bastardizing:   I am aware that this time of year was chosen to celebrate the birth of the Messiah because it was a pagan holiday or coincided with the winter solstice, and perhaps it was an opportunity to align with the old habits of new believers by having them celebrate something Christian on a day that they formerly celebrated something else.    

For whatever the reason, if you're celebrating Christmas, celebrate Christmas.  If you're observing Hanukkah, observe Hanukkah.    If either of these days mean something to you, I implore you to treat them as if they do.   And if you just want to spend a ton of money, incur a lot of debt, eat too much food and drink too much liquor-laced egg nog, I suppose you have nothing better to say than HAPPY HOLIDAZE.

For Gwen and You: It's About Time

With great sadness, but more joy, I received news yesterday that someone I have known for ten years transcended this life.    She went to be with the Lord.  I have been witness to some of the triumphs and tragedies of her last ten years.   I witnessed her marriage to my former pastor; with others of our congregation I prayed for and awaited her return to the United States after being sentenced to bedrest in London during the last months of her pregnancy and premature birth of their son.   

She loved food.  I recall her intense facial expressions when something pleased her palate.  She made me smile with pleasure by devouring my chocolate chip cookies, and even made special requests for them.   A little size 2 of a woman, she wore an extra-extra-large garment made of a special cloth -- a blend of equal parts of love, joy, and peace; triple-stitched with patience, kindness, and goodness; and accessorized with the perfect balance of faithfulness, gentleness and self-control.   While very pleasing to most men's eyes, her real beauty lay deep within the core of her being.   

The joyful news is that her suffering is over.  The sad news is that those of us who are left will have to wait to see her again.  I wonder how much time that will be.

   

What about time?  That's sort of a touchy subject for some because we know we're not immortal.  We're all going to depart this earth, but we don't know how much time we have:  Days?  Weeks?  Months?  Years?  A decade or two?  We really don't know.  

So it puzzles me when people say that they're going to do X when Y gets right:    "I'm going to go to church when I stop drinking, or when I stop seeing that married man or woman, or when I get rid of my addiction I'll go to church."    The problem is that we cannot get ourselves right to go to God; we need to go to God to get ourselves right.  If we could do it by ourselves, we wouldn't need God.  The fact is we are not equipped to do it ourselves.  We need to learn about God, and especially learn to listen to Him to understand how He works in our lives and to deal with the baggage that we have.   My fear is that many of us are waiting until tomorrow.    Unfortunately, unlike Gwen's departure, it is not always inevitable.

 

We say that our church grounds, and especially our sanctuaries, are consecrated; they're holy.  And that is so true.  But I cannot think of a better place for an addict to lay his crack pipe than on the altar of any sanctuary if it is symbolic of him or her laying that burden down and saying "here, God, I can't handle this; help me with this; you can handle this for me.  I put my life in Your hands and want You to help me deal with this albatross -- not just around my neck, but my life."  Our sanctuaries are not so sacred that we cannot come in and lay our burdens at the altar.  No, we don't have to do this in a tangible way, but just symbolically.  When we go to God and confess to Him that we are sinners, ask Him for forgiveness, and confess that we know we cannot truly live without Him, in essence, we are laying our burdens on the altar – the altar of our hearts – to God.  

And so I encourage you today: Don't wait until you end that affair; you cannot truly end it without Him.  Don't wait until you've had the last rock of crack or that last snort of cocaine; you cannot truly end it without Him.  Don’t wait unto the next time you strike your mate, curse your parents or children, or make another deal that is great for you but lousy for the folks who have entrusted their resources to you.  There will always be another if you keep putting it off.  And if you think you're okay and there's nothing wrong with you -- especially if you think you're okay -- don't wait - run!  Run as fast as you can to God.  Turn yourself over Him and He'll help you get through it.  He'll help you conquer those demons and win those battles.  Will it be easy?  Absolutely not.  But when you get through it, life will be so much rewarding.  

