The Hard Questions

Once again, my desire to write a humorous column about rain bonnets or to brag about the latest adventures of my granddaughters has been hijacked by the cries of the world around me. The culprits are many-faced. Boko Haram, ISIS, and suicide bombers head up the list, with one common factor: terror is their calling card.

I still remember the acts of horror that rocked my childhood, in particular the assassinations of John F. Kennedy, Martin Luther King, Jr., and Robert F. Kennedy. I was deeply shaken by their murders. With the understanding of a child, I grasped the idea that those in power faced an inherent danger. That’s why the Secret Service exists: protection.

Now, fifty years later, the world has been turned upside down. The targets of terrorism aren’t kings and sheiks, presidents and prime ministers, at least not directly. Instead, a bomb kills Russian families headed for vacation in Egypt. Bursts of gunfire strafe through the Bataclan Theatre in Paris. An explosion rocks a Lebanese bakery. Thirty-two people are killed as they select fruit and vegetables at a Nigerian open air market. We wring our hands and ask, “What is this world coming to?” There is no protection, and the bad guys seem to be winning.

How do we respond? For me, it begins by sitting with the sorrow from living in a fallen world, for there is power in remembering. We remember Romain Feuillade, described as a boy with a deep kindness who aspired to be an actor. Twenty-three year old Arianne Theillier, who loved to draw cartoons for young readers. Kheireddine Sahbi, an Algerian violinist known as a great master of music. Lola Salines, who worked with La Boucherie de Paris, a roller derby team. All among those dead in Paris. And those on the Russian plane, those in the Lebanese bakery, those in the Nigerian market. We remember terror’s innocent victims.

In facing our own fears, writer Hunter S. Thompson suggests that “there is no such thing as paranoia. Your worst fear can come true at any moment.” That is the challenge that terrorism brings to everyday living, and that same paranoia is fueling the discussion on the possibility of terrorists hiding among the Syrian refugees.

Here’s what watching too much NCIS Los Angeles suggests to me. Those involved with terror cells are like cockroaches. They will find a way in. If a person is intent on creating terror, it seems there are easier ways to move about the world than to enter the refugee stream. Just thinking out loud.

In a world saturated with social media tweets and posts, everybody has a passionate opinion about terrorism, immigration, and/or Syrian refugees, often fueled by misinformation and fear. I long to be able to talk about the issues with civility and respect, but that’s been difficult at best. Might the endless stream of rhetoric and vitriolic responses ultimately cause more damage than the actions of the terrorists? People intent on creating terror understand what George Martin described in “A Game of Thrones.” “Fear cuts deeper than swords.” Or, as the demons in C.S. Lewis’ Screwtape Letters recognized, “Suspicion often creates what it suspects.”

I also want to figure out what to say to the lovely Madelyn Simone when she asks me the hard questions. For now, at age five, she’s not paying too much attention to the world beyond the playground. But the time will come when she will ask, “Why, Nana?” When the twin towers were attacked in 2001, our youngest son was eleven, and I had no answer for him. How can such disregard for the life of another be understood or explained?

Yet Mr. Rogers’ timeless response stands: “When I was a boy and I would see scary things in the news, my mother would say to me, ‘Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping.’” The NYC firefighters ran up the stairs as the World Trade Towers burned. They, along with the helpers in Paris, Beirut, Egypt, and Nigeria showed up to proclaim that no matter how deeply fear cuts into us, it will not have the final word. Can I hear an Amen?

We Hear the Angels

“Although eating honey was a very good thing to do, there was a moment just before you began to eat it which was better than when you were, but he didn’t know what it was called.” I was reminded of Winnie the Pooh’s words as the lovely Madelyn Simone and I shared a conversation about Advent and Christmas. When was Christmas? Where would we go this year now that her great-grandmother has died? How can we get ready for Christmas? How many days would she have to wait?

Like Pooh had figured out, sometimes the waiting, the anticipation, is as rich an experience as the actual arrival of the honey, or of Christmas morning. I’m not sure Madelyn can understand that concept at the age of five, as it’s taken me quite a few more years to grasp it myself.

I remember well the year that the anticipation of Christmas morning overwhelmed me to the point that I could not wait any longer. I was probably about nine or ten, and I don’t know how I managed the logistics (as in, where was my mother?), but somehow I was able to stealthily climb up in the cubbyhole above the cellar stairs and search through every bag my mother had hidden away. So on Christmas morning, there was no surprise, no anticipation, and no sense of wonder. I had seen everything. My inability to wait had spoiled Christmas.

