I'm a Believer!

I'm wondering . . .

“You better watch out, better not cry, better not pout I’m telling you why, Santa Claus is coming to town.” This iconic song by J. Fred Coots and Haven Gillespie became an immediate hit when it was played on Eddie Cantor’s radio show in November 1934. Within twenty-four hours, orders had been placed for 500,000 copies of the sheet music and more than 30,000 records. Those were the good old days, when families gathered around the piano instead of heading to their respective screens at the end of the day. Ah, but I digress.

Our modern-day version of Santa Claus, based on the sainted Nicholas of the third century, has been shaped by Clement Moore (The Night Before Christmas), political cartoonist Thomas Nast, and Coots and Gillespie – and Rudolph! I’m glad to report that the man, the myth and the legend continues to be in good hands as Dan and Becky teach the sweet Emma Belle, now age two and a half. No piano or record player is responsible for perpetuating the message in their home, nor are Bruce Springsteen or Bing Crosby crooning away – instead, there’s a Santa Spy Cam in Emma’s house, keeping an eye on her day and night. Because we know, thanks to that song from 1934, that “he sees you when you’re sleeping, he knows when you’re awake, he knows if you’ve been bad or good, so be good for goodness sake.”

Naughty or nice. It’s been a challenge to humans since the beginning of life. Religions use the concept, as Judeo-Christian teachings paint the contrast between sin and righteousness, as does Islam and Hinduism. Contemporary parents use it with the hope of regulating behavior so their children won’t get kicked out of nursery school. We teach the difference between good and bad behavior to our kids, but spending time with Emma and the charming Henry Kyle makes it obvious – there is also an innate sense of right and wrong. They know. Even Gracie, Emma’s four-month-old Bernedoodle, knows when she grabs Emma’s toy and runs away. Moore may have suggested St. Nicholas was a “right jolly old elf,” but he does help out a parent from time to time as well. What kid wants to be on the “naughty” list? Not me!

When I was a small child, we’d make sure we were watching Channel 4 each weekday at 5 pm for a visit from Santa Claus and his friends – Grumbles the Elf, Freezy the Polar Bear, and my favorite, Forgetful the Elf. Might they read my letter to Santa on the show today, I wondered? I was doubtful, as Miss Molly never called out my name on Romper Room.

Emma doesn’t have to park in front of the television at supper time, hopeful that Santa will see her. Instead, he calls her up at night on her mom’s cellphone, talking to her as a dear friend. Becky tells me it’s an app, some newfangled way to tell the story of Santa.

In 1897, eight-year-old Virginia O’Hanlon wrote to the New York Sun newspaper. “Some of my little friends say there is no Santa Claus. Papa says, “If you see it in THE SUN it’s so. Please tell me the truth; is there a Santa Claus?”

The response came quickly from long-time newsman Francis Pharcellus Church. “Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus. He exists as certainly as love and generosity and devotion exist, and you know that they abound and give to your life its highest beauty and joy. . . A thousand years from now, Virginia, nay, ten times ten thousand years from now he will continue to make glad the heart of childhood.”

I’m eager to report that Santa Claus is continuing to make glad the heart of childhood, whether gathered around the piano or a cellphone – and before we know it, around a Christmas tree. As Church told Virginia, any who doubt his existence “have been affected by skepticism of a skeptical age. They do not believe except they see.” I may no longer stand on my bed for hours, staring off into the night sky on Christmas Eve, hoping for a sighting of Santa, but, as the Monkees sang, “I’m a believer.”

Servant Leadership

Servant Leadership has been a buzzword that's been spoken of from time to time within The Salvation Army. I've witnessed it in many over the years. The divisional leaders who came to visit an officer family with a seriously ill child - one stayed behind at the house to stay with the other children - and the laundry was caught up by the time they left. Exchanging the tunic for an apron to flip pancakes at the corps breakfast. Cancelling Sunday plans so they could fill our pulpit as a firstborn decided to arrive on a Sunday morning.

