Thanks for the Memories

I like to read the lists of the top stories of the previous year as reported on the pages of the local newspaper This year, I decided to make my own review of the remarkable accounts of 2013, with a bit of commentary tucked in alongside the headline. I’ll start with a recent story - the death of Nelson Mandela. I’ve never been to South Africa, but I’ve read his biographies and have a deep respect for the man and the role he played in the deconstruction of apartheid. Mandela taught the watching world a great deal about redemption and reconciliation, and we mourn the loss of Mandiba, the father of his nation. As he taught us, “to be free is not merely to cast off one’s chains, but to live in a way that respects and enhances the freedom of others.”

In November, we marked an anniversary of our own country’s sorrow, as fifty years have passed since the assassination of John Fitzgerald Kennedy, the United States president who died before his true potential could be known. Growing up in the sixties, his untimely death was a painful rite of passage, and left us wondering about what might have been, with our hopes summed up in his own words: “So, let us not be blind to our differences - but let us also direct attention to our common interests and to the means by which those differences can be resolved.”

A third story of note happened closer to home, on the west side of Cleveland, where Ariel Castro imprisoned three young women for many years. A dramatic escape by Amanda Berry led to the rescue of the other two women, Michelle Knight and Gina DeJesus, as well as Berry’s young daughter. How could this happen right in our backyard, many asked? But Ashland had its own story of unlawful imprisonment that reached the national news, as pit bulls and snakes were used to threaten a disabled woman and her child into virtual slavery. What is our world coming to?

These heinous stories of captivity left me with little pity for the young man who became “a man without a country” due to his leaks of the National Security Agency’s confidential information taken without permission (stolen) from the United States. His actions sparked an intense international debate about privacy and national security, but perhaps we could have gotten to that discussion through another door.

It was also a year with some unexpected white smoke arising from the Vatican. In February, Pope Benedict XVI announced abruptly that he would retire, forcing the Catholic Church to choose a new pope in a hurry. Pope Francis has been quite a media sensation, and his words have been tweeted around the world. He recently said, “I dream of a church that is a mother and shepherdess.” My pastor’s heart can relate to that.

Like so many other years, it has been a dismal season for the Cleveland Browns, and while the Cleveland Indians made it to the playoffs, their sudden-death, win-or-go-home game turned a remarkable September run into a disappointing finale. But it was the Ashland University women’s basketball team that makes my list of memorable happenings for 2013. After a second place finish in San Antonio in 2012, Sue Ramsey and her Lady Eagles made it happen this year, bringing the national championship trophy home to Ashland, Ohio as the winners in the Division II NCAA tournament. Geography has not been kind to me when it comes to victorious sports teams, so I especially cherished the AU win on the national stage.

And for the final item on my top seven list (drum roll, please), the lovely Madelyn Simone has mastered the fine art of potty training. How can this rank right up there with world peace or racial reconciliation? Like jazz, as Louis Armstrong said, if you have to ask, you’ll never know. We sang the potty song, did the potty dance, and offered bribes of M&M’s and pretty princess panties, all to no avail. One day, she made up her mind, and that was that. Woohoo!

Segue to conclusion: thanks, 2013, for the memories. 

The Gifts of Advent

As a smitten grandmother to the lovely Madelyn Simone, I decided to add a distinctive touch to her fourth Christmas by preparing a basket of small gifts for the month of December so she can open one each day. They were accompanied by an Advent calendar so she can track the approach to Christmas. I realize that the concept of waiting a whole day before she can open another gift might be a bit difficult for her to grasp, but I also wanted her to get a ‘waiting’ sense of the days of Advent. 

On her first gift day, her mother explained that she’d be able to open one present each day as we waited for Christmas to arrive, and that she could look for the day’s present as soon as she finished her cereal. She complied well with that direction, gobbling down her Fruit Loops so she could get to her desired reward. She opened the first present, made the necessary oohs and aahs, and then requested more cereal. When she finished her second bowl, she told Lauren, “Now I get another present, right?” So much for the waiting lesson.

In our immediate access culture, delayed gratification is not easy. Credit card offers arrive in the mail daily, while fast food establishments pride themselves on having our drive-through meal ready in seconds. Need your tax refund now? Just get in line, and while “applicable fees apply” is definitely in fine print on those offers, most partakers don’t equate those fees with predatory lending practices, although the percentage of cost definitely fits that definition. As consumers, we are bombarded by the “buy now, pay later” theme that sends the message to us – “if you want it, it’s yours.”

Yet there remain times of waiting that we cannot hurry along. The budding of the leaves on the trees in the springtime.  The eagerness for a baby’s first step. The passing of a loved one from this world to the next. The  anticipation of the birth of a long-awaited baby (although we do push that some with scheduled inductions when the bun has been in the oven a day or two more than was expected).

The encounter with waiting also ties into an experience of faith. The gospel story of a babe in a manger that vies for attention with Frosty the Snowman, Santa Claus, leg lamps, and the four calling birds, three French hens, two turtle doves, and a partridge in a pear tree, is a story of patience, of rhythm, of waiting. The scriptures describe it like this: “in the fullness of time.” Mary and Joseph awaited the anticipated birth as do all young parents, but the spirit of patient anticipation is best seen in the persons of Simeon and Anna, waiting in the temple for the consolation of Israel. Their patience echoes through the centuries in the plaintive chords of the ancient carol, “O come, O come Emmanuel.”

That same spirit of waiting was marked by the lighting of the Advent candles in my family’s home on the frosty Sunday evenings of my childhood. We’d sing a carol together, and then my dad would strike a match to symbolically welcome the light of the world into our living room, into our waiting hearts. As little ones, I’m not sure we quite understood what we were doing as we participated in that ritual of faith, impatient as we were for the arrival of the big man in the red suit. But that small flame still flickers in the recesses of my memory in the darkness of a December night, as those early seeds of faith were cultivated in the light of a circle of candles.

I’m not sure if I’ll repeat the Advent presents idea next year, and I doubt Madelyn and I will attempt another lopsided gingerbread house (another of my brilliant ideas).  But in the midst of the cookie-baking and gift-wrapping, I want to be sure that Madelyn and I pause to light a candle, sing a song, and tell of the story of the ages, steeped in faith and framed in the rhythm of eternity. Merry Christmas, Madelyn Simone. Merry Christmas, everyone.

 

 

Breath-taking Christmas Sweaters

“U-G-L-Y, you ain’t got no alibi.” That memorable phrase from the stellar film “Wildcats” kept tumbling through my mind as I attended an Ugly Christmas Sweater office party this week. If beauty is truly in the eye of the beholder, then it stands to reason that ugly is in the eye of the beholder as well, and the attire of the party-goers attested to that truth.

It was a brilliant concept, for while most of the attendees work in the same building, they are separated by floors and departments, and the sweaters served as a natural icebreaker among those who didn’t know each other well. Fortunately, we were spared some of the more bizarre get-ups found on the ugly Christmas sweater websites, which, if you want to check them out, are located right next to the twenty-five adorable Christmas cat photos. Rather surprisingly, no one came as a matching pair of camels, dogs, or snowmen, nor did anyone wear a Christmas tree skirt. Whew!

