along the way

County Fair A Step Back in Time

2011-08-17T21:11:00.000-05:00

Walking onto the grounds of Farm Bureau Park just outside Eureka during the annual Woodford County 4-H Fair is like taking a step back in time. Unlike most county fairs, this one doesn’t have the chaotic hum of a loud midway with carnival barkers, flashy rides and greasy foods.

This annual Woodford County August event is all about 4-H—the exhibits, the show animals, and the kids who put their hearts and souls into their projects all year.

Here, it’s quiet, except for the murmured conversations between judges and 4-Hers participating in interview judging, the booming voice of a judge from across the park at the animal barns during a livestock contest, and the occasional call over the loudspeakers announcing the next category up for judging.

The closest things here to the Ferris wheel and the tilt-a-whirl featured at most county fairs are the swings and slides at the playground equipment next to the exhibit building. However, flyers posted on a wooden sign outside the exhibit building tell of the kind of activities offered in place of the usual fair rides: a clover scavenger hunt, where participants look for posters throughout the park with 4-H clovers on them and note their locations; and Club Olympics, in which 4-H clubs compete in group contests. Then there are the Marshmallow creations and Oreo Cookie Stacking contests.

And instead of commercial food stands, selling everything from elephant ears to kabobs, the two food stands on the grounds have simpler menus. The one near the livestock exhibits offers more typical fair fare, like corn dogs and nachos. But the main food stand at the front of the park, run by the women of the Woodford County Home and Community Education Board, boasts a more homemade menu of pulled pork, pork chops, cakes and pies—even biscuits and gravy. It’s their biggest fundraiser of the year.

The closest thing to air conditioning is the breeze created by the electric fans in every building on the grounds. No air-conditioned buildings means no immediate relief from the oppressive heat this year. The trees on the grounds make plenty of shade, though, and there are plenty of picnic tables throughout the park on which to stop and rest and chat.

Once in awhile, when we’re sitting in the shade, watching the goings on, feeling a cross breeze that’s enough to bear the heat, we remember why we do this every year. And we realize why the Woodford County Fair hasn’t changed much over the years. It’s perfect just the way it is.

Final Haku for Willow

2011-08-17T20:59:00.000-05:00

Most of you know by now that Willow, the tiny kitten I adopted recently, died soon ater I brought her home. I wrote this Haiku shortly after she passed. I will likley write mor about the experience later, but let this serve as her memorial for now.

A fragile Willow,

Lying listless in my arms

Sucks in her last breaths.

Willow Haiku

2011-08-13T21:34:00.000-05:00

I just adopted a new kitten. Her name is Willow, and, of course, she's very adorable. I will write more about the experience of adopting a second cat later, but for now I want to share some Haiku I've written about Willow and her big sister, Juju. (You can read some Haiku I wrote about Juju here.)

Plush squirmy Willow

Purrs warmly upon my heart

Sleepy and content

Willow hangs aloft
Limbs dripping through my fingers
Wigg’ling and squawking

Supreme Queen Juju

Hisses and snaps at Willow

All to no avail

Wobbly Willow leaps,

Prancing across the carpet

Assured of her worth

Juju nudging feet

Willow nesting on shoulder

I am doubly blessed

If Only in my dreams

2011-04-13T21:33:00.000-05:00

I had a dream about my friend Paula the other night…or, rather, I dreamed about my grief over Paula’s death. In the dream I was with a person I know, though not well, in Eureka. He invited me to his house, along with a number of other people. It was a complex and bizarre, but not intense or scary, dream. I talked to him about Paula and my loss and felt comforted.

It’s been three months now, and I still feel so raw…so alone…just hollow. Not all the time, just when I think to myself, “Paula would think that’s funny,” or “I should ask Paula about that.” That’s often enough.

I still get racked with sobs when she comes wandering through my mind, agonizing over her children’s lives or fretting over her mother’s poor health, distressing over her family’s complications.

I remember how she always liked to be in control of any situation, and I laugh just a little. Then I think about how she would feel when she realized she’s not in control over anything, and I tear up again.

I’m not in control, either. For instance, I’d have taken Paula’s place if I could—traded my life for hers. It wasn’t up to me, though. I’m still ticked off at God about that.

I don’t know why I lived and she died. We both had such similar health issues—a bacterial infection that attacked the heart. But while I made it through the months-long struggle to survive two years ago, she died within two weeks of collapsing at her daughter’s Girl Scout Christmas party when her heart

stopped.

The thing is—and I don’t say this lightly nor to elicit pity—I’ve been thinking her life was worth more than mine is. I know she had more at stake when she died—a husband, kids, a career, an elderly mother who had already lost two sons, a large extended family whose lives were intricately interwoven with hers.

I know we both have made a difference in the lives of others through our work—Paula as a funeral director then pharmacist, as well as a mom; I as a writer and minister. Like her, I have friends and colleagues who would miss me just as much as we miss her.

And I, too, have a large extended family, but we’ve lived independently from one another for a long time. I’m not saying they wouldn’t grieve for me, but I don’t think their grief would co

mpare to the pain Paula’s children are feeling right now.

That statement is not meant to be cruel, just matter-of-fact. It doesn’t diminish the deep love we have for one another. Nor does it mean we don’t feel loss. It’s just that we lead separate daily lives.

In talking about this with my friend, Julie, a minister in California, I was reminded of something I always have believed—one life isn’t worth more than another. We can’t quantify life by listing the types of relationships we have, what we do for a living or the number of things we accumulate. Each life carries its own intrinsic worth.

So, ultimately, I know this is grief mixed with my own life-long struggle to find meaning. Asking why she died and I lived is not the question. I don’t get it, and it frustrates me, but it’s futile to obsess over a question for which there is no easily discernable answer.

Why do good people suffer? Why do bad people prosper? Why are we here in the first place? Philosophers and theologians, as well as learned people in all areas of study have made it their life’s work to find answers to these questions. I’ve spent a bit of time on such cosmic questions, myself.

To quote the great philosophers, The Indigo Girls, “There’s more than one answer to these questions pointing me in a crooked line, and the less I seek my source for some definitive the closer I am to fine.”

Instead of agonizing over Paula’s death and asking for an explanation, I need to ask myself (and God) “what now? Where do we go from here?”

I wasn’t ready to ask that question when I was deep in my pain. But now it feels right to move on. As one of my seminary pastoral counseling professors often said, “A crisis from which we don’t learn and grow is a crisis wasted.”

I can’t fill the holes Paula left in the lives of others when she died. We all lead different lives, after all, so we can’t take the place of another. However, I can make sure she is not forgotten.

I can participate in the memorial garden being planned for her by her daughter’s Girl Scout Troop. I can write to her kids about what a great person she was and tell them how she would regale us with stories of their recent adventures and discoveries in the world around them. Those stories were always told with humor, fascination and love.

I can also put renewed energy into some of the work I’m already doing. Paula’s love for her children and people of all ages inspires me to rededicate myself to my advocacy work for children and abuse survivors. In Paula’s name, I will do whatever I can to ensure all children have what they need to grow into productive, wonder filled, hope-full adults.

Through such work, I might, with God’s help, finally “turn my mourning into dancing.” (Psalm 30)

Amazing Grace

2011-04-11T11:35:00.000-05:00

This is a Word Cloud of Amazing Grace using Wordle dot net:

Remembering Paula

2011-01-22T17:35:00.000-05:00

My life-long friend Paula died on Christmas Eve. I’ve lost friends to death before, but none hit me quite like this.

At first, I was stunned. I couldn’t believe it. She was supposed to get better; she was supposed to survive.

She had collapsed at her daughter’s Girl Scout Christmas party. Her heart just stopped beating—no warning, no signs of illness or weakness; she hadn’t even complained of so much as a headache that day.

Paramedics managed to get her heart started again, and although she was in intensive care and on 24-hour dialysis, the doctors saw hope in her relative young age—48—and her otherwise good health. She was responding to commands and showed signs of recognition when shown a picture of her kids. They said it was likely a viral infection had attacked her heart, and that she had a good chance of fighting it off over time.

I remember telling a friend who asked about her that it would be a long, difficult road to recovery. But I was absolutely certain recovery would come, eventually. After all, I had made it through a remarkably similar health crisis two years earlier.

Just before Christmas, 2008, I was living on the east coast and came down with what I thought was the flu. It turned out to be an antibiotic-resistant infection that attacked my mitral heart valve. Pieces of the infection broke off and floated to my brain, causing a series of mini strokes.

I had to have the valve replaced and was in ICU for two solid months, followed by physical, speech and occupational therapy for nearly the rest of 2009. I had to endure a feeding tube, a tracheotomy, hallucinations…I had to relearn to walk, think coherently, even write my own signature.

It was an excruciatingly long, arduous and, at times, tedious journey, and I continue to have serious health issues, but I’m alive.

I survived. Why didn’t she?

My friend, Elaine, called me with the news. I could tell she had been crying. The family had made the difficult decision to take Paula off the machines keeping her alive. Her organs had begun shutting down. Tests found no brain waves. She’d only been in the hospital two weeks.

Why didn’t she survive? Why couldn’t her body fight the infection like mine had? It didn’t make sense.

She had kids—two boys, 14 and 7, and a girl, 10. She had a husband. She had four sisters, a brother, several nieces and nephews and a mother who loved her.

She had a career as a pharmacist and did volunteer work. She had compassion, wisdom beyond her years, and a keen sense of observation, along with a dry sense of humor. She was a loyal and good friend to many, many people, including me.

In 1991, I wrote a Frankly Speaking column about her as she was about to get married—on Valentine’s Day, no less. In it, I wrote, “I was there when her father died. She was with me at my brother’s funeral. We saw each other graduate from college and attended each other’s family functions. When I go home, my family asks, ‘How’s Paula?’ And I feel as much at home in her house as in mine. Some of my family will be at her wedding today.”

Much of my family attended her visitation, too. It felt like losing a family member. Even Paula’s family acknowledged her unique relationship with her friends—they counted us as family, because Paula counted us as family.

In that column long ago, I also wrote, “…with all the people who have come and gone in my life, there is one constant: Paula.”

Now that one constant is gone, swept abruptly from this life and the family and friends who loved her. And I am left with the profoundly desolate feeling that life does not make sense.

Paula believed in God. I believe in God. I believe in eternal life, and that it is infinitely better than this worldly life. However, I don’t believe that God ‘takes’ people when God wants them. I do, on the other hand, believe God accepts all who come in love, including Paula.

But I am not ready to accept that this was Paula’s ‘time.’ I guess I’m still in the denial stage of grief, mixed with a little anger. It will take some time to come to acceptance.

In the meantime, I will continue to keep Paula’s family and friends in my prayers. I will do my best to keep her memory alive for her children, who only caught a glimpse of the extraordinary person their mother was.

And I will continue to work through my own grief until I get to the other side of it—acceptance and even joy at having known Paula as one of my dearest life-long friends.

Give thanks with a grateful heart...

2010-11-10T10:10:00.000-05:00

The following is the devotion I gave at the November meeting of Maple Lawn Home’s Auxiliary. These are snippets from websites that express what the person is thankful for. None of them are mine, but I identify with several of them.

I found them by typing, “I am thankful for…” in Google. These are some of the items that popped up.

I present them here in honor of Thanksgiving.

I am thankful for my family because they’re always there for me.
I am thankful for a lot of things…my good health, my friends, my coach, my family, my faith, all the people in my life ...
I Am Thankful For the teenager who is not doing dishes but is watching TV , because that means he is at home and not on the streets. ...
I am thankful for those who invented cameras (and) photography
I am thankful for all the good memories
I am thankful for the smiles of my children, for the feel of their arms strangling my neck, for the trust I see in their eyes, for the peace I see in their faces when they sleep, for the joy in their faces when they play in fresh snow, for the simple fact that they are alive.
I am thankful for the love our family shares and the love we share with friends.
I am thankful the chance to stop and take a deep breath now and then and savor the beauty that surrounds me and keeps me sane!!
I am thankful for hugs.
I am thankful for having chosen to take a path less travelled, firm in my belief and my resolve that I would make a positive difference, that I would help
I am thankful for my mother and my brother, and my papa, who is always with me.
I am thankful for my friends, both near and far.
I am thankful for pumpkins.
I am thankful for leaves that change color.
I am thankful for hockey.
I am thankful for books. Especially cookbooks.
I am thankful for measuring spoons. And flour. And sugar. And butter. And eggs.
I am thankful for a lawn that needs mowing, windows that need cleaning and gutters that need fixing because it means I have a home. ...
I am thankful for My Eyes
I am thankful for 16 wonderful years with my daughter Danielle and her friends.

Idiomatically Speaking

2010-10-08T21:44:00.000-05:00

Once upon a time…well, actually it was just the other day, I was mulling over the colorful idioms—figures of speech—we sprinkle into our everyday conversations. For instance, when I ride the Maple Lawn bus to town on shopping trips, a man in the front always says “We’re off like a herd of turtles!” as we leave the parking lot.

Then others chime in with, “we’re off to the races,” or “off like a dirty shirt.” Then on the return trip, someone always says, “Home James,” to which the driver—whose name is John—replies, “There’s no James here.”

We all chuckle good naturedly, but that led me to questions like, Where do these quaint sayings come from? Why do they endure? How do they become commonly known within a particular culture?

But I’ll leave those questions for another column. Because when I brought the subject up at Pizza Hut recently, where I hang out with my posse after church choir practice, a friend mentioned off-handedly, “wouldn’t it be interesting to write an entire column idiomatically?”

I was dumbfounded! She had thrown down the gauntlet. It was an offer I couldn’t refuse, a chance to achieve greatness. I had to see this through to the bitter end. So here it is—my crowning glory or my agonizing defeat—you decide.

A re-telling of Hans Christian Andersen’s The Princess and the Pea, with alternate ending

Long ago, in a kingdom far, far away, there was a prince who was dying to get hitched to a princess; but she had to be the real McCoy, he wasn’t going to settle for just any plain Jane. He gallivanted across the globe looking under every rock and behind every tree, but he came up empty-handed every time.

The earth was crawling with princesses—you couldn’t swing a cat without hitting one of them—but it was a whole other kettle of fish, to crack the code and figure out if she were the real deal or simply a gold-digger.

There was always something about them that seemed shady, not quite kosher, off the beam, a little fishy. So he would schlep back to his crib bummed out after each of his failed missions.

He felt like he was tilting at windmills and was ready to throw in the towel. All he wanted was to make the genuine article his main squeeze. But he was bound and determined to follow his quixotic quest to kingdom come or die trying.

One dark and stormy night it was raining cats and dogs and the thunder and lightning were giving a show-stopping display of nature’s fireworks. Out of the blue, came a pounding at the city gate, and the old buzzard, er, I mean, king went to open it.

Lo and behold it was a princess standing out there, bold as brass for all the world to see! But, goodness gracious, she looked like something the cat dragged in—like a drowned rat, death warmed over on a bad day—I mean she was ugly as a mud fence! Her hair looked like wet noodles, and her clothes were hanging off her, sopping wet. Still, she swore up and down, cross her heart and hope to die, that she was a real princess.

“Well, we'll see about that,” thought the old biddy, I mean, queen. She didn’t tip her hand, but she had a plan up her sleeve. She was going to set a trap for the ragamuffin claiming to have royal blood.

The queen wanted to test the theory that real princesses were delicate, but she stacked the deck against the interloper. She went into the guestroom, stripped the bed, and laid a pea on the bottom. Then she took 20 mattresses and laid them on the pea, and then 20 eider-down beds on top of the mattresses.

This is where the princess was expected to lay her head and drift off to slumber land. In the morning, the royal family eagerly asked how she had slept.

"I didn’t sleep a wink!" she exclaimed. "I tossed and turned all night. Heaven knows what was in the bed. I searched high and low, but couldn’t find hide nor hair of the bugger. I don’t know what it was, but it was hard as a rock and sharp as a tack. My body is riddled with bruises—I’m black and blue all over. It stinks!"

They were filled with shock and awe. She had passed with flying colors. Now they were 100 percent sure that she was a real princess because she had felt the pea right through the mountain of mattresses.

So the prince took the princess for his bride and they lived happily ever after, just one big happy family….or did they?

Alternate ending

Once the prince discovered that a marriage to the princess would carry on the royal blood line, he got down on one knee and popped the question on the spot. The princess, however, was having none of that. She put her hands on her hips and said, “whoa, hold your horses, buddy.

“You hardly know me from Eve. And don’t give me that ‘love at first sight’ business, I saw your look of horror when I showed up dripping wet on your doorstep.

“You couldn’t wait to get rid of me, and your mom, here, tried to pull the wool over my eyes with that crazy contraption of a bed. None of you gave me the benefit of the doubt when I insisted I was truly of royal blood.

“Now, if you want me to be your one and only, I suggest we back up a few steps. We’ll start with courting, then you’ll meet the parents. We can take long walks and talk a blue streak, sharing our tastes in music and art, our party affiliations and our thoughts on going green.

“Then if we decide we were made for each other,” she said, holding up her left hand, “you can put a ring on it.”

The prince, who had never met such a forward woman, except perhaps, the queen mum, stood there like a deer caught in the headlights before putting his big boy boxers on. He reared up, squared his shoulders, looked her straight in the eye and said, “OK.” It sounded to him like much ado about nothing, but he thought it prudent not to open that can of worms just yet.

He was really jonesing to grab the brass ring—she was the prize, and he was going to win her hand come hell or high water. Little did he know he had just met his match, and she was going to have him wrapped around her finger before he knew what hit him.

Then they lived happily ever after, or at least stuck to each other like glue, for better or worse, through thick and thin, until the 12th of never…and that’s a long, long time.

[As published in the Woodford County Journal Oct. 7, 2010]

A Note to my Body

2010-09-13T00:34:00.000-05:00

I can feel my surgery-sweet blood, traveling down my veins, like a slow, syrupy drip.
It seeps into every part of my body, I shiver and press numb fingers to my pounding head.
My heart beats heavily. I am alone in my grief tonight.
Alone in my convictions to reclaim my life,
Regain composure,
Find clarity of thought,
Peace of mind, body and soul.
I am the walking dead.
The abused and abuser in one moment, one act, one neglectful, thoughtless, self-destructive lifetime.
I turn to my body for answers, but it does not speak. Trust is gone.
I plead, “Tell me what you need, what you claim as your right, what you desire.”
“Eyes, what is it you wish to see?
How can I clear the way to comprehend your vision?'
“Feet, where is it you want to walk?
Can you lead me to the clear, cool waters, walking upstream to see what is offered there?'
“Shoulders, what are you carrying?
What burdens can I remove from you?'
“Jaws, clinched and clinching, what do you want to say?
Would I even recognize your voice?'
“Head, swimming and brimming with, overwhelmed by…what?
What would give you clarity, what would cool your fever?'
“Stomach, round, curved, always yearning to be fed, even when the brain says, ‘Enough!’
How can I satiate you?”
Body, myBody…
I can feel my surgery-sweet blood, traveling down my body, like a slow, syrupy drip…
Walk me to the river.
Let me wash away the sins of my own making.
Let me come up from the waters, renewed, reborn, reclaimed.

