The Word Became Flesh and Blood

Growing up in the First Presbyterian Church of Tonawanda, New York, I sang in the junior choir and attended Sunday School and the worship service each week. The sanctuary at Christmas was glorious, aglow in the wash of candlelight and echoing with historic carols. But the highlight of each Christmas season was the annual Christmas pageant, the nativity story with bathrobes and tinseled angel wings.

The First Presbyterian production was impressive, and casting for the pageant was a formidable task. The kindergarten children were little cherubs who knelt beside the baby Jesus, and I appeared in that role around age five. But following that stellar performance, the female roles were quite limited until junior high when one special girl was chosen to be Mary.

Since my Aunt Florence was in charge of the pageant, I assumed I had a good shot at the coveted part, but another young woman get the plum role of Mary in my first year of eligibility. I was the angel Gabriel, attempting to keep my balance while standing on a wobbly ladder with arms outstretched. By the following year, I knew it was now or never. But with no advance warning, my Aunt Florence decided to change the traditional pageant to some random Christmas drama – with no nativity scene.

To say I was scarred for life by that decision is an overstatement, but I never did get to play the role of Mary. Of course, at age ten or twelve I didn’t know who this ancient woman really was. Yes, she’d ridden a donkey to Bethlehem, given birth in a stable, and laid her newborn baby in a manger. But I had no idea that the news of a pregnancy would have been a problem (naiveté was still alive in children in the 60s), nor did I comprehend the prophetic words of Simeon in the temple that a sword would pierce Mary’s own soul. All I knew was that Mary wore the pretty pale blue robe and looked beautifically at her baby while the cherubs fidgeted and the angelic choir sang.

In Barbara Robinson’s “The Best Christmas Pageant Ever,” her uproarious account introduces the tough-as-nails Herdman family as they bully their way into the lead parts in the Christmas pageant. The narrator describes the day of the performance: “Imogene Herdman [Mary] was crying. In the candlelight her face was all shiny with tears and she didn’t even bother to wipe them away. She just sat there – awful old Imogene – in her crookedy veil, crying and crying and crying. I guess Christmas just came over her all at once, like a case of chills and fever. And so she was crying.”

In that moment, awful old Imogene Herdman understood the pain and the joy of Mary’s heart. I’ve been there as well in these days leading up to Christmas 2014, as I’ve felt the pain of the sword that continues to pierce the soul of our world. The unrest marching from Ferguson, Missouri across our land, the slaughter of the innocents in Peshawar, Pakistan, and the memory of Sandy Hook Elementary School deeply trouble my soul. I long for the “peace on earth and mercy mild” that Charles Wesley claimed in his classic carol, but somehow we’ve lost that message.

Did Mary know that peace and mercy? Chris Eaton and Amy Grant imagine Mary’s thoughts in their song, ‘Breath of Heaven.” Mary asks, “In a world as cold as stone, must I walk this path alone?” The Christmas narrative itself answers Mary’s question. “They will call him Emmanuel, which means ‘God with us”’ (Matthew 1:21).

The sword still pierces Mary’s soul and our souls, but John gives us good news (1:14) – we are not alone. “The Word became flesh and made his dwelling among us.” When the First Presbyterian pageant took a different direction (leading, sadly, to its demise), my mother rescued the sacred, scarred baby Jesus doll from a forgotten shelf and took him home. Today, the baby Jesus still resides in my mother’s home, a poignant reminder that “the Word became flesh and blood and moved into the neighborhood” (John 1:14, MSG). Might the baby find a place in your home as well. Merry Christmas.

Transformative Change: Honesty, Responsibility, Courage, Humility

From the introduction to Transformative Change: Honesty, Responsibility, Courage, Humility, by Michael Misja and JoAnn Shade

If you’re reading these words, perhaps it’s because something has kicked open the door for you and you’re ready to embrace change. It isn’t enough to appreciate change from afar, or only in the abstract, or as something that can happen to other people but not to you. We need to create change for ourselves, in a workable way, as part of our everyday lives.

Sharon Salzberg

In 1974, a Hungarian sculptor and professor of architecture invented a three-dimensional puzzle that captured the attention of the world. Not only has Erno Rubik's creation been phenomenally successful commercially, selling 350 million Rubik's Cubes, but it has also taught us a great many life lessons. In working on a book on transformative change, we found these three truths from the Rubik's Cube invaluable: Some things cannot be changed, you can never change just one thing, and you have to give up what you have to get what you want.

What is true about Rubik’s cubes, people in general and relationships in particular is also true about writing a book. Neither of us was too fond of group projects in elementary school, and so collaborating on a book brought its own challenges to us. What could we agree on? When could we agree to disagree? Could we somehow present a united message yet still maintain our own distinct voices?

The writing process itself confirmed again what we believe about change. It takes motivation, intentional effort, and the presence of the Spirit of God. It also verified the truths from the Rubik’s Cube, especially the understanding that you can never change just one thing. So it is with much gratitude for the grace of God that we are able to birth a book on the process of change.

When we first sat down to work on this project, we reflected on the lives of the hundreds of people we had worked with over our many years of ministry. As we talked about those who had made substantive changes in their lives, particularly in what might be seen as holistic ways, we asked ourselves, what made the difference for them? What did they do, what did they understand about change, and why was it different for them? Why did we see a transformation in them versus less significant change in other people?

Our conversations brought us over and over again to the concepts of honesty, personal responsibility, courage and humility. When people were committed to make the shift toward those four values/goals, and were accompanied in that work by the Spirit of God, they were able to move toward a spiritual and psychological transformation with lasting impact. Thus the framework of this book on transformative change in the life of a person who follows Christ.

These pages have had a long gestation period, and our own lives have experienced transitions that have put our thinking about transformative change to the test. We write from a place of recognition as to what can be, not a place where we’ve been able to live out these concepts perfectly in our own lives. Yet we also write from a place of practical experience in the roles of Christian psychologist and faith-based social service practitioner and pastor, having walked the road of transformative change with hundreds of people.

We’ve included some ways for you to interact with these materials at the end of each chapter in Shiftwork, questions and activities that will be helpful in putting the concepts of this book into action. Hopefully these will nudge you toward the question, “now what?” as you desire to move from deception to honesty, from shame and blame to personal responsibility, from fear to courage, and from pride to humility.

What we also know is that Salzberg’s words about embracing change that we began this introduction with are only part of the equation for those who follow Christ. We do need to create change for ourselves, but lasting, transformative change is always in the context of what Christ is doing in us. As Paul wrote to the Corinthians two thousand years ago, “And so we are transfigured much like the Messiah, our lives gradually becoming brighter and more beautiful as God enters our lives and we become like him” (II Corinthians 3, MSG).

And so, with the light of truth, the acceptance of personal responsibility, the courage that comes from faith, and the humility of Christ, we breathe a prayer from the psalmist for ourselves and for you, our fellow-seeker of transformative change.

Send out your light and your truth,

let them lead me,

let them bring me to your holy hill

and to your dwelling.

Psalm 43:3

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The Best Christmas Gifts

I have friends who swear by on-line shopping, completing the purchases on their entire Christmas list from the comfort of their own home. Not me. I remain a loyal shop-‘til-you-drop, let me see it, touch it consumer – especially if it’s located on the clearance rack. 

I wonder if those who only shop on-line lose out on the “what will they think of next?” experience. I’ve said that often as Christmas merchandise has flooded the stores of Northeast Ohio. Who thinks up these new products? Did you know that you could bless someone with a Chia Zombie this Christmas? Just the ticket for my “Walking Dead” friends.

One intriguing gadget is the wireless selfie stick with in-handle Bluetooth shutter control. Considering I can’t even figure out which way to hold the phone to attempt a selfie, I don’t think I’m up for a wireless selfie stick just yet.

While I didn’t see these in the big box stores yet, a radio spot suggested I purchase matching pajamas for the entire family so we could be appropriately dressed when we tear open our gifts on the morning of December 25. And to make the offer even more enticing, I can get matching pajamas for Freckles and Nala, our granddogs. The sleepwear comes in a variety of styles, including holiday stripe, deer, forest and Santa. On sale, they’d set me back $420 plus shipping. That’s a family tradition we won’t be starting this year, although the pictures would be classic.

