A Season of Giving

                Christmas is known as a season of giving among Christians and others although Christ Himself exhorted His followers to make “giving” a daily way of life.  Much of what now fills my little duplex came from my husband—store bought or handcrafted.  These represent to me that real, meaningful gift-giving is an art.  It is not about black Fridays, green Mondays or purple Thursdays although shoppers can purchase good gifts on sale at times.  My husband was not a shopper and cared nothing about finding “good deals.”  But he did excel in gift-giving that comes from the heart.

                The occasions are rare when he experienced mission failure.  But when he risked getting out of his areas of expertise, he was in trouble.  For example, it would be foolish for me to have purchased a baseball bat for our son and then our grandson.  And so early in our married life when my husband went to a clothing store to find a gift for me, he should have known he was on shaky ground.  He knew nothing about choosing stylish or flattering clothing other than lingerie and ruffled umbrellas. He could have sought assistance from more knowledgeable people, but he did just the opposite.  He took a childhood friend equally style-challenged and a student he befriended, funny, developmentally disabled and scary looking if you didn’t know him.  Think Boo Radley on steroids.  Once we took him to a Cardinal baseball game and by its end, cleared out a whole section of fans up high in Busch Stadium with Ron’s loud talking and bag popping.

                Moving on, now think of the ugliest polyester pants suit of the 70s era and try to envision one even worse.  Thank God the three amigos’ selection did not fit and “sadly” had to be returned.  The pants were innocent enough in solid black.  It was the top that stole the show.  It blended the black color with a boring tan; this tan covered the bodice area to a fitted waist.  From there it flared out into sections shaped like little flags alternating black and tan from the waist to the top of the legs.  I would lack only a tall hat and baton to lead a marching band with ugly school colors.  I tried to be gracious but Jim never bought me another piece of clothing again.

                Perhaps on our first Christmas as Mr. and Mrs., we each bought gifts that are telling as I look back on them now.  Unaware we had the same idea, we purchased nativity scenes, maybe even then recognizing something genuine and important about the Christian faith we practiced in different ways.  Our marriage ceremony itself demonstrated our experiences with both Catholic and Protestant ministers and traditions.  Now, as I write this, I see the one nativity set, the standard manger with colored characters and animals surrounding baby Jesus.  One year, young Henry set a wise man free as he crawled under the tree to get a closer look, a man I had to individually place on his spot of dried glue again this year.  Under every tree this set has taken its place each Christmas.

                The other set was very different in appearance, occupying various locations in several homes over the years.  Each figure and animal is separate, made to look like carved wood, no color just various grains.  This year it is on top of the piano with a new and wonderful addition.  I recently purchased a metal star outline raised up about ten inches on a little pole all covered in tiny lights and mounted on a wooden block.  With the simple touch of a switch, it all lights up.  I had not realized it would be perfect behind Mary, Jesus and Joseph when I bought it.

                One definition of the word give is “to present voluntarily and without expecting compensation; bestow.”  From the ugly pantsuit and nativity scenes through many years together, I think my husband and I both sought to be giving people and bestow gifts of meaning and value.  Of course, it is the love in the gift and behind its selection that makes such offerings a real art.

Turkeys and Trivia

              

                I suppose it was making our traditional Thanksgiving oreo turkeys with my grandson Henry that brought back memories of the Thanksgiving trivia class activity I so enjoyed in my developmental English classes at St. Louis Community College.  I had purchased The Thanksgiving Book (1987) and after reading a brief history of the holiday, I thought it would be fun/educational to have a trivia contest and then distribute some of the oreo turkeys (cookies with chocolate icing, Hershey kisses, candy corn and a red hot) as a treat.

