gracednotes

2011-12-10T03:02:00.000-08:00

Advent Notes for Christ-Seekers December 10

Let not our hearts be busy inns,
That have no room for Thee,
But cradles for the living Christ
And His nativity.

Still driven by a thousand cares
The pilgrims come and go;
The hurried caravans press on;
The inns are crowded so!

Oh, lest we starve, and lest we die
In our stupidity,
Come, Holy Child, within and share
Our hospitality.

Ralph Spaulding Cushman

“Because there was no room for them in the inn.” A crowded city, all the lodging filled, no room for Jesus. The image, as Cushman points out, speaks to the one who is too busy, whose heart is too crowded to believe.
Yet it speaks as well to the believers, to those who say, “Yes, Lord Jesus, come into my heart,” yet find that heart over time crowded with the cares of this world, with the busyness of a life of faith, and yes, with way too many messages in our in-boxes.
I made a feeble attempt at creating a flannelgraph presentation many years ago that was based on a short story, My Heart, Christ’s Home. The story-teller invited Christ into his home (his heart), and moved from room to room as they explored together what that act of faith meant in the experience of the day-to-day. At one point, Jesus tells the narrator that he’d been waiting for him every morning in the with-drawing room, but that he’d been lonely, as the narrator didn’t appear. To paraphrase, Jesus reminded the young man that the time together mattered to Jesus just as much as it mattered to his own spiritual journey.
Have you any room for Jesus?

2011-12-09T04:17:00.000-08:00

Advent Prayers for Christ-Seekers December 9

Morning Star

Morning Star, O cheering sight!
Ere Thou cam’st, how dark the night!
Jesus mine, in me shine,
Fill my heart with light divine.

Morning Star, thy glory bright
Far excels the sun’s clear light,
Jesus be, constantly,
More than thousand suns to me.

From a Moravian Hymn
Johannes Scheffler, 1657

When living in Philadelphia, we were privileged to journey to Bethlehem (Pennsylvania, not Judea) to attend a traditional Christmas observance known as the Moravian Love Feast. Surrounded by the soft glow of the beeswax candles, we sang of the herald angels, the shepherds watching o’er their flocks by night, and the child in a manger. Coffee and sweet rolls were shared during the service, an expression of the love feast marked within the Moravian Church.
It is from this tradition that we pray the prayer of the morning star. “Jesus mine, in me shine, Jesus be, constantly, more than thousand suns to me.’ Jesus said, “I am the Root and the Offspring of David, and the bright Morning Star” (Rev. 22:16). The morning star proclaims that the night has ended, that new light has come.
It is no coincidence that within the Moravian tradition, this carol-prayer a responsive one, led by children as Isaiah 11 promises. “A little child shall lead them.” So we pray today the child-like, profound words as the light of the Morning Star shines upon us: Jesus mine, in me shine.”

2011-12-08T04:34:00.000-08:00

Advent Prayers for Christ-Seekers December 8

O my God! make me worthy to understand something of the mystery of the burning charity which is in You, which impelled you to effect the sublime act of the Incarnation!
which brings to man, with the outpouring of love, the assurance of salvation.
How ineffable is this charity!
Truly there is no greater than this, that the Word was made flesh in order to make me like unto God!
You became nothing in order to make me something;
You clothed Yourself like the lowliest slave
to give me the garments of a King and a God!
Although You took the form of a slave,
You did not lessen Your substance, nor injure Your divinity,
but the depths of Your humility
pierce my heart and make me cry out:
O incomprehensible One, made comprehensible because of me!
O uncreated One, now created!
O Thou who art inaccessible to mind and body,
become palpable to thought and touch, by a prodigy of Thy power!

St. Angela of Foligno

St. Angela’s prayer focuses on the mystery, the amazing gift of the incarnation. The Almighty God a baby. Most of us have heard the story so many times that we don’t stop to think of the magnitude of that act, so Angela does it for us. At first reading, I was put off a bit by the language she used. It seemed extreme, excessive, but as I sat with her prayer a bit, it struck me – the incarnation was extreme, it was excessive. As John reminds us (1 John 3), this was love lavished upon us.

After all, God could have been satisfied with the angel messengers, with the prophets and their attention-grabbing actions. He could have kept on with the temple sacrifices and the details of the law. But instead, immense in mercy and with an incredible love (as Peterson reminds us), God sent his Son. “For unto us a child is born.” For us. For me. For you.

2011-12-06T20:45:00.000-08:00

Advent Prayers for Christ-Seekers December 7

Advent Prayer

Lord Jesus,
Master of both the light and the darkness,
send your Holy Spirit upon our preparations for Christmas.
We who have so much to do
seek quiet spaces to hear your voice each day.
We who are anxious over many things
look forward to your coming among us.
We who are blessed in so many ways
long for the complete joy of your kingdom.
We whose hearts are heavy seek the joy of your presence.
We are your people, walking in darkness, yet seeking the light.
To you we say, "Come Lord Jesus!"
Amen.

Henri J.M. Nouwen

How can I possibly add words to those of Henri Nouwen? Writer, speaker, priest, prophet, Nouwen’s voice in the Catholic Church and in the broader context of Christian spirituality is a voice that “gets it.” He understands our human frailties, because he is honest about his own. He knew the light and darkness of faith. He knew the need for solitude and silence, and he made difficult life choices in order to seek after what he needed.

Nouwen provides us with wise counsel: “People who have come to know the joy of God do not deny the darkness but they choose not to live in it. They claim that the light that shines in the darkness can be trusted more than the darkness itself and that a little bit of light can dispel a lot of darkness. They point each other to flashes of light here and there and remind each other that they reveal the hidden but real presence of God.”

Come, Lord Jesus. Come to your busy, anxious, longing children with light for today.

2011-12-06T04:56:00.000-08:00

Advent Prayers for Christ-Seekers December 6

Deep peace of the running waves to you,
Deep peace of the flowing air to you.
Deep peace of the smiling stars to you.
Deep peace of the quiet earth to you.
Deep peace of the watching shepherds to you.
Deep peace of the Son of Peace to you.

Gaelic Blessing

The prayer of blessing is an ancient practice, as old as the creation of the earth (see Genesis 1:28). Jesus took the children in his arms and blessed them, while the specific blessing of peace was Christ’s as well, as he said farewell to his disciples in John 14: “Peace I leave with you, my peace I give you.”

This particular prayer of blessing is one that has been at the bottom of my Lotus Notes e-mail for quite some time, minus the fifth line, that of the watching shepherds. I suppose I should have changed it long before now, but then I’d have to figure out how to actually change it – so it stays. Unfortunately, too many things remain in our lives because we can’t figure out how to change them, but this prayer of blessing is a keeper.

Peace, deep peace, perfect peace. The theme runs through many of the Advent prayers and Christmas carols. Not, Jesus reminded us, as the world gives to us, but a peace that passes all understanding. As the running waves, as the flowing air, as the smiling stars, as the quiet earth. And yes, as the watching shepherds, those faithful ones who kept watch over their flocks by night, waiting and watching.

The images of this blessing remind us of the sense of peace we long for, but the bless-er understands that the source of that peace is found only in its last line – through the Son of Peace. Might that deep peace, found only in Christ, be ours.

2011-12-05T03:25:00.000-08:00

Advent Prayers for Christ-Seekers December 5

O Father, may that holy Star
Grow every year more bright,
And send its glorious beams afar
To fill the world with light.

William Cullen Bryant
19th century

Bryant’s ‘holy star’ is preserved for the ages by Matthew, who quotes the group of wise men: “Where is the child? We saw his star in the east.” The answer to their question came through the star, for “the star they had seen in the east went ahead of them until it stopped over the place where the child was.”
Was the star supernaturally bright? Was the star at its zenith in the days following the birth of the baby? Or were the eyes of the wise men opened to what had been present all along? Perhaps the answer is all of the above.
While Bryant may have prayed for the light to grow supernaturally, it was in Christ that the everlasting light shone in the darkness. He told his followers, “I am the light of the world.” Indeed, in Him the people who walked in darkness have seen a great light.
But the light of the star and the light of his own presence wasn’t enough for Jesus. He turned the tables as he so often did and told his followers, “You are the light of the world.” When the light of Christ is reflected in his followers, the holy Star grows brighter. “Shine, Jesus, shine!”

2011-12-04T04:51:00.000-08:00

Advent Prayers for Christ-Seekers December 4

Christ is born; give him the glory!
Christ has come down from heaven; receive him!
Christ is now on earth; exalt him!

O you earth, sing to the Lord!
O you nations, praise him in joy,
for he has been glorified!

Glory to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit;
as it was in the beginning, is now, and will be forever.
Amen.

Byzantine Traditional

This ancient prayer has the feel of a psalm, as it trumpets the birth of Christ with an exhortation to praise and song on the part of the believer. Perhaps it was a sung prayer as well, as its rhythms would suggest that a melody may have been a part of its expression.
While I don’t know what notes (if any) may have accompanied its opening lines, its final line is the traditional Gloria Patri sung every Sunday of my childhood at the conclusion of the pastoral prayer. As Presbyterians, we weren’t as strictly liturgical as some churches, but there was a pattern to our worship, and these words were included in that pattern.
“Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Ghost.” We stood in the presence of God and affirmed our belief in the Trinity, one in three, and, as Salvation Army doctrine explains, “co-equal in power and glory.” Present in the beginning, at the creation of the world. Present in our day, as we walk in the Spirit, and present forever, infinitely God with us.
For this day, it will be the melody that replays in my head.
Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Ghost.
As it was in the beginning, is now and ever shall be, world without end.
Amen. Amen.

2011-12-03T04:38:00.000-08:00

Advent Prayers for Christ-Seekers December 3

Christmas Prayer of Pope John XXIII

O sweet Child of Bethlehem,grant that we may share with all our hearts
in this profound mystery of Christmas.
Put into the hearts of men and women this peace for which they sometimes seek so desperately and which you alone can give to them.
Help them to know one another better,
and to live as brothers and sisters, children of the same Father.
Reveal to them also your beauty, holiness and purity.
Awaken in their hearts love and gratitude for your infinite goodness.
Join them all together in your love.
And give us your heavenly peace. Amen.

What prayer does a pastor pray for his/her people? Pope John XXIII demonstrates a pastor’s heart as he prays this prayer. First, for faith, that the mystery of Christmas, the incarnation, might be known to us. A prayer for personal peace follows, the peace that Jesus speaks of in John 14, perfect peace, the peace that passes all understanding. And then to relationship, a plea for connection, for a familial relationship as children of the same Father.

It challenges us this day to consider, how do I, as pastor, corps officer, mother, friend, pray for the people in my life. What is most dear to my heart as I pray for others (and for myself)?

2011-12-02T03:45:00.000-08:00

Advent Prayers for Christ-Seekers December 2

Nativity Prayer
The feast day of your birth resembles You, Lord
Because it brings joy to all humanity.
Old people and infants alike enjoy your day.
Your day is celebrated
from generation to generation.
Kings and emperors may pass away,
And the festivals to commemorate them soon lapse.
But your festival
will be remembered until the end of time.
Your day is a means and a pledge of peace.
At Your birth heaven and earth were reconciled,
Since you came from heaven to earth on that day
You forgave our sins and wiped away our guilt.
You gave us so many gifts on the day of your birth:
A treasure chest of spiritual medicines for the sick;
Spiritual light for the blind;
The cup of salvation for the thirsty;
The bread of life for the hungry.
In the winter when trees are bare,
You give us the most succulent spiritual fruit.
In the frost when the earth is barren,
You bring new hope to our souls.
In December when seeds are hidden in the soil,
The staff of life springs forth from the virgin womb.

St. Ephraim the Syrian (AD 306-373)

Here are the true gifts of the incarnation, the gifts of the Father, through the Son, embracing the world with an incredible love (Peterson). Is your heart sick, blind, thirsty, hungry, barren? The gift of life was born in that manger for you, for me, as heaven and earth were reconciled. While Johnny may have wanted a pair of skates and Susie a dolly, God knew what the world needed: light, salvation, the bread of life, spiritual fruit, new hope. “All I have needed thy hand hath provided – great is thy faithfulness!”

2011-12-01T05:42:00.000-08:00

Advent Prayers for Christ-Seekers - December 1

Nativity Prayer

Let Your goodness Lord appear to us, that we
made in your image, conform ourselves to it.
In our own strength
we cannot imitate Your majesty, power, and wonder
nor is it fitting for us to try.
But Your mercy reaches from the heavens
through the clouds to the earth below.
You have come to us as a small child,
but you have brought us the greatest of all gifts,
the gift of eternal love
Caress us with Your tiny hands,
embrace us with Your tiny arms
and pierce our hearts with Your soft, sweet cries.

St. Bernard of Clairvaux (1090-1153)

I’m struck by the sensual images that St. Bernard brings to his prayer: the caress of the tiny hands of a baby, the embrace of those tiny arms, and the sound of a soft, sweet cry. While I’ve seen my share of plastic babes in assorted mangers, somehow I don’t make the connection with Jesus before his adult years. When I think of him, it is as a man, striding through the crowds, sitting on the hillside, storming through the temple. Yet if Christ was the incarnation at age 32, he was also the incarnation at the age of 6 months.

When our infant granddaughter strokes my cheek, I feel cherished and comforted. It is this touch, this image, that reaches me in Bernard’s prayer. Ah, little Lord Jesus – in your infancy, in your manger, in your helplessness, you were God, and you reached out – in fact, you continue to reach out – to lavish your love upon us, your children. Caress, embrace, pierce – come, Lord Jesus.

2011-11-24T05:29:00.000-08:00

Six Words

In 1962, a little girl in my second grade class no longer came to school. She was sick, and then one day we learned that she died. Cindy Doel’s death from leukemia shook her young classmates, evidenced by my ability to remember her name almost fifty years later. Yet statistically it represented an anomaly, a blip on the bell curve of life, of the promise of three-score and ten.

Now, in my mid-fifties, that blip is becoming a regular marker as death more frequently visits my peer group, friends and family. Out of the twenty cousins/spouses on the Hodge side of my family, seven are now gone, including the vivacious Judy, stricken by a rare lung disease and dead within weeks of diagnosis. These days, the funerals are definitely outnumbering the weddings.

At one of those funerals, the pastor began with the newspaper obituary. Let me assure you, it was a long one, and our friend had been active in all the organizations mentioned, had deservedly garnered the awards on that list. But did those words truly describe his life?

As one who at times is requested to prepare a eulogy (from the Greek, literally, good words), what do I say? Poet Linda Ellis wrestled with that question in “The Dash,” words that spoke to the importance of the space between the person’s birth-day and date with death. What’s engraved on the tombstone? What becomes the headline for the obituary? When it comes time to measure a life, often done upon retirement or death, how do we do so in a handful of words?

I discovered what’s known as an autobiography or memoir in six words. With its own website (www.six-wordmemoirs.com), magazine feature (Smith Magazine) and book (Not Quite What I Was Planning), it’s a fascinating exercise for those who appreciate the careful, sparing use of words.

Here are a few of the nuggets.“Nobody cared. Then they did. Why?” (Chuck Klosterman, one of my son Drew’s favorite authors). Comedian Stephen Colbert offered: “Well, I thought it was funny.” How about Janelle Brown’s “My second grade teacher was right”? K. Bertrand reports: “I’m my mother and I’m fine,” while “I still make coffee for two” is Z. Nelson’s poignant comment. “Married for money, divorced for love” (R. Abraham) may have some advice to give to B. Stromberg, “Found true love, married someone else,” and they can both sympathize with D. Peck: “Ex-wife and contractor now have house.”

I used this exercise at the Kroc Center’s writer’s group about a year ago, and we’ll try it again at our next meeting. It’s not quite as easy as it may sound, and we really struggled to come up with exactly the right combination of words.

It reminds me of the line from Name that Tune: “I can name that tune in six notes or less.” It’s surprising how many times we can name a tune by just a few notes. Consider the four note phrases from “Send in the Clowns,” or the first four notes of “Joy to the World” in rhythm. It can be done, and these six word memoirs have the same feel – when we’re familiar with the melody of someone’s life, the six words can truly sum up their story.

What eulogy can be spoken in six words? While I wasn’t looking for an opportunity to try out this genre of writing, another phone call came while I was working on this column. A friend for nearly forty years, Mark suffered from brain cancer, and now, upon his death, Larry and I will say a few “good words” for this man of great faith.

Our families vacationed together on the Rideau Lakes in Canada, and we had many a discussion surrounding men and women and their roles in marriage, for Mark loved to talk. He often spoke of the husband as the hub and the wife as the spoke of the wheel, not my image of choice. While I’m tempted to get the last word in on our discussion of marriage, I’ll pass on that. So I’ll say it this way, my friend: Jesus, hub. Mark, spoke. Enough said.

2011-11-24T05:24:00.000-08:00

We Gather Together

While I don’t remember watching television a great deal as a child (I tended to have my nose in a book instead), we always tuned into Captain Kangaroo to greet the morning on Thanksgiving. After all the ping pong balls fell from the sky and Bunny Rabbit got his laugh for the day, it was time to bring in the turkey. Did the characters sing, or did the Captain put on a record? I can’t remember, but the arrival of the bird was always accompanied by “We gather together to ask the Lord’s blessing.” As Captain Kangaroo welcomed his extended family to the table, we knew it was time for Thanksgiving.

Thanksgiving. Time for the parades broadcast from NYC, Philadelphia, and Detroit. Time for the Detroit Lions (early game) and the Dallas Cowboys (after the turkey, if we planned just right). Time for the cranberry sauce (does anybody really eat that?) and the pumpkin pie.

My childhood experience of holidays included groaning tables surrounded by lots of cousins, aunts and uncles, and was marked by impassioned discussions about politics and football. Would I ever get to sit at the “real” table, or would I forever be banished to the card tables on Aunt Florence’s sun-porch?

By the time I reached adulthood, life had changed, and my own Thanksgiving Day experience no longer included the extended family. I missed it, but our Salvation Army work required bell-ringing supervision on Wednesday and Black Friday that made the 8 hour trip home out of the question. We’ve shared our table with many guests over the years, but it’s never been quite the same.

In attempting to create our own family traditions, we took our kids to the Thanksgiving Day parade in Philadelphia – once. The memories are hazy, but since it didn’t become a family tradition during our years in the city of brotherly love, I’m guessing the ambiance of the parade wasn’t enough to overcome the “where do we park,” “where’s the bathroom,” and “is it over yet” comments that tend to accompany my more adventuresome ideas. I really did think it would be fun . . .

Fast forward to Thanksgiving 2011. Bob Keeshan and his avuncular character of the Captain are long gone, as are Mr. Greenjeans and Mr. Moose. The Lions and Cowboys play on, but Barry Sanders and Roger Staubach are now watching from their easy chairs. The Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade is intact, but the Philadelphia parade’s sponsorship has shifted from the now-liquidated Gimbels (1920-87) to Dunkin’ Donuts and 6abc (with Boscovs and IKEA in the middle). Detroit’s famous Hudson parade is now dubbed America’s Thanksgiving Parade (their trademarked title). Some chairs around the table are empty, while we dust off the highchairs for a new generation of turkey-eaters. We remember, and we create new memories.

Hanging on in my heart is that early memory from Captain Kangaroo’s table, the Netherlands Folk Hymn. Written in 1597, long before any turkey was basted in America, it was an ode to the victory of war and the provision of God to the victors. Why the entire hymn became a Thanksgiving tradition is a mystery, but perhaps it’s summed up in its first three words: “We gather together.” Whether at the Thanksgiving Feast cooked by the teens at the Salvation Army Kroc Center or at our own dining room table on the 24th, Thanksgiving provides us with the opportunity to gather together, something we don’t do often enough in this fast-paced culture.

“We gather together to ask the Lord’s blessing.” Yes, we will bow our heads to ask a blessing upon the food and upon those we love, both near and far. Hopefully amidst the clatter of dishes and the shouts of the Lions’ fans (could they possibly beat Green Bay this year?), we will make time to articulate our gratitude for health, for strength, for daily bread, for our connections with each other, for our faith, and for God’s provision. Out of the African-American gospel tradition, we’d often sing, “We have come this far by faith, leaning on the Lord.” So true on this day of thanks. “Come, ye thankful people, come.”

2011-11-03T17:58:00.000-07:00

The Long Journey Home

In my first year serving in Salvation Army ministry, I attended a continuing education session that addressed a variety of social problems that I might be encountering in my work. Those first few months of ministry had been eye-opening for the young girl from Tonawanda, NY and by the time of this training, I was right there with the instructor. Divorce - yep, we've got that in our church. Child abuse - I could name the kids, and had to fight the urge to take them home with me. Alcohol abuse - one of our members had been at our door that week, inebriated and belligerent. And sexual abuse - well, this was 1978 and not too many people were talking about it openly in the church yet, but hindsight tells me that was present as well.

Fast forward to 2011. Sexual abuse is no longer the taboo subject it was in the church of my childhood. It's a common theme in the stories of many women and at least some men who seek mental health counseling or pastoral care. Therapists understand the impact of the abuse on their clients, theologians see the presence of evil, the question of forgiveness and the promise of incarnational healing in its wake, and pastors face its spiritual and emotional fallout in the pews and in the church office.

How can these different disciplines bring their strengths to this serious subject? What might help connect the dots between theology, psychology and pastoral care? Long conversations over coffee would be a great idea, but not too practical between busy professionals living across the country. But Andrew Schmutzer has made it happen through a new sourcebook for those who want to understand and support the healing work of the Spirit of God. In The Long Journey Home: Understanding and Ministering to the Sexually Abused, Moody Bible Institute professor Schmutzer invited 27 clinicians, pastors, theologians and writers to a broad table of conversation as they contributed to a collaborative approach from psychology, theology, and pastoral care.

Published by Wipf and Stock, The Long Journey Home will be an invaluable resource for professional helpers and will also provide an accessible foundation for the caring friend or for the survivor of abuse.

[Ashland residents Dr. Morven Baker and Major JoAnn Shade,contributed to this volume]

2011-11-03T04:37:00.000-07:00

Out of the Mouths of Babes

I’m not usually the first person to catch on to a new fad or to try a new food, but I’m guessing I may be the first person in Ashland to have attended a Christmas party in 2011 (along with my husband Larry). It’s a tradition in Salvation Army circles to have a Christmas party for the region’s officers (clergy) and their families prior to the start of the kettle season (kicking off on November 17). So two days before Halloween we attended a Christmas party complete with a decorated tree and Christmas carols.

Each year the question arises – what will the after-dinner entertainment be? We’ve groaned our way through some pretty awful magicians and jugglers over the years, while last year’s improv Babushka drama starring conscripted audience members was definitely not-ready-for-primetime. So it was with a less-than-positive attitude that I put my napkin on the table and awaited the dreaded evening entertainment.

But, I must admit, it was brilliant. Based loosely on the Newlywed game format, selected officers’ children were asked a series of questions, and then the parents had to guess what their children’s answers were. Who spends more time in the bathroom, mom or dad? (Mostly dad, including one who takes his computer into the bathroom). What’s your parent’s favorite television show? (American Pickers, football, House Hunters). Who drives faster, Mom or Dad? (Most got that one correct). Who gets lost the most? (I’ll let you guess that answer).

One question asked about a parent’s hidden talent. One mom even demonstrated her daughter’s correct answer, as she invents funny voices for each of the household pets. Another father (the one with the computer in the bathroom) was described as a good survivor. “If he was dropped off in New York City without any money, he’d find a way to survive.” But it was a ten-year-old girl who explained her dad’s talent best: “He takes care of poor people.”

The question that took the most thought for the parents to answer was this: If your parent wasn’t a Salvation Army officer, what would he or she be? One daughter responded, “A clown at Kentucky Fried Chicken.” A few parents answered, “A teacher.” A young adult son suggested that his dad would be a loan shark, while his dad rephrased that to be a salesman. Looking for a used car, anyone? But two answers from the children were especially poignant.

Both were from 8 year old boys, that age where you never know what will come out of their mouths - or their pockets. The first, with a bit of help from the audience to articulate his idea, was that his mom would be a professional student. She has been working on her master’s degree, and her love for learning translated into her son’s vision for her.

The second response tugged at my heartstrings, as the young boy said that if his mom wasn’t a Salvation Army officer she would stay at home and take care of him. I remembered those days in our family, when we’d be rushing out the door in the morning and then dragging the kids to the center after school, struggling to have dinner together at our dining room table more than a night or two each week. We had busy assignments during those years, and one of the children had to get sick before I’d stay at home and take care of them. Oh, that I could recapture a few of those days.

As I’ve thought about that evening, I am amazed at how well most of those kids knew their parents – and wonder how well my children (now adults) know me. If my sons were asked similar questions about me or their dad, would we share the same answers? We’d probably agree on who gets lost the most and on favorite television shows, but do they know my heart?

We don’t get a do-over in life. We can’t change yesterday, but we do have today and hopefully tomorrow, and this quasi-newlywed game has challenged me to check out my priorities in that light. “Out of the mouths of babes.”

2011-10-01T13:22:00.000-07:00

Family Ties

Ah, family ties. I've lived many miles apart from my family of origin for nearly 40 years. We're related to each other by blood, but in our fast-paced world, it's easy to feel disconnected from family members that we don't see often enough. Yet the last few weeks have assured me that the phrase "family ties" describes more than just a 1980's sit-com.

August began with a long-awaited vacation to Maine where five adults and a very mobile 17-month-old crowded into a two-bedroom cottage a few blocks from the ocean. Did I mention that the lovely Madelyn Simone was sick? And that her portable crib fit only in our bedroom? Good thing we weren't the subject of a reality TV show that week.

In retrospect, we did have a good time together, and the rough spots were smoothed over by the fact that we do love each other. When we flip through the photos from the summer vacation of 2011, we'll chuckle about all the lobster Dan ate, wave every time Madelyn's mount comes into sight on her first merry-go-round ride and hear the waves slapping against the rocks at Two Lights. We'll remember that it was good to be together.

The tail end of the month brought two hospital stays, beginning with an overnight admission for little Madelyn as she battled pneumonia (and yes, I have permission to share her medical diagnosis with the world). The second is a continuing hospitalization for my mother after emergency surgery (and no, her medical condition and her age will not be published in the pages of the Times-Gazette -- no way am I getting into trouble on this one -- with her or with HIPPA).

Here are the two women whose lives bookend my life, both in the hospital on the same weekend. Sitting at my mom's bedside for days in the intensive care unit, I had plenty of time to dredge up childhood memories and to dream about what the future may hold for all four generations. Who was -- and is -- this woman who gave me birth? Who will Madelyn Simone become? And what is my space between them?

While there, a package arrived from my cousin, Bill, who's had an avid interest in genealogy for many years. One photo from his bound collection was a family snapshot taken on my first Christmas. My mom's smile is stunning, and I can sense her happiness as she attempts to corral her curious 10-month old long enough for the camera to capture the image. That glow of hope and expectation is repeated in the eyes of my son as he gazes at his new-born daughter from the screensaver on my cell phone. Family ties.

During the waiting hours in ICU, I read some rather mindless novels selected from the used book rack at the hospital gift shop. As mindless as the books promised to be, they also raised the same themes as did my thinking, remembering and praying. The value of life. The gift of memory. The complicated connections of family. The helplessness brought on by the illness of one you love, young or old.

That was the worst part of both hospital visits -- the helplessness. I couldn't truly comfort. I couldn't keep the pain away. I'm not even sure that my mother knew I was with her during those first days after surgery as her body conserved its energy for the task of healing. But I wanted to be present in that room. I didn't want her to be alone.

That is the irony of life. We are solitary beings. Our physical lifeline to our parents is cut at birth. We are alone. And yet we are born into families, we live in communities, we share in beliefs. When one hurts, another does as well. We are tied to each other.

I'm grateful that family ties are elastic. They're stretched by miles and years, but they don't snap apart. They tug on us to drive through the night when the unexpected phone call comes. We follow their slender ribbons to reunions and hospital rooms, to wakes and weddings. After all, we are family.

Blest be, indeed, the ties that bind.

2011-09-19T19:21:00.000-07:00

Flood Recovery

If “Good Night, Irene” was the tune of the day when Hurricane Irene didn’t live up to her anticipated destruction, “We’ve Only Just Begun” is the theme song for hamlets, villages and cities along the Susquehanna River in New York and Pennsylvania, as they’ve just begun the long journey to recovery from Irene’s kid brother Lee. When I was assigned to the Salvation Army disaster relief command center in Binghamton, NY to help tell the story of the response there, I drove along the path of river, and what I encountered was mind-numbing. Miles and miles of destruction, the story repeated over and over again, of water that rose past any previous flood level, surging through anything that dared stand in its path.

How can I begin to describe the devastation? A rowboat jammed upright on a porch. Block after block stacked high with sodden mattresses and couches, ripped-out insulation, and an infant’s brightly-colored walker. Mud-crusted shrubbery turned into a measuring stick for the flood level.

Numbers tell a part of the story as well. In Owego, 75% of the homes were damaged by flood waters (1200), and already 180 homes have been condemned, unlivable, destined to become green space, clean space. Owego’s downtown shops, quite prosperous by today’s standards, were totally under water, and perhaps as many of 50% of the businesses will not be able to re-open. All along the path of the river, blocks and blocks of homes in Johnson City, Endicott, and Binghamton may never be livable again. And that’s only as far east as my drive took me.

Then there were the bizarre sightings. Hundreds of mud-tinged Pat Mitchell Ice Cream buckets on the curb. A garden swing on the river bank, seemingly untouched. A stuffed Pink Panther perched jauntily on a mailbox. A six-foot Santa Claus coated in river mud, still waving at those passing by.

On too many streets, the people of Broome, Tioga and Chenango Counties are exhausted. They’ve been back in their homes for 5, 6 and 7 days. Their whole lives have been dragged out on the street for the world to see, or have already been hauled to the landfill. Wedding pictures, the children’s artwork torn from the refrigerator, and even the refrigerator – all gone.

