With Appreciation

While singing along with the music of “Frozen” with the lovely Madelyn Simone and the delightful and determined Elizabeth Holiday, Lizzie often says, “You be Anna, I’ll be Elsa,” the Disney sister-princesses. Not every young woman’s #1 desire is to be a princess, but there is an attractiveness to the idea of royal living, with its promise of fame and fortune, shimmering ball gowns and sparkling jewels. 

Those of us who remember the fairy tale wedding of Diana and Prince Charles and then her tragic death in 1997 recognize that the fame of royalty can exact a formidable price upon its prisoners, especially young, beautiful women. Between the demands of the monarchy and the unwavering glare of a fishbowl filled with shark-like paparazzi, life as a modern-day princess isn’t a bed of roses. 

For Meghan Markle, an American actress who is now the wife of Prince Harry of Great Britain, life as a royal princess is more complicated than she imagined, especially with the incessant pressures of the tabloids. Recently, Meghan said, “I never thought it would be easy, but I thought it would be fair. And that’s the part that’s really hard to reconcile.” Prince Harry added: “Look, part of this job . . . means putting on a brave face and turning a cheek to a lot of the stuff. But again . . . there’s a lot of stuff that hurts – especially when the majority of it is untrue.” 

The need to turn the other cheek in public life isn’t limited to princes and princesses. This past week, a leading evangelical preacher opposed to women in the pulpit spoke disparagingly of Bible teacher Beth Moore, proposing she should “go home.” A fellow panelist suggested she was a narcissist, and also compared her to a television jewelry salesperson. Moore’s response was much more gracious than I could have managed. “I did not surrender to a calling of man when I was eighteen years old. I surrendered to a calling of God. It never occurs to me for a second to not fulfill it.” Instead of attacking her critics, she blessed them: “I esteem you as my sibling in Christ.”

As the assault on Moore illustrates, those whose lives are dedicated to ministry to others are not exempt from criticism, which has a lasting sting. Studies conducted by Dr. John Cacioppo (University of Chicago) show what he labeled the “negativity bias of the brain.” Apparently, our brains are more sensitive and responsive to unpleasant news, insults and criticisms – they hit us harder and stay with us longer. And as marriage therapist John Gottman notes, it takes five positive responses to outweigh the impact of one negative one.

Which leads me to the reminder that October is Pastor (or Clergy) Appreciation Month, nudging people in the pews to express appreciation for the care of those who provide leadership within the realm of faith. I’m glad it’s an entire month, because it gives the procrastinators in our midst (me included!) one more Sunday to say thank you.

And here’s the good news. Pastors don’t expect an all-expense-paid trip to the Holy Land in return for the work they do. They’re encouraged by a heartfelt note, a verbal thank you, or a home-baked apple pie. An offer to babysit the little ones, a gift card for books (my favorite), or a prayer for the pastor and family – all are simple ways to say “we care.”

Exodus 17 provides a valuable image of how to support those who serve. In the midst of the battle, Moses is exhausted. “Aaron and Hur brought a stone for him to sit on, while they stood beside him and held up his arms, holding them steady until the sun went down.”

Today, there’s a pastor with tired arms, a worn-out teacher, a mayor who needs a stone to sit on, and a royal princess and a young woman at the drive-through in need of a kind word. Here’s more good news. We don’t need to wait until Mayor Day, Princess Month, or Clergy Appreciation Sunday to come alongside, bring a stone, lift someone’s arms, or simply say: “you are appreciated.”

Enquiring Minds Want to Know

Remember when Senator John Edwards ran for president of the United States? The National Enquirer was first to report an extramarital affair, and as the story unfolded, there was a scandalous pregnancy, the birth of a child supposedly fathered by Edwards, and even a plan to steal a diaper to confirm DNA.  

That’s the kind of story I expected when I read the words, “pregnancy scandal.” Instead, these two words were the subject line of a daily email I receive from the New York Times, highlighting recent coverage of a story Elizabeth Warren tells on the presidential campaign trail. No, Senator Warren is not pregnant, nor did she give up a three-legged baby for adoption at the age of fourteen, the kind of story found in the pile of True Confession magazines at the beauty parlor of my childhood. Click bait, perhaps, but a more factual title would be: “Workplace discrimination remembered.” Unfortunately, that description, while more accurate to the article, doesn’t entice our voyeuristic fingers to click and skim the connected article.

In case you missed this story in today’s rapidly evolving news cycle, Senator Warren has spoken about her own experience of workplace discrimination as a young mother-to-be. When pregnant with her first child in the early 1970s, she faced a policy that refused to renew the contract of female teachers “with child.” Those wishing to cast doubt on the Senator’s candidacy question her recollection of this occurrence, because school board minutes didn’t confirm her account. Here’s why: her contract renewal was approved before news of her pregnancy was revealed, then revoked before the school year started when word got out. That’s how it was in those days.