                I wish I had kept a copy of the actual trivia questions, but I do remember most of them after taking a fresh look at the Thanksgiving book.  Some of the questions were giveaways, such as name three foods associated with this holiday.  However, many tested our memories of what for me were early lessons about the first Thanksgiving when I was in elementary school.  Here are a few of the actual questions I asked them:

·         What year did the Pilgrims arrive at Plymouth Rock, Massachusetts?     1620

·         Why did these people leave Europe and make a dangerous trip to America?   Religious freedom

·         What was the name of their ship?   Mayflower  

·         When was the first Thanksgiving and why was it a special meal?   In 1621, after only 50% of the settlers survived the winter, Governor Bradford called for a three-day feast to celebrate the harvest with the Indians who helped them

·         How did the Indians help them?    They taught them to plant corn and squash, to fish and hunt

·         Name two people among those first colonists:  John Smith, Squanto, Pocahontas, etc.

·         When did football become the official Thanksgiving sport?    1880s

·         What President established the holiday as an annual, fixed holiday?   President Lincoln declared the 4^th Thursday for the annual national holiday, proclaiming, “Thanksgiving and praise to our beneficent Father who dwelleth in the heavens.”  (l863)

·         List three traditional Thanksgiving foods.

  I wouldn’t have been able to answer all these questions correctly,  but some students had really low scores.  The activity was for fun, but  I think It also was an opportunity to remind these students that there was more to Thanksgiving than getting together to eat too much, visit, and watch television.  I suggested they take these facts to their gatherings and impress everyone  with all they knew about the holiday and its history. 

                I must have given some prize to the students with the most correct answers, but I am sure every student was offered an oreo turkey.  Only a few students in one class used a few of these like hockey pucks to toss across the room.  Not one of my more impressive groups.  Most students reacted quite favorably. 

                Many things have changed since I enjoyed those trivia contests with my classes.  However,  being reminded of the risks those first settlers took for that chance for freedom in a new world is worth remembering and shouldn’t change.  And making oreo turkeys remains an annual Thanksgiving activity from generation to generation in our family.  One can never have enough chocolate whatever the occasion!

Yes, God Friended Me

                What happens when an old white woman pulls out of her street one Wednesday morning and notices a young Black man sporting dreadlocks carrying four or five bright yellow bags of supplies and a big jug of juice on the sidewalk just ahead?  Almost sounds like a set-up for a joke, doesn’t it?  However, this is no joke but the beginning of a real life experience that could qualify for at least one story line in an episode of the new television show called “God Friended Me.”

                This show has three, young, main characters, one white, one black and one Indian, plus God, an unseen presence sending friend notifications via Facebook to the professing atheist in the group.  Once the atheist yields to accepting the friend requests, he becomes an amazing participant in God’s providential plans to bless these “friends,” all people in need.  The plot lines almost seem contrived, yet the Bible does present a God who indeed orders lives providentially for His good purposes for them and for the “common good.”  I also buy into this picture of a loving God because I have been the grateful recipient of such divine ordering.

                Back to the old white woman and the young black man’s encounter on a sunny, pleasant summer day.  I am the old white woman who is not in the habit of offering people rides although I have spotted a lady who regularly walks to her job at County Market and given her a chance to ride instead.  This time when I lowered the window and summoned the walker, he looked a bit surprised but put his bags in the back and then got in the front with me.  Although he lived only a few blocks down the road, by the time I dropped him off I had discovered he was the person I had been praying for to help me with some yard work and other little jobs at my duplex. 

                Actually, I had been becoming a bit impatient with the Almighty about a new source of help after Izabella, a student/worker at the EIU Rec Center, finished her degree and went back to Chicago.  She and I had become friends over the few months she assisted me; I even took her to dinner to celebrate her graduation before she left.  Thinking that connection had worked well, I was canvassing the staff at the Rec center when the fall semester began.  But Brandon, my God-ordained new friend, was a surprisingly good match.  He and his 13 year old son have both come to the house now and one is kind and helpful.  LeVante could not have been nicer even when he was doing the main work to clean out my large garbage and recycling containers.  This is also a family who needs some extra money even though both mom and dad work.  I love to watch how God matches people’s needs and desires.