Now that Thanksgiving is a near but swiftly fading memory, we set our sights on Christmas.  Okay, you Believers out there -- I know I should have said Advent, but let’s face it -- from the looks of things very few folks are in a mode of expectancy.  Two days before Thanksgiving I stopped at a Walgreen’s drugstore and the clerk said Happy Holidays as I departed the counter after paying for my stuff.   

The Christmas season has become the most commercial time of the year, and each year it seems to start earlier than the year before.  This year was a little different; most stores weren’t so blatantly obvious about it.  Still, instead of the day after Thanksgiving, there was 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 on

If we will receive what we most want

How wouldit be 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 remember 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?  Don't you think it be great to remember those who have less – or little – throughout the year?  

You probably won’t believe this – but I tell you it’s the truth:  you have never seen real gratitude until you given a hungry person some food -- or teach someone to read -- or help someone get a job.   And you know what I have 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 diamond ring – and giving it to someone who may value the thing more than he or she values you.  Don’t you think you’re worth more than a car – a fur -- or a diamond?

Mobile Phone vs. The Bible

I'm sure this has been around for a while -- and it is definitely not an original from me, but I thought it worth sharing to folks who view my little snippets:

Cell phone vs.Bible

      

Ever wonder what would happen if we  treated our Bible like we treat our cell phones?

What if we carried  it around in our purses or pockets?  

What if we flipped  through it several time a day?  

What if we turned  back to go get it if we forgot it?  

What if we used it  to receive messages from the text?  

What if we treated  it like we couldn't live without it?  

What if we gave it  to kids as gifts?  

What if we used it  when we traveled?  

What if we used it  in case of emergency?  

This is something  to make you go....hmm...where is my Bible?  

Oh, and one more  thing. Unlike our cell phones, we don't have to worry about our Bible being disconnected because  Jesus already paid the  bill.  Makes you stop and think where are my priorities?' And  no dropped calls!  

Second Chances

Have you ever done something so terrible that when you think about it, even much later, you're still ashamed?  Or you cringe?  Or you feel as if you're standing naked and everyone sees you're naked?  Or you feel everyone's eyes on you, pearing through you from front to back (or back to front) with every pore of your skin a gaping hole, and all of your life's secrets are spilling out? 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 have all done things of which we’re not proud, of which we’re ashamed.  But there’s some good news here.   A few years ago my pastor gave us a message of hope.  It was all about second chances.  In this sermon were mentioned several folks in the Bible who are just like us.  They have lives with problems and obstacles and challenges and successes and not-quite successes --  and relationships.  And some of those folks abused their relationships and the people in them, took them for granted, or just really messed over them, really bad.  But at the same time, those folks --  when they realized the wrong that they had done -- were grievously sorry for their wrongdoing.  Do you know what they did?  They confessed to God and asked Him for forgiveness.  And you know what?  In God’s infinite grace and mercy, seeing them in their sorrow and knowing their hearts, forgave them and gave them another chance.

I'm reminded of a song that refers to "the God of second chance."  Actually I don't think it's Biblically sound, especially since most times we need a third, fourth, or fifty-fifth chance.  That's nothing new, though.  Have you ever read the book of Judges?  Chapter after chapter starts with a verse that begins:  And the children of Israel again did evil in the sight of the Lord.   And time and time again they called on God to deliver them from their bondage du jour.   

Isn’t that wonderful to know, that there is Someone to Whom we can go, Wh0 will wipe our slate clean and tell us “here’s a new sheet of paper; write that story again.”

Real Dads of the Darker Nation. Part I -- My Father

The "H" family was typical of the 1950s and 60s.  Though poor, us kids didn't have a clue.  We were well fed and slept in clean beds.  The roof never leaked.  Winters were snug, summers were made bearable by box fans placed in the bedroom windows, with other windows raised no more than six inches.  The air that rushed in was not just cool, but chilling.  On Saturday mornings we were allowed to watch our "portable" television on the screened-in porch in our pajamas.  (A note about the "portable" television -- can you imagine a very heavy metal box about 12 inches wide and as high, but about 24 inches deep?  Back then, that was "portable.")