Some are still numb, while others have begun the grieving path they’ll travel as the days turn into weeks. They’ve had initial conversations with insurance agents, building inspectors and FEMA representatives, and now wait to see if their homes are going to be condemned. That seems to be the hardest part, the not-knowing. Some are eager to leave, hoping to gather enough dollars to start over somewhere else, miles from the river. Others want desperately to hold onto their home, the home that had never been flooded before, the home of memories and family.

Many have come to help. The Salvation Army, the American Red Cross, the Southern Baptists and the Methodists are on-site. FEMA, the utility companies and many more groups are working ‘round the clock to do what they can. As it turned out, I came from Ohio and Nick, my firefighter brother-in-law, came from North Tonawanda and ended up in Vestal at the same time. Go figure.

Other assistance came from those neighbors the river spared. Dog food, band-aids, hot meals, masks, and stuffed animals for the little ones have been freely offered. Cases and cases of bottled water have been distributed – at last count, the Salvation Army alone has provided 30,000 bottles of water, so necessary when water has been contaminated.

Water. Vital for life, yet a destroyer of life when out of control. One new friend told me that as she wakes up on the couch of her sister’s house, she wonders how the calming waters of the Susquehanna that she’s so enjoyed over the years could possibly have turned into such a ferocious invader. Together we prayed that there will come a day when her river will once again be a healing stream. Oh, sister, let’s go down, down in the river to pray.

2011-09-17T14:02:00.000-07:00

Good night, Irene. I’ll see you in my dreams. Millions of people up and down the eastern seaboard breathed a sigh of relief when Hurricane Irene failed to live up to her threat of massive destruction. While she did cause her share of damage, major US cities were spared the doomsday scenario predicted by some, and the clean-up in the New York and Vermont towns and the Outer Banks was getting underway when tropical storm Lee tried to sneak under the radar into communities along the Susquehanna River in New York and Pennsylvania.

While the casual observer may watch the video footage and murmur, “oh, how awful, another disaster,” I can’t be a casual observer when it comes to tropical storm Lee. The devastation in his wake hit a community I once called home. I moved to Binghamton, New York in 1973 to attend college. It’s where I met my husband, where we had our first date at Mama Lena’s (yummy bread), where we purchased our wedding bands, and where we established our first home in that odd-shaped apartment above a television store on Clinton Ave.

When Lee came to town, he came with a vengeance. Twenty thousand people were evacuated from Binghamton alone. One photo shows a high school football scoreboard peeking out of a newly-formed lake. And Pat Mitchell’s Ice Cream was flooded. Oh, no.

Who will be next? Maria and Nate passed without too much fanfare, but Ophelia, Phillipe, Rena, Sean, Tammy and Vince stand ready in the wings. Will our disaster response teams catch their breath before another guest comes a calling? Is it me or are the natural disasters of the last few years growing in frequency and intensity?
As one television commentator informed his audience, this has been the driest (Texas) wettest (Northeast), hottest (many locations) summer on record. If global warming proponents are right, what can the average family do about it? I’ll recycle plastic bags and aluminum cans like a good citizen, but that isn’t going to stop the fires from spreading or the rain from falling. We’ll make sure we have homeowners insurance, drop a few bucks in the Red Cross or Salvation Army coffers for disaster relief, and breathe our own sigh of relief that our street has been spared from Irene and Lee. But is that enough?

We live in such a fast-paced, sound-bite culture that it is easy to forget that our brothers and sisters are suffering long after the rushing rivers return to their banks, the earth ceases to shake, and the television cameras return to their studios. Out of sight, out of mind, right? But mold and nightmares don’t go away when the water recedes – they tend to get worse.

I want to remember. We re-member when we put together the broken pieces, and there are certainly enough broken pieces scattered across our globe. It’s been three weeks since Irene, and six months since Japan. The earth shook mightily under Haiti’s island in January 2010, while Christchurch, New Zealand was torn apart in two separate blows as the earth bucked beneath its historic buildings. Will life ever return to normal for our brothers and sisters?

Amazingly, I actually know people in Christchurch, Haiti, and Japan, as well as in the communities along the Susquehanna River. But even if I didn’t know anyone there, I still want to care enough to remember them in the days ahead, as well as those disaster workers still serving in each of those places. To be in touch with them, to keep informed, to pray. To watch the documentaries or HBO’s Treme, New Orleans in its post-Katrina reincarnation. I don’t want to forget.

So here it is, long-distance caring at its best. Now to wrap up the column and send it off. But then my phone rang with a request for me to travel to Binghamton as a public information officer for the Salvation Army, telling the story of need and service, of post-Lee devastation and recovery. I’m trying to work out the details to go, complicated as lis is by responsibilities on the home-front. So for now I’ll say good night, Irene. It’s my turn to find out what trouble your kid brother Lee brought to the Susquehanna Valley.

2011-09-10T20:15:00.000-07:00

Blurred images of destruction and hope

The clippings are tucked haphazardly between the covers of the blue folder buried in my “to be filed” pile. They tell of twisted metal and bowed heads, grieving families and flag-draped coffins. How dare I label their contents? Disaster? Ground Zero? World Trade Center? 9-11? How do you alphabetize “9-11?” How do I file away the hope that walked hand in hand with horror through the city that never sleeps?

At first, it was unfathomable. How could this happen? After all, this is America. Indeed, what had happened? I didn’t know the code for the remote control so couldn’t turn on the television, and the radio voices sounded so confused. What was going on? And, as a mother tends to respond, “Where are my kids? Are they safe?” It’s kind of funny now, but almost immediately I wondered, “Are my Salvation Army blouses washed? Maybe I should go home and wash them so I’ll be ready.” With a newly-minted degree in counseling, I was on the list of emotional and spiritual caregivers available to respond to the needs of those who were suffering such tremendous loss and I wanted to be ready.

My worries about the uniform blouses were a bit premature, for it wasn’t until the third round of responders were scheduled that our phone rang. Larry and I were asked to go together to New York at the end of September, just about 3 weeks after the towers were destroyed. We were to report to Salvation Army headquarters on 14th Street in Manhattan for assignment, not sure what we’d be doing – but glad to finally be doing something. As Philip Yancey later wrote, like most Americans, we too “felt unbearably helpless, and wounded and deeply sad.”

We traveled I-80 into New Jersey and finally across the bridge to Manhattan, expectant yet apprehensive. Reporting to the Salvation Army headquarters on 14th St., we were ready to serve wherever needed. I wrote to record our experiences each night after stumbling into our tiny hotel room, exhausted in body and spirit from the sights and sounds of the days. I wanted to help my Canton neighbors gain a sense of what was happening at Ground Zero, and so I sent my fledgling newspaper columns back each night to the Canton Repository. Reading them over this week as I paged through my folder, I was quickly thrust back to those days of uncertainty.

The images nearly leap from the pages. The rifle-wielding Guardsman standing at the toll booth of the George Washington Bridge. The sight of the city skyline, the Empire State Building abandoned by her twin sisters of lower Manhattan. The military checkpoints were oppressive, and the empty streets eerie. I wasn’t prepared for the totality of the devastation. Not only were the towers gone, but many other buildings were in ruins.

The hush that swept through the tents outside the Medical Examiner’s office when an ambulance bore its tragic burden to the priest for the last rites and final salute is captured forever in my memory. And the smell – even three weeks after the attack, the air was still heavy with smoke and the acrid odor of destruction. It was a horror to be sure.

Yet as we served at the morgue and the Worth Street one-stop social service center, we also discovered images of hope. The neighborhood fire stations were lined with makeshift altars of flowers and pictures. Letters from children all over the world hung from Salvation Army and Red Cross canteens. Our trio of Salvation Army officers sang of the limitless grace of God during the Catholic Mass. Hope was still alive.

It’s hard to believe that it’s been ten years since the towers fell, although it seems a lifetime ago as well. The news clippings are fading and the accounts of 9-11 will soon be reserved for the history books - or websites. Will we mark this date at year twenty-five or fifty? How will we remember the assault on our country and our ensuing helplessness when the scraps of paper in blue folders turn to dust?

Remember, we whisper, as we tell the story once again. On September 11, 2001 . . .

2011-06-16T16:59:00.000-07:00

Friend, I Will Remember You

I wrote the following for my local newspaper column this morning:

My friend’s words were cryptic, something about sympathy over the loss of your friend, and quickly cut-off by the poor cell-phone reception in our house. I had no idea what she was talking about, and when we finally reconnected, our conversation moved to a different subject – and then we lost the call again. What was she saying? Had a friend of mine died and I didn’t know it? Who?

A quick run through the recent posts on Facebook provided me with the answer. Helen Clifton had died. Helen’s husband Shaw had recently retired as the Salvation Army’s General, the international leader of my denomination. Helen had also been in leadership, serving as World President of Women’s Organizations with the rank of Commissioner, and she ministered alongside her husband, especially advocating for victims of sexual trafficking.

So how do I claim Helen as a friend? Within Salvation Army circles, it’s like a member of the local Republican committee being friends with Laura or Barbara Bush. Helen and I had only met in person a couple of times, and then quite briefly. We’d never shared a cup of coffee or been in each other’s homes, never walked the beach together or held each other’s grandchildren. She lived in London, I lived in Ohio. She didn’t even number among my 1108 Facebook friends, but upon hearing of her death I knew it - I have lost a friend.

We initially connected through a mutual friend about a dozen years ago. I’d written some chapters about the seasons of a woman’s life in Salvation Army ministry, and Alice passed that manuscript along to her friend Helen, knowing of Helen’s keen interest in women in ministry. Helen determined that if she was ever in a position to promote the publication of the book, she would make it happen. She carried that manuscript to posts in Pakistan, New Zealand and finally London, where ultimately her husband was chosen as the 18th General of the Salvation Army in 2006. “Seasons: A Woman’s Calling to Ministry” was published by the Salvation Army internationally in 2007. Helen was tenacious – she got things done.

We began to exchange e-mails, and those e-mails soon touched upon concerns dear to our hearts. We compared notes over our sons’ tattoos. We railed against injustice. We spoke of faith. We rejoiced over the birth of grandchildren and mourned the death of parents. By way of e-mail, we did the things that friends do together. And perhaps each of us hoped that when life settled down for Helen in retirement (scheduled for April 2011), we’d be able to connect more often, perhaps even have that promised leisurely conversation over a cup of coffee at Old Orchard Beach, Maine.

But it wasn’t to be. I heard of her cancer diagnosis a number of months ago, about the time I received a last e-mail from her, quoting these words of the psalmist David: 'I always see the Lord near me, and I will not be afraid with him at my right side. Because of this, my heart will be glad, my words will be joyful and I will live in hope.' Yes, my friend, yes.

Who, indeed, are our friends? What defines friendship in these days when we can become Facebook friends with strangers around the world but seldom chat over the back fence? And is proximity necessary for friendship to flourish? Mary Catherwood might understand: “Two may talk together under the same roof for many years, yet never really meet, and two others at first speech [or e-mail] are old friends.” That’s how it felt with Helen – we connected, and I’m sad that circumstances in both of our lives didn’t allow for more time.

Helen’s seemingly premature death at age 63 brings me sorrow. Not the grief that her family is experiencing, as it is presumptuous of me to claim grief of that magnitude. Shaw has lost his wife. Jen, John and Matt have lost their mum. Their loss is profound. Yet I, too, have lost a friend. John Denver’s song says it for me today: “Friend, I will remember you, think of you, pray for you. And when another day is through, I’ll still be friends with you.”

2011-06-16T16:39:00.000-07:00

Our Spraypark Princess

It’s a good thing that the lovely Madelyn Simone hasn’t learned to talk yet, because if she could, she’d be asking to come to RJ’s Spraypark at the Kroc Center every day. Her first official visit as a toddler came on Monday, and Little Miss Daredevil had a blast. No baby pod for her, with its wimpy little spray jets and adorable crocodile. No, she couldn’t get enough of the tumble buckets, barely flinching when the multi-hued buckets dumped their load of water on her head. She loved extending her arms like Superman as her dad ran through the ‘car wash’ with her. Where has our baby gone?

Oh yes, that is the question of the day. Having gained her long-awaited mobility, at fifteen months Miss Madelyn is a little dynamo, not too keen on cuddling on Nana Jo’s lap unless Toy Story 3 is on. For years, a wall hanging in our home reminded us, “babies grow up, we’ve learned to our sorrow,” and that’s proving to be true from generation to generation. Yes, sometimes I wish I could stop the clock from its relentless ticking of the minutes and freeze this moment in time, but that’s not how life works. I guess that’s why cameras were invented.

We want our children and grandchildren to grow well, to thrive, as month by month they blossom into little people and we are afforded a glimpse of the adults they will be some day. If her spraypark behavior is any indication, it does appear that Maddie is more likely to be She-Ra, Princess of Power than Barbie, Princess of Glamour. I must admit, that brings a smile to this grandmother’s face.

As we shared a pizza under the new pavilion at the Kroc Center, my sons were lamenting the fact that they didn’t have a spraypark when they were kids – just the backyard sprinkler. I’m not sure who actually invented sprayparks, but I’m sure glad that our friends at Rain-Drop are in that business – what a great fit for our community.

That conversation got me to thinking about how our world has changed even in the short time since our sons were born in the 80’s – not all that long ago. There were no cell-phones in those days, and we’d actually have to walk upstairs to tell the kids that supper was ready rather than texting them with that news. And while Madelyn doesn’t have her own working cellphone or Facebook page yet, she will grow up in a world and a culture far different from her parents.

Bringing my wandering mind back to the spraypark, I’ve got to figure out a new Salvation Army work uniform for these torrid summer days. Navy blue slacks and a white uniform blouse don’t make it when the temperatures head into the 90’s. Sure, it’s bearable when I’m in the air-conditioned office, but who wants to be in the office when kids are splashing around in the spraypark only 100 yards away – especially when one of the kids is your only granddaughter?

I’m voting for a lightweight polo shirt (with logo) and pedal-pushers, oh, I mean capris for my Wednesday attire, as I’ll be outside enjoying an art project and free concert during June and July. Come to think of it, the polo shirt ensemble is a good choice for Fun Fabulous Fridays with United Way at the Corner Park as well. Maybe I can get some Salvation Army flip-flops to complete my outfit – just don’t tell the Salvation Army uniform police.

One last thought – it was only about two weeks ago that I was whining on the pages of the Times-Gazette about the rain that wouldn’t stop falling, and now each day we wait for the timer to kick on and the water to fall in the spraypark. Yogi Berra got it right again – where you stand (especially on the subject of water falling on your head) depends on where you sit. As for me, I can’t wait until the next time I can sit in one of the Adirondack chairs at the spraypark and watch Madelyn Simone dance through the raindrops. See you there.

2011-05-19T02:38:00.000-07:00

Common Words

We recently had the privilege of hosting Dong-phil Yang, a member of the Group Study Exchange sponsored by Rotary International. Phil lives in South Korea and is fluent in Korean, but while he took English classes in high school and college, he admitted that his grasp of English was definitely limited. Larry and I live in Ohio and we are fluent in English, but our grasp of Korean is non-existent. So as you might guess, we had to listen carefully, and we used measured words, many hand gestures, and our share of head-nodding, not sure if we understood each other at all until we landed on a common word or image. From time to time the light of recognition clicked on, such as in Shin-Soo Choo – ah, yes, baseball!

In their group’s presentation to the Rotary Club of Ashland, the team mentioned that Korean actually was only a spoken language for many years, until a determination was made by King Hing Sejong in 1443 to develop an alphabet so that the people of Korea could communicate through the written word. When they developed the letters in the Korean alphabet, they tried to have the written letter look like the shape formed by the mouth when the sound was spoken.. Kind of like the letter ‘O’ in English. What a good idea. However, knowing that piece of trivia didn’t help us to understand Korean any better.

This whole concept of the development and use of language is especially fascinating as I observe Madelyn Simone Shade exploring the possibilities of speech. At 15 months, she likes to mimic the adults around her, so we get her to repeat our sounds or motions – and of course grandpa gets in trouble when he sticks out his tongue at her. Da-da is a favorite, and we’re convinced that she knows that means ‘Daddy,’ because she says it every time she sees Greg’s picture on my cell phone. At other times, she jabbers, and I wonder if she’s actually carrying out a conversation with herself or simply experimenting with new combinations of sound.

What does she understand? Is she, like the babies in the E-Trade commercials, able to communicate to other babies in their own language? She is mesmerized by the videos of the laughing babies floating around the Internet, laughing out loud and talking back to them. Does she somehow ‘get it,’ or is she simply mimicking them as well?

How does Madelyn’s babbling actually form language? How will this tiny child ever be able to put together the syllables connecting vowels, consonants, and inflection to ideas? We saw The Miracle Worker on Broadway, and I still remember the moment when Helen Keller finally ‘understood’ the words Annie Sullivan spelled into her hands day after day – water, water, water. Will there be an ‘aha’ moment for Madelyn Simone?

What amazes me in my meandering through the world of language is that even if we don’t share the same vocabulary, we can still connect with each other. And we do that, as we did with Phil and continue to do with Madelyn, by listening to each other and by seeking out points of commonality.

Thumbing through the most recent Good Housekeeping magazine, I ran across Steven Spielberg’s musings about his most important life lesson: how to listen. My parents “taught me how to listen to everybody before I made up my own mind. When you listen, you learn. You absorb like a sponge – and your life becomes so much better than when you are just trying to be listened to all the time.” That advice has served the famed filmmaker well.

What I’ve learned through Dong-phil Yang and Madelyn Simone is a broader life lesson: if we listen carefully to each other and use measured words, many hand gestures, and our share of head-nodding, we may just come to understand each other a bit better. We may not win the Nobel Peace Prize, but our lives will be enriched. Now if only I can get Madelyn to say ‘Nana Jo.’

2011-05-10T15:40:00.000-07:00

So Long, Farewell: Grace-filled Transitions

an oldie but goodie
January, 2007

Ashland Times Gazette, 1939
Adjutant and Mrs. Frederick Elliot yesterday received orders to “farewell” from the Ashland Citadel tomorrow. The Elliots have been ordered to take charge of the Toledo Citadel Corps not later than next Thursday.

Times have changed since Fred and Elizabeth, our predecessors, packed up their children and belongings and headed off to Toledo, Ohio. Thankfully, we have more than one week to pack and clean in today’s Army, but leave we must. While the timing may have changed, the pain associated with farewells remains a constant, echoing the words of Frederick: “We deeply regret the fact that we have to leave Ashland” (Times Gazette XXXVIII, 120, 1939).

Their public angst surprised me, for the Salvation Army culture of their day encouraged the officers to maintain an emotional detachment from their soldiers and appointment. An officer was to be “interchangeable,” ready for reassignment as needed, as often as once a year. Yet in the twenty-first century, the pastor who strives to maintain a dignified distance between herself and her flock has been nudged aside by the leader described by Commissioner Israel Gaither: vulnerable, transparent, and remaining closely connected to those in their charge (Caring, Dec. 2005, 8). As small groups, relational evangelism, and incarnational ministry become a larger component of Army work, how does that change the way we face officer transitions, that dreaded (or welcomed) phone call that says, “you’re being farewelled”?

Certainly, pulling up stakes from an appointment is more complicated than it was for Fred and Elizabeth. The business component of officership is much more complex than it was in the past, and the paradigm of ministry has shifted since the days when officers were encouraged to hold themselves aloft from their soldiers. When relationships with soldiers, neighbors, board members and employees have been deeply nurtured, we cannot announce that we are being transferred, and leave no forwarding address. We’ve loved our people, invested in their lives, and have become richly connected. Paul described the bond like this: “It is right for me to feel this way about all of you, since I have you in my heart . . . all of you share in God’s grace with me” (Phil. 1:7, TNIV). And in another passage, he wrote: “Just as a nursing mother cares for her children, so we cared for you. Because we loved you so much, we were delighted to share with you not only the gospel of God but our lives as well . . . But, brothers and sisters, when we were orphaned by being separated from you for a short time (in person, not in thought), out of our intense longing we made every effort to see you (I Thess. 2).

Adding to the relational difficulty is the lack of choice in the transition. In the early decades of the twentieth century, most people had little choice over where they lived, what they did for a living, or the kind of cereal they ate. Elizabeth and Frederick did not expect to have many choices on any given day. In contemporary culture, choice is king in hundreds of ways each day, yet the appointment process continues to be driven by the decisions of Army leaders who may not know the implications of a move to a particular family or location. The departing officer(s) may not have been consulted about the move, and the newly appointed officers may not sense it is time to them to leave their place of service. Most likely, nobody asked the congregation, staff or board if this was a good time for a change, and so all face a transition that they had no control over.

A third consideration is that many in our congregations struggle with separation due to their own background and family systems that provided little stabilty. While some of those attracted to the Army come because of the opportunities for ministry, many, if not most new participants, come because they need what the Army has to offer, which is unconditional acceptance. Often, those who feel left out in other relationships – yes, and even other churches - find a home at The Sal. And now that home is being torn apart. Mommy and Daddy are abandoning them – one more time.

While we recognize that a parent/child relationship is not a healthy one, and want to help the “child” to mature, the dynamics are still at work, and the results of an abrupt move without adequate preparation and support through the transition can be devastating for the more fragile among our people.

What can help in the transition? Consultation remains a desired component of the process for most officers, a subject that certainly needs further exploration. But when the decision is made, are there systemic ways that the change in officers can be managed so as to make the transition smoother for all involved?

The wisdom of our elders is often found in the Orders and Regulations for Officers, and there is a section on predecessor and successor. Early editions of the O & R addressed this subject more in depth, but by 1997, the section on transitions simply starts with this statement: “The relationship between predecessor and successor should be one of mutual respect and understanding and, for the sake of the Kingdom and those served by the appointment, any temptation to engage in criticism should be strongly resisted.”

However, there are some unwritten “rules” that tend to circulate from time to time. A common one is that there is to be no contact allowed between the former officer and the soldiers for one year following departure. However, when I went to search for that regulation, I couldn’t find it. The closest I came was from the O & R of 1960 (Chapter III, Sec. 3, 442):

An officer, after farewelling, should not encourage unauthorized visitors from his former command. To do so would not only weaken the hands of his successor by the absence of such comrades, but would also tend to unsettle the runaways themselves.

Fortunately, by 1997 the “runaways” label is gone, and all that remains on the subject is this: “After leaving an appointment, an officer should refrain from any further involvement that might prejudice his or her successor’s work.”

But what does that mean? Will a weekly e-mail or reading a blog prejudice my successor’s work? What about a shared cup of coffee a couple of times a year with a staff member? Can I attend the wedding of a board member? When a distraught teen calls late at night, how do I respond? An officer friend spoke of a strained relationship with her successor, and said, “When Sharon called to tell me her mother was dying, I wanted to jump in the car and go to be with her, but was afraid it would cause friction with the other officer. I was forced to choose between abandoning a dear friend at a tragic time or offending my successor.”

How can we make these changes work to glorify God? What might supplement the counsel of the O & R to ease the transition for the officers and the people of the corps? Here are a few possibilities:

Welcome conversation. Out of respect to the congregation, staff and board, conversations surrounding the process and the impact of the transition can be welcomed and facilitated. In some situations, it may be appropriate for headquarters staff to meet with the corps council and/or advisory board to provide background to the decision, and to discuss the strengths of the in-coming officers and the vision for future ministry. Such a discussion could also provide information about the differing styles of leadership among officers, and the role of the headquarters in resolving any difficulties the corps experiences during the transition.

Timing. Might it be possible to lengthen the time between the announcement of the move and the actual transfer date, as is done in the UK? With the extent of business and ministry arrangement to be made in some appointments as well as family concerns, five weeks may not be adequate preparation time for the practical issues of relocating, nor for the relational work that needs to be done in the transition. This was apparent to us in our most recent move, as our young adult sons, still living with us for economic reasons, had to find a place to live in a month’s time, quite a feat when their choice was to purchase a house.

A teaching opportunity. The transition itself can become a learning occasion for our people. Change happens, and at times it is out of our control. A job is lost, the house burns down, or the dog runs away. We can model ways of approaching change with grace, even if it is unexpected and/or unwelcome.

Praying our good-byes. When we left our last corps appointment, we shared an evening with soldiers and staff that focused on praying our good-byes, taking its outline from the book by the same name by Catholic nun Joyce Rupp. Our goal was to talk honestly about loss and departure, and to provide some tools for facing loss.

Interaction. The incoming officers can be invited to have some interaction with staff, soldiers and board prior to their arrival. In one appointment, because of proximity, we were able to attend a board meeting prior to our arrival, and the out-going officer graciously introduced us to the people we would be working with.

Transfer of spiritual leadership. Might there be value in a public transfer of the mantle, a handing over of the key? When Moses gave the leadership of the people of Israel to Joshua, the public blessing of his successor is a powerful scene (Dt. 31-33). Our tradition provides for a public farewell and then a public welcome, but not a Moses/Joshua coming together.

Positive comment. In an attempt to speak positively of both predecessor and successor, wise counsel suggests the following comment: The Shades are close friends of ours, and we very much appreciate the ministry they had here, and intend to build on their work (or look forward to how they will bring their gifts to this corps).

Take your time. Unless there are serious difficulties, most changes can wait a few months before being made. Listen for the dreams of the people of the corps. Get to know them. Hear their stories. You may find out that the painting in the back of the chapel that you think is rather ugly and would like to trash was the final work of a beloved retired YPSM who died tragically. Aren’t you glad you listened?

Choose mercy. When a grieving family would like the former officer to participate in the funeral for their matriarch, be gracious. It’s not about whether they like you – it’s about their grief, and their desire to have the comfort of one who knows them and who knew the deceased.

Remember the children. The children of the officer, as well as those of the congregation, are struggling with the move as well. A few weeks after our arrival at our current appointment, we invited the corps family to our quarters for a Sunday night vespers service. Five year old Zoe wanted to go upstairs so she could play with Lizzie and Rachael (the children of the previous officers). She was missing her friends, and didn’t quite understand that they didn’t live here anymore. If officer children have remained in town, welcome them at the corps, and be understanding if they choose to find another church. Keep them on the mailing list – don’t forget them.

Give it time. Allow for grieving. People are sad when they have to say good-bye to someone they love. In time, they will form close relationships with you, and each of you will be beloved.

Search your heart. When the transition is difficult, consider, is jealousy or envy at work? If you’re not sure, check out your reactions with an uninvolved friend. Maybe you are overly sensitive, and need to seek repentance, but perhaps there are some bizarre things going on.

Seek the oil of the Holy Spirit. At a recent officers’ retreat, Major Mark Tillsley reminded us that oil is used to symbolize the relational healing of the Holy Spirit, even among officers. “How good and pleasant it is when God’s people live together in unity. It is like precious oil poured on the head, running down on the beard . . . (Psalm 133:1-2). This oil can be offered by a caring mediator or divisional leader, who desires to see fractured relationships between officers healed. Regardless of orders and regulations, congregational preparation, and administrative oversight, a healthy transition depends upon the health and holiness of the officers involved. When envy and jealousy rule, the transition will be awkward at best and devastating to our people at worst. When a spirit of honesty, generosity and mercy pervades the relationships, God will be honored and our people will flourish

Choose gratitude. Years before I was born, Elizabeth and Frederick Elliot prepared a foundation in Ashland, Ohio that stands to this day, both on the corner of Third and Center, and in the heart of this corps. Many came before them, and others followed, ready to serve God in their own unique way. I’m grateful for their faithfulness, and for the God who continues to be faithful through the changing days. Perhaps a note of thanks to one or two of those faithful officers would provide just the encouragement they need for another day of ministry.
I (Paul) planted the seed, Apollos watered it, but God has been making it grow. . .
The one who plants and the one who waters have one purpose,
and they will each be rewarded according to their own labor.
For we are God’s co-workers; you are God’s field, God’s building.
I Cor. 3:5, 8-9

2011-04-28T04:01:00.000-07:00

Prom Night

As a high school senior, I faced a dilemma of catastrophic proportion in the spring of 1973. I had no date for the prom. I had a steady boyfriend who told me in no uncertain terms that he wasn’t the prom-type, so if I wanted to participate in that annual Rite of Passage, I’d have to go date-less (something that simply wasn’t done in those days). My other options were to ask my brother to take me (I don’t think so) or to find someone in a similar circumstance and make the connection, my ultimate solution. So, as he recently reminisced on Facebook, Wayne Luke and I decided to go to the prom together since he was dateless as well.

Prom is a night of dreams. I’ve still got the pictures of Sue Yondt and I mugging for the cameras during our afternoon of preparation with curlers in our hair – shame on us. I’d painstakingly created my own prom gown of the palest yellow dotted Swiss, and I was floating on air as I slipped the dress on that evening. Ah, what memories.

That dress was a far cry from those being marketed for prom-wear in 2011, but young women still long for the night when they trade their t-shirts and jeans for the dress of their dreams. Oh, to find the perfect gown and to be the most beautiful girl on the dance floor. Prom pales in comparison to war in Libya and the earthquake and its aftershocks in Japan, but in the mind of a high school girl, prom continues to be the night of dreams come true.

But what happens if you’re not a beauty queen, or if your family’s income can’t stretch far enough to pay the rent, let alone purchase a new prom gown? Might these young women be forced to sit in the corner while their ugly stepsisters primp for the dance? This was the question on the heart of Emily Murray, a student at Ashland University, when she called the Salvation Army Kroc Center about her idea to collect prom dresses for girls who couldn’t afford them. That seed of an idea blossomed into the Princess’s Closet, an evening of prom gowns, make-up, hairstyles, and jewelry, framed by words of an inner beauty that lives long past prom night. Fifteen young women from across Ashland County were pampered through the help of at least as many volunteers – all because one AU student reached out to our community.

Yet Emily’s story is not unique. Every day, AU students touch our community in ways that enrich all of our lives. We’ve enjoyed the presence of Dirk Dickerhoof in the Kroc Center’s recreation area as he’s interned with us this spring, and Chris Shoemaker has done the same in the social services area. Throughout the center, AU students have worked with kids in the All Star Academy, run up and down the fieldhouse turf with five and six year olds in the Upward Soccer program, polished their abilities to create effective marketing tools and joined the women of the LINCS program to discovered life-altering truths about themselves on Wednesday nights.