                So, was it divine ordering that put me on the same street at the same time this nice young man would be “walking errands” for his family?  I feel certain such timing was working out God’s answer to my appeals for help.  God may not work through friend requests from Facebook; after all, His ways are higher and better than ours.  But, just as “God Friended Me” portrays a God who providentially works in lives to bring goodness and blessing to needy people, so does the God in the real world who hears and answers our prayers—eventually.

Making People Feel Special

       

Since John McCain’s death about two weeks ago on August 25, so many anecdotes and words of affection have been shared about this very human but also very praiseworthy America-loving man.  However, the one that stands out to me was related by Joshua Johnson, NPR host of “1A,” during the panel discussion on Meet the Press, August 26^th.  His driver to the broadcast that morning had often driven John McCain, too.  Unlike other riders, McCain would ride in the front seat of the car and talk affably with the driver.  When the senator got out, he would salute or call the driver by his first name.

Mr. Johnson then admitted he didn’t even know his driver’s name.  He paraphrased a well- known Maya Angelou quote: “I've learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.”  As Johnson emphasized the  very end, immediately I was reminded of the wonderful way an unassuming retired EIU (Eastern Illinois University) professor remembered my husband as he expressed his sympathy to me after Jim’s sudden death.  Jim and I had gotten acquainted with Richard at the university’s fitness center where friendlier exercisers often make casual conversation with one another.

Richard told me he always enjoyed talking to Jim because he was interesting and engaging, and “when he talked to me, it made me feel like I was that way, too.”  In other words, he recognized that Jim had a special quality about him that made Richard feel special, also; he remembered how Jim made him feel.  When I shared Richard’s comment with his wife, she said he had told her the same thing about Jim.

Friendly engagement, listening with genuine interest to another's words and experiences--surely these characterize what Maya Angelou claims is the real measure of a person.  According to Joshua Johnson from NPR, John McCain exhibited this lack of snobbery and personal attention to everyday people and celebrities alike.  These are much needed and too little seen personal traits in our increasingly impersonal world.  I am thankful to have spent so many years sharing life with just such a person, not a statesman on a world stage but someone who also made others feel noticed and special.

Three Things

When I open my laptop, my chosen screen saver is a wonderful picture of Bonnie, David, and me in a porch swing with Jim standing behind us.  This is not just any swing on any large, old white porch.  Oh, no, this is the famous farmhouse porch setting from the wonderful movie, Field of Dreams.  In the late 80s when the movie came to theaters, our family was among the first to seek out the Iowa farm, a real working farm, literally in the middle of nowhere.  That day, we shared the field and bleachers with a lovely local related group who were going to see the movie that night in Dubuque.  For our family, that moment remains a truly special memory.

                When “assigned” to write about three objects/things of importance to us for our next writers’ group (tonight, no pressure), I immediately moved away from objects to less tangible choices.  Memories of my husband are especially precious since he is no longer working out our life journey by my side.  He had some wonderful qualities and quietly performed many acts of kindness.  But he also had a mischievous side and could be really funny.  He was “on” the evening of the mass, dinner and program during the weekend of activities for his 50^th high school reunion.  After the mass in the chapel where the boys went to high school, we went to a dining area and enjoyed a lovely dinner.  Jim had chaired the planning committee which met for three years, so he was the MC. 

                After appropriately thanking various people on the committee for their contributions to the event, he slipped into probably 20-30 minutes of funny memories and string of consciousness comments.  He even briefly played the priest who used to be on Saturday Night Live, with his black umbrella for confessions.  As I listened to the crowd laugh and looked around at the audience of about 90 people, I had the feeling I was at a comedy club enjoying a clean, stand-up comedian’s routine.  It was a great night for everyone but one that really meant a lot to Jim.  He got a standing ovation when he finished and let the music group continue with more of the expected program.

