Heartthrob

The following post is about "Baby #3".  I spent the entirety of my last volunteer shift with him.  Wonderful way to spend a Saturday afternoon, let me tell you!

“Okay, so let me just confess right now.  I’ve so totally given my heart to another guy.   After 43 years, no less.”  My poor husband was standing at the sink, preparing us a meal.  That’s when I sprang it on him.  Bad timing, I know.  But on the way home I had decided to tell him as soon as I was in the house. 

Without much concern he looks around and asks what I am talking about.  I rush on to explain it really wasn’t my fault.  What was I supposed to do?  He is movie star, leading man beautiful.  His name is movie star worthy.  His temperament is easy going.  He likes to cuddle.   AND, he’s going to have great hair.  Not his fault.  And, as I said, not mine.  No woman in her right mind could resist.

Pretty much unfazed, Allan turns back to the sink and returns to preparing vegetables.  Okay, so he knew I had to be talking about a little guy who most likely weighed less than 5 pounds, but, no reaction?  Really?  I think he should at least ask some questions about his competition.  Well, maybe I don’t give him time. 

He’s 67 days old.  At last weigh in he finally hit 4 pounds.  Born at 24 weeks, he weighed less than 2 pounds.  A month later he finally hit the 2 pound mark.  And once he got started, he was a go getter!  He gained the next pound in just two weeks.  A little over two weeks more and he tilted those scales at 4 pounds!  Besides being a heart-stopper and having a winning personality, he’s probably going to be athletic.  Need you even ask if he is going to be smart?  Just count on it. 

One of his most endearing qualities, ladies, he actually listens to a woman!  AND he responds!  Not with words, you understand.  But he definitely lets you know (when he is not napping) that he is all into you.   Practically impossible to believe, I know.  But I hate a lie so take this as the truth it is.  And when he smiles, I assure you, the most curmudgeonly of women could not withstand.  She would succumb with only a minimal sigh of surrender.   Just as I did.

 

Sweet Smile of Encouragement and God Holding My Hand

Somehow I DID pass the criminal background check and now volunteer in the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit (NICU) at the hospital.  (See blog post entitled “Big Day?")  I ABSOLUTELY LOVE it!!!  This was written September 29^th after I had completed my training.  The title of this post indicates it has some “religious stuff” in it.  But I don’t think it is a lot.  And any reader can skip over that part.  Just look at it as how the experience in the NICU affected me.  The part I think you will enjoy and not be sorry you read is about the babies themselves.    

I want to share the most touching story.  I just last night finished by training to be a volunteer in The Neonatal Intensive Care Unit at the Betty H Cameron Women’s and Children’s Hospital.  And, fair warning:  do NOT go there unless you understand very well that your heart will be captured immediately. 

Let me tell you about the first babies who started me out on a new adventure.  For the most obvious of reasons, I won’t use even their first names, or the initials.  I’ll have to assign each his/her number, according to the order in which I met them. 

Baby # 1 would win a baby beauty contest.  (I say that with the utmost respect to all those other beauties!)  Her little face is flawless, her little head perfectly shaped, her eyes ever so pretty, and the fingers of her little hand are exquisitely delicate and seem made for playing an instrument.  The fact that she doesn’t have so much in the hair “category” only adds to her beauty because there is just enough.  I would describe her hair color (as much as can be determined by the smattering of her current hairstyle) as very light brunette.  She has a totally feminine name; one that brings to mind the more delicate colors of springtime.  And by the way, she is a withdrawal baby.  But as she was settling down and giving in to the comfort of being held I reminded her that God knew all about this fact and He had sent me to pray over her.  She fell asleep as we were praying.

Baby #2 would be giving Baby #1 a run for her money in that beauty contest.  She has large, dark eyes that would defy the most callous to remain indifferent.  They are, without doubt, the most soulful eyes I have ever seen.  The fingers of her tiny hand are not long like those of Baby #1.  They are somewhat thicker and have larger fingernails, wonderfully shaped, as I told her, for polish.  And her hair?  Let me just say she is the would-be trendsetter, not only on her hallway, but within the entire NICU!  I personally love, love, love it!  Think in terms of cotton candy.  Its delicate texture and wispiness paint the correct mental picture for you.  But to give that picture a twist, Baby #2 wears that wispy look predominantly on top.  She likes a minimum amount of hair on the sides of her head, and practically none on the back.  A totally unique look, and, as I said, one I find eye-catching. 

Miss Baby #2 is an action oriented girl.  She sleeps very little.  And when she does she seems to prefer scrunched up positions.  By the second day we hung out together I think she was liking it that Miss Regenia was catching on.  If necessary I would hold my arm up at a somewhat awkward position and/or slouch down so Baby #2 would be half reclining, half sitting up and her head would rest against my cheek.  Whatever the position, Baby #2 was intractable on one thing.  She wanted her “paci” either in her mouth for some rather vigorous sucking or at hand so as to be available to her pretty much instantaneously.  (Miss Regenia, being non-athletic, has not yet mastered all the physical dexterity Baby #2 requires, but she is willing to work on it.) 

In addition to liking action, this baby girl is also determined.  Born at 25 weeks, she weighed only 1 pound 4 ounces.  She has undergone at least 2 surgeries and has had to have a good portion of her intestine removed.  As a consequence she is unable to absorb the nutrients she needs.  The very, very small feeding tube inserted in her nose provides ongoing nourishment, to help her in between feeding times.  She pays it no mind. 

When I first met her, I thought Baby #2 had attempted some gymnastic feat within the confines of her beautifully decorated “crib”.  I wanted to believe that was the cause of her tiny broken arm.  To wonder about it happening in any other way was unthinkable.  How uninformed and uneducated I am as a new volunteer baby holder!  Baby #2’s arm was in the cast because her diminutive bones are too fragile.  As I understand it, this would be less of a problem if her body could do a better job of grabbing onto all the nutritional benefits of her diet.  Her nourishment passes too rapidly through her system.   And, just as she does with regard to her feeding tube, Baby #2 ignores this inconvenience.  This cast, having to be a fashion accessory, is, thankfully, a neutral color.  She and I have determined that was a wise choice on the part of her doctors. 