I also discovered that an Ugly Christmas Sweater benefit in Kansas City has raised over $100,000 for charity since its inception in 2005. What a great idea. Perhaps Ev DeVaul and his United Way dream-it-up team will run with that one next year.

I had quite the dilemma as I tried to decide what to wear for this festive occasion. My daily dress for more than thirty-five years was navy blue and white, but at Christmas, I liked to top off my Salvation Army work uniform with a festive sweater for our nightly kettle counting parties. I’m ashamed to admit that I have an entire tub of Christmas finery – socks, scarves, pajama pants, and some pretty garish sweaters – and my prized “You’re going to shoot your eye out’ tee-shirt. Reviewing my choices for the party, I determined that if I ever need to stave off bankruptcy, I could auction off a few of my sweaters for the next ugly Christmas sweater event. Yes, I really did wear those once upon a time.

Now I’m afraid I will hesitate to choose a sweater from my collection the next time I need an extra dash of holiday spirit, in case someone might ask me if I’m on my way to an Ugly Christmas Sweater party. Note to self – don’t go there – if you begin to feel self-conscious, just replay the words  the lovely Madelyn Simone utters so often: “that’s so beautiful, Nana.”

Sometimes, in the midst of a life crowded with deadlines, drama, and duty, we need to pause and put on a Christmas sweater that’s over-the-top, bordering on the ugly side, a sweater that sparkles or shines, that brings a smile to the faces of those around us and keeps us from taking ourselves too seriously. Sometimes we need to pause and make snow angels in the yard or sing along with Dave and the Chipmunks as they warble their way through a medley of carols.

I am grateful for the ugly yet beautiful sweaters of Christmas, but I’m also thankful for the more serious moments of celebration and warmth. I’ve loved these words from Bess Streeter Aldrich forever: “Christmas Eve was a night of song that wrapped itself about you like a shawl. But it warmed more than your body. It warmed your heart . . . filled it, too, with a melody that would last forever. Even though you grew up and found you could never quite bring back the magic feeling of this night, the melody would stay in your heart always - a song for all the years.”

Here’s wishing you just the right blend of ugly sweater moments accompanied by the shawl of song-filled memories as you savor the days of Christmas 2013. And I promise that if I see you in a cheerful holiday sweater, I’ll refrain from bursting out in “don we now our gay apparel” or asking you if you’ve been shopping at Goodwill.  Instead, I’ll be sure to tell you how breath-taking you look! Merry Christmas to all!

Just One More Second

November 30, 2013 will go down in history as an unbelievable day in college football. For those who may not worship the gridiron gods, let me provide a snapshot. Football rivalries are part of the tradition that has surrounded the game since its inception. Growing up, it was the T-NT game, an aptly named contest that paired the Davidic Tonawanda High School with its Goliath-like enemy, North Tonawanda High School. Unfortunately, the Tonawanda Warriors seldom were able to defeat the bigger, stronger Lumberjacks, but they never gave up the fight.

Upon arriving in Canton, Ohio, we were introduced to the Massillon-McKinley battle , packing more than 20,000 fans into the stadium for a ferocious contest. It’s always a crazy week in Stark County, as each school vies for bragging rights that will last until the next November encounter.

And then there is The Ohio State University rivalry with the Michigan Wolverines, a classic matchup that stirs up emotion both on and off the field. Those high emotions were evident in the dust-up in the second quarter that resulted in the ejection of three players. That game came down to the last seconds, as Michigan scored a final touchdown and made the ill-fated decision to go for the win with a two-point conversion. Fortunately for the Buckeyes, destiny called their name, and the gutsy call failed to convert into points on the scoreboard. Dodged that bullet.

Not to be outdone by the drama in the Buckeye-Wolverine game, the Crimson Tide of Alabama attempted to roll over their worthy cross-state opponent, the Auburn Tigers. Ranked number one and number four in the nation, these teams passed the lead back and forth, and at the end of regulation time, the scoreboard indicated a tie game. Time for overtime, right? No, wait – could there still be one second left on the clock? Instant replay proved Nick Sabin right one more time, and instead of taking a knee or attempting a Hail Mary pass, Alabama sent on the field goal unit for a very long attempt. Loading up the line with the big guys to prevent a blocked kick, the Crimson Tide had failed to factor in the possibility of a missed field goal that could be returned for – you’ve guessed it – a touchdown, leading to one of the most bizarre conclusions to a rivalry game in the history of the sport.

To be sure, college football has its critics. It’s big money, big business, big television contracts. College should be about educating our young adults for the future, some tell us, not making money on the backs of its “student” athletes. Surely the learning that takes place in the lecture halls and chemistry labs is much more important than what happens on the football field, right?

I’m all for formal education, but I couldn’t help but notice the huge life lessons being played out in Ann Arbor, Michigan and Auburn, Alabama on Saturday afternoon. When the Michigan coach chose to go for two for the win, Dale Carnegie’s words supported his decision: “Take a chance! All life is a chance. The man who goes farthest is generally the one who is willing to do and dare.” However, Buckeye Tyvis Powell reached in and grabbed the ball away from the intended receiver, proving that the words of wisdom from hockey great Wayne Gretzky translate from the ice rink to the football field: “Skate to where the puck is going to be.” Can you say O-H?

Other valuable life lessons were present in the Iron Bowl at Auburn. For Alabama coach Nick Sabin, what a difference a second makes. The coach was quoted as saying, “first time I lost a game that way,” proving that indeed, there’s a first time for everything. For Chris Davis, waiting in the end zone at the completion of the Auburn/Alabama game, the words of Abraham Lincoln speak volumes: “I will prepare and some day my chance will come.”

There’s one final life lesson (unfortunately all too familiar to Cleveland fans) that holds true in any kind of rivalry: “There’s always next year.” Just think, only 358 days until Michigan and Ohio State meet again. Can’t wait!

 

A Dark and Silent Night

“It was a dark and stormy night.” These classic words, used by Edward Bulwer-Lytton in his 19^th century novel Paul Clifford, are often called the worst opening lines of literature. He obviously hadn’t read novelist Elmore Leonard’s ten rules for good writing, as rule number one is direct: “Never open a book with weather.”

Yet how else can I say it? It was a dark and silent night as we left Jake’s Steakhouse with a full belly, happy and satisfied. Silent, that is, until I paused to listen to the echo on the wind. What’s that faint disturbance in the air? As my palms began to sweat, my ears recognized the clang of the Salvation Army kettle bell, wafting across the expanse of parking lot and street from its position outside of Buehlers Food Market. The Salvation Army’s Christmas Kettle Campaign has begun!

The notes of those bells have been a familiar companion to me for longer than I want to admit. Mention the now defunct Twin Fair Discount Department Store in the Buffalo, New York area, and my body shivers in its memory of the frigid nights ringing that bell as a teenager. Grand Central Station in mid-town Manhattan was a daily assignment in the late 70’s, an eye-opening exposé of life in the Big Apple for a New Yorker from the other end of the state. I’ve rung that blasted (oh, I mean blessed) bell in New Jersey, Pennsylvania, and Ohio, and its notes have even invaded my dreams from time to time.