Say what you want about social media, but I've observed so many glimpses of servants in ministry this past month. They've been everywhere - some were people who could have been home in front of the fire, but instead, they've served at the kettle, in the nursery, in the sorting, packing and distributing of gifts, in coming alongside just when the time was right. Local leaders have done the same, as have staff, volunteers, and so many in community after community.

There've been heavy burdens on Salvation Army leaders at all levels this year, but still, they've served. They've been the last ones out of the building, the first to offer a hand.

Woke? Some choose to use it as a bad word, but these servants of Jesus are truly woke - to the heartache of people, to the needs of those on the margins, and to the Son who comes, again and again.

Isaiah's words may have been written to Jerusalem centuries ago, but they ring true to those who serve today.

Arise, shine, for your light has broken through!

The Eternal One’s brilliance has dawned upon you.

2 See truly; look carefully—darkness blankets the earth;

people all over are cloaked in darkness.

But God will rise and shine on you;

the Eternal’s bright glory will shine on you, a light for all to see.

Thank you, faithful ones, for shining so purely.

The Joys and Woes of Christmas Cookies

Christmas cookies and I have a love/hate relationship. Every year. I should give up the idea of baking and just buy them from Becki Dina (Sugar ARTS Bakehouse). But no, I'm going to conquer them one of these years. Because I certainly haven't this year. IThe sugar cookie dough was too soft and sticky, and the few cookies that survived were misshapen. Tonight I tried to make spritz, but my cookie presses (yes, I had two) refused to cooperate and ended up in the garbage. I used a couple of small cookie cutters and we ended up with a few stars and trees.

Tomorrow, I'm going to make peanut butter cookies from the Betty Crocker bag, throw on a few hHershey kisses, and give it up for 2021. At least the Mexican Wedding Cakes turned out fine, but there probably won't be any left by the time Christmas arrives. They're so good . . .

The struggle isn't new. I wrote about a time 35 years ago with its own challenges..

Looking back over the years when my sons were small, I truly have no idea how I – or they – managed to survive the Christmas season. Even though November and December were our busiest months at work, I still wasn’t willing to give up the idyllic images gracing the pages of the popular women’s magazines in the checkout racks at the supermarket. Surely I could carve out time to make my own gifts, entertain in our home and bake six kinds of Christmas cookies, couldn’t I?

In fact, why should I keep the pleasure of baking cookies to myself? Wouldn’t it be fun to invite a few families with small children to our home to bake and decorate cookies on a Sunday afternoon before Christmas? It’s a picture-perfect scene – the little darlings with flour dotting their noses, as Christmas carols played merrily in the background and the scent of gingerbread filled the air. A reality TV Christmas special in the making, long before Jon and Kate and their darling eight were ever dreamed of.

I did plan ahead, truly I did. I made the sugar cookie dough and stuck it in the freezer, and did some for molasses, spritz and peanut butter cookies ahead of time as well. The kitchen table and counters were the cut-out stations, and the dining room table was DHQ (decoration headquarters), with frosting, colored sugars, and sprinkles galore. The sprinkles proved to be the favorite, as I was still picking green and red sprinkles out of the carpet on the 4th of July.

We welcomed our friends with some chili and spiced cider, and then got down to the cookie-baking business. I think we ended up with four moms, ten junior bakers, and four male football fans. Well, the dads helped a bit, serving as taste-testers and referees, but they mostly kept an eye on the Eagles game while the women kept an eye on the kids, the cookies and their nerves.

Memory is such a wonderful gift. If we fully remembered the discomfort of pregnancy and labor – well, the discomfort of pregnancy and the pain of labor, most of us would only have one child. We did have fun at the cookie bake-off, but it wasn’t the smartest idea I ever had. I think if the kids had been a couple of years older (like fifteen instead of five) and if I’d had girls instead of boys (Greg and Drew kept making cookie guns with their buddies) it would have gone a bit smoother. I learned something that day about expectations and attention spans, and about having a cookie decorating party instead of a cutting out, baking and decorating party.

