The Power of One

We’ve had our share of “I didn’t quite expect that” moments over the years as we’ve visited the cinema and the theater without fully vetting the chosen film or play. Ask me someday about taking couples from our church to see a murder mystery theater performance. Not good. Yet sometimes we can be pleasantly surprised, as we were in our viewing of the first “Rocky” film in our seminary days. It’s been on cable so much now that it’s lost some of its power, but I remember walking home that night, amazed at what a great film it was.

At my suggestion, Larry and I (minus kids) went to see “The Incredibles” a few years ago. Not quite the same impact as Rocky, I’m afraid. As the film began, its rather motley assortment of superheroes fell out of favor with the public and they had to go into hiding and live like normal people. I knew we were in trouble.

I was reminded of The Incredibles on Thursday as the United Way of Ashland County kicked-off this year’s fund-raising campaign. The first hint: the rather creative assortment of caped crusaders who paraded through Upper Convo on the Ashland University campus (great job as always, AU catering staff). Throughout the morning, the presence of these superheroes was corny at best as capes flew through the air and masks because the day’s fashion statement. I must pause for a shout-out to the zaniest superhero in Jim Hess. In the years he and Margaret Ann led the United Way Pacesetters in their escapades, we came to expect zany from him, so I was glad for his cameo appearance in Thursday’s program.

Archie the cookie mascot, the AU cheerleaders, and the wannabe superheroes joined with those who didn’t get the costume memo to proclaim The Power of One, a power often ascribed to Superman, Spiderman, and even Mr. “I work alone” Incredible, who singlehandedly save the world.

Like the lone superheroes, the power of one person is United Way’s message to the Ashland community. There is power in one cardboard box of coins, one payroll deduction, one fund-raising activity, one cook-out, one story. There is also power in the presence of one caring person in our lives, whether it’s a parent, a teacher, a mentor, a co-worker, or a friend. I can’t tell you how often I’ve heard someone say, “If it wasn’t for ________, I don’t know where I’d be today.”

But my fuller understanding of the Power of One is in the lesson learned by Bob Parr, the normal name chosen by Mr. Incredible when forced to pack away his superhero suit. Sometimes, as Mr. Incredible discovered, the power of one isn’t enough. Instead, he needed the force-field ability of his daughter Violet, the super speed of his son Dash, and the stretchable body of his wife Helen, aka Elastigirl. Together, with all their superpowers combined, they were able to save the city from destruction.

I’ve worked in human services for nearly four decades, and I sure do wish we could have success as easily as the Incredibles did. I often long to hear the Mighty Mouse arpeggio of Saturday morning cartoons; “Here I come to save the day.” But that’s not how life works. Children are scarred by trauma and early deficits, parents are overwhelmed in their attempt to function day-to-day with inadequate resources, and our friends and neighbors are devastated by unexpected diagnoses and tragic loss. Mighty Mouse is a myth. Wonder Woman can’t do it all. As United Way’s Ev DeVaul reminded us, there is no magic “get out of difficulty” card to distribute at will.

But one by one, lives can change through the Power of One: One person, one family, one block, one neighborhood, one congregation, one school, one community, one United Way. As Ev encouraged us, we can celebrate the good stuff, we can raise awareness of the needs of our neighbors, and we can joyfully raise funds for distribution through United Way. Even if our superhero cape feels tattered and torn, we still have the power to change our world. It’s not a bird, it’s not a plane – it’s our community, living united.

JOY!

In a world that delivers a full share of tragedy and challenge in daily doses, what gives you joy? That persistent question has taken up residency in my heart and mind, and I’ve been paying attention to those moments when joy surprises me, as well as to what others have to say about joy, happiness and fulfillment.

As my faithful readers would expect, I must begin with the granddaughters. The lovely Madelyn Simone is an exuberant child who finds joy in blowing bubbles, picking tomatoes from the garden, and chasing butterflies. Her baby sister, the delightful Elizabeth Holiday, seems to be a more solemn child, and it takes a bit of coaxing to be rewarded with one of her lopsided grins. But when she smiles at me, it’s pure joy.

Writer Shauna Niequist describes her joy: “I want a life that sizzles and pops and makes me laugh out loud. And I don’t want to get to the end, or to tomorrow, even, and realize that my life is a collection of meetings and pop cans and errands and receipts and dirty dishes. I want to eat cold tangerines . . .”