Beach Feet

2010-09-13T00:09:00.000-05:00

NOTE: The following is an article I wrote when I was a chaplain-in-residence at Georgetown University to students in my dorm. I wrote a regular online column called Feed Your Spirit. (I've updated it here.)\

A few years ago, I was leading a women's retreat in Bethany Beach, Delaware. The church campgrounds where we stayed was literally two blocks from the ocean. We took advantage of the location by planning plenty of breaks in the retreat schedule so we could walk to the beach 2 or 3 times a day.

So I spent a lot of time standing on the shore with my feet planted in the sand, allowing the waves to crash over my feet. It was during a tropical storm that caused some concern but little damage to the area. It was wreaking havoc further south along the Atlantic, but we were just experiencing some residual stormy weather and high winds.

The waves were pretty fierce that weekend. I usually found myself mesmerized as I stood there watching them crest and fall onto the shore. They would crisscross each other, racing to the sloping sand.

Often, I had to replant my feet as the larger waves came and washed over them. I could feel the sand slip out from under me, so I would shift my weight and twist my feet to make sure I didn't fall into the water. It actually took some agility and muscle to make sure I didn't have to trudge back to the cabin soaking wet from head to toe.

Growing up in the Midwest. I didn't have an ocean to visit. I am more accustomed to rivers and streams. I am used to being able to count on the shore to hold me fast without fear of being towed under. The banks of a river are usually more solid, less fragile than an ocean beach on a stormy day.

So my beach experience was a new one, and something that got me thinking about life itself. I thought of many life metaphors staring at the ocean, but the most significant was that life is always shifting and changing...you might need to reestablish your footing, shift your position, change your perspective, in order to meet life head on.

Maybe that sounds 'cheesy,' but you all are in a position of great change and it may seem like the ground beneath you is constantly shifting. Dig your toes in and hang on!

An Unblinding Light

2010-09-01T20:09:00.000-05:00

Oprah is smiling at me from the magazine rack across the waiting room at Barnes Retina Institute in St. Louis. With her arms flung wide, her body slightly bent at the waist, she looks ready to laugh with her whole body.

I stare at her for awhile, wanting to be in on the joke. When she becomes blurry, I will know that the eye drops the technician put in several minutes ago have taken effect.

Maybe if they dilate soon, we can get this over with quickly. It’s my sixth surgery to correct diabetic retinopathy, but I am not used to this procedure. I can’t shake the anxiety of waiting.

I close my eyes to help speed the process of opening my pupils wide so the doctor can shine his bright light into them and cauterize the swollen, leaking blood vessels behind the retina and prevent any potential vision loss.

“I’ve had about 67 of these surgeries,” an older man’s voice invades my thoughts. Sitting behind me, he tells his friend about his struggles with diabetes. “I just can’t get it under control,” he says.

I try to remember when was the last time I monitored my blood sugar…and did I remember to take my medicine today? What about that donut I had last night? “I’m killing myself from the inside,” I chide myself. “God, don’t let me go blind,” I almost whisper. I shift in my seat, check my watch and survey the overflowing waiting room. It’s going to be a long afternoon.

The waiting room is nearly empty when my name is finally called. I follow another technician to a smaller room with a lot of strange equipment that has begun to at least look familiar. The doctor greets me kindly, if not warmly.

His name is Dr. Blinder. Even in my anxiety, I always want to tease him in a voice reserved for close friends, “So, Dr. Blinder, anybody give you a hard time about your name?”

But he doesn’t invite such familiarity. Soft-spoken and reserved, he looks like he takes his job way too seriously. Today, though, I’m glad he does, so I decide again not to broach the subject.

More eye drops go in, these to numb my eyes. The doctor adjusts the chin rest so that if I lean forward a bit, I can rest my head in front of his machine almost comfortably. The technician fastens a cloth band around the back of my head, “just to remind you to keep your chin down during the procedure,” she says.

During a series of equipment adjustments and murmured communication between doctor and assistant, my heart begins to beat faster…almost imperceptibly at first. “Breathe,” I tell myself as the doctor puts a sort of monocle in my left eye to keep it open. “Don’t forget to breathe.”

It’s a brief warning before the flashes of light begin. The intense white light seems to bore through my pupil and into my body. My toes curl and lift off the ground. My fingers clench around the armrests. I concentrate on my breathing again to suppress the scream welling up in my chest.

“Just breathe,” I urge myself as the laser flashes over and over. “In…out; again, in…out.”

“Try to keep your right eye open,” he says gently. But it is almost impossible, as it tightens defensively against the tortuous light. Twice before, my opposite eye squeezed so tightly, the monocle popped out.

It seems like an eternity, but it couldn’t be more than fifteen minutes before the doctor turns off the light, moves his machine back and says, “OK, all done. You did great.”

Unstrapped from the chin rest, I look around the room. Everything is bathed in red. I know it will go away, but it always startles me. I nod as the doctor tells me to “take it easy” for the rest of the day. We exchange pleasantries.

Walking back into the empty waiting room, I fish around in my bag for the sunglasses I am almost positive I dropped in there this morning. I’m going to need them. It is so bright in here.

*NOTE: Since writing this for a seminary class assignment in 2002, I have had several more surgeries in both eyes. I am legally blind in my right eye and have significant damage in the left one. Doctors say my eyes have stabilized—meaning no current leakage—but no treatment or surgery can get the vision that I’ve lost back. My diabetes continues to be a struggle, and I now take insulin to control it.

Battle scars

2010-08-30T22:51:00.000-05:00

I don't always notice it when I'm looking in the mirror. But every so often, it stands out in stark contrast to my pale skin.

I run my fingers along the red-rimmed, slightly crooked valley it left on my chest…and I thank God again for staying steadfastly by my side—through what I blithely refer to as my 2008 “health crisis.”

The valley is created by a combination of two overlapping scars. One is a misshapened, round dent in my throat where a tracheotomy was once performed to help me breathe. The other is a narrow scar that runs from my throat, down along my breast bone to the top of my ribcage. That's from the heart valve replacement.

It's hard for me to believe, but I've had these scars for over a year and a half now. The heart surgery dates back to Christmastime, 2008. I had an infection that destroyed my mitral valve. Bits of infection broke off and floated to my brain, causing a stroke.

The trach came later--sometime in January or February. I was having trouble catching my breath and kept passing out when my breathing stopped altogether. I couldn't talk for a long time and was on a feeding tube at one point.

There was a time where I felt virtually no emotion. I couldn’t write, couldn’t pray, couldn’t laugh or cry. It concerned me; I wondered if I would ever feel again, ever love again, if I would ever be passionate about anything again. But somehow, I persevered and eventually broke through my flat affect.

I kept a journal in the hospital. My handwriting is shaky and I chose the wrong words sometimes. But on Feb. 5, 2009, I wrote, “I’m crying finally….I’m also talking to God again. ‘Hello, God. It’s me, Arlene. I’ve missed you.’”

It has been a slow, arduous recovery, and I still have setbacks from time to time, but it’s mostly behind me, now. When I look at these scars—unsightly as they are—I am not inclined to cover them up. I don’t feel self-conscious about them, nor am I embarrassed by how they look.

I wear these scars like a badge of courage, a gold star of achievement, an emblem of the journey from near-death back to full life. To me, they are beautiful.

They are my battle scars…reminding me of the journey home, with all its bumps, detours and turn backs; all its straight climbs and sharp curves, and all the falls and get-back-ups, too. These scars call out to me—“You are a survivor!”

Shades of Green

2010-08-26T00:06:00.002-05:00

Varigated green

Sweeps through the hearty landscape
Vibrant abundance

(A view of the gardens at Maple Lawn Homes in Eureka)

Persona Poem

2010-08-05T12:36:00.000-05:00

Arlene
Sister, friend, writer, pastor;
Lover of words, ideas, & stories;
Who dreams of peace in all nations, compassion in all hearts, & tolerance in all minds;
Who needs love, kindness & understanding;
Who gives her heart, freely; her mind openly; & her self, wholly;
Who fears darkness, emptiness, & loneliness;
Who would like to see wholeness of body, mind, & spirit
for everyone, everywhere, for all time;
Franks.

Peace Poem

2010-08-05T12:25:00.000-05:00

Peace
Precious, priceless
Yearning, seeking, grasping…
It is a journey, not a destination
Grace

Grandma's Garden

2010-08-05T12:19:00.001-05:00

As Published in the Woodford County Journal
July 29, 2010
Frankly Speaking

My Grandma Hansel was a hard woman to know. She was stern, austere—I saw her frown more often than smile. Her anger always frightened me, as I constantly thought I was in trouble for unknown misdeed.

She died when I was about 6 years old, so my memories of her were as a small child visiting her and Grandpa Hansel’s home near Terre Haute, Indiana. They had an old farm house on a few acres of land.

When we would visit from our small town near Indianapolis, we would pile out of the van—all 7 of us—and go around the house, past the kitchen door, by the root cellar where grandma cultivated her African violets.

I remember vividly going past the house lined with grandma’s flower beds, with large geodes and other stones from grandpa’s rock collection scattered around them.

We would walk by the garage, a barn-like structure that was full of equipment and tools and, well, stuff, up to the rafters. Attached to the garage was an outhouse.

I’m sure that many of you remember outhouses. This one was a two-holer that Grandpa had built and attached to the garage so young hoodlums couldn’t tip it over on Halloween. Grandpa didn’t put a bathroom in the house until the mid-1970s.

Beyond the buildings, the back lawn opened up to a magnificent garden. My eyes would widen as I took in the scene--my parents, grandparents, aunts and uncles brothers and sisters and cousins all milling about in the garden.
First, I would look through the tall corn stalks--as tall as sky-scrapers to me. I’d see a cousin peering back from the other end of the row, and we’d wave at each other.

Past the walls of corn, the garden opened up to plants with vines and leaves reaching out and overlapping one another. There were tomatoes of various colors and every kind of pepper one would want. She had varieties of squash and there were always potatoes; peas; carrots; radishes; turnips; pole beans, with their vines twirling around the tall sticks rising up from the ground…and kohl rabbi.

It was a root vegetable we would eat straight from the garden. I don’t even remember washing off the dirt! Even my picky-eater siblings liked it—it had a mild, slightly sweet taste as I recall. I haven’t had it sine then, because I’ve never found it in any store or vegetable stand.

Off to the side, in a place of honor it seemed, was an asparagus bed. Did you know that when you plant asparagus you don’t see the fruits of your labor for two years? I was always amazed at that, especially since I hate asparagus. But for Grandma, it was worth the wait and effort.

My grandmother spent all her time in the garden, planting, tilling, weeding, coaxing. My mom has stories from her childhood of grandma attempting to make dinner for the family.

She would put on a pot to boil, and go back to the garden. By the time she remembered to check the pot, there would be a hole in the bottom because all the liquid had boiled away. Consequently, my grandfather did most of the cooking.

When Grandma was in the garden, she came alive. She smiled, she laughed….you don’t know how rare it was to see my grandma laugh. I remember the sound of it, the way her eyes would crinkle and glisten as she talked to anyone who cared about her garden.

Sitting beside her on the big swing under the willow tree, I learned skills I rarely use anymore--shucking corn, shelling peas, snapping beans. But I also learned skills I still use--compassion, humor, curiosity as I listened to the adults talk and laugh and share family stories.

This is how my grandmother was able to express her love for her children and grandchildren. It was confusing to me, because this image of her was so different than the demanding and disapproving one I usually experienced.

As a child, I didn’t know who the real Grandma was, but looking back on that time, I realize now that both images were true and real.

Love is complicated and messy sometimes. At times, love is difficult to give and just as hard to receive. But love comes in so many packages, so many shapes and sizes. Love comes in unexpected ways, and we don’t always recognize it when it appears.

Sometimes it takes us years, even decades to look back and see clearly how an ordinary act held within it so much love. And at other times, love is immediately recognizable.

In my mind, I am about 4 years old looking at all the vines weaving around the tomato cages and sprawling out over the ground in Grandma’s garden. Those tomatoes looked like red and yellow jewels hidden within the prickly vines, but I knew better than to touch the forbidden fruit.

So I stand there lost in a daydream about a heroic girl fending her way through a vine-like forest to reach the lost treasure. Suddenly I become aware of my grandmother’s gaze on me. I look up into her eyes with more than a bit of fear, even though she is smiling at me. I always thought she could see right into my soul.

After a moment, without saying a word, she reaches into those tangled, sticky vines and plucks the reddest, most ripe tomato she sees. She hands it to me, the smile now enveloping her face and making her eyes sparkle.

“Here,” she says as she hands me the precious fruit. “Eat it just like an apple. You don‘t even need salt”
I do, and she is right, and it tastes like manna from heaven. For one clear moment, I know that she loves me, and that’s all that matters.

You've got to have friends

2010-07-17T12:49:00.000-05:00

As Published in the Woodford County Journal July 8, 2010
Frankly Speaking
You’ve got to have friends
By Arlene Franks

“A Friend won’t defend a husband who buys his wife an electric skillet for her birthday.” ~Erma Bombeck
So, let’s talk about reality TV. In an earlier “Frankly Speaking,” I wrote about crime shows, how addictive they are and harmful to our individual and collective sense of hope. This time, I want to make a case for how reality TV (which more accurately should be called surreality TV) tends to distort our perception of relationships.

Reality shows aren’t as addictive to me as crime shows. I weed most of them out categorically. I have rules, you know:

~no celebriality.

~nothing tacky, sleazy or salacious.

~no spoiled brats (see celebriality, above).

~no violent, mean, back-stabbing or scary reality.

~no ‘vote ‘em off the island’ (or outta the house) shows.

~no ‘get me a date’ (or a partner for the rest of my life) shows.

~no kiddie pageants (See spoiled brats, above).

That pretty-much pares it down to shows based on skill, like “Top Chef,” “Project Runway” and “The Amazing Race,” and even they get close to the edge sometimes.

Now, there have been times when I’ve broken my own rules and became engrossed in a show from my ‘no watch’ list. For instance, a couple of years ago, I somehow got caught up in one of those ‘find me a date’ shows. It fit squarely into several categories—sleazy, mean, vote ‘em off, pseudo celebriality, etc.

I’m embarrassed to say I watched every appalling episode, each more disgusting than the last. (shudder) I sat there week after week, asking myself, “Why am I watching this?” I excused it in my mind as being material for my continual study of human nature. (Yeah, well, it was the best I could come up with.)

This year, I used the same rationale for getting caught up in “The Real Housewives of New York.” What hooked me in was a conflict between two of the women that eventually affected the whole tribe of wealthy and privileged women the show follows to each party; shopping trip; and self-promoting, exhibitionist event around NYC.

It was a silly, petty argument that turned into a major messy brawl. Most of the women were taking sides, while one woman valiantly tried to bridge the rift until the pressure got to her and she exploded all over the place. It wasn’t pretty.

But what was even uglier was the way these women—purported to be friends—treated one another. Degrading one another in public, making snide comments behind the other’s back, laughing in triumph each time they won in their ‘gotcha’ game—they were vicious. And, in my humble opinion, that’s not friendship.

I grew up with TV as a constant backdrop to my life. I know how influential it can be to kids just forming their world views. Reality TV strengthens the stereotypes that feed our bigotry and make our lives smaller.

In the ‘reality’ world:

~women are catty—they bicker and treat one another shabbily.

~men are Neanderthals—rude, crude and lewd—who get into trouble whenever they’re together.

~marriage is based on looks, lies, and wealth—infidelity is ramped.

~families are completely hopeless, with idiot parents who live vicariously through their children who are wild, entitled and ungrateful.

~friendships are superficial, interchangeable, and disposable—if one doesn’t fit throw it away and try another one on for size.

Isn’t that a pretty bleak and even dangerous view of the world? It certainly runs counter to my own experience. I have found most people in my world to be kind, compassionate, and giving. Most folks have a sense of humor, taking themselves lightly and their life’s call seriously.

Friends, I’ve found, bear one another’s burdens. While you’re laid up, they plow your fields and take care of your family. They bring you flowers from their gardens, food from their kitchens and books and music from their personal collections…along with prayers from their hearts.

I’ve been in the hospital on several occasions lately, and each time, my friends have sat with me, making jokes and exchanging small talk while we waited for the doctors to come back with test results. They’ve acted as advocates for me, telling the medical team things I’d forgotten about my history, asking questions I hadn’t thought of, calling family and friends on my behalf.

They’ve visited with my cat to make sure she is fed and doesn’t get lonely. While there, they even cleaned the place up! Now that’s friendship.

Friends treat you with respect—they wouldn’t say behind your back what they shouldn’t say when you’re face to face. They know when to be on your side and when to tactfully tell you you’re wrong. And you know they’re right.

As friends we make impromptu ‘play dates’ with one another; care for one another’s spirits; allow the other to be truly unique, truly genuine. We give one another a voice. We cry together, laugh together, and sit in silence together.

That, to me, is what true friendship is. Not the fluff and junk of television. Of course, we all know this to be true—don’t we? I hope so. I hope we recognize reality TV for what it is—ratings-grabbing, shock-producing, hate-mongering, muck-raking TV…not to mention mind-numbing.

But, alas, reality shows are cheap to make, and they continue to be oh, so popular. Ratings sell, you know. Conversely, logic would dictate that if we stop watching them, they’ll likely go away.

With that in mind, I recommit myself to questioning why I watch, to keep adding to my ‘no watch’ list and to trying harder to adhere to it. And perhaps you can join me in making this pledge:

“I sincerely pledge to help decrease the popularity of reality shows by not following them, discussing them, betting on them, imitating them or supporting them in any way.”

Maybe one day, the era of reality TV will be over and real life can once again thrive.

Eureka: Not Your Ordinary Community

2010-06-18T16:15:00.000-05:00

As published in the Woodford County Journal June 17, 2010
Frankly Speaking
Eureka: Not your ordinary community
By Arlene Franks

Let me introduce you to some remarkable young women—Jean, Rebecca, April and Shalon. But, then again, you may already know them. They all grew up here in Eureka.

On Saturday, May 8, I attended Eureka College’s graduation and Don Littlejohn’s memorial service.

I was privileged to observe them at some of life’s pivotal moments and was struck by just how extraordinary these young women are—poised, accomplished, kind, generous, creative, talented, gracious and appreciative.

As I sat misty-eyed, remembering their childhoods, I watched in awe and wonder as they participated in the events of the day.

• Shalon Woolridge graduated with honors from EC.

• April McClure-Stewart spoke at the graduation as the president of the alumni association and gave a solo vocal performance at the funeral.

• Jean and Rebecca Littlejohn participated in their grandfather’s service. Jean played the piano and talked of Don’s love of music. Rebecca talked about Don’s devotion to peace and justice issues and served as a worship leader.

I mention these young women, not to single them out as unique in this community, but rather to express just how ordinary their extraordinariness is for people brought up in Eureka, Illinois.

All these young woman—and many young men and women much like them—grew up in our midst. They blossomed under the influence of great parents, a nurturing church and a supportive community. They had lots of opportunities for involvement and achievement, in academics, sports, art, music, plus plenty of opportunities to give back to the community themselves.

Young people from grade school through college get their pictures and write-ups in the Woodford County Journal. They are the stars of local parades, sporting events and local productions. They organize mission trips and local outreach.