It’s also obvious there are beaucoup bucks to be made in branded merchandise, but how much is too much? One website boasted of 784 ‘Frozen’ products. I dearly love Elsa and Anna from the movie Frozen, but I really don’t need a Disney Frozen Olaf Waffle Maker – we use a toaster for frozen waffles! Perfume, makeup, shoes, video games, and a glitter lamp – all available in time for Christmas delight. I looked at a plastic Elsa cup that I thought the lovely Madelyn Simone might enjoy, but its $10 price tag scared me off. Come to find out, it provided a space for a snack and a drink, all in the same container. What a deal.

Writing in “The Independent,” a British newspaper, Binyamen Appelbaum provides background on Disney merchandising. “Disney characters have been endorsing products since 1929, when Walt Disney put Mickey Mouse on a writing tablet. But licensing, which began as a sideline, has become the main event. In most years, Disney makes more money from selling branded movie merchandise than from the actual movies.” Josh Silverstein, Disney’s VP for Global Licensing, explains it this way: “We create products that extend the story-telling – the emotional connection that the consumer has when they’re seeing the film carries on in the three dimensional world.” What a precious sentiment.

He’s right, especially if the consumer is a four-year-old girl or her smitten grandmother. And yes, I did buy Madelyn an Elsa dress, but on hindsight, I wish I’d held out for the dress that lights up and sings. I am pleased, however, that Madelyn owns one of the more than three million Frozen dresses Disney has already sold in North America. That’s enough to outfit every four-year-old girl on the continent.

When Madelyn and I pretend to be the Frozen girls, she claims the role of Elsa and I’m relegated to Anna, who I happen to like better than Elsa anyway. Plus, Anna gets to sing more songs. But I do draw the line at wearing an Anna costume to the playground or the mall. But wait – maybe Frozen could be our theme for Christmas morning. My husband Larry would be adorable as Olaf, and the dogs could be Sven the reindeer.

But back to the shopping. What about the guys on my list? The challenges of product licensing may help me get a bargain on a Browns jersey, especially with a quarterback’s name printed on the back. What about Couch? Holcomb? Quinn? Anderson? McCoy? Weeden? I knew I should have hedged my bets and bought a reversible jersey with Hoyer on one side and Manziel on the other. But it’s OK – there are still twelve shopping days until Christmas,

Cooking with Love

Over the course of more than thirty-five years in ministry, I gathered a solid base of knowledge on the institution of marriage. I’ve read what the experts say about marriage, and I’ve done my fair share of marriage counseling as well. And, I’ve been married for thirty-nine years to the same man – that has to count for something.

One of the psychological marriage gurus is John Gottman, who researched marriages for years. He teaches couples to enhance their love maps, nurture their fondness and admiration, turn toward each other instead of away, accept the influenced of the partner, solve their solvable problems, overcome gridlock, and create shared meaning. Gotta get that love map going! He believes that a harsh start-up and continued negativity such as criticism and contempt can sound the death knell for marriages. Others suggest that problems with communication, sex, and money are common causes of marriage failure as well.

But the experts are missing the boat. One issue looms large in the health of a marriage. How many marital difficulties could be resolved by successfully answering one question each day: “What’s for supper?”

Unlike my mother, who didn’t work outside the home after her children were born, almost all of my peers arrive home at about the same time as their husbands. Even on the days I work from home, dinner planning is not the first check-off on my to-do list. I’ve tried writing out menus for the week but haven’t been disciplined enough to follow through. I’ve suggested we take turns in meal preparation, but the decision-making as to the menu remains on my plate. If our young adult sons are home for supper, I want to cook something they like, so have been known to change the choice of food for them. Yes, even though they’re fine with fixing something else, I spoil them as much as I do the lovely Madelyn Simone.

Don’t worry about starvation hitting our home. We do manage to eat every night, a bit more of a challenge now that my fallback, the A&W, is closed for the season. But there’s a more serious complaint in my house. My entire family agrees: I don’t cook with love like Grandma does. I’d rather finish a writing project than start a meal. I get distracted from what I’m doing, and before I know it, the meat for the stew is setting off the smoke detector. Even the chocolate chip cookies aren’t safe, as I never could convince my kids they were supposed to crunch.

Their idea of cooking with love isn’t what Harriet van Horne suggests: “Cooking is like love. It should be entered into with abandon or not at all.” No, my family’s definition of cooking with love has more to do with Barbara Costikyan’s words: “In the childhood memories of every good cook, there’s a large kitchen, a warm stove, a simmering pot and a mom.” Cooking with love in my house means that I stay in the kitchen and give food preparation the time it needs and deserves. To plead my case, I remind them that Betty Crocker is a figment of our imagination, and Rachael Ray earns enough money to have household help. Even Florence Brady of the Brady Bunch had Alice by her side, but I don’t get much sympathy in that department.

I laugh with my family about my lack of preparation and concentration, but I still value the shared meal, whether with family or as we welcome friends to our table. Laurie Colwin puts it into perspective for me: “The table is a meeting place, a gathering ground, the source of sustenance and nourishment, festivity, safety, and satisfaction. A person cooking is a person giving. Even the simplest food is a gift.”

The question of what we’re eating for supper will continue to be asked in our house, and it’s unlikely I’ll reach the gold standard of “cooking with love” like grandma anytime soon. But my hope is that those who share a meal in our home might experience the table fellowship of reunion and communion that will atone for any deficiencies emanating from my kitchen. Bon appétit!

  

I Love a Parade

In 1931, Harold Arlen and Ted Koehler collaborated on a song that proclaims, “I love a parade . . . when I hear a band. I just want to stand and cheer as they come.” I have no idea how I know this song, as I wasn’t around in 1931, nor did I watch it on the Lawrence Welk New Year’s show in 1979. Ashlanders may not know its lyrics, but as hundreds lined up on Main Street last Saturday night, it was obvious we share its sentiment: We love a parade!

The Evening Lions, parade organizers extraordinaire, asked me to be a judge this year, and I was thrilled to say yes. My personal favorites were the little Daisies and Brownies singing “Let It Go,” complete with motions, carolers crooning in four-part harmony, and the American Legion’s “I’ll Be Home for Christmas” float. Sure did tug at our heartstrings.

As a relatively recent immigrant to Ashland, I don’t have the decades of Ashland parade-watching experience under my belt as fellow judge Dianne Hammontree does, but I can claim my share of memorable parade moments, including our first Ashland Christmas parade. Larry and I arrived in Ashland in June, 2006 with the challenge to get the Salvation Army’s Ray and Joan Kroc Corps Community Center off the ground. As one of eight sites in the Northeast United States, we hit the ground running, working with an amazing local steering committee to secure a site, develop drawings, raise needed funds, and jump through whatever hoops the Salvation Army and Mrs. Kroc (from her grave) deemed necessary.

By November, we’d done our fair share of hoop-jumping and eagerly awaited the go-ahead to proceed. In the meantime, we’d gathered a dozen children to march in the morning parade. Garbed in Salvation Army hats and volunteer aprons, the little darlings were equipped with kettle bells, more than ready to ring their way down Main Street. En route to the staging area, my cell phone rang with devastating news: our Kroc Center had been denied approval to move ahead. The powers-that-be at corporate headquarters had concerns about its viability, and weren’t willing to give the green light - yet.

Those few blocks of parade, with the children and their clanging bells, the uncertainty swirling through my head and tears swelling in my eyes, are etched in my memory forever. Long story shortened, we got the issues sorted out, and the Ashland Kroc Center opened its doors in April 2009 – the first one completed in the Northeast.

Other Christmas parade memories include a frigid appearance with our regional leaders, Bill and Lorraine, spilled soup in the Salvation Army canteen, and perfecting the Miss America wave from the back of a convertible. My hands-down favorite is the year our son Dan wore the RJ Kroc(odile) mascot costume on the flatbed with the Kroc Center’s New Adventure Band. Dan’s percussionist training kicked in when the band pulled out Sleigh Ride, and in the absence of a whip, he performed an RJ stomp at the appropriate section of the music. You had to be there.

