Oh Baby

“Thank God for His indescribable gift." ~ 2 Corinthians 9:15

It’d been years since Joanne had been to church.  Now that the baby was on its way, she figured a few extra blessings couldn’t hurt.

St. Mary’s was a magnificent stone church with delicate stained glass windows.  Cathedral bells rang throughout the city, alerting the faithful it was time for the 9:30 a.m. service.

Joanne slipped in silently wondering if anyone would notice her.  An usher glanced at her suspiciously, like she was some sort of leper.  Joanne assumed it was because she was young, single and her pregnancy was finally showing.  She smiled and found a near-empty pew at the back just as grand organ music filled the cavernous church.  Families had turned out in their Sunday best; making Joanne feel even more self-conscious.   She was certainly an outsider.

Father gave a rousing sermon about the importance of family and the role each parent plays in raising children.  “It’s a tough job,” he preached, “one which required love, commitment, and courage.”  Joanne felt like all eyes were on her, condemning the lifestyle which she had prayerfully accepted.

She wasn’t ashamed.  In fact, Joanne loved being pregnant and the experience of growing a human being beneath her heart – a  reality that was but 4 months away.

When it was time to offer each other a sign of peace, few parishioners bothered to meet the stranger among them.  She’d read about the practice of “shunning.’  In an effort to reclaim the church’s role as moral authority, some churches actually expelled members for offenses ranging from adultery, gossiping, and unwed pregnancy citing the Gospel of Matthew that says unremorseful sinners must be rejected.

As the church service ended and the choir finished an inspiring version of Amazing Grace, Joanne remained seated.  The service had been so uncomfortable, that she’d barely had time to thank God for her many blessings – not the least of this was the impending birth of a beautiful child.  Once the church had emptied, Father approached.

“Welcome young lady,” he offered kindly.  “I’m delighted to have you join us!  Tell me a little about what brought you here today.”

They talked for nearly an hour.  At one point, Father wiped tears of joy from his eyes when he learned that Joanne was a surrogate mother for her brother and his paralyzed wife.

What kind of woman would carry a child to term, only to hand him over moments after birth?  Surrogates challenge our most basic ideas about motherhood and call into question what we’ve always thought of as an unbreakable bond between mother and child.  What kind of woman?  A compassionate woman - one with a compelling desire to help a friend or stranger stricken by misfortune.   God loves surrogates, and blesses their journeys from beginning to end.

Lord, bless those who encounter morning sickness and fatigue to help make a family possible for someone who almost gave up.   Let them carry their pregnancy full term, and deliver the healthiest baby possible for their intended parents.  Amen

Quench the Fire

“Control your anger; it doesn’t help you live the way God wants.  ~ James 1: 20

This day felt wrong from the start.  Richard left the office mentally exhausted.  He urgently needed to work off tension that’d been building like heat after a thunderstorm.  A few laps in the pool always sweetened his foul disposition.

At the subway station, Richard cranked his iPod and entered into semi-consciousness; like an instinct-driven possum.  The train arrived late but was full of passengers; no one got on or off.  His head throbbed; like wearing a hat several sizes too small . . . and getting smaller.  Richard sighed impatiently and began tapping his foot.

Several trains came and went, so packed that only a small handful of people could squeeze on at a time.  Richard felt his anger smoldering.  He took a deep breath; the damp air calmed him slightly.

Finally, desperation kicked in; he wouldn’t miss the next one.  He elbowed his way through the surge of impatient commuters.  Absent any empty seats, he gripped the closest pole as the car jerked forward. 

A smelly foul armpit appeared next to his face.  At each stop more people squeezed on than got off.  It’s felt (and smelled) like a sardine can – the BO, hair and perfumes made Richard queasy. 

At his stop, Richard forcibly shoved past people trying to get on without allowing anyone off.   By the time he left the train, Richard was fuming!  He raced for the club; scaling steps two at a time.

Its pool offered a healthy reprieve.  Cool water baths were used for centuries as a way to treat various ailments.  The water quenched his emotional fire.

Stretching his arms wide, Richard took his first stroke.  A modified butterfly stroke allowed his body to stay in the water.   The shadow of his arms had become the fan-like tail of the leaping whale he’d seen on an insurance company TV ad.  Richard felt powerful. 

He settled into a rhythmic pace.  But another swimmer kept creeping into his lane slowing him down.   The guy could barely swim.  Could this day get any worse, he wondered.  He fought through a couple of laps before calling it a day; rage peaking.

He was about to confront the rude idiot who ruined his workout.  But as the other swimmer fought to exit the pool, Richard noticed a US Army tattoo across his upper back . . . and no legs from the knees down.  Anger melted into shame.

Distinguishing between petty trifles and serious injustice can be difficult, especially when we're the ‘victim.’  We sometimes blow things out of proportion.  Anger needn’t corrupt us if we remember that God is a God of justice and use our anger in a way that honors Him.