Every morning we had breakfast at the kitchen table -- the five of us (momma, daddy, brother, sister and me) -- all at the same time -- all the same thing.  About three basic combinations alternated:  1) eggs, grits, bacon, toast; 2) eggs, bacon, cold cereal, toast; 3) pancakes and bacon.  Sausage patties were occasionally substituted for the bacon, sometimes ham, considered a treat.  Hash browns or potato pancakes (not from a bag in the freezer) sometimes took the place of grits or cold cereal.  In the fall and winter months, oatmeal was the favorite of my brother and sister; I was a Malt-O-Meal connoisseur.   Lunch was not courtesy of the free lunch program, but courtesy of my mom's kitchen.  Even though we got new "lunch kits" every year, by year's end they were replaced with brown lunch bags.  Dinner was a balance of meat, vegetables and starch.  Spaghetti and wieners with pan-fried hot-water cornbread, all prepared by my mother, were far superior to the stuff found in any can.  For several years we had a vegetable garden in the back yard that yielded greens, tomatoes, okra, and other boring vegetables.   I thought we were living in the dark ages because we rarely had hot dogs or hamburgers for dinner -- a rare treat reserved for a Friday evening while watching wrestling matches on television.   Oh, but now -- to eat home-grown vegetables in 2008!  My father made sure we were well fed.  I didn't realize it then, but I definitely know it now.

We lived in a small frame house that my father built.  Later I learned that because of the war he could only get enough building materials for a small house with two bedrooms.   That house, a testament to his craftsmanship, but even more so, the grace of God, has withstood every storm, flood and hurricane since 1950.   Not until the house was updated were there any problems.  (During Ike, a couple dozen of roofing pieces and a small part of the soffit.)  I recall when the hard-wired security system was installed that the Brinks man was particularly miffed by the solid wood hiding behind the drywall.  No quickie installation there.

My father provided us a modest home and everything our family needed.  By the time I was born he had long since left the stable employment as a trucker for a chemical company.  He was forced to leave because those who had a job such as his were allowed to work only a limited number of years.  I figure it was known that whatever he hauled was toxic and before it became a problem, employees were disposed of.  For most of the short 14 years I knew my father, he was self-employed.  He had a dump truck and rented a lot on Telephone Road, on the south side of the railroad tracks near Gulf Freeway.  Right next door to the Manning Machine Shop.   My dad sold topsoil and fertilizer.  He shoveled big loads into his dump truck and delivered it.  Sometimes people would come by and purchase bushel baskets of the stuff.  The fertilizer was sold in burlap bags secured with string ties.  During the week, when I was not yet of school age, on days when my father left very early in the morning, mom would prepare the standard breakfast (grits, bag, eggs and toast), plated on a thick white cafeteria-type divided dish, covered with waxed paper and placed in a brown grocery bag, and we would get in the pale green car (don't even ask me what kind, okay?) and drive across town to the East End Dirt Lot.  

Sometimes when we arrived Dad was sitting in his little shack-like office, furnished with a small desk, a couple of chairs and a telephone -- the heavy black desk phone with a rotary dial.  The walls were covered with cardboard -- like the sizes of large boxes.   We were allowed to write on the walls.  I remember drawing lots of cats with a #2 lead pencil.  Cats were easy -- a small circular head, a larger oval for a body, two triangular ears and a tale, the length of which varied from one cat to another.   And sometimes Dad wasn't there, so while we waited in the car, my mom read me the "funnies" and pointed to the words as I followed along.

Even in his little business, we children were allowed to work.  On Saturdays we would go to the East End Dirt Lot, and while Dad made deliveries, my sister, brother and I would sell dirt and fertilizer to folks who stopped by for a bushel.   Being the smallest, Dad gave me a shovel that was just the right size for me.   This specially sized tool allowed me to participate in the Saturday sales.  On a good day my sister, brother and I would make as much as  $8 or $9 -- a big haul for three kids 48 years ago.  At least we thought it was a big haul. 

One evening in the middle of the week, my parents started having prayer with us.  I thought this was strange, as bedtime prayers and prayers before eating any meal did not cease.  What's up with all the praying?   I thought about that question, but dared not ask.  