With respect to their “figures”, Baby #1 and Baby #2 should have no concerns; both are perfect.  There is a difference, however, in how they came to have said figures.  Baby #1, being full term, came by hers naturally.  Baby #2, getting a good deal ahead of herself at birth, has had to go through a lot to attain hers.  That comes as no surprise, I’m sure, given what you've already learned about her life.     

But little lives that begin with such struggles and obstacles can bless us so effortlessly.  The first night Miss Baby #2 and I were together I informed her of my intention to pray over her.  As with all babies who are in essence a few weeks old, focusing on what I was saying was challenging.  She, of course, had not overtly responded to anything I had said.  However, being almost 5 months old, this baby girl had progressed in some ways beyond the two week old stage.  And the most wonderful thing happened.  I was explaining to her that her angels and those of all children always get first access to God the Father.  I went on to say that Jesus loved her very much and not to doubt that even given her rough start in life.  And you know what happened?  As I said the name Jesus, she smiled.  I mean actually smiled.  This wasn't just a stretching sideways of her tiny lips that could possibly be seen as a smile. This was a smile that would be defined as such by anyone who might see it. 

I found that so touching and encouraging.  But, like we all do, I began to doubt what I had seen.  After all, it could have been a true coincidence.  So I repeated my message that Jesus loves her.  And there it was; another big smile exactly when I said Jesus’ name.  Now, I really, REALLY had to check this out once more.  And once more Baby #2 gave me that same beautifully sweet smile a third time!  I almost felt as if she were letting me know she understood what I so desperately wanted her to know.  But that’s not all.  In the same way a speaker tries to gauge his/her approach and efficacy by looking for some form of acknowledgement from those listening, and is relieved to see even the slight shake of a head and/or the direct gaze of someone, I had unconsciously been looking for confirmation.  I think I wanted affirmation that I had done the right thing by volunteering to help with the babies, as opposed to somewhere else in the hospital.  That sweet smile was it.

Baby #1 and #2 like to hold hands with me.  I spent 90% of training time with Baby #2, so of course there is more to say about her.  At one point last night, when I was apparently correctly positioned per Miss #2’s preferences, I looked at her hand attached to by mine.  The ebony shade of her tiny hand clinging to my very pale, age spotted one was meaningful.  Should a water colorist been there to paint just our hands s/he could have entitled the work “Life Distilled”.  That’s what I saw, anyway.  I saw the cycle of life illustrated.  I saw the inherent need we humans have for one another, like it or not.  I saw that interconnectedness we have even across generations.  I saw the beauty, the fulfillment, the meaning of life when we recognize this fact and work as hard to live accordingly as Baby #2 has worked to survive.  I saw God holding my hand.  Sweet Baby #2’s hand was, in fact, His hand.  And I am thankful it was tightly gripping mine.  

Journal

It took me a while; a good long while, but I realized it in the last week or so. I think I enjoy the blogging world.  I’m not a Facebook aficionada nor do I follow any Twitter site.  Facebook visually overwhelms me.  And I do not want to know everybody that everyone else knows so that I end up with hundreds of “friends”.  I don’t want that to sound like a criticism; it is not.  Those are just straightforward reasons I personally do not enjoy that very popular form of social media.  My family not only use Facebook, but appreciate it as a means of staying in touch with friends and family; of sharing a laugh, whatever.   

And, now I have even less incentive to give that communication form a try.  Allan has learned the disturbing life views of at least one friend, as well as a number of people we know, based on their Facebook posts as a result of the presidential election.  Regardless of one’s political opinion we consider racism paraded as patriotism to be unacceptable. Totally.  As if that were not disappointing enough, the horrific loss at Newtown brought to light the outright disdain these same people have for anyone who believes it appropriate to rethink/discuss parts of our gun laws.  Regrettably, the conversations between those Facebook users left no uncertainty about that.  I was shocked, truly shocked, at just how vehement they were in their dislike for and condescension of those of us who are of the opinion that child safety has to come first, even at the expense of high capacity magazines.  I do not get the impression that agreeing to disagree is an option.  I find that sad and discouraging.  I decided that Facebook is the perfect name; it is a social media that can show the face behind the appearance.   It’s just that I don’t want to see such ugly faces when I thought friendliness and kindness depicted them as beautiful.  And it is like a “tell all” book for some to openly expose to suspicion anyone or any attitude with which they disagree; to feed the idea that finding a way between two extremes is a disloyal and traitorous suggestion.          

So, what about the blogging, you ask?  Well, I find blogging (the minimal I do and read) to be more personal.  Different from Facebook, you “connect” with individuals, not lots of people at once; you share what is important to you, without having to sift through so much other stuff.  That is what I like but also what I am afraid of.  Since adding a few blogs to my reading as a result of trying to slow down and work less, I am thinking about doing a profile. 

But I write about what I am thinking.  The whole purpose of beginning this blog was to use it as a form of therapy, a way of organizing my thoughts that had come to resemble one of our neighbor’s garage; jam packed, literally, from side to side, front to back, and almost top to bottom.  To access anything they must open the garage door, begin to put stuff on the driveway and front lawn until they reach what is wanted.  (This is not to berate our neighbors.   Admittedly this would drive me crazy, but since it does not seem to bother then, I am fine with however they choose to live; however they choose to store belongings.  It’s just that the chaos that is their garage is such an apt description of how grief impacts one’s intellectual abilities for a while.  Also, I like the analogy because I think everyone might either have such a garage, or knows someone who has too much stuff accumulated in too small a space.)