Amy Rankin, terminated from her real estate job as a new mother in the 1960s, told the Washington Post: “I can’t believe that there are people out there who do not believe Elizabeth Warren. If you are a woman and you are a woman of a certain age, you have been discriminated against, whether it’s pregnancy-related or whether it’s job-related.”

I’m not ashamed of being a “woman of a certain age,” and I too have stories to tell about gender discrimination. But more than that, I struggle to understand why we are so ready to condemn another’s experience, to try to poke holes in their story.

Shortly after the dress code at my junior high was changed to allow girls to wear pants in school, I was sent home for wearing “inappropriate” pants –  in eighth grade. Too tight? Too bright? To this day, I don’t know. This was particularly traumatic for me because I had proudly sewn those pants myself, but can I prove it actually happened? Probably not. If someone challenged me, should I be expected to offer evidence of the veracity of my tale, down to the color of my trousers? 

Yet in our twenty-first century culture, we are seemingly consumed with “digging up dirt” on people who have given years and years in service to our country. Or, if unable to find verifiable dirt, we seem willing to latch on to whatever rumored dirt is floating around the internet. Consider the awful lies spread about the massacre at Sandy Hook Elementary School – twenty death certificates for the five and six-year-old children were faked, the grieving parents were paid actors. Bizarre, right? But people read the posts, bought the books, and believed them.

The challenge, especially for public figures but also for ourselves, is how to combat these baseless accusations and blatant lies. Once the toothpaste has been squeezed out of the tube, then what? Ignore the claims, and they could fester underground, suddenly bursting forth like a giant zit on prom night. Use precious time, energy and resources to prove your account is true? Speak clearly to the issue: “I have done nothing wrong.” Yeah, right – they all say that. Even a crisis management PR team has no easy answers.

Warren’s supposed “pregnancy scandal” reminds me once again to read past the headlines. But larger questions linger. Is our default setting “guilty” instead of “the benefit of the doubt”? Why are we so eager to believe the worst of each other? Enquiring minds want to know.

Play Ball!

Heading out to pick up wings with my son Drew the other night, I reached for the radio dial to turn on the baseball game, only to realize, “Oops, baseball is over.” With a smile, my son suggested that his beloved Yankees were still playing in October, but I respectfully declined to watch the Bronx Bombers, treasonous behavior for a Tribe fan. At least the Red Sox are crying in their beer this postseason along with the Indians. 

What is it about baseball that hooks me? In a Cleveland-based world of celebrity known for stars such as LeBron, Baker and OBJ (Beckham), Tribe players don’t generally earn a five-star paparazzi rating. Frankie Lindor’s smile lights up the diamond as does his bat and glove, but his fellow all-star Shane Bieber is best known for who he isn’t, his nickname jersey reading “not Justin,” the singer-actor whose name appeared on the pitcher’s baseball card. Due to injuries and the fickle finger of fate, so many other players rotated in and out of the lineup that it was hard to keep track of who’s who. 

One of those “fate” narratives was Carlos “Cookie” Carrasco, a pitcher diagnosed with leukemia partway through the season. His recovery and return to the team was a true highlights of the season. The biblical admonition to weep with those who weep and to rejoice with those who rejoice was front and center in Cookie’s health crisis, and it was good to see him compete in the last weeks of the season. 

We didn’t get to Progressive Field this year, so didn’t witness the excitement of life-sized condiments racing into the stadium, nor lift our voices in the iconic “Take Me Out to the Ballgame” at the seventh inning stretch. But many nights, we tuned in to Ashland’s Matt Underwood with the televised play-by-play, or to Hammy and Rosie on the radio as they gossiped around the baseball world in between pitches.

Compared to the constant motion of basketball and the bruising tackles on the gridiron, the action on the diamond is slow, even boring, punctuated by the occasional home run ball or the manager’s nose-to-nose discussion with the umpire. And don’t get me started on the big money earned by the best of the best. Since the Nationals are still in the hunt for a World Series berth this year, perhaps their contracts with pitchers Stephen Strasburg ($38.3 million this year) and Max Scherzer (a measly $37.4 million) will pay off in victory, but earning a million bucks every time someone takes the mound? It’s a great gig if you can get it.

What is it about baseball that keeps me reaching for the radio dial or wanting to check the box score? It’s twofold for me. I’ve been an Indians fan for nearly thirty years, and although they’ve only had two World Series appearances in that time, baseball still brings me hope. With a record of 93 wins and 69 losses, the Tribe played good baseball this year. Each time they took the field, anything was possible. Perhaps there would be a no-hitter, or Carlos Santana would hit a grand slam in the tenth inning. “Hope springs eternal in the human breast,” wrote Alexander Pope in 1734, perhaps foreshadowing the optimism of spring training each year.