I hope you got a glimpse of downtown as you watched the parade. With its newly-planted trees (thanks, Ferguson family) and the sparkling lights, it looks great. Additional shops are joining the long-time faithful, and rumor has it there are more to come. Worn out from hustle and bustle of Black Friday? Check out our downtown for yourself. Today is Small Business Saturday, and the Holiday Shop Hop provides an opportunity to visit twenty-five local shops and businesses. Get your punch card filled and shop small, shop local. Maybe you’ll even win a prize!

Ashland Main Street is also sponsoring its annual Miracle on Main (and South), with vendors filling the South Street Warehouse (formerly Gilberts’ warehouse) from noon-4. A number of local Ashland authors will join me at a table there, so stop by to get a book signed or to chat with me about your favorite Christmas parade memories.

Now that Thanksgiving 2014 is history, I can say it: It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas, everywhere you go – especially in downtown Ashland, Ohio. Come on down and #SHOPSMALL 2014!

I'm Thanksgiving!

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I’m sure the lovely Madelyn Simone will have something profound to say about Thanksgiving before the month is complete, but for now I’m borrowing my opening thought from a fellow grandmother. Here’s what three-year-old Anthony told my friend Corey: “Ma, do you want to know what I'm Thanksgiving for? I'm Thanksgiving for my homes and dog, Gracie.”

You’ve got it right, Anthony. As Thanksgiving approaches, I am “thanks-giving” too, because as William Arthur Ward reminds us, “Feeling gratitude and not expressing it is like wrapping a present and not giving it.’ Here is what’s on my list this year.

I’m thankful for the Ashland Public Library because they host a fabulous used book sale a few times a year; allowing me to stock up on enough books to carry me through until their next sale. I’m also grateful they’ve started sending out notices by e-mail before my books are due, potentially saving me from my own forgetfulness. What an awesome place.

I’m thankful for the Ashland Times-Gazette. Not only does it print seven hundred words from an opinionated woman each Saturday, but it continues to connect us as a community. My hometown newspaper is shutting down the presses and shuttering its doors in January, and my non-internet savvy mother is already feeling its loss. Yes, I know that “the times, they are a-changing,” but a newspaper is so much more than the pages on which it is printed.

I’m thankful for the voices of heritage and history that keep knocking on my door. Those voices whisper wisely to me through the pages of both historical fiction and biography, and from the photo albums and living history of family and friends. The Ashland County Historical Society carefully preserves our shared heritage, and will welcome guests into its home for a Holiday Open House on December 7 and a Candlelight Christmas Open House tonight – maybe I’ll see you there after the parade.

Sticking with the heritage theme, I’m grateful for the Massillon Museum, another keeper of the legacy, as it helped me tell the story of Eliza Duncan, whose husband founded Massillon. Salvation Army archives are playing a similar role as I am imagining the voice of Eliza Armstrong, a young girl whose staged procurement in 19th century London made life safer for generations of young women. I’m definitely grateful that the memories of the past are held securely by faithful guardians so we can create a healthier tomorrow for our descendants.

Here are a few more. I’m thankful I live in Ohio instead of Buffalo this week. However, I was tempted to join the crew shoveling out the Bills’ stadium, as the promised compensation included a free ticket to Sunday’s football game – still on my bucket list. I’m glad Harry London’s Chocolates in North Canton gives out free samples on its free tour. I’m also grateful I made it to the A & W before it closed for the winter, and that I won a Jake’s Steakhouse gift card this week. Small graces of life, I know, but reasons for gratitude just the same.

I’ve seen more than enough through the years to be truly grateful for a roof over my head, a comfortable bed with clean sheets, and tasty food to nourish my body. I am thankful for the richness of family and friends, and for the joy of my precious relationship with the lovely Madelyn Simone, even though she ate cherry-red lip balm and fed grapes to the dogs on my watch this week. I’m grateful for the gift of faith that saves my soul and makes me whole, as well as for honest work that continues to place me where my deep gladness and the world’s deep hunger meet (Frederick Buechner’s understanding of vocation). Yes, I am a blessed woman.

By now, you may be pondering what you’re “Thanksgiving” for today. As you make your list, I hope that Khalil Gibran’s words will encourage your gratitude as they do mine: “You pray in your distress and in your need; would that you might pray also in the fullness of your joy and in the days of abundance.” Amen.

The Bells are Ringing

It’s that time of year. It began with the faint ding of my cell phone indicating a text message had arrived. “Waaaayyyy too early for kettles,” wrote my sister from a suburban Buffalo store on the first day of November. She had heard a bell ringing as she walked towards the entrance and she knew it was “that time of year.”

In the 1942 film “For Me and My Gal,” a great question is raised: “Do you hear the bells go ding dong, do you know why they’re ringing?” Gene Kelly answers his own query in the first line of the familiar refrain. “The bells are ringing for me and my gal.” They were wedding bells!   

Unlike Kelly’s answer, the constant ringing we will begin to hear on our weekly trek to the supermarket doesn’t come from wedding bells, nor does their echo signify the end of war as church bells did at the conclusion of the Civil War. No, these ordinary and sometimes annoying bells clang throughout our land to signify that the war isn’t over and an Army continues to do battle in that war.

The Salvation Army’s care for the poor is not a new concept for people of faith. Historically, the Hebrew people declared a Year of Jubilee every fifty years as slaves and prisoners were freed and debts forgiven. In the last century, Catholic social teaching introduced the ‘preferential option for the poor,’ explaining that God gives preference to the poor and powerless, and so should God’s people. And in our century, new approaches to address poverty continue to spring up in faith communities around the world.

Government has also tried to stem the tide of poverty. Early approaches included auctioning off the poor, the development of Poorhouses, and the twentieth century answers, the advent of social security and welfare payments. Even with these adjustments, the poor remained with us, so President Lyndon Johnson declared war on poverty in 1965, to be followed by the welfare reform of the 90s.

Yet despite all these well-meaning interventions, still the bells must ring. Some see it as a quaint custom, like the child’s rhyme. “Christmas is coming, the goose is getting fat, please put a penny in the old man’s hat.” Others pass by unaware, engrossed in conversation or checking cell phones for urgent messages. Some respond to the bell with irritation, tired of hearing it, while others hear the bell and remember that lives can be transformed as a community pools together the spare change in its pockets.

This Christmas, local Salvation Army units are kicking off their bell-ringing campaigns with events designed to create excitement in the community, celebrating the hundreds of volunteers and staff who keep the bells ringing between now and December 24^th. The festive Jingle All the Way 5K is this morning, giving the Ashland bells a running start at 8:30 a.m. For those of us who would jiggle rather than jingle if we attempted a 5K run, there’s a pancake breakfast after the race, followed by the annual Red Kettle Bazaar from 10 a.m. to 3 p.m., a great way to get a jump start on Christmas shopping.

In Richland County, the bells will ring at a traditional breakfast gathering at the Mid-Ohio Conference Center on November 19. And for the music lovers among us, the Salvation Army in Wooster will welcome its Ring a Bell, Change a Life campaign with the holiday music of Ashland’s own Kroc Center Big Band on Monday at 6:30 p.m. I’m looking forward to my first taste of Christmas cookies during that event.

I do hope the Kroc Center Big Band plays “My Grown-up Christmas List” on Monday night, because its writer, Linda Thompson-Jenner, communicates better than I can. “As children we believed the grandest sight to see was something lovely wrapped beneath our tree.” Now, as adults, we recognize the rest of the picture, for “heaven only knows that packages and bows can never heal a hurting human soul.” I wish the kettle bells didn’t have to ring this year. But until the war on poverty is truly won, the Salvation Army bells will keep ringing their message of hope.  

Election Day Musings

As I walked into the Eagles Club on November 4, I was transported back in time more than fifty years to the days when I would ‘vote’ with my mom and dad at the Boy’s Club in Tonawanda, NY. As Yogi Berra has said, déjà vu all over again! The touch screens are a far cry from the levers of that day or punch card ballots with their potential for hanging chads, but the feel is the same. Whether pulling a heavy curtain to shelter our vote from prying eyes, or trying to remember where to insert the voter card into the desktop machine, we perform our yearly duty with thoughtfulness and reverence, and proudly sport the sticker: I Ohio (love) voting. Time to cue the patriotic music.