It was normal, I was told. From my own personal experience, I now think grief can act as an acid corroding the memory so it cannot retrieve stored information.  It can be the catalyst for a chemical reaction that alters the brain’s normal ability to process thoughts.  Imagine our neighbors, having a generator somewhere in their garage.  A storm that had been termed a milder tropical storm strenghtened rapidly into a category 2 hurricane and meteorologists are warning it has the potential of becoming a category 3.  It’s been cloudy and raining all day.  That, coupled with the fact that it is an October evening, makes 7:30 PM dark.  The lights are beginning to flicker.   Our neighbors have to open their garage door and begin tearing it apart in search of their generator.  (Again, that is not criticism.  It’s just how they are.  It is, I assure you, not hyperbole.) 

There you have an idea of just how dysfunctional the loss of a child can render a person.  A concrete example; a very capable woman who lost her daughter 7 years ago after a long and very debilitating illness recently told me she recalls the day she was able to remember a frequently called phone number.  She was relieved, she told me.  It gave her a very small amount of hope that maybe she would begin to be able to do tasks that are habitual to all of us, those that normally require little or no thought.     

Unless I do not understand, if I do a profile people can link to it from other blogs.  So I run the risk of having someone seeing a post and thinking I am writing about political and/or religious issues per se.  From my perspective and purpose I am trying to figure out how we humans can care so little about others.  As I said several years ago, perhaps very early on, I want to see /believe we remain diligent regarding how our thinking and living make us more or less sensitive to how much help we can be to one another; not to mention how much our lives are enriched in that way.

 I want to believe that we will not put ideology above all else.  I see things in the political realm that, to my way of thinking, should be anything but a political issue.  I see lots of ways we Christians are the personification of hypocrisy, selfishness and almost unmatched arrogance.  And we can be right down mean.   If we don’t stand up against that, how will we be ready to be a support and encouragement to others when they most need it?  And even if we manage to when it “counts”, won’t that simply reinforce our hypocrisy?  And if so, how is that any real help? 

Could we blame someone to whom we are trying to be compassionate if s/he/they view it skeptically?  Could we blame them if they see themselves as our opportunity to show just how Christian we are?  And people should not have to feel they are a “show and tell” instance of Christian goodwill.  They should experience wholehearted sincerity.  That’s what we received and what I want for others going through whatever tragedy.    

Maybe I could somehow offer a profile that could express all this?  The thought struck me the other day that this could be a journal I leave behind for Trista.  Maybe if I put that in my profile; make clear just how personal my blog is, that would discourage devoted haters of any idea differing from their own from bothering to comment?  I’ll have to give it all some thought. 

In the meantime I am going to write about some perfect little human beings.  And I do mean perfect!!

Big Day?

Back in August I contacted the hospital to see about volunteering.  Per instructions, I went online, read all the material, completed an application and took a required test.  I heard nothing.  Naturally, I assumed I had been rejected and decided it just wasn’t meant to be.  In fact, I made initial contact with another agency that could use bilingual volunteers.  You know what’s coming, right?

Last week I received a call from the director of volunteers, the one with whom I had originally spoken and who had told me how to initiate the process online.  Was I still interested?  I should have received a call within a week but somehow the computer system had not worked as it should.  In fact, they could not find the test I took.  A tech person should be able to retrieve it, not to worry.  Bottom line, I go today at 1:00 for an interview.

When I first spoke with the woman weeks ago she had asked where I might be interested in helping out.  The Betty H Cameron Women’s and Children’s Hospital.   Why, she wanted to know.  I explained that I wanted to work with children and/or families whose children/babies were there.  I didn’t care if I carried coffee, brought them a blanket, whatever.  I wanted to do that because we had lost our little granddaughter Natalia there and I would know how people might be feeling. 

She immediately wanted to know how long ago this had been.  Four years.  Her surprising response?  If it has only been four years there are going to be things you are not yet ready for.  She went on to say that she had lost a daughter 7 years ago; that people who have not been through that kind of loss do not understand.  Seven years and every day you miss your child; every day you carry on but you are thinking about and missing your child.  She repeated that I might not be ready for the very things with which I wanted to help; that in addition to living it, she had seen it a few times in her position as director of the volunteers.  We would have to see; we would discuss it further at an interview.  I found that was okay with me.  Somehow I found that reassuring.

I do not know if I will be told today if I am accepted, but I am anxious to find out.  At the same time I am afraid to hope.  The nice thing is that my friend Lynette and I are taking Naazneen to the beach tonight to celebrate her birthday.  So, regardless of how it goes, I will have something to look forward to and will be with friends.  That’s always a good thing, right?

A Meaningful August 28th

It never occurred to us until this year!  Maybe that’s because it was a particularly significant anniversary, the 50th.  Fifty years since the peaceful March on Washington of a quarter of a million people.   Maybe it was because some of the fog of the day lifted and we were more aware of what was happening in the world.  I don’t know.

 But we finally realized that Natalia died on the same day, August 28^th, that Martin Luther King gave his “I Have A Dream” speech.  Somehow that was meaningful to us.

I have always loved his speech.  I have loved not only the content, but the eloquence.  In addition to the more famous lines, I love his declaration that he had come to Washington to “cash a check”.  He maintained that when the Declaration of Independence defined life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness as the unalienable rights of all men, it was, in essence, a promissory note – a promissory note for these rights, given to all Americans, black as well as whites.   What a powerful analogy!  Particularly when he went on to say that America had defaulted on this note with respect to its citizens of color.  Further on he stated his belief that the bank of justice was not bankrupt.  He was more hopeful than I often feel. 

Interestingly enough, Trista and I came to the realization about the date independently of each other.  While riding to the Zumba class she teaches and I attend, she asked if I were by any chance writing anything about slavery.  Before I could respond she went on to say that she had just realized that Natalia’s date of death corresponded to Martin Luther King’s speech. 

I find it fascinating that she asked about slavery, not Civil Rights.  You’ve guessed, haven’t you?  I was writing something about slavery. 

What follows is just something that came to mind when I was thinking about Martin Luther King’s dream for his children: “I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin, but by the content of their character.”


(Note:  I made aboslutely no attempt at historical accuracy.  I just wrote.)