My friend Amy Reardon relates her experience: “Years ago I went to a really pivotal leadership training event that was preceded by lots of self-testing. I learned about my ‘oxygen’ – the things that make life beautiful to me, what I need to stop and drink in every once in a while.” For Amy, art, poetry, music, and gazing at the wide-open sky provide her needed oxygen, a refreshing joy.

Roman Catholic writer Joan Chittister sees the concept of happiness in another perspective. ‘If I really want to be happy, what am I part of that is larger than myself? What can I give to this world, this project, this question, this problem that will be meaningful to others? When I know I am about something bigger than myself, money and status and personal ambition all pale in the face of it – and in the morning, I wake up happy.”

Joy, happiness, oxygen – whatever we call it, it comes in various shapes and sizes. In recent days, I’ve discovered joy in music heard and created, in a crescent moon in a starless sky, in belly laughs, and in the company of friends. Sometimes joy creeps up on us when we least expect it, while at other times, we have to search hard for it in the midst of difficult days.

Years ago, three friends and I skipped out on an organized women’s retreat and headed to Jacob’s Field, where we ended up in the fourth row from the sky. We had a blast! With perfect weather, beloved companions, and a beer vendor who kept us in stitches, what more could we ask for? When I told my husband what a great time we had, he responded, “But the Indians lost.” Sometimes, my dear husband, you have to catch joy whenever you find it, especially if you’re a Cleveland sports fan. As blogger Will Gibson reminds us, “We do not need to be miserable just because the team is. We can repurpose that misery into humor and have a good time despite poor play. We’ve certainly had time to practice.” (Smiley face emoticon).

What brings you joy? Sports, nature, art, children, faith – we each have our personal list of joy-bringers. But there’s a special thrill when we discover a community joy, and that happened this past Saturday evening as we joined about one thousand fellow Ashlanders for “A Joyful Opening!” The Ashland Symphony, the Ashland Area Chorus, the Ashland Regional Ballet, and the Ashland University Brass christened the new Robert M. and Janet L. Archer Auditorium with a magnificent evening of music. From the brilliant brass tones of Copland’s “Fanfare for the Common Man” to the crowd-pleasing strains of Sousa’s “Stars and Stripes Forever,” we were treated to a night kissed by joy. What a blessed people we are.

And now the County Fair is here, the happiest week of the year in Ashland! Here’s to overflowing joy as we greet our neighbors, stroll the Midway, listen to the laughter of children, and munch on deep fried Oreos.    

A Red Tee-shirt and Blue Pants

As the television screen flickers in my comfort-controlled living room, the plight of the thousands and thousands of immigrants seeking admission to European counties is unfathomable. While the talking heads on the newscasts make their reports, I’m tempted to hit the remote, searching for better news. But the news isn’t much better over on ESPN, with the Tribe still five games out of the wild card race (same old story – too little, too late), and the Browns, while currently undefeated, reneged on their “leap of faith” by releasing Terrelle Pryor. Of such is the state of Cleveland sports.

But the refugees don’t go away. On a slow news day, reports from Europe still hit the headlines. Radio interviewers recount the heart-breaking stories of families destroyed by warring factions in their homeland. Disturbing images appear unbidden on my computer screen, as the photo of three-year-old Aylan Kurdi’s lifeless body sneaks its way into my life, tucked in between cat videos and birthday wishes on my Facebook feed.

Aylan’s story is a tragic one. A mother and two sons drown in an attempted escape to Greece, hoping to seek political asylum somewhere in the western world to escape the horrors of the Syrian civil war. The father survives. How does a family come to the decision to pay thousands of dollars to board a 5 meter smuggler’s dinghy? Aylan’s Canadian uncle explained why he and his wife sent the money to help her brother: ‘There was no other hope.”

As he spoke of the death of his wife and two sons, Aylan’s father repeated these chilling words: “the life jackets – they were all fake.” A $4500 ticket for a thirty minute boat ride and the traffickers couldn’t provide effective life jackets? Unconscionable. And why would an individual or a company manufacture lifejackets that don’t provide a chance for a life to be preserved?