Drama aside, the Salvation Army bell has been an effective fund-raising tool since 1891, when Captain Joseph McFee placed an empty kettle at the Oakland Ferry Landing with a sign reading, “Keep the Pot Boiling.” His goal was to collect funds for Christmas dinner for the poor of San Francisco. More than one hundred years later, donations to the Red Kettle Campaign provide up to 20% of the local unit’s annual operating budget in some locations, supporting low-income families long after the Christmas stockings are packed away.

Over my more than forty years of Salvation Army involvement, I’ve heard the prediction of the demise of the Christmas kettle time and again. When some malls banned the ringing bell, creative workers resorted to flipping a hand sign, “ding, dong,” while others used puppets and ventriloquist dummies to capture the attention of potential donors. Keeping with the changing times, the Salvation Army has experimented with kettles that accept credit cards or display the QR code, and offers an online Red Kettle experience minus the annoying bell and glacial temperatures for the less intrepid among us.

Like other charities, the Salvation Army also uses the mail to request donations. My ninety year old mother has gotten on more than forty of those charitable mailing lists, including the Cold War Patriots, the Smile Train, and Cal Farley’s – all worthy causes to someone, but often overwhelming to a generation who feels obligated to give when asked. I’ve spent about five hours visiting websites this week, requesting her name be removed from their mailings, definitely a more difficult task than making a donation in her name.

I’ve sat at most of the chairs around the charitable giving table, strategizing fund-raising ideas, supporting United Way, counting the coins dropped into the kettle, writing a personal check to a cause I support, evaluating grant requests, and worrying long into the night when the pot is empty. I long for the day when charitable fund-raising is unnecessary because our neighbors no longer need the services of the Salvation Army and other agencies of our community, but that day hasn’t come, and so the bell rings on with its plaintive call: “remember the poor.”

Just as I’ve had to consign my typewriter and eight-track player to the dustbin, the day may come when the Salvation Army bell is heard no more at shopping locations across our country, remembered only as a nostalgic symbol of Christmas past. Other fund-raising gimmicks (oh, I mean tools) will be explored, and the work of charity will continue, but for me, if or when that call to remember is silenced, it will indeed be “a dark and silent night.”

 

 

I Am Thankful . . .

Since the arrival of social media in my world, I’ve gotten in the habit of spending at least thirty minutes a day keeping up with my 1725 friends, therefore robbing myself of at least thirty minutes of creative writing time each day. If only I could give up this addictive stalking through Facebook, I could have my dreamed-of novel done in a year by utilizing those stolen minutes. Yet social media does have its benefits, as I am able to connect with people across the world, learn of prayer needs for those I’m not in touch with every day, and confirm my belief that the lovely Madelyn Simone is indeed the most beautiful and amazing grandchild on the planet.

Social media can also be a lifesaver when I need ideas for my writing. Take, for example, the “I am thankful” postings that many are doing each day in November. It’s fascinating to see how ideas spread, for with one mention on social media, half of the world’s population is twerking, revealing nine (or six or three) random pieces of information about themselves, or taking the time to articulate their thankfulness for life.

By listing the reasons for thankfulness, many have followed the counsel of hymn writer Johnson Oatman, Jr., to “count your blessings, name them one by one.” Here are some favorites from my friends:

“I am thankful for clearance racks and discount sales.” Yep, where would I be without my 30% off coupon and clearance sales?

“So thankful for my cornbag, which I heated and placed on my head and cheeks and took a nice long nap with when I got home!” What’s a cornbag? And why put it on your head?

“I’m thankful for Orville and Wilbur Wright. I hate flying. I white knuckle every take off and landing – but without flying, my beloved would still be on the other side of the world.” I’m a white-knuckler too, so I appreciated this one for sure.

“I’m thankful for our king-sized bed.” Me too, for even though our kids don’t make an early morning appearance any longer, it still has its benefits.

“I’m thankful for books, for reading.” After a successful afternoon at the library book sale last week, so am I. If I ration myself to one novel per week, I’m definitely good until the next sale. Thank you, Friends of the Library! 

“I am thankful that my husband is away. I know that might sound strange, but he is a happy man this weekend.” While this particular woman was thankful that her husband was doing something he enjoyed, I had an alternative reaction, as I’m thankful for the hours when the house is quiet and I have some alone time. Perhaps Thoreau went too far when he said, “I have never found a companion that was so companionable as solitude,” but I appreciate the wisdom of Anne Morrow Lindbergh: “Women need solitude in order to find again the true essence of themselves; that firm strand that will be the indispensible center of a whole web of human relationships.”

As for me, I’m thankful for friends who share their thoughts of gratitude by way of Facebook so I don’t have to remember to do it every day. By the time Thanksgiving Day finally arrives, those disciplined enough to write each day about their personal thanks will have twenty-eight morsels of gratitude to savor along with the turkey and pumpkin pie, and they’ve given me hundreds of thankful ideas to reflect on as well. For whether we’ve shared our thanks with the world via Facebook or not, the celebration of Thanksgiving invites us to give thanks for sunshine and rain, family and friends, freedom and faith, and much more.      

Since I’ve blatantly commandeered the words of others for my column today, I’ll end with a quote from Henry Ward Beecher, a nineteenth-century clergyman and social reformer: “Remember God's bounty in the year. String the pearls of His favor. Hide the dark parts, except so far as they are breaking out in light! Give this one day to thanks, to joy, to gratitude!” A blessed Thanksgiving to you and yours.

A Day in Dallas

I remember it so clearly: November 22, 1963, a day the world changed forever. For those of us alive in 1963, that afternoon was a defining moment for sure. I asked a few people about their memory of that fateful Friday, and every one of them immediately knew where they were when they first heard the news.

In front of a locker after his ninth grade gym class at Bennett High School, Mike listened to his principal’s voice over the loudspeaker – President Kennedy has been assassinated. Karen was in eighth grade when her principal whispered the news to the nun teaching her class, and the children immediately knelt in prayer on the wooden floor, praying for the dead president’s soul and the bereaved family. Larry remembers crying as he walked home, unsure of why the tears fell so freely. And as a college student at Valparaiso, Judy first heard the news in her dorm room, and can still see students streaming into the chapel as the university president, clothed in his black cassock, fell to his knees in prayer. The chapel bell tolled on and on, Judy recalled, and across the country tears flowed from eyes old and young, black and white, Republican and Democrat. Our president was dead.

I was in third grade with Miss Kramer, the most beautiful teacher in the world, when she was called into the hallway. With tears of her own, she told us that the President, our beloved president, was dead. Days of communal mourning followed, when the only television broadcasts were from Dallas, Washington, and the network newsrooms. Over and over again, we watched replays of the motorcade, the swearing in of LBJ, and the subsequent killing of Lee Harvey Oswald as he was escorted out of the Dallas Police Headquarters.