In the end, we got to eat quite a few cookies and each family had an assortment to take home with them, even if most of the gingerbread people were amputees. Nobody got sick, we didn’t have to call the fire department, and the Eagles won. What more could I want? Peace on earth?

Late that night, as I staggered into bed, I gave thanks for healthy and active kids, a dish-washing husband, and adventurous friends. But before I drifted off to dreams of sugar plum fairies, marzipan and Mexican wedding cakes, I made my husband promise that if I happened to mention a cookie party the following year, he’d handcuff me to the chair and place an emergency order at Eiselin’s Pastry Shop just up the Ridge from our house.

Merry Christmas, friends.

Christmas is not for children?

The email from Sister Joan Chittister sat in my inbox for a few days:, unopened. “Christmas is not for children.” What? Of course it’s for the children. Have you seen the presents under the tree, the pony tethered in the back yard for the sweet Emma Belle Shade? (just kidding, Dan). Haven’t you heard the children singing ,“Away in a Manger,” or ten-year-old Gayla Peevey whining, “I want a hippopotamus for Christmas?” Christmas is all about the kids.

 

After all, the Christmas narrative as reported by Matthew and Luke is all about the baby – and even the babies who got caught up in Herod’s desperate act, “the slaughter of the innocents.” Wasn’t there a little drummer boy pounding away on his drum, the littlest angel singing heartily with the multitude of the heavenly hosts, and the two cherub angels keeping watch at the holy crib? 

 

As songwriter Alfred Burt so poignantly wrote, the child in the manger came to earth so that children could see themselves in the almighty God of the universe. 

The children in each different place
will see the baby Jesus’ face
like theirs, but bright with heavenly grace,
and filled with holy light.
O lay aside each earthly thing
and with thy heart as offering,
come worship now the infant King.
'Tis love that’s born tonight!

Even Victorian poet Christina Rossetti agreed about the little ones in her poem, “In the Bleak Midwinter.” The tone of the poem didn’t begin on a promising note, as Rossetti painted a desolate picture: “frosty wind made moan, earth stood hard as iron, water like a stone.” Yet her last stanza welcomes the voice of a child. 

 

What can I give him? Poor as I am. 

If I were a shepherd, I would give a lamb, 

If I were a wise man, I would do my part, 

But, what can I give him? Give him my heart.”

 

Surely, Sister Joan, you didn’t mean what you wrote. You caught my attention, but there’s got to be more, right? Not being willing to settle for the troubling headline, I finally read the entire piece. Here’s her concluding paragraph:

 

There is a child in each of us waiting to be born again. It is to those looking for life that the figure of the Christ, a child, beckons. Christmas is not for children. It is for those who refuse to give up and grow old, for those to whom life comes newly and with purpose each and every day, for those who can let yesterday go so that life can be full of new possibility always, for those who are agitated with newness whatever their age. Life is for the living, for those in whom Christmas is a feast without finish, a celebration of the constancy of change, a call to begin once more the journey of human joy and holy meaning.”

 

More than thirty years ago, Karrie Chen, a college student from Hong Kong, sang Burt’s words in the hush of a candlelit chapel in Philadelphia. It was the children who came to see Jesus that night, “bronzed and brown,” “lily white,” “almond-eyed” – and “ah!, they love him too.” As the little ones came to the cradle of the Son of God with their offering, we too bowed our knees. 

 

Yes, Christmas is for the children, yet it beckons each one of us, weary, wandering and wondering. We wait, as a weary world, for “a thrill of hope,” “the journey of human joy and holy meaning.” O come, let us adore him, Christ the Lord.  

 

A Kerfuffle About Race

In recent days, the charge of being racially “woke” has been leveled against The Salvation Army, a ministry I served in for thirty-four years prior to retirement, and continue to worship in. There have been posts on social media, and a few of the mainstream media have taken up the call, some who have twisted the facts of the matter enough to boost clicks and potentially impact donations to an organization that has served the marginalized of our world for more than 150 years. 