They get to see early on that their lives make a difference. They get to feel good about themselves. Even the ordinary becomes extraordinary when surrounded by positive encouragement and celebration.

And a lot of that is on us, folks. Each one of us has an impact on our children—all the young ones in our community—whether we intend to or not.

It’s up to us to develop and maintain an encouraging environment, not just for children and youth, but for parents, grandparents, teachers, school administrators, counselors, those in positions of advocacy, and ministers—all of those directly involved with children and youth.

We do this not just for those who reach beyond the ordinary to grasp the extraordinary, but those who fall short, too. Some, a few, seem to have everything going for them, but for no apparent reason, just stop reaching.

There are kids who don’t have a good family, or whose families are doing the best they can, but are limited by financial, spiritual, or other issues. There are those who don’t have a religious community or something that feeds their spirit. Then there are those who are different, who don’t fit in, who are isolated and don’t feel the love of this community.

I know some of these young people, too. I’ll bet you do, as well.

Eureka needs to be a place where ordinariness, even failure, is OK. There should be an atmosphere where mistakes are allowed. It must be the land of second chances, third chances…a million new chances if necessary.

Think of it this way: As a child is learning to walk, she falls down often. Don’t you encourage her to get back up and try again every time she falls? You don’t just throw up your hands and walk away, do you? Or worse, do you berate her for her clumsiness? It’s no different for growing and grown children.

I invite all of us to be more thoughtful about our place in their lives, to be appreciative of their presence here, and to look for ways to encourage them as they grow into the adults they are to be. Through our involvement, we share the honor of watching our children bloom into teenagers and teens to young adults…and beyond. It’s our gift to the young ones; it’s their gift to us.

Crime Shows Can Kill You

2010-05-06T21:32:00.000-05:00

As published in the Woodford County Journal, May 6, 2010

Frankly Speaking
Crime shows can kill you
By Arlene Franks

I never realized how addicted I was to crime shows until I gave them up for Lent this year. I’d be sitting on the couch, flipping through the channels, and stop on something that caught my interest. I’d watch it for a few seconds before I noticed, “oh, this is a crime show,” and flip the channel.

It had become such a habit to tune in to a crime show—any crime show, any time of day or night—that I had to continually remind myself of my pledge to give them up for 40 days…and nights. It didn’t help that every other show was crime-related.

Between the ones in current production and those in syndication, they are everywhere! They’re on the major networks, ABC, NBC, and CBS; the so-called ‘women’s’ networks, Lifetime, LMN, and WE; the ‘character’ and ‘drama’ networks, USA, TNT, and BET; and the quirky ones, Bravo, FX and SPIKE. They are even on the ‘family-friendly’ stations like TBS, ABC Family and PBS!

And they come in a plethora of genres, many of them overlapping:

•Family-oriented: The Good Wife and Medium.
•Court-centered: Law and Order and The Good Wife.
•Quirky character-focused: CSI and Law and Order Criminal Intent.
•Comedic bent: Psych and The Closer.
•Paranormal: Medium and Saving Grace.
•Pseudo Paranormal: Psych and The Mentalist.
•Military-oriented: NCIS and NCIS Los Angeles.

The crimes are usually the big ones—murder, kidnapping, rape, torture. The officers of the court and police solve the cases in myriad ways:

•By profiling the perpetrator: Criminal Minds, and Numbers.
•With forensics: CSI, Bones. and Law and Order SVU.
•By eliciting a confession: The Closer and Law and Order Criminal Intent.
•As a puzzle to be solved: Without a Trace, NCIS and Cold Case.

Then there are the reality-based shows that investigate or reenact real crimes. With titles like Most Shocking…, Worlds Dumbest…, Caught on Tape, and Haunted Evidence, they show examples of kooky and bizarre crime; horrific and brutal crime, or insidious and mysterious crime.

These real-crime-as-entertainment shows are covered by channels like Discovery, The History Channel, E!, TruTV, MTV and VH1. I’m sure if they could link crime to food, there would be a show on the Food Network with a title like Recipe for Murder.

Whether they are character-driven, plot-twisting, or story-weaving so many of them fascinate me, intrigue me and, well, suck me in to their alternate universes. And I don’t think I’m alone, judging by the sheer number and variety of crime-related programs.

I’m not sure why I am attracted to crime shows. Maybe it’s like a train wreck—I don’t want to look, but I just can’t avert my eyes. And for that matter, I don’t know why society is so caught up in the vicarious crime wave.

Maybe we like crime shows so much because we can watch from a distance. We can watch without being a victim of crime; we can watch without being hurt. But I’m not so sure that’s a legitimate assumption.

For one thing, the constant bombardment of depictions of graphic and grisly crimes creates a numbing effect that keeps us coming back for more. The more we return to the scene of the crime, so to speak, the more empty we become. It takes more and more horrific images to stimulate emotion, empathy, compassion, from us.

When we look around at the world, through the lenses of our own experiences; media coverage of violence and threats of violence, wars and rumors of wars; realty shows focusing on every kind of crime imaginable; and finally, fictional programs centered on violent crimes, we get a view of the world that’s murky, ugly, cold and dangerous.

It’s the very antithesis of hope. We’re looking at the world as a place of scarcity—lacking in love, compassion, even safety. This is harmful to human beings and other living things.

I was pondering all this about two weeks into my crime show fast for Lent. It had taken me that long to remember that when a familiar crime scenario came up on the screen, I was to just keep flipping until I found something more uplifting. I even, on occasion, turned off the TV and enjoyed the silence for a change.

Then, I had an epiphany. It was February 28, to be exact. I was at church, listening to our guest speaker, Brandon Gilven, associate director of Week of Compassion, the disaster relief agency of the Christian Church (Disciples of Christ) talk about outreach.

Referring to the people of the early Christian movement, he said, they “chose to say ‘yes there is so much violence, destruction, and fear in the world. But we can look again and see…new life.’”

The treatment for this addiction is to cultivate hope. It’s about seeing the world as a place of abundance, not scarcity. It’s witnessing new life spring from death and destruction and then telling the world about it. It’s about looking at the world as it is and seeing what it has the potential to become.

Brandon recommends we “practice resurrection,” “Because a life of faith—a life of practicing resurrection is one in which one imagines a world filled with so much generosity, hope, and healing,

and then makes it so. All the while proclaiming destruction, loss, death, as heartbreaking as they are, are not the final words.”

That’s the answer I was looking for—how to reconcile my two very disparate images of the world. On the one hand, the world is a violent place, a place of sadness and fear. On the other, it is a place of incredible depth of spirit, compassion, and love. It’s about faith, belief that love is more powerful than fear; abundance is greater than scarcity; hope overcomes sadness.

I’m not going to tell you that I am now ‘over’ my addiction—that I have completely rid my life of crime shows. No addict is ever cured. The best I can say is that “I’m in recovery.” A big part of that recovery is cultivating hope.

Haiku featuring Juju Cat: Or how I broke free of writer's block

2010-01-25T21:35:00.026-05:00

Since my series of hospital stays ended last year, I haven't written much. Distracted by the amount of work it takes just to recover and maintain my health, I developed a severe case of writer's block. I had a lot to say, but the fear of saying it--putting it down in writing--crippled me.

I just couldn't sit down in front of the computer.

So, I went back to basics--pen and paper. And I used one of tools of my craft--Haiku. Nothing breaks the chains of writer's block like a good dose of Haiku. The Japanese poetic form forces the writer to convey in a few words and syllables a complete idea, a description of one moment in time or a visual image.

Haiku is a tool used in the craft of wordsmithing. It has rules and structure. Each of the three lines has a specific number of syllables--5, 7, and 5. It takes wordsmithing to select the precise word that conveys the meaning you want and the right number of syllables for the line.

Wordsmithing is a craft, much like welding or carving. It must be honed regularly through practice. But if you use the craft with thought, imagination ad creativity, you can create somethig profound or intriguing, provocative or evocative, something that clarifies or confuses.

In the coming days and weeks, I hope to an artist with my words. I have a lot to say, and fear no longer grips me, cripples or confines me. But fr now enjoy the following Haiku featuring my amazing cat, Juju, who never fails to inspire and amuse me. ..she is my muse.

Wonder Cat Juju
Targets, pounces and attacks
Another foe foiled

Green-eyed cat Juju
Her stare bores through my blue eyes
Piercing my reserve

Loving Cat Juju
Drapes my chest with her body
Purring in my ear

Sneaky Cat Juju
Climbs up cabinets and drawers
Seeking adventure

Napping Cat Juju

Curled up, face tucked under paws

Dozing and dreaming

Content Cat Juju
Stretches and yawns sleepily
Across laptop keys

Goddess Cat Juju

Peers regally out window

Claiming her domain

Agile Cat Juju
Springs up my shoulder with ease
Perching and posing

Leaping Cat Juju
Falls short of goal, shrugs and says
“I meant to do that”

Silly Cat Juju
Bats at me from hiding places
Keeping me amused

Letting go of the binding grip of secrets...

2009-10-11T00:53:00.002-05:00

I just watched a History Channel program entitled “The Secret History of the Ku Klux Klan”. I’m sill recovering.

I was feeling so overwhelmed by the horrific tales of violence and politic power wielded by these people for over a century that I called a friend in California in hopes that she could calm me down. Her first advice? “Turn it off!!”

But I couldn’t. I have secret of my own that I only tell people occasionally, and when I trust they won’t judge me when they find out. The town and county in which I grew up is the hotbed of Klan territory in Indiana. I’ve been both repelled by the Klan stories I’ve heard throughout my life and morbidly curious about their history…I’ve wanted to know why they are the way they are.

Whenever I hear about the Klan, I immediately feel guilty by association. It’s been a source of shame for me since I first heard about the meetings in the woods outside of town when I was a very young child. So when I told my friend this, she recommended—strongly—that if I felt compelled to watch it, I find a way to cleanse myself of its impact on me.

So this is my attempt at cleansing my soul from this terrible legacy that’s been foisted on me against my will. The Klan kept our town all white for decades.

First, let me say that no one in my immediate family or close circle of friends had sympathies for the Klan or their ideals. When my parents were in college, they participated in sit-ins at a local diner who wouldn’t serve Blacks at the counter. And my friends shared my own horror disgust that our hometown had a reputation for bigotry and the violence and hatred that always accompanies such attitudes. It was part of our collective feelings of inferiority.

There was a story that haunted me when I was growing up. It was about a murder in the county seat that took place in the 60’s. A young Black woman was selling encyclopedias door to door and she mysteriously disappeared. Her body was eventually found just outside of town. I don’t remember how she was killed, whether she was beaten or shot, but the case has never been solved. I suspect it’s a shared secret that some folks have taken to the grave and others continue to grasp tightly.

In my own hometown there is a popular cafeteria-style restaurant. There weren’t very many people of color going through the line, but on the occasions when one dared to, the server who took the entree orders would step back and cross his arms over his hest. It was a showy gesture that made it clear to everyone around him that he was refusing to serve anyone who wasn’t white. The server died several years ago. But why it was tolerated by the owners and managers of the restaurant for so many years is unfathomable.

When I meet an African-American from anywhere in Indiana, I’m hesitant to name the specific name of the town and county where I grew up. Once I reveal it to them, with an apology for the sins of my community, they say, “Oh yeah, we were always warned not to go there alone—especially at night!” They are always good-natured about it, almost like they have experienced that same attitude in other parts of the state and country.

But it’s not anywhere else; it’s my hometown. It’s personal. It’s shameful. And it makes me furious that they think they speak for all of us. In case I haven’t been clear, let me assure you--they don’t speak for me.

I haven’t mentioned the specific name of my home county or town here in this entry. It’s part of my profile here on my blog ad on Facebook. You can look it up if you want. But I withhold the names for a number of reasons.

1. It’s to protect the people I grew up with who are no guiltier of prejudice than I am. They may not want it revealed, and I want to respect their privacy.

2. I recognize that ours is not a unique story. There are lots of towns and areas of the country where the Klan is active. More’s the pity.

3. While this is a undeniable legacy of my hometown, it is not what defines its character. There is much more to the community that raised me than the Klan—a loving and spirited people, generous churches and other organizations, and compassionate individuals to name a few.

There’s a saying in 12-step groups—“You’re as sick as the secrets you keep.” In revealing my secret publicly, I wanted to cleanse myself of the darker side of my hometown. While I wasn’t wholly successful, it’s a start.

A Cat Named Juju

2009-09-21T18:23:00.006-05:00

I recently acquired a kitten--or, more accurately, she acquired me. They found her in the parking lot at my apartment complex.

I was going to the front office area, the other day, to get my mail when I heard someone say, "ask Arlene!."

I was about to ask, "Ask Arlene What?" when the office manager asked enthusiastically, "you want a cat? It's real friendly!

I took one look at he little black and white imp in her arms and said, "sure!"

And that's how I became a cat owner again. Just look at her...is she not the cutest little thing you ever did see? She's a furry ball of perpetual motion. She's quite the entertainer. She's a joy.

I took her to the vet last week ad they confrmed she is a girl (We weren't sure because she was so little. The folks in the apartment office figured her age at six weeks, but the vet said that, based on her weight--3 pound--she is more likely three months old.

She loves sitting in my front room window sill. It's where I used to have my 'Jesus collection,' until she jumped up there ad started knocking things off the shelf. I couldn't get after her too much, since it's a cat's natural instinct to be curious about the word around her. I'm on the look out for an enclosed case for my collection, as I figure she's not going to leave any surface untouched.

This is her perch in my bedroom closet. She's a jumper an a climber.

But mostly, she's a soft, furry bundle of energy. She's Juju.

Evelyn and Laurie

2009-09-03T16:24:00.002-05:00

This is a true story about my friend Laurie and her mother, Evelyn. I've used it in sermons on a variety of topics, such as grief and redemption. I had lunch with Laurie yesterday, and as we were talking about our lives, both the blessings and the burdens, I realized I have never told Laurie I'd written this story.

It's based on an email I received from her a few years ago. I present it here in memory of Evelyn, and in honor of Laurie.

Evelyn lay on her bed in the corner bedroom of the house where, as a widow, she had raised her four children on her own for the past nearly 30 years. As a hospice care nurse held and stroked her hand, she tried to allow her body to relax, like the nurse kept urging.

"Come on, Ev, you can do it," the nurse was saying. But the breaths kept coming out in rasping heaves. Her body was resisting death, just like she had for the past several months.

Always strong and independent, once by necessity, later, perhaps out of habit and a bit of pride, Evelyn had resisted every step of the way. First it was giving up her car, then enduring strangers in her house saying they were there to take care of her. And then there was that blasted walker. Why did her legs keep failing her? And her mind? She kept forgetting things. Now, she could feel her body shutting down moment by moment.

She knew it was near the end, and so did her family. Two of her children were in the other room, waiting. But they had been waiting for months, as they all thought she had reached the end of this life before. They'd said their good-byes more than once. They had made their peace.

“Why do I linger?” she thought.

"Come on, Ev, you can do it," she heard the voice say above her. Was it the nurse, or God? Either way, she wished she could tell the voice, "My name is Evelyn."

She became vaguely aware that there were more people in the room, now--her youngest daughter and son. The nurse must have called them in. It must be the end, again….

Laurie watched her mother's chest move up and down and heard the loud wheezing sound coming from her mother's throat. “Is this the end, again? How many times will we have to say good-bye?” she wondered.

The labored breath sounded ragged, as if torn from her body. She thought, could that really be coming from her mom? The nurse had told them the body does this at the end. It fights to continue, even when it's too weak to breathe. In fact, the body can be so weak, it can't relax.

Soon, the breathing changed to a quieter, more peaceful sound. It was a sign that her mom was able to relax, the nurse said. Then the sound stopped altogether. The silence was huge and overpowering in that small room, where, as a child, Laurie had run to her mother's side for comfort.

"Is she gone?" Laurie asked the nurse.

"Yes, she's gone," the nurse said.

The silence was replaced by sobs coming from her own throat and from her brother beside her. Suddenly, a loud gasp, a desperate intake of air came from the direction of the bed and it startled the two of them. She almost laughed when the nurse explained, "Sometimes they do that. They take one last gasp of breath."

Clearing her throat and wiping away the tears, Laurie hugged her brother and headed for the telephone. There were a lot of people to call, arrangements to be made….

Where 've been all year...

2009-08-21T16:52:00.002-05:00

This has been a strange year. It was unlike any other of my life. I began 2009 in the hospital. In fact, I ended 2008 in the hospital.

I don’t remember Christmas or New Year’s—I was recovering from heart surgery. I missed the inauguration, although I was in Washington, DC—the doctors did a tracheotomy on me and put in a feeding tube that day.

Just before Christmas, I came down with an infection that felt like the flu. I even casually mentioned it on Facebook: “Arlene has the flu—boo hoo.” I thought I would come across like I was feeling sorry for myself. I mean, it’s not the worst thing that can happen to a person. It was barely worth mentioning.

I never imagined it would lead to a stroke or destroy a valve in my heart. I would stay the hospital for 3 months drifting in and out of consciousness and coherency. There was a time when I couldn’t speak, couldn’t write, couldn’t put a sentence together to… well, save my life. I had to learn how to walk again, feed myself, bathe myself.

I went from utter despair to hopefulness to determination, back down to despair again. But mostly, I had a flat affect. I couldn’t—didn’t want to—pray or read or write in my journal. The first time I heard music—on a friend’s iPod—I cried. I had really missed it.

By the time I left the rehab hospital in DC the day after St. Patrick’s Day, I was walking with the assistance of a walker, but I still had to use the wheelchair for long distances. My legs were swollen ad had begun to leak fluids. But I was ready to get out of there and get on with my life.

I moved to Indiana to stay with family. However, within the week I was back in a rehab facility. I spent Palm Sunday and Easter there. It didn’t have a strong rehab program, so when I left the place, my legs were just as swollen, if not more so, than when I went in.

So, I wasn’t surprised that, within two weeks I was back in the hospital—this time in Indiana. I went from the hospital to acute care to another rehab facility. That took me from the end of April through the day before Father’s Day. I l was about 60 pounds lighter, my body no longer swollen and leaking. I’d graduated to a cane for long distances.

So, by my calculations, I have spent all the holidays from Christmas Eve through Memorial Day in a hospital bed. And that doesn’t count Flag Day ad D-Day.

I’ve skipped some details about my odyssey into the world of healthcare, insurance and public benefits. I’ll leave those for the book I’m writing. But let me close with some positive things that came out of my experiences:
I learned I have a big family—some related by biology, most related through friendship. They rallied around me, both physically and spiritually. I felt their prayers from across the country, not to mention Iraq, Canada and the Czech Republic. I could not have made the recovery I have without their care, love and support.
I have a renewed appreciation for life. I learned that I am not content merely to survive. I crave the fullness of life—in all its chaos and order, joy and sorrow, clarity and confusion, abundance and loss.
I have a new energy, if not an exact direction, for my ministry. I want to continue to touch people in a deep ad spiritual place through my writing, preaching and outreach. But at the same time, I am remaining open to the Spirit—listening for where she is calling me to be and what she’s calling me to do for God’s people and planet.

