'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.

Theology and Politics

Perhaps this piece is mistitled.  It should probably be Christianity and Politics, for I was raised by Christian parents, in a Christian home, baptized at the age of 6 - having accepted Jesus The Christ as my Savior, and came to really understand the need to rely on Holy Spirit for guidance and the need for a one-on-one relationship with God at the ripe old age of 28.    

Oh -- what's that?  You ask why am I posting this little note in my Coming Out of the Closet blog?  So glad you asked.  Actually, I will post it here and in my Oh My God blog.  I had a time deciding where it should go and since I couldn't choose I decided to do the next best thing.

I broke bread today with a wonderful young woman whom I rarely see.   It was an intentional meeting, requiring advanced scheduling, but well worth it, at least for me.   For the 11 years I have known her she has remained steadfastly herself in all ways that matter.  She has been a blessing to my family.

As usual, when folks haven't seen each other for awhile, a lot of time is spent catching up once they sit across from each other.   Aside from the usual family stuff, there was a new twist, which prompted this writing.  My young friend is an Obama-like creature.  She was raised by her paler-nation mom without the presence of her darker-nation father.  (Note to do piece on fathers of the darker nation who play active roles in their children's upbringing, lest some think it is an anomaly.  Further, note to start with my own darker-nation dad.)    

My friend (hereinafter "Samantha" -- [though fictitious, it alleviates the need to keep writing my friend]) now finds herself in a dilemma.   The current political climate has removed the masks from folks with whom she not only has daily contact, but with whom she and her fine family worship.   She has learned that her 50/50 hands are not allowed to tie the 100/0 shoes of children at her church.  Her 25/75 child has been warned by a schoolmate that her parents must vote for the white man or we will be in big trouble.   Yes, from the mouth of a babe is reflected the influences of his environment.  From school?  Church?  Home?  Who knows?  The source is known only to him and God.

Speaking of God:   I wonder if folks -- of whatever race, creed, color, etc., pause in sufficient time to soak in the reality that He is the Creator of all, including us?  Okay -- everyone doesn't believe in my God.  Fine (actually not fine, for my heart yearns for all to believe; still God does not force Himself on any of us, and while I seek to introduce Him, will not force Him on anyone either).  For those non-believers, the question is:  By what means did you derive the color of your skin and eyes, and the texture of your hair?   Before conception did your mom or dad choose one with whom to copulate in such a way as to create the person that is you?  Or while you were in your mother's womb, did she check off a list of available options and -- voila! -- after an appropriate gestative period you popped out just as ordered?  Perhaps you were visited by the Creator who asked you to choose:  skin (chocolate, caramel, vanilla), eyes (blue, brown, green, gray, other), hair (coarse or fine, wavy or straight, slow-growing and short, fast-growing and Lady-Godiva-long), lips (wispy thin or ultra thick -- or somewhere inbetween), nose (skinny, pointed, flat, wide).  And let's not forget the really important stuff to choose:  feels rhythm on beats 1 and 3, or beats 2 and 4?  Short, tall, chunky, skinny, legs long or short?  Plays basketball or bassoon?  Football or foosball?  Tennis or baseball?  Swimming or soccer?   Alright -- enough of that.

Back to Samantha.  The poor thing is being reminded in all kinds of subtle, and some not so subtle ways, that she is not 100%.  As a management type she's stuck in the middle, dealing with superiors and subordinates.  Hostility on both fronts.  Can you imagine such a sandwich?  A Samantha sandwich is not a wonderful snack.  It's kind of like a peanut butter sandwich.  You know how it is, when you put a glob of Peter Pan in the middle of a slice of multi-grain bread, top it with another slice and then mash it together?  It spreads out to the breads' edges, and the more pressure applied during the mashing process, the more the peanut butter tends to ooze out -- beyond the edges.    The resulting sandwich is just not as pleasing to look at -- or to eat.  That's what happens when folks are threatened; the pressure breaches their protective barriers, threatening the loss of their energy and substance, and they ooze, they leak.

The tragedy of this unmerited negative attention is that Samantha, like many regardless of origin, is a valuable commodity who contributes to the positive vitality of the organization for which she works, and more importantly, her immediate family, including her 100/0 mom.  When any of us is put upon in this fashion, we all lose.  Why should Samantha be punished for an outcome of which she has no control???  Why should anyone -- regardless of race, creed or national origin be irresponsibly held in contempt for not having control over those characteristics, just as you -- or you -- or you -- or I have no such control???