I sat under him until the night before he died.  If he was sitting on the sofa next to my mother, I would pull a Sasha Obama move and make a space for me between them.   There was no age limit for me; I was never so grownup that I didn't want to sit next to my father.  Sometimes I would sit next to him on the deacons' row at our church.  Back then there were all sorts of restrictions about the seating arrangements.  Only deacons sat on certain pews -- or rows of chairs.  For regular folks those spaces were off limits.  Period.  What utter nonsense that was.  At least, that was my thought when I'd make my way to the space next to my father.

 

During the Christmas season, which never began until the day after Thanksgiving, my father would get the decorations and lights out of the attic.   We would have to screw in each of the colored light bulbs and test them before he hung them outside.  On Christmas Day we had the usual complement of toys, including dad-assembled bicycles or kitchen appliances or whatever.    

My father had a temper.  On one Christmas Day we were in the back yard playing with our new toys.  A man in the back yard on the other side of the fence was using foul language.  Daddy went over to the fence, pointed to his kids and asked the man to watch his mouth.  The man said something foul -- to my father -- who without another word jumped the chainlink fence, belted the guy once (that was sufficient to buckle his knees) and come back into our yard.   

I mentioned Dad was a deacon.  Our Sundays were predictable:  breakfast, Sunday School, morning worship (or, as we called it then, the 11:00 o'clock service), BTU (Baptist Training Union), and evening worship (night service).  Our church activities were not optional.  Barring a toe being tagged, that's where our Sundays were spent.   My parents did not send us to church; they took us.   

My father was the guy that no one wanted to cross.   The neighborhood bullies knew the "H" kids -- including my very skinny brother whose knees were bigger than his legs -- were off limits.   For those who occasionally forgot to whom we belong, a simple I'm gonna tell my daddy was sufficient to stop the biggest bully in his tracks.   

Did I mention that my father was a Negro?  That's what he is called on his death certificate.   The funny thing is that on the few occasions I saw his legs, they were as pale as any Caucasian's.  yet from the waste up he was as brown as I.   My Gram, his mother, was the same.  (I never saw her from the waist up so I don't know the demarcation of her hues.)   Perhaps Dad and Gram probably spent a lot of time in the sun.   Since my mom was also pale, I often wondered how they conceived three very chocolaty children.  (Mom didn't start getting dark until her late 60s or so, and she still can't seem to get past the caramel stage.)  And we are truly theirs!  My sister and brother are just like my father, right down to his high cheekbones and humongous eyes.  And while I have his temperament, I look more like my mother.

There are many times since February 1969 that I wished I could have his counsel.    Many times I can remember some of the things he would say (to us at the time, ad nauseam).  When I think of them now I find strength in his words.  And even though his body is most likely dust now, I am grateful that he gave me something more lasting than an earthly vessel.  He is still very much a part of me.  And I am so much my father's child.

My father was one of three boys, born to a woman who had 16 siblings.  He was born at home on Detering Street just off Memorial Drive in Houston.  His beginnings were humble on the socio-economic spectrum, but what he gave me was nothing the most affluent could purchase:   love, care, self-respect, self-reliance, confidence, persistence, preparedness.  Most of all, my father introduced me to my Savior and my God.  And because of those relationships, I believe I will one day see my Daddy again.

An Amazing Moment in American History

I just spoke to my 33-year-old babe and my 89-year-old boss, the two most important women in my life.  My daughter and my mom.   Two very brilliant, wonderful, godly women.   Daughter is crying uncontrollably.  Mom is her cool self.  One would think that my babe experienced the ugliness of the 20th century rather than the Boss.  

In the middle of the crying babe and cool boss, I am stunned.  For every hour of this day I felt confident that my candidate would prevail.  This is the same man who, when he announced his candidacy, I said that boy must be losing his mind.  Still, the projections that I find so annoying, even at this moment, tell me that what I hoped for (even as I thought it impossible), has come to pass.   