Regardless of political affiliation, Americans were glued to the television, disbelief mingling with profound grief, fear and anger. Jackie Kennedy’s pink pillbox hat, a toddler saluting his father’s coffin, the rider-less horse – the scenes flash through my mind as though they were yesterday, not fifty years ago. I still have my scrapbook, filled with newsprint detailing the Kennedy story, preserving the history of that time and place. There’s even a letter from Jackie Kennedy nestled on its pages, thanking the little girl for her donation to the JFK Library, for I’d sold hand-made potholders up and down my street to contribute to the preservation of Kennedy’s memory.

While the horrors of 9-11 and the image of the Challenger explosion are imprinted forever on my mind, the death of JFK and the resulting shock waves that coursed across the nation were like nothing I’ve experienced since. The adage is true: if you weren’t alive then, you will never really know what it was like. It was a different world in those days, and, in ways I can’t fully understand or explain, the world changed forever on that sun-kissed day in Dallas, for me and for our country. At age eight, I was a stranger to tragedy, and still shudder that this initial introduction was so profound, so devastating to the hope of a little girl. Yet I was not alone, as a nation mourned deeply as well. Even the bugler cracked on the sixth note of Taps. Said one historian, “It’s like the bugle was weeping.”

Looking back through the eyes of a child, I was drawn to our country’s royal family, with its dark-haired children scampering in the halls of the White House. I didn’t know much about the Bay of Pigs or the rumors of the passion-driven president, about backroom political deals or any of the dirt the muck-rakers would dig up in the intervening years. I only knew that the president, our president, was dead.

As we mark the fiftieth anniversary of the assassination of John Fitzgerald Kennedy, the 35^th president of the United States, we remember. And as we remember, we honor the grief of a family steeped in tragedy, we mourn the loss of innocence of a generation’s children, and we wonder what might have been, had an assassin’s bullet not destroyed the happily ever after promise of Camelot. Indeed, Johnny, we hardly knew ye.

Stretching Out the Holidays

A friend posted the following on Facebook:” I love all my FB friends, but those of you who already have your Christmas decorations up are making me feel even further behind than I did before. I don't even have all my fall decorations out yet.”That’s my story. I used to have really cute Halloween decorations, including ceramic pumpkins with my son’s names as teeth (created during my ceramic period), but I never managed to get them out until a day or two before Halloween. Sometimes I wonder if I was adopted – I certainly didn’t inherit the holiday decorating gene from my mother, who, even at age ninety, puts a red, white and blue bow in the flowers for the Fourth of July.

Wait a minute on the Christmas decorations. Isn’t there a rule that we can’t put Christmas trees up before Thanksgiving? That’s right up there with the “no white shoes before Memorial Day” decree. I know retailers have to prepare ahead of the season, but I’m just not ready to hear “Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer” every time I turn on the radio.

Our current cultural climate stretches holidays out for weeks on end, which worked out great for the lovely Madelyn Simone. Instead of wearing her Little Red Riding Hood costume once, she got to escape the Big Bad Wolf at the grocery store, in her Mee-Maw’s neighborhood, in her neighborhood, and skipping down Main Street here in Ashland at the Costume Capers. If she lived a bit closer to us, we would have done the Monster Mash, (the Halloween movie night sponsored by Main Street Ashland), Tuffy’s party at Ashland University, the Pumpkin Parade at the Ashland Kroc Center, and trick-or-treat in our neighborhood. A candy-loving kid could be set for life!

Does stretching out the celebration threaten to dilute the specialness of the holiday itself? Not that Halloween is quite the commemorative event as is Memorial Day or Veteran’s Day, but my memories of a childhood Halloween have a sense of one-day uniqueness to them: counting down the days in anticipation, assembling the costume, trekking down the block to knock on the doors of neighbors (only those with their porch lights on), inhaling the scent of scorched pumpkin, and dividing up of the goods on the living room floor, sneaking the Good and Plenty out of my little brother’s pile when he wasn’t looking.

As this idea whirls and swirls through my mind, it leads me to ponder – how did we get from a night of trick-or-treating to a season of Halloween happenings? And, moving ahead to December, how did we get from a baby in the manger to a holiday season that seemingly jumps right over Thanksgiving’s turkeys to the barking dogs singing Jingle Bells? I don’t think there’s a cosmic social planner with a five-year strategic plan to increase our holiday participation by 10%. Life just happens, right?

Ah, that’s the challenge, isn’t it? Contrary to popular opinion, we can choose to put some parameters around our own holiday celebrations. Looking ahead to Christmas (only 45 shopping days away), we can refuse to watch A Christmas Story more than once this year, even during its twenty-four hour Christmas Eve marathon – fa-ra-ra-ra-ra. We can choose gifts for those we love that won’t bankrupt us, or we can splurge on a dream gift just because we can. We can reach out to the other side of the railroad tracks or across an ocean, with an angel tree gift for a little one in our own community or with a shoebox stuffed with goodies for Operation Christmas Child. We can gather with others of our faith traditions, and we can sit alone in the darkness of a winter evening, light a candle and say a prayer.

There’s no Christmas tree for us yet, but I am anticipating the joys of Thanksgiving and the excitement of Christmas, especially with a three-year-old in the mix. And after all is said and done, I’m following Andy Rooney’s advice: “One of the most glorious messes in the world is the mess created in the living room on Christmas day. Don't clean it up too quickly.”

Dream-Weavers

I’ve enjoyed creating Christmas gifts for years, ranging from holiday goodies to ceramic Christmas trees. In my ceramic period, one year I cleaned, fired, and glazed tiny sheep, shepherds, and Magi to provide a nativity set for each home in our family circle. Fortunately, those days are over – way too much pressure to finish in time for the trip to the Empire State.

Saying farewell to the clay dust on my fingers, I turned to a more manageable task, composing a new Christmas carol or writing some kind of prose project each year. The last four years, I’ve created a book of daily devotional readings for the month of December, and I just completed this year’s offering, Faces of Advent for Christ-Seekers. As I studied those with a role in the nativity narrative, the dreams woven through this ancient story caught my attention, especially the dreams of Joseph. His dream of annunciation is a familiar one, as is the warning to escape to Egypt, but his third dream seemed to be a dream of possibility for the future in the family’s return to Israel.

This third type of dream, of possibilities even in the midst of daunting circumstances, is the theme for this year’s United Way campaign here in Ashland County. With a mission “to improve lives and serve as the leader for change in Ashland County by uniting the caring power of our community,” that mission is coming true, day in and day out, as its leaders and supporters dream of what the future can be for our neighbors who struggle to dream for themselves.

As a child, I stationed myself in front of the television at 4:30 p.m. to watch Queen for a Day, which one reviewer called “one of the most ghastly shows ever produced.” Ghastly or not, I was intrigued by the stories of the contestants, who spoke of the need for medical care or equipment to help a chronically ill child, or of the hope for a hearing aid, a new washing machine, or a refrigerator. After the women told their stories of woe, the audience voted on who deserved to be queen for a day. The winner was crowned, draped in a red velvet robe, and then received her dream gift along with a new wardrobe, a vacation trip, or a brand new set of pots and pans.

