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.