Why is it that being only 7 years older, the differences between us seem to span generations?  When I look in the mirror I see a 54-year-old woman.  When I think of my life's experiences, I feel as old as my mother.   Perhaps the wellspring of hope that overflows in the heart and soul of Mr. Obama, is now but a trickle in mine.   Considering that I have number of years left before my life can be one of a more leisurely pace as the Boss's, it appears to be a good idea for this writer to rework that well.   

Yes, this is truly an amazing moment in American History, one that I will not forget, the eve of my father's 101st birthday, the beginning of a new era in our country.   What I realize is that this amazing moment will be for me nothing other than a fond memory unless I rework my well and find therein not just a wellspring, but a geyser of hope (at my age I need the extra pressure).  And with that hope I must keep going -- even when doors are closed, bonds are broken, contracts are breached, and the light at the end of the tunnel is but a pinhead.   This amazing moment in American history is nothing if I stop trying.

The Polls Are Closed -- And Your Candidate Lost

. . . by one vote.  Yours.  Because you did not vote early, and this day just got away from you.  You let your last  opportunity to exercise a right that perhaps your predecessors did not have -- slip away.  Are you a woman?   Are you a descendant of slaves?  Then you know that had you lived in a different time, you could only be a passive observer on a very important day such as this -- when Congressional representatives and senators, state judges and justices, and yes, a president are chosen.  

You may think this has nothing to do with you, that your life will not be changed one iota by the outcome of this day.  Think again.  It only takes one to make a difference.  Think of Noah who built an ark where there was no water to be found.  What about David who slew the giant Goliath with a stone?  Okay -- those are a little too long ago for you to think they matter now?  Or perhaps you just don't believe this Bible stories?  

Then how about Gandhi?  He made a choice to make a change.  And Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.  Do you think it was his desire to turn his family life upside down -- then lose his life, depriving his wife of a husband, his children a father?  Okay, you say, those are famous folks.  But were they always so well known?  I'm just an ordinary person, an ordinary American.  What's that?  What kind of mindless drivel is that?  I DON'T CARE WHAT YOU HEAR IN THE MEDIA; THERE ARE NO ORDINARY AMERICANS.  

Think about it.  We are a hodge podge of the rest of the world.  There is no other populace like Americans in the entire world.  Have you ever watched the Olympics, or for a few of us, attended Olympic events?   I like watching the gymnastics teams.  For the most part you can look at team -- the people -- not the uniforms -- and know the are Russian, Chinese, Romania, whatever.  But look at team U.S.A.   Need I say more?  And our potential and genius are as plentiful and diverse as our physical appearances.   

Here is one example:  At an Obama rally, a woman started a "cheer" (for lack of a better word): FIRED UP!!!  READY TO GO!!!!   Mr. Obama was puzzled by the woman's behavior, but soon realized that not only the crowd, but he also, got FIRED UP.   This woman whose name I do not know, did more for the Obama campaign that evening than Joe the Plumber has done for the other's campaign in the weeks into which his 15 minutes of fame have morphed.

Do you see?   It only takes one to make a difference.  I'm not telling you for whom you should vote.  I'm just begging you to do it.  In other parts of the word folks queue up for days to exercise that right.  We're not talking about days here, but perhaps hours.  Is the rest of your life -- is this country -- worth a few hours?  

I voted early.  But today I will visit my tiny precinct (mom still "works the polls") and visit with folks, bring them refreshments, offer them rides home, and encourage them to stay until they do the right and responsible thing -- VOTE.

VOTE TODAY

VOTE  NOW

Did I Ask for English Breakfast Tea?

It is noon -- frustrating for me because I thought it was 1:00.  I forgot that the clock in my Jeep was on CDST.   Unfortunately that caused me to be an hour early for a 1:00 o'clock class, and miss having lunch with a paralegal friend.  Here I am in one of Houston's quasi-ritzy hotels in the heart of the Galleria, a place I'd rather not come within two miles of unless it is 7:00 a.m. on a Sunday morning.   At that time I am guaranteed a choice of lanes in which to drive, and little to no other street traffic.  