I have no choice.  Her cruelty is eating at her just like the fleas eat at the field dogs.  Those poor dogs scratch until they have patches where their hair is gone and the flesh underneath becomes a raw, nasty looking sore.  The fleas do not stop.  It is as if they have the ability to think and plan to torment the dogs without end until all of the dogs’ fleshy tissue has been laid completely bare.   

I am no longer able to calm her when she flies into her rages. Her rants do not allow her to hear my voice, my attempt to help her calm herself. Anyone in her presence at the time suffers verbal lashings.  Of course the verbal castigation is nothing for them to withstand.  They have been trained since birth to accept whatever is said to them, without reply.  Unless that is to say “Yes’m or “Yes Sir”.

The beatings are what worry me, as it most certainly does them.  The anger of her soul gives her uncanny strength, not usually found in a woman, much less one as small as she.  She is unfulfilled unless she sees the blood spread of the one being flogged, until the black skin she so despises is covered over with the bright red of fresh blood.  And if that blood oozes from the body of a child, it makes no difference to her.  Her hatred does not see child versus adult.  It does not see male or female.  It does not see culpable versus innocent.  It sees only black.  Sadly she sees nothing of the inner blackness that is her heart.  She sees only the black that is another’s skin.

Until recently they understood there was no hope their children would escape a life sentence in the prison called slavery.  But they did have hope that the children would live; even though they might be sold at auction and would be lost to their parents this side of heaven, they would not have to watch them be randomly maimed and/or killed in their childhood.  It was the loss of this hope that drives me and them.  It was, at first, an unspoken realization, a common bond, a collective goal of saving children’s lives, something that needed no words. 

Thus I began to consider and quietly learn how to try to help some safely reach a northern state where slavery does not exist.  They will take the journey other runaway slaves have traveled.  If they cannot go together as family units, I will find a way to send the children.  I have to.  I just have to.

More accurately, we have to.  I will do this with and for my black male friends with whom I played until about age 12.  Their mothers helped care for me, as much as Mother did.  I grew to love them as I loved her.  I grew to love my play mates as I would have loved the brothers I did not have.  I did not understand when I was told I could no longer be Jim’s friend; I was to consider him my personal slave.  I would forget and do things for myself, or even for both Jim and me.  That would particularly draw her wrath.  I was to remember that I was Jim’s master now!  Did I understand?  I had best not forget again! There was no allowance for my being solicitous on Jim’s behalf.  Perhaps if I had had siblings I might have felt differently.  But Jim was my brother, along with several others our same age, although I was closest to him.  We were a family, much more so than my “real” family, meaning my parents.    

It will be especially difficult because their master, my father, was not known to be an unfair or harsh man. And I believe help is first extended to those whose masters are merciless.  What people do not know is the control some women of the plantations hold over the affairs of the slaves.   And my mother’s society friends never see the heartless woman who is mistress of this plantation.   She is careful to hide her true nature.  (I suppose she does so in the same way Jim and the others have learned to conceal their intellect, their ability to think, to reason, to listen and to learn.  Not that they have found it to be so very challenging.  After all, Mother considers it absolute truth that they are inferior intellectually and therefore fails to look for the possibility that she could be wrong about their abilities.)  Given the opportunity, Jim is only one of many of them who could have been my fellow classmate. Being innately more intellectually gifted than I, he would have been the better student.  Should Mother hear me admit such a thing, there would be no sparing my black family and friends from her brutality.  I sincerely believe that, in her mind, I could more rightly curse God Himself openly than to even think such a thing. 

And poor Mother; would it not be her very undoing to know that it was at the northern university she and Father sent me where I learned there were others who felt as I did.  I was free to not only have my own opinions about my black family/friends, but to give them voice.  I could express my deep hatred and complete lack of understanding of this institution called slavery.  I could denounce my birthright to hold slaves; my right to prosper from their unending labor.    

It was my plan, upon returning home, to begin to work alongside Father, to encourage him to allow the Negro children to attend a school here on the plantation.  I had other grand plans, but Father up and died suddenly, necessitating my immediate and permanent return to the plantation.  It was obvious within the first moments of my homecoming that any good once evident in Mother’s heart was completely gone.  In addition to the underlying need for a feeling of superiority she now had self-pity to add to her self-aggrandizement toolbox, used so skillfully to fulfill her desire to control all matters. 

Therein is my problem.  The widely held opinion is that females are the gentler sex; that they hold in check the callous vindictiveness of males.  But it has been my experience that hatred and evil are not constrained by whether or not one is man or woman.  Rather, very ironically, they are bound only by an open heart!  A heart that is more selfless than selfish.  Such a heart allows no access.  It is safeguarded by a tendency and/or willingness to submit to compassion, to kindness, to benevolence.

The heart of anyone at any point in history can be wholly filled with, and consumed by darkness; the darkness that fights against a spirit of generosity, against caring about and for others, against living life without the presumptions of superiority and special favor bestowed by God.  Should Jim and I, and our other co-conspirators succeed in sheltering the children, in helping them to survive, it will be in spite of such hearts.  And it will be wholly dependent on humble hearts uncluttered by such malice; hearts willingly made vulnerable to hurt on behalf of another.  I pray for enough such hearts, both during this perilous undertaking, and for future generations of children I will not live to see.  I pray for hearts that see slave children in the same light as white children are seen.  Were we to be surprised and find many, I still have to wonder just how long it will be before hearts like Mother’s can be changed.  If ever. 

 

Delete

In July I received one of those “Forward this to x number of friends and good things will come to you” emails.  I hate them and usually simply push “Delete”.  Because this one came from a friend whose situation is so unique that I wanted to do something for her, I read the darn thing.  What was I thinking???

I found this particular “Forward for good things to happen” email particularly disturbing.  I can only assume that others found it acceptable because it has to do with God and praying.  And, after all, it originated with a woman who is, what I guess I would call “prominent”, at church.  (Although I do not know her, most people seem to and I know she is extremely active.)  So it is in a totally different category than all those other “good fortune” emails, right?  Not so much, from my perspective.  But see what you think.   