I tried to think up a sob story to get my mother on the show, but we didn’t have the dramatic story line to catch the attention of the producers. My dad was able to get work most of the time, we were generally healthy, and we were not struck by the catastrophic occurrences that marked the lives of the Queen for a Day contestants. Our story is not every family’s story. I know many families, even right here in Ashland County, whose world is one of nightmare, not dreams. A dearly loved child has a chronic illness that taps their resources and their capacity to hope, their fantasy marriage turned abusive and ended in a messy divorce, or an adult child, trapped in addiction, abandoned their children on the grandparent’s doorstep, breaking their hearts one more time.

I’ve been in the social service field a long time, and I know that United Way and its partner agencies can’t play Queen for a Day; they’re not always able to make dreams come true. But services funded every day by United Way dollars can put healthy food on the table, provide a hopeful start for our little ones, and intervene when a home collapses, literally or figuratively, easing the sting of the nightmares of life.

The dream-weavers and dream-catchers of United Way strive to reduce barriers so that families stressed by tough situations can dream again, taking baby steps towards health and wholeness. I don’t think John Lennon ever visited Ashland, but he bore witness to the reality of this community when he sang, “you may say I’m a dreamer, but I’m not the only one.” When we support United Way, we become dream-weavers, standing shoulder to shoulder with our neighbors and claiming Gary Wright’s words: “I believe we can reach the morning light.”

 

An Elder in Our Midst

I’ve had a soft spot in my heart for McDonalds for many years, dating back to a set of early Golden Arches near my childhood home. I’m extremely grateful for all the Big Mac purchases over the years that lined the pockets of Ray Kroc, so that his widow could leave a legacy gift to the Salvation Army for the Kroc Center here in Ashland. But our friendship is on rocky ground, for when I drove through McDonalds the other day to order soup and a soft drink, the drive-through voice said, “You’re a senior citizen, right?” Ouch!

Gray hair, check. Grandmother status, check. But I am still not a card-carrying Golden Buckeye. While the years are creeping up on me, I’m still in my fifties, and in my book, that’s not elderly. However, the woman at the window (who looked at least as old as I do) explained that her restaurant offers a senior discount to those fifty-five and up, so I saved a dime on my Senior Coke. Woohoo!

That same night, I gathered with friends and family of Josianne Stone to honor her as the June Metcalf Elder in Residence at the Salvation Army Kroc Center. This particular program was birthed from the desire to recognize the elders of Ashland, those willing to share their wisdom and giftedness with our community, especially to the generations younger than theirs.

When we first explored the development of this program, I did not know there is a group that calls themselves The Elders. They are independent global leaders, brought together by Nelson Mandela, who offer their collective influence and experience to support peace building, help address major causes of human suffering and promote the shared interests of humanity. While our honored elder is not a global leader like Jimmy Carter or Desmond Tutu, her life story speaks of the same themes as these prominent world elders, for as a young woman, she was part of the resistance to the Nazis in Belgium during World War II.

Like many survivors of the horrors of war, Josianne seldom talked about her experiences over the years, saying, “When the war was over, it was over.” Yet when her grandson Lucas was in middle school, she was asked to talk with his class about the war, the occupation, and the Holocaust, and the years slipped away as she recounted the deprivation and fear of the people of Belgium. Her words were so powerful that her family and friends encouraged her to record her thoughts for future generations, available on a YouTube video called the Josianne Stone Story.

In preparation for the Elder in Residence reception for Josianne, coordinator Judy McLaughlin spent time in conversation at Josianne’s home. As they chatted, Judy mentioned that her own father had lost his life during World War II, and Josianne expressed her personal thanks for the sacrifices that Americans made to defeat the Nazi forces and to secure freedom for the people of Belgium. For Judy, those words provided a watershed moment. As she said to Josianne on Tuesday evening, “Your expressed gratitude moved me from a lifelong sadness to an understanding of what my loss meant to you.”

Life didn’t stop at the war for Josianne, for she studied fashion design in Paris and is an accomplished seamstress, a profession that supported her when she first immigrated to the United States. She is also a gifted artist, and though she didn’t take her first art class until 1984, she took the advice of her instructor to “be prolific,” describing her art as “humbly reproducing God’s creation.”

After being privileged to hear Josianne Stone’s story and to witness the full life she continues to lead, I came to an aha! moment of my own: if this is what it means to be a senior citizen, an elder of our community, sign me up – even without the McDonalds’ discount! Thomas Carlyle understands: “Old age is not a matter for sorrow. It is a matter for thanks if we have left our work done behind us.” [Stone’s works are on display at the Kroc Center through the end of November, with notecards available at Enjoy! in downtown Ashland].

Cupcakes and More

We moved to Ashland more than seven years ago, so I’m no longer a just-off-the-boat immigrant. In fact, I’m pretty sure I qualify for an Ashland green card by now, as Larry and I have purchased a home in town, read the Times-Gazette every day, and get our Coney dogs at the A & W. That should count for something, right?

Yet it’s been hard to break myself of the habit of shopping outside of Ashland. Bargain addict that I am, I’m reluctant to give up my occasional visits to Marcs, the discount wonder of Ohio, and it is relatively easy to jump in the car and head for the big box stores of Mansfield, Wooster and Medina or points beyond on I-71. But I’m claiming a new shopping motto these days: Try Ashland First.

Here’s why. As it is for all of us, the fluctuating cost of gasoline can be a budget breaker, and I do want to be environmentally responsible in my use of fossil fuels. I also don’t like the idea of paying sales tax in another county to support services to their residents and not to my neighborhood. Those quarters and dimes add up.

But my main reason for the Try Ashland First mindset is that I want to live in a community that is vibrant, with people on our downtown streets and plenty of opportunities for entrepreneurs young and old. For that to be a reality, Ashland people have to be intentional about supporting Ashland business – our local products and services.

A recent foray into Main Street Ashland left me more convinced of my mission than ever. OK, I need to be honest here – I went downtown to get a cupcake at Enjoy! Gourmet Gifts. These scrumptious babies from The Faithful Little Cupcake (located in a neighboring community that I’m not naming) are addictive, and I rationalize the purchase by noting Anne Lamott’s directions about taking care of self: “Self-love is 80% of the solution, that it helps beyond words to take yourself through the day as you would your most beloved [unconventional, peculiar, eccentric] relative, with great humor and lots of small treats.” Surely by Friday I deserve a cupcake – Anne told me it’s OK to treat myself.

Have you been in downtown Ashland lately? Not only did I discover some new shops but I had the most amazing conversations with business owners and shoppers. Did you know that CLA Streetwear is owned and operated by a former U.S. Army drill sergeant – a female drill sergeant? Lydia has participated in the Army’s Boots to Business training, and decided to open a shop in downtown Ashland. I also discovered that the clothing in Clothes Minded Boutique is both unique and stunning – no need to run to the mall to get a new ensemble for my next date night. And there’s always a conversation partner just waiting to solve the world’s problems in Downtown Perks and Desserts.

I’d be remiss if I didn’t give a shout-out to long-time downtown merchants such as Irwins, Home Hardware, the Candy and Nut Shoppe, Kid’s Kountry, the Peking Restaurant and more, who have stuck around through thick and thin – we’re glad to have them around. They are joined by some great shops tucked away in the small towns of the county, such as Fickes Furniture in Jeromesville and the Parsley Pot up on Middle Rowsburg Road, and I can’t forget the new addition to downtown Loudonville, Belly Busters (the Second).