Through AU’s Community Care program, students get involved across Ashland County by adopting a grandparent, serving on a crisis crew, addressing issues of hunger, becoming Peers for Animal Welfare, drawing attention to environmental issues, and being PROUD (Partners Reaching Out for Ultimate Development), as they tutor and mentor Ashland kids throughout the year. And, according to AU president Fred Finks, 100 students spent their spring break in mission – building houses and changing lives. Not quite the “me first” generation we so often hear about.

Yes, most university students are passing through Ashland on their way to their “real lives,” but some will leave a lasting impact upon the life of our community. In our schools, in our nursing homes, in our animal shelters and even on the dance floor at the prom, we’re richer people because AU students cared enough to cross College Avenue and enter our lives. Thank you, my young friends – you’ve discovered what “real life” is truly about.

2011-04-10T20:20:00.000-07:00

The Day the Associate Divisional Commander Was Promoted to Glory

It began as an ordinary day, as so many days of consequence tend to do. It was a Friday. The trains were delayed heading into New York City. There was enough hot water for showers for everyone. The writer’s conference was concluding its workshops.

Then came the whispers. “Did you hear? The Associate Divisional Commander has been Promoted to Glory.” As a corps officer in the hinterlands of Ohio I seldom get the scoop on any breaking news in the Salvation Army, but my presence at the territorial headquarters conference center put me in the loop for this report. “She’s dead – there won’t be any more associate positions within the SA command structure. They – whoever ‘they’ is/are – have killed her off.” (Note that I don’t need to use language that’s gender-inclusive here because the associate has been female – and note too that I’ve taken poetic license with these quotes).

The decision had actually been made prior to April 8, 2011, but on this day the changes of appointment were released for divisional leaders in the East. In each appointment, the female spouses were named to the position of Divisional Director of Women’s Ministries – no associate divisional commander designation anymore.

So what? We no longer have Brigadiers, as the last few retired officers with that rank are going to Glory as well, and that change wasn’t earth-shaking. In fact, I’m kind of glad it’s gone since I’d probably be a Brigadier by now. And I nearly turned cartwheels when the bonnet was given a respectful burial – that historically cherished headgear was downright uncomfortable. I’m all for change, so why am I sorrowful and angry about this change of designation?

Here’s why. The associate divisional commander designation was an attempt on the part of Salvation Army leadership to assign couples to divisional leadership in a way that could replicate the model of the division of labor available to corps officers. When assigned as the DC/ADC, it was possible for the couple to divide their responsibilities in a way that honored their separate giftings and abilities. The title ADC implied and honored a shared leadership and a positional recognition of the experience and abilities of the female spouse. I can’t say that the Divisional Director of Women’s Ministries makes that same assumption. (See Captain Lisa VanCleef’s recent “Partners – or not?” in The Officer (November/December 2010) for further discussion of this concept).

Of course, even without specific titles and appointments, God’s work can be done. But within our culture, titles are important, and they are also important to staff, advisory boards and others that we work with. They speak to our structure, theology, history and practice. Titles do matter. As one Facebook comment noted, “If we exercise an authority without the position, we are in danger of our leadership ability being misunderstood, just because we are not designated for that task. People need clear position – [attempting to provide leadership without the position] is just as dangerous as being in a position without the needed qualifications to fill the task.”

Here are a few theological questions. Is this change a movement towards a complementarian view of men and women based purely on gender? Are we moving away from an egalitarian view of men and women and their work for the Kingdom? Are we, in this decision, reverting to a view of headship that would be more compatible with our Southern Baptist brothers rather than the teachings and modeling of Catherine and William Booth? Are we suggesting that a woman’s role really is only to minister to other women, that a woman’s voice isn’t appropriate for teaching or leading men? Are we moving closer to that?

Then there’s history. Within current Salvation Army circles, there is a definite cognitive dissonance that forms for women in ministry (especially married women), for while women are theoretically given equal opportunity by policy, practice proves a contradiction, as Eason points out historically. Even though given equal opportunity by the written regulations of the organization, women were considerably less likely to be in leadership, and women often took a lesser role upon marriage (Eason, 2003). Upon appointment of their husbands to leadership roles, women officers historically were called “to a less conspicuous part of His great vineyard,” and urged to “not judge as to the relative importance of the work we do for Him, whether this or that” (Higgins 1931, 266-267). That argument is not acceptable to many Salvationist women in today’s world.

There is a tension between the written policies that indicate that women have all of the rights and privileges of men within the organization, and the actual practices that do not support that policy (Satterlee 2005), as is the case in some other denominations as well (Lehman 2001, 8, Chaves 1997, 1). This tension includes the stained-glass ceiling for career advancement, the lack of financial compensation for the married woman officer, and role expectations that often are framed along gender lines as noted in the DDWM designation. Increasingly, these policies and practices create a cognitive dissonance that becomes especially problematic for married women officers, particularly those at midlife whose energies no longer have to be divided between home, children and ministry – pretty much where those being appointed to divisional leadership find themselves.

Some Salvationists, both men and women, don’t feel that change is necessary or even appropriate in this area and don’t understand why this is of concern to many officers. Why? Status quo, dynamics within the marriage, male hubris, female self-image struggles, a desire for an easier life, the role of the self-fulfilling prophecy (organizational expectations), patriarchal patterns – some or all play a role in opinions around this subject. We may not be at the point yet where critical mass has formed on the side of change, and so we must continue to be open for dialogue on this vital subject, providing theological support as well as outlining the pragmatic implications of our failure to achieve the goal of having appointments and responsibilities commensurate with the women’s gifts, abilities and experience.

Is the ADC title/role the best solution? Perhaps not, as some suggest. But a return to what some recognize as the Army’s women officer ghetto is far from a viable solution for 2011.

Many have a two-fold fear at this point. The first is that the Salvation Army will have difficulty in attracting capable married women who see the limitations that will be theirs in ministry. They either will not enter the training school or they will leave within the first ten years of officership. The second is that those women of my generation – in our 40’s, 50’s and 60’s will ‘defect in place,’ remaining in the Army but identifying patriarchy and its impact while taking responsibility for our own spiritual lives, remaining on their own terms – perhaps less wholeheartedly committed to the organization. Winter, Lummis and Stokes believed that the women who are “defecting in place” may do so because:
They continue to have the need for continuity, for community and connection, the desire to remain a part of a tradition in which one has one’s roots is significant for many women. So they choose to remain in a way that will not violate their integrity. At the same time, deep within is the hope that the values they profess will one day be accepted and the institution will change. (Winter, Lummis and Stokes 1995, 197)

It used to be about what I wanted for me, but that’s not the point anymore – it’s too late. But I want my younger Salvationist sisters to have the opportunity to blossom into leaders for the future – whether they are married or not. And I thought that the ADC designation was a start.

I have a dear friend named Zoe (life). There is a sense of a prayerful, prophetic mantle upon Zoe. She wants to be a preacher when she grows up – or maybe a hairdresser. At age 9 she recently mused: “I feel like I’m standing in front of a door but I don’t know how to get the door open.” My dream is that when Zoe and her sisters are old enough to approach the door God leads them to (officer, preacher, hairdresser, listener), they will be “loosed” to fully offer all of their gifts, abilities and experiences in the cause of Christ. I want a Salvation Army door to be ready for Zoe where her gifts, abilities and experiences will be as generously received and honored as they are generously given.

As Commissioner Kay Rader wrote for Christians for Biblical Equality, “The task is too great for only half the force. We need the full force to win the world for God.” While the title given to women officers in one territory may seem like a small issue, this has larger consequence. At its foundation, this is not a women’s issue – this is a Kingdom issue, potentially with profound implications for the future of the Salvation Army.

So what do we do when someone has died? We grieve – denial, anger, bargaining, depression and (perhaps) acceptance. We sit. We bring casseroles. We wonder if there was anything we could have done to have kept them alive. And, if we’re like Mary, we tell Jesus about our sorrow. Lazarus, come forth!

(references upon request)

2011-02-21T04:33:00.000-08:00

What a Difference a Year Makes!

Yes, it’s true – I am smitten. Besotted, fanatical, infatuated and head over heels in love. As reflected in my most recent book title, I’ve admitted to being a smitten immigrant to Ashland, but it’s not you, Ashland that I’m talking about this time, nor is it my husband of 35 years. There is another who has also laid claims to my heart, for I am totally smitten with a tiny wee girl-child named Madelyn Simone, now celebrating her first birthday.

Where has this year gone? I still have Greg’s message on my phone, received in the middle of our morning worship service, telling us of their impending trip to the hospital for her birth. My phone screen lights up with a beaming Greg cradling his newborn daughter. Can it really be a year since we made the trek to Canton and watched a LeBron-led Cavs team lose a tightly contested game with the Orlando Magic as Madelyn made her appearance in the delivery room down the hall? What a difference a year makes!

This precious grand-baby can play patty-cake and peek-a-boo, loves to shake her head ‘no,’ and could probably walk if she’d stop bouncing long enough to keep her balance. She’s eating bits of real food now, and can devour a whole banana at one sitting. She is growing up right before our eyes.

My days with Madelyn have taught me so, so much. How else would I have become acquainted with the pleasures of daytime television in the 21st century? Just so you know, I have moved on from Say Yes to the Dress (the plot gets old after a while), and now switch between Sesame Street and Law and Order re-runs.

I unwrapped a dark chocolate Valentine’s heart and read the message “Do something spontaneous.” I jokingly posted on my Facebook status that I don’t have spontaneous on my schedule, but that’s the joy of days with Madelyn – always a surprise waiting around the corner. I’m looking forward to the sun returning to our world with the coming of spring so that those spontaneous ‘somethings’ can be outdoors.

I’ve been reminded of the doctrine of original sin a time or two already with this little one as well. While this child has a sweet spirit, there have already been times when she looks at me with her huge eyes, gives me a sly grin, and then proceeds to push open the door of the sound system/cable box cabinet. She knows exactly what she’s doing when she goes for the forbidden sound controls – every time.

Madelyn has also made me long for the days in which an extended family lived in the same home, so much so that I’d even consider giving up my home office if Greg and Lauren wanted to come and live with us. Yes, Madelyn is definitely the enticement to that concept, but I do enjoy being with my adult children – I like the people they’ve grown up to be. Remind me to tell them that more often.

Most of all, I am so blessed to love and to loved by this little one. Her face lights up when she sees me, and she reaches out her arms to mine – every time. No guile, no hidden agenda. There’s a verse hidden in the folds of the Old Testament that reminds me of what we have: “He will take delight in you with gladness, with his love he will calm all your fears. He will rejoice over you with joyful songs” (Zephaniah 3:17, NLT). That’s how I love Madelyn – and she in turn responds with that 4-toothed grin that melts my heart. Yes, little one, you are my sunshine.

Am I smitten? Absolutely, and I’d have it no other way. She’s got me wrapped around her little finger and I’m perfectly fine with that. Of course there are limits – she needs to be kept safe and I need to respect her parents’ boundaries for her. But it’s all true – I loved her before she was born (as Ann Bowen so beautifully expresses in my favorite grandmother gift) and I will love her forever – even up to the moon. Happy birthday, Madelyn Simone.

2011-02-08T05:09:00.000-08:00

Redemption?

When traveling in the car with my husband and/or any of my three sons, the radio is often tuned to a sports talk program, sending me diving into the pages of the book of the week. Given the state of Cleveland sports these days, I really don’t want to hear about which millionaire sports figure has a hangnail or about LeBron’s view on karma. The seven months until the Ashland Arrows return to the football field can’t go by too quickly for me.
But I was intrigued by the question raised by one of the commentators: which Cleveland professional sports team has the best chance of improving? My answer: flip a coin, and if it lands on its edge . . . How bad can it really get?
As the chatter progressed, they began to name players who could be acquired to improve the World Series, NBA title or Super Bowl hopes of Cleveland’s faithful fans. What caught my attention was a line trailing after a number of superstar names – ‘well, he does come with a lot of baggage.’ Is it worth the risk to sign an excellent athlete who has faced hard times, or who may have issues with anger, pride, drug or alcohol use, or just plain stupid choices? Or should we stick with the goody-two-shoe types who will enhance our community but may have a tad less talent and/or fire on the field or court? Should we take the chance on a bad-boy or two to get the spark that could lead us to the crown? Can the right coach or a change in scenery change a player’s behavior?
I’m not sure about the dynamics on the athletic field or in the locker room, but the truth is that we all accumulate ‘stuff’ – call it baggage or luggage, bumps and bruises – in our work and our relationships, an inevitable fact of life. Some ‘stuff’ comes through choices of our own, such as what college to attend, what job to accept, what woman or man to marry – these major life choices impact the rest of our lives. At other times, we have no control. Our parents split up, or pink slips are handed out and the job we thought we’d have until we retired is gone in a flash.
We pick up baggage at each mile-marker on the path, the wounds and scars that come from daily life, but we do have some choice as to how we react. Yogi Berra said, “When you come to a fork in the road, take it.” When we take those forks (or when they’re taken for us) we can still choose whether to push our ‘stuff’ around in a bag lady shopping cart or in time to prayerfully pack it away in an attic trunk. That’s where choice, determination, faith and the support of others can redeem horrendous situations.
A friend told me a story the other day that I’ll modify to protect the identity of the persons involved. A woman was driving her daughter to school on a wintery day and wasn’t able to control the car – the bald tires just couldn’t grip the road. The woman survived, but the child died after three days in the hospital. Circumstances, weather, carelessness, irresponsibility, poverty – all contributed to the accident. How could this mom react? How could she go on?
What she did was have a picture of her little girl tattooed on her shoulder, permanently marking her body with an image of her hopes and dreams, her shame and grief. And with her body so marked, she then had everyday choices to use that tattoo as a hammer of guilt or as a gentle reminder of what could have been. Would it become an angel of mercy and grace or a devil of shame? Could she receive Henry Rollin’s words as the gift they are: “Scar tissue is stronger than regular tissue. Realize the strength, move on.”
Character is formed, not pre-determined. Fate, failure or foolishness doesn’t have to define us. So should the Indians, Browns or Cavs take a chance on a player with baggage? They may want to ask them about their tattoos before they write the check.

2011-01-02T04:58:00.000-08:00

Not a Creature was Stirring, Not Even a Mouse

Oh, what to write . . . I’ve traditionally marked Christmas with a writing project of some kind, writing about Christmas carols, childhood memories, and the actors in the Christmas drama as recorded in the pages of Scripture. I’ve also composed carols and shared some poetry, but for Christmas 2010 I was out of ideas – that is, until the mouse fell down the laundry chute. Obviously there was a mouse stirring in our house!

So here you have it – nearly a dozen thoughts for Christmas based loosely on ‘Twas the Night Before Christmas.’ Most likely written by Clement Clarke Moore, a Hebrew scholar who called his attempt at poetry “a mere trifle,” his trifle has become a classic, ranking right up there with Dicken’s A Christmas Carol and Dr. Seuss’ How the Grinch Stole Christmas – oh, now I have an idea for next year!

This comes to you with our fondest wishes for a blessed Christmas. The lovely Madelyn Simone Shade, age 10 months, joins her parents, Greg and Lauren, uncles Drew and Dan, Pops (Larry) and Nana Jo (JoAnn) in saying “Happy Christmas to all!”

JoAnn Shade
December 2010

1.

'Twas the night before . . .”

There’ve been many “twas the night before’s” in my life – as there are in all of
our lives. Sometimes we know they’re waiting for us – the night before a wedding, our child’s graduation, or Christmas. At other times we have no idea that as we watch Law and Order or NCIS, click off the television and pull up the covers, dawn will bring an event that will change us forever. Tomorrow may bring the birth of our grandchild, a terrorist attack, or something in between.

I’ve still got the voicemail Greg left on my cell phone when he was calling us about Madelyn’s birthday. Because Lauren was scheduled for a Caesarean section, I’m not sure that he realized that she could actually go into labor before then, and his voice on the message combined elements of surprise, terror and excitement as he told us of their impending trip to the hospital. As a parent myself, I knew that his life was going to change forever in a matter of hours, as he would be totally enraptured with his new daughter – and overwhelmed by all the responsibilities of parenting that were part of the package.

So how, on the night before, do we prepare for the changes that are inevitable, even if not always foreseen? Songwriter John Izzard offers his counsel:

Dear Lord, I lift my heart to thee,
My helplessness I own;
The way before I cannot see,
I dare not walk alone.

So often in the pleasant place
Our faith depends on sight;
The temper of my trust must face
Its trial in the night.

Then quietness and confidence
And waiting on the Lord
Shall be my strength, my sure defense,
And peace be my reward.

2.

“when all through the house not a creature was stirring . . .”

Many were the days that I yearned for a time when “not a creature was stirring.” With three active boys filling our quiver (see Psalm 127:5), as well as a number of long-term houseguests over the years, most days there was a lot of stirring in our home. We didn’t mind it too much, except when Jon and Cornell got rowdy over our heads at the 11th Street house in Canton – well, and when the Zander boys shot Marmaduke with a B-B gun in Philadelphia. Generally it was friendly stirring, noisy and rambunctious but not hostile. As much as I longed for at least a semblance of peace and quiet in those days, I truly appreciated the life and vitality of the house.

Perhaps that’s what Paul had in mind when he wrote in 2 Timothy 1:6 “Fan into flame (NIV), “stir up the gift of God” (KJV). Or, as Peterson expands on in The Message: “And the special gift of ministry you received when I laid hands on you and prayed—keep that ablaze! God doesn't want us to be shy with his gifts, but bold and loving and sensible.”
Bold, loving, sensible – stir me up, sweet Jesus!

3.

“not even a mouse;”

As promised in my introduction, here is the mouse story. We began to see signs that a mouse was making his or her home in our house. I’m hoping it was a he so that there aren’t any baby mice in our future since we aren’t looking to add any additions to our family at the present time. I am into the “live and let live” mentality, but when I discovered that he had chomped huge holes in both of my bags of confectionary sugar I was not a happy camper – I want my Mexican wedding cakes this year.

So my brave husband came to my rescue. He brought home some of those sticky trays, primed them with peanut butter and placed them in the mouse’s haunts – the food cupboards. Unfortunately for our friend the mouse, he chose to land on one in the cupboard without a back wall – only an opening to the laundry chute. So when Larry the mouse-catcher went to look for the tray, it was gone – it and the mouse went down the laundry chute. Meet your maker, Mr. Mouse – you’re not living in my house anymore!

The moral of this story is – I’m not real sure. Stay away from my confectionary sugar, sticky trays and laundry chutes? Don’t eat the Mexican wedding cakes . . .

4.

The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there.

I love the Christmas stocking tradition. As a teen-ager, my dad put an addition onto our home that included a fireplace, so we actually had a chimney to hang up our personalized, hand-knitted stockings with the mohair Santa beard that Aunt Dot had made for us. Even with all the gifts beckoning me from under the tree, I always wanted to start with my stocking – and still do.

Some people dump out their stockings so that they can see everything at once. But I like to take items out one at a time, enjoying each one and stretching out the time of anticipation, waiting for the diamond stuffed into the toe of the stocking. Well, not this year – I don’t think every kiss is going to begin with “K(ay)” in our house.

I hate the feeling when the last gift is opened after an unwrapping frenzy that lasts 8 minutes and 42 seconds – I’ve spent many hours searching for the right gifts for those I love, and I want to extend the time we spend sharing them with each other. So I delay the stocking emptying as long as I can, much to the chagrin of the rest of the family.

As a parent, I’ve enjoyed finding fun gifts to include in the stockings, most of which aren’t too appreciated by my sons – with the exception of the dollar coins. Considering that this year’s finds include a personal sized can of air freshener, I’m not thinking they’ll be too impressed on Christmas morning 2010 either. (Don’t let them in on my secret . . .)

When we’d get out the stockings, my mom would often quote Emily Huntington Miller’s verse:
Hang up the baby's stocking
Be sure you don't forget!
The dear little dimpled darling,
She never saw Christmas yet!

That’s our family’s story this year – there’ll be one more stocking hanging by the fireplace – Madelyn’s! No air freshener for her – socks, sweet potato flavored puffs and hair ribbons will likely await our little Diva.

I’m not sure that Madelyn will consciously remember anything from her first Christmas, but I’m so grateful that Mary of Nazareth remembered. “But Mary kept all these things and pondered them in her heart.” Or, as Peterson paraphrases, “Mary kept all these things to herself, holding them dear, deep within herself.”

Yet as Scott McKnight reminds us in The Real Mary, it’s likely that there came a time when Mary did more than ponder – she told the story. The Magi and shepherds only knew a portion of the story – and, if tradition is correct in assuming that Joseph died prior to Jesus’ ministry, Mary would have been the only one left to know the details of the account found in Luke 2. I can picture Mary as an old woman, sitting at a small table in her home with Luke, sharing a simple meal and telling her story. “In those days Caesar Augustus issued a decree that a census should be taken of the entire Roman world . . .”

We, too, can tell the stories. Stories of babies, stories of faith, stories of grace. Go, tell it on the mountain . . . that Jesus Christ is born!

5.

The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads;

I don’t know about Clement Moore, but for as long as I’ve been a parent, I’ve seldom experienced children being nestled all snug in their beds. When they were infants 2 out of our 3 babies didn’t sleep through the night until they were 2, and when they were teens they didn’t like to go to sleep much before 2 a.m. Christmas Eve was the worst of course, with anticipation forcing them to sneak a peak into the sky every ten minutes.

I don’t know about the sugar-plums (they don’t sound too tasty to me), but often sleep eludes me because of the visions that are dancing in my head. Sometimes they’re worries, but more often I toss and turn with ideas – ideas for writing, visions for our ministry, and dreams for our kids – and now for the beautiful Madelyn Simone as well.

I remember sitting at the piano day after day and playing Mitch Leigh’s challenge from Man of La Mancha:
To dream the impossible dream
To fight the unbeatable foe
To bear with unbearable sorrow
To run where the brave dare not go
To right the unrightable wrong
To love pure and chaste from afar
To try when your arms are too weary
To reach the unreachable star

At 11 or 12, I had no idea what impossible dreams I might be called to dream, nor what unbearable sorrow even looked like, but I sang it loud and clear as I played: I was going to “follow that star, no matter how hopeless, no matter how far.” Now, in midlife, I wonder, have I settled for possible dreams? Ah, perhaps a question to keep me up a night or two this week.

Even as adults, I hope that my children are kept awake from time to time by a sense of vision. I want them to have dreams for the future, of what their lives may look like and how they can impact their world. And now that Greg and Lauren are parents, they too will have dreams for Madelyn, as young as she is.

Moore got it right – there’s a place for visions dancing in the heads of children, and not just visions of sugarplums. Our children need dreams so that they can experience hope. As Harriet Tubman said, “Every great dream begins with a dreamer. Always remember, you have within you the strength, the patience, and the passion to reach for the stars to change the world” – even if it’s one small corner of the world. Dream on!

6.

And mamma in her 'kerchief, and I in my cap,
Had just settled down for a long winter's nap,
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.

When I picture the father springing out of bed to check out the disturbance in the yard, I’m reminded of a time I sprang out of bed to dire consequences. I was 9 months pregnant and troubled with leg cramps. One night of note I jumped out of bed to try to straighten my twisted muscles, knocked the glass of water off my nightstand, and fell in a bulky heap on the floor of my bedroom, wrapped in a soaking wet nightgown – laughing so that I wouldn’t cry. What a sight! At least I wasn’t wearing a ‘kerchief.

While some live by the mantra, “He who hesitates is lost,” I’ll go with Winnie the Pooh on this one: “Rivers know this: there is no hurry. We will get there some day.” Which segues into the next lines of the poem.

7.

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow
Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below,

Here we have one of the more poetic lines in Clement Moore’s offering, allowing the reader to envision the light of the moon on the virgin snow. It seems that for a brief moment, the writer is able to stop and take in the scene before him – before the clatter of the reindeer spoils the moment. In these two lines, the man who spent his days as a Hebrew scholar may be remembering how he prepares his heart before meeting the clatter and the chatter of his children as they greet him upon his arrival home.

I’ve had those moments before the door of the house opens, times when I want to freeze-frame the beauty of a snowy evening or a star-lit night before anyone lands on my lawn with reindeer. While I know there’s warmth to be found within, I want to breathe in the moment of stillness that I may never experience in the same way again.

While Thomas Merton wrote in the century after Moore, the scholar and theologian that Moore was might have appreciated Merton’s take on a starlit night: "When we are alone on a starlit night, when by chance we see the migrating birds in autumn descending on a grove of junipers to rest and eat; when we see children in a moment when they are really children, when we know love in our own hearts; or when, like the Japanese poet, Basho, we hear an old frog land in a quiet pond with a solitary splash - at such times the awakening, the turning inside out of all values, the "newness," the emptiness and the purity of vision that make themselves evident, all these provide a glimpse of the cosmic dance."

Wishing you – and me – moonbeams on new-fallen snow.

8.

When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer,
With a little old driver, so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick. –
More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name;
"Now, Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer and Vixen!
On, Comet! on Cupid! on, Donder and Blitzen!
To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!
Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!"
As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky,
So up to the house-top the coursers they flew,
With the sleigh full of toys, and St. Nicholas too.
And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof
The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound.

This “down the chimney” phrase has caused considerable trouble for parents who want to keep the Santa myth alive once their children are able to reason. I did stumble across one solution – a local gift shop had a Santa Key for sale for the low price of $9.95 – a special key that would open every door of the homes where there’s no chimney. What a racket – I wish I would have thought of that – sure beats ringing the bell at the kettles all day.

Big Bird faces that conundrum in the Christmas special, Christmas Eve on Sesame Street, a favorite of our family when the boys were young (and one that Madelyn and I will watch together next year). Oscar rather meanly asks Big Bird and Patty “How does a guy like Santa Claus, who’s built like a dump truck, come down all those skinny little chimneys?” Big Bird is determined to discover Santa’s secret, so spends the entire night on the rooftop of the building, waiting to see for himself. Of course, he falls asleep and misses the “event,” only to discover that Santa somehow managed to get past him.

While Big Bird may not have discovered the secret of Santa, he does learn the secret of the song that Bob sings: ‘But the greatest wonder of them all is not what’s happening around you, it’s the way you start to be. Yes the greatest wonder of them all is how your heart is filled with love.” No matter what our take is on St. Nicholas, Bob’s right – Christmas is about the way we start to be. Call it challenge or mystery, we can be changed by Christmas, by the coming of the Christ child to our world.

O come to my heart Lord Jesus,
There is room in my heart for Thee.
Emily Elliot

9.

He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot;
A bundle of toys he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a peddler just opening his pack.
His eyes -- how they twinkled! his dimples how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow;
The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath;
He had a broad face and a little round belly,
That shook, when he laughed like a bowlful of jelly.
He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,
And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself;

Moore took great pains to fully describe this Christmas visitor in colorful vocabulary. From our 21st century perspective, we’re cringing by the end – what an un-politically correct description. An obese smoker who brings toys to kids he doesn’t know – definitely a danger sign here. For remember, this was written many years before the 1933 hit song by Coots and Gillispie that expanded the omniscient powers of the fur-clothed visitor to include “he sees you when you’re sleeping, he knows when you’re awake, he knows if you’ve been bad or good . . .”

It’s fascinating to me to consider how Moore’s description has managed to become the accepted image of Santa Claus. After all, he is talking about St. Nicholas, presumable from the Dutch tradition as described by Washington Irving. Many other cultures had Christmas characters, including Father Christmas of British origin, Pere Noel (France) and the female Babushka from Russia. But somehow, Moore’s depiction stuck (although the red suit isn’t mentioned). While Mrs. Claus and additional elves were later additions, today’s shopping mall Santa Claus is still recognizable as the leading actor in Moore’s poem – minus the pipe.

The right jolly old elf is proof of the power of words to create images. While we may live in a world choked with visual images (take a walk in Times Square if you don’t believe me), words still speak, as evidenced by the disappointment I feel when I’ve read the last page of a good novel. I don’t want the story to end – it has come alive to me through the words on the page.
God knew. The words on the pages of the Bible live. For some they live in the Hebrew and Greek, or in the classic cadence of the King James Version. Yet how enriched we’ve been by the works of Kenneth Taylor (The Living Bible), J.B. Phillips (I’ve still got my tattered copy from my high school days in Young Life) and Eugene Peterson (The Message).

Yet in the fullness of time, the written and/or spoken word wasn’t enough – as Peterson helps us to understand in paraphrasing John 1:14, “the Word became flesh and blood, and moved into the neighborhood. We saw the glory with our own eyes, the one-of-a-kind glory, like Father, like Son, generous inside and out, true from start to finish.” God sent his son – they called him Jesus – so that redemption could be ours. While the image that Moore jotted down on paper was word – and, over time, illustrated by pen and ink, it was only word. In Jesus, word became flesh. Amen and amen.

Word of the Father
Now in flesh appearing.
O come let us adore him, Christ the Lord.

10.

A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread.
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk,
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose;

Long before “Enchanted” hit the big screen in 2007, I loved to watch Elizabeth Montgomery in “Bewitched.” I’m sure I joined thousands of similar little girls who spent hours in front of the mirror, attempting to wiggle our noses just like Samantha. I wanted to be like her (and Billy Jo, Betty Jo and Bobby Jo from Petticoat Junction too). Given the now-famous limits of my technical abilities, it was more likely that I would have resembled the bumbling Aunt Clara, who, with the best of intentions, didn’t manage to get the nose-twitch exactly right, to the consternation of her unknowing victims.

I’ve often wondered about the “laying a finger aside of his nose” line from the poem. Was it a sign to the reindeer? Was St. Nicholas scratching an itch, only to have his gesture frozen in history? Or did he give a Samantha-like twitch in order to get his bulk back up the chimney?

Yes, admit it or not, there is something about a hint of magic in the Santa story that we love. We don’t want Santa to use the door – we want him to be able to levitate out of the chimney.