Hi!

Hope all is well. When you have a moment to yourself, read this, it was difficult for me to decide who I thought would DO this because many people claim to pray, but not everyone does. I hope I chose the right twelve. Please send this back to me. May everyone who receives this message be blessed.

There are 12 months / 12 disciples / 12 tribes of Israel / Jesus' birth celebrated in the 12th month. There is nothing attached. Just send this to twelve others. Prayer is one of the best free gifts we receive. There is no cost, just a lot of reward. Make sure you pray, and pray believing God will answer.

May today be all you need it to be. May the peace of God and the freshness of the Holy Spirit rest in your thoughts, rule in your dreams tonight, and conquer all your fears. May God manifest himself today in ways you have never experienced before. May your joys be fulfilled, your dreams be closer, and your prayers be answered. I pray that faith enters a new height for you; I pray that your territory is enlarged. I pray for peace, healing, health, happiness, prosperity, joy, true and undying love for God.

Now, will you send this to 12 people right now, not "I'll do it later".

You will have 12 people praying for you. Remember to send it back to me...... I count as 2, you'll see why.

 

So, now, having perused the email let me share with any reader why I find it offensive.  No where do I see the email’s initiator encourage the addressees to pray for good things for others outside the groups of twelve who might potentially receive the mailing.   Rather, the prayer focuses on the recipients and all that would make their lives so wonderful.  It seems to me that is made abundantly clear when the prayer requests that our territory be enlarged.  I fully realize that “territory be enlarged” is used symbolically and does not just refer to property.  No matter; the prayer is still asking for more; be it more influence, more authority, more control.   Where we are, our position in life, is not enough.  Furthermore, praying for prosperity says what we already have is not enough.  In fact, the very meaning of prosperity goes beyond any improvement in circumstances and/or standing.  It denotes success AND affluence. 

Remember when our children were very small?  They would get one gift, one treat, whatever, and then immediately ask for something more.  I think most parents worked at curbing that “I want more” attitude.  Not only that, but we taught them to say “Thank you”.  We did that so early the little ones couldn’t even pronounce the “th” sound.  Nor could they enunciate the word “you”.  It came out “Tank ooh”.  They learned to express appreciation, without any clue of what exactly that meant.  I can’t help but wonder if God wouldn’t like to see a little gratitude in this prayer along with that request for prosperity. 

Making prosperity a prayer request seems strange to me to begin with, but when it is not sought for others that we do not know, I just don’t understand it.  At the same time we were trying to get our little ones to be polite and express gratitude, we took pains to socialize them so they would learn not be selfish. The result?  As adults, even we “Christian” adults, those of us who espouse the belief that we should love others as well as we love ourselves, all too often live self-absorbed lives.  I offer this emailed prayer as proof. 

How did we get here?  I think there are a number of possible explanations.  Let me just mention one for now, however, the prayer of Jabez.  This Old Testament Biblical character very briefly shows up in the book of I Chronicles.  He asks God to bless him, to give him large tracts of land.  He requests that God personally protect him.  As if that were not enough, he asks to be free of any trouble and pain.  Wow!  Very unfortunately, at the conclusion of his prayer we are told that God gave Jabez what he wanted. 

You know someone got a book out of that, right?  In the preface of The Prayer of Jabez: Breaking Through to the Blessed Life, the author asks “Do you want to be extravagantly blessed by God?...To ask God for the abundant blessings He longs to give you?...” (Emphasis entirely mine).  Millions of copies sold within a relatively very short period of time, of course.   Trying to be fair, all of us would prefer a life without trouble or pain.  Nonetheless, how we Christians claim, on the one hand, that the Old Testament sets the stage for the important part of the story, the New Testament and God’s Son, yet on the other hand, want all we can get, beyond what we need, in direct contradiction to the teachings of Jesus is a position that cannot be defended.  Unlike the prayer Jabez uttered, Jesus’ prayers were selfless.  

And the interesting thing is that Jesus left no doubt, no uncertainty about how to pray.  He told us!  He gave us the format.  We call it the Lord’s Prayer.  Given how we refer to the two prayers, Jabez’ versus the Lord’s Prayer seems to provide a big flashing arrow pointing to which choice to make as our prayer “blueprint”.  At least to me that appears true.  And speaking for myself, I do not understand how “I pray for...prosperity...” is modeled after “Give us this day our daily bread”.  

Let me set aside the fact that I am comparing two prayers for a moment.  I’ll imagine that I am comparing two life viewpoints.  Still I would prefer the philosophy that is “us”, “our” and “daily”.  It appeals to me first of all because it is inclusive.  But it goes so much further.  It indicates complete equality. In asking for our daily bread, it requests the exact opposite of this emailed prayer found in my inbox that July day.  It focuses only on a most basic human, life-sustaining need; nothing more and nothing special for some of us. 

Need I say that I did not respond to the email?  I did what I should have done from the beginning.  For any non-Christians who find this email/prayer disgusting, don’t fret.  I pushed “Delete” for all of you as well as myself.  Okay, so maybe I enthusiastically punched that “Delete” button.  Would you believe I am still waiting to feel bad about that? 

Update On Savings For The Children YTD 2013

Yesterday we sent the check to World Vision for savings from the last couple of months.  YTD, not counting the check written yesterday, our savings and subsequent giving totals $662. 

 We always try to do two things.  First, we try to give to a variety of needs, such as food for US children and families, food for the starving in Africa, medicines needed to save lives, as well as those to prevent disease, net beds for families, clothing, help for children with disabilities, etc.  Yesterday’s check, for example, we designated to be used to provide clothing and school supplies for needy children in the US.  Seemed a good choice for a check being mailed in early September.

Secondly, we attempt to take advantage of any matching grants so as to substantially increase the amount of our donation.  A grant will multiply our $134 check sent yesterday by 10!!  So our small amount will actually make $1,340 available for the children’s needs.  Pretty neat!