The lovely Madelyn Simone is helping me draw up my Christmas list, and I’m giving myself the challenge to Try Ashland First. It’s one more excuse to devour a White Wedding, Carrot Cake or Caramel Apple Crisp cupcake, but more than that, every sale made in Ashland County helps to keep my neighbors in business and the doors of our local shops open. That’s important to this green card-carrying Ashland resident.

Need a bit of incentive? Today’s ChickFest in downtown Ashland is supporting the Ashland County Cancer Association with special Sweetest Day promotions. Check out what’s happening on our own Main Street Ashland. I’ll say hello if I see you - in between bites of a cupcake!

Someone Has A Dream

The concept of having a dream for the future of our church, whether in the local congregation or on the broader denominational scale, is one that has been claimed for centuries of church history. Most biblical references to dreams are rooted in the actual dream world, a time when the barriers and boundaries of wakened thought are released, and our subconscious thoughts can be accessed, but often contemporary leaders use the “I have a dream” sentence stem to articulate their vision for the future of the church and the world around it.

 

The most famous “I Have a Dream” statement comes from Martin Luther King Jr. who addressed a crowd of 250,000 at the March on Washington for Freedom and Jobs in 1963. History reports that King almost did not speak those words out loud on that day, having been urged by staff members not to use that speech, labeling it “hackneyed and trite.” But as he spoke, gospel singer Mahalia Jackson called out to King, "Tell 'em about the dream, Martin." King proceeded to outline his dream for a country where every valley would be exalted, and every hill and mountain would be made whole, a land where his children would one day be judged not by the color of their skin, but by the content of their character. King had a vision of a world radically different from the world he’d experienced, and now, fifty years later, much of that dream has been realized, although we still have miles to go before we sleep.

 

It is in that context that I read the words of Salvation Army international leader, General Andre Cox, as he has articulated his dream, his vision, for the future of the Salvation Army. A posting of this dream on his Facebook page has brought an enthusiastic response from hundreds of people around the world. Here are his words:

 

I dream of a committed, effective and joyful Army, rooted and confident in the word of God and on its knees.

I dream of an Army that truly reflects the mind of Jesus in our commitment to the poor and the marginalised.

I dream of an Army that practices what it preaches from the top leadership down, an Army that is a visible and living example of Kingdom values.

I dream of an Army that values its youth where our young people feel that they have a voice.

I dream of an Army with strong relevant and streamlined administrative structures and a much more effective use of our financial and material resources.

I dream of an Army where all cultures are equally accepted and celebrated through the spiritual ties that bind us all together.

I dream of an Army that shuns the dependency culture.

Reading them this morning, I felt compelled to make some comments on Cox’s words. First, warning is given throughout the scriptures as to the ability of persuasive people to “sell their dreams to those around them,” as was noted in Jeremiah. Therefore, when I hear the phrase, “I have a dream,” I see a yellow flag of caution that reminds me to check my dream or that of another against what I know to be true of God, people, and the world as informed through the teachings of the Bible and the experience of life as a follower of Jesus. Before we jump on this bandwagon or drink any kool-aid, we need to test this dream against what we understand to be the Wesleyan Quadrilateral, that of Scripture (first), tradition, reason and experience. A cursory reading doesn’t reveal any major problems, but I’d like to know more of what Cox means by the term “dependency culture” and how kingdom values are defined.

A second comment is that I would love to see the fourth statement expanded to reflect an Army where people of all ages – and ranks – know that they have a voice. While I recognize the desire to embrace youth (and the importance of that for the Army’s future), there are other marginalized groups within Salvation Army culture who need to know, and not just feel, that they have a voice within the organization. As an example from the setting of King’s famous speech, initial plans for that rally had not included the voice of a woman, even though women were heavily involved in the civil rights movement. Anna Arnold Hedgeman, the only woman on the planning committee, fought for the inclusion of women on that program, and so we now have these experiential words of Josephine Baker: “You know I have always taken the rocky path. I never took the easy one, but as I get older, and as I knew I had the power and the strength, I took that rocky path, and I tried to smooth it out a little."

Articulating a vision is crucial. Selling it to its stakeholders in the world in which we live is a challenge. Yet moving from the dream world to reality is critical. For King, his commitment to his dream ended in his assassination, but was carried forth by those who believed in the power of the dream. For Jorge Mario Bergoglio, his vision is causing much disruption in the Catholic Church, as noted in this week’s Washington Post: “[Pope] Francis is “a remarkable man, no one would deny that,” Royal said. “But I’m not sure if he cares about being accurate. He gets into an [evangelizing] dynamic with people and that seems to be the most important thing. . . . In some ways it makes people very anxious. If you do this, what’s the next thing?””

It remains to be seen how Cox will move from vision to reality, but I have to hope that whatever that movement looks like, he’ll make some people anxious, because that is how change occurs. Sitting at my computer in Ashland, Ohio, I can only hope and pray that he will target these dreams in broad strokes that won’t get buried in committees, but that will change the face of the Salvation Army for the ages, to the glory of God.

Golden Couples

When the topic of marriage hits the headlines, it is likely to surround the redefinition of marriage, the high divorce rate, the cultural trend to cohabitate rather than to wed, or the latest Hollywood couple to tie the knot. But the headlines here in Ashland County this coming week should read, “In Celebration of Marriage,” for that’s what happening in our community. Under the banner of United Way of Ashland County and the Ashland County Community Foundation, couples married fifty years or more are being honored for that accomplishment as the Ashland gold carpet is rolled out on October 16^th. Can you believe it - they have reservations for one hundred and eighty-eight couples. That is absolutely amazing!

Fifty years is a long, long time to be married. Waking up to each other more than eighteen thousand times, bed head and all. The “five hundred- twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes” from Rent’s “Season of Love” gets multiplied by fifty – that adds up to half a century.

How have they done it? Inquiring minds want to know. Was Ogden Nash right when he suggested, “To keep brimming the marital cup, when wrong admit it, when right shut up?” Here’s hoping a curious reporter will ask that question, but since the couples haven’t gathered together yet, I have to turn to research in the field of marriage relationships to ask the experts. Dr. John Gottman is one of those experts, and he’s done much of his work side by side with his wife, Dr. Julie Schwartz Gottman, which suggests a commitment to the subject of marriage deeper than scientific curiosity. He has researched thousands of marriages for over forty years, and explains his work like this: “I've tried to create a psychology of marriage from the way real, everyday people go about the business of being married, instead of taking it from psychotherapy.”

He claims that after listening to a couple for as little as three hours in guided interactions in his Love Lab (yes, that’s really what he calls it), he can predict which couples will stay together happily – with a 91% accuracy rate. He suggests that successful couples have seven key factors in place in their marriages. They know each other’s goals, worries, and hopes (what he calls their love map). They nurture fondness and admiration, and they turn toward each other rather than toward others. Successful couples allow their partner to influence them, and they solve their solvable problems, using good manners (what a novel idea). They overcome gridlock by honoring each other’s dreams, and they have “an intentional sense of shared purpose, meaning, family values, and cultural legacy that forms a shared inner life.”