 

As I understand the kerfuffle (always wanted to use that word), it began as a person or people took issue with a curriculum that offers a framework for small groups of people within the Salvation Army to discuss the topic of racism. The critics were concerned with the use of a couple of the resources in the curriculum, and pulled a phrase or two out of the package to find fault with the intent and the content of the study.

 

Ah, the resulting hand-wringing. “The Salvation Army is woke!” – meant in a derogatory fashion. “Don’t give to that organization – they believe white donors should apologize for being white.” That’s not what the curriculum said. Commissioner Ken Hodder, the Army’s national leader, has responded with a statement and video, but what do you say? The proverbial cat is out of the bag, even if the cat isn’t as ugly as claimed. Like so many other scenarios over the past few years, how do you combat misinformation and innuendo? Is it better to ignore it, hoping it will go away (news cycles are fickle), or address it head on, attempting to clarify and correct?  

 

Social issues are complicated. Social justice is complicated. It’s tempting to suggest that an organization like The Salvation Army should stick to helping the poor and refrain from talking about any of the “isms.” For many years, it’s been quite successful in doing so, although a few complaints have cropped up from time to time, generally coinciding with the beginning of the Christmas fund-raising campaign, the nightmare of the PR folks. 

 

To broaden the discussion beyond The Salvation Army, what is the church to do? “Stick to Matthew 25,” comes the counsel. Feed the hungry, give drink to the thirsty, invite the stranger in, clothe the naked, care for the sick, visit those in prison. That’s what Jesus said to do. But is that enough? Or should the church, the body of Christ, be asking why someone is hungry, thirsty, unwelcome, naked, sick or in prison? Did the self-proclaimed people of God have anything to do with the societal structures, historically and culturally, that lead to hunger, nakedness, or incarceration? 

 

Is there room in our actions for self-examination, as Jesus suggested in Matthew 23? His words are strongly phrased, often headlined as the seven woes. “Woe to you, teachers of the law and Pharisees [religious leaders], you hypocrites! You clean the outside of the cup and dish, but inside they are full of greed and self-indulgence. Blind Pharisee! First clean the inside of the cup and dish, and then the outside also will be clean.” Might it be that a curriculum on racism asks us to take a look at the inside of the cup and dish? 

 

On Dr. Andy Miller’s recent podcast, Dr. Matt Friedeman talked about a guiding principle within his church: “We want to run to the sound of the pain.” Yes, there is pain in being hungry or homeless, and the church is called to respond to that pain. Yet racism has also brought pain to many, both historically and still today. Just read some of the comments around this kerfuffle if you don’t believe me. Perhaps, as challenging as it's been to The Salvation Army in the past few days, maybe this “exposure” will actually bring about more honest dialogue on race than any curriculum could have done.

 

I’ve been accused of being a radical woman, and I’ll stay true to form in the eyes of those who see that as a negative. I want to be woke. I want to run to the sound of the pain of my brothers and sisters of color. I see you. I want to hear you, to listen to your stories. Let’s talk honestly about race, about racism, and about racial reconciliation. 

An In-Between Day

Mixed thoughts this morning, on this in-between day, this weekend nestled between Thanksgiving and “the Christmas season,” where it’s finally permissible (in my understanding of life) to decorate for the holidays. It’s two days after Thanksgiving, one day after the shopping frenzy of black Friday and the cartoon marathon memory of my childhood, “the day after Turkey Day on NBC.” On this between day, it’s also one day before Advent begins.  

 

And yet COVID lurks among us. We’re told it’s to blame for the supply chain issues. “Better buy it when you see it,” the pundits warn, as it won’t be there when you make up your mind. I was in a store yesterday where the merchandise was piled high, cascading to the floor in many spots. Supply chain problems?  Could have fooled me.

 

The nasty virus is to blame for much more than that early run on toilet paper or the inability to find this year’s version of the coveted Cabbage Patch doll or Tickle Me Elmo. It’s changed us a humans, dividing us in ways our parents couldn’t have imagined. I intended to describe those differences, but who am I kidding? We’ve become so entrenched in our positions about being masked and vaxxed that there seem to be no words left to say.