After self-parking and noting the rates and payment terms and procedure (as if it matters; it's either valet or self-park), I enter the hotel and find the exact location of my "class" and head for the restaurant, where I am seated at a table for four, although I am obviously alone and a table for two is just to my left.

I am handed a menu.   A young woman of the wait staff comes by and asks about my drink preference.  I ask for hot tea with honey and lemon.   She returns with a cup of hot water on a saucer bearing a wrapped, wrinkled tea bag that looks as if it is left over from the morning breakfast crowd.  Since the bag was sealed I didn't protest (although I was miffed about the tea being English Breakfast).   No honey.  No lemon.  From the menu I choose a grilled chicken sandwich.  It comes with lettuce, tomato, provolone and some kind of fussily-named mayo on a French baguette.  I opted for wheat bread and mayo on the side.   

Here comes my sandwich, cut on the diagonal.  Toasted, crumbling wheat bread tossed aside in favor of eating chicken, lettuce and tomato with knife and fork.  No mayo on the side.  Back comes young woman who evidently cares not one whit whether I get what I ask for, to ask if everything is alright.   She did ask if I wanted more tea, to which I asked if there was anything else available other than English Breakfast.  She rattled off several flavors, and I settled on green.  (I drink a lot of green tea, not for the taste, but because it's supposed to have stuff my body needs.)   Annoyed, I grumbled in my mind about her failure to offer me a variety of teas in the first place, but simultaneously kicked myself for not asking.  I also asked that she bring the mayo which I requested on the side.  Bearing an expression of annoyance, she mutters a mono-syllabic oh in response.

I finish the other half of my sandwich as a sandwich, smattering on a tiny bit of the unimpressive but fussily-named mayo.   Washing it down with my tea (sorry, I do not sip), I tender payment for the unimpressive fare and begrudgingly leave an undeserved tip.  

That's one of the problems with being a member of the darker nation:  even if  you get an old, wrinkled English Breakfast tea bag, moderately acceptable food and lousy service, you'd better leave that tip; otherwise you're just pegged as another cheap you-know-what.

Hugs

You can tell a lot about a person by one's hugging technique  (This writer tends to use 'one' as opposed to "him or her" so as not to get bogged down in the stuff of gender traps.  Take note also, that a lot of times in Bible translations, particularly the King James, the uses of 'man' therein are mistranslated.  The tragedy of this is that men have used these mistranslations to their benefit in ministry and the Church, and women have been unnecessarily oppressed -- and suppressed -- for too many years by the misuse of 'man' when the original word was one of neutral gender.)  Okay -- that's the one digression allowed in this short piece.  Back to one's hugging techniques.

I just watched a video clip of Michelle Obama visiting an Obama-Biden Campaign New Mexico Field Office.  Have you ever noticed her hugs?  They come with a warm small, and are full embraces that generally conclude with several light right-handed back pats, perhaps 7 or 8, then the hand is still for a few seconds before the hug is broken.  Those look like really nice hugs.  

There is a soprano in my church choir.  I would venture to say she is of sufficent age to be my mom.  Whenever I see her coming toward me I know I'm going to get a double-handed wraparound hug that many times makes me doubly glad I came for our 90-minute workover or thrashing or any number of other physically grueling terms one might use.  (Singing, especially in my church choir, is quite an awesome experience, but if done properly, one's body will be physically wasted at 9:00 p.m. on Wednesday evenings if leaving our music suite.)

Then there's the traditional hug with my daughter -- the double-handed right-and-left rocking hug, with circular back rubs and maybe a pat or two.  My favorite.

Analogous to a full-throated (I've been waiting to use that well-worn phrase) admission of I really am glad to see you or I really do care about you kind of thought, the three above-describe hugs are among the best.  Then, there are those whatever hugs.  You know:  the kiss-air don't-touch-my-makeup hug.  The two-armed, split-second, don't move or I'll shoot you hug.   One question:  why waste the time, effort and energy with a whatever hug?  Just curious.  

If you really don't want to do it, then don't.