Wanting to see what, if any, impact we have made with our little project, I went online to review the history of our contributions.  I am well pleased.

2012    Contributions, $1,141  and that amount multiplied by grants, $6,892

2013    YTD, excluding yesterday’s check, $662 and that amount multiplied by grants, $3,125

So by simply forming the habit of setting aside any savings from sales, senior discounts, etc., we have sent $1,803.  The total impact, due to matching grants, $10,017!   $10,017 with very minimal effort on our part. 

One other factor we always investigate is the financial records of a charity.  For every dollar we send to World Vision, we know that it is allocated as follows. 

§  16 cents is used for administrative costs and fundraising
§  24 cents is devoted to securing corporate donations, large private donations, and government grants (Wouldn’t that just send some people over the edge?!)
§  60 cents goes to directly benefit the children and their families

That percentage would most surely NOT be satisfactory to me if I did not know all the numbers.   For the 24 cents dedicated to obtaining large donations and grants, World Vision receives 70 cents worth of goods, funds, and/or grants.  So, by adding that 70 cents to the 60 cents of our dollar that are specified for direct aid, the dollar we send actually generates $1.30 for children!  Where else could we get a 30% return on a dollar?  I love the fact that we can only get that kind of yield by giving to little ones.  That just seems right to me.   

I wish Natalia were here.  She could keep track with us and be learning a valuable lesson, all at the same time. I would like that. 

Of course I would be getting a world map out and we would study the various countries where some of our money goes.  We would study the foods produced in, or imported into, a country; the foods NOT  made available to the children of poverty.  Maybe we would prepare a simple recipe.  We could learn at least one word of the languages spoken by the different children.  We would learn about the places in our own country where children do not get enough to eat, and certainly lack adequate nutrition.  I know, I know, I would be obnoxious.  (I’d like to say I would try not to be, but ......really?)

Notwithstanding, I would like that and I do wish she were here to share in this project of her grandma and grandpa (her abuelita and abuelito).  But for now, we can endeavor to help see to the physical and educational needs of children. 

 

July 4, 2013 Part II

During the presidential elections last Fall I heard a lot about “American exceptionalism”.  I personally find such an attitude prideful in the extreme.  But setting aside the arrogance of such a world outlook, I do not see any evidence in the pictures of exceptional thinking, of exceptional problem solving abilities, nothing exceptional about planning for protecting the liberty of the women, children, elderly, and young people who had no say in a decision about war.  I see nothing exceptional at all, unless I count exceptional self-interest.  And, of course there is the exceptional level of greed. 

And then there is the raging battle over the “freedom and liberty” to own guns without restrictions on that ownership.  That is exceptionalism, for sure.  It is exceptionally irresponsible.  It is exceptionally cunning of the NRA and gun manufacturers to twist the message of a horrific slaughter of little 6 year olds at Sandy Hook Elementary.  They have done a remarkably exceptional job of making a tragedy involving mostly children not about them but rather, about adults and their freedoms according to the Second Amendment.  And I find it exceptionally cold, calculating, and greedy, almost beyond what I can comprehend.  It is also exceptionally difficult; no, not just difficult, but impossible, for me to understand how gun owners are not sickened and horrified at what a gun with a high capacity magazine did to little bodies.  I still worry about whether or not the parents were able to hold their dead children.  I hope they did not get to see the children right away, because those little bodies had to be shredded.  If that thought alone does not inspire all of us to demand regulations about gun registration, what will?  I assume the answer is nothing. 

And I, for one, find that exceptionally distressing and sad.  Reducing speed limits in school areas is acceptable to us.  Doing background checks on teachers and others who want to work with children is not only accepted, but demanded. There are parental filters for television programs and computer sites.  All of this is done in the name of protecting our children.  But suggesting a return to a level of gun regulation previously in place and our Constitution and founding fathers are, in my opinion, symbolically removed from their current pedestal to be elevated to a new status of idol worship. 

It appears we are exceptionally devoted to what the founding fathers intended (as interpreted to support our political and/or religious point of view).  Many adamantly maintain that these founding fathers were exceptional Christian men.  (For myself, I would prefer not to take the word of even the most prominent, well-respected historians on that matter.  I would want to know what their slaves said regarding how ‘Christian’ those founding fathers were.)  And now, in addition to the veneration of these men and a dedication to our founding document that, as I see it, bears a semblance to consecration, it seems there is a growing fervor also for guns.  For some it has morphed further, into vehemence against those, like myself, who do not share that zeal for guns and the right of Americans to any and all sorts of guns and ammunition.  I have heard us referred to as the ‘enemy’, no less!

To those who feel so strongly about just how free we are, about how we are the greatest nation on earth, the idea of reflecting on our shortcomings would be considered exceptionally disloyal, exceptionally unpatriotic.  I do not subscribe to that view at all.  When my daughter was very small I had a friend whose children were then teenagers.  I always respected Nancy’s ability to identify her children’s faults and share them so openly.  None of us who were her friends thought she loved her children any less for admitting they were less than perfect.  In fact, I saw it as something I wanted to learn from as a parent.  I thought it a benefit to her children.   They would receive instruction on how to be aware of their human imperfections; on how to work towards minimizing those faults and maximizing their strengths.   

Through Plato’s writings we know Socrates’ wisdom when he said that “The unexamined life is not worth living.”  This attitude works for me.  And I believe it is valuable not only in our individual, internal lives, but very constructive when applied to our community lives as well.  So for me, I hope that by next year’s celebration of our independence, we have examined our societal life and determined that all policy should focus first and foremost on the impact on children, or those, like the elderly, who are equally powerless.  In short, any who should, in a country so frequently referred to as ‘Christian’, and  one described in terms of positive ‘exceptionalism’,  be valued above things, certainly above weapons, and whose lives are better because the rest of us are more than willing to impose some limitations on our rights, some morally fair limitations.   We are willing to view these limitations in the same light as other everyday boundaries we accept for the good of children.  And I speak not only of American children.  I refer to ‘children’, period.  Were that to happen, wouldn't that be a true example of ‘American exceptionalism’?