In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth.  He spoke everything into being.  And God saw all that He had made.  And it was very Good.   (Genesis 2:31, The Holy Bible, NIV.)  And in case one cannot relate to the Creation, please state any and all processes performed by you to make you the human being you are, including without limitation, the time of your conception, the man and woman who came together in such a way as to cause that conception, the color of your skin, shape of your nose, and texture of your hair, etc.  And finally, if still not convinced, consider this:

One day a group of scientists decided that they could do anything God could do, and confronted God with their foolishness, challenging Him.  So God reached down, scooped up dust from the ground, formed it into a man, and blew into him the breath of life, and man became a living soul.  The scientists were unimpressed.  They knew creating a man was a cakewalk.  One of the scientists bent down, and just as he was about to gather some dust, God stopped him and said:  Wait a minute; get your own dust.

So what does this have to do with politics?  As usual, I'm glad you asked.   When we free ourselves of narrow, short-sighted mindsets and realize that the people who are sufficiently intelligent, educated, qualified and positively motivated to fill a position -- public or private, political or otherwise -- for the betterment of the organization or government -- local, state or national -- come in all colors, shapes and sizes, and are not limited to people who look like you -- or you -- or you -- or me, we will all be better for it.   And a question to those who claim to be believers:  How can you say you love God, whom you have never seen, but hate any of His creation -- including Samantha -- and me?  

The theology of politics:  God allows stuff to happen.  He even allows people of mixed heritage to aspire to unite a nation of people whose origins (except for the disenfranchised natives) are rooted in other parts of the world.  He allows people who don't look like you to try, just as He allows people who look like you to try.  When He created you He did not breath into you a breath of privilege -- or of prohibition.  Those are traditions conceived by our foreparents.  It is the choice of each of us to continue those traditions of privilege and prohibition -- or let them die. 

A Woman's Place

Alright, brace yourselves -- especially if you're a woman.   

Years ago when my "baby" was a baby, during the early years of the National Organization for Woman (N.O.W. was 9 years old the year my babe was born), I was a furious and feisty young woman, understanding that my fight for equality was not as a woman, but just as a person.    I realized in 1975, that there lingered in this country a mindset that folks of the darker nation in all ways that matter, were not as good as folks of the paler nation.  I actually had the unmitigated gall, as my mom would say, to think that I was just as good, as smart, as capable, as anyone else. (On more than one occasion I've been called an uppity you-know-what.  But that's for another time.)  I spent a lot of time trying to prove that.  What a waste.  

My attitude about basic equality has not changed.  There is a twist, however.  Equality of humanity does not translate to equality in function.  The fact is that in terms of function, for lack of a better word, men and women are not equal.

Men and women have different types of strengths.  They have different roles to play.   Men and women were created to complement one another, not compete against each other.  From the perspectives of mentality, ambition and intelligence, gender does not control any one's potential.   However, just because of the different physicalities of men and women, there is a weaker sex in terms of physical strength.  (Please don't bother countering with female body-builders and related anomalies.  The effects of body-building cause physiological and hormonal abnormalities in women [no criticism, just fact].)   Just as women were not built to exert physical strength, men were not made to carry children.  

I have the pleasure of knowing some really smart women.  They work as engineers, lawyers, preachers, doctors, educators, linguists, administrators and wordsmiths, many of whom are mothers.   I say "they work as" because it is what they do, not who they are.   But what they do requires a great deal of mental preparedness.   There are also those, like my soon-to-be nonagenarian mother who were denied the opportunity to pursue a college degree, but even in her advanced years is still bright enough to outshine the bulbs in many a chandelier.  

Where am I going with this?  Well, I'm glad you asked.   By now we all know there is a female vice-presidential candidate this year.  I have written of her in ways that are far from flattering.  While I stand by what I wrote, enmeshed in those writings are the dregs of my own personal experiences with women of whom the VP Candidate reminds me, which are best left in the past.  This writing is different.  It is not about her obvious unsuitability for the office of vice-president based on her incompetence or other displeasing attributes; rather, it is because she is the mother of an infant and a young child.  

So???  What's wrong with that???  Again, I'm glad you asked.   Woman are uniquely built to conceive and bear children, and nurture them from DAY ONE (sometimes that phrase is apropos).   I firmly believe that babies get to know their mothers in the womb.  In fact, a good friend relayed to me that her son actually remembers being in the womb, and of the trauma his mom experienced during her pregnancy.  Another friend says he actually remembers being born.  Who among us can refute those accountings?  