We the people of America, from all walks of life, from all sides of the track, come together to determine the leadership of our communities, our state, and our country in the days and years ahead. We bring our children in tow, not because we don’t have a babysitter, but because we want them to know this is what Americans do. We vote.

My most recent writing project (Eliza Duncan: An Imagined Memoir) included research into the suffrage movement in the 1800s. The battle to gain the vote for women began at the first women’s rights conference in Seneca Falls, New York in 1848. Early suffrage leader Antoinette Brown Blackwell reflected on the process: “We fully believed, so soon as we saw that woman’s suffrage was right, everyone would soon see the same thing, and that in a year or two, at farthest, it would be granted.”

Her prediction proved naïve, for those working towards women’s suffrage were not successful in passing the nineteenth amendment until 1920, less than one hundred years ago. Unlike Elizabeth Cady Stanton and Susan B. Anthony, early leaders of the effort, Mrs. Blackwell was the only one of the early suffragettes who lived to see that day. She was ninety-five.

Miss Anthony did vote in 1872, but was arrested for her effort and found guilty in a highly publicized trial. According to a current exhibit at the Massillon Museum, a former Massillon resident ran for president in 1872, although she would not have been allowed to vote for herself. Victoria Woodhull, a candidate of the Equal Rights Party, advocated the regulation of monopolies, an eight-hour workday, direct taxation, the abolition of the death penalty, and free love (including accessible divorce). The final days of her campaign were hindered by her incarceration on obscenity charges, for she had published an account of the alleged adulterous affair of prominent minister Henry Ward Beecher in her newspaper. It is unclear as to how many popular votes she received, but no electoral votes were recorded for her candidacy. Truth can be stranger than fiction.

The right to vote for women was highly contested for many years, as evidenced by the pronouncements of the National Association Opposed to Woman Suffrage. They worried that more voting women than voting men would place the government under petticoat rule, and the votes of married women would only double or annul their husbands’ votes. They also claimed that 90% of the women either did not want the vote or did not care.

It is this last statement that sends me to the ballot box every year. No matter how tired we are of political ads by the Tuesday after the first Monday in November, we bear witness that we care about our communities and the lives of those around us when we step into the voting booth. While the campaign process is far from perfect (and don’t get me started on the $3.7 billion spent on an estimated 2,969,370 ads for the House and Senate races), we have the right and privilege to vote, an opportunity my grandmother didn’t have until shortly before my mother was born.

Suffrage opponent John Boyle O’Reilly claimed “the success of the suffrage movement would injure women spiritually and intellectually, for they would be assuming a burden though they knew themselves unable to bear it.” I’m glad millions of American women proved him wrong on November 4.

Dressing for the Holidays

I spent an autumn day with the lovely Madelyn Simone this week, and her four-year-old presence gives me tremendous joy as well as continued inspiration for my writing. Our agenda took us to Tiny Tikes Nursery School and then to Price Park in North Canton, with its rather raucous duck and geese population that was quite attracted to Madelyn’s four small crackers. To say that I feared for our lives is no exaggeration, for there was to be no miraculous feeding of the five thousand feathered friends that day.

Next on our agenda: lunch. Where should we go? One of our favorite haunts is Sam’s Club, where we can snack on a variety of free samples and, if we’re still hungry, purchase a hotdog and drink for under two dollars. There’s always a lot to see at Sams Club, so we checked out the decorated cakes, watched a few minutes of a movie playing simultaneously on twenty television sets, and searched for those hoped-for free goodies. Monday must be a slow day on the free sample circuit, however, as we only located one complimentary food item.

Because we are girls, we also checked to see if they had any dresses or fancy clothing that Madelyn so enjoys. Although I’ve put myself on restriction, vowing to stop spending money on my favorite (and only) grandchild, I’m an easy target for adorable outfits to make this lovely child even lovelier. And, besides, there’s nothing wrong with looking, right? Isn’t that what’s called window shopping?

They had some really cute ensembles with brightly colored tops and leggings, and I will admit I was sorely tempted to indulge in a purchase, but when we looked at the other side of the rack we noticed that many of these outfits were themed for the holidays. Some were orange-and black striped, some sported the colors of autumn leaves, and others shouted out to us in the reds and greens of Christmas. Yes, we’d discovered an assortment of holiday clothing. I could have purchased outfits for Halloween, Thanksgiving, and Christmas, and I’m guessing that if we come back in a few months, we’ll find some options for Valentine’s Day and St. Patrick’s Day as well.

I was nearly convinced to make a spur-of-the-moment purchase, as the Thanksgiving outfit, complete with a multi-colored gobbler, was really cute, but I held myself back. It became one of those, “what was I thinking of” moments. Why would I even consider spending twenty dollars on clothing for a child that she would probably only wear once in her life? After all, this is far from a wedding gown or bridesmaid’s dress. Madelyn does not need a pumpkin dress or a turkey top and pants.

Please don’t think that I’m condemning my grandmother friends who’ve gotten tugged into the revolving door of holiday clothing for the little ones. After all, they really are cute, and Madelyn does have Christmas pajamas that say, “Grandma knows Santa.” Instead, I am making an observation about how our culture has changed from the day when a little girl would have one party dress that would be worn for church, Christmas, and school pictures.  

What do we really need? I read of a woman in Brooklyn who lived a minimalist lifestyle. She was determined to own only eighty possessions at one time, including her toothbrush, frying pan, and jeans. If she brought something new into her home, she gave away something she already had so as to keep under her chosen number of possessions. My husband can only wish that I’d limit myself to eighty books!

Mokokoma Mokhonoana, a South African philosopher, provides us with a helpful perspective on needs and wants. “Generally, people need less than a quarter of what they want,” he says, while “Needs are imposed by nature. Wants are sold by society.”

I’m glad for the reminder that values run deeper than turkey dresses. But I’m not relinquishing my grandparent’s “spoiler” prerogative completely, because Kidz Closet, the new children’s resale shop in downtown Ashland, is opening soon! I wonder if they have any Christmas dresses, preferably a red and green plaid with a Peter Pan collar.  

Mercy Rules

At the start of the high school football season in 2014, a new rule was put into place on gridirons across Ohio. The “mercy rule” goes into effect when one team is ahead of the other by thirty points or more at the end of the first half. When that happens, officials start to use a running clock, only stopping for specific actions such as an officials’ time-out or stoppage of play after a score. If the losing team manages to close the gap to under thirty, then the normal clock management resumes, still allowing for the possibility of a miraculous comeback.

Having sat through more than my fair share of painful routs in the past, the mercy rule is a welcome change, shortening the drawn-out blood-letting and hopefully reducing the possibility of injury in a game that is beyond redemption. Since the Ohio High School Athletic Association officials determined about one third of the games were impacted by the rule in the first week of the season, it appears as though the mercy rule has its value.

There’s been a similar scenario in Little League for years. Known at times as the slaughter rule, the game is called if a team is ahead by ten runs or more after four innings. The mercy rule has also been in effect in backyards and sandlots for many years, because kids understand perhaps better than adults – when you’re getting beat badly, it’s time to cry “uncle” and live to play another day.

It’s certainly possible to take the mercy rule too far. A recent incident in a peewee football game in Georgia brought a $500 fine and a one week suspension for the coach when an eight-year-old boy scored on a pick-six, an interception he ran back for a touchdown. The penalty was enforced against the Lawrenceville Knights because they totaled more than thirty-two points against their scoreless opponent. How is a third-grader supposed to understand that he should have dropped the ball?

The Merriam-Webster dictionary defines mercy as “kind or forgiving treatment of someone who could be treated harshly,” or “kindness or help given to people who are in a very bad or desperate situation.” I’ve got to wonder: if the mercy rule can be put in place in the competitive world of sports, then why not consider its use in the broader context of life?

What would it look like if mercy was the guiding force in our families, the workplace, the classroom and the church? If my rule of thumb was to choose mercy rather than make sure the other person gets what he or she deserves, would I react differently the next time someone gets in the express lane at the supermarket with seventeen items?

