Les Miserables

Larry and I braved the winds and the falling snow on a blustery January afternoon to head to Mansfield for a date! It had been quite some time since we’d sat in a darkened movie theater, munching on a tub of popcorn while waiting with anticipation for the feature film to begin.  But there we were, thanks to Martin Luther King Jr. and Victor Hugo.

Yes, we went to see Les Miserables.  I’d read the book, viewed the 1935 film adaptation, as well as the 1998 movie, but had never seen the stage version of the musical. So when it came to the big screen, I knew this was one film I didn’t want to miss.

It’s a wonderful , redemptive film. I’ll leave the details for the film critics, but it was definitely worth the trip.  I knew that this 2012 film was based on the long-running musical of the same name, so I was prepared for a drama with songs interspersed throughout, such as Annie or Oliver. What I hadn’t expected was the opera-like presentation of the story, where all of the dialogue between the characters was sung. The use of song did make for rather incongruous death-bed scenes, but – it’s the movies!

The opening scenes of the prison chain gang and the poorhouse were barefaced  in their depiction of poverty, and the desperation of the poor throughout the movie was palpable. Those visual images intersected compellingly with a passion for the needs of the poor that has stirred within me for many years. Faceless. Nameless. Powerless. Who will speak for them? Who will know them? Who will stand up for them?

Whether in the image of a starving Biafran child with a distended belly that so shaped my teen years, or of a woman living in our community who can’t find work to keep a roof over the heads of herself and her children, the poor do have faces, do have names. But, just as in early 19^th century France, they often do not have the power to change their circumstances on their own, as Fantine’s story so poignantly illustrated in the film. “I had a dream that life would be . . . so different now from what it seems.

Even the Bible tells us that the poor will be with us always so why worry about their needs? From a global perspective, yes, there will always be poor among us. Does that mean that we do nothing? Catholic theology extends the preferential option of the poor, prompting us to recognize that the moral test of any society is how it treats its most vulnerable members. For me, that theory must become embodied and remembered, both corporately and individually.

I left the movie theater challenged deeply by the walk of Jean Valjean, known only by his prisoner number, “24601,” for so long.  When he became able, he gave coins to those begging on the streets but soon found that the coins were not enough – he had to move toward another, even at risk to his own life.  

For me, like Valjean, slipping a few coins to a beggar is not enough, for redemption must be played out in relationship. For some, that relationship comes in the adoption of an orphaned child, or is revealed in the care for an elderly neighbor. Some work for social justice, in the fight against human trafficking or for job development with living wages. In our community, one of those relational connections comes through the Ashland County Churches Emergency Shelter Services (ACCESS), providing powerful support for people who have slipped into homelessness.

Yet the hands that have lovingly lifted up so many are tired and need others to hold up their arms. Could it be that there is another church or two in our community to come alongside? Could it be that another voice will be lifted at the homeless coalition? Could it be that we are being drawn to help another to weather the storm, to dream a new dream? Could it be that the Jean Valjean in you, the Jean Valjean in me, is called to stop looking down and to step closer to our Fantine, to our Cosette?

 

Tell Me a Story

Growing up, the record player allowed the sounds of music to permeate our home, as I sat in the rocking chair for hours, singing along at the top of my lungs. A favorite was “Tell Me a Story,” recorded by Jimmy Boyd, whose claim to fame was “I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus,” a song banned in Boston by the Catholic Church because it mixed sex and Christmas.  Since the Santa Claus record sold 60,000,000 copies, apparently the ban worked – in favor of the song! But I digress.

On the “story” record, Jimmy and Frankie Laine sang of the eternal cry of children who will use any excuse to delay bedtime. “Tell me a story.” The song tells of one unfortunate particular night that the dad arrived home quite late, attempting to sneak up the stairs, shoes in hand and “my darling wife in bed,” when he heard these compelling words: “Hi there, daddy – remember what you said?  Tell me a story.”

Story captures us.  Whether it’s the lovely Madelyn Simone “reading” Ten Little Piggies for the 15^th time, or her doting grandmother being engrossed in a best-selling novel or the film Les Miserables, story speaks to us in ways that a non-fiction account cannot.    

Yet it’s not just the classic novels or the huge film productions that tell a story of value – we each have a life story that longs to be told. As William Carolos Williams expressed it, “Their story, yours and mine -- it’s what we all carry with us on this trip we take, and we owe it to each other to respect our stories and learn from them.” Unfortunately, all too often we learn this lesson too late, and the story of generations of our ancestors goes to the grave with them.

At age 90, my mother is the only one of her generation left in her family circle (happy birthday, Mom!). Her sisters and brother have been gone for many years now, and it’s been more than seven years since my dad’s death. The only storyteller we have left is my mom, and my siblings and I find ourselves hungry for one more snippet, one more story as to who our ancestors were and what life was like in the good old days.