The first years of a child's life are vital.   And more than anyone else, children rely on their mothers.   The one child I bore was blessed to be full-term and without any serious defect, condition or special need.  Aside from being on a three-hour feeding schedule for the first month or so, there were no serious problems -- unless you want to count:  1) putting my face on her back to make sure she was breathing; 2) recording her grunts while sleeping and driving across town the next day for her pediatrician to hear the play-back; or 3) weighing her everyday, hoping she gained an ounce.

How can a mother be all she can be for her infant child (not for herself, but for her child), if she willingly accepts a challenge that will keep them apart for days or weeks at a time?   One scene is indelibly imprinted in my memory:  Sarah Palin walks down the steps after her plane has landed in Alaska.  A young woman (one of her daughters, perhaps?) stands at the foot of the stairway, holding the few-months-old infant.  Palin steps onto the tarmac, plants a peck on the infant's cheek, and breezes past as if she had just greeted the child of a stranger.   Not a judgment, but a question:  Did she miss her child -- just a little?  Was there an urge to pluck the child out of the other's arms and just hold him -- just because?  I shudder to think of the answers that were demonstrated by her actions. 

Folks are asking what is the big deal that Palin has an infant child.   Taking nothing away from her ability (or one's perception thereof), that is a valid question.  It is a very big deal.  Children need their mothers.  And the younger they are, the greater the need.   And gender inequality aside, children need their fathers, too; the younger they are, the greater the need.   I must digress long enough to tell you of a conversation I had recently with a lawyer I have known for about 14 years.   We spoke of the toll a law practice can take on one's family because of the demands for long hours.  This man relayed to me that when his son and daughter were in their childhood years, he made it a point to put in a normal work day so that he would have time with them after their school day and participate in their activities just as other parents do.   In other words, the fact that he was a lawyer did not translate to putting in 60-70 hour workweeks and his loss of a "normal" relationship with his family.

How can Palin leave her infant child?  Perhaps it's because she has so many children.  Having only one, I asked a mother of multiples, who said this:  I love all my children, each and every one.  When any of us are apart I miss them, each of them.   Neither can take the place of another. 

If Palin's children were older this would not be a point of discussion.   Women often put off a career until their children are older.  Some women put off children until they have had a successful career.  Most, unfortunately, have to juggle both children and career.  But they don't embark on a campaign become vice president of the United States while doing so.

My babe is now very much grown up and on her own.  We live in the same city -- perhaps 20 minutes apart (less or more as we are at the mercy of Houston thoroughfares and drivers).    Even with our close proximity there are times when I haven't seen her sweet face, that I will drive to the school where she generally puts in a double-digit-hour day, sign the visitor's log in the main office, walk the 200 or so feet down the hall to her office, and sit in the reception area.  While I wait there is a steady stream of students.  She really needs revolving doors.  Phones are ringing.  Walkie-talkie type radios are sputtering.   At some point there is a lull.   She comes out of her office a stops.  Mom!  She smiles.   Come on in.  I didn't know you were here.  To whomever is present she says, [Name], this is my mom.  She's still smiling.   We go to her office.   We both get a good, doubled-handed rocking-left-and-right hug.  We chat for maybe a minute before the phone rings or the walkie-talkie-type radio sputters.   I know I need to leave so she can get back to her demanding day.  We get another hug -- the same double-handed rocking-left-and-right type we've done for as long as I can remember, ending with a little circular back rub and a couple of cheek smacks.  Standing back at arm's length she's still smiling.  All is well.    

I've done a few things in my life -- nothing major -- nothing like being a mayor or a governor or a vice presidential candidate.  (Actually I wanted to become involved in local politics, but knew folks would be more interested in when I bounced my first check and lost my virginity than my ideas to improve our neighborhood, city or government.)  But there is nothing I have done that is more important than establishing a bond with my daughter.  Despite my on-the-job motherhood training she turned out okay (thank God for her dad) -- and she still smiles when she sees me.   

Getting Ready for What?