                Something else that adds so much to my life and has for some time is the living word of God.  This is not exactly the same thing as the written words collected in the Bible although those words often provide the vehicle.  In the book of Hebrews, the scriptures are described as “living and active . . .” when life is breathed into them by the Holy Spirit and then they are spoken and delivered to a listening ear and open heart.  Such words can replace fear with faith, despair with hope, and confusion with understanding.  A line from Psalm 46 has been brought to my attention over and over again:  “Be still and know that I am God.”  Another translation for be still is to “cease striving,” in other words, calm down, remember how great and trustworthy Jesus is, and that He is working in our behalf.  A longtime friend from St. Louis sent me a lovely plaque with the verse on it after Jim died.

                Finally, I value the expression of genuine kindness among us human creatures.  I am not a big fan of random acts of kindness although I didn’t turn down the paid ticket at McDonald’s.  Sadly, my order was quite minimal; had I only known the opportunity that awaited me.  Just this week, I received a wonderfully thoughtful, kind, and faith-filled note from a St. Louis friend remembering her own mother and Jim.  But she did not leave me out of the strong words of friendship and faith.  In the last couple weeks, a nice lady I met at the EIU rec center dropped by with some produce from her garden and a visit.  Moving from being a casual acquaintance at the center or the widows’ group or even church to more of a personal friend visiting me or inviting me to his or her home does not come easily or often, not for a newcomer like me. I believe Jesus spoke of “being a stranger and inviting Me in.”

                Just writing about these experiences helps me appreciate what is good in my life. The Apostle Paul said, “Finally, brothers and sisters, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right . . . Think about such things and the God of peace will be with you: (Phillippians 4:8).  Good memories, living scriptures and demonstrated kindness cheer me and feed my soul.  Gifts—for me and others.

Try a Little Kindness

                  When my daughter and her then boyfriend were graduate students at Indiana University, my husband and I visited and got to meet Bill on a lunch outing to a quaint Asian restaurant.  On that first meeting, I was struck by two qualities: his gentle manner and his kindness.  Reflecting upon this, I came to the observation that kindness is a highly underrated virtue.

                  One definition of kindness is “the quality of being friendly, generous, and considerate.”  According to the scriptures, patience and kindness are the primary descriptions of love in 1 Corinthians 13.  I used to wonder why those qualities were the first to be mentioned in “the love chapter,” but as I have gotten older, I have understood the value of them much more.  Thinking about the times in my own life that I have needed healing and comfort of spirit or body or both, I see how much good kindness can do.

                During the months after the dramatic 17 days of life before our second child died, I had two friends whose presence in my life was indeed healing and kind.  One was a close friend who had a young child of her own.  Every week, they along with Bonnie and me, would go to a women’s prayer group in a lady’s home, and then we would have lunch together usually at my friend’s house.  Sharing this activity with me, expressing her love and kindness for both Bonnie and me, was certainly part of what helped me through that time.  I knew I had the freedom to share feelings and struggles with her that probably would have made other people uncomfortable, too.

                The impact of a small act of kindness took me by surprise in another connection with others in sorrow or pain.  I grew up in our neighborhood church and participated in many activities there.  I got to know the Director of Christian Education fairly well; she was a very nice and peppy person.  Years after I had grown up, this woman died, and I took my mother to her funeral service.  I also sent a sympathy card to her husband, who also went to the church, and wrote a note on the card about what she had meant to me when I was younger.  About a year later, I drove my mother to a church service at my old church, and the husband sought me out.  He wanted to tell me how much my words had meant to him when he read them.  I suspect they offered some healing to his sorrowing soul.

                Even writing about these times in my life reminds me of how offering ourselves, our words, our kindnesses can make such a difference in the lives of others.  So much hurt and suffering.  Let us not be slow to respond with friendliness, generosity, and kind consideration.

A friend’s presence in the midst of suffering provides great comfort.

Daring Adventures

             My husband Jim was an adventurous soul.  Once on a cold, snowy January day and night, he rode a greyhound bus for 23 hours after traveling with our son back to Ithaca, New York, for David’s second semester in a master’s program there.  The crazy man even walked around downtown Columbus, Ohio, about two a.m. during a layover stop along the way. Doesn’t that sound like a really good idea?  Although—it would qualify for an adventure.