I found a quote of the Lebanese poet Khalil Gibran (with whose work I am insufficiently educated) that summarizes it beautifully:  “Keep me away from wisdom which does not cry, the philosophy which does not laugh, and the greatness which does not bow before children.”  (Emphasis mine.)

July 4, 2013 - Part I, In My Aunt's Memory

This is in memory of my Aunt Margie, whose 90th birthday would have been today, July 17th.  I thought of her while writing about the children in the following posts.  She loved children.  At one point in life she worked with troubled children through Primary Project.  I remember so distinctly discussing it with her while on a road trip to the funeral of an uncle.  She was interested in and passionate about the children.  She was excellent with children, so that was no surprise to me.  

When our Natalia died, she left us two voice messages.  I asked Allan to record them.  I have two copies, one actually in our safe.  Know why?  Because I thought that if I ever need encouragement about the ability of human beings to be loving and compassionate, I have only to listen to her voice.  I looked up the exact definition of the word 'compassion'.  It was defined as "the deep awareness of the suffering of another, coupled with the wish to relieve it.  

I also looked up 'empathy'.  I was somewhat dumbfounded at what I learned.  I thought I knew what empathy is.  I did not.  It's definition is more narrow and less indicative of feeling than I thought.  Here's what I found empathy to mean:  the intellectual identification of the thoughts, state, or feelings of another; capacity to understand another's point of view or the result of such understanding". 

Two very, very different approaches to the condition or situation of another human being, right?  I always thought empathy was a good thing.  I no longer care about being empathetic.  I do not want to respond to others from an intellectual, emotionally detached  perspective.  I want to be compassionate, like Margie.  I do not want a superficial connection.  I want to care intensely, so much so that I want their hurting to stop; so much so that I am willing to do whatever I can, regardless of how small and insignificant it might seem. 

A message on an answering machine could be thought of as a kind, a 'sweet' thing to do.  But such a simple, everyday gesture can be far more than kind.  It can make a difference; it can help someone.  It didn't take our suffering away; no one could do that.  However, there is something about knowing someone would do so, if only s/he had the ability.  There is real comfort in that.  I truly can't think of anyone who understands that better than my aunt did.  I think of her often, and I can only hope that when I am gone someone will say I lived that same way, exemplifying the full meaning of the word "compassionate". 

Note:  the photos on this post came from this site:

http://blogs.denverpost.com/captured/2011/12/30/captured-nine-years-of-war-in-iraq/5165/

Wow! I didn’t realize it had been almost months since I last wrote something to share.  I knew it had been a long time, but wow!  Lots going on, for sure.   But might as well jump in and put fingers to typing.  I’m on the back screened in porch with a slight breeze, not too much heat or heaviness to the air yet.  And I have my morning coffee…might as well tackle the “freedom and liberty” thing…

I know there are very different and even opposite viewpoints on what these terms really mean.  And some people seem almost hostile (and for some there is no "almost") about just how broad the definitions should be.  I searched several different dictionaries and a thesaurus because I wanted to know if the denotative meanings matched some of the narrow interpretations I hear.  I didn’t find any whatsoever.  If I understand what I am reading “freedom’ is a more general term, referring to the ability to think, act, and speak without the external imposition or restraint.  I guess “liberty” emphasizes more the free will of self-determination.  Interesting, but I’m not sure I see much difference, unless I consider the restrictions of personal liberty when necessary for universal safety and benefit, for example.  I can’t go into a movie theater and yell “Fire!”   I can’t drive over a certain speed limit within a school zone.  (Both, rightly so, as I see it.)    

(As a quick aside, there is a beautiful red bird on the branch of the tree closest to the porch.     Usually    any activity close by and the red birds retreat.  But this one is actually facing me and singing.  It is almost as if it wants my attention.  What a nice way to start a day!) 

Let me consider some of the opinions or reactions I’ve heard that illustrate differing connotations of these terms. 

“People who want to live in our country should assimilate.  If they don’t want to adapt to our ways, they should go back to where they came from.”   (Let me make it very clear that I’ve heard this stance about people who are here legally; even about some who have become citizens.)  I have absolutely no idea how this opinion matches up with the definitions of freedom and liberty.  In fact, to me it implies the exact opposite; it implies that freedom and liberty apply if one acts, looks, speaks, and thinks in the same manner as I do.  So how this fits in with lack of outside constraints, I do not understand.  So, I’m lost here. 

“They come here and don’t try to live according to our rules.”  Although this attitude is really the same as the previous, I include it because it doesn’t imply anything.  It states, without equivocation, that freedom and liberty DO impose restrictions on personal choice; and that those restrictions mean “how we live”.  Shame on me, I’ve always wanted to ask what rules are being referenced, and where can I read and study them.  But, I really do hate sarcasm, so I always refrain.  I just quietly wonder if the person speaking has given any real thought to that statement. But while I’m pondering that question, the person is rushing on to say how precious our liberty is to us.  If it is someone I know or strongly suspect would not be one to engage in real discussion, I let it go and change the subject.  If I have any indication that s/he might be one willing to converse so that we might each learn something, or at least get a new perspective to think over, I respond.  I always begin by saying that I very, very respectfully, but also very strongly disagree.  Then I ask for permission to explain why I do.  Most of the time I get a look of true shock and a mumbled, “yeah, okay”.  I get varied feedback, of course. 

“It’s not wrong to want to be with people like yourself.”  This opinion might be backed up with the declaration that something is lost, such as traditions, ethnicity, etc.  “No, it isn’t wrong”, I reply when I hear this statement.  And then, I have to make that same decision about whether or not it is worth further discussion.  When I decide it is, I just make it clear that, for me, it is enriching to include in my circle people who are NOT just like me.