I am now living in Eureka, Illinois, where I went to college in the 80s and spent 7 years as the local newspaper editor in the 90s. I have returned to a very special community that twice before cocooned me in love and care. Armed with the confidence and courage that exudes from their support, I’m ready to begin my life again.

Blessings,
Arlene

Communion Cartel, An Act of Faith

2008-11-15T12:32:00.004-05:00

It was about half past midnight, and the chilling rain that had gushed and gusted most of the evening was falling softly, silently, coating the trees that glistened like spider webs against the street lights in the Central West End in St. Louis.

We got out of the car just as a small group of young white men began verbally sparring with a larger group of young black men. “I know you didn’t say that,” said one, turning around to head back toward the others.

As we went to the back of the car to get the bread and juice and the table, other people, white and black, came from buildings toward the young men to stop the fight that was brewing. Words were exchanged, bodies were shoved, voices were lifted as we made our way across the street to set up our little communion table in front of the Coffee Cartel, and all night coffee shop and refuge for college students, homeless people and the urban crowd.

As we set up the table, placing the cups, the juice, the bread, in their places, droplets of water covered everything. I shoved my hands into my pockets to keep them warm. I looked at my fellow seminarians and wondered briefly if this midnight Eucharist on a cold, wet, city street was a good idea after all. Would anyone notice us in this eclectic, boisterous setting, much less stop and join us?

The fight across the street broke up and two of the white men, young, almost boys, really, swept past us. One of them muttered, “f’king a-hole” as he nearly ran into George. Undeterred, George said to them, “Hey, how ya doin’ tonight?” and got a quick, “f’ you!” for his efforts. The other young man apologized for his friend, and they both went into the coffee shop.

No one accepted our invitation to join us, so we communed with one another--Carla, George, Carolyn, Lori and I. We sang softly into the rainy night, “Amazing Grace, How sweet the sound that saved a wretch like me.” People walked by swearing and laughing and holding each other up as they left a nearby bar that was closing. Most moved on without a glance at us.

Carla prayed and blessed the elements. We recited Psalm 23 as best we could from memory…”you prepare a table before me, in the presence of my enemies…” The words took on new meaning for me. Perhaps enemies are not always those who would harm us. Maybe they are those we fail to understand.

Perhaps we call them enemies because we don’t want to understand, because in understanding them we could more fully understand ourselves. In understanding ourselves more deeply, we run the risk of exposing ourselves to our deepest fears, our most feared weakness, our own sense of abject helplessness.

We continued through our homemade celebration of the Eucharist, tearing off chunks of bread and dipping them into the juice--serving one another. “There’s a Sweet, Sweet Spirit in This Place,” we sang into the din of voices raised in laughter and shouting, the swearing, racial epithets and singing of popular songs with obscene lyrics. A man double parked his car nearby to get to the ATM behind us without giving us a glance.

We finished the service by sharing what we thought about this experience. I had thought, along with the others around the table, that we were the truly vulnerable here., exposed to the elements, both human and natural. But who is the more vulnerable, really? The five of us in our raincoats, huddled around a wooden table covered with dripping glasses of juice and plates of bread? The few homeless men inside the coffee shop who had found a warm dry place to stay for awhile against the harsh reality of their everyday lives? Or were the young drunk men and women wafting past us in the saturated midnight air the most exposed?

We had decided to pack up the elements and head in for a cup of coffee and a moment to share further this experience that had already impacted our ministries in ways we could not yet fully fathom. Suddenly, a young man, obviously drunk, bounded out of the shop and stood looking at the bread on the table. We offered him some, George saying it would help him feel better when he woke up in the morning. He took a large piece and then asked for more.

His friend soon joined him and took our offer of juice. I immediately recognized him as the man who had been so angry when we first arrived. His name was Eric; he was the one who swore at George’s cordial greeting…his friend, John, eating the bread, turned out to be his cousin. John was the one who had apologized for Eric.

John started singing songs from his Catholic upbringing. I recognized one--“Here I am Lord, Is it I Lord?…” It’s the hymn every Protestant Seminarian puts in her ordination service. It’s about being called by God and boldly answering that call. I found myself wondering how this child, this drunken, wayward soul, who would probably remember very little of this early morning encounter with a small band of seminarians outside an all-night coffee shop…how did this child know this song?

Then he sang the words wrong. Instead of, “I will go Lord, if you lead me,” he sang out loudly and confidently, “I will go, Lord, if you feed me.” I will go, he said, if you feed me. Is it really that simple?

We did finally pack up our makeshift communion table and made our way to the coffee shop. George made sure Eric and John were with their friends who could get them home safely. It was about 2:30 a.m. when we pulled back into the parking lot of the seminary, shared hugs and made our way to our individual apartments.

That image of the five of us around the table on a busy sidewalk, the air strong with alcohol, profanity and desperation, stayed with me as my everyday life came back into view. I remembered the chaos whirling around us as we stood in the calm, quiet center, acting as surrogates, consuming the body and blood for those who could not or would not accept the invitation to the table.

Did the atmosphere seem calmer, less violent when we finished, or was that my own wishful thinking? Did we do enough? Did we do too much? Did we really do anything at all? I don’t know. But I do know that in performing this act of faith in the wet chaos of the moment, we were fed.”

Jesus collection grows again...

2008-09-20T15:48:00.005-05:00

I'm terribly late in sharing these images of the most recent acquisition to my Jesus Collection. I posted my original article here about my collection of Jesus images.

Up to that point, I had bought all of them myself through various sources. I even said in the article that no one had yet given me something to add to the collection.
Well, was I wrong! Shortly after I posted the article, my dear friend Mel in Illinois sent me this wonderful Celebriduck Jesus! It's part of a line of celebrity rubber ducks.

She had been holding onto it awhile--she and I are members of the same procrastination club...thing is, no one in the group has yet to calendar a meeting. Ha!) Anyway, she read my article and mailed it to me.

What's especially sweet about this is that Mel knows I also collected ducks when I was in DC. There is this great HRC store where they sold rubber duckies with an American Flag design, say, or the LGBT rainbow, camouflage, flowers, stripes, etc. I have four of them on the back of my toilet right now. Sadly, they don't sell them at the store's new location.

Obviously, when it came to putting Celebriduck Jesus with the Jesuses or the ducks, it was no contest. I couldn't have Jesus living in my bathroom.

"Just a closer walk with thee," doesn't mean that kind of intimacy.

So he's in my office with the others. Come by and see them some time--it is quite impressive. People are actually starting to take notice of them.

Blessings and hope,
Arlene

2008-09-06T09:16:00.009-05:00

I received an email this morning that brought me to tears, overcome with the emotion of generations of women who have been foring the trail of eqity. I had already heard the story and even watched the movie mntioned in the story below. But I was reminded of their great sacrfice, and moved to sharethis with a wider audience.

I don't know who wrote the original email and put the photos in as visual reminders. I am greatful to her, whoever she is. Below is my edited version.

WHY WOMEN SHOULD VOTE

This is the story of our Grandmothers and Great-grandmothers; they lived only 90 years ago.

Remember, it was not until 1920 that women were granted the right to go to the polls and vote.
The women were innocent and defenseless, but they were jailed nonetheless for picketing the White House, carrying signs asking for the vote.

(Lucy Burns)

And by the end of the night, they were barely alive. Forty prison guards wielding clubs and their warden's blessing went on a rampage against the 33 women wrongly convicted of 'obstructing sidewalk traffic.'

They beat Lucy Burns, chained her hands to the cell bars above her head and left her hanging for the night, bleeding and gasping for air.

(Dora Lewis)

They hurled Dora Lewis into a dark cell, smashed her head against an iron bed and knocked her out cold. Her cell mate, Alice Cosu, thought Lewis was dead and suffered a heart attack. Additional affidavits describe the guards grabbing, dragging, beating, choking, slamming, pinching, twisting and kicking the women.

Thus unfolded the 'Night of Terror' on Nov. 15, 1917, when the warden at the Occoquan Workhouse in Virginia ordered his guards to teach a lesson to the suffragists imprisoned there because they dared to picket Woodrow Wilson's White House for the right to vote.

For weeks, the women's only water came from an open pail. Their food--all of it colorless slop--was infested with worms.

(Alice Paul)

When one of the leaders, Alice Paul, embarked on a hunger strike, they tied her to a chair, forced a tube down her throat and poured liquid into her until she vomited. She was tortured like this for weeks until word was smuggled out to the press.

Much of this is depicted in HBO's movie 'Iron Jawed Angels,' which is now on video and DVD. In the movie, Woodrow Wilson and his cronies try to persuade a psychiatrist to declare Alice Paul insane so that she could be permanently institutionalized. The doctor refused, saying, 'Courage in women is often mistaken for insanity.'

What a friend we have in Jesus

2008-07-23T12:14:00.005-05:00

I have a Jesus Collection--shown here and on this blog’s front page. I keep it in my office as a conversation piece, but people rarely comment on it. I think they’re not sure what to say.

· Should they be offended by all these "toys," these possibly idolatress images of Jesus, not all of which are flattering and some of which are clearly meant to be satirical?
· Should they be concerned they’re in the presence of a "Jesus Freak" who takes all these figures seriously?
· Or should they laugh and smile at the vast array of Jesus products and "get" the joke as it is intended--a gentle poke at the sometimes Jesus-obsessed Christian culture?

I'm hoping most look at my collection and take the third option, even if they never laugh out loud or say a word to me.

I hadn't intended to collect Jesus figures. You know how these collections get started. You buy one, then you find another that's similar, but with a twist. Then you find things that are related, but not exactly the same. Sometimes, people know about your collection and give you something to add. “I saw this in a little store in Suchandsuch, Iowa, and I thought of you!” they say.

So far, no one has bought me anything to add. However, those who do notice and talk about the collection ask me where I found various pieces. To tell you the truth, I don’t remember where they all came from, or which came first.

I think it started with the "Buddy Christ" from the movie Dogma. If you saw the movie, you know exactly what I mean. It’s the figure of Jesus (complete with immaculate heart and nail holes in hands) winking and doing the thumbs up.

In the movie, a priest, played by the late, great George Carlin, introduces it to the crowds. The authorities in the Catholic Church want to create a more welcoming image. So they replace the traditional crucifix—where Jesus is hanging perpetually on the cross dying—with this happier, friendlier Jesus.

I couldn’t resist it when I found it in one of those generic record stores you see in every mall in the US. I’ve even given some away as gifts to my Christian friends with a sardonic sense of humor.

That Jesus statuette was quickly followed by

· Action Figure Jesus, with moving arms and rollers on its base.
· Bobble-headed Jesus, which seems self-explanatory to me.
· Dashboard Jesus, which has a spring base that you can attach to your car’s dashboard so he’s watching over you all the time.

I got them all from various sources, and they’re made by different companies, as far as I know. So I found it intriguing that all four Jesus figures, including Buddy Christ, are dressed in the same outfit, even the same colors. Each is wearing a white robe with a maroon sash and matching sandals.

Later, I found a package of Jesus Pencil Toppers. And guess what? Same colors! This time, he’s wearing a maroon outer garment over a white robe. No feet for sandals, though; the pencil has to go somewhere.

I was in a novelty store when I discovered the Deluxe Miracle Jesus Action Figure. I was salivating when I took it off the shelf. The box comes complete with:

· Jesus, this time dressed in off-white and maroon;
· Five loaves and two fish to feed the 5,000—or 3,000—after the sermon on the mount—or on the level place—depending on which Gospel you’re reading.
· A jug for turning water into wine. It’s designed so you can set it down one way as a water jug and turn it over to be a jug of wine.

His hands glow in the dark, although I’m not sure why. And the back of the box gives a pretty balanced description of who Jesus is in the wider context of believers and non-believers. I haven’t taken him out of the box, because I’m afraid of losing the tiny miracle pieces.

Then there are some Jesus-related items I found online from the same company:

· Jesus Adhesive Bandages
· Jesus Packing Tape
· Jesus “Funky Fresh,” hanging air-fresheners for your car
· Last Supper After Dinner Mints

The bandages, tape, and air freshener are replete with icons of Jesus—glowing halos and all. I think the air-freshener is supposed to smell like frankincense. Of course, the mints have a rendering of DaVinci’s Last Supper on the tin.

I wonder if Leonardo had any idea his mural would be copied, in so many media centuries after his death? I’ve seen it as a latch-hook wall hanging, on throw blankets, purses and now after dinner mints.

Friends of mine received a Christmas gift one year that was a large chocolate bar with the image of the Last Supper on the face of it. Apparently, someone they knew owned a Last Supper chocolate mold. As the family and their guests nibbled away at the chocolate that holiday season, everyone ate around Jesus.

I thought that was humorous because, as Christians, we “eat” the body of Jesus Christ—either literally or symbolically—every time we take communion. So why were we all so squeamish about eating Jesus in chocolate?

I’m not sure if anyone finally ate the rest of it. It may still be preserved somewhere in the house. Hmmm. Maybe I should ask them. I haven’t added anything to my collection for a while, now.

Probably the most recent Jesus item added to my collection is Huggy Jesus, a doll I found online. It was being sold at a cut rate because it had failed as a product for children. It was intended to be used by kids as a comfort, kind of like a divine teddy bear. But when the product came out of the manufacturing plant, it had a wild head of hair, a scraggly beard and scary eyebrows.

Dressed in a red robe with gold trim and a blue sash, this time, he looks angry and frightening, no comfort to children of any age. I actually place it behind the deluxe action figure box on my shelf so he’s hidden a little bit from full view. I don’t want to scare people away, after all.

I have seen a different Jesus plush doll that has been more successful—more attractive and huggable. And, of course, there are plenty of other Jesus items out there. When I add to my collection, though, I look for the unusual item, not the everyday.

As a whole, the collection reminds me that Jesus—and by extension, God—has a sense of humor. It’s in the scriptures, although often subtle. But it’s also in my relationship with Jesus, usually in the form of serendipity. How often have I found myself doing that very thing that I most resisted and experiencing it as an opportunity rather than a challenge?

But, finally, the collection recalls for me what it means to follow Jesus’ path in the first place: To be more Christian in my behavior, but less pious in my attitude toward others.

2008-06-04T10:12:00.004-05:00

I am organizing a women’s retreat at Bethany Beach for the weekend of July 18-20. It will be held at the Christian Church Conference Center, where I am the manager.

And we're two blocks from the beach!

With a longing for the wonderful retreats I attended in St. Louis, called Sarah’s Circle, I’ve designed this retreat to be a time of physical relaxation, emotional rejuvenation, and spiritual renewal.

Very little will be planned. Aside from meals and a few optional activities, nothing will be scheduled. You aren’t required to do anything you don’t want to do.

But I have found that just being in the presence of caring women who desire the same thing—time for self-care—can be uplifting and affirming in and of itself. You are welcome and encouraged to bring games, music, musical instruments, worship items, etc. to share. This retreat will be what we make it.

Contact me for more info and registration form.

Rev. Arlene Franks, Manager, Christian Church Conference Center
Website: www.cccadisciples.org/bethanybeach
Email: confcenterbb@verizon.net
Phone: 302 539-7034; or toll free at 866-539-7034

The Handwriting is on the Wall

2008-05-20T09:03:00.003-05:00

Here's an interesting article about the handwriting of the three major presidential candidates.

I don't think any one system/process/school of thought can reveal everything about a person. I think, instead, we can learn a lot about ourselves and each other in myriad ways.

Riding the Storm Out

2008-05-17T12:15:00.008-05:00

I experienced a nor-easter last week that was unlike any storm I've ever been through. I'm accustomed to thunderstorms that go through the night, and I've experienced tornado weather, where we keep watch for an afternoon as the cluds blow and twist. But, where I come from, storms are supposed to hit then blow over.

But this storm started on a Sunday afternoon and didn't let up at all until Tuesday morning. It never stopped to take a breath! I stayed inside watching it wreak havoc. The only times I went outside were to take pictures from my front porch and to run next door to my office to get some things that I could work on in the house.

It wasn't anything compared to Myanmar, but fierce enough to do some damage to roofs, signs, trees, and even boats. Here is a photo of a wrecked ship that came to shore at Bethany Beach.

According to the local paper: "The Coast Guard rescued two people by helicopter Monday [May 12] when the research boat they were on broke apart and took on water about 14 miles off the coast of Rehoboth Beach, Del. One crewman was pronounced dead Monday after reaching the hospital. The abandoned vessel later beached itself on the shore in Bethany Beach, off Parkwood Street."

Now, why they were out there during such a big storm, I have no idea! They were doing research for a wind farm one of the towns here wants to develop off the shore somewhere. I'm obviously fuzzy on the details of that.

When I went to the beach that Tuesday to take pictures of the waves. I could see the boat from way down shore. I took a shot with a telephoto lense from maybe a block or two away, then I cropped it to get in even closer. So it might be a little grainy. They had the boardwalk roped off so you couldn't get closer. They also had the beach roped off.

Here's what the waves looked like that day:

You might not be able to tell from these pictures, but the waves were so big and ferocious there was almost no beach left. One girl was in the water on a boogie board. More than one local took a look at her out there and grumbled about how stupid that was. There were a lot of people in town and on the boardwalk. A lot of gawkers--like me--looking at the boat.

Well, so much for my first nor'easter...I'm sure there will be more to come. Never a dull moment here at the beach.

Take care,

Arlene

Magnetic Poetry

2008-05-05T20:24:00.003-05:00

I was organizing my computer files when I came across this piece of 'magnetic poetry' that I wrote several years ago. I found a childhood photo to offer a visual reference of what I may have looked like as that child in the poem....

Shall I remember me
as a tiny loving girl
who played in wet river soil
and danced dripping from the music
under our cozy full-moon night
plump with rhythm after a rain storm?

Tag, you're it!

2008-04-30T18:35:00.004-05:00

A Delaware blogger named Mike 'tagged' me for a 'blog-memes,' which I had never heard of.

The challenge is to write a four-word memoir. Actually, it started out as a six-word memoir and he got his down to five, so he asked those of us he tagged, "Who can do it in four?"

Well, I can do it in three!

"I'm a believer."

So there.

Thanks for the tag, Mike. And for introducing me to other Delawarian bloggers.

I'm supposed to link back to the person who tagged me, and then tag five others. I'm tagging my Midwestern blogger friends for the original challenge of a memoir of six words or less.

Pastor Beetle
Abject Conjecture
Riding the Bi-Polar Express
Salt for the Spirit
Mah Two Cents

Have fun! And don't forget to tag me back...

Blessings,
Arlene

The Feminist in Her Youth

2008-04-06T14:33:00.004-05:00

People have often asked me how long I've been a feminist. I probably slid out of the womb that way. I've always fought for justice as I understood it. But I can remember identifying with the women's movement at a young age.

In fifth grade, I had an arguement with one of my teachers about the significance of the Bobby Riggs vs. Billie Jean King tennis match. He said Bobby was old and past his prime, that it didn't mean anything. I said that wasn't the point. Riggs had said any man could beat any woman at any time under any circumstances. Billie Jean had proven him wrong.

Of course, I found out later that Riggs was a showman and most of his bravado was for the cameras. Riggs and King were actually friends. Ironically, I met one of Bobby Riggs' sons when I went to seminary at Eden in St. Louis. He's a professor there.