            When I was growing up, I definitely qualified for adventurous.  My neighborhood was Wally and June Cleavor worthy (of Leave it to Beaver television fame), and I rode my bike to friends’ houses, suffered countless bruises running around on the school playground, and attempted flips on both the trampoline and low diving boards.  Oddly, in contrast, a few weeks before his death, Jim bravely jumped off the low diving board –a first at 69 years of age—during our church swim party at the town swimming pool.  That characteristic adventurous spirit of my youth asserted itself despite recent years of mild submission to physical limitations, and surprising everyone, I climbed to the top of the high waterslide and slid down into a strong current of water.  I did need some help making my exit out of the pool.  Spotting me in the act, my seven-year-old grandson exclaimed, “Grandma is going to kill herself!”

            I am on a bit of an unsought adventure right now as I live on my own.  As I write this piece, I am visiting my son David and his family, wife Rachel and four-year-old granddaughter Mason, who live on the edge of Grand Rapids, Michigan.  David had come to Charleston, Illinois—my home—for a fun, helpful visit with family, and I asked to ride back with him to give him company on the road and to give me company being with his family. While visiting, he had helped to put a ping pong table together—a birthday surprise for grandson Henry.  David also worked at my house clearing out some items in the garage and straightening up the back patio.  Most importantly, he had rescued me as I had tried to get my treasured outdoor fountain running once again.  Over its 25 years of service, I have continued to love the soothing sound of the water as it trickles down the two piece, three level wonder out on our patio just as much as I did when Jim surprised me with it all set up indoors for a cold, February birthday.  We logged many hours sitting out on the patio together, enjoying the simple pleasures of trickling water and each other’s company. 

            It has been a good week here in Michigan.  I have lain on the floor of the sunroom, watching Mason play and get acquainted with her new neighbor, six-year-old McKenzie.  Utilizing a three-story playhouse, Mason and I have had some good fun ourselves making the Barbies and Ken hide and play on all floors.  There has also been a trip to Holland, Michigan, to see the many beautiful tulips on display there every May during the Tulip Festival.  On another day, David and I ventured to a small piece of lakefront just so I could hear the waves and look out over the miles and miles of blue water.  Trying to be helpful, I prepared the famous crockpot tomato sauce for two spaghetti dinners, folded laundry, and entertained Mason although I was the most entertained.  Despite some family tensions over choosing a means of travel for my return, I have pressed on, seizing the day and making the trip.  The Carpe Diem philosophy has become more my own after Jim’s sudden death shook us all, a harsh reminder of the fragility of life.

Tomorrow I will fly back home by myself with requested assistance from the airline.  This solo travel will be the biggest challenge of the trip, saved for last.  Jim was the one who bridged the gap between what my mobility issues allow and what is needed for this and other simpler endeavors.  Even though now invisible, his presence remains a part of our family life, no matter where we are.  I will continue on with this adventure along a new and still somewhat unknown path. 

A very brave and famous American woman claimed, “Life is a daring adventure or nothing.”  Left without sight, hearing and speech after an early childhood illness, Helen Keller went on to learn ways of reading and writing.  She achieved more in her lifetime than many blessed with all their senses.  Perhaps her spirit of adventure was partially what prodded her on to live such a meaningful and productive life.  May I venture on partially fueled by that same spirit.

 

 

 

A Memory about awakening

               

                Stories abound, both written and oral, about the amazing physical abilities that can be “awakened” or stirred up when people face danger.  Someone might actually lift extremely heavy objects, such as cars, to save a person’s life.  Likewise, firefighters combatting raging flames in California, often work stressful and strenuous hours well past the time for their needed rest hoping to save homes and landscapes.  On another level, spiritual awakenings, often movements or revival, are a rich part of America’s history.  The Great Awakening, the wave of fervor to abandon “dead” practices and rituals, sought a more expressive and intimate connection with God, beginning in 18^th century Scotland and England and then coming to the colonies as well.   