A recent anecdote involved my dad, the most steady, patient, and unflappable man I’ve ever known. Yet once upon a time, he was working on a job as a carpenter foreman, charged with protecting the welfare of his workers. As at least one version of the story relates, the site superintendent wanted the men to do something that would put them in danger, and my dad stood up to him. Legend has it that my dad chased the superintendent down Morgan Street for more than a block – with a hammer in either his hand or his pocket, depending on which version of the story you believe.    

True story? Embellished? Not sure. But the nugget of authenticity that it brings is precious to me – that for a moment in time, my dad stepped out of character to do what needed to be done.

The preservation of story is a life-sustaining task. One way that nearly 90,000 Americans have done this is through StoryCorps, a project of the American Folklife Center of the Library of Congress, as often heard on NPR. Others have committed their stories to paper, in spiral notebooks, in handwritten journals, and on pages and pages of manuscript. Some dream of holding their story in their hands one day on the pages of a book, and now, with the advent of a new generation of self-publishing options, that dream is becoming a reality for many. That’s why I’m facilitating some self-publishing workshops over the next few months at the Kroc Center, providing one more way that the story can live on long into the future.

Barry Lopez challenges us: “If stories come to you, care for them. And learn to give them away where they are needed. Sometimes a person needs a story more than food to stay alive.” “So tell me a story, Nana.” “Once upon a time, when your great-great grandmother was your age . . .”

It's Just Not the Same . . .

I was at the meat counter this week and encountered a woman who has participated in the knitting circle at the Salvation Army Kroc Center. The first thing she said to me was, “It’s just not the same at the Kroc Center without June.” June Metcalf, the knitting circle’s founder and Mother Superior of sorts, died on Christmas Day, and my friend was right – it’s just not the same without her there, with her patient presence and abiding words of wisdom, “When in doubt, rip it out.”

When someone leaves our life circle, whether through death, relocation, or disinterest, it’s just not the same. We say “it can’t be so.” We shake our fists at the fates or at the God of the universe.  We look at the empty chair and we grieve. We allow some time to pass, and then one day, we look around and realize that “not the same” is different but perhaps not so bad after all. And sometimes, we do decide to change hair salons or find a new women’s Bible study group, because the loss inherent in “it’s just not the same” is just too much to bear. It happens.   

I was struck by how much I resonate with ”It’s just not the same.” Years ago, Friendly’s had an oriental chicken salad that I ordered on every visit, and then one day, instead of the crunchy tortilla bowl, it appeared on a plate with red and black strips of tortilla chips and no mandarin oranges. I was so aggravated – I liked it the way it was! The things that stick in your memory.

Here’s what I’ve discovered as I’ve (hopefully) matured past that oriental chicken salad meltdown. “It,” whatever “it” is, won’t be the same, but different isn’t necessarily bad. The lovely Madelyn Simone and I recently watched a tape of the first Shrek movie on the VCR, and although it’s hard for someone with a full shelf of VHS tapes to admit, there’s a real difference in technology between those tapes and the DVD’s of today. While I don’t want to go out and buy those older movies on DVD since I already have them, if I make a new purchase, I know that the DVD will give me the best viewing option – at least for today.

And there’s no way I’d trade my laptop for the Smith-Corona I learned to type on – although I wasn’t the first to jump on the computer bandwagon, the computer provides amazing resources for the casual and professional writer, definitely enhancing the writing experience.

In my mid-fifties, I stand in the gap between two worlds when it comes to change, especially in the world of technology. I’m working on a book project that explores a number of images of God, requiring me to look up scripture passages to support each chapter. As I sit at my computer desk, I have 4 translations of the Bible stacked to my left, and it’s been about a 50/50 split between turning the actual pages of the Bible, and clicking on one of the Internet-provided Bible programs, where I can have 30 translations virtually at my fingertips.  The screen is definitely not the same as the page, but cut and paste sure is easier than having to type every word.  I find myself clinging to the Book, but the new way is pulling hard to win my loyalty. There is a lot to unpack in that last sentence, but I’ll save that for a sermon, not the editorial page of the newspaper.

It was Pericles who said: “What you leave behind is not what is engraved in stone monuments, but what is woven into the lives of others.” That’s why the typewriter ribbon and the VHS tape are disposable – in the end, it’s the message, not the medium, that counts. What does matter is that the written word or visual image stirs the heart. It’s not the new knitting pattern that matters; no, it’s that the presence of June Metcalf created a welcoming space in our community and in our hearts. If that’s knitted into the fabric of our lives, then even if it’s not the same, it’s OK.    

 

Rapha's Touch - An Introduction

Announcing . . .