 

And the empty chairs at the Thanksgiving table? 777K, the googled report shows, just here in the United States. Yes, the “K” stand for one thousand. Does the use of the abbreviation lighten the burden of grief over the loss of 777,000 people, of 5,190,000 people around the world? We may act like it’s winding down, but one radio report indicated that this week, somewhere in Ohio, one in six current hospitalizations is for COVID-19 ( didn’t catch the details).

 

This morning, as I sat peeling vegetables for the fragrant pot of soup simmering on the stove, I wondered: what do we do? My thoughts wandered to the biblical women on the day after the first Good Friday. In their grief, we are told, still they “prepared the spices.” They did what needed to be done to prepare the body of Jesus for a burial in accordance with their faith. 

 

Somehow, in the valley of the shadow of death, more than five million bodies lining that valley, we must find time to both grieve and to “prepare the spices.” I’m searching for ways to live in the midst of the uncertainty that surrounds us, to find meaning. What I’m realizing in these anxious days is that sometimes it is enough to stir the pot of soup, decorate the Christmas tree, and light a candle of Advent. For, as Fleming Rutledge reminds us, “Even our smallest lights will be signs in this world, lights to show the way . . .” Might it be so.

 

 

I'm Lovin' It

Larry, Henry and I made an impromptu visit to the food court at the mall this week, meeting up with Dan and Emma for lunch. In Henry’s meal from Chik-fila included a place mat with a variety of animals. What does the dog say? Ruff-ruff. What does the pig say? Oink oink. What does the kitten say? Meow. And finally, what does the cow say? “Eat mor chikin!”

 

That may be the brilliant tag line for the chicken restaurant, but I’m grateful that people around the world have taken to heart the slogan, “there’s a little McDonald’s in everyone” and headed to the Golden Arches for burgers, fries and milkshakes. Those Happy Meals lined the pockets of Ray and Joan Kroc (capitalism at its best – and worst), and upon Joan’s death, her fortune  was distributed to The Salvation Army with specific instructions on what to do with those dollars.

 

As a result of her legacy gift, twelve years ago, on a pleasant April weekend, we celebrated a milestone in Salvation Army history in Ashland, Ohio as the  Ray and Joan Kroc Corps Community Center was dedicated to the glory of God and to the people of the community. What a weekend it was. We had one working phone for the whole building. The heat worked too well; the air-conditioning, not so much. We sang out hearts out in Handel’s “Hallelujah Chorus” and Booth’s “O Boundless Salvation” with over a hundred of our closest friends (thanks, Libby Slade). Mountain Man entertained the New York Staff Band with great fervor. We bought a run-down motel in three days, placing us on the Ripley’s Believe It or Not list for the speediest Salvation Army property transfer ever. And then, on Sunday afternoon, with flags waving and horns blaring quite melodiously, we marched from 40 East Third Street to 527 East Liberty Street. What a weekend!

 

This chilly November weekend marks another ribbon-cutting at the East Liberty address, as an addition to the Kroc Center building is dedicated to the glory of God and to the people of the community. In our COVID-19 world, this dedication will be by invitation only, and held “under the big top,” brrrr. No Mountain Man for entertainment, as its likely he is serenading St. Peter in the heavenly realms. The phones work, the motel is long gone, and I’m told the temporary tent has heat. After the singing and the speeches are over, the highlight of the day will be the inaugural trip down the new waterslide. Will Joe, Doug or Billy have that privilege? The suspense is killing me – and the three contestants as well, who may be secretly hoping that they won’t be the winner by having the top donor amount to support scholarships to the center. 