But as we grow older, we discover that there is little magic in the world most days. You get what you pay for in life, we’re told. Yet Christmas at the Salvation Army is enough to make a believer out of the hardest cynic. Whether it’s the gift of a salon haircut for an awkward 13 year old girl, a small apartment to call home after months of homelessness, or a bundle of toys flung on the back of a willing volunteer, Christmas happens with magic, with mystery, and with grace. Somewhere, Santa is winking.

11.

He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.
But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight,
"Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night.”

I’m not sure that the following actually fits the poem, but it’s nearly Christmas and this still isn’t done. I’ve written 4000+ words in snatches of time since the mouse fell down the laundry chute, and I need to get this in the mail to those who haven’t joined the e-mail generation. Perhaps the connection to Moore’s “Happy Christmas to all” is the realization that “merry” and “happy” may not always be the best adjectives for our wishes, especially for those who grieve, who face serious illness, or whose circumstances are overwhelming.

I’m reminded of the original words for “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas,” sung by Esther to her little sister Tootsie in “Meet Me in St. Louis.”
But at least we all will be together, if the Fates allow,
From now on we'll have to muddle through somehow.
So have yourself a merry little Christmas now

Asked by Frank Sinatra to jolly up the middle line, Hugh Martin gave us the memorable, “Hang a shining star upon the highest bough.” Instead of settling for “muddling through,” we can reach higher in order to share in a blessed, merry little Christmas. So, happy Christmas to all and to all a good-night.

From the Ashland Times-Gazette, Christmas Eve 2010

In spite of “Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer” and Madonna’s version of “Santa Baby,” I love Christmas music. As a child, I played through the carol book until it was ragged. And as a budding composer, our congregation was subjected to the debut of my yearly attempt at a carol, from the poignant “To the Holy Family” to the boisterous “Life Light Blazed into the Darkness” – try saying that 5 times fast! Often that music became our family’s Christmas card to friends.

In searching the Internet, I learned that I was in good company. As his father did before him, Alfred Burt designed the family’s annual Christmas card around the carol he composed each year, often with the help of Wihla Hutson, the church organist.
“Some Children See Him,” their 1951 offering, holds a special place in my memory. We were blessed to pastor a multi-ethnic congregation in Philadelphia in the late 80’s. One Christmas Eve, a Chinese woman sang the carol as children of different ethnicities laid their gifts at the foot of the manger. The carol’s images came alive as “the children in each different place will see the baby Jesus’ face like theirs, but bright with heavenly grace and filled with holy light.”

Yet it is “The Star Carol” that captures my heart this year. Its delicate melody line is tricky – no simple descent down the “C” scale as in “Joy to the World.” The key of E trips me up with its 4 sharps, so I either make lots of mistakes or cheat and play it in Eb – definitely not the same feel. But even with its difficulties, the carol draws me almost mystically, and I didn’t know why. But when searching for the words to use this past Sunday, I found the Alfred Burt website and, like Paul Harvey, now I know the rest of the story.

For Alfred Burt died at age 33, months before his last Christmas card was printed. With a recording contract for a Christmas album in the mail, he and Hutson wrote 3 additional carols for that recording in the weeks before his death, with The Star Carol the last from his pen, completed only a day before he went Home.
So near to heaven, Al knew the truth of the third verse: “Dear baby Jesus, how tiny Thou art, I’ll make a place for Thee in my heart, and when the stars in the heavens I see, ever and always I think of Thee.” And while the “Thee” in the song is directed to Christ, it also gives comfort to those who grieve at Christmas – when we look at the stars in the heavens, we too can remember those we love – ever and always.

At its heart, Christmas is like life. A mixture of joy and sadness, life and loss, and hope enough to get us through. Henri Nouwen understood: “Joy never denies the sadness but transforms it to a fertile soul for more joy.” Joy to you – and joy to the world – for indeed, the Lord has come! Let every heart prepare Him room.

2011-01-01T12:50:00.000-08:00

The editorial page of a newspaper, whether the New York Times or the Ashland Times-Gazette, provides space where opinions can be expressed. On any given day, those opinions may include thoughts from the editor or staff writers, columns generated locally by contributors (such as this) or from syndicated writers, and letters to the editor, comments made by local residents about the affairs of our community and the world at large.
These pages are provided in newspapers across the country to offer freedom of speech to the citizens of the United States. This freedom is protected in the first amendment to the Constitution: “Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press.”
I’ve been privileged to have a regular voice on the editorial page of the Times-Gazette for four years, and in that capacity I write as a private citizen, not an employee of the newspaper or the Salvation Army. My disclaimer is something like this: the opinions expressed here do not reflect those of the newspaper nor of the Salvation Army – just the thoughts of an opinionated lady.
Having laid that groundwork, I now address a pressing issue facing Ashland, Ohio: the continuing saga of the Mountain Man. For those who have missed the buzz around town, here’s the synopsis. Jim Becker, a private citizen who calls himself the Mountain Man, wants to stand in front of Walmart and express his opinion on a number of issues. Mr. Becker has also been seen accepting money from those who pass by, and the question as to whether he may use those funds on his own behalf has been raised by some. (all of the above has been addressed in Times-Gazette articles,in letters to the editor or on Mr. Becker's Facebook page)
Walmart has a corporate ‘no solicitation’ policy that doesn’t allow individuals to “solicit” or distribute literature on its property, and since Mr. Becker is acting on his own and not associated with a non-profit agency, he can’t solicit, sing or preach at the entrance to the store any longer.
Before demonizing Walmart for their actions, let’s remember that Walmart is a store. It is in business to sell products, not to provide a soapbox for anyone who has an opinion around town. Walmart is part of the fabric of our community, employing hundreds of area residents and is a charitable neighbor, supporting Shop with a Cop, Toys for Tots, the Salvation Army’s Angel Tree and Christmas Kettle program, the fireman/police dodgeball night, and many other activities.
Here’s the question as I see it: Should Walmart be able to regulate what happens on its property? Well, should I have a say in who stands in my front yard, whether preaching, prophesying, or asking for money (begging)? Yes and yes. While this is a free country, there are limitations placed on each of our freedoms so that we can live “in community.” There is a difference between “the public square” and private property, whether that private property is my house, your house or Walmart.
The front page of the Times- Gazette from December 23 was headlined: “Mountain Man is moving on.” Beneath the headline article is another article, “People Helping People,” with a picture of two women and their children who’ve been guests of the ACCESS program, our community’s response to families facing homelessness. The juxtaposition of these two articles raises the question: what are the priorities of our community in regards to the needs of people? Are we making a hero out of an eccentric man or are we honoring our neighbors who stay awake night after night so that the homeless can sleep in a safe and warm place? Should we give funds to someone who says that he accepts money from people but uses it to help others, or should we give to United Way?
As I see it, the harder question is this: what voices do we listen to? Who speaks for God? How does a person gain a credible voice within our community? Does a Facebook fan page or a green guitar with a smiley face sticker give credence to the message? Those are the important questions – but that’s just my opinion.

2011-01-01T08:35:00.000-08:00

Column written for the Ashland Times-Gazette 1-1-11

While I’m writing this on the morning of New Year’s Day 2011 (also known as 1-1-11), by the time you are reading it, New Year’s Eve/Day will be over, and we’ll be on our way back to the routine of daily life after our mad dash through the Christmas holidays. Christmas decorations have been sold off the store shelves, making room for those ubiquitous plastic tubs in color-coded hues. So you don’t have to look it up, ubiquitous is a great word to describe the “ever-present” stuff you can’t get away from – unless you pack it away in those color-coded buckets. Ironic, isn’t it, that after we spend half of our kid’s inheritance on Christmas gifts, we can spend the other half on containers in which to store all that stuff.
Well, that’s not where I was planning to go with today’s column, just an extra to think about for a moment. It is the dawn of a new year, one I happened to miss by a couple of hours, succumbing to drooping eyelids after a vacation week too full of all the things I’d put off until after Christmas. And to think that I haven’t even been back to work yet since the jolly old elf made his nocturnal visit to our house. Can’t wait to check out that to-do list.
Larry’s had his breakfast and is out for a walk, and I’m at the computer, taking my own stroll through my Facebook friends before deciding whether to go back to bed with my new Ann LaMott novel or hitting the shower. Posted on one friend’s status was this counsel from columnist Ellen Goodman: “We spend January 1 walking through our lives, room by room, drawing up a list of work to be done, cracks to be patched. Maybe this year, to balance the list, we ought to walk through the rooms of our lives . . . not looking for flaws, but for potential.”
Since I haven’t spent much time yet thinking about 2011, Goodman’s words give me pause to do so. As a woman of the cloth, my job includes helping people, myself included, to consider the work that needs to be done in our own lives. What sin needs to be confessed, what behavior needs to change – these are questions asked by people of faith. Yet the other side of that coin is the question of potential: in what ways can my life enrich the life of another, how can I love well?
Instead of waiting for New Year’s Day to make a list of resolutions that may last a week or less, people through the centuries have used a nightly Prayer of Examen to weigh their own lives. St. Ignatius first asked the questions of consolation and desolation, but a simple form is this: For what am I most grateful? For what am I least grateful? Or, what was today's high point? What was today's low point? Worthwhile questions for the end of a day or a year.
Yet what about tomorrow? What about 2011? On a personal level, the last two years have been so centered on new births (the Kroc Center in 2009 and Madelyn Simone and our own home in 2010) that I’m hoping 2011 may be less ‘new’ and more ‘unfolding.’ The potential of ‘unfolding’ sounds good to my ears.
Goodman’s advice serves our community well too. Sure, we’ve got our share of cracks to be patched in Ashland that we can’t ignore. Inadequate school facilities, empty downtown storefronts, and struggling small businesses join issues such as addictions, abuse and unemployment that threaten the fabric of our county – and our families.
Yet don’t overlook the potential. Ashlanders are tenacious and creative. We find ways through adversity. Smell the cookies on Claremont Avenue. Check out the United Way’s goal thermometer. Peek into the university’s classrooms. Potential is all around us. Walk, dream, work, pray, dance, live – and, when you get a chance, head back to bed and crack open a new book. Happy New Year 2011, my T-G friends.

2010-11-03T14:55:00.000-07:00

Good-bye, Old Girl

Witnessing the demolition of the old Salvation Army building on East Third Street, a friend e-mailed me: “Does it feel cleansing or depressing to see the building coming down?” This was a sacred place, as people worshipped within its walls and shared a meal or a small portion of hope since it opened in 1937, so I definitely had some tearful moments when I saw it tumbling to the ground.
The building was constructed on a shoestring during the Great Depression when local residents gave $15,000 to replace the Army’s previous home on E. Main Street, condemned because its foundation was falling into the creek. Built in a day when little thought was given to accessibility, all but one of its levels were up or down a set of stairs, and 2 of the 4 floors had no restroom facilities. It had its own issues in recent years with wiring, foundation disintegration, and leaking roofs, so it was no surprise that it brought no viable bids when listed for sale. While we hoped that a knight on a white horse would come to its rescue, it soon became apparent that even in a good real estate market, the building would have been a hard sell.
So now the metal has been salvaged by the Evening Lions and the wrecking ball has begun its work. Yes, we’ll miss the old girl. One staff person noted that though she had been in the building only a few months before we moved to the new Ray and Joan Kroc Corps Community Center, she really did enjoy it – the steps were great exercise, the chill kept her awake and alert, and hearing other voices through the walls comforted her, knowing that she wasn’t alone and that a friendly voice was only a shout away.
Yes, in some ways we do miss the good old days. As a body of believers, God’s spirit was present, and we celebrated life’s joys and mourned our losses within the protection of those walls. I think there may even be one or two who wish we were back in the old building, even with its age and issues. But that’s no longer our story, no longer our home, as the Salvation Army is alive and well in its new digs at 527 East Liberty Street.
When first dreaming about the Kroc Center, a scripture verse from Isaiah 54:2 challenged us to think about what the Salvation Army could look like in Ashland. “Enlarge the place of your tent, stretch your tent curtains wide, do not hold back.” While we may be constrained by financial resources or human effort at times, this verse is our mantra. We’re willing to try anything at least once, and if first we don’t succeed, we’ll try, try again. Sure, we have to cancel some classes and events if there isn’t enough interest (the Chili cook-off planned for this weekend just didn’t make it), but all in all we’ve definitely stretched our tent curtains wide.
A recent evaluation of statistics revealed that we were open 4000 hours during the past year, served almost 30,000 meals, and hosted nearly 100 groups each month for reunions, business meetings and celebrations, all done with the help of 20,000 volunteer hours and countless staff hours. Putting those numbers down on paper woke me up to the impact this center has made in Ashland.
And yet there’s more to come. One example is November 7, when worship teams from area churches will descend on the Kroc Center for an evening simply named Proclaim! If the KC Big Band’s rehearsal is any indication, I don’t believe the musicians are going to be holding back on Sunday night at all. In fact, they may just raise the roof a few inches by the time the evening is finished.
Emotional days are soothed by chocolate, and there was a message on its wrapper: “Don’t look back – keep looking forward.” That seems like good advice on a day when memories threaten to draw me into the past. So one last word of thanks to the bricks and mortar at 40 East Third Street – well done – you served your community well. So long and farewell.

2010-10-22T03:21:00.000-07:00

“I’m so sorry, but I can’t attend that meeting. I’ll be out of the country.” As a voracious reader, I’ve absorbed countless stories about countries and people from around the world but have seldom traveled outside the United States, unless you count my family’s treks across the Peace Bridge to Canada’s Crystal Beach or the Rainbow Bridge for a spectacular view of Niagara Falls. I’ve never been around the world in eighty days – in fact, I’ve never held a passport – until now!

Yes, I’ve just returned from a grand adventure (relatively speaking). It wasn’t the Paris trip I dreamed of in my teen-aged attempt to master the grammar and accent of “je parle Francais,” nor did I take the Orient express through scenes memorialized in an Agatha Christie mystery. But I did finally get across the pond as a delegate to the Salvation Army’s International Theology and Ethics Symposium held in London.

While the papers and responses of that symposium were scholarly and intriguing in their exploration of theological themes, it was the richness of rubbing shoulders with those in attendance from around the world that captured my heart. I came away with a number of new Facebook friends, and a renewed appreciation for the depth of faith and the sacrificial service of my brothers and sisters scattered across the globe.

One new friend traveled to London from the India East territory, Himalayan division, conjuring up visions of Mount Everest and Shangri-La, while another recounted his many years of service through the changing political and social landscape of South Africa. A Japanese colleague talked about the changes in his culture that are leading to few marriages and dramatic population decline, while my new Finnish friend told of her work to connect with a culture that has now moved beyond even post-modernity. Fascinating stories and incredible people.

Two other factors were of impact during my days abroad. I had picked up Edward Rutherford’s “London” at a used book store prior to departure. This massive novel paints a grand picture of London over the course of twenty centuries, weaving historical facts through the story lines of seven families in the neighborhoods of London. I started reading in the Akron-Canton Airport, continued through a lay-over at O’Hare in Chicago, read along the banks of the Thames and on the bus to Hampton Court (where more than one of Henry VIII’s wives lost their heads), and finally finished as I waited for my plane home out of Heathrow. Rutherford’s epic made the city come alive, and I felt a bit guilty leaving the book on a chair at the airport, but it was just too heavy to add to my already weighty luggage.

The second impression that has stayed with me was the location of the symposium itself. Southwest of London, Sunbury Court has been home to Salvation Army conferences for nearly a century, but is particularly known for the location where the international leaders of the Salvation Army are chosen in a process eerily similar to the selection process for the Pope. We sang in the rather stuffy chamber of the old mansion where the second General was found unfit for leadership, and met daily in a modern room where our next leader will be chosen in January. I sensed that the walls had absorbed a great deal of prayer over the years – and probably a few secrets. I was encouraged to be in a place where both history and future hopes and dreams seemed to be at ease with each other.

Pearl Buck helps me to put history into perspective: “If you want to understand today, you have to search yesterday.” But the African proverb adds another dimension: “Tomorrow belongs to the people who prepared for it today.” That’s why we continue to tell the stories of our past while working today to make tomorrow a brighter, more peaceful day for all people, whether in London, the Himalayas or here in Ashland. P.S. – it’s good to be home.

2010-09-28T03:46:00.000-07:00

Clean Cookstoves and More

While we were on our annual pilgrimage to the refreshing Maine shore, my friend Caroline attended a seminar at Ashland University, staying at our house rather than commuting daily to the Cleveland suburbs. We arrived home to discover that Caroline had not spent her evenings with her nose in a book, as would have been my preference. No, she trimmed our bushes, polished the tea kettle, and cleaned the oven.

Why? Grateful for a place to stay, she wanted to honor our commitment to ministry by caring for our home. Her loving gift came as a pleasant surprise after a long day on the road, and I was humbled and blessed by her care.

I could have been embarrassed that the oven needed to be cleaned, but I’ve come to grips with the fact that the white glove standard may have skipped my generation – or at least my gene pool. We don’t live in filth, but the tasks that June Cleaver and her sisterhood of stay-at-home housewives religiously did each week just don’t get accomplished until absolutely necessary, when husband and wife pitch in to get it done in a hurry – or hire a cleaning lady.

As my sons were born, I took to heart the words of the shadowbox hanging in our home “Cooking and cleaning can last ‘til tomorrow, for babies grow up, I’ve learned to my sorrow. So quiet down cobwebs, dust go to sleep, I’m rocking my baby and babies don’t keep.” Call it rationalization if you will, but I’m OK with it – at least until company is coming!

I was reminded again of Caroline’s gift to me by an e-mail from the United States Department of State. I’m interested in issues impacting women, so I’m on a list-serve that highlights initiatives around the world to reduce poverty and increase health, particularly among women and children.

While there still are some injustices facing women in our culture, those are dwarfed by the depths of poverty around the world, and the ‘Global Alliance for Clean Cookstoves’ e-mail illuminated that for me. My oven may have been begging to be relieved of its baked-on grime and grease, but the emissions from the stoves and fire-pits of my sisters in many developing countries are slowly killing their families, especially their children and grandmothers. In fact, according to the World Health Organization, 1.9 million people die prematurely due to exposure to smoke from traditional cookstoves and open fires.

Having a safe way to cook food seems like a simple request, but in villages without electricity, microwaves, crockpots and ovens aren’t options. So the commitment of this alliance is to work on cookstove design innovations to discover safer ways to prepare food, even in a hut without ventilation, power or water.

With a safe and effective cookstove, women can even develop a micro-enterprise, one of many interventions suggested by Nicholas Kristof and Sheryl Wudunn in their engaging book, Half the Sky: Turning Oppression into Opportunity for Women Worldwide. These New York Times veterans tackle the subjects of sex trafficking and forced prostitution, gender-based violence including killings and mass rape, and maternal mortality, which claims the life of one woman a minute. They find answers in economic empowerment, extended education for girls, and even something as basic as iodine. Iodine? The lack of iodine in the diet of a pregnant woman results in an average decrease of 10 IQ points in her child. All for the lack of a salt shaker.

By the time I’d completed their book, I was tempted to ditch the beach, grab my passport, and head to the Third World with iodized salt and de-worming medication. Such direct involvement can be a possibility, say Kristof and Wudunn, but designated donations, increased awareness, and personal connections with women (and men) working at the grassroots can make a difference as well.

So in lieu of a visit to India or Zimbabwe, I’ll write this column, support a girl our church sponsors in Bolivia, recommend Half the Sky, and pray for my sisters around the world whenever I reach for the salt shaker or open my sparkling oven. Thanks, Caroline – come and visit anytime!

2010-09-28T03:41:00.000-07:00

We made a morning trip to the Ashland County Fair to drop off additional supplies for the Salvation Army booth, and were surprised to see groups of school children weaving among the shuttered concession stands. Many had clipboards with a list of scavenger hunt items, while a large group of little ones looked awesome in their purple shirts. I overheard one pre-school teacher questioning what the kids would eat when the vendors opened, and they quickly made the discovery that it would be difficult to find healthy food.

Since my supper choice at the fair was French fries and cotton candy, I had to agree with the teacher – the most tempting delicacies at the fair come complete with artery-clogging grease and enough sugar to keep that pre-school class revved up for a month. Even items that start out as fruit or vegetables manage to get less nutritious when dressed up in a candy shell or a cobbler with ice cream, or disguised as a bloomin’ onion or deep-fried mushroom. But they’re so good . .

Why is it that the best-tasting food isn’t very good for us? I’m not a biologist, so I turned to the Internet for an answer to that question. To start, I learned more than I ever wanted to know about papillae, the four kinds of raised protrusions on the surface of our tongue that house our taste buds, enabling us to determine is a food is sweet, bitter, savory, salty or sour. Those receptors cause sugar, salt and spice to trigger a message to our brains – yummy. Eat more!

Yet it’s not only our tongue’s fault – the olfactory receptors in our nose work with our tongue to enable our brain to decode the unique flavor of each food we eat. That’s why when our nose is stuffed up, our food doesn’t taste as good as usual. One children’s website explains it this way: “Try holding your nose the next time you eat something. You’ll notice that your taste buds are able to tell your brain something about what you’re eating – that it’s sweet, for instance – but you won’t be able to pick the exact flavor until you let go of your nose.”

One more puzzle piece – it also has to do with the way food looks, or, in food channel parlance, its presentation. While we may think in terms of a filet garnished with asparagus flowers, consider the funnel cake. With its golden brown color and its nooks and crannies dusted with powdered sugar, it looks enticing, at least to fair food aficionados. As the Rotary Club volunteer passes the paper plate to us, we inhale a deep whiff of its scent, take one small bite and we’re hooked.

It’s just not fair. Our taste buds were created to enable the hunter/gatherer to detect poisonous food (bitter), obtain quality protein (savory), get enough energy to survive (sweet), avoid rotten food (sour), and provide enough salt for adequate body development (salty). Since our hunting and gathering now consists of roaming the supermarket aisles for the bargain of the week or grazing through the county fair, those same senses work against us in our quest for good health.

We’re doomed, right? Short of a tongue transplant or brain re-wiring, the short answer is “yes.” Cigarette smoking does dull the taste buds, but the other implications of tobacco use are far more dangerous than an extra 5 pounds, so forget that option.
The correct answer is that we’re not totally doomed, for if we increase our activity (exercise) and decrease our consumption (moderation), we can take some control over our weight and our health. Even during fair week.

But here’s one additional possibility. Ask for a misshapen funnel cake, wait until it gets cold so the grease is congealed on the plate, hold your nose and take a big bite. You may need to wait until next year to take full advantage of this diet trick, but if you follow the spirit of that advice (stale donuts, melted ice cream), you won’t have to skip the weigh-in at the Ashland Weight Loss Challenge the week after the county fair. Good luck!

2010-09-09T19:06:00.000-07:00

Real Football

Labor Day has come and gone, so it’s time for my annual football column on the pages of the Times-Gazette. Yes, I like (love) football, and have enough of an understanding of its intricacies that I could be a coach – or at least a Monday morning quarterback. So this past weekend was a nirvana of sorts for me – or at least a 2 out of 3 nirvana experience.

I won’t save the disclaimer for the end. It is just a game, folks, and I understand that. I am passionate for issues of justice and I know there are those who carry far heavier burdens in life than the weight of a defensive end sacking the quarterback. But there’s got to be some room in our lives for fun, and football in Northeast Ohio fits the bill for me.

It started early in the week with an offer of free tickets for the Browns’ last pre-season game on Thursday night. I’ve been a Buffalo Bills fan for years but never got to watch my boys play at Buffalo’s War Memorial Stadium or Ralph Wilson’s palace in Orchard Park. And no, I’ve not sat in the Dawg Pound either, so the offer of tickets was tempting.

I’m guessing the Browns gave away lots of tickets, for there were definitely more people in the upper deck than in the rest of the stadium. By the time we paid way too much to park and hiked our way to section 528, we were dripping with sweat and wondering why we’d decided to come. With the kickoff, I looked for Josh Cribbs, but no such luck – after all, it was pre-season. One brief highlight was a rookie named Montario Hardesty, but he suffered a season-ending injury on his 7th carry.

Somehow, it just didn’t feel like a real football game. There was no band, no cheerleaders, and no half-time show (unless you count simultaneous peewee football games at either end of the field). Only the overpriced nachos and pop assured me that I was at a pro game. By the third quarter we’d had enough, joining hoards of fans pouring out of the stadium. I didn’t even know until the next day that the Browns won the game.

Fast-forward 24 hours and a visit to Community Stadium restored my faith in the game. The fans were pumped up long before kickoff, and we were not to be disappointed, as we were treated to an incredible battle between the Ashland Arrows and the Dover Tornadoes – worth every penny of the $6 admission charge. With two dueling quarterbacks, the near capacity crowd was glued to its seats by the grit and determination of these high school players - so much so that I didn’t even get my regular bag of Band Parent Popcorn. What a night!

To conclude our football fan weekend, we journeyed onto the AU campus to watch the Ashland Eagles in action. What a great stadium – my first visit, but definitely not my last. The AU Eagles played an exciting game of hard-hitting football – and the concession stand sold funnel cake fries! We were so proud of our AHS players – Coach Valentine had to be busting his buttons with the performances of Taylor Housewright and his cronies who honed their skills on the turf at Community Stadium. While the Ohio State horseshoe claims its own brand of history and hype, AU is growing its own aura of excellence, and we can all be proud of the players, band, cheerleaders and fans – and yes, the IT geeks who do the scoreboard work.

While I may still catch a few Browns and Bills games this season from the comfort of my couch, my heart – and wallet – are here in Ashland. I want to go to a stadium where people still sing the Star Spangled Banner with pride. I want to watch young men play the game because it’s in their blood, not because of a paycheck. I want to take my place in the stands dressed in orange and black (Friday night) and purple and gold (Saturday afternoon), cheering my teams on to victory. Now that’s football. Go Ashland!

2010-09-07T04:41:00.000-07:00

Just a few days ago, I watched a school board truck haul a trailer-load of desks down Main Street. Did they represent a new delivery or were they simply a rearrangement of classrooms so that there would be a desk for each child? After being bombarded by the aisles of school supplies in every store for weeks, the desks were the final sign for me – the schools were ready to open their doors.

All across Ashland county, janitors feverishly polished the floors to a deep shine and teachers climbed to new heights of invention in bulletin board décor so that we can all finally proclaim: school’s in session. The words are music to the ears of many a parent as children are being coerced to trade the lazy days of summer for the sound of the alarm clock, calling them to the school bus and beyond.

Where did the summer go? It flew through the days of Balloonfest and Fun Fabulous Fridays, from Kroc Center spraypark visits to just chilling in the backyard. Even as we’re reminded by the 90 degree weather that there are officially three more weeks of summer, the summer of 2010 is winding down, ready to be captured on a scrapbook page and held close within our memories.

There is something about the feel of the waning days of summer that returns a sense of rhythm to our days. While our schedules may not be as structured as the days of our childhood, those with school-aged children will settle into a routine of supper and homework, bath and bedtime. Those of us who are signing tuition checks rather than packing lunches will likely return to a schedule of Bible study and board meetings, or a weekly dinner with friends.

In my growing up years, the rhythm of our week was also shaped by the pages of TV guide and the three channels we received at home, nearly unimaginable to today’s children. I was telling one young friend that cartoons were only on TV right after school and on Saturday mornings, and her look of amazement was unmistakable - she couldn’t fathom life without Cartoon Network. I didn’t even try to tell her how we used to look forward to watching Walt Disney’s Wonderful World of Color and Bonanza on Sunday nights.

I am grateful for life’s rhythms. Humans are like much of the animal world in that we have what are known as circadian rhythms that help to regulate our biological functions such as sleep, body temperature, appetite and hormonal levels. These rhythms allow the high school freshman to adjust to the early morning rising needed to catch the bus by advancing the sleep phase about an hour a day, so that by week 2 he may even be awake for first period class. When we upset those rhythms, we end up with jet lag or insomnia – not such a good thing.

As the mother of two percussionists, I can appreciate the value that a steady rhythm brings to the band. While I love the fills and all the show-off displays, it is the steady beat of the bass drum that keeps the groove going and allows the melody and harmony to swell. It’s one of life’s paradoxes: patterns in our lives give us the stability that allows for flexibility and freedom.

Sitting on the shelf above my computer is a tiny book with the title “Slow-down Therapy.” Linus Mundy reminds me, “notice the sun and the moon as they rise and set. They are remarkable for their steady pattern of movement, not their speed.” But he also writes, “Allow yourself time to be lazy and unproductive. Rest isn’t a luxury; it’s a necessity.” Whoever decided that kids should go to school for five days and then have the weekend off was a wise person.

We’re well into the routine of our second week of school as I finish this column, and hopefully by now the alarm clock’s call to action doesn’t come as such a surprise. Just in time for the rugrats to wake us up early on Labor Day – go figure.

2010-08-14T08:15:00.000-07:00

Parking Spaces and Procrastination

“I’m done – I”m not going to do this!” I spoke these adamant words to no one in particular after I failed on my second attempt to parallel park on an errand in downtown Ashland. Yes, I’ve been legally driving a car for nearly forty years, but I couldn’t squirm my way into those more than adequately sized parking spaces. I could even hear my dad’s voice telling me how to line up the car before I cut the wheel, but it just wasn’t going to happen.

Now before the motor vehicle patrol descends to revoke my license, I do wear my seatbelt at all times and signal before changing lanes – I just had a momentary lapse as to how to get the car into that itty bitty parking space. Fortunately for me, I don’t live in New York City so there are other parking options – I simply had to walk a bit farther to take care of my business.

As a young girl, I’d sneak a peak at the True Confessions magazine at the beauty parlor when my mother was under the dryer, so I’ll add another confession to my list – I absolutely avoided pumping my own gas for many years. Now since I lived in New Jersey for 7 years where self-service was (and still is) prohibited, I escaped that chore for quite some time. While it seems silly now, I was overly anxious about accomplishing that task without spilling gas on the ground, so did my best to ‘allow’ my husband or others to fill the tank.