                What may be harder to recognize and share is not information about the big spiritual movements or impressive physical fetes, but true Christian outpourings on individuals at times of crisis.  Such was the case for my husband after his father’s planned open heart surgery in l997.  Grandpa seemed to be recovering and almost ready to leave the hospital when he passed out while attempting to stand by his bed.  Because he had aspirated some substance like food into his lungs, a routine recovery became a very different experience.  This crisis seems to have presented an opportunity which awakened “the priest” in my husband as he ministered to his father so powerfully and expressively. 

                What makes this story even more remarkable is the background of my husband Jim’s relationship with his parents up to this point.  Strains, critical attitudes and resulting hurt and ill will had been at work in family relationships well before my husband’s generation.  By Grandpa’s 79^th year, it had been especially hurtful for my husband that his parents’ seemed to take so little interest in our children’s activities,  such as athletic events.  On the other hand, my parents were very “present” in our family’s lives.  One time, my father even came to a baseball game after receiving a chemotherapy treatment that very day.

                Those three weeks Jim’s father fought for his life, something came alive in my husband’s spirit, readying him for the unanticipated moment that arose.  His mother and sister had been fairly constant in their hospital visiting, and my husband was generally inhibited in their presence. However, after Grandpa’s setback, something fortuitous happened.  Jim had been called at school about his father’s changed condition and felt compelled to go to the hospital before the end of the school day.  When he arrived, surprisingly, he found his father alone and about to have a tube put down his throat which would hinder his ability to speak.  Jim took that small but significant piece of time to encourage his father in matters of faith.  Grandpa had been estranged from his brother; now Jim presented the need to forgive his brother and get right with God.  Jim also shared his own faith in those few but eventful minutes, and his father responded favorably to it all.  Then the tube was inserted, something his mother had not anticipated when she and her daughter had gone home for lunch. 

                By the time they returned, Grandpa was on a ventilator, and Jim had ministered the much needed conversation about faith and forgiveness.  I believe in so selflessly being the God-ordained priest his father needed, quietly, privately, Jim’s own hurt and disappointment from many years were washed away by the Holy Spirit.  Jim was never bothered by past events again, truly experiencing the peace of God.  The next few weeks, he would be with his father at night, talking about times in the past and playing some music, including Jesuit songs on an old tape player.  His mom and sister would cover the days, unaware of the meaningful exchange between father and son.

                Although there were times of some hope, the struggle for life was mostly uphill for Grandpa.  I think the crucial minutes before the ventilator went in were the only pointed times Jim spoke to his Dad about spiritual matters.  He was just a kind, loving and attentive son, wonderfully enabled to do so by the grace of God with no hard feelings.  I cannot think of another time, at least not that I know of, where Jim himself experienced an awakening of the presence of God within him to such an extent, giving him a holy boldness at a critical time.  Surely, it was the outpouring of the Holy Spirit and the awakening it stirred up in Jim that changed the course of both of their lives, eternally. 

              

Revealing a Secret Longing

               During the 16 years I tutored in a St. Louis community college writing center, we often celebrated the spring semester’s end with a bar-b-que at a nearby picnic area.  One year, Mickey, a truly free-spirited tutor a little older than I, suggested a game to play at the picnic.  On a piece of paper, each tutor needed to answer this question:  if we could do or have one thing before we died, what would we choose?  After writing down our answers, we were to place them in a tin.  At the bar-b-que, answers would be drawn out and read. Then we all would guess who had written each answer.

               Upon hearing Mickey’s question, something immediately came to my mind.  Realizing it was “outside the norm” gave me some hesitation about sharing it.  I would be speaking more boldly than I usually do and revealing a fairly secret longing.  I have read books whose authors might answer something similar, and some even had seen such things before they died.  However, all of these authors are dead, so they weren’t playing such games that exposed inner desires.

               Because my secret wish came to mind so quickly, I decided honesty should be the overriding consideration, so I wrote my answer and waited for the game to begin at our casual, outdoor potluck.  A few answers preceded mine.  When it was read, I can’t say I was particularly surprised that nobody had to think real hard to figure out it was me.  Once a full-time professor I didn’t know very well came to my office to see if I happened to have a Bible on my shelf.  As it happened, I did, but the fact that he sought me out was interesting and somewhat intriguing.