 

Joan Kroc’s vision for the nearly thirty facilities now spread across the U.S. was a gift for sure, and money reallocated from her initial bequest made this Ashland addition possible – the gift that keeps on giving. Like the original project, the Ashland community stepped up and is pitching in a chunk of change to complete the construction as well. Kroc’s generosity, the community’s support, and their faith in the Army’s ability to serve, continue to astound me, and I remain thankful for the opportunity to reimagine Salvation Army ministry in the twenty-first century. We had claimed the words of Isaiah 54 back in 2009, and they are just as fitting today: “Enlarge the place of your tent, stretch your tent curtains wide, do not hold back, lengthen your cords, strengthen your stakes.”

 

The water park won’t be open for a few more weeks, but when it’s ready, the Shade family is coming to test it out. The lovely Madelyn Simone and the delightful and determined Elizabeth Holiday have loved their visits to RJ’s Spraypark, and we look forward to introducing the charming Henry Kyle and the sweet Emma Belle to the wonders of the new water park. We may not be in Speedos, but we’re sure to be wearing smiles. 

 

Happy Expansion Ribbon-Cutting Day to all the Ashland Krockettes. Kudos to the staff, board, and community for all you’ve done to turn a dream into reality once again. with a special word of appreciation to our friends, Majors Annalise and Billy Francis, who have shepherded this expansion. No broken bones on that waterslide, Billy. And get some rest, because, thanks to Mrs. Kroc, “you deserve a break today!”

 

American Honey

Nearly four years ago, we made the difficult decision to sell our beloved home in Ashland to move to Canton to be closer to family. I have not regretted that choice, especially as it placed us nearby during the challenging months before the sweet Emma Belle’s birth. Yet whenever I’ve left a community I’ve grown to love (Ashland, Canton, Cleveland, Philadelphia, and Dover – and of course, Tonawanda), I’ve regretted leaving behind relationships that will never be quite the same, no matter the vows we make to stay in touch. Leaving town also removes the probability that acquaintanceships from that place will be nurtured into friendships, the kind celebrated with long, lingering conversations and shared dreams.

 

As I read “American Honey: A Field Guide to Resisting Temptation,” the memoir recently released by Sarah Wells, an acquaintance and Facebook friend, I’ve definitely wished we still lived in Ashland. If we did, Sarah and I might be spending time at the coffee shop, comparing notes about mud-splattered spats from our high school band uniforms, coming of age in a blue collar family, the escapades of two boys named Henry (her son, my grandson), and the challenges of being a woman with ambition and faith. Those imaginary conversations would be peppered with our mutual love for reading and writing, and our appreciation for the power of words – and yes, my propensity for run-on sentences! 

 

Since I live in North Canton and Sarah lives in Ashland, we’re separated by sixty miles of a ribbon of highway, as well as a generation of living. Thus, I have to be content to soak up the words she’s committed to print, tasting the sand and the salt of potato chips at the beach, and feeling the tear-kissed tenderness she shared with her beloved Brandon over a pan of sweet potato fries. I wish I’d had her ten (or is it eleven?) strategies to manage your crazy (self) person when I was at my craziest. I needed someone to say, “Get up fifteen minutes earlier, for God’s sake, and slow the morning down a smidgen. Start the day with a Word so it sticks to your hips like the pancakes.’ And if even that sounded impossible, I needed someone to tell me it was OK to call a babysitter so I could have time for myself without feeling guilty, for it truly is “better to have a sane mom some of the time than a crazy one all of the time.” Granted, this memoir is no traditional self-help guide to marriage, but that page of strategies is worth the price of the book.

 

How I love to read, and I am loving the pages of this book. As Alberto Manguel explains, “At one magical instance in your early childhood, a page in a book – that string of confused, alien ciphers – shivered into meanings. Words spoke to you, gave up their secrets; new universes opened. At that moment, you became, irrevocably, a reader.” Mrs. Ditmer’s first grade class at Fletcher School flipped that switch for me. Since that moment, I’ve found inspiration, adventure and solace between the covers of a book, and Sarah’s words haven’t disappointed. 

 

As a writer, I’m fascinated at how an image or just a few words can make a lasting impression. My favorite of the many images in “American Honey” came in Wells’ chapter, “The Worst Soccer Mom,” for she sums up the travails of parenting when her husband was out of town by describing the lowest point of soccer practice with a six-year-old, a five-year-old (the budding soccer star), and a sixteen-month-old. “I’m out of Cheerios.” If you’ve been there, you understand.