While I now willingly work the gas pump, the challenge of parallel parking still remains on a lengthy list of things I don’t want to do. Sometimes I manage to avoid them altogether, as I have with the parking. However, most tasks in life don’t give us the option of complete avoidance, but still it is possible to procrastinate – putting off ‘til tomorrow what you can do today. There have been times when I’ve procrastinated so long that accomplishing that specific task becomes a guilt-ridden burden or a race to the deadline. I’m thinking of income tax filing, monthly statistical reporting, cleaning the oven – you name it, I’ve procrastinated. Why, I suppose I’ve even procrastinated about writing this newspaper column (although a Maine vacation with the most beautiful granddaughter in the world sure sounded like a good excuse to me).

I found a definition explaining that procrastination is a counter-productive deferment of actions or tasks to a later time. Yep, I’ll buy that, but what about the cure? Google here I come. Peter Murphy is reassuring: “Curing procrastination is possible when you face your fears head on and eliminate them with an understanding of why you are afraid.”

Another expert, Michael Wohl, suggests that self-forgiveness for prior procrastination is the key, so if only I can forgive myself for putting off that term paper in 11th grade, I can conquer the beast from this day on. But then there was another answer: discipline. Tim Pychyl claims that “Procrastination happens because you’re disorganized, not very dutiful, and probably impulsive.” The I Need Motivation people want me to put things in order in my office or home but here’s the problem – I could take a very long time to organize my files, e-mail, greeting cards, etc., and never get this column (or the stats report) done.

So, here goes. While I may be afraid of mean dogs that bite, I doubt very much that I’m afraid of cleaning the oven, so that doesn’t work. I faithfully forgive myself for every time I’ve put off completing a report, but I’m not feeling any miracle cure yet. I promise to walk the pathway of duty from this day forward – why, I’ll even plan a sleepover so my friends can color-code my files and alphabetize my spice rack. Oh, but I don’t have enough purple file folders for my T-G columns, and I don’t own a spice rack – and I’m out of ice cream. So before I get organized enough to throw off the shackles of procrastination, I’ll have to go shopping. Sounds like a plan. Sure hope I don’t have to parallel park!

2010-08-14T08:12:00.000-07:00

Three Generations at the Beach

Since the birth of the lovely Madelyn Simone, the world’s most beautiful grand-daughter, our family has experienced a number of firsts: the first smile, the first taste of cereal, and now our first 3-generation vacation. While it didn’t have the wacky exploits of the Griswold family’s vacation trip to Walley World, it was a week that reminded me of the joy of family and the shift in perspective that grandparenthood has brought to our lives.

Twenty years ago, Greg and his friends Sarah and Matt were teeny-boppers playing paddle ball and riding the waves at Old Orchard Beach, Maine – now in the summer of 2010 they were introducing their own infants to the wonders of the beach. Comparing notes with the other new grandparents, we often remarked how fascinated we are to watch our adult children with their babies. Overnight, they’ve become the experts on colic and car seats, and seem to be handling the stresses of new parenthood with much more grace and patience than we did. While our generation was still sorting out gender roles in parenting, these days whoever is holding the baby when the diaper needs a change gets the privilege of that task – no negotiations necessary.

I wondered how Madelyn would do on the beach, and most of the time she napped or got passed from chair to chair under the umbrella’s wide swatch of protection. At 5 months, she couldn’t quite build sand castles (although I did bring along a bucket and shovel), but she could kick her feet in the shallow waters of low tide. Madelyn’s first dip in that gigantic bathtub brought a blood-curdling scream, but a gentler initiation the next day helped her adjust to the squishy sand and sun-warmed rivulets running down to the ocean. I can’t blame her for her initial response, for the rumored off-shore iceberg was successful at numbing our toes and ankles within minutes, but we managed to get a picture or two of her with a half-smile before we climbed back up the sand to the shelter of the beach umbrellas.

So how did we do – really? Considering that there were a number of strong-willed people living together for a week with one bathroom and no air-conditioning, I’d grade us with an A-. We didn’t work out plans to live together year-round, but we seemed able to avoid the day-to-day angst of what to do for supper, enjoying our share of seafood (except for Larry, who always orders chopped steak at the Clambake) and late-night pizza at the pier. I was quite relieved that by the time we left Maine all six of us still liked each other.

Perhaps the most asked question of the week was: could we take the baby for a while? Sometimes we asked, and sometimes her parents asked us. She’s still new enough that we are all captivated by her, parents, uncle and grandparents alike and still can’t seem to get enough of her baby scent and face-enveloping smile. Since we wanted to be respectful of the young family, we didn’t want to just yank her out of her parents’ arms, but by the end of the day Greg and Lauren were grateful for some quiet moments walking the beach.

Those late nights with Madelyn led to the discovery that this easygoing, good-natured baby does become a screamin’ demon once in a while, but she’s amazingly calmed by the notes of John Boutte: “Down in the Treme, just me and my baby, we’re all going crazy, buck-jumping and having fun.” A far stretch from Rock-a-bye Baby, but if it works I’ll take it, eternally grateful to be able to push ‘play’ on the CD player and hear the opening drum cadence.

Boutte’s words matched our week. Not much time for the solitude that previous Maine vacations have offered, but lots of good times with our favorite baby, a bit of crazy, some glorious music (I’ll leave the Second Line buck-jumping dance step for the Treme in New Orleans), and a fair share of fun. Long before Toyota borrowed the sentiment, George Gershwin said it all: “who could ask for anything more?”

2010-07-14T18:13:00.000-07:00

No, it can’t be. While we may be resigned to being bombarded by displays of Christmas decorations before Halloween, I shuddered the other day upon encountering those dreaded school supply lists – on the 30th of June. What kind of parent buys school supplies before the thrill of the last day of school wears off? Don’t they know that the chorus of “no more pencils, no more books” should last at least until August?

On the flip side, have you ever tried to buy a bathing suit in August? Unless you live in a resort town by the ocean, it’s almost impossible to find racks of bathing suits smack dab in the middle of the summer. There’s no bathing suit in sight at the mall on the hottest day of the year. What’s a woman to do when she pulls her bathing suit out of the drawer and discovers the elastic decided to rot over the winter?

I don’t understand the marketing ins and outs of retailing, but why do ‘they’ think we need to purchase seasonal items 3 months in advance? Yes, I’ll admit it – I do tend to be ‘last minute’ in many areas, and buying school supplies for my kids was one of them. If I bought them too early, then I’d have to remember where I put them unless I wanted to be tripping over trapper keepers all summer. And regarding the bathing suit, who wants to strip off sweaters and boots to try on a bathing suit in March? After all, I always hope to be 10 pounds lighter by July anyway.

Are these marketing calendars a symptom of ‘today’ never being enough? Are we forever looking ahead instead of remaining in the moment? It starts with “has the baby rolled over yet, is she sitting up, can she crawl?” and peaks with the nine-year-old girl suggesting that her life will be ruined forever if she can’t wear makeup and go steady.

What’s the hurry? Those of us on the sunny side of 50 can testify to the rapid passage of time. It seems like only yesterday that my firstborn arrived, and he’ll be 30 on his next birthday. I couldn’t wait until he could walk and then talk, but now I want the clock to stop about once a week so that the his daughter, the lovely Madelyn Simone, doesn’t grow up so fast.

Annie Dillard, one of my favorite authors, wrote about the difficulty of staying in the moment when witnessing the magnificence of an eclipse. She notes: “We left the hill while the sun was still partially eclipsed - one turns at last even from glory itself with a sigh of relief.” It’s like the kid asking what ride is next while getting buckled into the Millennium Force at Cedar Point.

Hold up. There is no need to run out to the store tonight and buy colored pencils, Kleenex and a rainbow of folders – no prongs, only pockets. A rainy day in mid-August will give you plenty of time to take care of those pesky school supplies. (However, if you think you may need a bathing suit anytime soon, stop reading immediately and go on the hunt or it may be too late). For now, stop counting pencils and notebooks and splash around with the kids or grandkids at the Kroc Center Spraypark, sit awhile at your favorite fishing hole, take a hike through an Ashland County park or stock up for summer reading adventures at the library. You could even splurge and schedule a face-to-face conversation with a friend into your date book. Savor the moment, stop and smell the roses.

Long before King James deserted us for Miami, England’s 17th century monarch of the same name commissioned a translation of the Scriptures that tells us: “sufficient for the day is the evil thereof.” Eugene Peterson provides a contemporary paraphrase in The Message: “Don’t get worked up about what may or may not happen tomorrow.” Or, as the prophetic voices of Simon and Garfunkel crooned into my adolescence, “Slow down, you move too fast. You got to make the morning last.” Carpe diem!

2010-07-08T20:13:00.000-07:00

“It’s such a compelling story.” Such were the words spoken on one of the Cleveland talk radio shows as they awaited THE decision from LeBron James, the decision that the whole world was waiting for (according to the commentators). Would he desert his hometown for the money or the dangling carrot of a championship ring? Where would he play basketball next year?

Compelling it was, for this drama certainly attracted strong interest and attention. P.T. Barnum couldn’t hold a candle to the LeBron show. The parade of characters that traipsed into his agent’s office could have been dreamed up by Flannery O’Conner. And his own ESPN show to reveal his decision – classic theater. Almost as good as the theater of the absurd known as professional wrestling.
For those fans and Cleveland-area residents who feel disappointed – yeah, I do too, at least a little bit. I’d hoped that it might be different this time, that “the King” would turn his back on a South Beach counting house and eat his four and twenty blackbird pie at home. But I understand that LeBron didn’t reject Cleveland – he simply trailed after all the other young men who make the decisions to follow the money or to follow their dreams for victory on the sporting field. Look at it this way – if we had the top 10-15 players who used to be Cleveland Indians, we’d win the Series to be sure – but that’s not the way professional sports works these days.
As much as I enjoy watching sporting events, it’s not about the game anymore – and it hasn’t been for a long time. It’s about money – contracts, endorsement, season tickets, overpriced concessions. Somewhere I read that the loss of LeBron could cost the city of Cleveland $24 million – or was it $48 million? What’s wrong with this picture? I’m putting my sons on alert – no, I am not buying into this anymore – there is not going to be a LeBron James jersey under the Christmas tree – although I bet I could get a bargain on a wine and gold one.
Now that we’ve had our share of drama for the summer of 2010, it’s time to get a grip – this is a game, with over-sized young men running and jumping around a gym and making way too much money just to shoot the basketball in the hoop. Let’s have some perspective here. While the suspense may have held our attention for a while (one definition of the word compelling), a second definition for compelling is to necessitate action or belief. A story that so grips us that we are compelled to do something in response puts LeBron’s dog-and-pony-show into appropriate perspective.

Let me tell you about some truly compelling stories. April left her home and family shortly after college for a short-term mission trip to Kenya. More than twenty years later, she remains among the Kenyans, journeying from village to village in a life and death battle against the spread of HIV-AIDS. She teaches women to make beads out of recycled paper so that they can support their families – including grandchildren left orphans through the devastation of AIDS. That’s compelling.
Two brothers spent the Fourth of July weekend in the hospital, one minus a healthy kidney and the other recovering from a transplant that will spare his body the continued trauma of dialysis. Every day a young family cares for their disabled son who will never run on a basketball court or throw his headband into the stands at the Gund-turned-Quicken Loans Arena. Friends of mine travel to Ethiopia and the Ukraine to rescue their adopted children from the emotional abyss of a destitute orphanage. Those are compelling stories.
Yes, we can admit that the LeBron Show was carefully orchestrated to keep us guessing, therefore ‘compelling’ us to speculate on the outcome. But now that the suspense is over, we can return to the joys and sorrows of real life, to the compelling accounts that force us to respond out of compassion and care. Thanks, LeBron, for helping me sort out what really matters.

2010-07-04T05:32:00.000-07:00

Fourth of July

Meandering through the aisles of my favorite discount store, I paused at the fireworks display and there they were – a remnant from my childhood – snakes. Almost all kinds of fireworks were banned in New York State, so unless the neighbors snuck some cherry bombs or sparklers back from Canada, we had to settle for those tiny black pellets. We’d touch the end with a match and watch as a charcoal snake crawled across the driveway, and while it didn’t appear exactly reptilian, those snakes helped us wile away an hour or so on a muggy July 4th morning.

I did hold myself back from purchasing a package or two of snakes, as Madelyn Simone isn’t quite old enough yet to experience that enriching connection with her grandmother’s childhood. Come to think of it, I don’t ever remember introducing my own sons to such a wonder – how deprived their childhood was. How could I have failed my children so? A 4th of July without snakes – I’m definitely guilty of maternal neglect, that’s for sure.

It does seem strange for the 4th of July to land on a Sunday. Fortunately it doesn’t present the challenges of a Sunday Christmas, such as is there time to open all the presents and still get to the early service at church without a meltdown. The only problem I have with the Sunday/4th of July situation is that because of my Salvation Army position, I have to wear pantyhose with my uniform on Sundays. No one should be forced to wear pantyhose on Independence Day.

According to the Zoom Inventors and Inventions website, pantyhose were invented in 1959 by Allen Gant of North Carolina. “This new undergarment became popular as miniskirts were the fashion and soon came to replace nylon stockings held up with a garter belt (short skirts were not long enough to hide the bottom of the garter belt).” Oops – I digress, but I’ve always wanted to draw attention to the fact that pantyhose were invented by a man.

Back to July 4. Can Independence Day 2010 draw us away from the frenzied pace of daily living and towards a sense of our roots and heritage? Will the traditions of snakes on the driveway, cookouts with char-broiled hot dogs, croquet and badminton in the backyard, homemade ice cream churning in the garage, and Twizzlers at the fireworks be captured only in faded photographs? Or can we resurrect one or two of our memories and bring them to life for our children? Maybe it’s time to create a new tradition or two by decorating the strollers and wagons for the Push-Em, Pull-Em parade, basking in the evening glow of the BalloonFest, or being energized by the Ashland Symphony’s 1812 Overture at the Bandshell.

With the long weekend of festivities, it’s likely we’ll be worn out by Sunday, but still we’ll gather to worship in the churches across our county, because faith is a part of our tradition, our heritage, our experience – and yes, our true independence. Snakes in the driveway may not make it to the next generation, but we can offer our heritage of faith and a belief in our country to those we love. We can hold onto the spirit of our growing-up years even if the menu – or the music – changes.

As for my family, once I ditch the pantyhose after church on Sunday, we’ll fire up the grill and stand ready to scrape off the dasher dripping with homemade ice cream (our sacrosanct family tradition). By evening, we’ll head to Community Stadium for the fireworks display. We’ll arrive early, as the Kroc Center Big Band will begin to fill the air with jazz at 8:30 p.m. to help us get ‘in the mood’ for the fireworks. We’ll have the lovely Madelyn Simone with us for her first 4th of July celebration, and I’m guessing that by the time Kelly Knowlton finishes the band’s set with “America,” there will be tears of gratitude welling in my eyes – and maybe in yours as well.

Oh, yes – America, America, God shed his grace on thee . . . from generation to generation, and from sea to shining sea. Happy 4th of July!

2010-06-27T04:55:00.000-07:00

Downtown

Urban Renewal. These buzz words promised redemption to our nation’s downtown streets from the 40’s on, and reached their tendrils into small cities such as my hometown by the late 60’s.

Already reeling from the development of malls within an easy drive, downtown Tonawanda was wilting as I reached my teen years. Urban Renewal was to be the savior of our community, but it didn’t quite happen as planned.

The master design for that city called for the demolition of a row of buildings on Main Street (not sure why). At that time, the Salvation Army was housed in one of those buildings, so in preparation for the eminent domain takeover of the property, the Army marched into a former supermarket about two blocks away, vacating its home in time to escape the wrecking ball. Strangely, that wrecking ball never did materialize, and both buildings remain standing on the streets of downtown Tonawanda today.

Similar to Akron’s Rolling Acres and Stark County’s Canton Centre, the mall that so hurt downtown retail sales now has become its own ghost town, displaced by the miles of big box stores that are cloned across the country. Yet also growing in popularity are areas such as Crocker Park in Westlake. Visiting there recently, I was struck by how much that development felt like the downtown my dad returned to after WWII – and that Betty Plank writes about from time to time, echoing from Ashland’s past. “Bustling” is the word that comes to mind.

So it makes me wonder – why do we have to build new mega-pseudo-downtowns when we still have the makings of some lovely downtown areas throughout northeast Ohio? Communities like Wellington, Mount Gilead (love that name), Wooster, Loudonville, and yes, Ashland still have some retail shops, as well as a few dreamers who long to combine that bustling history of the past with a glimpse of a distinctive future. Maybe Gilbert’s can’t accommodate enough AU students to meet the needs of the nursing program, but what could it do and be? Small specialty shops, attractive apartments, renovated office space, and a Nardini’s reborn or reincarnated could bring new life up and down Main Street, complementing the wonderful shopkeepers already committed to our town.

And while I’m dreaming (count me in with a few others who have invested time, money and heart), what about downtown as a possible location for a new high school? Look to the east about 60 miles and you can see what a downtown high school can look like. Sure, Canton’s a bigger city, but the Timken High School campus has brought a sense of renewal to the downtown area – and the location helps its students become part of the broader fabric of the community. With some creativity, there could very well be some space in the blocks just north of Main Street to build a new school in the heart of our community.

We don’t talk much about urban renewal anymore, as our language has switched to the term “community capacity development,” extending beyond buildings to concepts of space, mixed usage, and the asset development of our most valuable resource - our people. What greater resource do we have than our children? Could our kids sing with Petula Clark: “When you’re alone, and life is making you lonely, you can always go – Downtown.”

John Lennon urges us on: “You may say that I’m a dreamer, but I’m not the only one. I hope some day you’ll join us and the world will live as one.” Dreaming about the future of Ashland’s downtown may not lead us to world peace, but it could bring a sense of vibrancy to our community extending far beyond Main Street.

Just last night, we stopped for ice cream at the end of a hot and humid day. The Dairy Queen parking lot was jammed, and the line was nearly out the door. I closed my eyes for a few seconds and began to see the adjoining few blocks of downtown just as alive as the DQ lobby, overflowing with art, music, good conversation and plenty of laughter. Dreams, courage, hope – is it time to come home to downtown?

2010-06-13T16:56:00.000-07:00

from the Ashland Times-Gazette:

I really do love my job. Along with my husband, I have the privilege of providing leadership to the Salvation Army Ray and Joan Kroc Corps Community Center in Ashland, Ohio – and yes, its official name sure is a mouthful. At times it feels like a “jack of all trades, master of none” kind of position, but I love the variety, especially when it includes being at RJ’s Spraypark on a hot summer afternoon.

Having said that, from time to time I do think about other jobs I would like to do – or jobs that would be the absolute worst. On the “worst” list was working the Hall’s Original Sucker Company stand at Crystal Beach, a Canadian amusement park (now gone forever) that I visited as a child. The job itself appeared easy enough – take the order from the customer for the homemade suckers – lemon, butterscotch, peanut, cinnamon, coconut – and put the unwrapped confections in the brown paper bags that stuck if you didn’t eat them immediately. Only one problem – bees. You can guess the rest of that story.

I would have been adverse to cleaning the bathrooms there as well – as much as I can still taste the butterscotch suckers, I can also still smell the fragrance of those restrooms – and I last visited in the early 80’s. That was one place where you definitely lined the toilet seat with TP before use. Nope, no amount of nostalgia for days gone by could make me desire a job like that. And no, I do not want to watch daytime TV for a living either.

What would I like to do? I’d like to be the person who picks out the words you type in for a security check on the Internet. The words themselves never seem to have anything in common, and I’d love to choose combinations that would morph into sentences and short stories in my over-active imagination – and in the imaginations of those deciphering the words.

I’d love to run a cozy bookstore with a bell on the door that would jangle every time a new booklover entered – and where I could test out the merchandise. I’d want to have some space for local artists to display their work, and room for a knitting circle – as long as I didn’t have to knit! A fireplace or two, and the scent of spiced cider in the air on an autumn evening – of course, it would be wonderful if I was independently wealthy so it wouldn’t have to turn a profit. The idea of opening a bed and breakfast is also intriguing, but since I don’t like housework, that might be a challenge.

I’d enjoy working in a job where creative solutions need to be found to any number of problems – although I have no desire to sign up with BP to fix the gushing underwater oil well. I think all of my sons would like to test video games for a living, while my middle son Drew would like to deal cards in a casino. He always did enjoy “Go Fish” as a kid.

While there are times in our lives when we just have to do what we have to do in order to support our families, it doesn’t hurt to dream of what the future could bring – and make a plan to get there. We may not have much choice in what our ‘day job’ is, and in this economy are grateful to have it, but what might happen if we devoted even 5 hours a week to a new venture – or adventure?

We can dream of the day we can say: “I can’t believe I’m getting paid for doing what I love to do.” Steve Jobs, chairman and CEO of Apple, Inc. challenges us: “The only way to do great work is to love what you do. If you haven't found it yet, keep looking. Don't settle. As with all matters of the heart, you'll know when you find it.” Happy hunting – hoping your discovery will be as sweet to the taste as Jobs’ Macintosh!

2010-05-29T18:36:00.000-07:00

from the archives of my newspaper columns - one of the first, from Memorial Day 2007

When the iris bloom, my mother would tell me, you can tell it’s time for
Memorial Day. As the first official picnic weekend of the year, it signified the start of summer, and gave us permission to wear white shoes – but only until Labor Day. As kids, I’m not sure we knew why we had the holiday, but were determined to enjoy it.

The holiday’s name gave us the clue we needed: Memorial Day, a time to memorialize, a time to remember. I was blessed with a father who modeled what it meant to remember. On Memorial Day and the Fourth of July Day, this World War II veteran would rise before dawn, climb on his bike, and ride to the banks of the Erie Canal to bear witness at the firing of the cannon at 6 a.m., his community’s commitment to keeping memory alive. He did so religiously until a broken hip at 79 forced him to use the car.

On Sunday afternoon, he’d load up the station wagon with the garden tools and cut flowers, while my mom gathered the kids, and we’d all head for the cemetery. Our first stop was Mt. Olivet, where Aunt Charlotte and Uncle George rested (he had married a Catholic girl, we were told), and then across the street to Elmlawn, where the Freys and the Hodges shared a family plot. Heading north, we’d cross the bridge and travel to Whitehaven, to the graves of my father’s parents, and the sister who died at 21. “Tell me about Aunt Viola,” I’d ask, and the stories would begin.

I don’t think that I’ve ever taken my kids to the cemetery other than for a funeral. We’ve never lived in my hometown, and our visits home tended to include a trip to the outlet mall, not Mt. Olivet. Yet when a close friend of my sons died at 19, we found ourselves stopping by his gravesite, one by one. No ritual of a Sunday afternoon excursion here – we were grasping for meaning in his sudden death, and wanting to hold onto his memory in that silent place.

Two years ago, on the fourth of July, there was an empty spot in the circle of cannon-watchers in Tonawanda, NY, for my father lay motionless in a hospital bed, having suffered a series of strokes following a surgery that had been deemed ‘risky’ from the start. We decided to scatter my father’s ashes to the mighty waves of the Niagara River, and planted a tree along the bike path that brought him so much pleasure in his later years. Last year we took some lawn chairs and a picnic lunch, and sat in the shadow of his tree, as his young grandson chased a ball through the grass. We needed to remember, and Pops’ tree gave us the place to claim those memories.

This year, I’m walking through the cycle of a first year in a new hometown, where memory and heritage seem to have a richer value than they did in some of the other places I’ve lived. Yes, I’ll admit it, if the cannon is fired at 6 a.m. in Ashland, I’ll allow someone else to greet the dawn, but I’ll be on the curb as the Ashland High School band marches up Main St., and I’ll stand to salute the colors as they pass. As a community, we’ll remember those we miss desperately, and those we never knew, but whose stories we’ve been told. We’ll remember those who never came home from the war, and those who did – and those who still serve.

A character on The Wonder Years said it best: “Memory is a way of holding onto the things you love, the things you are, the things you never want to lose.” As we throw the brats on the grill, break out the croquet mallets and set up the badminton net (does anyone still do that?), let’s be sure to find space to remember. Pull out the photo albums, and ask Great Aunt Sue to tell her story. Listen for the echo of a cannon, whisper a prayer of gratitude, and remember. Happy Memorial Day.

2010-05-27T04:27:00.000-07:00

Today marks the 150th anniversary of Catherine Booth's first sermon.

First published in The Officer Magazine

Pentecost Sunday 1860. Seven years after she had chastised her minister for commenting on women’s moral and intellectual inferiority from the pulpit, Catherine Booth herself stepped into the pulpit at the Methodist New Connexion’s Bethesda Chapel in Gateshead and proclaimed the word of the Lord.

Catherine’s move to the pulpit, which we recognize as foundational to the ministry of women within the Salvation Army, was not unique to her experience or to the Army world. Malcolm suggests that “the greatest breakthrough in opportunities for women to proclaim the gospel came with the Wesleyan revival in England in the eighteenth century,” as the women of early Methodism were given ecclesiastical opportunities not known to women in other denominations. The 19th century became one of opportunity for women in the church, and this played out in great gains in organizational work and prominent roles in sectarian movements as seen in Catherine Booth’s story.

Catherine’s defense of women in the pulpit was publicly presented in conjunction with Phoebe Palmer’s participation in the Newcastle Revival of 1859, a part of the burgeoning Holiness movement. Palmer herself spoke to the needs of women and the church:
The church in many ways is a sort of potter’s field where the gifts of women, as so many strangers, are buried. How long, O Lord, how long before man shall roll away the stone that we may see a resurrection?

Buoyed by Palmer’s spirit if not by these exact words, Catherine ultimately didn’t wait for men to roll away the stone – she rolled it away herself the morning she said, “I want to say a word.”
So what do we do to mark this act of obedience, this particular sermon? Somewhere in the Army world a woman will don a bonnet and cape, step into a pulpit, and preach “Be Filled with the Spirit.” There will be an article or two, perhaps a workshop on women and preaching, and (hopefully) a good number of women in the pulpits of the Army and the world on Pentecost Sunday 2010, for yes, scripture is true: your daughters shall prophesy.

I want to suggest two additional responses, both connected to Catherine’s heart rather than her voice. For as she recounted that day, she wrote these words:
I just got up and told the people how it came about. I confessed, as I think everybody should, when they have been in the wrong and misrepresented the religion of Jesus Christ. I said, “I dare say many of you have been looking upon me as a very devoted woman, and one who has been living faithfully to God, but I have come to know that I have been living in disobedience, and to that extent I have brought darkness and leanness into my soul, but I promised the Lord three or four months ago, and I dare not disobey. I have come to tell you this, and to promise the Lord that I will be obedient to the heavenly vision.

As women – and as men – we must look to self as did Catherine. We may appear both devoted and faithful to those observing us, but what of our own hearts? In a discussion of God’s leading, a friend recently said: “Often what I see over time to be God’s will for my life is what I initially don’t what to do.” Communicating effectively through the pulpit is not easy. Not only does it take time and scholarship in the homiletic preparation, but it also takes time, energy and introspection in the heart preparation. “Only as I truly know thee, can I make thee truly known,” says Ruth Tracy. “Only bring the power to others which in my own life is shown.”

A recent Facebook posting from a young officer-mother told of her foray into a speaking venue: “I was a guest speaker at another Salvation Army yesterday. For once I was glad there was a big lectern to stand behind – no one could see my daughter sitting at my feet, coloring while I was speaking.” This is the hidden cost of ministry that is payable by women. While egalitarian marriages often share the child care responsibilities, it is the woman who preaches with a child kicking in her womb, with breasts filled with milk, and with a sleep-deprived body during those early years of motherhood. Catherine knew this so well, having birthed her fourth child shortly before this Pentecost pronouncement. Yet we are no different from our sisters who drive a bus or perform heart surgery from those same places. We simply do what we have to do, accepting the divided loyalties as part of who we are.

So if we are called to preach, are we preaching faithfully? That is question number one from the heart of Catherine Booth. But the second question to ponder on this anniversary of note is organizational. What have we, as the Salvation Army, promised the Lord about women and preaching? Have we promised the Lord that there would be equal accessibility to the pulpit for both women and men? Does that require us to look to our practices for a gender balance on the platform – not just in prayer but in the proclamation of the gospel? Is there a need for an affirmative action kind of evaluation?

Are there strongholds of gender bias or of prejudice against women in the pulpit? One colleague from another denomination told me of her experience in a setting where a number of people actually turned their backs when she began to preach. While we may not physically do that, are there instances where we turn off our attention because, well, it’s just the little woman speaking?
The commemoration of an anniversary, whether for a marriage, a corps or a historic event such as Catherine’s first sermon, provides us with an opportunity for both celebration and soul-searching. Indeed, we can celebrate Catherine’s courage and determination, for it began a history of women preachers that was a hundred years ahead of most other denominations. She is a hero to us, one whose life and influence was invaluable to the Army’s development and to my own officership.

Yet it also affords us a chance to look within, both into our own heart and into our corporate heart. Have we fallen back from her example? Does the smile of Catherine’s legacy rest upon us today? We can best answer those questions through the words of her son Herbert Booth, who at least figuratively grew up clinging to Catherine’s skirt beneath the pulpit: “Am I what I ought to be?” Oh Saviour, let me, let us know.

2010-05-19T05:32:00.000-07:00

Change of Appointment Part 2

With 32 years of Salvation Army officership under my belt, I somehow am still able to have a foot in both the idealist and the pragmatist camp. While ideally I would like to see a systemic overhaul of the appointment process, my practical reaction is that this is unlikely to happen in the near future. Most of the time the system works, and when it doesn’t we’ve been conditioned to accept the changes as God’s will for our lives. This is what we signed up to do, so how dare we complain when it happens?