Gottman’s last point especially interests me. What are the customs, rituals, and myths (stories) that have sustained these golden couples in our community? I’d love to listen in around the table at the luncheon, or to sit in living rooms across our county and say, “tell me a story of your marriage.”

I’m guessing that if I had a chance to have those conversations, sooner or later I might hear something like how Ray Barone describes it in “Everybody Loves Raymond”: “No! I got this! Look, you want to know what marriage is really like? Fine. You wake up- she's there. You come back from work- she's there. You fall asleep- she's there. You eat dinner- she's there. You know? I mean, I know that sounds like a bad thing. But, it's not.”

While Raymond may not have the clinical expertise or research experience that John Gottman does, he gets it. The Book of Common Prayer first recorded the words in 1549: "To have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part." Vows, spoken to each other more than half a century ago, have sustained many a couple through deep waters and dark days. As those words are lived out through faithful presence, marriages can thrive for twenty-six million minutes and longer. Congratulations, Golden Couples of Ashland County!

 

I'm Happy

I’ve been doing some consulting work for the Massillon Museum, a gem of a cultural center less than an hour from Ashland (with free admission!) I’ve taken in the Warhol exhibit (SNAP – In the Photobooth with Andy Warhol and Friends), volunteered at the annual Island Party, and mingled with the pep rally fans as they enjoyed Tiger-striped ice cream scooped out by the museum staff. But I missed a recent Art is Alive day, an outdoor juried art show with music, food, and fun. When I asked how it went, one of the staff told me “I know it sounds sappy, but it was a happy day, a happy time.” Helped along by great weather, those in attendance enjoyed being with each other as they celebrating the work of the artists, and everybody seemed to be happy.

Her words stuck with me, and I’ve been on the lookout for “happy” ever since. Leaving a recent Arrows football game, I said, “This was so much fun. I’m happy.” (Of course, a win did lift the happiness meter). Spending time at a housewarming for a young friend who has been house-hunting for way too long, I felt it too – what a happy time. And yes, breathing in the ten game, errorless winning streak of the Cleveland Indians at the end of September brought a happy feeling to me and to thousands of other Cleveland fans. While the playoff loss stings, , there sure were some happy moments on the way to October baseball.

Sometimes, “happy” gets a bad rap. We are called to be serious about the struggles of the world, we are challenged to reach for abiding joy instead of a wishy-washy happiness, we are to search for the deep meaning in life, and I get that. But isn’t there room for some good old-fashioned happiness in our day, in our lives?

How do we find it? Aye, there’s the rub. In our culture of how-to helps, there are thousands of books, podcasts and websites that feature an expert showing us the miracle way to be happy. One is Gretchen Rubin, author of the popular book “The Happiness Project.” At $26.00 in hardcover, I bet she’s happy that her book and its offshoots are on the New York Times best-seller list. Cha-ching! Can’t afford the book? For just $4.99 (each topic), she will send a daily e-mail to you and me for twenty-one days that will help us de-clutter our lives, cope with a difficult person, or quit yelling at our kids (too late for me - I could have used that twenty years ago). No money? Don’t worry - she does have a website with some free tips, such as “four ways to make your food taste better without lifting a finger,” certainly a vital key to happiness.  Just imagine broccoli stalks as dinosaur trees – yum, my mouth is watering already.

We’re also told that we have to work on happiness. Elizabeth Gilbert, writing in “Eat, Pray, Love,” pushes us with these words: “Happiness is the consequence of personal effort. You fight for it, strive for it, insist upon it, and sometimes even travel around the world looking for it . . . You must make a mighty effort to keep swimming upward into that happiness forever, to stay afloat on top of it.” Really? Sounds too much like work to me, or maybe she’s watched Finding Nemo one too many times. Keep on swimming, swimming, swimming.”

Does it have to be so hard? Can’t we sit in the sun, breathe in the fresh air, skip stones in the water, or cradle the newborn baby, and recognize that it’s a happy day, a happy time? Sometimes, it’s like Dr. Seuss says: “Don’t cry because it’s over, smile because it happened.”

It wasn’t a special day. We didn’t go to the amusement park or the mall. In fact, although chocolate ice cream was probably involved, I don’t even remember what we were doing, other than spending time together, when our granddaughter, the lovely Madelyn Simone, looked at me and said, “I’m just so happy, Nana.”  Me too, Madelyn, me too.

Going to the Fair

As freshly landed immigrants to Ashland in 2006, Larry and I were introduced to the Ashland County Fair by way of the Parade of Bands, the time-honored Sunday afternoon event featuring the Ashland University band and area high school marching bands. Not knowing what to expect, we climbed into the grandstands at the fairground to support our son as he snapped to attention in the percussion section of the Ashland Arrows band.

As the strains of the National Anthem were lifted up by hundreds of young musicians that long-ago afternoon, I stood with tears in my eyes, sensing a confirmation that our move to Ashland County had brought us home. So on the third Sunday of September, 2013, we let the Browns muddle their way through the game with Baltimore without our cheers, and headed to the fairgrounds for what has become our own traditional fair experience, beginning with the Parade of Bands. The AU Eagles proudly led their younger brothers and sisters down the pavement, and the guest conductor signaled the snare drum roll. In unison, the notes soared into the air: “O say can you see. . .”

With tears glistening in my eyes once again, my thoughts went to our granddaughter, the lovely Madelyn Simone. “This,” I said to myself, “is what I want Madelyn to know about our world, our community.” I want her to know that brothers and sisters can stand shoulder to shoulder, singing these familiar words and celebrating our identity as Americans.  I want her to know the delight of chatting with friends for a few minutes as we meander through the fairgrounds, of seeing people from all walks of life and remembering the ways our lives have touched each other over the years.

So that’s why we were singing “We went to the animal fair, the birds and the beasts were there” as Madelyn and I drove south on Claremont Avenue on Thursday. While we didn’t see any of the monkeys or elephants mentioned in that song at our fair, we saw plenty of birds and beasts as we toured the various barns and tents on the fairgrounds. We saw cows and horses, sheep and pigs, goats and rabbits, but we had to return to the raucous poultry barn and tent three times, for Madelyn was fascinated with the chickens, roosters and turkeys. I was taken in as well by the markings on the birds and the names used to describe them. Gold and Silver Penciled Hamburg hens, Golden Polish cockerels, the White Lace Red Cornish, the Barred Rock pullet, and the Feather Leg bantam – I’ll never look at a chicken in the same way again.

As with any three-year-old, we had our public drama, as the green balloon she wouldn’t let me tie to her wrist sailed into the sky, soon joined by another child’s red one – a hard way to learn that actions have consequences. But that brief meltdown was healed by the gift of another balloon (thank you), and Madelyn continued her exploration of the fair with her typical cheery greetings to young and old. “Hi, I’m Madelyn. What you doing?”