It’s a tragic and complicated story. There is a relocation process worldwide for refugees, beginning with United Nations registration. Those heading for Europe through the route of illegal entry are cutting in line, unwilling to wait for months and even years to leave the camps. Reportedly, this was the fifth attempt by Aylan’s family to reach the shores of Greece. And concerns are being raised over the authenticity of Abdullah Kurdi’s account. Yet still, the image of the dead child on the beach remains with us.

As photographer Nilufer Demir noted, “There was nothing left to do for him . . . nothing to do except take his photograph.” Keith Jenkins of National Geographic digital understands the power of Demir’s action: “Taking a step back and thinking of the refugee crisis that has been unfolding for months, if not years . . . this is a point where people may pay attention in a different way.”

As unsettling as Aylan’s story is, his is only one face in a crisis of massive proportion. Here are the numbers. As of July, more than four million Syrian refugees were registered with the United Nations. The majority of these children and adults are currently in refugee camps in Turkey, Lebanon, and Jordan. About 350,000 have sought asylum in Europe. The United States accepted 1,500 Syrian refugees in fiscal year 2015. News reports suggest that we might be able to squeeze in ten thousand Syrian refugees over the course of the next year.

In comparison, according to the International Rescue Committee, during the twenty years following the fall of Saigon, two million people poured out of Vietnam, Laos and Cambodia. By 1992, more than one million had been admitted to the United States.

I didn’t want to write about the Syrian refugee crisis this week, and toyed with more palatable options until this column was due at the T-G. I wanted to write about the lovely Madelyn Simone learning to ride a bike, not about a dead Syrian child who will never ride a bike. I want a clicker to turn off the violence in our world so families aren’t forced to make unimaginable choices to survive. Yet there is no magic clicker. This week I must write about Aylan, a boy in a red tee-shirt and blue pants. 

Peppa Pig and Maternity Leave

From the Ashland Times-Gazette.

Having set the alarm for 4:30 a.m., I watched the sun rise as I traveled towards Canton, looking forward to my Nana day with the lovely Madelyn Simone and the delightful Elizabeth Holiday. I wish our days together were simply because I enjoy spending time with the girls, but the reality is that our extended family is attempting to cobble together child care coverage for Greg and Lauren’s children. A typical weekly schedule includes my one day a week visit, Madelyn’s time with her Pee-Paw, two days at a babysitter for little Liza, and a staggered schedule for Lauren so she can have two weekdays off. Greg then cares for Madelyn and the screamin’ demon (oh, I mean sweet little Liza) on Saturday and Sunday. Although the girls are loved deeply by all their care-givers, Madelyn articulates the challenges of this arrangement when she asks, “Where am I going tomorrow?”

I am terribly torn as I watch my kids stagger through these early days with a new baby in the house. They are both dreadfully sleep deprived, for Elizabeth hasn’t yet discovered how to lay in her cradle and coo – no, this little one demands attention as soon as her eyes open, and they open quite a bit.

I’m torn because I feel strongly that women should be able to work outside the home, to discover their gifts, and to have a life outside of diaper pails and Peppa Pig (a British cartoon that’s a favorite of Madelyn’s). 

Yet here’s this nine week old baby who still hasn’t settled into a rhythm of nursing and sleeping, perhaps in part due to her stay in the NICU, where day and night look exactly the same. As great as Nana is, little Liza still needs her mother.

In 2015, working outside the home has become a necessity rather than an option for many young women. Some are carrying the medical insurance for their family. Some are single mothers with no safety net underneath their babies when the cradle rocks, unable to survive on the cash assistance of $465 a month they’d get as welfare moms with two kids (2014 figure). So within weeks of giving birth, they’re back in the restaurants, factories, offices and classrooms, running on two to three hours of sleep.

I remember those days, as the baby screamed uncontrollably, laundry reproduced around me, and my work gathered dust in my office. And I was one of the fortunate ones, with lots of flexibility in my schedule. I didn’t have to clock in every morning at 7 a.m. Try maintaining breast-feeding with that kind of schedule.

A recent Huffington Post video made two striking statements. First, one in four new mothers is back to work within two weeks of giving birth. Women are afraid of losing their jobs, or can’t exist on unpaid leave or reduced disability payments. Anyone who’s ever given birth knows what the post-partum body looks and feels like on day fourteen, definitely not ready for prime time – or the assembly line.

