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

Busted!

“Teach your children well . . . and know they love you!" ~ Graham Nash

Karin didn’t bother going in for a kiss.  She just calmly said goodnight at her son’s door and closed it, wondering where she’d screwed up. 

Years ago, bedtime seemed almost magical – snuggling up with her tiny tot, exploring, fantasizing or just being silly.  Hunter’s favorite bedtime stories were actually the ones she made up.  It wasn’t easy creating a new story at the end of a long day, but thankfully young minds love repetition.  Minor changes to familiar stories kept him amused.

Parenthood was the most challenging mission she’d ever faced.  It didn't help that there were no single-mom role models in her life (he bolted when Hunter was still learning to walk).  But they’d survived the toddler times.

She learned how to throw a decent pass, how to pitch a tent, and how to build an “epic” pinewood racer.  She resisted the urge to scream when he brought home slimy pets.  She dumped Cheerios in the toilet to help perfect his aim.  Wrestling on the bed, floor and grass always brought fresh bruises.

That was nothing compared to the “terrible teens.”  A teenage boy’s world is dynamic and volatile.   Surging hormones can dim the spark of even the most confident moms.  She learned to tolerate and even laugh at an occasional belch, fart, or other icky stuff.  But talking about girls, sex, and male “naughty parts” went well beyond her expertise!

Now this!

When she’d opened the door, his hand went to the top of the laptop screen with supersonic speed making it impossible to know what was on the screen.  To an inexperienced observant it wouldn’t have raised any suspicion.

Karin however, knew this move all too well!  She had two brothers and grew up around guys; she knew when they were trying to hide something or when they’d been busted.  As she walked down the hallway to compose herself, she was pretty damn sure he’d been watching porn.

What to do?  She didn’t want to make him any more uncomfortable than he already was.  Hunter needed to know that his sexual curiosity was not innately bad, but rather something that he should express in other ways.  “Sleep on it,” she reasoned.

While he was at school the next day, Karin “borrowed” Hunter’s laptop to scan his browsing history.  She discovered the “shock” of her life! 

Instead of digitally-enhanced images of semi-naked girls, she learned that her 14 year old son was taking a free online Spanish class.   He’d confess later that there was a new kid at school who only spoke Spanish.  He wanted to talk to him and make him feel welcome.

Lord, grant me the patience to be a good example for my teen during times when they test every part of me.  Give me strength to both stand firm when needed and let go when the time’s right.  Let me offer the right advice and set the right rules to help them be the person You desire.  Amen

Dachau Revisited

“If you forgive others for the wrongs they do to you, God will forgive you. ~ Matthew 6:14

It was at a church in Munich that he saw Kleist, the former SS guard who’d stood watch over the barracks at Dachau where so-called political prisoners were subjected to slave labor, medical experiments, torture, execution, and death from starvation, disease, or exposure to extreme temperatures.  Suddenly it all came rushing back to him, like a tsunami of pain and hatred. 

They’d come for Guenther in the middle of the night and dragged him from his family.  They forced him into a rail car meant for animals.  Through the slits, he saw his wife Olga beaten as she desperately tried to give him a package filled with food and essentials.  The greedy pigs had kept it for themselves.  That was the last time he saw her.

Dachau became his home until Allied forces liberated the camp in 1945.  Kleist had been a sadistic thug.  Middle-aged and portly, his fat nose and cruel brown eyes dominated an acne-pocked face.  Guenther remembered the swastika emblem on his uniform – a symbol of peace and goodwill.  It had certainly not given him any joy.  When the barrack’s door creaked open and Kleist marched in, Guenther knew it was for only one reason - another beating; one he couldn’t stop.

Reality snapped him back to the present as anger swelled inside him.  Guenther unconsciously touched the scar on his cheek where Kleist had slashed him years ago.  He felt an undeniable urge to punch the former SS guard in the gut. 

The church was nearly empty now.  Kleist approached Guenther beaming and bowing; displaying no recognition of the man he had so viciously treated decades before.  "How grateful I am for your message, Padre," he said. "God has washed away my many sins!"

He thrust his hand to shake Guenther’s.  The Priest, who had preached so often to the people of Munich on the need to forgive, kept his hand close at his side.

Even as bitter thoughts boiled through him, he remembered that Christ had died for this man too!  “Lord Jesus,” he prayed, “Forgive me and help me forgive him too.”

He tried to smile. He couldn’t raise his hand.  Guenther felt nothing, not the slightest spark of warmth or charity.  And so again, he breathed a silent prayer. “Jesus, I can’t forgive him.  Give him Your forgiveness.”

As he took Kleist’s hand, the most incredible thing happened.  From his shoulder and through his palm, a current seemed to pass between them.  From his heart sprang a love for this stranger that almost overwhelmed him.  Guenther discovered that it isn’t on our forgiveness that the world's healing hinges, but on His!  When God tells us to love our enemies, He gives, along with His command, the love itself.