I’m not suggesting we become marshmallowing parents, the sweet but gooey response that creates dependency and lack of responsibility. Nor should we create a classroom or workplace with no consequences for behavior. Yet it is possible to live in a structured and nurturing way where mercy becomes the natural choice long before the other person needs to cry “uncle.”

Mercy involves giving another the benefit of the doubt, or seeing through their eyes. Mercy also uses the tool from addiction treatment, the acronym HALT. Is the other person hungry, angry, lonely or tired? If so, could I help to alleviate that concern so together we can figure out what’s really going on?

In a football game, the weaker team may be less talented, less prepared, and less practiced, and so, because of both their actions and their inherent weakness, they deserve to lose. But, the mercy rule would whisper, they don’t deserve to be slaughtered, humiliated – in football or in life. Here’s how the Old Testament prophet Micah provided balance to the question. “And what does the Lord require of you? To act justly and to love mercy and to walk humbly with your God.”

Pope Francis says it this way: “A little bit of mercy makes the world less cold and more just.” I’m glad the mercy rule isn’t just for a frigid Friday night at the stadium, but one we can claim to live in community together.

Soup-er Saturday

As the temperatures drop in our part of the world, we’ll pack away our shorts and tank tops with a sigh, and most of us will grudgingly consign our flipflops to indoor use. We’ll also adjust our eating habits as we welcome back hearty stews and soups to our culinary menus. When I last asked, McDonalds hadn’t yet pulled out their soup kettles, but I’m hoping that will happen sooner rather than later, as their broccoli cheese soup is a tasty drive-through option for lunch on a chilly autumn day.

While I will miss the fresh-from-the-garden tomatoes of summer, I am ready to savor soups of all kinds over the next few months. One of my Western New York memories is chowder from the volunteer fire department fund-raisers, a mish-mash of vegetables, beef and chicken that had cooked all night over a wood fire in huge cauldrons. My attempts at replicating that remembered taste have been in vain, but the soup’s still flavorsome and filling. And as an added plus, I’ve discovered that Chellie Pingree is right: “There's great value to knitting or digging up your garden or chopping up vegetables for soup, because you're taking some time away from turning the pages, answering your emails, talking to people on the phone, and you're letting your brain process whatever is stuck up in there.”

Among my other favorites are Italian wedding soup, lobster bisque, clam chowder, chili with cheese and onions on the top, and the broccoli cheddar filled with tiny noodles – yum! When I go to an all-you-can-eat buffet, I’m tempted to skip the entrees and fill up on soup. A bowl of soup and a crusty heel of bread are always welcome at my table.

If only soup was always a pleasurable, filling option on the buffet, rather than the tasteless gruel of famine or what a young girl in war-torn Syria calls “water soup.” A recent video on YouTube captured an interview of a ten-year-old girl from Al Hajar Al Aswad, who sat on a street lined with destruction, picking crumbs of bread from the rubble. When asked what she was doing, she indicated that her family was always hungry, as they ate water soup, or spice soup, accompanied by whatever scraps she and her younger brother could scavenge.

When faced with such abject hunger, we do what we can in the form of humanitarian aid and missions offerings, but realize there is little we can physically do to ease the suffering of children in Syria, Liberia, or North Korea. Yet right here in Ashland County, we have the opportunity to make a difference in the lives of families who, even though they may have a SNAP card (food stamps), do not have a safe place to live or a pot to prepare soup in. While we wish homelessness was only a big city or third world problem, it isn’t, and scores of families have been housed and cared for over the last few years since ACCESS (Ashland Church Community Emergency Shelter Services) began to offer temporary shelter to those without a place to rest. Our arms may not reach around the world, but our arms can reach down the block in the provision of a meal or transportation, or by sitting prayerfully through an over-night vigil, keeping watch so others might sleep.

ACCESS is sponsoring a Soup-er Saturday fund-raiser today, and it’s all about soup, which makes my heart – and my stomach – happy. It’s happening at Grace Brethren Church, starting at 11 a.m. and continuing until 8 p.m., and will offer soups of all kinds, breads and desserts. It’s their first attempt at a community fund-raiser, and I’m hoping it will become an annual event, much like the Ashland Christian Health Center’s chocolate extravaganza. October – soup, April- chocolate –I’m good to go!

Do you remember Marcia Brown’s book, Stone Soup? From its inception, ACCESS has been a Stone Soup kind of ministry. One by one, Ashlanders have contributed their carrots, cabbage, turnips and spices to the making of a nurturing soup that has enriched the lives of the ACCESS guests and of the helpers. We, as a community, bow our heads in thanks.

So much for a penny saved . . .

Yes, the unexpected has happened in my lifetime. Gasoline prices in our corner of Ohio have dropped below three dollars a gallon. I’m writing this on a Thursday, so it’s possible that by the time you read these words, the price will have climbed up again, but for now, gas is under three bucks. Woohoo! Too bad I can’t stock up like I can when cereal is on sale.

For most of us, gasoline is a necessity rather than a luxury. Gone are the days of the 60s when parents would load the kids in the station wagon for a pleasure ride on Sunday afternoons. Those excursions often ended with a few verses of “Show me the way to go home, I’m tired and I want to go to bed.” In retrospect, it was probably not the best song to sing with children, as the next line explained, “I had a little drink about an hour ago and it’s gone right to my head.” Not the best sentiment to share while driving a car, even in the days before Mothers Against Drunk Drivers. Just to clarify, the song, written in 1925 by James Campbell and Reginald Connelly, was purportedly reminiscent of a London train ride, describing a tipsy passenger, not driver.

No matter what song we’re singing, those of us outside of large metropolitan areas are dependent upon automobiles, and therefore, dependent upon gasoline. When I work from home, I just walk down the hall from my bedroom to my office, but most people have to drive to work. We have no trains or subways in Ashland, so if we want to get from place to place, we usually do so in a car, unless we hitch a ride with an Amish friend.

I do get excited when gas on our end of Main Street is a few cents cheaper than near the highway. Saving five cents a gallon nets me a measly sixty cent savings on a twelve gallon fill-up, but it’s the principle of the thing, as I feel I’ve gotten a bargain and somehow beaten the system.

I’ve often wondered who gets to figure out gas prices. Yes, I know they are somewhat based on the going rate for a barrel of crude oil, which has been plummeting in price since June. Why the decline? It could be as simple as supply and demand. Local conflict in some countries had resulted in lowered production for a time, but that’s improving. But at the same time, the demand for oil from Germany and China is decreasing, thus, lower prices at the pump.

But what about local prices? Gas was under $3.00 for about ten minutes a week or so ago, but by the next morning, the price had increased again. Two weeks before, it had fluctuated by thirty cents overnight. What’s up with that? Surely there was no off-shore well that ran dry. I wonder if the local stations get an e-mail from the great price fixer in the sky, saying, “Up your prices. JoAnn forgot to get gas tonight so we can soak her for an extra buck or two tomorrow.” How intriguing that within an hour of one station raising its prices, every station in town has adjusted their prices to approximately the same level.

Some say that falling gasoline prices may increase the demand for gas-guzzling trucks and SUVs, but I believe we’ll continue to practice the conservation techniques adopted when the prices kept increasing. Careful use of natural resources will benefit our grandkids, and I want to do what I can to protect the environment for the lovely Madelyn Simone and her children.

So I don’t see a new truck or SUV in my future. Instead, I’ll be glad for a financial reprieve at the gas pumps. However, it’s not likely to help out much with the family budget, for now a pound of ground beef or a gallon of milk is more expensive than a gallon of gas. So much for a penny saved . . .

A University Town

There’s excitement in the air on Saturdays as nearly 5000 people stream into Jack Miller Stadium for Ashland University football games. That same electric atmosphere is felt at the women’s basketball games, as Sue Ramsey will coach her players to victory one last season before retirement.

Visits to the Coburn Gallery engage our artistic senses, and community conversations with the Center for Civic Life are invigorating. The Center for Non-Violence raises an important voice as well, extending the gift of mediation as it seeks reconciliation in matters small and large. The “town and gown” music ensembles, the theater productions, and the annual Madrigal Feaste all add to the ambiance of a college town in mid-Ohio.  

