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)