When I hear this I inevitably think of Bob Ross.  I’ve watched Bob Ross’ PBS television show “The Joy of Painting” a number of times.  ALWAYS Bob gets to a point where I think the painting is really, really good; he should stop.  But I know he won’t because there is time left before the show ends.  So Bob picks up a different brush, or talks about adding another color.  As Bob is doing so I am ALWAYS telling Bob, “No.  No.  It’s really good.  You don’t need anything else.  Leave it as it is!”  Bob does not listen.  He goes right on and might add quite a bit more to the painting.  As he does so, I am ALWAYS responding with “Oh! Yeah!”  (Bob does not seem to need my encouragement, but I am ALWAYS generous with it, appreciated or not.)   To point out the ridiculously obvious, Bob’s finished painting is ALWAYS far better for not having listened to my instruction via the television screen.  The painting has more character, more depth, better composition, more life, more appeal to it. 

That’s how I see my life.  When I make friends who are not like me, who think differently than I, my life is improved and made much better, in the same way Bob’s painting was made better.  Something good is made more, is enhanced, by the addition of more color, more variety.  And Bob didn’t add to only one area of the painting.  He worked around the painting, adding improvement in different areas.  I like that idea for life also; the idea that I don’t want to develop one area of my life, to the exclusion of other areas.  I’d just as soon the different areas of life receive attention and additional work so the composition of the whole is that much better.  And that’s what happens when I look for and try to accept and enjoy those who are so unlike me.  Maybe that’s true because underneath we value the same thing, the right to be who we are and to live life as we want and/or think is best for us. 

A couple more thoughts with respect to the denotative meanings of freedom and liberty.  The definitions I found for freedom included: 1) exemption from external control, interference, etc.,      2) political or national independence,  3) absence of subjection to foreign domination or despotic government.  Know what I thought of?  Iraq.  And irony.  How sad that they go together.  The very nation, our country, that so highly values freedom and liberty, subjected another country to exactly what we absolutely would not stand for, interference from and/or imposition of another country’s determination about what is best for us.  I can’t think of Iraq without thinking of the photograph of an Iraqi mother holding the wrapped body of her 4 year old daughter who was killed two weeks before the war technically ended.  All I can think of is that this woman, along with all the others, and all the other children had no say whatsoever in the decision about going to war.  But because of the decisions of a few people, mostly men, their lives are forever changed.  And if you've lost your child, it is always for the worse.  Always.  Then there is the following picture.

This little 5 year old girl’s parents were killed when the family, in their car, was out and innocently and unknowingly approached the troops during dusk patrol in the city of Tal Afar in January 2005.  Her mother and father died instantly.  Her brother, 11, received a serious wound to the abdomen.  He was paralyzed from the waist down. 

I have to ask myself what this little girl, should she be writing someday, would say about freedom and liberty; and about the country that espouses these principles, so much so that it sees itself as the champion of them.  I also ask myself what the soldiers, most of whom were not much beyond childhood themselves, felt and will feel about the unintentional murders.  My heart goes out to them for having been placed in such a position.  They undoubtedly will never be free of some awful mental images. 

Here are a few more images of what it looked like to bring democracy and freedom to Iraq; images of both the recipients of that freedom and the young men and women who had the job of following orders and delivering that "freedom". 

In his 2003 speech from the USS Abraham Lincoln (no less), when announcing the end of major combat operations in Iraq, President George Bush said, "Those we lost were last seen on duty. Their final act on this earth was to fight a great evil, and bring liberty to others. All of you — all in this generation of our military — have taken up the highest calling of history. You are defending your country, and protecting the innocent from harm. And wherever you go, you carry a message of hope — a message that is ancient, and ever new. In the words of the prophet Isaiah: 'To the captives, 'Come out!' and to those in darkness, Be free!'"  (Emphasis mine.) When I see the faces of the American and Iraqi children, I do wish his words rang true to me.  

The nurse is taking the pulse of a dying soldier.

At another point in his USS Abraham Lincoln speech, President Bush said, "Everywhere that freedom arrives, humanity rejoices.  And everywhere that freedom stirs, let tyrants fear."  To me, this child looks fearful of those arriving with freedom. When her generation is grown to adulthood, what will they think of freedom, I wonder? 

This is an injured Iraqi child being comforted by a neighbor.

Old women waiting in a food line.  They must need the comfort of holding on to one another.

An Iraqi woman hangs onto a truck while waiting for the distribution of food by Iraqi soldiers.  In President Bush's speech referenced above, he said also,  "Men and women in every culture need liberty like they need food, and water, and air."  This picture seems to show a very elderly woman who must be very hungry.  I cannot speak for her, but when I am hungry, I don't care about any ideology.  And I certainly would not care if this were my mother waiting for food.   

Evidently being the recipient of freedom means having soldiers from another country in your kitchen while you wash dishes and the children of the family look on.  I wonder what these very young soldiers think, looking back.

More of President Bush's speech from the USS Abraham Lincoln:

"In the images of fallen statues, we have witnessed the arrival of a new era. For a hundred years of war, culminating in the nuclear age, military technology was designed and deployed to inflict casualties on an ever-growing scale. In defeating Nazi Germany and imperial Japan, Allied Forces destroyed entire cities, while enemy leaders who started the conflict were safe until the final days. Military power was used to end a regime by breaking a nation. Today, we have the greater power to free a nation by breaking a dangerous and aggressive regime. With new tactics and precision weapons, we can achieve military objectives without directing violence against civilians. No device of man can remove the tragedy from war. Yet it is a great advance when the guilty have far more to fear from war than the innocent.  (Emphasis mine.)

He ended his speech with, "Thank you for serving our country and our cause. May God bless you all, and may God continue to bless America."  (Once again, emphasis mine.)

 If God has blessed my country more than any other, as so many believe, why would He do so at the expense of this little girl, and all the other children, American and Iraqi alike, whose sweet, bewildered faces are now saved in the camera of my heart?  And sadly for me, that camera is not digital; the images cannot simply be erased.