Did that ill-fated episode plant a seed in me that would later grow into a desire to protect the days of Advent in my own heart? My career choice made that more difficult than most, as in November and December the focus of a Salvation Army officer’s work is on bringing a blessed Christmas to others, often leaving little time or space for my own heart’s preparation.

Bill McKibben describes Advent as a “time to listen for footsteps,” aware that “you can’t hear footsteps when you’re running yourself.” In my desire to listen for footsteps, my own search for the fullness of Advent often drew me back to the memories of the Advent wreath, whose candles glowed in the quiet Sunday evenings of my childhood Decembers. It has also urged me to create, to compose carols, to write poetry, and to prepare daily Advent readings to share with family and friends. One of those collections, “We Hear the Angels: Ancient Prayers for Advent,” led me to individuals who prayed, sang and wrote of their own experience of anticipation over the course of the last twenty centuries.

I have been especially captured by the images they used, eager to exchange the Grinch, Scrooge, and even a right jolly old elf with a little round belly for those of the ancient poets: a clear light, a morning star, the cradle for the living Christ, Mary’s womb a bridal chamber. As I sat with the words of women and men like Hildegard of Bingen, Charles Wesley, Christina Rossetti, W.E.B. Du Bois, and Pope John XXIII, I could glimpse their faith and claim their words as my own plea.

When Frontier Press offered to publish this collection of ancient prayers of Advent, I was glad that the quiet joy I had claimed for myself in the days leading up to Christmas might be available to others. I wasn’t sure about their suggestion of a book launch here in Ashland, as I’m a writer, not a promoter, but what we’ve decided on is to gather in the shadow of the stained glass at the Kroc Center to experience the age-old prayers, art and music of Advent in worship (December 10, 7 p.m. – all welcome to attend).  

Will I be glad if a few folks buy my new book? Sure. That’s the point of a book launch. But I will be especially glad to draw together with those who gently anticipate the coming of the Light.

In the candlelit sanctuary, on a snowy, solitary walk, or in the early morning hush, we pause to listen for the footsteps of Advent. As the angels’ song echoes from the Bethlehem hills, might Advent 2015 bring us moments of holy expectancy that can be ours before we ‘taste the honey.’ Gloria!

Sing Me to Heaven

Those of us who have had responsibility for children’s programming understand the need for an emergency plan when the special guest doesn’t show up, the internet is down, or the carefully constructed activity flops. My go-to activity is a penny hike, where the group’s direction at each corner is determined by flipping a coin. Heads to the right; tails to the left. Sounds like a line-dancing refrain. There is plenty of opportunity to talk about life choices in that adventure, especially when two groups start at the same place but end up in totally different neighborhoods.

Flipping a coin for major life choices may not be the wisest method of decision-making, but life brings us to corners where we must turn one way or the other. The world-renown philosopher Yogi Berra understood those defining moments: “When you come to a fork in the road, take it.” I’ve been pondering Yogi’s counsel this week, as word of the deaths of Lloyd, Debra and Dorothy have drawn me back to the corners where our lives first intersected, when the choice of a fork or two in the road was influenced by their presence.

Lloyd Larsen, affectionately known as PL, was a Tonawanda, New York pastor who was the area director of Young Life in the 1970s. At Young Life, hoards of teen-agers would sit armpit-to-armpit in a local funeral home, singing “Michael Row the Boat Ashore” and celebrating Jesus. At the club meetings, I’d pray earnestly that I wouldn’t be chosen for the goofy stunt or skit of the night, but in the early morning campaigner small groups, the scriptures came alive to me in ways that transformed my path of faith. Lloyd opened the door for a sacred turning.

When I graduated from high school, I moved into a counselor room in a cabin at Long Point Camp, a picturesque spot on the shores of Seneca Lake. I shared a living space about 8’ by 10’ with my co-counselor Pat and the camp office aide, Debra. Feisty and friendly, Deb and I clicked. With responsibility for a dozen twelve-year-olds, it surely was a memorable summer, culminating with Debra proudly claiming responsibility for my budding relationship with the young man who would one day become my husband.

Our subsequent marriages and relocations intervened n our friendship, and it wasn’t until the advent of Facebook that we reconnected, if only briefly. That’s how I learned of her recent death. Scrolling through Debra’s Facebook posts, I’m recognizing how connected we still were in spirit, even though separated by too many years, too many miles. A passion for TED Talks, women’s opportunities, Ignatian spirituality, grandbabies, Pope Francis: that’s us. Her quote of Mary Oliver’s words speaks deeply: “I believe in kindness. Also in mischief. Also in singing, especially when singing is not necessarily prescribed.”