               What, you are wondering, did this brave tutor write?  All right—that is an overstatement of my character traits.  In my early adult years, I had been influenced by the charismatic movement and absorbing scriptures that encouraged and inspired me.  All of these brought me to the belief that the Christian church, consisting of many bodies of believers around the world, should be exhibiting the power and compassion of God with preaching and effective teaching, praying for and receiving miracles, and loving sacrificially.  So what was on my piece of paper?  Simply this:  Before I die, I would like to be where the gospel is preached with power and miracles displaying the compassion of God for His people.

A Good Catch

               Just this week, I had a “Me, too,” moment as I sat on the end of my bed getting my shoes on for the day.  When my husband (of 45 years) and I first started dating, he sketched a simple but impressive baseball player with straight hair poking out the top and sides of his cap dressed in a striped uniform.  The shirt on the young, almost cartoon-like boy says, “Aces” right across the chest.  At the bottom, right under his feet, my husband wrote, “Sure am glad I caught you.”  As I looked at the drawing with the familiar sentiment on the wall, in my mind I replied, “Me, too,” without initially realizing the connection to what has become a movement today.

 

               My “me, too,” means something very different from the terrible stories so many women are finally sharing.  Thankfully, the man who caught me loved me fervently, and remained happy with “his catch”-- and told me so--over all our years (46) before his sudden death last August.  He was a physical education teacher and coach, working alongside women and men who talked about how much they learned from him, how much they held him in high regard.  Unfortunately, there was an assistant principal at his school, a married man, who was known to treat the young office ladies in sexually inappropriate ways.  I would imagine stories could be told about him that would easily fit into the “me, too,” movement.

 

               At this time, it is and has been important for women, some very young women, to tell their stories, some bringing down very powerful and rich men in our society, because these ladies have spoken their truth to power.  Sexually improper behavior is pervasive, destructive and definitely not loving no matter what it may claim.  However, after my moment responding to my husband’s words, it occurred to me that perhaps we need to also be reminded that many men all around us, maybe our husbands, our bosses, our neighbors, our favorite celebrities, are not men behaving badly.  To the contrary, they treat others respectfully in what they say and what they do.

 

               Looking at my husband’s work of art and words of love bless me and remind me how very fortunate I have been to love and be loved by fine men—my husband and my father before him.  Let us hope that there will be fewer and fewer unfortunate “Me, too” stories and more occasions to celebrate the love that blesses and builds us up, as individuals and as a society.

Posted by Rayma Kay laughlin at 12:34 PM

 

A Future and a Hope

Usually the coming of a new year is something I welcome.  I may even try to use this “graduation” to a higher number on the calendar as a prod toward some improvement or change in my behavior or thinking.  However, after an all-encompassing newness has been imposed upon one’s existence as it has been for me with my husband Jim’s sudden death in August, forward thinking about the future almost seems impossible.  I remember as a teenager reading a letter my aunt must have written to my Mom or Dad when her husband died.  She expressed a similar feeling, even a “what future?” attitude even though she was much younger than I am with her three children still living at home.  It’s as if half of a person’s body has disappeared. 

               Hope, hopeful expectation of something good--this is a basic component in positive, purposeful living.  As God’s voice has resonated within me before, it does so again to nurture, to renew my ability to believe I will somehow move toward blessing.  Many years ago I became acquainted with a “big time” Bible verse in Jeremiah.  The prophet is telling God’s wayward people that even though they are about to be taken captive and exiled for a period of time, God will bring them back.  He tells them His plans are for good and not evil, to give them a future and a hope(Jeremiah 29:11).

For many years my attention has been on the “plans” part of this scripture and how God’s plans are only good ones.  But, now I find myself clinging to the latter promise to give a “future and a hope.”  As my future, at least the immediate one, still seems a bit illusive to me, I look to God’s word and His certainty to fulfill it.