In 2004, at the end of the first week of January, Houston was all abuzz.  Actually the busy-bee syndrome started long before then, because of Superbowl 38.  Yes, Superbowl 38 was to be held in Houston.  And a quarter million people were expected to descend on the City and party hard just because some men were going to congregate at Reliant Stadium and chase a funny shaped ball up and down the field to score points.  And a group of those men would be the winners.  They would be number one.  And there would be a great celebration for them, with champagne flowing and whooping in their locker room and dancing in the streets of their home city and even a parade.  And some place else there would be sorrow.  Grown men would cry and mope about perhaps for days or even weeks.  

I wondered how it was that a city of millions would get ready for that one big event.  There were even other events leading up to them Big One.  Some of those events were for worthwhile causes and some were just for a good time.   There were plans to build 38 Habitat Homes, collecting books and sports equipment for needy children and putting dollars in soup pots at the end of our worship services to feed the hungry.  All sorts of things were going on – some purposeful and some just for fun.  Children of all ages – from 0 to 99 – converged on the George R. Brown Convention Center for the NFL experience.  

 

I wonder how it was that an entire city could gear up for one supposedly spectacular day. What are we doing for the rest of our lives?  There was a yucky moldy something on the roof of our baseball stadium – and it was important that the roof of Minute Maid Park – the baseball stadium be cleaned by Superbowl.   It was important that our light rail system be running before Superbowl.   It was important that our streets be repaired and resurfaced for Superbowl.  

What happened after Superbowl?   We went back to our everyday, mundane, empty lives.  What happened?  Is the most important event in our lives – in the life of this city – Superbowl?  Should it not matter how our city looks from one day to the next?  Should our infrastructure not be maintained as a matter of course? 

And I wonder what happens we Jesus comes back?  The difference between Jesus’s coming and Superbowl is that we knew, well in advance, when Superbowl would take place.  We knew the exact day, the exact time and the exact location.  And we prepared for it in grand fashion.  But when Jesus comes back, we know not the day nor the hour.  

We who believe in Him and the Bible know that He is coming back.  And so it is important to us to live everyday of our lives as if He is coming back now.  So my question to you is:  Are you living a life so that when Jesus comes He will know who you are?  Will He recognize you as one of His children?  Can you look forward to the day when Jesus is coming  -- with anticipation – or with dread?  

Sometimes in my everyday life, I am confronted with making a decision – it doesn’t matter if it’s a business effort or a personal thing – but sometimes I ask myself when I’m on the verge of doing something – what if Jesus comes?  If Jesus came at this very minute, would He look at what I’m doing and turn away?  

Climbed Any Mountains Lately? (TWIM)

(Written for students when I taught music appreciation classes at a Houston elementary school)

I looked so high above, as far as I could see

Was a mountain so high it overpowered me

It's peak not seen by my naked eye

I said to myself, "it must touch the sky!"

It was so wide, as wide can be

To go around would take eternity

Here this mountain stood; in my way it would be

For I could not go forward 'til I put it behind me.

"I've got to do this," to myself I said,

And started to climb, my heart filled with dread.

For I knew deep within I didn't have a chance

Of getting to the top; I could tell at a glance.

But just a short distance away, I saw a little ridge

I could reach in only a day.

"I'll go just that far, then stop there and see

Just how much closer to the top I will be."

So away I went, looking forward to see

Only as far as my first destiny.

I reached the little ridge, sat down with a sigh

And looked ahead to see where my next stop might lie.

There it is; I can see it well

I'll make that one -- easily! I could very well tell.

So this is the way it will have to be

To reach the top, I now clearly see.

For the goals we set, difficult as we may believe

If we take one step at a time, will be possible to achieve.

Illegal Immigration Pt I

This is a difficult issue.  However, being a charter member of the KISS (keep it simple s_____) club,  this "Part I" will be addressed in that manner.

Basically, there are two types of illegal immigrants:  1) those who willingly come here; and 2) those who are not given a choice.  For those who are not given a choice, there are probably two types:  1) the children of willing adults; and 2) those who were forced into some kind of slave labor (prostitution, perhaps?).   

For those who came here willingly, they committed a crime, pure and simple.   What to do with them, however, is not simple.  And this Part I will discuss only one aspect of the shades of gray they have made by their illegal entry into this country.

First, the children.   Many of them are adults now and are caught in a particular kind of limbo. Totally Americanized, they are often fluent in English, devoid of a telltale accent, and have received the benefit of a free public education.  They can get a "T" number to pay income taxes, but they cannot get social security cards or driver licenses.   And so, getting insurance and doing a number of things responsible adults normally do, are next to impossible.