Lord, sometimes anger gets the best of us.  Help us realize that anger is not an antidote (but a fuel) for more anger.  Fill us with Your divine love that we may extinguish the fires in our heart; that peace may prevail in our souls.  Amen

Coal War

“Father, keep them safe by the power of Your holy name—the name You gave me so that their unity may be like Ours." ~ John 17:11

Boomer’s toes were numb from the cave’s icy waters yet sweat trickled from his matted chestnut hair.  His whole body ached as he shifted around in a cramped position.  Grabbing the axe handle with blistered fingers, he continued to remove coal chunks from the hard rock surface. 

The dim light of a flickering lantern seemed useless against the deep black darkness.  Its diminished light reflected his sad story.  The youthful vitality that once typified his life had long ago been extinguished.  He knew all too well the dangers of working underground; but this was all he had. 

His daddy had been the mine’s head Shot Fire - the one who drilled and placed explosive charges that blew open the coal seams.  He dubbed his son ‘Boomer’ before his life ended tragically in this very mine. 

Momma had no marketable skills.  She tried a little waitressing and cooking, but it wasn’t enough.  So Boomer left the eighth grade to work in the mines: swingin,’ sweatin’ and prayin;’ battling both fear and fatigue with thoughts of his own family.

Suddenly the roof bolts began to ring and the ground shook violently.  Boomer had heard about what miners called a ‘bounce,’ but until now had never really experienced one.  He looked over at his partner.  ‘Spike’ towered well over six feet tall and gained the nickname because he was ‘hard as nails.’  Now he was ghostly white.

Just before the heavy timber supports snapped and the roof collapsed, Spike shoved Boomer to safety with a thunderous force.  

Acrid dust rose quickly.  Boomer soaked his neckerchief with canteen water to make breathing easier.  Then, fumbling in total darkness, he found his light.  “Praise God - it still worked!”  Euphoria turned to panic as its illumination fell upon a human form.  The strong arm that had shoved him to safety was all of Spike that remained unburied.

A small hole about the size of a plum allowed some fresh air in.  That was something he thought.  He started singing to drown out the suffering that tortured him now.  “Oh no, You never let go …”  Boomer sang so loud that he didn’t realize when the other miners went silent.

Tired and afraid, he turned off his lantern and cried himself to sleep . . . maybe forever!

The cracking sound of picks and shovels woke him.  As workers dug to free him from his subterranean prison, he craved the sweetness of sunlight again.  His wife will complain tonight as she washes dust from his coveralls.  She doesn’t need to know how close he came to death’s door today.  But he’ll be back tomorrow . . . it’s all he knows.

Lord, You know the hell they face.  With coal covered faces and hard calloused hands, they work in dark tunnels that we may be warm, and their own families may not hunger.  Please keep them safe!  Amen

Amber Waves

“America, America!  God mend thine ev’ry flaw.”  ~ KL Bates

Life wasn’t easy in the late 1800s, but Katherine was luckier than most.  After her father, a Protestant minister died when she was less than a month old, her brothers worked to support the family.  Katherine got an education – a B.A. from Wellesley College in 1880.

Teaching became her life’s passion; she believed that human values could be exposed and developed through literature.  After spending a year at Oxford, she returned to Wellesley, a full professorship and an annual salary of $400 which included “board and washing.”

When asked to teach a summer course in Colorado Springs, Katherine boarded the train from Massachusetts in July 1893 for the long journey westward.  She slept curled across two coach seats, and woke early when the sunlight fell through the window.

Her fellow passengers were fascinating.  Some had tangled hair and burnt skin; some had charming southern accents.  The guy from Illinois marveled when Katherine explained she was a writer and poet.  She met a peddler from Cleveland, a cobbler from Chicago, a cowboy from Nebraska.  Their simplicity was endearing.  They represented the best of America – independent, hardworking, and church going.

The view across the plains was breathtaking.  She collected the images in her diary: the fertile farmland stretching across the continent; golden wheat fields waving in the hot summer wind.  Her notes conveyed an attitude of appreciation and gratitude for this country’s extraordinary physical beauty and abundance. 

But the best was yet to come.  As the train arrived in Colorado, she choked up absorbing the splendor of the Rocky Mountains for the first time.  Purple with white caps, like ice cream atop a purple Popsicle.  They stood as symbols of stability and certainly; dignity and power over everything.  The trip had given her fodder for the greatest poem she’d ever write.

A craving overwhelmed her.  She would later close her lecture series by joining colleagues on a daring expedition to the top of Pike’s Peak, making the ascent by the only method then available for people not skilled enough to climb by foot – a prairie wagon.

It was there, as she gazed over the expansive fertile countryside spreading for miles under those “spacious” skies, that all the impressions she’d been collecting on her trip coalesced in the endless horizons before her.  America’s possibilities were limitless! 

She took out her journal and wrote, “O beautiful for spacious skies …” a poem published two years later.  Katherine Lee Bates received $5 for her effort.  It was later put to the music of Samuel Ward’s “O Mother Dear, Jerusalem.”

“America the Beautiful” has been called a hymn, a prayer, even the national heartbeat set to music.  It’s perhaps all of those and more, celebrating the physical beauty of the land not only as it was, but as it could be – a rural nation awakening to industrial leadership.

Happy Birthday America!

“America! America!  God shed His grace on thee, and crown thy good with brotherhood, from sea to shining sea.”  Amen