Yes, Ashland University and Ashland Theological Seminary were two of the main reasons Larry and I remained in Ashland after we completed our service at the Salvation Army Kroc Center. Sure, Ashland is someplace special and also the self-described world headquarters of nice people, but I’m not sure that would have been enough to sway our decision towards Ashland had the buildings on Claremont and College Avenue or 910 Center Street (the seminary) been vacant. Our lives are enriched because we live in a college town.

It’s easy to take these many benefits for granted, including the economic impact of its hundreds of students and staff members. So when headlines report financial concerns at AU, we have to pay attention, for the health of the university directly impacts the Ashland community.

Like other educational institutions, businesses, and not-for-profit organizations, Ashland University must pay attention to the financial bottom line in its decision-making. As interim university president, Dr. William Crothers has been tasked with developing a fiscally and academically strong university for the future. To do so, an overall academic prioritization of departments is in process.

But before that was completed, cuts were made in the name of fiscal responsibility. Those current cuts, reported in the Times Gazette on September 26, were operational decisions, for Crothers noted that over time, the university had hired too many people. Crothers explains: “It’s all strategic. We are not cutting the budget when we do the prioritization, we are simply reallocating money . . . whereas I am cutting the budget [now] and getting us back to a solid financial state.”

The university’s actions have led to a fair share of finger-pointing, and have raised questions about the decision-making process as well as the university’s ability to maintain its distinctive academic degrees, smaller classes and personal attention to students, all valid concerns. How much extraordinary can happen on ordinary days (current branding) if faculty are terminated and open positions left vacant? Tough questions.

Those cuts mean that fifteen faculty members will be without employment at the end of the school year. They are not the first to lose their jobs at AU, as other employees have walked that difficult road over the past few years, but this is the first large cut to faculty. The frustrating irony is that the goal of long-term sustainability for the university causes good people to suffer. We are personally connected to these good people. They live among us, worship among us, and teach our children. One in particular has been a tremendous influence on the life of my son. Thanks, Tim, for who you are and what you do, words that can be spoken to other departing faculty members as well.

As disheartening as the lay-offs seem, I am glad the university gave advance notice, allowing these good people to begin their next job search with adequate time to find other employment. As HR departments often advise, university leadership could have sent security guards to the classroom on the last day of the semester with personalized pink slips and cardboard boxes, but they didn’t, a small grace.

It’s time for the people of Ashland to stand in the gap for our brothers and sisters of the university community. “Live United” is more than a United Way slogan – it is the way we live. Here’s to speedy job offers for our friends, thoughtful dialogue among stakeholders, full enrollment and fiscal responsibility for the university, and a gridiron win over Malone. AU strong, Ashland strong.

A Good Day

Have you ever had “one of those days?” You know the kind I mean. It’s the kind of day that Judith Viorst wrote about in her children’s book, “Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good Very Bad Day.” Gum in hair, plain white sneakers, railroad train pajamas and lima beans all play into a pretty rotten day for poor Alexander, whose hoped-for solution involves moving to Australia.

Viorst wrote the book in 1972, and it has taken more than forty years for it to hit the silver screen with a movie of the same title. I’ve only seen the trailer so far, but it will be in theaters on October 10, and may be worth a visit, if only because we can all identify with Alexander.

Like Alexander, the bad days come our way from time to time and tend to get out attention, but we may be less likely to stop and say, “It’s been a good day.”

Sometimes the good day comes in the form of good news. Friends are expecting a baby. Our child is chosen to be student of the month. Aunt Elsa comes home from the hospital.

A good day can be marked by the tastes of a new season, such as the winter squash so plentiful at the farmer’s market or the first sip of autumn cider. It also feels like a good day when our favorite high school football team hangs on to win a close game, as the Arrows did last week against Wooster.

The goodness of life can surprise us as well. I won a prize this week through a Facebook contest, and I am the proud recipient of twenty shots of the corn cannon at Honey Haven Farms. Just the thought of spending an afternoon at Honey Haven brightened my day, as did the designation of “winner.” It’s the little things . . .

Sometimes the goodness of life is evident in the accomplishment of what we’ve set out to do, such as running our first marathon or walking a 5K. I finished work on my latest book this week, an embellished tale about Eliza Duncan, the woman who named Massillon, Ohio. I felt like I’d given birth without the weight gain and stretch marks! It was a good day.

Conversation with a dear friend, another part of a good day, reminded me that goodness exists even in the midst of what appears to be a Terrible Horrible No Good Very Bad day. Eleanor Porter demonstrated that possibility with her character Pollyanna, a girl facing difficult circumstances. Pollyanna decided to play the “glad game,” looking for something to be glad about in every situation. A little syrupy, perhaps, but definitely an improvement over a life of despair.

In a more profound way, Holocaust survivor Viktor Frankl discovered a similar path. “Between stimulus and response, there is a space. In that space is our power to choose our response. In our response lies our growth and our freedom.” Speaking from his own experience in the concentration camps, he said: “When we are no longer able to change a situation, we are challenged to change ourselves.”

One other perspective on the nature of our days comes from Ignatian spiritual instruction, modeled upon the work of St. Ignatius through the Daily Examen. Father Dennis Hamm of Creighton University describes the Daily Examen as “rummaging for God, going through a drawer full of stuff, feeling around, looking for something that you are sure must be there.” A time of daily, personal examination looks for the presence of God over the course of our day, and reflects upon how we interacted with other people. This kind of regular introspection allows us to review our day with gratitude, to choose one feature of our day and pray from it, and to look toward the day ahead with intention.

It’s easy to label a day as good or not-so-good, with a Terrible Horrible No Good Very Bad day thrown in from time to time. But what life continues to teach me is that we can find goodness within each day if we’re open to seeing it. Might the blessing of good days be yours.

Do Something

From Saturday's Ashland Times-Gazette

They’re familiar words: “Do something!” A father and son were walking across London Bridge when they saw a number of homeless men huddled in the shadow of that massive span. The order was uttered by William Booth, evangelical preacher turned Salvation Army general, to his son, Bramwell, and their ensuing actions transformed an itinerant preaching ministry into one of the largest faith-based social service providers in the world.

Do something.org is one of the largest “orgs” for young people and social change, and boasts of 2.8 million members who tackle campaigns that impact every cause, from poverty to violence to the environment to literally everything else. “Any cause, anytime, anywhere” is their motto. They’ve got some intriguing examples on their website, including sharing tactics on overcoming bullying and taking down sexism on a football team with one word and ten push-ups. I really like their mission and message, and the great opportunities for teens and young adults to get involved, but I was a bit offended by their membership criteria: “Our members are ages thirteen to twenty-five. Older than that equals old people.” Just wait ‘til they turn thirty.  

“Do Something” is also the theme for an October 27^th rally hosted by Catholic Charities in Mansfield. Author Robert Lupton, (Toxic Charity) will take a critical look at traditional charity models, believing that “if you do something for someone that they can do for themselves, you disempower them.” Should be a fascinating presentation and discussion.

“Do Something.” This oft-repeated phrase will be heard frequently throughout Ashland County over the next few months, and Ev DeVaul and his friends at the United Way of Ashland County are hoping you’ll get so tired of hearing those two words that you’ll step up and do something by supporting their annual fund-raising campaign. The campaign pacesetters “did something” for sure, as they pledged more than half a million dollars, officially kicking off the campaign with a commitment of 47% of the ambitious goal. 

So what, exactly, can we do? The most obvious answer in the United Way campaign is to give money. The reality in the world we live in is that while volunteer hours and creative planning can be quite helpful, money is needed to purchase food for a food pantry, hire qualified staff for the counseling office, and pump fuel into the gas tank of a cancer patient’s automobile.

The United Way will gladly take a no-strings-attached cash donation, but their energetic volunteers also give us opportunities to enjoy our giving. We can do our Christmas shopping at the annual Holiday Happenings on December 4, have breakfast with Santa at Jakes on December 6, or try out the tango or foxtrot at the Harvest Moon Dance with the Kroc Center Big Band on October 11 by the light of the silvery moon.