Of course, her eagle eyes had spied the rides on our way into the fair, and I promised we’d return to them once they opened at noon. Barely meeting the 36” minimum for most of the kiddie rides, she quickly got the hang of proving her great height against the measuring stick before climbing on the cars, Ferris wheel, swings, and mini-scrambler. No fear or trepidation in this child – if she was tall enough, she was riding. Her hands-down favorite was the Dragon Wagon, the kid’s roller coaster with the comedic ride operator. He suggested she try out for the wide-eyed scream role in an amusement park movie as the coaster sped around the track for her eighth consecutive ride.

What great fun we had at the fair. Thank you, Ashland County Fair Board, for reminding me once again of the goodness of life, the pride of a community, and the delight of a three-year-old. All that and funnel cakes too. It doesn’t get much better than this.

 

Boots on the Ground

Anyone who has been even semi-conscious during the past few weeks has heard the phrase, “boots on the ground” as talking heads, political leaders, and Joe and Jane Citizen debate the role of the United States regarding Syria. In nearly every interview or discussion I’ve heard about Syria, that phrase has described the hopes of all involved to keep American troops off the ground in that war-torn country.

I take the threat of Syria seriously, but I can’t help it - the phrase “boots on the ground” triggers a song in my mind. “General” Larry Platt sang these now infamous words at an audition for American Idol, and it went viral in 2010. “Pants on the ground, pants on the ground”– how could you possibly forget those lyrical words that warned of the danger of “acting like a fool with your pants on the ground?”

While those who practice the art of sagging may face some challenges in the corporate world, pants on the ground is not the life-threatening image that boots on the ground stirs up in us. The staggering losses of World War II as witnessed by my father and his generation, the body bags of Viet Nam that haunted my teen-age years, and the precisely folded flags at the gravesites of Iraq and Afghanistan casualties in this century are somber reminders of the cost of boots on the ground, and I’m relieved that “no boots on the ground” is the consistent battle cry through the Syrian deliberations.

Once again, the world is not at peace, and the United States is attempting to sort out what it can do about it, what it should do about it, even if that response does not include boots on the ground. It’s a complicated question for sure. Why get involved in a country that has an unstable history and one of the worst records regarding human rights in the world, and that many Americans can’t even locate on a map?

President Obama strove to answer that question in his speech to the nation on Tuesday night, beginning with these words:  “My fellow Americans, tonight I want to talk to you about Syria -- why it matters, and where we go from here.” Good, I thought. I’ve been so confused by all I’ve heard about this, and I want to understand what is happening. And his next words made sense to me: “But I have resisted calls for military action, because we cannot resolve someone else’s civil war through force, particularly after a decade of war in Iraq and Afghanistan.” I’m with you there, Mr. President.

I listened carefully to him, and to the various discussions around this subject, and I’m still not sure what should happen. While the stakes are high and the atrocities unimaginable, it is on the other side of the world. What should my country do? The words spoken by an ancient man as recorded in the scriptures echo in my mind as well. Perhaps not quite in context, but I must ask: “Am I my brother’s keeper?” (Gen. 4:9). President Obama said it this way: “What kind of world will we live in if the United States of America sees a dictator brazenly violate international law with poison gas, and we choose to look the other way?”

Whether it’s one thousand Syrian men, women, and children in 2013, six million men, women, and children who perished in the Holocaust, or, closer to home, one abused child, one victim of a drunk driver, or one playground bully, the answer remains the same: yes, I am my brother’s – and sister’s – keeper. We are deeply disturbed by the images of refugees pouring out of Syria, and we mourn the deaths of our brothers and sisters in what seems to be a senseless civil war. Unlike the atrocities committed in the Holocaust, we can no longer claim that we didn’t know.

Mr. Obama has taken some heat for calling the United States exceptional in its willingness to act to right at least some of the wrongs around the world. I’m not sure we’re all that exceptional, Mr. President. Somehow, I just want to believe that we are human.

Have You Ever Seen a Lassie?

from the archives:
(first published in 2005)

            The Salvation Army in New York City recently celebrated the 125^th anniversary of the opening of the work in that great city.  It was a quite a party, and gave witness to the faithfulness of God in powerful ways.  But it raised again an issue that has troubled me for a number of years:  Why do we continue to refer to the seven brave women who came with Railton as the “seven hallelujah lassies”?  OK, in a pinch it may be a poetic phrase, but this is 2005, and whatever that word may have implied in 1880, my vivid imagination can only draw on my early childhood experience of Lassie, the adorable collie who kept getting lost. 

            These “lassies” are seven women who left their homes, their families, and everything that was familiar to cross the ocean in hopes of spreading the gospel.  They are seven women who have names.  Except that it’s difficult to find them.  Sixty minutes on the Internet could not locate their names.  They are unnamed in Soldier Saint, a biography of George Scott Railton, who accompanied them to New York, nor are they named in Red-Hot and Righteous, Diane Winston’s work on the urban religion of The Salvation Army.  Edward McKinley names one in Marching to Glory, Emma Westbrook, and describes the group as “stalwart women with great heart but little ability”(15).  Ouch! It finally took an e-mail to the archives in London to find them.  So for the record, in recognition of their personhood, the women who came to these shores in 1880 were Alice Coleman, Rachel Evans, Emma Elizabeth Florence Morris, Elizabeth Pearson, Clara Price, Annie Shaw, and Emma Westbrook

            It could be presumed that the lack of naming of these women has been simply a historical oversight, but if so, there have been too many historical oversights in the course of the history of our faith, beginning with the Scriptures.  Jephthah’s daughter (Judges 11), the woman who was a concubine (Judges 19), the woman at the well (John 4), the woman taken in adultery (John 8), the woman with an issue of blood (Matthew 9), and the woman in Simon’s house (Mark 14), are only a few of the many unnamed women in the Bible.

Unnamed women are not confined to the pages of history.  There are unnamed women in our contemporary world as well:  the female babies aborted daily in China simply because of their gender, the women being sold into prostitution and sexual slavery, and yes, the prostitutes on the street corners and the women who have been bumped off the welfare rolls in our own communities. 

            Yet these women do have names.  While they may not have been considered noteworthy enough to be recorded in the Scripture, each woman has a name.  Even women who are forced to abort their daughter give them a name.  And sex slaves, prostitutes, and poor women all have names as well.  As such, their names are known to the God of the universe, the shepherd who cares for his sheep.  As the chorus writer reminds us,

He cannot forget me, though trials beset me,

            Forever his promise shall stand,

            He cannot forget me, though trials beset me,

            My name’s on the palm of his hand.

                        SASB 125

 

            While I may not be able to change the historical records of The Salvation Army, I can remember that George did not come alone to the shores of the US, but was accompanied by Alice, Rachel, Emma, Elizabeth, Clara, Annie and Emma.  I can honor the memory of the unnamed women in the Scriptures by telling their stories.  And I can respect my brothers and sisters enough to speak their names, whether in the pew or the soup-line, as those who are created in the image of God and held close to his heart.  For the gift of a name bestows both identity and regard upon another, and I can choose to live in such a way that the names of God’s children are cherished and preserved.

 

O concubine of Ephraim,

No name is ever wholly forgotten.

Your mother’s lips brushed identity upon being.

A fragile vase, auctioned to the highest bidder,

Stripped naked of dignity.

Yet your name whispers gently.

I know you.

(see Judges 19)