But I digress. The photo above is evidence that I was pushing the cause for women's equality early on in my life. It was the mid-70s, and we'd had a typical Indiana snow fall. My sister Carolyn and I decided to build a snow woman complete with breasts and a curly hairdo, instead of the usual snowman.

That's me on the left with my 'woman-power' fist in the air. I'm guessing I'm about 12 there. It was a mighty blow for womankind everywhaere! Well, at least snowwomen everywhere.

Blessings,
Arlene

Cinquain

2008-04-06T14:14:00.008-05:00

I've tried my hand (and mind) at another 'formula poem.' Just a break from the Haiku. It's called a 'cinquain,' and it gives a little more wiggle room than the Haiku. Here's the stucture of the modern 5-line cinquain:

line 1 - one word (noun) name of the subject
line 2 - two words (adjectives) describing the subject
line 3 - three words (verbs) describing an action related to the subject
line 4 - four words describing a feeling about the subject or a complete sentence
line 5 - one word referring back to the subject of the poem

Here are my first attempts:

Music
Energizing, uplifting.
Dance, float, fly.
Frees my mind of the daily.
Melody.

Sand
Squishy and soft.
Dig your feet in.
Ten minute adventure.
The beach.

Water.
White-capped, blue.
Swim, splash, spray.
In awe of it’s vastness.
The ocean.

Reality TV
Pervasive, invasive.
Crawl, bawl, brawl.
Energy spent wastefully.
TV cruelty.

Politics.

Strategic and cunning.

Speak beautifully, debate brutally, deny mightily.

Tired shoulders, weary head.

Public service?

Icons of culture
Bedazzling but broken
Inspiring, motivating, yet faltering
Even they succumb to human frailty.
Our Heroes

Election campaigning
Contentious, dubious
Shouting, strutting, pointing
Can you tell I hate it?
Bi-partisan

Blessings,
Arlene

How Healthy are your Feet?

2008-03-15T15:39:00.005-05:00

Here's another Lenten meditation, this one for Maundy Thursday, first delivered in 2004:

Scripture reference: John 13:1-17

It was an ordinary meal, as meals go. They had eaten with Jesus on many occasions—in the homes of the faithful, like Mary and Martha; at table with tax collectors and other undesirables, where they always managed to raise many an eyebrow and the ire of the religious authorities. They remembered well at least one meal on a crowded hillside dense with the smell of sweat and the sound of murmured confusion after an afternoon of sermons and storytelling. They were able to feed themselves and the crowd with nothing but the meager offerings of a young boy’s sack lunch, and still have food left over.

At first, it seemed extraordinary that they would be called by name to leave their boats, their accounting charts, their family homes, and follow this extraordinary man who looked like an common carpenter but said and did such uncommon things.

They knew that their lives, their deaths, the joys and struggles in between, didn’t mean a thing to those who held the power and status in their society. They were used to it by now, though. It was part of their everyday lives. Many among their peers had become complacent, some cooperative even complicit with the ruling Greco-Roman culture.

And then comes this man whose message and mission change everything. He interrupts the everyday-ness of their lives—walking out to their fishing boats on the very water into which they cast their nets, drinking from the same cup as a Samaritan woman, eating with expendables like them.

Extraordinary!

That he would invite them to dinner, be a guest in their homes, allow any unclean, untouchable, unlovable character in town to interrupt their important work just to comfort and heal them, teach and challenge them, at first seemed quite odd.

But by the time Jesus and his closest Disciples came to this meal, shortly before the observance of the Passover, they considered it quite normal to eat with their teacher, the Messiah, the One called by God to deliver them from their sufferings, just as God had delivered their ancestors from captivity in Egypt.

Yes, it was all quite ordinary…until something extraordinary happened. In the middle of the meal, Jesus got up, took off his robe, wrapped a towel around him and knelt before them, intent on washing their feet.

How strange…the master serving the followers. Once again, he had turned everything upside down…all the accepted thinking about social structures and status and power in their culture. They were awakened once again from their complacency.

We live in extraordinary times, but it has all become quite ordinary to us in our day-to-day living. We’ve become complacent, even cooperative with the social structures that confine us, complicit with a power structure that oppresses many in order for a few to rise in stature. Wars and rumors of wars blaring at us from wide-screen TVs; the faces of people living in abject poverty and desolation clouding our peripheral vision and obstructing our straight path down our neighborhood streets; forms of child abuse and exploitation that seem to become more horrifying and devastating by the day jumping out from the headlines and sound bites over our morning coffee…these all could seem out of the ordinary, if they were not so common.

We have technology that gives us the power to destroy the world several fold and the delicate touch to repair the tiniest heart inside the tiniest little body, even before she leaves the protection of her mother’s womb. It’s really quite extraordinary.…But it has become just part of the ordinariness of our ordinary lives.

I am reminded of a recent doctor’s appointment. It was pretty ordinary, as doctor’s appointments go. By now, I am used to living with diabetes, although at first, it was anything but ordinary. I was diagnosed on a Good Friday over 10 years ago. I spent the weekend feeling sorry of myself, staring pathetically at the chocolate bunnies, longing to bite their heads off one by one, saving their feet to nibble on later.

But counting carbs, pricking my fingers to measure my blood sugar, having every part of my body—literally from my eyes to my toes—poked, prodded and penetrated had become routine, as had the bevy of doctor’s numbers I kept in my appointment book.

It was my first visit to this particular doctor, the first doctor I had seen since moving to DC. Everything about the exam was familiar, no surprises in the questions, the warnings, the referrals to specialists, the cold stethoscope against my breast bone with the request to breathe deeply.

“I see you managed to mangle your feet,” she said, glancing down at my bare heels cracked and dry and my exposed toes, the cold skin peeling on the sides. I was used to that kind of comment. There was plenty of evidence to reveal my bad habit of pulling and tugging at the cracks and crevices instead of treating the tough, dry skin. But I wasn’t expecting what came next.
(Smacking sound with hands)

Suddenly, she hit the soles of my feet and admonished, “Don’t do that!”

What a strange thing for a doctor to do. And I had just begun to like her. But before I could object to her shocking gesture, she did something even more extraordinary.

She took my feet in her hands and cradled them gently and murmured “Don’t do that” in more soothing tones. I had the impression of gentle hands cupping an injured bird to protect it from the elements and its own bad judgment.

She didn’t say much more, just referred me to a good podiatrist and recommended a home remedy for dry skin. But what I heard her say clearly in her actions was, “Arlene, you are worthy of love and capable of loving, even loving yourself.” I heard her say, “Allow me to care for you. I want you to be well and whole.”

As I got up from the exam table that day, I thought about how radical her care for me was against the backdrop of what most of us have come to experience—and accept—as assembly line healthcare.

Do you see a parallel here in this story of Jesus washing the feet of his Disciples? Have I made my case that Jesus’ ministry was radical—bringing the extraordinary to bear on the ordinary? Well, let me make it plainer: the radical nature of Jesus’ ministry was not in turning water to wine, or healing the sick. It wasn’t even in his raising the dead. What was radically extraordinary about Jesus’ ministry was the way he cradled the hand of the Samaritan woman at the well, redefining her relationship with God and to the world—you are lovable and capable of loving.

It was how he cradled the faces of the children who flocked around him, telling the disapproving adults—these are my children, they are not expendable; they are precious.

Jesus offered his Disciples something extraordinary in the midst of an ordinary meal when he cradled their feet redefining their relationship, asking them to be the servant and the served.
At a meal described in the Gospels of Matthew, Mark and Luke, Jesus cradled the ordinary bread and the cup and redefined his relationship to God and ours to one another. “When you eat this bread and drink from this cup, we are one, I am in you and you are a part of everyone around this table. There is no longer separation or alienation one from another.”

What a radical, extraordinary message. It’s not about the occasional miracle, but about plain, old, every day, ordinary relationship! Jesus’ ministry, his life and his death, his resurrection…are all about relationship. Defining relationships, challenging our concepts of them, showing us how to nurture them, was his ministry, his gift to us.

It is in the way Jesus cradles us…each of us, calling us by name, inviting us home to dine, redefining who we are by reminding us of whose we are. Imagine, just for a moment, that Jesus is cradling your feet in his hands. Feel the warmth, the gentle touch of his fingertips. Don’t worry about how your feet look or smell. If your feet hurt, let the cool of the water and the rhythm of the massaging carry the pain away. Don’t even look at your feet just now, but into the eyes of Christ, who loves you. Listen. What’s he saying? It’s a message just for you, calling you out of the ordinariness of your life into a new life, one that is quite, quite extraordinary.

Conspicuously Claiming the Story

2008-03-15T14:46:00.003-05:00

Here's a Lenten meditation I first gave in 2004:

I started going to Sunday School when I was three or four years old, and I loved it. I remember the corner classroom with all its sunny windows; the toys; the big board covered in soft, velvety blue felt where we placed the figures of Jesus and all the people from Bible times when the teacher told her stories.

I loved to sit in front of the little worship center and listen to My Sunday School teacher tell the bible stories. She told us about Zacchaeus climbing the sycamore tree to get a better look at Jesus, and the woman at the well offering Jesus a drink of water. And remember the one about the children gathering around Jesus? The disciples wanted to send them away, but Jesus said, “no, let them come.” I loved every story, but my favorite one of all was about Jesus coming into Jerusalem on a donkey and all the people waving palm branches in the air and spreading them on the ground as he passed, shouting “Hosanna! Hosanna in the highest!”

I wasn’t sure what exactly “Hosanna” meant, but I knew it was something good, something joyful. I was right there in the street with the crowd as, each year, a different Sunday School teacher told the same story. I heard the crowd, felt the excitement, as Jesus approached on the little donkey. I could see myself shouting “Hosanna!” Right along with the grown ups. and waving my palm branch. I would lay it on the road as he passed and reach out to touch his sandaled foot or a piece of his robe.

And, you know, no matter how many times I heard the story, no matter how well I knew it by heart, I always wished…well, it’s kind of embarrassing to admit it now, but I always wished it would turn out differently. As the season of Lent unfolded in the Sunday School room week after week, I would wish that each subsequent story would be different—that the fig tree would bear fruit for Jesus, the people would realize that selling things in the temple was not right, Judas wouldn’t take the thirty pieces of silver, Peter wouldn’t deny Jesus and the other disciples wouldn’t run away and hide. I wished, oh how I wished, that the crowd and religious leaders would ask for Jesus to be released, not Barabus, and that the cries of “Hosanna!” would be louder and more powerful than the cries of “Crucify him!”

But, despite my fervent imagination and my wishes to the contrary, the stories always unfolded in the same way and Jesus was always put to death. Like Jesus’ followers, I had to wait until Easter and the resurrection story to feel joy again.

Looking back on my stubborn, wishful thinking, I can see it as more endearingly innocent than foolishly embarrassing. As a world-weary adult, I no longer look for the story to change to suit my wishes, but re-read and re-live the story every year to find nuances and gather new insights that escaped me in past readings. As part of my Lenten journey one year, I went to see Mel Gibson’s “The Passion of the Christ” with some church. I admit, I wasn’t anxious to see it because of the controversies surrounding it. But I was able to experience the story in a new way by watching someone else’s reliving of it. That is what the movie represented, after all. Mel Gibson was putting himself into the story.

As I watched the graphically violent and intensely emotional movie, I started thinking about how bizarre this story really is. I wondered, not for the first time, what others must think of us Christians, following this gruesome story that invariably and inevitably ends in the death of our beloved leader and friend. Kind of weird, don’t you think? Doesn’t make sense, seems foolish. As Star Trek’s Mr. Spock might say, “It is not logical, Captain.” As I watched the character of Peter insist, “I don’t know the man,” it occurred to me that the reason Peter denied knowing Jesus may not have been based solely on fear. It might have also been from embarrassment!

This story that we claim as pivotal to our faith in the resurrected Christ is, on the surface, embarrassing. When we agree to pick up our own cross and live in Christian community, we are agreeing to live our lives out loud, to be conspicuous, foolish, exposed. We know the story won’t change into our fantasy of a happy ending; we know it doesn’t get any easier. We can’t claim that suffering will no longer enter our lives or death will not take the lives of those we love. What we get in the claiming of this story is suffering, pain, brutality and death…even after the resurrection has taken place! Why in the world, then, would we continue to claim it?

That’s a question we each have to answer in our own hearts and minds. However, I think Paul gives us good answer, at least a starting off point for discussion and contemplation. In essence, he says “I can’t help but be compelled by this story…it is just part of who I am; it’s in my blood.” He says, “This is personal.” He tells us he wants more than the world can offer. He’s going for the bigger prize of eternal life, where death does not have the last word. Listen to part of his letter to the Philippians, chapter 3, verses 8-10, in the contemporary American English of the Message Bible:

“Yes, all the things I once thought were so important are gone from my life. Compared to the high privilege of knowing Christ Jesus as my Master, firsthand, everything I once thought I had going for me is insignificant. I've dumped it all in the trash so that I could embrace Christ and be embraced by him. I didn't want some petty, inferior brand of righteousness that comes from keeping a list of rules when I could get the robust kind that comes from trusting Christ - God's righteousness. I gave up all that inferior stuff so I could know Christ personally, experience his resurrection power, be a partner in his suffering, and go all the way with him to death itself.”

Why do we cling to the Passion? Because even as we are repelled by the violence and degradation that the cross recalls and represents, we are even more compelled by Jesus’ compassionate love and grace—shown even in and through the very suffering and tortured death he was forced to endure at the hands of a cold, constricted humanity. It is a passionate compassion that lives and grows far beyond our meager abilities to name and express it. I’ll tell you one thing, though. There is nothing conservative about this compassion!

No, God’s compassion, expressed through the life, death and resurrection of Jesus Christ is messy, contradictory, controversial, unpredictable and incomprehensible. It’s a compassion that led Jesus to teach his followers such ridiculous notions as “love your enemy,” and “turn the other cheek;” “walk an extra mile,” and celebrate when one who was lost is found, even though you already have 99 in the flock at hand.

When we claim this illogical, shocking, complex story, we run the risk of looking foolish, of being caught out like Peter. “You are one of them, aren’t you? Yeah, I’ve seen you going into that church.” What are you going to say? “No, man, I just go in there for a meeting. I’m not one of them.”

What about when they say, “That stuff you all believe, that turning the other cheek stuff, and loving your enemies, what’s that about? You know that’s not the way the real world works.” Will you look them in the eye and say, “You are absolutely right. It’s not the way of the world, but let me tell you a story. It’s a strange story, an ancient tale about one who was so close to God, he was able to live in the world and shine above it at the same time….”

This story we claim as ours, as our heritage, our legacy, our gift, is not an easy story to tell. It’s painful at times and sometimes I still wish I could just leave out parts of it,…or at least change them to make the story prettier, tidier. But that wouldn’t do it justice. It is the whole story we claim. We claim this story—we enter and re-enter it over and over again—just so we can walk with Jesus, even into death. Because we know, that in doing so, we share in the new life of Christ’s love and grace.

Cat video

2008-03-12T12:01:00.000-05:00

More haiku

2008-02-16T15:54:00.002-05:00

I've been writing a lot of Haiku lately, mainly as a writing exercise to get my creative juices flowing. I've found some different 'formula poems,' however, so I think I will try my hand at them for awhile. So this may be my last set of Haiku for the time being. I wrote these while watching the older folks dance at a Valentine's Day dinner dance. Hope you enjoy them.

Little Emma says,
bouncing along the boardwalk,
"The Ocean is Big!"

This one really happened this past summer when my friend, Roxanne, and her daughter, Emma, moved me to the beach. Emma was five at the time.
____________________________

Cutting quite a rug,
dancing to our old love songs.
"You've still got it, babe."

This one is dedicated to Wayne and Sue, who make quite an attractive couple on the dance floor.
____________________________

The frigid wind stings,
despite my turned up collar--
icy wonter walk.
____________________________

Would you catch the moon,
on a starry night like this,
if I asked you to?
____________________________

The snow-covered beach
an unexpected pleasure
on this frigid day.

Wonder Woman

2008-02-16T15:49:00.003-05:00

You are a wonder,
woman, with your brave, soulful
heart, your brilliant mind.

Dedicated to all my wonder-full women friends and relatives.

Blessings,

Arlene

The 'I Am' Poem*

2008-02-16T15:28:00.002-05:00

Arlene
Compassionate, Passionate, Giving Forgiving
Resident of the Universe
Daughter of God
Lover of Life’s Mysteries
Who Feels Everything
Who Needs Nothing
Who Fears Some Things
Who Gives as Much as She Can
Who Would Like to See More Generosity in the World
Franks

*Here's something a little different from the usual surveys we send each other on email. It's a formula poem I've used in workshops. I've given the formula below. Above, obviously, is my poem. This is a neat exercise to do once in awhile. It comes out differently everytime you do it, because it's where you are right now.

A Poem About You
Line 1: First name
Line 2: Four traits that describe your character
Line 3: Resident of
Line 4: Relative (brother, sister, daughter, son, etc.) of
Line 5: Lover of: (list three things or people)
Line 6: Who feels: (three things)
Line 7: Who needs: (three things)
Line 8: Who fears: (three things)
Line 9: Who gives: (three things)
Line 10: Who would like to see: (three things)
Line 11: Last name

Three Haiku

2008-01-26T01:06:00.000-05:00

I am what you’d call
a presumptuous woman
I presume love wins
____________________
Oh Presumptuous
And Voluptuous Woman,
You are Sumptuous.
____________________
Her eyes unfocused,
She stares past the red balloon,
Wide awake, dreaming.

Dad's Taking the Picture

2008-01-26T01:04:00.000-05:00

Line up all the kids
Another family photo
Everyone say cheese.

Alan in the Duck

2008-01-26T01:01:00.001-05:00

Hey little brother,
Amazing spirit-filled soul,
I still miss your smile.

Daydreaming

2008-01-26T00:58:00.001-05:00

All smile except one,
Profile to the camera,
Butterfly gazing.

Bundle of Joy

2008-01-23T13:47:00.000-05:00

Wonder of wonders

She comes into this world

abundantly blessed

Six Haiku

2008-01-14T17:07:00.000-05:00

All the white horses
dancing deftly on the lawn
make my blue eyes cry.
_____________________
Wounded soul falters
on the way to healing past.
Must recuperate.
_____________________
Rain splashes pavement
I am caught in it again...
wet, shivering bones.
_____________________
My sore eyes see red
and sometimes white flashing spots.
Laser aftermath.
_____________________
All is white outside--
snow sprinkled with fine sieve.
Pull the covers up.
_____________________
The vast world out there
beacons me from computer:
"See me for yourself."

Sweet Home Indiana

2007-12-29T02:21:00.001-05:00

I found this video on YouTube. It's just someone driving from Plainfield to Indianapolis. This is a drive I know very well. My dad and step-mother live in Plainfield, and I have been visiting them, my mom in Mooresville and my sister in Indy, along with friends in various places near Indy, since before Thanksgiving. I invite you into my world via this video.

I am actually in Eureka, Illinois right now. I'm visiting friends for a week or so. There's snow on the ground and a very definite nip in the air. I hope to do some writing while I'm here. I am blessed to have this second family.