Yet it would appear that there could be some possible “tweaking” of the system that could consider the process as to its effectiveness and support the officers during the time of decision-making and of transition. Here’s a radical possibility – what about a survey – anonymous, of course – set up on survey monkey to ask about how the transition is experienced. Does it work well in 95% of the situations? Or are 40% of the officers on The List distressed over their up-coming move? What helps? What doesn’t? All we have to go on to actually have informed dialogue at this point are our own experiences and the stories of others, often heard anecdotally. What if we took a cue from John Gowans and actually asked those impacted?

Oh, yes, the larger question remains – is there room for informed discussion that might make this process less painful for officers and corps? That, too, is an important question in more areas than appointments, but since all officers experience these transitions 6-8-10 or more times during their lifetimes, shouldn’t there be some room for input?

I have the utmost appreciation for those who have to make the changes – and who are also subject to changes from above themselves. They’ve inherited a system from generations of SA leadership, and do work to improve its functioning. So I simply want to toss out a few possibilities for consideration from the perspective of a long-term field officer who’s never had to make those calls (for which I am grateful), but also from one who has heard the pain of my own heart, as well as from my brothers and sisters who receive those calls.

We’ve heard bandied around the term “consultation,” where there could actually be specific conversations between the leadership and the individual officer as to the possibility of a change in appointment. A respectful conversation in January or February that says, “We’re thinking about a reassignment for you to another corps, a different kind of work, another division. Are there reasons this would be difficult? What are they? What would this look like for you?” We are adults – hopefully if we can be trusted to lead a corps, we can be trusted to understand when changes in plans have to be made or changes don’t happen, but at least with honest conversation at various points in the process, the officer feels included – and that makes a huge difference.

Why? Jim Wallis writes: “The recognition that each of us is created in the image of God means that what is at stake in how we treat one another is nothing less than how we regard the image of God in us.” Do we love and respect each other, reflecting the image of God in us, when officers are totally kept in the dark in regards to decisions that will change the course of their lives – and their children’s lives? I Cor. 13:5 tells us that “love does not dishonor” (TNIV).

Even at the time when the officer is being informed of the change of appointment, it is affirming to have a conversation with the leader making that call as to at least some of the reasoning behind the change. As in: “we know this is a challenging appointment for you, but here are some of the reasons why we believe this will be a good fit.” Or, “we know this isn’t a very good time for you to move, but we really need you in East Podunk because . . .” And if there are some concerns about performance that have led to a change, it is vital to know that as well – after all, we give our employees job evaluations and warning notices.

Now, will someone please explain to me why the DC calling cannot tell the officers what position they will have in the receiving division? The “you’ll have to call your new D.C.” are words that bring their own dose of anxiety. Is that still policy or has that changed?

Timing. How hard would it be to send an e-mail to all the officers in the territory to say: it is anticipated that phone calls will be made on Wednesday, May 10 and that the moves will be posted Friday, May 12 at noon. Certainly some people seem to know that – but why leave those less connected guessing as to whether the phone will ring? What about a twitter message that "all calls have now been made - you can rest well tonight if your phone didn't ring" (I'm kind of kidding, but the anxiety of not knowing can be really hard to deal with - especially like the one year when I was at a Cleveland Indians game and was hoping for the phone to ring - and it never did - and the Indians got clobbered as well). Or simply a LN message that the appointments have been posted to the bulletin board.

And speaking of timing, how much time is actually needed to prepare for a move? Does the timeframe used in the United Kingdom make more sense when moves are announced months in advance? From a practical standpoint, how much time is needed to do everything that has to be done and to be emotionally and spiritually healthy to provide a supportive environment for our children, congregation and staff – and to enter the new assignment without being utterly exhausted? It did seem as though the moves were announced a week earlier this year, and if that was deliberate, thank you, whoever did that. An extra week might actually give me enough time to go through my Lotus Notes.

What about something that could be extremely practical? What might be the possibility of a territorial database of information that could include pictures of the quarters, the corps building, and the local elementary and secondary schools. We have the technology to make that secure, and we have most of the information through the annual ACR – wouldn’t it be great to be able to show our children a picture of our new house and our new corps, as well as the school they will attend?

And let's not even talk about the farewell brief . . .

And, just like last night's NCIS, this is to be continued . . .

Still to come: Could there be a paradigm shift in the appointment process?
How does social networking impact the appointment process?

2010-05-17T17:15:00.000-07:00

Steadfast and Sure

The phone rang early on Saturday morning a few weeks ago, the first morning in three months when I hadn’t needed to set the alarm. “There’s a hostage situation in Ashland – we’d like to use the Salvation Army Kroc Center as a site for those who’ve been evacuated.” Lights on, doors open, donuts purchased, coffee brewed – there we sat in the lobby, Salvation Army and American Red Cross workers, ready to offer refuge to those who needed it.
As we waited in the space designated as “the Gathering Place” on the construction plans, I was thankful for the people who faithfully drag themselves out of bed or away from the dinner table when the phone rings. I am thankful for the firefighters, the home health aides, the social workers – and for those whose vocations serve others on a more scheduled basis.

Fortunately for all involved, the danger was soon contained and our services weren’t needed, so we ate a donut from Hawkins (so good), said our good-byes to each other, and moved on to the rest of our day. Of course, the rest of the day did not include crawling back in bed, but sleeping in on Saturday morning tends to be overrated anyway. Still, it was a good start to the day, knowing that when the need arises, we can work together to provide the support to those who are in the midst of crisis – and we can do it working together within our community.

I felt the same sense of appreciation and connection as we gathered on the National Day of Prayer to pray for those who give leadership in our community and our country, as well as for those who provide less noticeable service throughout Ashland County. As I looked around the upper convo at AU, I breathed a prayer of thanks for all who work each day to make Ashland a safe and welcoming community for each of us.

Add to that the thread of gratitude that runs through our Mother’s Day celebrations, as we recognize the day in and day out care given by mothers – and by fathers – to the toddlers and teens of our community, and we realize that hardly anyone gets a pass from living a life that contributes in some way to the life of another.

One more example. In Ashland County, there are at least one and often two or more people who stay awake all night for the people in our community who are homeless. It’s part of our commitment to the ACCESS network (Ashland County Church Emergency Shelter Services). We stay awake, one night at a time, so that people without a bed of their own can sleep through the night. How grateful I am that I live in a community willing to do that.

The word steadfast keeps coming to mind. It’s a word I don’t use too often in everyday conversation, a bit too old-fashioned perhaps in its message. Its thesaurus matches include unwavering, resolute, persistent, unswerving, loyal, dependable, and trustworthy – good, strong words to describe those who are steadfast – and trustworthy.

Psychologist Erik Erikson proposed that the major developmental task in infancy is to learn whether other people, especially mothers and fathers, are able to meet the basic needs of the baby. If caregivers (parents or others) are dependable sources of food, comfort, and affection, an infant learns trust. By age 1, says Erikson, infants come to know if those around them are worthy of trust – steadfast, a lesson with life-long ramifications.

As much as an infant needs a dependable caregiver, as adults we also need people in our lives we can depend on, people we can trust. We need someone we can call at 2 a.m. or when we have a flat tire in the pouring rain. People who get out of bed when the phone rings, and will stand with us when our world falls apart. People who will stand in the gap for us when we have no strength of our own. People who are steadfast, dependable, trustworthy. I’m grateful to know a good number of people like that right here in Ashland County.

2010-05-16T21:14:00.000-07:00

Salute and Go???

So what have you done wrong? That question was raised four years ago when we were appointed as the Corps Officers in Ashland, Ohio, traditionally seen as a first appointment type of corps by most in the know. Our friend was unaware of the Kroc designation for the Ashland community, so thought that something was wrong that we now needed to go to such a small appointment after 28 years of officership. His comment wasn’t unusual, for as Salvation Army officers just experienced once again, the publication of the Change of Appointment list brings a number of comments regarding the various changes, ranging from “that’s a perfect fit” and, “that makes a lot of sense” to “oh, my.”

With the release of the most recent LIST, my thoughts turn to those who, with the stroke of a pen (or a few computer keys) and the answering of a phone, find their lives once more in transition to a new place of ministry. Some find it a welcome designation, needing to shake the dust off their feet in a placement where they weren’t accepted or that didn’t fit very well, or coming at a time when both the congregation/corps and the officer sense that it’s time for a leadership change. Others may face the change with ambivalence, happy and productive in their present assignment but open to what the next challenge may bring. However, a third group of officers may find themselves in a place of confusion and grief, as the farewell orders and the marching orders simply don’t make sense, come at a difficult time in their lives, or leave them asking: can I/we even do this?

Like much else in the Salvation Army, when you’re in the first two groups, the system seems to work relatively well. It fits with our initial commitment as officers to live in submission to the placements determined by those in leadership, accepting that God directs those who wrestle with deciding those placements. However, when the phone call from the divisional commander is devastating, what do we do?

Recognize that you are not alone. While I have no statistics for the number of calls to the Secretary for Personnel the week of moves, it is likely that the reassignment phone call is unwelcome by at least 10-20% of officers (a good research project for someone). As one of my leaders once said, “I know that change is never easy. That's why, for most of us, it's one of the hardest things we face in this ministry.” Change is difficult enough when it is expected and/or welcomed – it is excruciating when our world is turned upside-down overnight. And while they may not shout it from the mountaintop or post it on Facebook, there are a good number of officers who are struggling to see the hand of God in their particular reassignments. Trust me – you are not alone. (Remember the roots of the Salvation Army - William and Catherine struggled to submit to the authority of their early church body).

Find a safe sounding board. When we’re in crisis or shock, our judgment may not be the best. Taking our concerns to a safe, relatively neutral sounding board can give perspective that we might miss in the initial hours following the phone call.

Request more information. While there are no EEOC regulations that apply to officers, and no union representatives that can speak up for those who need a voice, it is possible for the officers to request to talk with someone in leadership about the reasoning behind the placement. Years ago, one divisional leader told us that he had looked through the dispo and couldn’t see anyone else more qualified to fill an open position. I would have preferred a more realistic assessment: we had a commitment to inner city ministry, there had been an unexpected breakdown, and the Salvation Army needed officers who would be willing to walk into a difficult situation with at least some prior experience in a cross-cultural setting – and we were trusted enough to be able to do the job requested.
We can hope and pray that our leaders are willing to tell us the truth about ourselves, our performance, and the needs of the appointment awaiting us. Sometimes we feel like we’re a part of the kind of quiz that matches questions from one column with answers from the other column – and we were the left-over answer. Appointments are not made that lightly, but sometimes there are moves that may not make much sense to us. Jesus encourages us to ask, seek and knock. If we’re entrusting our lives and families to the direction of our leaders, it is not unreasonable to request a conversation that can address our questions.

Know that changes can be made. While not common, it is possible for adjustments to be made, either in the current round of assignments or at a later date. Even with as much care and prayer that goes into the process, sometimes mistakes are made. Pro tem appointments can happen. Other options can be explored.

Submission and Obedience. If I had a quarter for every time I’ve heard this, I’d be rich: “Man (or The Salvation Army) cannot place me where God cannot use me.” Of course that is true – it just doesn’t always make man’s - or woman’s –placement decision the best decision. God can use us anywhere – but I have to believe that He desires to use us in ways that maximize our gifts and abilities. However, officers serve in a system where we’ve committed to abide by the decisions of our leaders – and the move system is definitely one of those decisions. If our reluctance to move to a particular spot is mostly an issue of preference or bruised ego, we’re out of luck, as we have made a commitment to obedience and don’t really have the choice to refuse to go. However, if there are valid concerns regarding the appointment, we must find ways to articulate them, working with the leadership to determine if any other options are available.

Give it time. With the system as it stands, we still are facing many farewell orders that come as a surprise to the officers. While we have moved towards at least a bit of “consultation,” some have no clue that the phone will ring during the week of moves (another good research project to determine if prior consultation makes the process any easier). It may be that with some time for prayer, reflection, and conversation as noted above, the appointment will become more workable.

Redeeming the struggle. In the book of Ruth, Naomi returns to Bethlehem with a curious statement: “Don’t call me Naomi . . .call me Mara (bitter).” One thought on this narrative is that Naomi discovered she had to name her pain in order for it to be redeemed. While we want to protect the integrity of the Salvation Army as well as our own character, there may be opportunity to be vulnerable with those closest to us as we walk through the difficult days of struggling with the reassignment. We can model a grieving that is consistent with a spirit of holiness. We can walk with our people as they also mourn the loss they feel.

Next post: is there room for systemic changes?

2010-05-06T19:53:00.000-07:00

Reflections on Mother's Day

Ah, Mother’s Day. Breakfast in bed, clumsily wrapped presents, a fistful of drooping violets: a priceless day for the perfect mother. Yes, that’s what I set out to be. Thirty years ago, I was determined to be the best mother ever. I would breast-feed, make my own baby food, read to my sons at least twice a day, and create the perfect home for my precious children. Even though Robert Munsch’s beloved words wouldn’t be written until Greg and Drew were 5 and 3, I knew instinctively that I would love them forever and like them for always.
It didn’t take too long for me to discover that I had a rather skewed view of motherhood. While an old Salvation Army song may have promised that “there’s an angel in the house, when there’s love at home,” a colicky first-born quickly disavowed me of my resemblance to any angelic being. I soon found that while I might love my sons forever, there were times when I wasn’t sure that I liked them very much – such as when their newborn clocks insisted that 2 a.m. was a perfectly good time to be up for 2 hours, and later when their teen-age clocks thought that 2 a.m. was a perfect time to sneak out of the house. Come to think of it, the issue wasn’t about liking them for who they were – it was about being concerned over what they did.
And that, says the preacher within, will preach. God loves us forever – in fact, we can make a case that God even likes us “for always.” Jeremiah said as much: “I have loved you with an everlasting love,” while Zephaniah teaches that God “takes great delight in you.” While I hope and pray that I will love my children forever and that nothing they will ever do will keep me from loving them, God promises to love us no matter what. And as much as I love my children, God loves far beyond that love (see I John 3).
Yet the picture isn’t quite complete. “As a mother hen gathers her chicks under her wings,” said Jesus, “I have longed to gather your children together.” A beautiful sentiment had he stopped there, but scripture adds another phrase: “but you were unwilling” (Matthew 18). Yes, God longs for us to be content under the mother hen’s wings, but God does not force us to gather there – or to stay there. Therein lies the pain of a mother’s heart, indeed, of the heart of God. Love doesn’t bind – it only can offer, extend, reach out, touch.
That’s the irony of a parent’s love. Despite the flowery sentiments strewn across the racks of Mother’s Day cards, true love isn’t syrupy-sweet and is seldom as perfect as the card-writers suggest.
In the midst of our Mother’s Day celebrations, there will be mothers whose sons have run away and whose daughters are estranged from them. There will be mothers with empty arms and aching hearts. For every mother who sits in the pew this Sunday surrounded by three or four generations of her family, there will be mothers who sit alone. That’s the reality of life. Love given is not always returned.
Somehow mothers know that, yet love anyway. A mother’s wisdom recognizes the truth of the Swedish proverb: “Love me when I least deserve it, because that’s when I really need it.” And even more, as Salvation Army song-writer John Gowans reminds us: “If human hearts are often tender, and human minds can pity know – then how much more shall God our Father in love forgive, in love forgive!”

2010-05-01T17:00:00.000-07:00

What's in a name?

On my way to Perrysville the other day, I blinked and discovered I was in Widowville for about one minute, the time it took me to drive through it. What an intriguing name. “Tell me about Widowville,” I asked a long-time Ashland county resident. “What’s its story?” “Well, I’m not quite sure – I think that in one of the wars, so many of the men didn’t return that they began to call the village ‘Widowville.’” I asked a few more Ashlanders and got the same vague answer, until a reliable source informed me that the name dates back to the Civil War, where disease and battle took such a toll on the men from the village that the majority of its female residents were widowed by the end of the war.
It did get me wondering: Do you have to be a widow to live in Widowville? What happens if you fall in love and get married? Do you have to move out? I’d be afraid that if I had a house in Widowville with my husband, I’d be forever looking over my shoulder for the Grim Reaper – coming for him, not me.
On a lighter note, I saw a sign for Homerville the other day and wondered how many people named Homer live there? Do any of them look like Homer Simpson? Have they ever thought of having a “Homer Day,” kind of like Twinsburg has a twins festival? Families could come dressed up as Homer, Marge, Lisa, Bart and Maggie – complete with pacifier. That could really catch on.
Does it really matter where we grow up? Does our town’s name – or character – make a difference in who we are? Fortunately, we won’t all end up looking or acting like Homer Simpson, even if we grow up in Homerville. While we re influenced by the community we grow up in, we don’t have to be totally defined by our hometown or the neighborhood of our early years.
Yet our growing up years do impact us in many ways. The values and character of our community provide us with a foundation for the thousands of choices we make during a lifetime. What we learn as children will be with us for the rest of our lives, for good or for ill. More than thirty years of work among those who struggle most has taught me that a strong web of connection within a community and a willingness to be involved in the lives of others can help kids dig out of the toughest situations. It doesn’t change what happens within their family circles, but it offers other options for living – translated as hope.
While individual interactions are vital, what we do as a community matters as well. When we vote yes for a library levy, we reinforce the importance of reading and the right for all to have access to books and all they bring to our lives. When we take pride in our homes, lawns and gardens, we teach all children that the order and beauty of our surroundings make a difference in our daily lives. When we take issues such as child abuse and homelessness seriously, we send the message to our kids that all people matter – not just the ones who look most like ourselves.
It’s not as simple as a name – if it was, Philadelphia (the city of brotherly love) would have the lowest crime rate in the world. The character of a community cannot be mandated or legislated – while direction can be set by community leaders, it must be embraced by those who live together on its streets and in its neighborhoods. It’s not enough to boast that Ashland is someplace special – we need to work at it every day.
Ashland, Red Haw, Loudonville or Widowville – a name only goes so far – it is the people who determine the character of a community. However, while I am enjoying life in Ashland, I am tempted to move someday to Paradise Hill – just because of its name. Who wouldn’t want a little bit of paradise in the midst of a hectic day? Definitely a better prospect than running into Homer Simpson at the corner store.

2010-04-22T04:27:00.000-07:00

Some thoughts on calling to ministry

How does an individual know that he or she should enter, remain in, or leave officership? While many factors play into such a decision, often the question of “calling” is raised. Keim asks bluntly: “In our day, the word of the Lord is cheap, visions are widespread and telemarketers call us by name. How do we distinguish God’s call?” (Keim 2003, 16) It is an essential question for everyone in ministry for, but may have additional meaning to women in ministry. Creegan and Pohl found, “a sense of call allows women to value themselves and their struggles despite a lack of clear valuation by organizations in which they serve (Creegan and Pohl 2005, 43). It is, they insist, important “to be quite sure that the battle is worth the effort, and women find themselves wondering at times whether they are staying for the right reasons.”

A dilemma for many is this: whether a calling to ministry is defined as being for a specific place, a distinct role, or to an itinerant denomination where others define that role, or is it a calling to an identity and character that can find its fulfillment in a variety of circumstances? First delineated by the Puritans, their distinction was between a general calling to salvation and discipleship and a particular calling to a specific context (Banks and Stevens 1997, 58).

As a cadet, I was given a book written by a retired Salvation Army officer that attempted to clarify what constitutes The Call for service (Deratany 1972, 15). While the author does provide some space for “the call to general service,” his main focus is on the calling for “special service” through the Salvation Army. He outlines those callings as the mystical call, coming through a confrontation with God; the circumstantial call, because God needed me, I saw the need, felt the urge, and heard the call; and organizational (or ecclesiastical) call, coming indirectly from God through another person for special service to an organization (Ibid., 66, 74, 82).

Organizational practices have arisen from the foundations of the call to lifelong service, with an extensive emphasis on the public declaration of a calling to officership, an elaborate “sending off” for those entering the officers’ training program, and a celebratory appointment service directly following the ordination of each class of cadets (trainees). Its financial system is built on a substantial “reward” for completion of service, and a punitive financial arrangement for “early” retirement (currently prior to age sixty-six).

An emphasis on the call is found as well in the Salvation Army Songbook, with thirty songs under the heading of calling, including the following words by Frederick Booth-Tucker, a son-in-law of the founders of the Salvation Army:
They bid me choose an easier path,
And seek a lighter cross;
They bid me mingle with Heaven’s gold
A little of earth’s dross.
They bid me, but in vain, once more
The world’s illusions try;
I cannot leave the dear old flag,
‘Twere better far to die.
(Salvation Army Songbook, #780)

It is clear from both practice and theological underpinnings that the Salvation Army’s view of calling is one that encourages many to “Come, join our Army, to battle we go” (Salvation Army Songbook, # 681, William James Pearson), and expects lifelong service, as William Thomas Giffe writes:
So we’ll lift up the banner on high,
The Salvation banner of love.
We’ll fight beneath its colors till we die,
Then go to our home above.
(Salvation Army Songbook # 782)

Are there other ways of considering this question of calling? Contemporary voices from various Christian traditions bring other insight to the question. Gratton lays the foundation: “Vocation is a matter primarily of being. It encompasses the totality of our response to God’s call” (Gratton 1992, 157). She suggests that
Human beings have a deep need to embody the desires of their heart by using their uniquely human power of giving and receiving form in the real
world. . . . We want our lives freely to fulfill a unique, intrinsic purpose; we have vocational hunger. (Ibid., 15)

Barbara Brown Taylor writes:
Sometimes I think that those spectacular call stories in the Bible do more harm than good. At the very least, I suppose, they are good reminders that the call of God tends to take you apart before it puts you back together again, but they also set the bar on divine calling so high that most people walk around feeling short . . . The lives God is calling us to are the ones that we are living right here, right now, under these present circumstances . . .You have already been called, both to live and to magnify the abundant life of God. (Taylor 2001, 30)

William Willimon comments: “We are in ministry in service to God and God’s world, because we have been called and put here by a God who just loves to make something out of nothing” (Willimon 2001, 7). Walter Brueggerman describes vocation as, “finding a purpose for being in the world that is related to the purposes of God” (Gratton 1992, 157). Oswald Chambers, a morning companion of many, suggests that, “Our Lord calls to no special work: He calls to Himself” (Chambers 1931, October 16). And my preferred description of the call of God is that of Frederick Buechner, who likens the call to “the place where the world’s deep hunger and my deep gladness meet” (Buechner 1973, 95).

There is also the consideration that a call to ministry must be confirmed in some way by the church. Vogel speaks of vocation as seen “as a call from God, not an impetus from human beings” (Vogel 1976, 42). When it is considered in the light of a sending by Christ, rather than a personal choice, there is need for the church to speak. “Even when a person has felt called by God, the church has judged (as best it could) whether or not the call be genuine” (Ibid.).
In one last description from the standpoint of biblical counseling, Allender uses the metaphor of story to speak to calling, encouraging the reading of patterns that reveal themes and that connect dots, while at the same time stressing that our calling is not a to-do list for God, a job offer, or a wish list. It is, instead, a way of living that is open to be found by a calling. He writes: “You are gifted. You are called. You are telling a story. The clearer you can be about yourself, the further you will be on the journey of catching and being caught by your calling” (Allender 2005, 6). As the purpose of God is revealed to us in our personality and in our life path, it confirms Elizabeth O’Connor’s observation that, “We ask to know the will of God without guessing that his will is written into our very beings” (O’Connor 1971, 14-15).
“Called by God,” the officer covenant proclaims – might his direction be confirmed in our hearts as we walk in the steps of Jesus.

2010-04-19T18:32:00.000-07:00

a modified version of this is now in the YS magazine (Salvation Army)

As a recent convert to the television drama NCIS, I’ve noticed how Abby is defined through her clothing. In one memorable episode Abby puts on heels and a mauve polyester suit when ordered to adhere to the NCIS dress code. Tony describes her as a "career-girl Barbie,” while Ziva clumsily tries to make Abby feel better, saying she looks "nice". A nice career-girl Barbie image is the kiss of death to the Goth-flavored Abby.
We’ve all run into dress codes and fashion police. Does what we wear really matter? Shouldn’t we have the right to wear whatever we want? After all, Christ came to set us free, didn’t He? So what’s the big deal about what we wear?
Since the day Adam and Eve attempted to cover their nakedness with fig leaves (and no duct tape), clothing has functioned as protection. Clothing protects us against cold weather, ultraviolet rays and hot grease, and at least partly from unwanted advances, shame, and leering eyes.
Clothing can also be a mark of identification, saying, “this is who I am.” Personal clothing choices help us develop an identity – preppy, Goth, hip-hop or flip-flop. While that identity may be heavily influenced by the media-driven marketing world, it still is ours to choose, and announces to the world: this is who I am (or want to be).
We have to accept that a clothing-defined identity has implications for how others see us. Do you want a good job? My first impression of a job applicant is formed in part by what he or she is wearing. I don’t want to be face-to-face with certain unclothed body parts in an interview, partly because a large expanse of uncovered skin is distracting to me, but also because it tells me about the self-image of the person exposing so much of himself/herself in that setting. A skull-and-crossbones t-shirt and a Gucci bag send a message as well. Now can I look beyond a person’s dress to see their heart? I hope so, but first impressions are hard to ignore. That’s a fact of life.
Here’s another example. A boy in our center wore a pair of pants that desperately needed a belt. Now I’m familiar with ‘sagging,’ as my sons have worn their pants low on their bodies for years, with their boxers filling up the vacated space. But in this case, every time this 9 year old boy moved, we saw way too much skin that the sun had never seen. It brought to mind the childhood fragment: “I see London, I see France, I see Stephen’s underpants.” Definitely not cool, and leaves a visual, lasting impression.
People are impacted by what they see. A report in the Family and Consumer Sciences Research Journal found that subjects in provocative clothing are more likely to provoke sexual harassment and to be sexually harassed. People who dress to draw attention to their body in a sensual or sexual way can expect to be looked at in a sensual or sexual way. That’s what provocative means – designed to cause a response.
So here’s an age old question historically directed to women. Do we have a moral obligation to avoid enticing another with immodest apparel? Ever since Bathsheba’s ill-timed roof visit, this responsibility tends to be placed on women. My initial answer is no: regardless of what a woman wears, men have the responsibility for themselves and their actions. “She’s asking for it by what she wears” is not a legitimate defense in a rape trial – nor is it if the gender is reversed.
But that doesn’t let any of us off the hook. We do have a responsibility to each other. Scripture talks about dressing modestly for a reason. “Like a gold ring in a pig’s snout is a beautiful woman who shows no discretion”(Proverbs 11:22). I’m not suggesting that we should all commit to wearing Amish clothing, with its non-conformity to the world and plain people image. As I recently heard a woman in her eighties suggest, “Honey, if the barn needs painting, paint it.” But where is the line between dressing comfortably and attractively and drawing provocative attention to our sexuality?
For me it comes down to one image. If indeed my body is to be the temple of the Holy Spirit (I Cor. 6:19-20), then how I adorn that temple does matter. “Therefore, as God’s chosen people, holy and dearly loved, clothe yourselves with compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness and patience.” I don’t see seductiveness, pride or brazenness on that list.
God doesn’t expect us all to be the same. There’s room in the Kingdom for a career-girl Barbie in a mauve polyester suit and heels and for an Abby in her Goth outfits and spider web tattoo. But our freedom in Christ has limits. We are to live humbly, we are not to be a stumbling block to another, and we are to live – and dress – in a way that reflects who we are in Christ. Like Isaiah, we can claim our identity by our true clothing: “I delight greatly in the Lord, my soul rejoices in my God. For he has clothed me with garments of salvation and arrayed me in a robe of righteousness, as a bridegroom adorns his head like a priest, and as a bride adorns herself with her jewels” (Is. 61:10).

2010-04-07T05:19:00.000-07:00

Happy Birthday to You!

I did it again. I totally missed my daughter-in-law’s birthday. How could I possibly do that, after the lovely Lauren so graciously carried and birthed the beautiful Madelyn Simone? Yet there it was, and I sailed right past it. I told her she shouldn’t feel too bad – I was three weeks late sending my mother something for her birthday – and I’ve known that date forever.
Even the reminders on Facebook don’t help much. Sometimes I’ll take the time to send a quick message through the internet, but what a cheap way to send birthday greetings. I was totally put to shame on my own birthday when a woman I’ve only met through e-mail actually picked up the phone and called me – from the United Kingdom. And I forget my own daughter-in-law.
It’s not that I have a thing against birthdays. I enjoy them – even my own. Cake and homemade ice cream, the greetings from friends, and a reflection on the year gone by – these are part of the rhythm of my life, of our lives. I’m just not good about remembering them on time.
I have (mostly) fond memories of my kids and birthday parties. Greg at age one managed to last all day without a nap (you can guess how charming he was by 6 p.m.) and finally fell asleep in his high chair, nodding off into his plate of cake. Chuck E. Cheese became a destination of choice for a number of years – we could simply leave all the mess for someone else to clean up – Yes! The slumber parties were the worst, as the boys definitely understood “party” better than “slumber.”
Regardless of the setting, there is nothing like a child’s face in the glow of the candles on a birthday cake, as those gathered sing “Happy Birthday.” I discovered recently that “Happy Birthday to You” is still under copyright. Apparently the rights are held by the Warner Music Group (somehow related to AOL Time Warner), and they will hold those rights until 2030. The music was supposedly written by Mildred and Patty Hill in 1893 as a good morning song for nursery school students, and finally copyrighted in 1935 by a third sister. Since Happy Birthday is the most recognized song in the English language, the Clayton F. Summey Company got a good deal when it signed on that dotted line with Jessica Hill – all for a 6 word song.
According to Wikipedia, royalties must be paid every time the song is used in a public way. “This includes use in film, television, radio, anywhere open to the public, or even among a group where a substantial number of those in attendance are not family or friend to whoever is performing the song.” That sounds like a racket to me – apparently at least a 2 million dollar racket each year.
That’s why my family likes an alternate birthday song made famous by Darla, Alfalfa, Percy and Porky in the “Feed ‘Em and Weep” episode of Little Rascals, first appearing in 1938. No copyright infringement with the tune – they used Yankee Doodle, definitely in the public domain. “Happy birthday Mr. Hood, happy birthday to you, to make your birthday turn out good we give this present to you.” Definitely more creative than the original “Happy Birthday.”
We’re gearing up for the next birthday in our family, as our crocodile mascot R.J. Kroc will help us celebrate the first birthday of the Salvation Army Ray and Joan Kroc Corps Community Center (I’m glad RJ doesn’t have to write that mouthful of a name to get into first grade). RJ’s birthday party is the same day as the fireman’s pancake breakfast in Ashland (Saturday, April 17), so get your pancakes early and stop in for cupcakes at the Kroc Center from 10 a.m. ‘til noon. Play a game or two, skate to the hokey pokey (oops, is that copyright too?), and meet and greet Kroc Center staff and instructors as they demonstrate art, karate, yoga and more. And since we’re all family and friends of RJ, we’ll sing “Happy Birthday” without breaking any copyright laws. I’m tying a string around my finger now so I don’t forget!