What else can we do? Diane Winston, who holds the Knight chair in Media and Religion at USC’s Annenberg School, offered another slant on the question as she wrote in the Los Angeles Times: “It’s well and good for individual Americans to volunteer at food banks, staff relief programs and drop coins in kettles at Christmastime. But as [William] Booth understood, these actions need to be accompanied by systemic change, or what he called social salvation. In today’s world that means ensuring that social services provide high-quality public education, affordable housing and healthcare, reliable public transportation and assistance for veterans, families in need and the chronically unemployed.” A tall order, but it’s essential if we are truly going to “do something” to effect long-term change.

Systemic change may be beyond our reach as individuals, and our financial resources may not allow us to make a large gift, but “doing something” is possible for all of us, from school children to the “over twenty-five” old people. Even one dollar per pay period adds up, while our gifts of time and talent can strengthen the United Way campaign, provide volunteer hours at a community agency or church, or support a friend or neighbor in need. It’s not rocket science, Ashland. As the United Way campaign poster encourages us: “Give blessings, give help, give hope.” Don’t just sit there – Do Something!

Loving September

“It’s the most wonderful time of the year.” As you read these seven words, I’m guessing you hummed the Edward Pola and George Wyle tune, first sung by Andy Williams in 1963. While many consider the season of kids jingle-belling to be the most wonderful of all, I’m not ready for Christmas to be upon us yet. Instead, I’m casting my vote for an Ohio September as the most wonderful time of the year.

Why? It’s September, and if my children were younger, I’d admit that shipping them off to school each day brought a semblance of calm and order to my life after long summers punctuated by the words of the familiar refrain: “There’s nothing to do.” While the carefree days of summer have their place, the return of a daily rhythm is a gift to parents.

It’s September, and the Cleveland Indians are playing some good baseball, having won five of their last seven games. While the odds aren’t great for them to play in October, there is still that statistical possibility, and we continue to hope that a couple of other teams will fall apart.

We made our first and last visit of the year to Progressive Field this week, spending six hours at the ballpark as the Tribe came up with two wins on a chilly afternoon. My commitment to avoid wearing socks until October was strongly tested, but my toes survived the challenge. I’ll be sad when the radio voices of Tom Hamilton and Jim Rosenhaus are silenced again until April.

It’s September, a month marking the return of football. I must have been born with a football-watching genetic marker, for I’ve been a fan from an early age. Many years as band parents ingrained our Friday night activity patterns, so when the Arrows are home, we head to Community Stadium. Here’s a suggestion for the powers-that-be: reduce the size of the reserved seat section, as the cheers of the crowd would be more effective without the large patches of empty seats in the middle of the bleachers. Just saying . . . Go Arrows!

We’re hooked on the Ashland University football games as well, and had a great time at the recent home opener under the lights. I always jump at the first few cannon blasts of the year, but we’re glad when the artillery has plenty of work. Here’s hoping the AU Eagles have a successful season, as I’m afraid our Buckeyes may have rough going this year.

What can I say about the “not-for-profit” NFL? I’m long over the awe I experienced when meeting the Buffalo Bills’ Cookie Gilchrist in person at the age of nine, having talked my way into a father-son banquet at church. Between the Bills and the Browns, my winning percentage has been pitiful in recent years, and I’m tempted each September to ignore the call of the gridiron and spend my Sunday afternoons in other endeavors – naps come to mind. Yet somehow, I get roped in one more time, as this may be the year they’ll go all the way, or at least win more than they lose. While I know Mary Shelley wasn’t thinking about football, the author of Frankenstein recognized the truth of September: “The beginning is always today.”

If the world of sports in September is depressing, residents of Ashland County have one consolation: it’s September, and the fair is in full swing tomorrow. I can’t wait to take the lovely Madelyn Simone for our annual visit, viewing the perfectly groomed animals, riding the rides across the midway, and consuming fair food to my heart’s content. No calorie counting during fair week.

For thirty-five years, my Septembers were filled with planning for the ramped-up activity associated with a Salvation Army Christmas. With that particular responsibility removed from my plate, I’ve discovered that September is quite a good month of its own. I haven’t read Jerry Spinelli’s book, “Love, Stargirl,” but as the days of September drop like leaves from the trees around us, his words ring true: “Live today. Not yesterday. Not tomorrow. Just today. Inhabit your moments. Don’t rent them out to tomorrow.” Here’s wishing you a great September!

Shifting Generations

My family made the “over the river and through the woods” journey this past weekend to grandmother’s house, this time for the grilled hot dogs of Labor Day rather than the turkey feast of late November. While it was a chance to get away for a few days, the weekend also dared me to consider the passing of time, symbolic of the changing of the generational guard.

The signs seemed obvious to me. My youngest son brought The Girlfriend to the unofficial family reunion, while my oldest son, daughter-in-law, and the lovely Madelyn Simone were welcomed into the newly purchased house of my niece, who has recently returned to her hometown to become a first-time homeowner. Watching the cousins horse around in the pool, my mind flashed back to the days when my boys were flailing away on top of the chicken fights instead of taking the bottom assignment.

It feels odd to me, this generational shift, but not unwelcome. I like the image writer Annie Dillard extends to us: “Ours is a planet sown in beings. Our generations overlap like shingles.” I’m caught in the overlap, still the daughter to my mother, but also the parent to my sons and a blessed grandmother as well. Yes, the family dynamics are shifting,

A shifting of the generations also requires us to embrace loss. When we brought out the cake and homemade ice cream, a Streeter family tradition for summertime gatherings, the standard question was raised: OK, who has the next birthday? With a bit of hesitation, someone said, Pops. Yes, my dad was born on September 1, 1923, and our Labor Day gathering always included a chorus of Happy Birthday for my father.

He’s been gone nine years now, yet for a moment I expected to see him in his familiar chair at the dinner table, tipping up a bottle of home-brewed root beer. He loved his kids and grandkids dearly, and he would be so impressed with the progress ten-year-old Lucas is making with his clarinet, and would certainly be smitten with the charm of Madelyn, his first, and so far the only great-grandchild. I’m even guessing that Dad would have given in and played Monopoly the first time eight-year-old Noah asked. That’s who my dad was.

Though it’s been a number of years since Dad’s death, my visit to the proverbial homestead left me yearning for what Mitch Albom described in “For One More Day:” “Have you ever lost someone you love and wanted one more conversation, one more chance to make up for the time when you thought they would be here forever? If so, then you know you can go your whole life collecting days, and none will outweigh the one you wish you had back.”

And yet in the midst of these pointed reminders of loss and the shifting sands of the generations, the joyful connections remain. The playful soccer game on the front lawn, the laughter in the pool, the ever-creative story-telling, all speak to the expansiveness of family. It’s times like these that cause us to say, “It’s good to be together.”

We expect to face the existential questions of life in the pale light of the stained glass windows, in the philosophy classroom, or on a solitary retreat. Yet just as often, loss, love and light come our way in the everyday, when we pause to recognize the tap on our shoulder or the wink of an eye.

I’m at risk of waxing poetic just now, so I’ll let the words of James Baldwin finish my thoughts today: “For nothing is fixed, forever and forever and forever, it is not fixed; the earth is always shifting, the light is always changing, the sea does not cease to grind down rock. Generations do not cease to be born, and we are responsible to them because we are the only witnesses they have. The sea rises, the light fails, lovers cling to each other, and children cling to us. The moment we cease to hold each other, the sea engulfs us and the light goes out.” Amen.

Betrayed - Now What?

From my archives - first published in Mutuality in 2005, but definitely still relevant.

            Harriet had served the ministry’s leaders faithfully for a quarter of a century.  They were a godly couple, stepping out in faith in powerful ways.  A model of a faithful marriage, they were seen as blessed by God.  Working for them had not always been easy, but she was deeply committed to the ministry.  She had left once, but God had made it clear to her that she was to return, and had promised her that he understood, and that he would allow her to birth a project of her own that would be of value to the Kingdom.  Not flashy or world-known, Harriet’s network of care to women in ministry gave both financial and spiritual support to isolated women around the world.  Reverend Smith had given his blessing to her work, as long as it didn’t interfere with her job as his wife’s administrative assistant, and Harriet found great joy in those contacts made in the hours she spent weaving her web of connection among these amazing women.