Blessings,
Arlene

Merry Christmas!!

2007-12-25T11:42:00.000-05:00

Family and memories are hallmarks of Christmas time. I've had my share this year...hope you have, too. Or, if not, then I hope you have just what you need if only for today...this moment. Take care, good care.

Here's a montage of some of my old family pics:

Never too late to have a Happy Childhood

2007-12-21T14:57:00.000-05:00

I've been going through old photos from my parents' collections. I'm planning to make a scrapbook of my life--the early years. It's been a wild journey into memory-land. Some photos take me down paths of bittersweet and thorny roses. Some lead me to more questions than certainties. Others just take me to a place where I can smile and laugh all the way up from my toes.

I hope to write more about it later. But in the meantime, here are a couple from the collection. To the right is a shot of my siblings and me in our 'family pool'--note the luxerient surroundings. The one above is of me on my grandparents' porch.

My Journey Since High School

2007-09-04T13:59:00.000-05:00

This is an account of my life since graduating from Mooresville (Indiana) High School in 1980. I write it for my friends from all through my life who probably know bits and pieces of this, but have gaps where we weren’t in close touch. Even my cousins and I have some years to make up for. I am grateful for email and Internet social circles like MySpace and Facebook, Classmates and Reunion, that allow us to find each other again! Sorry for the length, but it does cover 27 years, after all!

Although my friends and family probably didn’t realize it, I was really depressed high school, especially my senior year, following the death of my little brother, Alan. He came in contact with a live electrical wire when he was near a railroad trestle and was electrocuted. It was just prior to Halloween, 1979, and I still miss him.

So, after high school, I waited two years before going back to school. I worked at this terrible place in Indianapolis that takes bids from salvage dealers on cars that have been totaled by insurance companies. The only saving grace was my good friend, Paula, worked there with me.

I also babysat and sold Mary Kay cosmetics for a short time. The rest of the time, I slept, ate and became more and more depressed. When Paula said she was going back to school, I said, “Well I’m not staying here by myself!” I immediately applied to Eureka College (EC) in Illinois, which is affiliated with my church, Christian Church (Disciples of Christ) (DOC).

I thrived there and really found my unique writing and speaking voice. (Although I had written for the newspaper and was on speech team in high school, I didn’t think of myself as particularly gifted in either area.) I was the newspaper editor for three years at EC and did an internship my senior year with the Pantagraph, a daily paper in Bloomington, Illinois. My friends from Jones Hall moved me in Roxanne’s VW and another car to a dingy apartment in the top floor of a house near a great park. I walked about ten blocks to the newspaper office and the church I attended. I was the first intern to get an A from the curmudgeon-y features editor. That was a great job.

After I graduated, I did a summer internship with the Christian Homes of Kentucky (CHC) in the chaplain’s office. I got to room with Paula that summer, as I worked in Louisville, KY, and she finished school across the river. That summer was pretty intense, and I learned a lot about myself from my mentor, Rev. Chuck Lewis. Dr. Dan Gilbert, who had been the President of EC, was then the President of the CHK and arranged for that internship.

After Eureka, I went to Claremont School of Theology in 1986 with the intention of getting an MDiv (Masters in Divinity) and becoming a minister in a non-traditional setting (like a college campus, nursing home, or para-church organization). But the more I got into the MDiv program, the more I felt trapped into a direct line to congregational ministry, which I was not interested in at the time. So I switched programs to the MA in Religion and took a lot of women’s studies courses with Dr. Ann Taves and Dr. Karen Torjeson. Once again I thrived and grew. My voice on socio-political views grew stronger, as did my confidence in myself.

But when I graduated in 1989, I really didn’t have a direction. I wasn’t sure what to do, so I went ‘home’ to Indiana. I stayed with my Mom and got depressed again. It’s not my mom’s fault, I just felt small and insignificant again. (One bright spot was that my nephew, Michael was born in 1989.) I worked for a group home for developmentally disabled adults in Danville, but it was for-profit, and I didn’t like the way they did things. So I got a job with Damar Homes in Mooresville and managed a group home for young men with developmental delays.

In some ways, I loved this job. I was helping people, the ‘boys’ were great and I worked with some good people. It’s a very impressive organization with integrity and dedication to what they are doing. But I tended to take all the emotions of the job home with me, which wasn’t good for my mental health.

One of my mentors—I believe it was one of my English professors at EC, Dr. Sheila Bartle, encouraged me to go back to writing and contact the Pantagraph where I did my internship. Long story short, I did and got a job, moved back to Eureka in 1990 and stayed for 7 years.

I was the editor of the Woodford County Journal and a correspondent for the Pantagraph—they are sister papers owned by the same company. That was a great experience on many levels. I honed my writing and interview skills, for one. I made a lot of friends and deepened many friendships that had begun at EC. I learned tolerance and patience and a better appreciation for the human condition. I also developed on the socio-political front and deepened my commitment to the church. (Another bright spot, my niece, Elizabeth was born in 1992.)

I began feeling a pull toward the vocation of ministry while I was there. I was heavily involved in the local church and the regional church, as well. I started preaching at local churches and I led the youth at Eureka Christian Church for some years. When it began to be more and more evident that my values were being compromised by my work as writer and editor*, I decided to look for something that would blend my vocation with my faith. (*Mostly, this had to do with writing stories about good people doing bad things and covering the ‘bad’ news, like courts and local government fights. I also lost a great mentor when Rev. Dr. Marvin Cheney died of cancer in 1995 or ‘96. That was also about the time I learned I had adult-onset diabetes.)

So in 1997 I went to a General Assembly of my church and found a job announcement at the National Benevolent Association, the social and health services division of the DOC. I got the job and moved to St. Louis. Oh, and I had adopted a cat, chip, in Eureka and brought him with me. (That will figure into the story later.)

Another wonderful job, with Rev. Dr. Ben Bohren as my boss, and now friend, it was a new office at the NBA, and we were charged with helping the church know the NBA better and helping the NBA know the church better. We did workshops, newsletters, worship services, information booths, and curriculum for worship and Sunday school, among other things. Ben developed a program called Miracle Day, in which we helped churches all over the country put together a day of remodeling, renovating and renewing, which was designed to transform the church through improving the buiding and getting people from multiple churches together to do it. We also oversaw the NBA Leadership Grant Program for DOC college students attending DOC schools. At NBA I honed my speaking and presentation skills and was able to write a lot of liturgy. I also preached once a month at a little church in Illinois. (And yet another bright spot—my nephew, Randy, was born in 1998.)

In about 1999, I decided to go back to seminary to finish an MDiv, which is the degree toward ordination. I began taking one class at a time at Eden Theological Seminary, which is affiliated with the United Church of Christ, a sister denomination. I had decided that I wanted to be ordained, and I was feeling more pulled toward congregational ministry. The classes and field assignments there were wonderful, and again I made many friends and had several mentors.

My first field education was with an NBA unit called Olive Branch, which was a residential program for pregnant and parenting homeless teens. I did workshops on spiritual development, using arts and crafts as a way to get the young women to open up about themselves and their spiritual lives. I wrote a couple of pieces about this experience and posted one on this blog. It was a powerful experience, which culminated in my doing the funeral service for the baby girl of one of the moms.

In about 2001, things were really changing at NBA. There were financial problems and some infighting. People were being laid off, and church folks from outside the agency were beginning to question how things were run. On a Monday morning in April, the day after Palm Sunday, I was called into a small conference room and informed by human resources that I was one of nine whose jobs were being eliminated immediately because of budget cuts. I barely got to say goodbye to Ben, who had not been informed this was going to happen, before I was ushered out of the building carrying my boxes of stuff from my cubicle.

They said it's "nothing personal" and "If it's any comfort, you're not the only one."

I said, through gritted teeth, "That is no comfort!"

Since this is a public forum, I will not go into further details. (I signed something saying I couldn’t talk negatively about the NBA or I would forfeit my severance pay. I doubt it matters much now, as many things have come to light since then, but I did sign it, so I will keep my word).

I spent a few days being devastated and allowing people in my local congregation (Union Avenue Christian Church) to take care of me. Rev. Dr. Mike Simpson, the pastor at the time, made sure I stayed busy and not in bed with the covers pulled over my head by asking me to participate in the Holy Week services—reading scripture, offering prayers, etc. (Smart move, Mike!) Fortunately, I had been on Zoloft, in therapy and part of a wonderful group of sprited women known as Sarah's Circle,, so the depression didn’t go too deep this time.

Instead, I got angry and got going. I arranged to move on campus at Eden and go full time in the fall. The bad part was, I had to find a new home for Chip, my cat. There was an older gentleman at the church who took him in. Chip died a few years later of some kind of kitty disease. He was a great cat.

While at school, I got a job doing before and after school childcare with the YMCA. I got more involved with campus life and enjoyed my classes, making friends and getting involved with socio-political issues from a religious point of view. (This in my case is from a very liberal perspective.)

I also was just starting to deal with the beginning stages of diabetic retinopathy, the eye disease associated with diabetes. I had several laser surgeries to correct the leaking vessels in my eyes and sustained a small vision loss in my right eye. I wrote about that, here. I still have vision problems today.

I graduated in May 2003 and was ordained at the end of that month in St. Louis at Union Avenue. It was wonderful to have most of my family together for such an event. From there, I entered a two-year program at National City Christian Church in Washington, DC. It was a Lily Endowment-funded program called Transition into Ministry. I was one of three ‘original resident pastors’ at NCCC (eventually, there were two others). We were one of several sites around the country in different denominations. I was attracted to NCCC, because I was interested in urban ministry.

But about month before I arrived (fall 2003), the story broke that the senior pastor had ‘borrowed heavily’ from other people’s sermons without proper credit to the original source. Some called it plagiarism and were ready to ride him out of town on a rail. Others said it was common in the African-American tradition to quote from preachers you admire. I say it was a mistake and a cry for help by a flawed man. He’s a good preacher, a good person and now a good friend. I learned a lot from him about humility and overcoming great obstacles.

He was there for about half my time there. And I mostly worked on communications and worship there. But I was also able to do outreach and advocacy. (While there, I became certified in pre-marrital counseling. So far, I've counselled one couple! Back in St. Louis, I married two couples, so I think I'm doing it backwards!)

Again, it was a great learning experience and I gained more friends. However, in 2005, when my position ended there, I found myself at another standstill in my life, not sure where to go next. The trauma and controversy at NCCC had taken its toll on me. I was asked if I could stay another year, but I declined. I needed time to heal.

I became a chaplain-in-residence at Georgetown University, living in one of the freshmen dorms and working with the students there. The position only provided housing, not a salary, so I supplemented my income by doing temp work—data entry, retail, etc.,--and freelance writing , research, retreat leadership, whatever I could get.

Although I again developed many lasting friendships at Georgetown, and loved the students, this was a dark period for me personally. I began to doubt everything about my self and my life, my vocation, my abilities. Depression reared its ugly head again. I was able to do some therapy, and I was on and off the Zoloft, but I sank and rose back and forth over the two years I was there.

Georgetown chaplaincy was good work, and important work. However, my personality is such that I am perceived by the students as remote unless I am presenting a program or interacting one on one. When I walked between buildings, or even in the halls, they didn’t think I was present or chatty enough.

In 2007, I decided that the best thing for me to do was to let go of Georgetown. It really held me captive to a particular place, and I needed to be able to move wherever and whenever necessary. It also held me to a goal I couldn’t reach. I am an introvert to the extreme, so I could never be the outgoing, talkative chaplain they wanted me to be.

I was packing and making arrangements to put my stuff in storage when the regional minister in the DC area called and asked what my plans were. I told him I was moving out of Georgetown and moving in with a friend in Maryland. I was going to do freelance writing and church communication and get a part-time job at a hotline. If nothing came up job-wise by fall, I’d move back to Indiana or Illinois, maybe even St. Louis.

He told me about the manger position at the camp and conference center in Bethany Beach, DE…would I be interested in taking it at least for the summer? I didn’t think about it long, and neither did the management committee. Instead of moving to Roxanne’s (Yes, the same Roxanne from college), I moved to the beach. And talk about deja vu, Roxanne moved me here in her truck, with her daughter Emma, 5, in tow.

We are currently talking about what to do with me for the winter. The options are keeping one house on the grounds open over the winter or housing me in DC. There are budgetary concerns, of course, and logistics, but we all seem to be agreed that I will be here next year. In the meantime, I have increased the amount of freelance writing and church communications consulting I am doing. And I try to get to the beach at least once a day. And, believe it or not, I’m pretty happy with my life.

Blessings,
Arlene

Message to Myself

2007-09-02T13:03:00.000-05:00

I don't know about you, but I need this message today...

new digital camera to play with

2007-08-12T17:47:00.000-05:00

Here are some shots at Bethany Beach taken with my new digital camera...

Blessings,
Arlene

50 Things to do while you are looking for work

2007-08-03T10:36:00.000-05:00

I wrote the following while I was in a period of searching--for full-time employment; fullfilling, meaningful work and ministry; for my sense of self. Being underemployed took it's toll on me physically, spiritually and mentally.

I plan to write and publish an article on self-care for those looking for work or changing directions. (So please do not steal these lists or send them to your friends in an email--I trust you!)

I invite your feedback, especially if you have had similar experiences looking for work or searching for self. Please share your stories. And let me know if I can quote you in the article!

Blessings,
Arlene

50 Things to do while you are looking for work

By Arlene M Franks
All Rights Reservced

1) Pray, meditate or do something that will help you take care of your spirit. When we are struggling, we can feel insignificant and small. We must remind ourselves that we are supported by something larger than ourselves.

2) Find or develop a community—church, support group, book group, bible study. It’s important not to isolate yourself.

3) Write to friends/family—especially those you’ve been out of touch with for awhile. (But pay close attention to step 4!)

4) Surround yourself with people who support you—avoid negative people.

5) Visit museums and galleries for inspiration.

6) Go to the library—pick a subject and explore new territory for your mind.

7) Volunteer at local agencies. Your main job is getting a job, but you need some time to focus on something else, and volunteering is a great way to refocus and rejuvenate.

8) Meet friends for coffee—it’s cheaper than a meal, and they may even pay!

9) Write letters to the editor about local issues that are important to you. Again, it helps to refocus sometimes.

10) Write letters to your representatives about an important state or national issue.

11) Rearrange your home—move the furniture around, put the TV in a different spot, use the linens in the back of the closet and change the color scheme in the bedroom and bath.,

12) Organize your stuff—throw and/or give things away that you don’t need anymore. You might find some things you forgot you had.

13) Make art projects out of scraps at home.

14) Look for short-term projects that pay. Your local government, schools, library, place of worship, a local business, may be looking for someone to do a task that will help them complete an important project, but that regular staff don’t have time to do. Ask around, these positions are usually filled by word of mouth.

15) Learn to barter—baby-sit for help on your resume; type a thesis for babysitting services, etc.

16) Attend free concerts and lectures—stimulate your mind and spirit!

17) Use public transportation—not only do you meet a lot of interesting people, but you can feel a sense of accomplishment in navigating the system.

18) Read—check out all those books you’ve purchased over the years but never read.

19) Take care of your physical needs. Your being sick doesn’t serve anyone, and besides, you can’t afford it!

20) Walk

21) Play

22) Sleep

23) Laugh

24) Cry

25) Breathe—we forget the small stuff when we are concentrating on the big tasks.

26) Drink water—it’s brain fuel.

27) Stay connected—did I mention, you shouldn’t isolate yourself? Keep up your involvement in community, neighborhood, church, and family activities as much as possible.

28) Journal or blog about your experiences, your life, your expectations and goals. It’s a great way to release a lot of the anxieties, frustrations and confusion about what is happening in your life.

29) Tell your story to others—most people are willing to listen and many will be able to help in some way.

30) Listen to other people’s stories—you will be amazed at how many others are going through similar difficulties.

31) Ask for help—there is no shame in it, and most folks want to do something but don’t know how best to help.

32) Help someone else—it takes your mind off your own troubles, at least for a moment.

33) Maintain as ‘normal’ a schedule as possible. It will help keep up your resolve and your energy.

34) Utilize the Internet—if you don’t have access at home, most libraries have computers available to the public.

35) Listen to music, for obvious reasons.

36) Watch a sad movie—it can be cathartic

37) Watch a happy movie, even a silly one—it can lift your spirits.

38) Increase your vocabulary or learn words in another language. Another thing to do while you are at the library.

39) Make up bumper sticker slogans—it’s distracting and there are companies that will actually pay you for slogans they can use.

40) Write greeting cards—same as above. Check out the Writer’s Digest, either from the library or online for lists of companies that accept submissions.

41) Learn a new skill—increase your keyboarding skills or teach yourself to crochet.

42) Take your ‘work’ outside your home—the presence of other people, sounds, smells, sights, can be stimulating and help you keep from isolating.

43) Count your blessings—we tend to forget the good things in our lives when we are in a slump.

44) Take one moment at a time. Planning and goal-setting are good, but when plans go awry, we need to keep moving toward the goal.

45) List your accomplishments—we tend to forget them when we are not doing our life’s work.

46) List your strengths—you can draw on them to keep moving forward.

47) List your weaknesses—only because we tend to dwell on them when we have a setback like unemployment. List them and then either put them away and out of mind or take the next step listed…

48) Find ways to change your weaknesses into strengths. So you think you seem too eager when you interview? Change that to enthusiasm and make it a part of the interview, as in, “I am so excited to have this opportunity!”

49) Do your most important work when your energy level is highest. If you’re not a morning person, for instance, don’t force yourself to get up early to fill out applications and set up interviews. It is counterproductive to present yourself to the hiring world when you are not at your best.

50) Keep moving—don’t give up.

12 Things friends can do to help
By Arlene M Franks
All Rights Reservced

1) Pray for me.
2) Pray with me.
3) Share your stories of struggle—you may be an inspiration.
4) Check in on me by phone and email—I may not always reach out when I need help.
5) Tell me how I can help you—I need to feel useful and connected.
6) Invite me to lunch or coffee—and let me pay my half if I offer.
7) Invite me to go places that are free of charge—I need to get out of the house.
8) Make me laugh.
9) Allow me to cry.
10) Help me acknowledge and use my gifts—I need to believe I am strong, capable and competent.
11) Remind me of my accomplishments—I tend to forget about them.
12) Help me stay involved in the things that are important to me. I need to see that I can still have a positive impact on my community, neighborhood, church, and family.

An Unblinding Light

2007-07-30T13:19:00.000-05:00

Oprah is smiling at me from the magazine rack across the waiting room at Barnes Retina Institute in St. Louis.* With her arms flung wide, her body slightly bent at the waist, she looks ready to laugh with her whole body. I stare at her for awhile, wanting to be in on the joke. When she becomes blurry, I will know that the eye drops the technician put in several minutes ago have taken effect.

Maybe if they dilate soon, we can get this over with quickly. It’s my sixth surgery to correct diabetic retinopathy, but I am not used to this procedure. I can’t shake the anxiety of waiting. I close my eyes to help speed the process of opening my pupils wide so the doctor can shine his bright light into them and cauterize the swollen, leaking blood vessels behind the retina and prevent any potential vision loss.