Here’s the other draw for me. In a world of shifting values and ever-changing daily headlines, Tribe baseball is a constant. 

When everything around us is spinning at warp speed, we reach for constancy. The A & W will close in November, but opening day won’t be far away. Sixty Minutes will air in its entirety on Sunday nights, even if delayed by football. The sun will rise at dawn. Tulips will bloom and trees will bud. Hope will spring anew. “Play ball” will be heard at the corner of East Ninth and Carnegie once again.

Richard Nelson Bolles understands: “Change becomes stressful and overwhelming only when you’ve lost any sense of the constancy of your life. You need firm ground to stand on.” Give me a welcoming home, an enduring faith, loyal friends, a stack of good books, and Tribe baseball, and I’m ready to face the world.

The Test of Civilization

Checking in with the lovely Madelyn Simone this week, I asked how fourth grade was going. “Good,” she replied. “Do you have a best friend this year?” Madelyn: “Yes,” and she told me the name of the girl in her class who recently moved to the United States from Vietnam. 

Her teacher told Madelyn’s parents how helpful our granddaughter is to the young girl, as she attempts to navigate a new language, a new classroom experience, and a new country. Sitting with her at lunch, playing together at recess, and communicating, even without shared words, Madelyn has welcomed her new BFF with open arms.

I’m old enough to remember Vietnam. A family friend was killed there. I wore a POW/MIA bracelet with the name of Major John Held engraved upon it. A teacher in my school emigrated to Canada rather than serve in the war. Even from a fourth-grade perspective, it was a difficult time.

I also remember the images: Nick Ut’s photograph of nine-year-old Phan Thi Kim Phuc, known as the Napalm Girl; planes taking off in Babylift, airlifting three thousand babies and children, mostly orphans, out of country as Saigon fell in 1975; the images of boat people, an estimated 800,000 who faced the dangers of the South China Sea in search of refuge. These boat people, as well as other escapees, lived indefinitely in teeming refugee camps 

What I didn’t know was that in 1979, Vice President Walter Mondale took the lead in developing a world-wide response to the Vietnamese refugee crisis. In a U.N. speech, Mondale pointed to the Evian Conference in 1938, where delegates from thirty-two countries met to discuss the refugee crisis in the years leading up to World War II. While speaker after speaker expressed sympathy for the Jews who were attempting to escape Germany, “most countries, including the United States and Britain, offered excuses for not letting in more refugees” (U.S. Holocaust Memorial Museum). Mondale confessed: “The civilized world hid in the cloak of legalisms, and the result was the Holocaust.” By their inaction, they “failed the test of civilization.” Capturing his audience’s attention, Mondale outlined what he saw as a world problem, and as Dan Olsen reported, “exhorted them to fashion a world solution.”

In that response, the U.S. proposed doubling the number of southeast Asian refugees to the U.S., welcoming 14,000 people each month to resettlement opportunities across the country. In stark contrast, Washington this week announced the refugee cap for 2019-2020 will be 18,000 people – per year. In 2015-16, this number was 110,000.

The Pew Research Center notes that this reduction in refugee admissions comes when the number of refugees worldwide has reached the highest levels since World War II. The United Nation’s refugee agency report, “the global population of forcibly displaced increased by 2.3 million people in 2018. By the end of the year, almost 70.8 million individuals were forcibly displaced worldwide as a result of persecution, conflict, violence, or human rights violations.” Filippo Grandi, the U.N. high commissioner for refugees, said more than half of the 2018 refugees were children. More than half. Children. 

Immigration is complicated, emotionally fraught and politically divisive today, but it was complicated, emotionally fraught and politically divisive as Germans begged for asylum in 1938, and as Mondale spoke to the challenges of South-Asian refugees in 1979. In 1938, world leaders “failed the test of civilization.” In 1979, they were urged to do better – and did.

In 1979, James and Shirley Clifton had only met Thu-Hoang Ha’s father when the Vietnamese student came to Christmas dinner, but agreed to sign an affidavit of support, taking financial responsibility for his wife and daughter so they could escape Vietnam and enter the U.S. Ha writes: “It’s worth remembering that decades ago, despite widespread public opposition and xenophobia, a country opened its doors to those seeking safe, dry land. And they, in turn, left a lasting mark on a new home.” 

Mondale’s words are but a faint echo today, yet Madelyn’s actions remind me of the phrase from Isaiah: “. . . and a little child shall lead them.” The question of 1938 still reverberates: Is there truly no room for those seeking refuge?