Father in heaven, we want to know you and be closer to you.  Please show us how.  Forgive us for doing wrong, for hurting you.  Forgive us just as we forgive other people when they hurt us.  Amen

Lost, but Found

“I once was lost, but now am found; was blind, but now I see.” ~ (John Newton 1779)

Sadness gripped his heart like a vice as Paul reminisced about the death of his daughter Ellie less than a month ago.  In all his dreams about her she’s still active, charming and full of life.

Tears still crept back in some random moments when he least expected them.  Small artifacts bring memories of the morning she died rushing back: a screaming ambulance; the deadly intersection; anything with the expiration date JUN 17.

He will forever be a father of four – “Three children now.  We lost our fourth, our oldest, in an awful car accident.”  Time races on.  There’s so little time from cradle to grave.  Ellie’s was especially short, but no one’s is much longer, he thought.

He lost so much that day: a life; a dream; a prayer . . . and God.  Rather than accept a God who allowed such things to happen, Paul embraced the ‘Great Nothingness’ where nothing is hoped, so nothing can be lost; where nothing is expected, so nothing can disappoint; where there is no one to blame when things go wrong.  The hollow, empty feeling provided a respite from pain. 

He envied people whose lives, whose childhoods, had always been rich in faith.  They had spiritual reserves to tap into.  If they forget where those were stored, someone was always close to remind them.  His faith had been intuitive rather than taught.  Paul’s religious instruction was haphazard, absorbed largely through the mysticism of candles and statues and incense.

He went to her room, hoping sweet memories might just rock him from his grief.   Lavender walls showcased a collage of photos, some taken just weeks ago.  Her face seemed frozen at thirteen.

A trunk crowded with stuffed animals lay at the foot of her bed.  Shelves were filled with trophies, souvenirs and the books she loved to read.  Ellie’s cell phone rested among her collection of makeup and nail polish.  As he lifted it from her desk, the phone magically came to life, flashing the last text message she’d sent before she passed: “Hey Mom, I just wanted to let you know I’m okay and I’ll be home soon.”

For the first time in his life, Paul understood the meaning of faith.  Life is short, but heaven awaits.  And today Paul was one step closer to seeing his precious angel in the presence of the One who orchestrated it all for His good and His glory.

Faith is a mystery; a journey without a map.  It unfolds like a rose, sometimes tightly budded, sometimes in full bloom.  When you think it has withered, it sprouts somewhere else.  When you think you've got it figured out, you discover a deeper layer of petals or a path you never knew existed.

“Yea, when this flesh and heart shall fail, and mortal life shall cease,                                     I shall possess within the veil, a life of joy and peace.”  Amen

My Dad, My Hero

“Holy Father, You are my fortress, that mighty rock where I am safe." ~ Psalm 94:22

The word “hero” usually conjures up images of super humans with magical powers, sweeping in and saving humanity from villains and natural disasters.  But when I hear that word, I see my Dad.

It’s a bit contradictory - heroes are subtle, quiet, courageous types; but their actions often change lives in profound ways.  Heroes put their best selves forward, using compassion, kindness, empathy, and non-violence to serve others.  My Dad has always been my hero!

As a child, we often found solace walking in the woods, where nature stole the stress of daily lives and wrapped its gentle affection around our souls.  Anxieties quickly faded into the distance replaced by chirping songbirds, hammering wood-peckers, and winds whispering through the wild flowers.  Amidst the sweet aroma of damp grass and pine needles, we got lost in each other’s company - just me and my Dad . . . and heaven on earth.

It was always an adventure!  I always felt safe; I knew Dad was there if I faced any real danger.

I peppered him with questions about everything: why birds flew instead of ran, why trees grew so tall and lived longer than us, why fish couldn’t talk, and why some animals died when others lived.  I was already thinking life’s deepest questions in a kid’s innocent ways.

He took all those questions with noble patience explaining that each animal had a role in the world and they just knew exactly what to do. 

Dad’s gone now, a life ironically cut short by a bad heart.  He was a loving husband to my mom for 38 years, and provided a good living for our family as a construction worker.  I miss him every day. 

Last week when I was searching through some of Dad’s things, I found a crisply folded note among some papers.  It was an old journal entry in my dad’s handwriting dated just weeks before I was born.  It read:

“I’m 18 years old, an unemployed, alcoholic who is failing out of college; a victim of child abuse with a criminal record of auto theft.  Next month, ‘teen father’ will be added to the list.  But, I swear I’ll make things right for my child.  I will be the Dad I never had.”

I don’t know how he did it . . . but he did!  Now, as a grown man, I see all that my father taught me.  I wouldn’t be the man (the friend, husband and father) I am today had it not been for him. This morning my son asked me what we could do together today.  I replied, “I know a forest that’s filled with adventure and seems to go on forever.”

Heavenly Father, bless our Dads.  Though they are brave and protective, they must also be frightened sometimes.  When their hearts break because they can't do it all; please let them know how much we love them.  Amen

My Flag, My Country

“You're the emblem of the land I love; the home of the free and the brave.” ~ George M. Cohen

You’ve seen me.  You’ve pledged your allegiance to me.  Maybe you’ve even stood at attention before me and saluted.  But do you really understand me?