“I’ve had about 67 of these surgeries,” an older man’s voice invades my thoughts. Sitting behind me, he tells his friend about his struggles with diabetes. “I just can’t get it under control,” he says.

I try to remember when was the last time I monitored my blood sugar…and did I remember to take my medicine today? What about that donut I had last night? “I’m killing myself from the inside,” I chide myself. “God, don’t let me go blind,” I almost whisper. I shift in my seat, check my watch and survey the overflowing waiting room. It’s going to be a long afternoon.

The waiting room is nearly empty when my name is finally called. I follow another technician to a smaller room with a lot of strange equipment that has begun to at least look familiar. The doctor greets me kindly, if not warmly. His name is Dr. Blinder. Even in my anxiety, I always want to tease him in a voice reserved for close friends, “so, Dr. Blinder, anybody give you a hard time about your name?”

But he doesn’t invite such familiarity. Soft-spoken and reserved, he looks like he takes his job way too seriously. Today, though, I’m glad he does, so I decide again not to broach the subject.
More eye drops go in, these to numb my eyes. The doctor adjusts the chin rest so that if I lean forward a bit, I can rest my head in front of his machine almost comfortably. The technician fastens a cloth band around the back of my head, “just to remind you to keep your chin down during the procedure,” she says.

During a series of equipment adjustments and murmured communication between doctor and assistant, my heart begins to beat faster…almost imperceptibly at first. “Breathe,” I tell myself as the doctor puts a sort of monocle in my left eye to keep it open. “Don’t forget to breathe.”
It’s a brief warning before the flashes of light begin The intense white light seems to bore through my pupil and into my body. My toes curl and lift my heels off the ground. My fingers clench around the armrests. I concentrate on my breathing again to suppress the scream welling up in my chest.

“Just breathe,” I urge myself as the laser flashes over and over. “In…out; again, in…out.”

“Try to keep your right eye open,” he says gently. But it is almost impossible, as it tightens defensively against the tortuous light. Twice before, my opposite eye squeezed so tightly, the monocle popped out.

It seems like an eternity, but it couldn’t be more than fifteen minutes before the doctor turns off the light, moves his machine back and says, “OK, all done. You did great.”

Unstrapped from the chin rest, I look around the room. Everything is bathed in red. I know it will go away, but it always startles me. I nod as the doctor tells me to “take it easy” for the rest of the day. We exchange pleasantries.

Walking back into the empty waiting room, I fish around in my bag for the sunglasses I am almost positive I dropped in there this morning. I’m going to need them. It is so bright in here.

*NOTE: Since writing this in 2002, I have had several more surgeries in both eyes. I have some permanent vision loss in my right eye, and I have trouble seeing clearly with both eyes. My diabetes continues to be a struggle, and I now take insulin to control it.

I am Grape!

2007-07-18T18:58:00.000-05:00

You Are Grape

You are bold and a true individual. You are very different and very okay with that.
People know you as a straight shooter. You're very honest, even when the truth hurts.
You are also very grounded and practical. No one is going to sneak anything by you.
People enjoy your fresh approach to life. And it's this honesty that makes you a very innovative person.

What Color Purple Are You?

If its Good News, Why Aren't You Smiling?

2007-07-09T18:01:00.000-05:00

I love Eddie Izzard. I just happened upon him as a stand up comedian a few years ago when I was flipping channels. This routine was the one I saw. I laughed hysterically.

I especially like this piece, though, because it talks about religion, specifically Christianity, even more specifically, the Protestant Church and how we tend to belie the joy of the Gospel with our spirit-less voices.

I realized recently that Eddie is now an actor and plays the husband in "The Riches" on FX. That is a great show--a little too complex for me on long, exhausting days when my brain is not working, but really well written and acted.

It's about a fmaily of "travellers" who get caught up in a web of lies when they impersonate a wealthy family in the burbs. Minnie Driver plays his wife, and they have three children. The youngest, a boy, is a cross-dresser. It's just part of his character, and doesn't show up as a major part of the plot. I like that.

Anyway, enjoy this unique take on Christianity...and if it offends you, lighten up!

Blessings,

Arlene

Deliver us, oh please

2007-07-09T12:56:00.000-05:00

Susan Werner--The Gospel Truth

You must listen to this woman's songs. Go to the "Our Father" first. I think it's brillient and wish I had written it.

More later...

Blessings,

Arlene

I know someone famous and funny

2007-07-06T18:44:00.000-05:00

I just discovered comedy writer/performer/cartoonist Dan McCoy's blog. He was one of 'my youths' in the 90's when I was Christian Youth Fellowship sponsor at Eureka (Illinois) Christian Church (Disciples of Christ). His dad was my religion professor at Eureka College, and I know his whole family. In fact, I think I even babysat him when I was in college. He was quite self-sufficient. We called him Daniel then.

When he was in high school, he began drawing and writing a comic strip for the school paper, which was published in the town paper where I was editor. Seeing how good he was, I shamelessly stole him from the high school crowd and gave him his first professional gig as an artist. We published his comic strips on the editorial page, and I think we paid him $10 per week(?) Maybe $5. Hell I wasn't making much more than that myself!

As I was moving here recently, I went through boxes of stuff I had carted around from place to place since I left Eureka in 1997 (before that, really.) I threw away far more than I kept...I even tossed out old letters and cards. But when I got to a stack of original Dan McCoys...well, I couldn't part with them.

I wonder how much they are worth now that he's famous? Maybe I should wait until he makes it on Saturday Night Live. ..not that I'd sell them, of course.

I am sure Dan would rather speak for himself than have me reminisce about him and his fellow CYFers. So go look at his blog. And check out some of his more recent comic strips.

And this parody of On Star commercials.

Blessings,
Arlene

Ross and Perez

2007-07-04T20:00:00.000-05:00

I fell in love with Ross Mathews (Ross the Intern) during "Celebrity Fit Club," one of my guilty pleasures. He is so genuine. I usually don't like perky, but it works for him. He was the only one on fit club who was still talking to Dustin Diamond by the end. He stuck it out far longer than I would have!

The combination of him and Perez Hilton is almost too much to bear, but they are so cute together. It's refreshing to see people willing to be themselves.

Blessings,

Arlene

Settling In

2007-06-21T20:10:00.000-05:00

Having grown up in the land-locked Midwest, I didn't feel very attracted to the oceans. I visited the Pacific only a few times when I lived in Claremont, CA for three years (graduate school). I enjoyed it, but it wasn't the thrill I had imagined it would be. I found myself longing for smaller waterways--streams, rivers and waterfalls, like the ones I grew up visiting in the Indiana State Parks. The largest bodies of water I saw growing up were the Great Lakes, especially Lake Michigan, where we often went camping in the summer.

There was this great campground called Orchard Beach. It was simple set of camp sites and a bath house. But if you went into the woods at its edge and walked a few feet, you would encounter Lake Michigan in full fury! The shore is filled with huge, jagged rocks and the waves crash against them constantly.

My mom loved this place, and insisted we camp there whenever we went through Michigan. The first thing we'd do when we arrived was don our swimsuits, pick up our towels and slip on our flip-flops. Away we'd go in eager anticipation. I never told my mom, or anyone else, for that matter, but I always felt a mixture of fear with our collective excitement.

Would this be the time I'd be swept off the rock into the deep abyss of the lake?

We'd climb up on the rocks and brace ourselves against one. I'd choose the biggest, sturdiest one I could find. I also made sure I could see my mom at her perch. She'd yell, "Here it comes!" and a wave would crash against our bodies...I can still feel the mild sting against my skin. I can smell the water in my hair

We'd laugh and giggle, shake off the water and wait for the next one. You have no idea how rare it was to see my mom laugh and smile and just be silly. I guess that's why the excitement always overcame the fear, and I always looked forward to the next time.

And the deep never got me.

Now I am living two blocks from the Atlantic. I walk there at least once a day. Yesterday, it rained, and the beach was deserted in the afternoon, when I was able to take a break and walk down there. I sat and looked out over the water. The air was wet, and the waves crashed onto the shore a little more fiercely than they had the day before. I wanted to go out in it and feel the waves lap at my feet. But alas, my feet have succumbed to that dreaded side effect from diabetes--dry, cracked skin. I didn't dare.

So again today, I sat for awhile on the boardwalk and looked out into the sea, with all the little bodies splashing around while their parents sat beneath the relative anonymity of beach hats and umbrellas. It was so calm today, hardly a wave mustering up enough energy to reach up the shore to where I would have stood, had my feet been well enough.

A few more days of bandages and Neosporin and I will wade out again, daring the waves to knock me off my feet. No rocks to cling to this time, and my mother's voice--even her laughter--is too far away to hear. I guess I'll have to stand on my own.

Blessings,
Arlene

By the Beach!

2007-06-13T19:23:00.000-05:00

I just found out I am going to spend the summer at the beach! I accepted a position as manager of the Bethany Beach (Delaware) Camp and Conference Center. It's a church camp about two blocks from the ocean. Since I am moving this weekend, I won't be posting for a few days, but I will tell you all about it soon. I plan to work, write and hang out at the beach...

Here's the website.

Blessings,

Arlene

Other perspectives on prayer

2007-06-03T16:22:00.000-05:00

Prayer is the exercise of drawing on the grace of God.
—Oswald Chambers

Prayer is the place where burdens change shoulders.

In prayer it is better to have a heart without words than words without a heart. —Mohandas Gandhi

Any concern too small to be turned into a prayer Is too small to be made into a burden.
—Corrie ten Boom

Prayer is not asking for what you think you want, but asking to be changed in ways you can't imagine.
—Kathleen Norris

Prayer cannot bring water to a parched field, nor mend a broken bridge, nor rebuild a ruined city; but prayer can water an arid soul, mend a broken heart and rebuild a weakened will.
—"Gates of Prayer," the Reform prayer book

Pray as if everything depended on God; act as if everything depended on you.
—Gates of Prayer

Gratitude is the highest form of prayer. It opens the door from the inside, so that we may receive the abundance which is waiting for us.
—Laurel Keyes

Faith is like a muscle, and prayer is the exercise that helps it grow.

A perspective on prayer

2007-06-02T17:37:00.000-05:00

Prayer is meaningless unless it is subversive, unless it seeks to overthrow and to ruin the pyramids of callousness, hatred, opportunism and falsehood. The liturgical movement must become a revolutionary movement, seeking to overthrow the forces that continue to destroy the promise, the hope, the vision.

—Abraham Joshua Heschel

A laugh and a triumph!

2007-05-30T16:15:00.000-05:00

I finally figured out how to share a You Tube video in a post!! I'm so excited...and it only took me half a day.

This video is called, "Kitten and his box," and I share it because it made me laugh on a day when I had not intended to even smile. So, if you don't like cats...well, there's something wrong with you, but also, you don't have to watch it.

No cat-hating comments, please...I don't want to have to hurt you.

Blessings,
Arlene

The War Prayer

2007-05-29T18:21:00.000-05:00

My friend, Brian, posted this powerful video on the spiritual impact of war on his blog. Mark Twain wrote the poem, "The War Prayer," after the Spanish-American War, but it was published posthumously after the first World War. He agreed to not publish it until after his death because his advisors and family thougt it was too controversial.

I guess some things never change. We still can't talk about the evils of war in open public discourse. We still label war protestors, and even those who question the legitimacy of any particular war, as disloyal to the country, and worse, as standing 'against the troops. '

That's why this video* makes such a crucial statement now. Even a century later, Twains elequent words still reveal a deeply imbedded truth about us...this insidious fear of being pegged as an outsider, a troublemaker, a traitor, simply by hating a war and it's massive destruction.

As Twain said, "None but the dead are permitted to tell the truth."

I especially like what Twain does with the implications of praying that our side 'win'...what it means for the 'other side.' I believe we can support our troops and pray for their safety without villifying the 'enemy.' The Iraqui soldiers are sons and loved ones, too. The Iraqui civilians who live in constant mortal danger, have dreams and lives and families, too.

I pray for more diplomacy and compromise in the world...more conversations and fewer debates, more compassion and less competition, more courage to speak the truth in love and less fear of those we don't know and refuse to understand. I pray our law makers do the right thing and find a way to withdraw...for everyone's sake.

God bless the universe, and everyone in it.

Blessings,
Arlene

*(I told Brian my only complaint about the video is that the voices and illustrations are decidely 'white male'-esque. It could use some diversity in culture and gender.)

An Open letter to Rosie

2007-05-28T18:51:00.000-05:00

Dear Rosie,

I know this letter would have been more timely had I written it last week. After all, the pundits have run out of things to say about your big fight with Elizabeth last Wednesday. (That doesn’t keep them from repeating themselves, of course.) I thought about posting a comment on your blog…but the space didn’t allow for everything I wanted to say.

To be truthful, I have been thinking about writing you a letter for years. I loved you on Star Search, in Sleepless in Seattle and in A League Of Their Own. I loved your talk show, and your crush on Tom Cruise, which I shared until he slammed Brooke Shields for taking care of herself. I loved your standup routine, your honesty about depression and your willingness to come out, even though you valued the privacy of your private life.

It’s weird how celebrity works. We think we know people we’ve never met. I feel like we might have gone to high school or college together. We’re even the same age, born exactly a month apart (my DOB = 2/21/62; your DOB = 3/21/62). We have a lot of other things in common, too—weight issues, depression, an artsy-craftsy side, and I think I could go toe to toe with you on knowing all the TV theme songs and commercial jingles of the past 40 years.

Another thing we have in common is our passion for social justice that is forged from our compassion for people. We share an ability and willingness to speak for others who cannot speak. We also have a similar penchant for getting in trouble for speaking the truth, for ‘not knowing when to shut-up.’ And while I have regretted the way I have handled some heated encounters over the years, I count it as a gift that I refuse to shut up and sit down. You, me, the Dixie Chicks, Gloria Steinhem, and many other uppity women through the centuries—we are in good company. Uppity Women Unite!

You know, I was actually there when it happened, this latest fight. I was sitting in my big chair by the TV, with The View on in the background while I worked on a freelance project that was due that day. Joy was saying something about Bush, and Elizabeth was interrupting, and all of a sudden, you asked her a question, and the two of you were into it.

I gave you my full attention, then, and I noticed something that few people are talking about. There was a lot of pain in your eyes. You were really hurt. And I don’t think it was just because Elizabeth hadn’t backed you up on Monday. I think you were hurt because you had really tried to be her friend, and you had thought friendship meant the same thing to her as it does to you. There’s another similar trait—fierce loyalty to our friends. I always have my friends’ backs, but if I can’t stand behind a friend’s actions or words, I say so, and so would you.

It was painful to watch, not because of the argument, but because of what was happening behind it. A friendship was dissolving before our eyes. I could even see pain in Elizabeth’s eyes. I’d like to dismiss her as insignificant, to put her in the same category as Ann Coulter, behind whose eyes I’ve never seen anything but ice and steel. But Elizabeth is not the enemy. She’s young and naïve and loyal to her party…so are a lot of people. But she has the potential to move beyond that and be multi-dimensional. I think you saw that, and I think part of the pain on Wednesday was realizing she wasn’t there, yet, and that you couldn’t help her achieve it without denying who you are.

So I’m sorry, Rosie…sorry you had to go through that; sorry it had to be on national TV; sorry we live in the age of You Tube, where we can see it over and over again. But I am grateful, too…grateful you had the dignity to say ‘enough is enough;’ that you had the spiritual and artistic integrity to create the video “True Colors” with your collages and Cyndi Lauper’s song; and grateful that you are surrounded by a wonderful support system of friends and loved ones—another thing we have I common—that can hold you up and carry you through to the next leg of your journey.

Blessings,
Arlene

Spring Fever

2007-05-26T16:57:00.000-05:00

It's such a pretty day in DC, I thought I'd share a photo I took in Spring 2004. Of course, the cherry blossoms are gone, now, but rmembering the sight of the delicate opink and white petals covering the city makes my day brighter...hope it does yours, too.

I've got more pics for you to peruse if you'd like a small distraction. There's a link to them on the left side of the screen, under the Notable Blogs links.

Oh, BTW, I've fixed the comments section so anyone can post a comment. Sorry; I didn't mean to be exclusive before, just didn't know my options. This blogging world is addictive, but there is a lot to learn.

Blessings,
Arlene

Graduations and such

2007-05-20T21:20:00.000-05:00

My nephew graduated from high school this weekend. That just seems impossible. He was a tiny baby in my arms when I graduated with my MA. And wasn't that just yesterday?

The family met in a park in Greencastle, Indiana that summer. I have a picture of me holding Michael. He's looking over my shoulder, sleepy-eyed, and I am looking at him. I really could swear that was just the other day!

I am sitting here staring at the computer, not sure there is much else to say. Except I love him the same as I did then. He captured my heart--it was adoration at first sight. I didn't think I could love any person more. Then his sister, Elizabeth, came along three years later. Seven years after that, her cousin, Randy was born. Well, what do you know? Love expands.

Elizabeth is quite different than Michael. She was a runner, a screetcher, and a climber as a small child. He was quieter, more pensive and intent on the task in front of him. Now, he's a straight-A student and a writer of science fantasy. She's an artist and dramatist. I think they were both born to notice everything about the world around them--and then go out ad explore the rest of it.

Randy is also smart and funny and adventuresome. He wants to adopt every animal in the world--so their house is full. Randy and his mom, Carolyn, have a special symbiotic bond. It's really cool to watch.

Could these three wonderful kids really come from my big brother and sister? I guess we are plenty old enough to have children and even teenagers. It just seems weird. When did we mature? When did we take on such overwhelming responsibilities--kids, jobs, houses...

OK, I don't have a house or kids...or a job right now, for that matter. (More on the latter in a future post.) I know these are not my kids, but since my sisters and brothers and I sort of raised each other, I just tend to feel like what's there's is mine and what's mine is therirs. Obviously, I don't mean that literally, but they are my blood and my heart.

And you know what's the best part? They are such great people that they'd be in my heart even if the blood part wasn't a factor. I got lucky with my siblings, and we got even luckier with the next generation.

Blessings,
Arlene

Mothers and daughters 2

2007-05-14T18:54:00.000-05:00

Another example of the mother-daughter bond. (Sorry, this one is longer...I didn't know where to cut!!)

Blessings,
Arlene

December 12, 2004
Waiting Expectantly
Luke 1:46-55

Luke 1:46-55
And Mary said, "My soul magnifies the Lord, and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior, for he has looked with favor on the lowliness of his servant. Surely, from now on all generations will call me blessed; for the Mighty One has done great things for me, and holy is his name. His mercy is for those who fear him from generation to generation. He has shown strength with his arm; he has scattered the proud in the thoughts of their hearts. He has brought down the powerful from their thrones, and lifted up the lowly; he has filled the hungry with good things, and sent the rich away empty. He has helped his servant Israel, in remembrance of his mercy, according to the promise he made to our ancestors, to Abraham and to his descendants forever."

This time of year, when we share in Mary’s joy, we anticipate with wonder and awe the miracle of Christmas in the birth of the Christ child. But I can’t help but recall another young woman who was pregnant and homeless and facing a difficult future.