2010-03-18T19:18:00.000-07:00

A Shack Attack - And Not Shaquille O'Neal

While I was at my traumatic visit to the indoor mega-waterpark (for details, see January column), I watched the woman across from me as she read “The Shack,” a book that has stirred up its share of controversy in the world of faith (and in the letters to the editor of the Times-Gazette). In the middle of that bustling, boisterous venue, she frequently brushed away tears as she read the words of William Paul Young, words that have elicited powerful emotional and spiritual reactions from many of its readers.

I’d read it early on, having heard of its engaging story and growing influence through a friend. The tender story is centered in a father’s reaction to the tragic loss of a young daughter, as Mack, Young’s main character, wrestles with his own ache throughout its pages. He is invited to return to the shack where his daughter died, and while there is both comforted and confronted by colorful images of the Trinity.

Young has critics who suggest that his inventive portrayal of the Trinity is on shaky theological ground and that he dismantles commonly held Christian notions during the course of the book. Some have castigated Ashland Theological Seminary for its plan to have Young speak on campus. However, it seems to me that the perfect place for dialogue surrounding practical theology is on a seminary campus. Is God really this good? That’s a great question to spark discussion, study, prayer and discernment.

You see, nowhere does Paul Young say: this is a book of doctrine. What he does say in essence is that The Shack is a story, a novel, one way of looking at life from the perspective of one man of faith supported by his experience of the Holy.

As a wannabe novelist, I’m not too impressed by the best-seller status of the book. Instead, I want to know why it brings tears to the eyes of a woman in the middle of a waterpark. I decided to re-read the book this week, particularly with an eye as to how this book is different, how it evokes such poignant responses from its readers. What I’ve discovered is that there’s no magic formula; rather, it’s apparent that Young is writing about what he knows. Mike Morrell’s description is perfect: The Shack is like a prayer “filled with sweat and wonder and transparency and surprise.”

What is it about John Irving’s “A Prayer for Owen Meany” that punched me in the gut? If I don’t really like science fiction, why did The Sparrow (Maria Doria Russell) strike me so intensely? Why will I cry when I first read “Love You Forever” to my beautiful granddaughter, Madelyn Simone? How can a combination of letters on a page actually touch our hearts in such a profound way?

Frederick Buechner understands the key: “Write about what truly matters to you—not just things to catch the eye of the world but things to touch the quick of the world the way they have touched you to the quick . . . Then the things that your books make happen will be things worth happening—things that make the people who read them a little more passionate themselves for their pains . . . a little more alive, a little wiser, a little more beautiful, a little more open and understanding, in short a little more human.”

There’s both joy and terror in writing as Buechner suggests and Young does. I’m guessing that Young attended the Red Smith school of writing, for Smith’s description is apt: “Writing is really quite simple; all you have to do is sit down at your typewriter and open a vein.”

As writers, we have no control over whether our words end up on the New York Time’s bestseller list or languish on the $.25 table at the Friends of the Library book sale. All we can do is string the syllables together with as much courage, honesty and grace as possible, and then let them go with the prayer that they will find a home in the heart of another. Maybe even in the tears of a reader at a frenzied waterpark.

2010-03-05T15:35:00.000-08:00

A Long Winter

“O the weather outside is frightful.” Yes it is. “But the fire is so delightful.” Sure, if you have a fireplace. “And since we’ve no place to go.” Well, we do have places to go and people to see. You know the rest, so sing along with me: “Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow!”
Sammy Cahn and Jules Styne had some nerve – they reportedly wrote this song on one of the hottest days ever in Hollywood. Often thought of as a Christmas carol, it makes no mention of Mr. Claus, reindeer or elves, or a baby in a manger. Instead, it’s actually a love song along the lines of ‘Baby, It’s Cold Outside,” Frank Loesser’s contribution of the same decade.
It’s one thing to sit in a sweltering music studio in Hollywood and cavalierly command, “let it snow,” but it’s getting old around here. Times-Gazette reporter Irv Oslin gave us the scoop: “The city [of Ashland] saw 10 times the snowfall last month [February 2010] as it did in February 2009.” In fact, on February 12, snow fell in 49 of the 50 states. Global warming, anyone?
Well, maybe. Writing in Time, Bryan Walsh tells us that “the 2009 U.S. Climate Impacts Report found that large-scale cold-weather storm systems have gradually tracked to the north in the U.S. over the past 50 years. While the frequency of storms in the middle latitudes has decreased as the climate has warmed, the intensity of those storms has increased. That's in part because of global warming - hotter air can hold more moisture, so when a storm gathers it can unleash massive amounts of snow.” OK – I trust the Climate Impacts Report people know what they’re talking about, even if it makes no sense to me. Since when does ‘warming’ equal snow?
I asked my husband how much snow we had and his answer was perfect: “too much.” As veterans of Western New York winters, home to the snow sister cities of Syracuse, Rochester and Buffalo, we’re both used to the wintery weather. Unfortunately, the older we get, the less fun we have in the snow and the more whining we do about its inconvenience. We forget that when it snows, we really do have two choices: to shovel or to make snow angels.
I’ve been keeping my eye on the slope behind the Kroc Center, wondering if anyone will test out its sledding capacity. I suppose I could lead the way, dusting off the sleds resting so comfortably in our garage, but so far I’ve been content to get my thrills vicariously through the Olympic bobsled racers.
While most of us snivel our way through 6 inches of slush, some people are impacted so severely by the winter months that they’re diagnosed with Seasonal Affective Disorder. Defined by depressive symptoms associated primarily with the winter season, SAD can impair daily functioning. Mental health professionals can help, especially when the struggle is much more than the ‘Snowing Again Disorder’ we’re self-diagnosing these days.
In spite of all our complaints, snow is beautiful. Enormous flakes gently floating on the wind, moonlight glistening on the white-crusted meadows – for a few moments we can breathe in its silent splendor, singing along with Dean Martin or Michael Buble – “let it snow!”
However, by the time this gets printed in the Times-Gazette the thermometer should be creeping towards 40 degrees, as that promise has been dangled in front of us in recent days. I’ve also noted that it hasn’t snowed once since I started writing this particular column – I’ll just keep editing until April!
It is possible to look on the bright side – before we know it, we’ll be stretched out in the Adirondack chairs at the Salvation Army Kroc Center Spraypark, longing for the relief of a cool breeze. That’s the joy of living in a community where there is a change of season. Spring is on its way, as the tulips and crocuses peak their heads up in the bare spots around town. Until then, here’s to sledding, snowmen, and chestnuts roasting by an open fire. Go ahead – let it snow – maybe we’ll meet while walking in a winter wonderland!

2010-02-25T17:30:00.000-08:00

Welcome home, Maddie.

She’s here! The grandbaby made her appearance on Sunday and now the fun begins. I’m captivated by all 6 pounds, 3 ounces of Madelyn Simone, and Larry’s head-over-heels in love with our first grandbaby. Stop by the Kroc Center and we’d be glad to show you pictures.
I’m also enjoying the transformation of my son into the world’s foremost authority on childbirth, breast-feeding and diapers. There’s a strong temptation to add my two cents, but wisdom tells me he and Lauren need to find their own way down this parenting path – unless they ask for advice. So far, so good – they haven’t dropped the baby yet, and Greg does quite well at swaddling his daughter in the receiving blanket.
Wondering if they even call it a receiving blanket these days, I checked the Internet, source of all necessary and pointless information, glad to see them still on the list of mandatory baby items. I did hold back from ordering an organic receiving blanket, an ultimate receiving blanket, a pocket blanket with Velcro designed for easier swaddling, a Slanket (sling and blanket, I’m guessing) or a Lullabag, all designed to satisfy the adoring grandparents’ desire for just the perfect accessories for the new bundle of joy. We’ll stick with the basic flannel, thanks anyway.
I have mixed feelings about swaddling this baby. Swaddling can provide a sense of security to the newborn, so rudely thrust into a cold and frightening world after being so contained in the womb. The swaddling also keeps Madelyn from waking herself up through her adorable startle reflex – I’d kind of forgotten about that. But as we stole some moments together while her mother slept, I loved watching her tiny foot sneak out from the blanket. Of course, it may have something to do with my long-standing inability to get that receiving blanket ‘just so,’ but I took it as a sign of an independent streak in this newborn.
As I held her, I so wanted to keep her wrapped tightly forever, safe from the dangers of our world. And as parents and grandparents who love her dearly, that is one of our roles, to provide protection for this fragile gift of life. Yet as Hodding Carter’s words remind us, “There are two lasting bequests we can give our children – one is roots, the other is wings.” Here I go with the Amelia Earhart thing again, but the metaphor works, especially in the right order. I pray her life may be “rooted and grounded in love,” as the scriptures remind us, but also that she will have a joy of living and a strength of heart allowing her to soar freely when she is ready.
Swaddled or not, the receiving blanket metaphor works as well, for that simple name defines what we are doing. Greg openly received her as the doctor transferred his daughter to his arms. Lauren receives her every time she offers the baby her breast. Her grandparents receive her with wonder, our life experiences making us fully aware of the miracle that she is. Even Uncle Dan, so at ease with toddlers, gingerly received her with a gaze of awe and amazement, looking forward to the day she can perch on his knee for a drum lesson.
When Dan was born, dear friends of ours came for his dedication, leading us through the commitments of faith and practice promised to our third son – just as we promised to Greg and Drew as they entered our home and hearts. Then Jim took Daniel in his arms and walked from pew to pew, person to person, asking for the blessing of that faith community upon that tiny child.
I will forever hold that image dear, realizing now the role we each have to play in the life of little Madelyn – as well as in all the children of our community. Protection and opportunity, prayers and love – all ours to give. Yet, as Alex Hailey knows, there remains one task just for the grandparents: “Nobody can do for little children what grandparents do. Grandparents sort of sprinkle stardust over the lives of little children.” That’s where the sparkle in your eye comes from, Maddie. Welcome home.

2010-02-18T02:39:00.000-08:00

Would You Like That In Pink or Blue?

In preparation for the impending arrival of our first granddaughter, I recently went on a family shopping expedition to a superstore specializing in baby clothing, equipment and gear. To say I was overwhelmed is an understatement. That store seemed bigger than the entire Ashland Salvation Army Kroc Center. How many pounds of ‘stuff’ could you possibly need – or ever use - for one 8 pound baby?

Roaming through the infant clothing department, I was astounded at how gender-defined the racks were. If men are from Mars and women are from Venus, it’s clear that Mars is made of blue rock and Venus made of pink fluff. I guess that since most parents discover the gender of their child in the womb (unlike those of us who were surprised every time), there is little need for clothing that could be suitable for either a boy or girl.

Not only was the color differential glaring, but so were the symbols on the clothing itself. The male clothing sported airplanes and cars, lions and bears, while the female attire was covered in flowers and kittens, princess crowns and lace. Oh my.

Writing in The Kaleidoscope of Gender, Joan Spade and Catherine Valentine pose the question: “Have we arrived at a moment in history when identity, including gender identity, is largely shaped within the dynamics of consumerism?” Are our children being defined by the clothes on the infant girl and boy racks of the superstores and specialty shops?

How do we teach our children what it means to be male and female? What role does nature play? Will Madelyn be more likely to cuddle a doll because of her genetic makeup? What about nurture? As at least one study showed, will we pick her up more quickly when she cries simply because she is a girl?

And what do we do about the influence of the culture around them? When Madelyn watches cartoons on TV (if Greg and Lauren let her watch cartoons on TV) will she find, as did Mary Hudak and Carol Spicher, that “male characters are powerful, strong, smart, aggressive and so on – and that occasionally there’s a token female cartoon character but she’s like lime jello – she’s bland”?

I’ve considered myself a feminist for many years. No, not the kind of feminist that burned anything, but one who desires to see the playing field leveled for all people, regardless of race, ethnicity, economic status or gender. I want every door of opportunity to be open for Madelyn Simone (the world’s most awesome grandbaby), as well as for every girl and boy who walks through the doors of the Kroc Center each day. Because of that belief, I don’t want her to be confined to a girlie-girl world of flowers and kittens only. I want her to know that she can fly planes, drive a race car, and tame lions if needed. No lime jello for Madelyn.

Here’s the flip side. I have a friend with similar feminist convictions who has a pre-school daughter. I was joking with her about her daughter’s affinity with all things “princess,” and she spoke a valuable truth. “If I want my daughter to have every opportunity in the world, to be all that she can be, then I have to be willing to let her choose – and right now she’s choosing princess, not warrior.”

So back to the clothing racks. I’ve determined that beyond the dynamics of consumerism, there are two explanations for the marked differences in infant clothes. The first is that it’s nearly impossible to determine the gender of a fully dressed baby. That’s why we have all those stick-on hair ribbons. If you dress a one-month-old baby in a red and white striped t-shirt and blue jeans, there’s no way you can tell whether it’s a boy or girl.

The second reason is purely for this grandmother. After three sons, I finally get to buy clothes for a girl. Yes! So now I’m looking for the perfect outfit, pink and frilly, with an image of Amelia Earhart and her airplane emblazoned across the front. Just the right touch for the most beautiful baby in the world.

2010-02-10T16:19:00.000-08:00

Another Death

I wrote the following after the memorial service for my cousin's wife. Sometime this weekend, George was out shoveling snow and died of a massive heart attack. His body was discovered on Monday.

The youngest of four children all born in Tonawanda, New York, my mother and her siblings lived within walking distance of each other their entire lives. That has not been the pattern for their children, as many of “the cousins” have moved away from the Buffalo area In part because of the lack of proximity, we have not kept in close contact, and regrettably, there are few occasions when the family members connect with each other. As the last remaining sibling of the Hodge family, my mother keeps us informed of weddings, births, and new jobs, but most of the cousins of my generation haven’t seen each other since my dad’s funeral.

It was the news of another funeral that sent me to Youngstown, Ohio. George, the cousin who fostered my early love of the piano, had just lost his wife, and I wanted to be part of the tribute to her life.

As I stood in the pew with George and his brother David, I could sense that we were joined by those who were no longer with us, but who had also stood and sang the very words we were voicing. There was Aunt Annamae, widowed so early in life, eager to welcome us home with freshly-baked sugar or molasses cookies. Aunt Florence, with her upswept hair and fun-loving spirit, was joined by her husband Ray, a late bloomer in the church choir. Uncle Chuck and Aunt Isabelle seemingly joined our row as well, and finally, standing with them was my father, a surrogate dad to many of my cousins, whose steadfastness was a gift to all of us.

The writer to the Hebrews teaches about a great cloud of witnesses, and I surely sensed that image lifting us up on that autumn morning. From one generation to the next, we do bear witness to each other’s lives in countless ways, but especially when we gather to say good-bye.
By choosing to be present at this memorial to Ruth, I was standing in for the whole family, those who’ve gone before us and those who remain, for who we were as carefree children and who we’ve become as adults. My early life was shaped by all the cousins, but especially by those early piano lessons, the cartoons my cousin David used to draw, and my cousin Cathy, the beautiful drum majorette so idolized by her scrawny ten-year-old cousin.

Once upon a time we were all together, and now, as it has been for too many years, we are not. We make choices in life to follow our dreams, to follow a calling, perhaps even to follow the sun to warmer climates. In doing so, we leave behind the easy connections of cousins horsing around in the pool and gathering over a game of pinochle, trading them for scattered e-mails and memories fading along with the colors of the Polaroids we discover at the bottom of a drawer.

Each phase of life brings us new connections with other people, but there is something about blood, about family, that leaves a hole when we’re so far apart. I wish my children knew their cousins as we once knew each other, but that is not to be. Separated as they are by a generation and what feels like a million miles, the bonds are tenuous at best. But when we all gather on a blistering summer day or pile through the door of my mother’s home on Christmas day, we remember the bonds and weave a new memory or two between our hearts.

The Marquise de Sevigne was orphaned early in life, and then lost her husband as a young woman. Her letters to her daughter, preserved now for nearly four centuries, give us this gem: “We cannot destroy kindred: our chains stretch a little sometimes, but they never break.” Here’s hoping she was right, that we might have elastic chains to keep us attached and bring us back together like a giant bungee cord when the time is right. Hopefully the right time can include homemade ice cream!

2010-02-05T18:11:00.000-08:00

Waiting Such a Long Time

At the end of ‘Saturday in the Park,’ the voices of Chicago croon: “I’ve been waiting such a long time for the day.” So have I! I’ve been waiting such a long time to write this column, putting it off, waiting for just the right time to say: “I’m going to be a grandmother!” Since Lauren’s due date is only 3 weeks away, it’s finally time to say the words out loud – and on the pages of the Times-Gazette.
I do have a harrowing memory of being identified as a grandmother prematurely. I was holding my infant son when two elderly women complimented me: “oh, what a darling grandson.” To say I was offended was an understatement. How dare they think I looked old enough to be a grandmother at age thirty-five. But now – it’s about time – I think.
Here’s my challenge: what should Madelyn call me? Obviously, she isn’t going to be saying much of anything right away, but we’ll have to get her used to hearing my name from the day she’s born, so I’ve got to figure this out soon. So what does a modern woman do when she has a significant decision to make? Go to the Internet!
Starting with the list of grandmother names, I immediately crossed off Big Mom (too descriptive of body shape) and Granny (Beverly Hillbillies comes to mind). No traditional family names that I know of (although my mother’s grandmother was known as Little Grandma – see Big Mom for comment), and Grandma Shade was my mother-in-law.
There are newer, more hip names like Bella or G-Ma – they’re supposed to make me feel younger? I tried out the ethnic column, such as Ya-Ya (my Greek friend Dena claimed that one) and Grand’Mere (French). Does four years of high school French qualify me to use that? I kind of like Lola, the Filipino appellation, and my Dad was in the Philippines during World War II. Whatever Lola wants, Lola gets!
I was relieved to discover I could take a quiz to find the name that best suits me. I began by telling the computer what I would eat with the grandkids and what kind of board game I’d play (Monopoly, of course), but I gave up when asked what kind of shoes I wear. If I admitted I like to go barefoot, they’d call me Earth Grandmother.
The website also confirmed what I already know – even if I determine the perfect grandmother name, Madelyn Simone may have other plans and christen me with a name of her own making. Lucas, my sister’s oldest son, calls my mother “Budgie” – at least we think that’s how it’s spelled. We have no idea where it came from, but it stuck.
We seldom get to re-invent ourselves in life, unless we’re Madonna (now there’s a possibility – Grand-Madonna?). I’ve been a mother to my sons for nearly thirty years, but this is a new adventure altogether. I remember those early days of motherhood, so worried about doing it all right – while it is important to get the diaper on correctly, it took me a while to realize there’s no perfect way to parent, regardless of what Dr. Spock had to say. I’m guessing that applies to grandparenting as well.
I want to be a grandmother. I was going to finish that sentence with phrases like “who flies kites” or “reads Winnie-the Pooh stories,” but the sentence stands alone. Because somehow all I hope to be – loving, gentle, inspiring, soft, and perhaps a bit eccentric – is all tied up in one word: Grandmother. And as your grandmother, Madelyn, even before I’ve met you, I know that I’ll love you forever, I’ll love you up to the moon, and, as John Denver sang so many years ago, I’ll love you more than anybody can – well, except for your mom and dad – and Grandma Caryn (oh no, maybe we better compare names). Oops, and I can’t forget the grandpas.
Whatever you call me, Madelyn, remember it’s me, your grandmother, and I’ve been waiting such a long time to welcome you.

2010-02-05T05:38:00.000-08:00

Too Funny

The Salvation Army issues policy/practice statements from time to time called minutes. This morning, I received a notification that there are some new and/or revised minutes, and I was so glad to see that we have a policy on Candidates Who Are Aliens. Now I do know that this means that we need to have a policy about people who are interested in becoming Salvation Army officers (candidates) who are not citizens of the US (aliens), but my first reaction was - OK, My Favorite Martian is going to the training school - and yes, I'm dating myself here. So if men are from Mars and women are from Venus, can they become Salvation Army officers? Ah, too much to think about this early in the day.

2010-02-03T02:59:00.000-08:00

A Writer

I write a column for our local newspaper, the Ashland Times-Gazette. Here's the latest submission:
I’m sometimes asked how I go about writing a newspaper column. In the “where do you get your ideas” category, I don’t have the little boy handing up ideas from the cellar like Anne Lamott describes. I simply listen and watch and observe and low and behold, there’s an idea for a column. So far I haven’t run out, but you may have noticed that I am writing about writing a column.
A second question is about process. When you sit down to write a column, do you have it all planned out (like a doctoral dissertation where you know before you start that chapter 4 will be a statistical analysis of your findings)? Well, no – I never quite know where I’ll end up when I start, and sometimes am pleasantly surprised to see that I’ve actually strung together 700 words that somehow fit.
Yet today, I managed to plot out the whole column in my head as I observed the Sabbath (at least the two hours after the roast chicken dinner) on the couch of our living room/office. Now if I can only remember it . . .
The prompt came over the course of this past weekend spent it in three separate settings with three incredible women – a New Testament scholar, a marriage and family therapist/seminary professor, and an ethicist. These women are definitely specialists – they have a unique niche in the academic world and are exceptionally skilled in that niche.
As often happens when I am in connection with women like that, I began that internal whine that weaves notes of envy and “what if” through the muzak echoing in my head. My chosen profession (or the calling that chose me, to be more exact), is that of a generalist. As a Salvation Army officer, I function in a variety of ‘jack-of-all-trades’ roles. I suppose that the official ones would be pastor and administrator, but this past week I’ve done two stints as receptionist, worked in the concession at the Kroc Center, vacuumed the carpets and tweaked the budget. And that’s just my day (and sometimes night) job.
But I am also a writer. I used to say, I’m a Salvation Army officer who writes, but I’ve finally grown into this writer garment enough to claim this additional identity. Yes, I am a Writer. I’ve had two books published, a third is in the pipeline, and I’m also a regular columnist for the Ashland Times-Gazette. There, I said it out loud. Just the fact that I write something nearly every day should in itself qualify me as a writer, but I guess that in my mind, the fact that people actually read what I write allows me to move to the capital “W.”
So here’s my dilemma. I am firmly entrenched in midlife, even beginning to push the upper limits of that category, and retirement from my vocation is not too many years away. It’s not too early to dream of what I’ll be when I grow up, and wonder, could I be a Writer in my retirement years? If so, the experts tell me, I’d better get ready now. I need to define my core message, establish a brand, blog regularly, network, twitter, and find my unique voice.
But wait a minute. I’m not sure about this core message and branding stuff. I like writing about grief and mother-of-the-groom dresses, Ashland high school football and the devastation in Haiti. And I like writing because I want to, not because I have to. I want to hold onto Brenda Ueland’s image of writing, “a child stringing beads in kindergarten – happy, absorbed and quietly pulling one bead on after another.”
So maybe I don’t want to be a specialist after all. While the juggling can get a bit intense, I like a life with many facets. Like the women of the Harlem Renaissance, I can try my hand at many things – and dream in color at the same time. I like beads that are multi-hued, round, square and even misshapen, and was glad to string one more jewel on my necklace this afternoon. Thanks for asking – and for reading.

2010-02-01T03:36:00.000-08:00

What Can Make a Difference?

I visit and contribute to the former Salvation Army officer fellowship blog (www.fsaof.blogspot.com), and a recent post discussed the need for aftercare for those who leave Salvation Army ministry. While I agree that aftercare is needed, what about "beforecare"? What could have made a difference?

It's a question that runs through broken relationships of all kinds. When the marriage collapses, what could have made a difference? When an employee leaves, especially on bad terms, what could have made a difference? When a faithful believer is no longer in the pew on Sunday morning, what could have made a difference? Do we even have the courage to ask?

We shared in a guided conversation with our staff on Friday surrounding grace, hospitality and wholeness. One of the facilitators put it this way: "I'd rather be in relationship with you than walk away and be right."

Is it possible to create a culture of relationship where concerns can be brought to the table before it's too late? What would that look like? Space for disagreement and dialogue? A sharing of power?

When we're on the leaving end, in our desperation we throw our hat over the wall, and it feels as though the only option left is to climb the wall and retrieve it, thus placing us on the other side of the wall. Often that decision is agonizing, as we stand and look at the wall and all it represents. What if, in those moments, someone could come through a door in the wall with our hat in their hand, helping us discover how to put it back on again without shame?

Sometimes, despite our best efforts, there is nothing we can do to make a difference in the decision of the other and we have to release them to God's protection. Sometimes all we can do is stand on the porch with the light on, watching, waiting, praying. O God, give me the wisdom to know when to retrieve hats and when to watch, wait and pray.

2010-01-31T15:14:00.000-08:00

To Be A Writer

If I want to be a Writer with a capital "W" when I grow up, the experts tell me that I need to define my core message, establish my brand, have a website, network, twitter, and blog regularly. I guess that once a year doesn't quite count as "regular" in either the blogging world or in other definitions. So I'm back, with a new blog name (if I can figure out how to change it) and look (just a regular template - I'm not that committed or technologically gifted). I am committed to post at least three times per week, with at least one of those postings to be my newspaper columns on the day they hit the paper. I promise not to blog about what I had for supper or how many ____ I got on Farmville. So stop by, and please feel free to comment. We'll see how it goes . . .

2008-11-08T06:11:00.000-08:00

I've not written here for almost two years, but reading over my last post has challenged me to stop here for a moment. The Kroc wilderness has grown some grass, and we are 160 days from opening. But has it changed me in ways that aren't healthy and holy? I need some well-digging time, and Christmas is coming, the goose is getting fat, and someone better be pleased to put a penny in the old man's hat.

2007-01-25T20:43:00.000-08:00

Tolkien
"Not all that is gold must glitter, not all those who wander are lost." I came across this quote somewhere (probably a cereal box, who knows), but it has stuck with me. I've been blessed to know true gold in some very dear people who don't glitter very much. In the same vein (couldn't resist), I'm a wanderer, more in ideas than in locations, yet seldom feel truly lost. I'm wandering in the Kroc desert just now, and while I'm not lost, I am looking forward to seeing the promised land some day. But I have to keep reminding myself of the joys found in the wandering, of the unexpected of each day that speaks to the grace of the Lord.

2006-12-01T05:23:00.000-08:00

Notes
for
Christ-Seekers

Advent 2006

JoAnn Streeter Shade

Advent, the days leading up to Christmas, are often a time of hurry, as we stretch our finite allotment of minutes to accommodate our Christmas preparations. Yet we run the risk of inheriting the legacy of the innkeepers of Bethlehem, repeatedly declaring, “no room” as Christ is crowded out by our efforts to celebrate Christmas.
As a child, my family would circle our simple Advent wreath on Sunday evenings, to sing a carol and to share the words of the ancient stories.
For unto you . . .
And it came to pass . . .
And there were in the same country . . .
And this shall be a sign . . .
But Mary kept all these things . . .
In the spirit of those Sunday evenings, I’ve used the music of Christmas to frame my thoughts on the pages that follow, with the hope that they will invite you to pause quietly each December day to find room for Jesus. Although some contemporary carols are among my favorites (Breath of Heaven, Some Children See Him, Welcome to Our World), I’ve chosen to use carols in the public domain due to copyright issues. I’ve supplemented these traditional carols with a few of my own offerings. Light a candle, pray a prayer, and let the strains of the nativity overshadow you in the presence of the Christ-child.

December 1

O come, O come, Emmanuel,
And ransom captive Israel.
This ancient carol of Advent foreshadows the theme of much of the music of Christmas. Summed up in one word, come, it is a magnificent hymn of invitation, pleading for the long-expected Christ to enter the world of the created, fulfilling the promise of Isaiah:
For unto us a child is born,
Unto us a son is given.
(Isaiah 9:6)
In these days of twenty-first century living that have their own share of clouds that need the piercing power of God, we know that the Emmanuel (God with us) came to our world in a moment of history, that he was born of the virgin Mary in a time and in a place, yet our hearts beg with the unknown author, O come, Emmanuel. Ransom us from our loneliness, free us from the tyranny of evil, drive away the darkness, and open wide to us the hope of heaven. Keep coming, Lord Jesus, in your power and in your mercy. Open our eyes to see your presence in the touch of care of a stranger, in the faithful proclamation of the Word, and in the echo of the angels. O come, Emmanuel. Maranatha!

O come, O come, Emmanuel,
And ransom captive Israel,
That mourns in lonely exile here
Until the Son of God appear.
Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel
Shall come to thee, O Israel.
O come, Thou Rod of Jesse, free
Thine own from Satan's tyranny;
From depths of hell Thy people save,
And give them victory over the grave.

O come, Thou Day-spring, come and cheer
Our spirits by Thine advent here;
And drive away the shades of night
And pierce the clouds and bring us light!

O come, Thou Key of David, come,
And open wide our heavenly home;
Make safe the way that leads on high,
And close the path to misery.

O come, O come, Thou Lord of might,
Who to Thy tribes on Sinai's height
In ancient times once gave the law
In cloud, and majesty, and awe.
8th Century Latin

2006-11-28T05:14:00.000-08:00

He (or she) who holds the gold, makes the rules.

A local retail giant recently opened a store in our community - as recent as August. There was a large, well-functioning layaway department in that store that was utilized by many people I know. Just before Thanksgiving, a sign was posted in the lobby indicating that as of November 22, the layaway department would close, citing the increased use of credit cards, etc., therefore reducing the need for a layaway department.