            Somehow, the local religion editor heard about Harriet’s ministry, and she did a sensitive feature for the Sunday paper about the ways in which Harriet’s work had impacted women.  Harriet read the article with a hesitant pride, realizing how God had used her, through his promise, to bless others.  She was so grateful that her small idea had reached so many, enriching her life as well.

            When Reverend and Mrs. Smith asked to see her on Monday morning, she entered the office basking in the reporter’s glowing words.  Indeed, her ministry-child was flourishing, even if it paled in comparison to what God was doing in the world-wide ministry of the Smiths.  She was blind-sided by the attack.  “How could you draw attention to yourself in such a way?  You are a traitor to our ministry.  You’ve compromised what we’ve worked so hard for by your underhanded actions.  You must leave.  We’ll ship your personal items to your apartment this afternoon.  Go – now.”  Mrs. Smith did the talking, while Reverend Smith sat stone-faced at her side.  Harriet turned to him to save her.  “You knew I was involved in this – in fact, you were the one who gave me the courage and inspiration to begin in the first place.”  Sheepishly, he turned to Harriet and said, “I’m sorry – it must be as my wife has spoken.  We will give you two weeks salary, but you must go now.”

            Betrayal.  The slang tells the tale: Harriet had been stabbed in the back, sold down the river over another’s envy.  Does it happen?  Harriet’s story is more common than we’d like to admit.  (See Hagar’s story in Genesis 21 for an ancient version of Harriet’s tale). It takes many forms:  A trusted assistant begins a new church in the next town, and takes half the congregation with her.  The denomination announces the pastor’s next assignment, and everybody knows that it’s payback for standing up to the bishop. A pastor’s wife sacrifices for many years for her husband’s ministry, and then is abandoned for a woman who understands his needs better (and who is ten years younger).

            The pain from such a betrayal throbs late into the night.  This slap in the face has left its ugly hand print indelibly seared on the cheek of the one who has been betrayed.  And it seemingly was done in the name of God.  It is a grief deeper than the ocean.  At first, you can’t believe that it has happened, and you know that God will surely have to step in and right the wrong that has been done in his name.  Yet nothing happens.  The betrayer gets away with the Judas kiss.  You vacillate between an anger that seethes from your bones over the injustice that has been done, and an ache so raw that it can’t stand to be touched.  This hurts like nothing you’ve ever experienced before.

            It helps to read the Psalms and realize that David had experienced similar emotions. 

Vindicate me, O God, and defend my cause against an ungodly people;

from those who are deceitful and unjust deliver me!

For you are the God in whom I take refuge; why have you cast me off?

Why must I walk about mournfully because of the oppression of the enemy? (Psalm 43:1-2, NRSV)

You keep reading: “O send out your light and your truth; let them lead me, let them bring me to your holy hill and to your dwelling” (43:3).  Yes, God, this is what I want – your light and truth –bring me to a holy response to what has been done to me.    

            And then you turn to the pages of the gospels in your morning reading, and the words of Jesus leap off the page: 

“You have heard that it was said, ‘An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth.’

Yes, that’s the way it should be – she deserves to suffer just as I have.

“But I say to you, Do not resist an evil-doer.

But if anyone strikes you on the right cheek, turn the other cheek . . .

You have heard that it was said,

‘You shall love your neighbor and hate your enemy.’

But I say to you, Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you,

so that you may be children of your Father in heaven . . .”

(Matthew 5:38-39, 43-45).

Then Peter came and said to him [Jesus], “Lord, if another member of the church sins against me, how often should I forgive?

As many as seven times?”

Jesus said to him, “Not seven times, but, I tell you, seventy-seven times.

(Mt. 18:21-22)

I can’t.  I cannot do this.  I cannot forgive this betrayal.  And that is true.  You can’t forgive this.  Not yet.  Not fully.  Not on your own.  But if we are to be serious about the instruction of the scripture, we must move in the direction of forgiveness.  For forgiveness is much more a process than one specific action.  We stand at the place of the offense and we have a choice.  We can move in the direction of mercy, or we can move in the direction of bitterness.  Each step we take away from the place of offense leads us in one direction or the other.  We can choose the way of Christ, or not.

But his love is greater than all our hate, and he will not rest until Judas has turned to him, until Satan has turned to him until the dark has turned to him; until we can all, all of us, without exception, freely return his look of love with love in our own eyes and hearts.  And then, healed, whole, complete but not finished, we will know the joy of being co-creators with the one to whom we call.  (Madeleine L’Engle, The Irrational Season, 215)

But how?  Much has been written about forgiveness in recent years.  Everett Worthington Jr.’s pyramid of forgiveness (Spirituality and Health, Winter 1999) teaches that we can climb the pyramid of forgiveness by recalling the hurt, empathizing, offering the altruistic gift of forgiveness, committing to forgive, and holding onto forgiveness.  Paul Coleman’s offers five phases of forgiveness: identifying the hurt, confronting the hurt, having the dialogue to understand, forgiving and letting go.  As Coleman tells us,  “Forgiveness comes first as a decision to act lovingly, even though you are justified to withhold your love” (Exploring Forgiveness, Enright and Frost, ed., 79). It is necessary to make the decision to move toward forgiveness, often on an hour-by-hour basis, and these models can prove helpful for specific ways to do that.  

But there remains a sense in these deep, deep areas of betrayal that forgiveness is beyond our power.  Jesus experienced this from the cross.  He didn’t say, “I forgive you for betraying me and for killing me.”  No, even Christ had to draw upon the forgiveness of the Father; “Father, forgive them; for they do not know what they are doing” (Luke 23:34).  In our absolute hopelessness of ever being able to forgive, we can learn from Hagar’s response, for she too finds herself with no hope (Genesis 21:15-19). It is doubtful that she is thinking about forgiving Abraham and Sarah as she sits waiting for her son to die.  She is desperate simply to survive.  In her desperation, she comes to the realization that she can do absolutely nothing to change the situation. She has no food, no water, and her son will die (as will she).  Yet in the midst of her extreme helplessness, waiting for the death of her child (a direct result of the betrayal she has suffered), God shows up. 

He hears.  The narrative doesn’t indicate that Hagar called the Lord; in fact, the angel of God tells her, “God has heard the voice of the boy where he is.”  It is as though God has heard the pain that resulted from the betrayal, and he responds to it.  God then opened Hagar’s eyes.  It is amazing how much an act of betrayal can blind us to what we know about God and his kingdom.  When we are in the midst of it, we just cannot see.  And so God must come and open our eyes to the path he has for us through the desert of betrayal.  And when he does open Hagar’s eyes, she realizes that he has provided the water that she needs. 

Was the well there all along?  Quite possibly.  In the pain of our betrayal, God’s provision may be difficult to see, but it is there.  His presence, his word and his people are ours when we can begin to look around to see and receive them.   And ultimately his justice will prevail, as the familiar hymn reminds us:

This is my Father’s world,

O let me ne’er forget

That though the wrong seems oft so strong,

God is the ruler yet.

(Maltbie Davenport Babcock)

Yet it is still up to Hagar to move.  She must get up, lift up the boy, and drink.  And so it is for the Harriets of the church world.  Grieve this loss.  Name it for what it is. Do what you must do to keep this from happening to another. But don’t stop there.  Get up, lift up what you have birthed, and drink.  At first, it will be a cup of sustenance, but in time, will also be the cup of forgiveness through the precious blood of Jesus.  If you are faithful in the drinking of the cup, a time will come when you will have forgiven.  Coleman’s words describe the experience: “When you forgive, you do not forget the season of cold completely, but neither do you shiver in its memory” (Coleman, in Enright and Frost, 79).   

You are my servant.

I have chosen you and not cast you off;

Do not fear, for I am with you

Do not be afraid, for I am your God

I will strengthen you, I will help you,

I will uphold you with my victorious right hand.

Isaiah 41:9-10