I’m the product of a young widow whose patriot husband died in service to this country.  In 1776, a committee asked her to use her exquisite needlework skills to design a flag from George Washington’s crude sketch.  With minor modifications, Betsy Ross’ rendition quickly became the national standard.

To some I may be nothing more than decoration.    But my rippling folds speak subliminally; every color plays a role . . . every part has a voice.

My red stripes stand out the most.  They represent more than just the original thirteen colonies.  They’re the bloodshed, grit and promise of a brighter tomorrow.  White stripes stand for God and love; freedom and purity.

Blue signifies pride for this glorious land; for water hiding untold riches beneath cobalt depths.  Heavenly stars sparkle for every state, every amber wave of grain, every woman man and child – a forever changing constellation.

When the wind whips me around, I survey American and her sacred ground.  But when it’s still, I bow my head, praying for those whose blood was shed.  And for those whose memory was wrapped in my colors, we’re proud of you!  This grateful nation will never forget your ultimate sacrifice. 

Even in foreign lands, I serve as companionship to those far from home: a country that does not repel, but welcomes the “tired . . . and poor . . . and huddled masses yearning to breathe free.”  America remains a symbol of freedom all over the world.

Why do you fly me?  Because you can! 

Because you can disagree – about politics, or religion or whatever without worrying that someone will arrest you.  You are so blessed to live in this country.  Around here you can think about God, and talk about God and worship the God of your choosing.  Nobody’s gonna tell you that you can’t.   

You display me because I’m a nice flag, for a nice country.  Not a perfect one, but a proud one yearning to be better.

Through me, you see the scars of a nation that fought long and hard for the soil on which you stand.  Before you burn me or criticize me, take an honest look around.  Freedom isn’t free; it didn’t come without the sacrifice of mothers, fathers, sisters and brothers.

And when I’m so tattered that I can no longer serve as a symbol of freedom for these United Sates, retire me with the dignity you would a soldier.  I’m the oldest and most beloved veteran of a grateful nation. 

“Dear child, freedom’s just a prayer away, if you’re not too proud to stray.  From the hatred you embrace, then change your mind and face, turn 180° to the Son, and let wrath and rage be done.”  ~ Your Celestial Father

The Hospital Visit

“Stay close to Me and I’ll stay close to you." ~ John 15:4

Mandy hated hospitals – the atmosphere was suffocating and cheerless.  She loathed the sad faces, the silent screaming of aching hearts, the empty footsteps of people who were grieving.  That made the idea of visiting her hospitalized friend even more frightening.

At 17, Michael was battling leukemia.  In a way, Mandy owed her life to him.  He’d been there for her, through the family chaos that prompted her eating disorder.  He convinced her that she wasn’t alone, or nuts, or even weird.   He helped her gain the courage she needed to get help. 

Now he needed her, but she was paralyzed by fear.  There are no set rules for supporting a friend with cancer.  She’d learned plenty about his diagnosis from the internet and it didn’t sound hopeful.  Mandy knew she couldn’t be spontaneous.  So she rehearsed a bit.  It was going to be awkward.

“Dear Lord,” she prayed silently.  “Grant me Your blessings and mercies this day and every day!”  Short and sincere – just like God liked it!

Her nerves tightened as she maneuvered the halls towards Michael’s ward.  All of a sudden she heard a loud scream; someone must have died she thought.  “Oh God,” she murmured.  “ I hope it wasn’t Michael, I hope I’m not too late!”  Her panic quickened when she found the bed empty in his room.

“You looking for Michael?” a soft voice whispered from behind.  She pointed to another room down the hall.  “He’s so weak now,” she continued, “He can barely stand at times.”

Mandy felt small and alone as she trudged toward the darkened corner, her insides leaping and falling rapidly.  As she rounded the corner and entered the room, she saw Michael entertaining some younger children in the hospital with what looked like a few moves from Michael Jackson’s ‘Thriller’ dance.   The curious kids were smiling ear to ear while attempting to mimic his crazy legs.

They talked for hours – nothing difficult about it.  “With so little stamina, why dance?” Mandy asked.

“I remember reading that doing God’s will is a lot like dancing.  When two people try to lead, nothing feels right.  When you are one with Him, you feel his gentle nudges moving you in one direction or another.  It’s as if two bodies become one.  Dance takes surrender, willingness, and attentiveness from me and guidance from God.  I’m learning to follow His guidance!”

On her way back home, Mandy meditated on the word GUIDANCE and kept seeing ‘dance’ at the end of the word.  When she saw “G” she thought God, followed by “U” and “I.” God, you and I dance.  She lowered her head and thanked God for His “blessings and mercies today.”

Dear Lord, help me dance more grace-fully with You, following Your lead and trusting Your G-U-I-Dance.  Remind me often that the purpose of dance is not getting to a certain place on the floor, but to enjoy each step along the way.  Amen