 

As a teen, I religiously read the monthly magazine feature, “Can This Marriage Be Saved?” As a counselor, I’ve been present with couples who wrestled with that same question. I’ve read scores of books on marriage, written a marriage curriculum (MarriageTools) and even a book on using guerilla warfare tactics to cope within difficult marriages. All too often, the focus is on fixing what is broken, often necessary to preserve vows, to keep promises. 

 

But in “American Honey,” Wells doesn’t preach or counsel, provide a to-do list or a magic formula. Instead, she writes of the love story of Sarah and Brandon. Sue Monk Kidd reflects: “Writing memoir is, in some ways, a work of wholeness.” Ultimately, while Wells acknowledges the fragility of marriage and family, she honors the wholeness of life: “Okay, so our love keeps record of wrongs, but also mercies. After all, we are here. We hold our wrongs and mercies together in careful intimacy.” Not perfect, but whole. 

Let the Words of My Mouth

A meme tells of a young child learning to read from a book about the zoo, when he proudly uttered the words, “a frickin’ elephant.” Not pleased with the child’s choice of language, his teacher asked to see the page in question, and there it was: “African elephant.” Oops!

 

A three-word phrase is currently trending across the United States of America: “Let’s go Brandon.” It began with an interview of a NASCAR winner in Alabama, and it’s been chanted at the World Series and in football games across the country, and spoken on the floor of the U.S. Senate. It’s code for a phrase that begins with a word starting with “f” and ending in “uck” – and isn’t “firetruck.” Use your imagination. This word is directed at the current president of the United States. Google Brandon Brown for the full story. 

 

As the former illustrious columnist for the Ashland Times-Gazette, I’ve had some negative words sent my way, resulting in my determination to “never read the comments” on the newspaper’s website. To my knowledge, my critics didn’t rise to the level of those who’ve responded to USA Today’s Connie Schulz, recently called a toxic progressive misanthrope in a sentence that included the father-uncle-cousin-Kate code word (see above), along with a threat to her life.

 

Jotting these words down on a Sunday morning, I wonder how those who will lift up the name of Jesus in the next few hours can rationalize using words in such a way. I’m tempted to call out names, but it’s in the senate records and recorded on video.

 

What does a believer do with scriptures such as I Peter 2:17 (show proper respect to everyone, love the family of believers, fear God, honor the emperor) or Hebrews 13:17, Romans 13 or 1 Timothy 2? Or even the “love one another” command of Jesus? Do these biblical words belong in the category of the Old Testament prohibitions against eating pork and shellfish, or killing a thief during the day?  Why are we calling each other names, threatening each other, or using words (or code words) that connected soap to our childish tongue?  Do biblical commands mean so little? 

 

Psalm 19 suggests an alternative to father-uncle-cousin-kate, whether encoded or not: “Let the words of my mouth and the meditation of my heart be acceptable in your sight, O Lord, my strength and my redeemer.” 

 

 

 

Praying Our Good-byes

When Special Agent Leroy Jethro Gibbs’ boat blew up, it appeared that Mark Harmon’s days on NCIS were over. On Chicago Fire, Matt Casey is moving west to become the surrogate parent for the sons of a deceased colleague, leaving Sylvie Brett behind in the Windy City, just as he had been left behind when a previous girlfriend left the show. Viewers on New Amsterdam have been teased for weeks surrounding the imminent departure of Dr. Max Goodwin and his current flame, Dr. Helen Sharpe, as they prepare to leave for London. Can the iconic Big Apple hospital survive without its passionate and impulsive medical director? If Max goes, who will shepherd it through its next disaster? And what will NCIS be like without Gibbs?