Rapha's Touch: Healing from Sexual Abuse, now available at amazon.com, nook, kindle, and directly from me. It can also be ordered directly from https://www.createspace.com/4085694

Here's what you'll find within its pages:

Sexual abuse has long-lasting, life-altering consequences, but these consequences do not have to be life-destroying. The pages of Rapha's Touch: Healing from Sexual Abuse, extend an invitation to enter the presence of Jehovah-Rapha, the God who heals, the One who mends that which is torn. The story line of Tamar, daughter of King David, whose sexual abuse at the hands of her brother is recounted in the Old Testament is interwoven with snapshots of personal memory around the themes of unstained fabric, damaged remnants, a rag rug, the patchwork quilt, and an exquisite tapestry...

 

From the introduction:

These pages are offered to those who have been wounded through the abuse of others, as well as to those who walk beside them and love them. They come with the prayer that the healing touch of Jehovah-Rapha will be received in its fullness. These words provide a framework for thinking about the redeeming nature of God through the metaphor of needlework, the sewing together of that which has been torn apart.

Each chapter begins with a glimpse from my own memory that may help you name the feelings present in the aftermath of sexual abuse. As you hear bits of my life story, take time to remember a part of your story that fits into the theme of the chapter. The details of your story may differ from mine, but the journey of healing begins at the same place – in the presence of Jehovah-Rapha, the One who heals. Remember, too, that as much as the abuse may have colored your life story, you are so much more than the abuse, so much more than a victim.   

The snapshots of memory will be interwoven with the story line of Tamar, daughter of King David, whose sexual abuse at the hands of her brother has been recorded in the Old Testament. Each chapter will also include sections of information about sexual abuse, questions to spur your thinking and remembering, prayers for your use to direct your conversation with God, and a series of action verbs that invite you to put your thoughts and feelings into tangible expressions of art and movement. Finally, you will also find resources for further exploration, as well as words of comfort and challenge from the Scriptures and from the voices of those who understand the healing power of God.

Bigger or Smaller, Fast or Slow

The act of writing a newspaper column often brings me to utter these familiar words: “it’s true confession time.” So here’s confession #1. Over our wonderful, laid-back, breathe-deeply Christmas holiday, I watched a bit more television than I normally do. Well, a lot more television than I normally do. I didn’t catch any episodes of Say Yes to the Dress (my regular daytime viewing in my first few months of grandmother duty), but I watched a lot of football, and cringed as Ralphie and Randy went down the slide at Higbees for the twentieth time in the Christmas Story marathon. I even viewed The Sound of Music, a film I first saw at the Riviera Theater in 1965. To the embarrassment of my family, I danced around the house for a couple of days, pretending to be Julie Andrews as I sang about raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens, and snowflakes that stay on my nose and eyelashes.

Since I’m not especially adept at the art of remote control, my expanded television viewing agenda meant that I also sat through way too many commercials, so I’ll make another confession – television commercials are not on my list of favorite things! But I was intrigued by one series of advertisements promoting a certain brand of cell phone service, as they raised an existential question to a table of precocious children. “What’s better?”   

Ah, what is better? How do we decide that value-laden question?  In the first commercial, the question was “what’s better - bigger or smaller,” while the second posed a similar query: “what’s better, faster or slower?” Of course the children answer the question with the correct cell-phone company, twenty-first century marketing answer – bigger is better, faster is better.

When asked “what’s fast?” the kids respond – a cheetah, my mom’s car, a spaceship. When asked “what’s slow?” a smart-mouthed little boy pipes up – “my grandma’s slow.”  Beck Bennett asks him, “would you like it better if she was fast?” The little wise guy responds: “I bet she would like it if she was fast.”

Well, Sonny, let me tell you – I’m a grandma, and I’m not so sure you’re right in that assumption. Just as bigger isn’t always better, sometimes “fast” isn’t all it’s cracked up to be either. Try cooking a pot roast in the microwave and tell me fast is better than slow.

How do we decide what is better? The assumption of the commercial is that bigger and faster (translate biggest and fastest) is better. The “bigger is better” is an assumption made in business, in retail, in the church, in higher education, and in television screen size (that’s why the children’s tree house had to be bigger instead of smaller in the big/small commercial).

Yet bigger is not always better. We appreciate small businesses that know their customers and provide friendly service. We welcome the embrace of a church family small enough to know our names and wrap its arms around us when tragedy strikes. We value the educational opportunities found at a small to mid-sized college. We enjoy spending time in a home where a fireplace is at the center of the room instead of a 90 inch flat-screen television.  

As for faster, it too has its limits. Drive too fast, and you’ll put others in danger, get your name in the Times-Gazette, and pay an expensive speeding ticket.  Type too fast, and you’ll end up with “ipi hpy upit jsmfd om yjr etpmh [;svr” (you got your hands in the wrong position). Run too fast on the beginning lap, and you may not be able to finish the race.

Which is better? The best answer is “both/and,” because life is not so simple. There is room for big and small, for fast and slow, and sometimes Grandma is OK with life at a slower pace. As an old African proverb reminds us: “If you want to go fast, go alone. If you want to go far, go together.” It all depends on what you want out of life.  “To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven.”