A third influence appeared in the form of one who came alongside. We’d been assigned to inner city Cleveland, where our family integrated our congregation. Dorothy Lykes, aka Major Mom, was at the neighboring Salvation Army center, and her example and encouragement walked with us through many challenging days. When she died last week at the age of eighty-four, she’d just finished ministering at the Salvation Army Harbor Light Center in Cleveland.

Lyricist Jane Griner gently instructs us: “If you would mourn me and bring me to God, sing me a requiem, sing me to heaven.” For PL, it’s likely that echoes of a raucous rendition of “I am the light of the world” were heard at his home-going. For Dorothy, her calling card, “Soon and very soon, we are going to see the King,” accompanied her transition from this world to the next. And for Debra, Marty Haugen’s refrain resonates: “Shepherd me O God, beyond my wants, beyond my fears, from death into life.”

I’m grateful for the nudges of companions who have been there, as Griner explains, to “sing me a lullaby, a love song, a requiem.” Now, with a catch in my throat, I sing my companions to heaven, knowing that their presence wasn’t a lucky penny crammed in a pocket, but instead, a gift of discerning grace. 

Friday Night Lights

My high school athletic career started with enthusiasm, but petered out during an undistinguished stint with the track team. To make up for my personal sports deficit, I’ve vicariously experienced the thrill of victory and the agony of defeat as long as I can remember, and this month is giving me plenty of opportunity for both.

Here’s  the agony. (I’m a ‘give me the bad news first’ kind of person). Four consecutive Super Bowls. Four consecutive losses. That’s an anguish only a Buffalo Bills fan can fully grasp. I hoped for a fresh start when I moved to Northeast Ohio, but the Brownies haven’t cooperated. After last Sunday’s debacle, I wondered what advantage a visibly bruised and battered QB provides? Might as well paint a target on his jersey. Johnny fared a bit better Thursday night, but only because he can run away faster. At least there’s one bright light for local fans – Ashland University grad Jamie Meder at defensive end.

As for the Cleveland Indians, why does it always seem to be too little, too late? Yet by April, I’ll be tuning in with renewed hope as Tom Hamilton woos me back into the fold with his enticing invitation: “We’re underway at the the corner of Carnegie and Ontario.” Play ball!

Basketball has been a third choice for me over the years, but I’ll admit it: I’m hooked on the Cleveland Cavaliers. I know I’m being played by their marketing department, but I like being Facebook friends with Kevin, Delly, and Kyrie. I may share LeBron’s “friendship” with 22 million other people, but I like being one of the popular kids. The clips of their Halloween party were brilliant, with Delly in operating room scrubs, J.R. Smith with diaper, bib and baby bottle, Kevin Love appearing as a perfectly mustached Jackie Moon from the movie Semi-Pro, and ‘Prince’ LeBron singing “Purple Rain.” Yes, I know how much money they make, but it’s still fun to watch a bunch of super-tall kids being silly together.

Basketball may be underway, but it is still Autumn in Ohio, still football weather. Once again, the Ohio State Buckeyes are on top of the polls, number one in the country, having survived undefeated to this point. Go Bucks! But something just as exciting is happening on local gridirons, on Friday nights at Community Stadium and on Saturdays at Jack Miller Stadium. What a season for the Ashland University Eagles. With their last regular season game today at 1 p.m., a win will cap off a perfect 2015 regular season. They may “only” be Division II, but we’ve witnessed some amazing football in purple and gold. We’re on a role, Dr. Campo. Hope you’re enjoying your first football season in Ashland.

Not to be overshadowed, the Ashland Arrows finished their regular season 9-1, losing only to their nemesis neighbor Wooster, and played their first playoff game last night. Writing during the week, I’m sending good vibes to Scott Valentine and his players for a win, as we’d love to spend our Friday nights in November under the lights. Win or lose, our hometown Arrows will continue to stand strong and proud, cheering our cross country runners at the state finals today and celebrating successful seasons with their tennis, volleyball, golf, soccer and cross-country brothers and sisters.

Friday night football is much more than the boys on the field. Cheerleaders, band members, the student section, and even the sophomore class cleaning up the stadium after each game – all contribute to a shared experience of pride and accomplishment.

Yet on the turf and trails, courts and courses of our community, high school and college athletics go beyond competition. Former Baltimore Raven’s linebacker Ray Lewis gets it. “Don’t walk through life just playing football. Don’t walk through life just being an athlete. Athletics will fade. Character and integrity and really making an impact on someone’s life, that’s the ultimate vision, that’s the ultimate goal – bottom line.” Enhanced by their participation in athletics and yes, the arts as well, character is being formed in our young men and women, and our community is strengthened. Glad to say it – we’re Ashland proud!