When I officed in the building next door to the College of Biblical Studies, one of my neighbors was a wonderful young man who happens to live such an existence.  He is a married, ambitious, hard-working father.   When he tried to "legitimize" himself, he was told he had to return to Mexico and re-enter the country properly.  Having been brought here at the age of six, he knows nothing of his home country.  Tried as I might, I could not find any information that would help him in any way.  That was truly a disappointment.  For people like this young man, who is now living a life in the shadows because of the crimes of his parents, there should be some way for him to gain the right to live here without going back to a country of which he knows little.   

Nature of the Man

I want to relay the text of an e-mail sent to me recently and which I found at leisha camden's blog spot.  I will comment briefly thereafter.  Here it is:

Amazing: Obama Helped Stranded Stranger 20 Years Ago 


The Norwegian newspaper VG has reported a truly amazing story about a newly-wed trying to get to Norway to be with her husband, and the stranger who helped pay an unexpected luggage surcharge. The blog "Leisha's Random Thoughts" has translated the story.

It was 1988, and Mary Andersen was at the Miami airport checking in for a long flight to Norway to be with her husband when the airline representative informed her that she wouldn't be able to check her luggage without paying a 100 surcharge:

When it was finally Mary's turn, she got the message that would crush her bubbling feeling of happiness.

-You'll have to pay a 103 dollar surcharge if you want to bring both those suitcases to Norway, the man behind the counter said.

Mary had no money. Her new husband had travelled ahead of her to Norway, and she had no one else to call.

-I was completely desperate and tried to think which of my things I could manage without. But I had already made such a careful selection of my most prized possessions, says Mary.

As tears streamed down her face, she heard a "gentle and friendly voice" behind her saying, "That's okay, I'll pay for her."
Mary turned around to see a tall man whom she had never seen before.

-He had a gentle and kind voice that was still firm and decisive. The first thing I thought was, Who is this man?

Although this happened 20 years ago, Mary still remembers the authority that radiated from the man.

-He was nicely dressed, fashionably dressed with brown leather shoes, a cotton shirt open at the throat and khaki pants, says Mary.

She was thrilled to be able to bring both her suitcases to Norway and assured the stranger that he would get his money back. The man wrote his name and address on a piece of paper that he gave to Mary. She thanked him repeatedly. When she finally walked off towards the security checkpoint, he waved goodbye to her.

Who was the man?

Barack Obama.

Twenty years later, she is thrilled that the friendly stranger at the airport may be the next President and has voted for him already and donated 100 dollars to his campaign:

-He was my knight in shining armor, says Mary, smiling.

She paid the 103 dollars back to Obama the day after she arrived in Norway. At that time he had just finished his job as a poorly paid community worker* in Chicago, and had started his law studies at prestigious Harvard university.

Mary even convinced her parents to vote for him:

In the spring of 2006 Mary's parents had heard that Obama was considering a run for president, but that he had still not decided. They chose to write a letter in which they told him that he would receive their votes. At the same time, they thanked Obama for helping their daughter 18 years earlier.

And Obama replied:

In a letter to Mary's parents dated May 4th, 2006 and stamped 'United States Senate, Washington DC', Barack Obama writes:

'I want to thank you for the lovely things you wrote about me and for reminding me of what happened at Miami airport. I'm happy I could help back then, and I'm delighted to hear that your daughter is happy in Norway. Please send her my best wishes. Sincerely, Barack Obama, United States Senator'.

The parents sent the letter on to Mary.

Mary says that when her friends and associates talk about the election, especially when race relations is the heated subject, she relates the story of the k ind man who helped out a stranger-in-need over twenty years ago, years before he had even thought about running for high office.

Truly a wonderful story, and something that needs to be passed along in the maelstorm of fear-and-smear politics we are being subjected to right now.

UPDATE: Thanks for the recommends, folks! Also, remember this was 1988, when 100 dollars was quite a bit of money, compared to today's value.

By the way, this would be the perfect antidote to the Smear E-mails going around. If anyone has a good long email chain list, shoot it out, and let it be passed along.

My comment:

Technically, she wasn't stranded.  Be that as it may, she needed help.  And I don't it at all amazing that my candidate readily came to her aid.   My gut tells me that it reflects the true nature of Barack Obama.  Am I Obama-struck?  Absolutely not!  There are several issues on which Mr. Obama and I are diametrically opposed.  The reality is that if one were to cherry-pick, there would never be a viable candidate for whom one could vote.    The key is to find balance.