Here’s the second statement. “There is only one developed country in the world that doesn’t offer paid maternity leave.” According to a report by McGill University’s Institute for Health and Social Policy, the United States, along with Papua New Guinea, Swaziland, Liberia and Lesotha, are some of the only countries in the world that provide no type of financial support for new mothers. In at least 178 countries, paid leave is guaranteed for working moms, and more than fifty countries provide wage benefits for new fathers.

But wait – isn’t there a Family and Medical Leave Act? Yes, FMLA is available for up to twelve weeks, but 40% of new mothers don’t qualify, and it’s unpaid. New mothers who live paycheck to paycheck can’t risk being evicted or having the electricity turned off in order to have a few weeks on the couch watching Peppa Pig oink.

I wonder if Mummy Pig took advantage of the United Kingdom’s thirty-nine week paid maternity leave when Peppa’s brother George was born. Wouldn’t it be great if one day, Mummy Shade and other young mothers could get the same kind of help without moving to London?  

Minions

I’m definitely not a movie aficionado. I visit the movie theater about twice a year, and generally have to be bribed to watch a movie at home with the family. I’d rather read the book. But since the Times-Gazette doesn’t have its own movie critic on staff, I’m using this week’s seven hundred words to blather on about “The Minion Movie.“

Ever since we saw the original “Despicable Me,” the lovely Madelyn Simone and I have laughed together over the minions, those adorable banana-colored creatures who don’t speak English. When the trailer for this summer’s movie first appeared last November, I had a terrible time convincing Madelyn that the movie wasn’t ready yet. She was adamant that we go to see it immediately, today, and so I promised we would see it together when it was finally released.

The Minion Movie has become the highest grossing animated film not produced by Disney, only beaten out at the animation box office by Disney’s “Toy Story 3” and “Frozen.” But was it a great film? Not in my opinion. I agree with Michael O’Sullivan (The Washington Post’s bona-fide film critic) who gave it two and a half stars out of four. He commented, “I, too, once enjoyed the Minions in the small does that they came in. But the extra-strength Minions is, for better or worse, too much of a good thing.”  

Great movie or not, I really am amazed at the minions. If you've been privileged to make the acquaintance of Stuart, Kevin and Bob, you know they can be adorable. These pesky little creatures carried an entire movie while speaking a language based on gibberish, without the need for a single sub-title. According to Pierre Coffin, one of the films's directors and the voice of the minions, he tossed in some Indian, French, English, Spanish, and Italian phrases. He "mix[ed] up all these ridiculous sounding words just because they sound good, not because they necessarily mean anything." Yet somehow, we, the viewers, understand what the minions are saying. What a fascinating experiment in linguistics.

Instead of inventing a word to describe them, their creators used an English word meaning a follower or underling to a powerful person. The word itself derives from the French word mignon, defined as small or pretty, darling. But in actuality, the minions really aren’t so darling after all, for the historical overview at the beginning of the film suggests they exist only to serve the world’s most villainous masters.

Now as a woman of the cloth, I’ve been keenly aware of the presence of evil in our world. Using Christian terminology, I understand the damage sin can cause in an unrepentant heart, and how our destructive actions can injure other human beings. If you’re not convinced of that, just go back and read the headlines of the Times-Gazette over the past few weeks. Even here in Ashland.

As I’ve thought more about “The Minion Movie,” I recognize that our world isn’t quite as black and white as the big screen suggests. Yes, there are those like movie scoundrels Scarlet Overkill, Dr. Nefario, and Gru who are proud to be labeled supervillains. However, evil can also be insidious, appearing to be harmless yet seducing its targets as easily as did the three sirens in “O Brother, Where Art Thou.” Yet whether evil is blatant or hidden, Scarlet Overkill’s question is haunting: “Doesn’t it feel good to be bad?”

Gru prides himself on being bad, but he’s faced with his own feelings of love for others as the Despicable Me movies unfold, leaving me aware of the tension between the power of redemption and the beguiling call of the sirens. Perhaps what Gru discovers is that it also feels good – and is good – to be good.

In the end, the Minion Movie offered up zany characters and wacky antics that entertained Madelyn and family for ninety-one minutes, even if it did overdose on yellow. It also invited me to contemplate the lure of evil and the possibility of redemption, much food for thought. Yet I am still left with one nagging question: Why am I so charmed by those naughty minions?