So what? Layaway gave people of low or moderate income (or perhaps of biblical convictions regarding credit and usury) the option of purchasing something over time. Now, their only options are to save up and pay cash at the point of purchase (keeping them from taking advantage of the incredible sales being offered the day after Thanksgiving), utilizing one of the quick cash outlets, or applying for a high rate credit card with the low ceiling and fine print that boosts the rate even higher if a payment is missed.

Seems as though I'm seeing a lot of the 21st century golden rule in recent days. I wonder if they asked any of their layaway customers what they thought about this "rule" change?

There's a lot of gold being held in some other circles that I move in as well. Wonder if the same principle applies?

2006-11-06T18:50:00.000-08:00

I have mixed emotions regarding the Ted Haggard "situation," but even more so re: his wife's letter to the congregation, in which she promised to remain with her husband, but also said that church members no longer had to worry about her marriage being so perfect she couldn't relate to them. How have we, as Christian leaders, gotten to the place where we somehow hold ourselves up as perfect? Seems to be the opposite of being vulnerable and open. Had Haggard found a safe place to admit to the temptations he faced, might he have been able to resist them in the strength of a loving community? Gotta wonder . . .

2006-10-08T22:08:00.000-07:00

I've been wondering tonight about how our corps people can face the crisis (danger and opportunity) of being Kroc'd? They know that they are "the woman in Simon's house" kind of people. Generously forgiven, therefore generous in their love for each other and for Jesus. As aesthetically unpleasing as our chapel is right now, we belong together in it. How can we truly remain the people of God - how can we move from the tabernacle to the Temple? We prayed so for wisdom this morning - as one of the shepherds, I am desperately seeking a spirit of wisdom and discernment for the months ahead.

2006-09-05T16:42:00.000-07:00

Started this on Xanga, but feels like it needs to be finished here.

Richard Rohr writes: "Up to now, we have largely tried to evangelize individuals, while the structures have remained Roman empire, monarchical and unaccountable. "Put new wine in fresh wineskins, and both are preserved" (Mt. 9:17)

We talk and blog a lot (perhaps more on blogger) about wanting to figure out what fresh wineskins look like in this Salvation Army that has impacted so many - but we keep running into people who just don't get it. Janet Munn said it about prayer, likening it to giving birth- but it's true about bringing new life to the Army - we must push or we'll die. However, I remember a point when I was birthing Dan, after pushing for about an hour, when I said to the midwife - I think I'll just go home for a week or two and come back when I feel better - and that's the danger for me tonight. I want to take my ball and go home - but I am home, the house we live in, the community we've committed to, the body of believers we belong in.

So can Kroc be new wineskins, or is it just a recycled Hough experience? (Having been there, I don't think Hough was the colossal failure that some would think - and maybe I understand that better now, because the kingdom isn't about either failure or success - it is about faithfulness and vision and grace and life, and therefore, Hough is the stuff of the Kingdom). If it (Kroc) is simply old wineskins dressed up with some sequins and spray paint, then I simply cannot have a part in creating those wineskins, because I must be obedient.

If Kroc is to be new wineskins, it cannot be business as usual. It must be about community capacity building, about new vision, about creating authentic community out of fragile and broken people, about respecting the poor and marginalized, and inviting them to the same table - and exposing the foolishness of the proud and powerful.

We must push or die, push or die. Push . . . breathe . . . push . . . breathe.

2006-09-03T19:07:00.000-07:00

I was away from this blog so long that I forgot how to make a new entry. Yikes! But it's a kind of lazy Sunday night (a good ending for the Sabbath, I suppose), where I decided to put aside the work for a while and read some blogs. There are some important discussions going on all over the blog world, and all too often I come to them too late in the day, so to speak, to get in the mix of the ideas. Often the subject is how to change the Army, the church, the culture.

I'm at the point in my life where I have a sense of what I can and can't do. Words are powerful, and writing in various venues and genres can at least raise the questions. I can't change the administration or the structure very much, but I can make sure that the administration and structure in my corner of the Army is respectful of people, open to ideas, and thinking missionally. I can propose concepts for systemic change, and every once in a while, am pleasantly surprised when something happens that I've had a hand in. I'm aware that you can lead a horse to water but you can't force him to drink - but you can put salt in her oats, and I definitely want to be salt. I can cultivate a life outside the ranks, so that I can stay healthy and bring good stuff back.

And what I can do is found in the four-fold way as suggested by Arriens
Show up
Pay attention
Tell the truth
Release the outcomes

So be it.

2006-07-22T15:43:00.000-07:00

For Elaine, Shiphrah, and Puah

for a midwife: four haikus

breathe deeply, woman
mine the reservoir of strength
in jagged rhythm

labor on, sister
empower your straining womb,
befriend its aching

let it birth, dear one
deliver up your riches,
liberate promise

bare your breast, mother
let down the life-giving stream,
milk to satisfy

2006-07-22T15:35:00.000-07:00

Joan Kroc. Saint Joan of the (Golden) Arches. Who was this woman, incredible benefactor to a number of organizatons, whose $1.5 billion dollar bequest may forever change the face of the Salvation Army in the United States, and has already changed the path of my life? As I swelter in my new office digs, a third floor room in downtown Ashland, Ohio, I can’t help but wonder about this woman who brought me here.

As I switch on my computer and type in the yahoo search engine, I feel the pull of connection with this rich heiress, for we share a similar name, its root from the Hebrew, “the Lord is gracious.” We also share a vision for possibility, for the ways in which struggling children and families can stretch and grow into healthy and whole (holy) members of community. While we might disagree on some of the particulars of the stretching, we know of the changes that lie in wait for those who have the needed courage.

As I follow the web of googled results, the image of a fascinating woman begins to emerge. With deep Minnesota roots, she was the daughter of a railroad worker and a violinist, and in spite of her depression-era up-bringing, she received weekly piano lessons, even through the months of unemployment faced by her father. An accomplished pianist, Joan began teaching lessons to younger children when she was fifteen, married at seventeen, and had her only daughter at age eighteen.

It was the piano that changed the course of Joan’s life, just as it did mine. I was fifteen when I fell into my first (and pretty much only) gig, playing the piano for the Salvation Army, and decades later, I still find myself at the keyboard on Sunday mornings (and sneak into the chapel a few times during the week, just to let the music pour through my fingers). The piano led ultimately to the pulpit, and my Salvation Army ministry has carried me from New Jersey, through Philadelphia, and into Ohio.

Joan’s experience was quite different from mine. While Joan played the piano in a St. Paul bar, Ray Kroc was stunned by her blonde beauty, and something clicked for them. However, each was married to another, and it wasn’t until twelve years later that they were finally able to marry, having divorced their respective spouses. I wonder what she was playing that night?

That chance meeting at the piano was providential for Joan. By the time they married, Ray was building the world-famous franchises of the Golden Arches, amassing a huge fortune that ultimately became Joan’s to give away, thus bringing Joan and I to the confluence of our lives. For a portion of her bequest has been awarded to Ashland, Ohio, and after more than twenty-five years of urban ministry, the theme song of Green Acres has recently become my own. The local rooster awakens me, and the rhythm of the Amish horse hooves blends with the melody of Abide With Me that floats in my window from the church down the block. This is small-town America at its best, but it’s definitely small town.

One of the local civic leaders puzzled over our appointment to this small community. Yes, I suppose we could have gone to another urban center, and would have if asked. But perhaps the Lord helped our divisional commander understand that Joan Kroc and I had something else in common. When Joan sold the San Diego Padres, it wasn’t that she didn’t like the team, or enjoy the baseball world that she had immersed herself in after her husband died. She said, “I'm a few years older now, and, unlike Zsa Zsa (Gabor), I'm not ashamed to admit that I'll be 62 next August," she said in a 1989 interview. "I think it's time to prioritize." While I’m not 62 yet, my midlife journey has shown me that my priorities are shifting, and while I maintain a commitment to ministry to the poor and marginalized, I also am drawn toward living in authentic community, knowing my neighbors, finding solitude, and exploring my passions for writing, women’s concerns, and peace and justice (another of Joan’s passions as well). Ashland is proving to be an open door to those shifting desires.

Amazon.com does not list any biography for Joan Kroc, so I have no idea what kind of woman she was when she was earning her living playing in a nightclub. But the woman of generous spirit she became in her older years (perhaps buoyed by her great wealth) is one that I am learning to be. While I may not be able to tip the drive-through clerk with a hundred dollar bill as she was known to do, I am finding ways to be generous with the resources I have. As I peer into the future for the new center here in Ashland, I want it to reflect that sense of generosity and affirmation.

One last connection: at the opening of the San Diego Kroc center, Joan told the assembled crowd, “I am a maverick Salvationist." Yes, I can identify. Although I’ve worn the bonnet and am a veteran at this Salvation war, I still feel the maverick much of the time. Every organized movement needs some mavericks, and I’m glad that Joan chose to throw her lot in with this one.

So Joan, although over the next few months I may have a few choice words to say about the red, yellow and blue tape that the Salvation Army has attached to your gift, as well as the challenges that you’ve set before us in your magnificent vision, we share so much that I really can’t complain. Had we met in this life, I probably would have been intimidated by your wealth, but as I come to know more of your story, I sense that we are sisters. Indeed, the Lord has been gracious to Joan and JoAnn.

2006-04-27T19:37:00.000-07:00

at breakfast
We sat at breakfast, a planned, shared meal, five of us at the table. All women, all Salvation Army officers, all married, with an amazing blend of gifts. Perhaps the most remarkable note was that we were of five decades, and yet the haunting melody of story-song left a poignant theme that echoed long after we had left the table.

Just the night before, our amazing sister Jossie had reminded us that silence gives consent, and we each had experienced that truth. But we also resonated with her assertion that God is grieved by systems and structures that hurt the most vulnerable of God's children, and that God will change those systems and structures through people who believe in Him, and who come to the struggle with the right spirit. God help us.

Like Ruth, we are called to do what we must do. Like Mary, we prepare to give birth, to use our freedom on behalf of those without freedom. Mary did not turn away, preached Col. Margaret Hay. Never mind, do it anyway, she pleaded.

If you're a Salvation Army officer and want to come to this table, e-mail me at gracednotes@juno.com and we'll have further conversation.

2006-04-07T18:50:00.000-07:00

Why have the voices of Salvation Army women been silenced - or been so silent? Why, when a three year conversation between holiness denominations around the subject of holiness in contemporary society - is there no female voice from the Salvation Army? Why are less than 25% of the articles in The Officer written by women? Catherine Booth's voice was the dominant factor on the establishment of the Christian Mission, with her "never" from the balcony. What has happened to us?

2006-03-11T18:24:00.000-08:00

Working at the Golden Arches

Responding to a blog that asked about officer effectiveness got me thinking about the ways in which being an officer is like working at McDonalds. Given our current "arrangement" with the golden arches money, perhaps it's appropiate to make the comparison. I write only from observation and what's on their website - unlike many 20 somethings, I have not had the privilege of working at Mickey Dee's.

The basis for our entire business is that we are ethical, truthful and dependable. It takes time to build a reputation. We are not promoters. We are business people with a solid, permanent, constructive ethical program that will be in style...years from now even more than it is today.” — R a y K r o c , 1 9 5 7

Keeping the shine on our Arches
No policy, booklet, committee or liaison can guarantee good, ethical behavior. Only each one of us can. It is up to every person who is a part of McDonald’s to keep our good name shining by doing the right things the right way.

1. If you work at McDonalds, you need to show up for work. Those senior citizens don't like having to wait for their coffee and Egg McMuffins. Officers need to show up for work. They need to open the building (hopefully they have better luck at turning off the alarm than our new DC does), make the coffee, and be ready to greet the day. Now they don't have to be the first one in every day (I think there's a competition going on at DHQ in Cleveland, but I'm not participating), but they shouldn't be the last one there either.

2. If you work at McDonalds, it helps if you're neat and clean, at least clean if we can only have one or the other. As for officers, clean really works for me. Obviously, body odor is a no-no, but I'm thinking more about the one who can ascend the holy hill of God, the one who has clean hands and a clean heart. I'm OK with some variety on the outside, but unrepented sin is not acceptable.

3. I know, I know, some people have issues with the uniform, but if you work at McDonalds, you have to wear it, so why the big deal about Salvation Army uniform? Yeah, I'd like to see a bit more variety - a tasteful scarf for the women, a print blouse, some respite for the off-black pantihose, but we've got pants - I remember the days of high collar uniforms and bonnets, so you don't hear me complaining too much on this one. Perhaps we need to recognize that indeed, our uniform is a priestly garment.

4. If you work at McDonalds, you are expected to wash your hands when you use the restroom. Now this is similar to #2, but maybe we can look at this as the need to keep working on ourselves, being willing to habitually seek God, to be disciplined to pray, to be in the Word, and to repent as often as we need to.

5. If you work at McDonalds, you need to do the task(s) you are assigned to. My guess is that they cross-train employees, so that those flipping burgers can do the fries if they have to, as well as the drive-through. As officers, we are not specialists. If it needs to be done, we need to do it or to help someone else to do it. I don't have the privilege of saying, well, I do want to work for the Salvation Army, but I don't do finances, and I don't preach, and I don't like to visit people in the hospital, and I'm not good at United Way, and I don't do Home League. We may not like all the tasks that are ours, and we may not be accomplished at each task, but that doesn't give us a pass. We need to do the work.

6. A charge to McDonalds' employees is that they must do all they can to MAKE ALL PEOPLE FEEL SPECIAL Talk about a policy of inclusion. Every person who comes up to the register at McDonalds (or even if they just come in to use the restroom) is to be treated as though they are special. Hmm, I wonder if that would change the feel of some corps, if everyone who entered was made to feel special. Actually, we have a higher goal - that everyone who enters our buildings will experience the love of God as expressed through his people.

7. At McDonalds, the employees work as a team. Simplifying it a bit, one puts on the burger, another the ketchup, and another the pickle. On a busy noontime at McD's, they work (at least sometimes) with some amazing efficiency. All parts of the team matter, and have a role to fill. Figure out the comparison yourself.

At McDonalds:
We each accept personal responsibility for doing the right thing. We accept the obligation to stop or prevent actions that could harm customers, the System or our reputation — and to report any such actions as soon as they occur. We deliver on our promises.

Enough said. I knew that we had something in common with those golden arches all along.

One last comment from a McDonalds' website:
You've had a Windfall - "As you know, as the years go on and the geographic areas evolve, additional McDonalds restaurants will be developed and, as a restaurant opens there may be some alterations in customer behavior. Those customers selecting the new McDonalds do not in any sense 'belong' to the existing restaurant. This merely reflects an ongoing process of market development which is an integral part of the system. Stated another way, when a market can support two or three of our restaurants, the first one built has, in a sense, a windfall until the others are built. The subsequent loss of that windfall is not an impact." Bob Beavers, McDonalds Corporation, Senior Vice President

2006-03-10T16:44:00.000-08:00

Close to Rocking Chair Rant

Captain Danielle Strickland wrote a rant that is stirring up lots of conversation in a variety of Salvation Army circles (it remains to be seen as to how much action). From the perspective of a few more years of Salvation Army officership, I am adding my two cents to her words.

I found myself reading Danielle Strickland’s Married Women’s ghetto RANT (JAC Feb. 2006) with a gut-wrenching emotional response. Yes! She gets it, she gets it! But I’ve heard the arguments before, in fact, offered many of them myself, but all too often to ears that have pretty much responded, “so what?’’ This is my attempt to answer that question by considering biblical, theological, historical, and pragmatic concerns. My goal is to examine the sinful foundation, the current underutilization of gifts, and the danger to future generations by a continuation of current practices as outlined in Strickland’s rant (loud, wild speech).

First of all, a church that is based upon an unjust position toward a portion of its clergy is built upon a weakened foundation. Christ told Peter, “Upon this rock I will build my church,” and he also told the parable of the foolish man who built his house on sand. From its founding in 1865, The Salvation Army has affirmed that, “women, equally with men, should share in the government as well as the work of the Mission” (Coutts 1974, 27). Yet while women are theoretically given equal opportunity by policy, practice proves a contradiction, as Eason points out historically. Even in the early years, women were considerably less likely to be in leadership, and women often took a lesser role upon marriage (Eason, 2003). Upon appointment of their husbands to leadership roles, women officers were called “to a less conspicuous part of His great vineyard,” and urged to “not judge as to the relative importance of the work we do for Him, whether this or that” (Higgins 1931, 266-267), and that position has not changed dramatically in the last 75 years.

As the Army acquired respectability, the role of women declined (Larrson 1974, 170). While it appeared to the uncritical observer that the Army was an “egalitarian religious body that gave its female officers unparalleled opportunities to work in every area of its institutional life,” the reality was that “it largely failed to implement sexual equality beyond the pulpit” and did not “promote an egalitarian sharing of roles by women and men”(Eason 2003, 154-155). As Satterlee points out, there remain many challenges to women desiring leadership in the Army, in that leadership of the Salvation Army remains dominated by men, restrictions are placed on a woman’s development because of stereotyping, and women have not always been given the opportunity to explore their leadership skills. He also comments that, “this leadership (of women) is actually more restricted in Western countries than in non-western countries” (Satterlee 2005, 8-10).

This historical pattern is not unique to The Salvation Army, for Linda McKinnish Bridges calls this phenomena the “Lydia Phase,” in which women begin in positions of leadership in the early days of the institution, but then are relegated to secondary roles in order for the movement to gain cultural legitimacy and to diminish the feminizing effect of women’s leadership. She notes this in Celtic Christianity and even in the early days of the Southern Baptist movement. Over and over again, the church chooses “order over spirit, men over women” (Bridges 1998, 333). But for a denomination with both a male and female co-founder, and such a public perception of equal opportunity for women, in actuality its 1950’s approach to women is both archaic and sinful.

Perhaps most egregious in its impact is the fact that in the United States of America, married Salvation Army officer women are personally not financially compensated for their work. as any allowance is paid to the husband. Legally they are considered to be providing gratuitious service, a minister's wife. Until this is resolved, there will continue to be a two-tiered view of officership, with some married women working a few hours a week, pretty much being “the little woman” who shows up for home league and Sunday worship, while others commit themselves full-time to mission work.

The limitations placed upon married women as leaders within the Salvation Army cause me to echo Catherine Booth’s question from 1859: Does the “circumscribed sphere of woman’s religious labours . . . have something to do with the comparative non-success of the Gospel in these latter days?” (Booth 2001, 32). Jesus told the story of a man who went on a journey and entrusted his wealth to his servants (Matthew 25). The outcome is familiar to us: to the ones who fully utilized the gift given, there was a great reward. To the one who buried the gift (talent), punishment was the result.

For the individual married woman serving in Salvation Army work, this parable can be an indictment upon those gifts she possesses but is unable to fully utilize within her appointed work, due to gender and marital status. The cognitive dissonance that occurs when a woman knows her gifts and abilities but is not placed in a position to use them is heart-wrenching. But the more serious responsibility lies upon the administrative leaders who fail to fully utilize the gifts so freely offered to the mission by its women officers. They, too, are like the fearful servant in this parable. The under-utilization of qualified personnel can damage the organization’s ability to minister in a changing society that demands the best we can offer. “Where are the leaders, where are the saints for today and tomorrow?” is often the cry, but when nearly half of the clergy are eliminated from that field only because of their marital status, perhaps the answer is that you may be looking in the wrong places.

In considering the danger to future generations, a continued sacrifice of our brightest daughters on the altar of patriarchy will potentially lead to a decrease in available candidates and the loss of gifted officers, both wives and husbands. The welfare state lifestyle may keep some, but over time, the brightest and best who are denied access to full participation, work with impact, and opportunities for leadership will find a way to leave the plantation and ghetto for more acceptable options. Their commitment to the mission of the Army will not be enough to offset the frustration and injustice, because the mission can be fulfilled outside the ghetto walls just as well.

There will also be those who will find themselves “defecting in place.” Winter, Lummis and Stokes have proposed this metaphor for clergywomen who remain in the church, but remain on their own terms. But in such a structured system as The Salvation Army, the question must be asked as to how they can remain on their own terms if the primarily male hierarchy sets the terms? Winter, Lummis and Stokes believed that the women who are “defecting in place” may do so because they continue to have:
. . . the need for continuity, for community and connection, the desire to remain a part of a tradition in which one has one’s roots is significant for many women. So they choose to remain in a way that will not violate their integrity. At the same time, deep within is the hope that the values they profess will one day be accepted and the institution will change (Winter, Lummis and Stokes 1995, 197).

So there you have it. Unlike Strickland, it is too late for me. She potentially has a future to look forward to in Salvation Army leadership circles. I’m pretty much over-the-hill as Salvation Army leadership appointments go – and besides, I’m too much on the margins to be one of the “good old boys” club. And so I write, not for myself any longer, but because, like Deborah and Jael, I have a stake in the future of our daughters.

The Judges 4-5 narrative is fascinating for the example it gives of female leadership, but Carol Lakey Hess draws attention to an often overlooked result of their action (Lakey Hess 1997, 220). Not only did Deborah and Jael keep their land from further war and bloodshed, but they also protected the women of that culture from becoming the spoils of war, “a girl or two (literally a womb or two) for each man” (Ju. 5:30). Because I do not want to sit in my rocking chair twenty-five years from now and watch my spiritual officer-daughters have to write their own ghetto rant, I must join with Strickland in speaking out from my convictions that it is time for change to occur, to choose spirit over order, so that my young sisters may fulfill their potential for the Kingdom in the future.

Works Cited

Booth, Catherine. 1859. Female ministry; or woman’s right to preach the gospel. In
Terms of empowerment. 2001. NY: The Salvation Army

Bridges, Linda McKinnish. 1998. Women in church leadership. Review and Expositor
95, 3. 327-347.

Coutts, Frederick. 1974. No discharge in this war: A one volume history of The
Salvation Army. New York: The Salvation Army.

Eason, Andrew Mark. 2003. Women in God’s army: Gender and equality in the
early Salvation Army. Waterloo, Ontario: Wilfrid Laurier University Press.

Higgins, Mrs. General. 1931. Opportunities and responsibilities of wives of
headquarters officers. The Officer 52, 265-268.

Lakey Hess, Carol. 1997. Caretakers of our common house: Women’s development in
communities of faith. Nashville, TN: Abingdon Press.

Larsson, Flora. 1974. My best men are women. London: Hodder and Stroughton.

Satterlee, Allen. 2004. Turning points: How the Salvation Army found a different path.
Alexandria, VA: Crest Books.

Winter, Miriam, Adair Lummis, and Alison Stokes. 1995. Deflecting in place: Women
claiming responsibility for their own special lives. New York:

2006-03-10T16:38:00.000-08:00

emerging, the church
When I am not sure of the connotations of a word, I check out the pages of Webster, and so I did tonight. Emerge - to rise as from a fluid, to become visible or apparent, to evolve. So much rhetoric - hype - interest - in the Emergent, or Emerging - Church. Christianity Today asked:
Ministry fashion statement or the church's future? (Nov. 2004). Works in progress, startlingly improvisational, living in the half-future tense of the young . . .

Often as a result of those who were becoming increasingly uncomfortable with church, this movement, well, conversation, as McLaren would suggest, is about you joining the mission of God's people to meet the world's needs. Hmm. . . sounds familiar?

And yes, I've read some of McLaren, and of Solomon's Porch. I'm reading Newbigin on mission and election, Volf's Exclusion and Embrace, and have attempted a bit of Derrida and Foucault, but got a bit too confused with them. How does it all fit together - or doesn't it? And where is the gospel in all of this? And how did it all get so complicated?

The way I see the emerging church, or at least my brief experience of it before that particular group disbanded due to life changes, was that of a house church. Now I can call it emerging, because it was fluid, coming to life, evolving. It included the twenty-somethings and the fifty-somethings, and touched me deeply. It was a deliberate development of a Christian community that focused on the Christian faith, the orthodox faith of the Old and New Testament and the ancient ecumenical creeds of the Church, with the mystery intact, prayer, gender and racial equality, prophetic witness in word and action, concerning peace and justice in the world, healing, evangelism, spiritual formation, theological education, and community.

a new but ancient way of being church: relational, egalitarian, charismatic, and sacramental

I felt at home there. I would leave feeling as though I had been with Jesus. People of God, gathered around his Word, sharing in the Eucharist, being challenged to authentic faith through the words of each one present.

It felt like that sometimes when we would invite our church family to come to our home for vespers in the summer. We'd sit on the deck, sing a bit, talk a bit, read the Word, and pray together. We'd go home knowing it had been good to be a part of the Body.
There is a deep longing in me tonight to be a part of that once again.

2006-03-08T06:30:00.000-08:00

Sin in the Camp?
General-elect Shaw Clifton (the Salvation Army's new international leader) raises a troubling but vital question in his post-election response quoted in the US War Cry (Feb. 18, 2006). "I have a deep sense in my heart that God wants us to follow the example of the Old Testament prophets when they sensed God's blessing was withheld. The prophets went to God's people asking: Is there sin in the camp? Now, that is a very difficult and pointed question. One has to be very tender and sensitive before even raising it, but perhaps God is saying ever so gently and ever so lovingly: "I love you, Salvation Army, but would you please look within and see if there is sin in the camp and if there is anything that causes the blessing to be withheld we must deal with it" (p. 11).

He goes on to suggest that some issues may be personal to individual members, and other issues may be corporate. I wonder . . . and I must begin my wondering by recognizing that it is easy to point fingers at others (consider the log and speck). I must answer the question personally daily, in the context of a caring community of brothers and sisters who are willing to bring light to what sin is in my life. As an example, a few days ago, I was just plain old angry, and I didn't care what I said, because I felt justified in my anger. But I hurt other people in the process, so in my anger I did sin. I have to confess, while in the midst of it, I knew what I was doing, and I didn't care. Jesus, Son of God, have mercy on me.

Organizationally, I wonder if it is time to take a hard look at our roots that have led to our current structure, and see if there are sinful practices that need to be changed. In reading Green's new biography of William Booth, it is evident that all was not well in the early days of the Army, particularly following the death of Catherine, when family relationships were allowed to disintegrate, and there seemed to be much of a sense of an autocratic, my way or the highway kind of leadership. Did that seem right at that time? Were there those who were suggesting that might not be a biblical model of a church? Is a military structure an appropriate one for the community of believers? Did the urgency of Booth's desire to bring salvation to the world absolve him of a day-to-day disregard of those who worked with him and who dared to disagree?

It raises the question for me: does the Spirit reveal new direction as needed for cultural shifts? Can what was right and blessed by God in 1880 be in need of a new revelatin? Reading recently about Phoebe Palmer, her view of motherhood and the tragic loss of her children as infants seemed so foreign to me. But her reaction was apparently quite typical of the 1800's, as evidenced in the his (her)-stories of other women of that age. But today, we would have a different understanding of the providence of God, and most likely, would come to a very different conclusion theologically than she did. What changed? Has God changed his mind? Has the Spirit blown in a different direction? Do we see through different lenses?

Sarah Heaner Lancaster helps me to put this in perspective:
Having differences between the views of the past and the views of the present is not, however, a new problem. Christians continually carry on dialogue with the past as worship practices adapt to new contexts, as ethical issues that could never even have been conceived centuries ago have to be addressed, as growing understanding of how the physical world operates raises questions about how to understand God's relationship to that world. We come to undersatand the relevance of knowing God in our daily lives precisely as we engage in how to think about these issues. Christians participate in this dialogue all the time, even if it is not always openly acknowledged. (Women and the Authority of Scripture, 170).

Is there sin in the camp? Are there practices that were once acceptable but now are sinful? How are people treated, respected, welcomed? How is money raised, spent? Are people freed or bound? How are minorities included? Is Jesus Christ the focus of attention? Are our employees treated fairly? Do we say one thing and then do another corporately? Have we claimed to be something we're not? Have our holiness teachings wavered? Or have they numbed us to the possibility of both sinful structures and sinful treatment of each other? Are we truly doing the most good? Should we be saying that? Do we make decisions based on scripture or preserving the status quo? Do we exalt people instead of Jesus?

I've been reading Ezekiel each morning, and I want to tell him, "enough, already" - there's nothing gentle or sensitive about his words. I find myself in a hurry to turn the pages to the gospels, because I want to get on to grace. But Jesus spoke condemning words as well, and they were to those who thought they were without sin, who boasted of their own righteousness. Perhaps it is time to hear Ezekiel's voice once more. Is it time to listen to the words of the Spirit to the churches in the beginning of the book of Revelation? How can we answer Jesus' challenge: the one without sin, cast the first stone? And what of his challenge to Peter - do you love me?

OK, enough for now. I'll close with the words of Herbert Howard Booth (SASB 409)

Before thy face, dear Lord,
Myself I want to see;
And while I every question sing,
I want to answer thee.
While I speak to thee,
Lord, thy goodness show,
Am I what I ought to be?
O Saviour, let me know.

Am I what once I was?
Have I that ground maintained
Wherein I walked in power with thee,
And thou my soul sustained?

2006-03-07T17:38:00.000-08:00

All too often, I find myself staring at the tiny pieces that make up the narrative of my life. A sentence here, a comma there, isolated from the other parts that form the over-arching story. Driving into the office this morning, I began to weave together a number of threads that finally are coming to merge into a shadowy image, an image of a weary woman. I've known her before, as a sometimes visitor, although not welcome guest. Today, though, I recognized that she moved into the house while I was occupied elsewhere, and is prepared to fight any attempt, however feeble it may be, at eviction.

Hers is not a weariness from doing too much, but a weariness of soul, that has seemingly seeped into my body as well.

The threads that shape this image are wound around spools of circumstances that have gained much too much power over the woman that I am. That is a great sorrow to me, and also a source of anger that I must find ways to harness before it manages to choke me.

Perhaps I need to invite Jennifer Louden's Comfort Queen to come and duke it out with this imposter, or offer her a cup of tea.