I met Marshay at a shelter in St. Louis for homeless pregnant and parenting teens when I was a student at Eden Theological Seminary. I was doing my field education work there that semester. I would go to the shelter weekly and meet with the girls around their large dining room table. They ranged in age from 13 to 17. Some of the faces would change from week to week as girls moved in and out of the house. Some left because they were able to “graduate” to another level of care—moving closer to independent living with their babies. But some would run away, others were asked to leave because they couldn’t follow the rules…they would usually go to amore restrictive environment. A very, very few were able to go “home” and live with a relative.

When the girls came downstairs for our time together, most were not happy to be there. It seemed like just one more required meeting…and they had plenty. They met with social workers and case workers, counselors and healthcare workers. They had group meetings and individual meetings; they had classes, discussions and lectures. They also went to school, some held part-time jobs and they cared for the house, themselves and their babies. They certainly weren’t impressed with me with a bible in my hand, a carefully laid out plan in my head, and naïve idealism in my heart.

So, things didn’t always go the way I had envisioned…take the night I describe here in an email to a friend…

**Tough crowd at Olive Branch tonight...it felt so right to be there.
I started out with a plan, but soon realized it wasn't going to work, so I decided to get them to talk. I asked about their day--what was the worst, what was the best that happened today? Not much response. I stumbled around awhile longer. Finally I told them this was their time. I didn't want to do something they weren't interested in.

"What do you want?" I asked them. "What are your questions?"

They just poured out.

"Why are people so stupid?"

"Why are people mean to each other?"

"Why do people have to suffer?"

One asked, "Is the world going to end by fire? Did it begin with water and it's going to end by fire?"

We looked up the creation story in Genesis 1. Yep, the world began with water and wind.

"That means it will end with fire," she said, leaning back in her chair with confidence...no fear in evidence.

I said, "Some people think so," and began to explain that Revelations is a dream...but she went on before I could get two sentences out.

"What's judgment day?"

I began to explain, "...well, some people think..."

"So no one knows what he looks like?"

"God or Jesus?" I asked.

"Either one."

"No," I said.

She looked unimpressed when she asked, "Don't know if he's black or white?"

"What do you think?" I asked, in a moment of inspiration. "What do you think God looks like?"

"Like me," she said without hesitation.

"You're right," I said, looking unwaveringly into her eyes. I think I passed her test, because she nodded as I continued. "It says God made us in God's own image, so if we are the image of God, then God is black and white and..."

"...Everything else," she said with a nod of certainty.

There was another young woman there who was not so certain. She had a lot of anger and a lot of questions "for the man upstairs," as she called God. She's not sure she believes and she does not understand why people suffer without relief. Why did those people kill her cousin? She was a good person, and they just took advantage of her goodness.

The young woman says she had faith at one time, prayed every day. "But nothing changed...it just got worse...so I gave up."

I didn't have an answer for why good people suffer, just to say that I don't think God causes suffering. "Tragic things happen in our lives and we make bad choices," I said. "And God is there to help us through it, to give us strength."

But she would have none of it. "If that's a blessing, than I've got some stuff to say to him!" I didn't push it much further. It took a long time to build up such anger and disappointment. It's not going away quickly...and it's not mine to take away.

I told them they had good questions and that it's ok to ask them. I said a lot of people are wondering the same things. I told them I will not tell them I have the answers or try to make them believe a certain way. I said we'd wrestle with the questions together.

It was time to do an activity, and I returned to my original plans. I asked them if they would write down what they are thankful for, so that I can share it at the Olive Branch Thanksgiving dinner Monday night. I told them they didn't have to if they didn't want to. With the discussion going as it did, and few of them willing to share their blessings out loud, as I had invited them earlier, I wasn't sure they would want to.

They didn't hesitate. They all participated, writing each word carefully, some of them decorating their pages in bright colors. They are thankful for their families, their babies--born and unborn--their lives, going to sleep safely and waking up.

One wrote, "When I wake up and look at all the times I could have been killed, shooted or even raped, I thank God I didn't." She's a 13-year-old with a two-month-old baby.

One wrote, "I am also thankful for myself. In other words, thankful cause God gives me the strength to care for myself when no one else does." She did not share out loud during the whole meeting.

The one who isn't sure she believes? She's thankful that her grandmother "is still alive, and whenever I am down, I can always talk to her." And she's thankful for brothers and sisters who look up to her and love her.

The one who knows she looks like God? Among other things (she wrote three pages), she's thankful for Olive Branch because "They brung me off the streets with nothing to look back on. Now I have myself and my life to attend to."

Me? I'm just thankful I was there to be in the presence of Christ. I sure don't know what I'm doing, but I'm even more sure that he does. Praise God from whom all blessings flow...**

Marshay was the one who wanted to have a talk with the “Man upstairs.” At the time, she was pregnant with a little girl. She came to class each week and wore the same chip on her shoulder, expressed the same wariness in her voice and kept the same suspicious look in her eyes whenever I spoke. But she always participated. I had decided that the best way to get them to talk and share was to bring a different craft project each week. I didn’t have to have a specific plan for what they would make with the materials I provided, because their creativity was always greater than mine anyway. Marshay made some of the most beautiful artwork and wrote some of the most profound poetry and prose.

Marshay delivered way too early and her little girl, Kyra, wasn’t able to leave the hospital. She would visit the neo-natal ICU as often as she could and continued to attend our gatherings whenever she was in the house. I made a couple of trips to the hospital myself. It was the first time I had seen such tiny sick babies. Here is how I described one visit to friends.

**Just wanted to share my experience this afternoon with you. Thanks to Gayle's encouragement, I went to Children's Hospital and visited Kyra, Marshay's baby after church. I had to face some anxieties about going--hospitals in general, children's units, ICU. I was going to wait until I knew Marshay would be there. Anyway, it was easier to get in than I thought, and the nursing staff was very kind.

When I went in, there were all these tiny babies in beds hooked up to lines and tubes. There were families at many of them. They all had the same look in there eyes--a mixture of fear and hope. No one was visiting Kyra at the time, but a nurse was feeding her. She trembled when she put the dropper in her mouth and the nurse held her hands to help stop the trembling. There were things on and around her bed that made me think of Marshay keeping vigil as much as she can...a valentine with Kyra's name, a teddy bear...

She's so tiny. She weighs about 3 pounds, now. She's stable, but the nurse said the long-term prognosis is not good. They want Marshay to sign a no-code agreement, but she won't. I asked about the blindness, and the nurse said she was to have laser surgery on her eyes, but she didn't know the results.

She was still in one of those beds with the protective glass that has those circles on the side where you can put your hands through (I don't know what they are called, and, truthfully, I've only seen them on TV). While I was there, they moved her to a bigger bed without that protective thing, so I am hoping that's a sign that she's doing better. The nurse let me touch her (after I washed my hands), and I stroked her fuzzy hair, her tiny feet, her little balled up fist...and I prayed for her and Marshay.

Normally, I pray for whatever happens to be the best thing for the person and the person's family. But this time, I just prayed for Kyra to live. Marshay needs to know that God does not take everything away that you hold dear. That's been her life experience. She is struggling so much with why do bad things happen to good people and why doesn't God answer my prayers. I just wanted her to have a reason to believe...

But on the way home, I realized it was my own faith that is in question. I want a miracle. I want to know that there is something more to this baby's life than living in that hospital bed. I admitted that to God, but I haven't changed my prayer. I still want Kyra to live. I still want Marshay to believe. And, as unrealistic as it sounds, I still want to see a miracle happen.

I left a card and a tiny stuffed lamb toy with the nurse. In the card, I told Marshay I had been there and would be back to see her and the baby. I told her that the lamb is a symbol of Jesus and that I am praying that Jesus watch over them both.

I know that even if the baby dies, there has been a purpose to her life and that God is present in our lives. I know in time that Marshay could still believe in a compassionate God. I also know that if the baby lives, she and Marshay will have a lot more struggles to go through...I know that this is hard, and I believe it's hard on God, too. I just hope that I and others in Marshay's life can convey the compassion and all encompassing love of God to her and that she can feel it and see it in her own life.

That, finally, after all my fears, doubts and anger are set aside, is my prayer.**

Kyra weighed one pound at birth. Nearly three months later, she weighed a little over three pounds. She still couldn’t breath without assistance. In my mind, I knew the nurses were right—she wasn’t going to live. But my heart was with Marshay—wanting and waiting for a miracle. Any time I asked about the baby, Marshay would give a weak smile and say, “She’s doing better.” But eventually, even she realized that Kyra’s frail little body wasn’t strong enough to sustain her soul. A few weeks after that first visit to the neo-natal unit, I went back to be with Marshay as she stayed with Kyra the night before medical personnel were to take the baby off the machines. To tell you the truth, there wasn’t a whole lot I could do that night but be present. We exchanged very few words, but Marshay asked if I would conduct the funeral. The next morning, Marshay held Kyra in her arms as the machines were turned off. The baby died a few minutes later.

At the funeral, Kyra looked like a perfect china doll in the tiny white coffin. Marshay looked up at me the same suspicion in her eyes as I delivered the eulogy. Although the room was filled, my words were just for her. I told her about the hope we have in Christ, that death does not win…that Kyra’s life, brief as it was, was not lived in vain. “God is grieving, too,” I said. “God did not want this, God does not enjoy seeing you in pain, but he is right here with you, sharing the pain. “You did nothing to cause this,” I told her. “You were a good mother.” I told her I hoped my words would make sense to her one day, some day when the pain is less sharp, the memory more a comfort than a loss.

Then I read her own words of hope in the form of a poem written about Kyra. It was an exercise from one of our weekly gatherings, a formula poem that is designed to lead the writer to better self-understanding. She wrote the first one for herself:

Marshay
Kind, caring, smart, pretty
Lover of Kyra, God and my grandmother
Who dreams of happiness, Kyra getting better and to go to college
Who needs love, family and God
Who gives love, kindness and laughter
Who fears sadness, death and my mother
Who would like to see people getting better, people being happy
and kind people all the time

Then she wrote one for Kyra:

Kyra
Strong, pretty, sweet, bless
Lover of Mom and God
Who dreams of happiness, love
Who needs attention, God and Mom
Who gives love, happiness
Who fears nothing
Who would like to se home with family

“Isn’t it wonderful,” I said, “that Kyra will never have to fear anything? Isn’t it a sign of divine love that Kyra is home with her family in God?”

Yes, when I think about Mary and her hymn of thanksgiving and joy to the Lord, I can’t help but think of Marshay. I don’t know where she is right now. I imagine that this time of year, she thinks about her little girl, her first born, Kyra. She would be about six years old, now. These poems were her own unique Magnificat, although she would never have seen them that way. I hope when Marshay looks back, she can feel a little bit of the hope that Mary expresses…that she can say with Mary, “My soul magnifies the Lord, and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior, for he has looked with favor on the lowliness of his servant.” I hope she can see with Mary that God has “brought down the powerful from their thrones, and lifted up the lowly; he has filled the hungry with good things, and sent the rich away empty.” I hope her life is blessed.

How would your own unique Magnificat develop? What are the blessings in your life? If they do not come to mind right away, look deeper. They may appear at first as burdens, as sorrows, as anything but hopeful. Keep looking, where’s the joy in those places of despair? Where’s the presence of God in those times of fear? Look closely—is God holding you up? Nudging you forward onto an unknown path? Cautioning you from running headlong into a deadly path?

In this season of hope and love, this season of joy and peace…as we wait expectantly with Mary for the miraculous birth of the Christ child, let us each write our own Magnificat on our hearts. Let our own souls magnify the Lord and seek out new ways to express just how grateful we are for the life we have in Christ. And one more thing, share the blessings, the good news…don’t keep it a secret, tell everyone…a child will be born to us, and through him, we will be born again.

Mothers and daughters 1

2007-05-14T18:31:00.000-05:00

I mentioned in my earlier post ('Mother's Day--mixed messages,' below) about the complexities of our relationships with our mothers. Here I share a story about dear friends Laurel and Evelyn. I wrote this as part of a sermon a few years ago after Laurel shared with me what it was like to be with her mom at the end of Evelyn's life. I had envied Laurel's relationship with Evelyn, but now I just experience it as one example of the mother-daughter bond. In the next post, above, I'll share another example.

Blessings,
Arlene

Evelyn

Evelyn lay on her bed in the corner bedroom of the house where, as a widow, she had raised her four children on her own for the past nearly 30 years. As a hospice care nurse held and stroked her hand, she tried to allow her body to relax, like the nurse kept urging.

"Come on, Ev, you can do it," the nurse was saying. But the breaths kept coming out in rasping heaves. Her body was resisting death, just like she had for the past several months.

Always strong and independent, once by necessity, later, perhaps out of habit and a bit of pride, Evelyn had resisted every step of the way. First it was giving up her car, then enduring strangers in her house saying they were there to take care of her. And then there was that blasted walker. Why did her legs keep failing her? And her mind? She kept forgetting things. Now, she could feel her body shutting down moment by moment.

She knew it was near the end, and so did her family. Two of her children were in the other room, waiting. But they had been waiting for months, as they all thought she had reached the end of this life before. They'd said their good-byes more than once. They had made their peace.

“Why do I linger?” she thought.

"Come on, Ev, you can do it," she heard the voice say above her. Was it the nurse, or God? Either way, she wished she could tell the voice, "My name is Evelyn."

She became vaguely aware that there were more people in the room, now--her youngest daughter and son. The nurse must have called them in. It must be the end, again.
Laurie watched her mother's chest move up and down and heard the loud wheezing sound coming from her mother's throat. “Is this the end, again? How many times will we have to say good-bye?” she wondered.

The labored breath sounded ragged, as if torn from her body, she thought. Could that really be coming from her mom? The nurse had told them the body does this at the end. It fights to continue, even when it's too weak to breath. In fact, the body can be so weak, it can't relax, she had told them.

Soon, the breathing changed to a quieter, more peaceful sound. It was a sign that her mom was able to relax, the nurse said. Then the sound stopped altogether. The silence was huge and overpowering in that small room, where, as a child, Laurie had run to her mother's side for comfort.

"Is she gone?" Laurie asked the nurse.

"Yes, she's gone," the nurse said.

The silence was replaced by sobs coming from her own throat and from her brother beside her. Suddenly, a loud gasp, a desperate intake of air came from the direction of the bed and it startled the two of them. She almost laughed when the nurse explained, "sometimes they do that. They take one last gasp of breath."

Clearing her throat and wiping away the tears, Laurie hugged her brother and headed for the telephone. There were a lot of people to call, arrangements to be made….

Mother's Day mixed messages

2007-05-14T14:46:00.000-05:00

Anybody else get melancholy around mother's day? I usually go to church, or am leading church, on the day we set aside to honor mothers. First of all, most M-day sermons are full of how wonderful and self-sacrificing moms are. The preachers wax poetic about how sweet mom was, how understanding and gentle, meek and mild... Does that describe your mom? Not mine.

Most mothers are lovely women, I grant you, but aren't they just ordinary mortals? They have flaws just like the rest of us. And some moms are just not invested in the care and nurture of their chldren. There are neglectful and abusive mothers, absent mothers, mothers who are more selfish than selfless. Making it sound like all mothers are supposed to act in a certain way only heightens even the adult child's awareness that their mom didnt measure up--that there must be something wrong with them that their mom wasn't the spokes-model for Mother's Day.

I have no problem with the idea of celebrating motherhood, but I think we can honor our moms without resorting to platitudes and pleasantries. Don't our moms deserve better than a superficial flowerfest? Don't our relationships with our moms--or those who took the mom-role in our lives--go deeper than that?

And that's just addressing how we as adult children feel...what about the moms in the congregation? Many of them feel inadequate, given the false standards of a 'prefect' mom. Other women, those who either can't or have chosen not to have children feel like second class citizens, or worse--less of a woman--for not having borne children from her womb. Women who've had miscarriages can find themselves grieving all over again. Obviously, this doesn't come just from a sermon. It's more about societal pressure on women to reproduce.

I don't have the experience of being a mom, but I know it can change your life entirely--your priorities, your sense of self...it can kick start nurturing instincts you didn't know you had. All my friends who are moms are grateful to be so. But they also know that there are time of struggle: Times when they screw up; times when they need to be selfish and say "this is what I need."

I think that it is in having friends who are mothers, as well as working with children in church and as a childcare worker, that I have come to appreciate moms more, and especially my own mom and her gifts to me. (I also had a similar experience appreciating dad's more, but this is about mother's day!)

I love and admire my mom, but she was not the warm, fuzzy, greet-you-at-the-door-with-a-plate-of-cookies kind of mom. Of course, I could handle that. I didn't care that she was different. I admired her independence and freer spirit--at least as I grew up and came to understand it better. But she was, to be blunt, bordering on neglectful. She didn't hug or kiss,; she didn't say "I love you." In fact, she didn't talk at all, sometimes. I think there were times she didn't fully realize I was there. (But that could be that I'm the fourth of five, and I always felt invisible.)

And through the years, I've had the fights and the you-drive-me-crazy arguments. She's let me know I drive her crazy, too. I cut a visit short one time, because I just didn't want to talk about it anymore. I always felt like she was much more eager to tell me everything that is wrong with me than to even hint that I had the strength to make it in this world and that she had my back.

But I did my own work over the years--dealing with my demons, so to speak. My addiction to food, my depression, my PTS (Post traumatic stress from child sexual abuse--not by a member of my immediate family), my self-doubts. Eventually, I got to the point where I allowed my mom to be herself--the gift I always wanted from her. And you know what,? I just realized this weekend when I called her--She's OK with me being myself. Now I am wondering which of us offered that gift to the other first? Was I so invested in being the neglected child to notice that she had my back, but not in a way I could recognize or acknowledge?

She still drives me crazy. I am counting on the fact that she gets annoyed with me, too. Sort of maintains a balance that way.

Back to being in church on mothers day...I was grateful the congregation didn't give out a flower to all the women--or just the moms. Either way, women who can't have children, or "forgot to have children" as the old T-shirt says, feel singled out. I like the way the preacher, a dear friend of mine, Dr. Ron Hopson, put it. (I'm paraphrasing here) "Happy Mothers day to all the mothers out there, and all those who are mothers by spirit or by intent, if not by biology."

And I am grateful for Ron's sermon, which talked about remembering our moms as they really are or were--the good, the bad and the indifferent--and not try to gloss over everything and make it look idyllic. On the one hand, we are just ordinary human beings. But on the other, we are, each one of us, an unrepeatable miracle of God. It is good to honor our whole selves and our moms as they really are, not as we want them to be.

Blessings,
Arlene

Just starting out

2007-05-12T22:34:00.000-05:00

Hello, whoever you are. Did you find my blog by accident? Were you fooling around on the Internet and typed in something that caught Google's attention? That's how I find a lot of things on the Internet...quite by accident.

Well, however, you got here, I am glad you came. I embarked on this wild ride in bloogersville because I want to share my journey, such as it is, with you and others out there in cyberland. I thinking sharing our stories makes our paths a little smoother...if only for a moment.

I can get very philosophical, even maudlin...but I have my humorous side, too. I will try to strike a balance in my musings.

That's it, for now...my first stab at this. I'll have more later. In the meantime, if you stumble upon my little corner of the blog world, please leave your blog's or web page's url, if you have one. I'd love to share your journey, too.

Blessings,
Arlene