 

When actors wants to leave their long-running roles on a television series, the writers are charged with developing an exit plan. Death is the easiest option, a standard on the soap opera circuit for many years, so viewers can grieve the loss of their favorite heroes and villains. When Eddie LeBec (Cheers) got run over by a Zamboni while working at an ice rink, that was pretty final. And who can forget the scene from M*A*S*H when Lt. Colonel Henry Blake’s plane was shot down after his retirement send-off from the 4077^th?

 

There are other possibilities, of course. In a previous NCIS season, Tony moved away to raise his daughter with Ziva, teasing of a possible reunion at some time in the future. And even Gibbs’ departure doesn’t seem fully final. As NCIS showrunner Steven Binder tells us, “So regarding the future of Gibbs, as long-time fans of the show may have noticed over the years… never count Leroy Jethro Gibbs out.” 

 

In our real lives, we are not exempt from painful good-byes. Like Charles Schulz, we ‘re not pleased when they occur. “Why can’t we get all the people together in the world that we really like and then just stay together? I guess that wouldn’t work. Someone would leave. Someone always leaves. Then we would have to say goodbye. I hate goodbyes. I know what I need. I need more hellos.” Yet even with more ‘hellos,’ we still wrestle with the many good-byes that find their way to our doorstep, to our heart. 

 

When our personal experience is one of shock, such as when Colonel Blake’s plane was shot down, the immediate grief seems unbearable. We muddle our way through Kubler-Ross’ stages of grief, as we deny, become angry, bargain, sink into depression, and ultimately struggle to some form of acceptance, maybe. But even when there is a long farewell, such as weeks in the COVID-riddled ICU or the insidiously slow march of Alzheimer’s or ALS, the grief is still there, often unexpected in its ferocity.  

 

While death is the ultimate good-bye, it is not the only one. When our own Leroy Jethro Gibbs moves to Alaska, we vow to stay in touch, but our hearts break. Writing in “Praying Our Good-byes,” Joyce Rupp helps us to move from the why of departure to the how, asking, “How can I move gracefully through the ache of the farewells that come into my life?” For as emotionally distant as Gibbs appears to be throughout his stint on NCIS, his farewell episode is one I will watch again, as he shares his good-byes with his friends, even when they don’t know it’s a good-bye.

 

Writer Anna Quindlen understands about loss: “Maybe we do not speak of it, because death will mark all of us, sooner or later. Or maybe it is unspoken because grief is only the first part of it. After a time it becomes something less sharp but larger, too, a more enduring thing called loss. . .  it comes as a great surprise to find that loss is forever, that two decades after the event there are those occasions when something in you cries out at the continuous presence of an absence.” 

As she does so well, Anne Lamott provides us with an image to hold: “You will lose someone you can’t live without, and your heart will be badly broken, and the bad news is that you never completely get over the loss of your beloved. But this is also the good news. They live forever in your broken heart that doesn’t seal back up. And you come through. It’s like having a broken leg that never heals perfectly—that still hurts when the weather gets cold, but you learn to dance with a limp.”

As we feel the continuous presence of an absence, as autumn temperatures awaken the ache, might Rupp’s words bring hope. “The word goodbye — originally ‘God-be-with-ye’ or ‘Go-with-God’ — was a recognition that God was a significant part of the going. When you dreaded or feared the journey there was strength in remembering that the One who gave and cherished life would be there to protect and to console. Goodbye was a blessing of love, proclaiming the belief that if God went with you, you would never be alone, that comfort, strength, and all the other blessings of a loving presence would accompany you.” Amen. 

 

Writing without Starving

The world was rocked for a hot minute this week when Facebook went dark. At first, I thought it was an issue with my phone, but when I checked on my laptop, it wasn’t there either. Was I booted off the internet? No, that was working. Channeling Mama Troll from Frozen, I wondered, “what’s the issue, dear?”

 

As NPR explained, “An update to Facebook’s routers that coordinate network traffic went wrong, sending a wave of disruptions rippling through its systems. As a result, all things Facebook were effectively shut down, worldwide.” Imagine being the staff member who had to tell Mark Zuckerberg, especially since “the outage also whacked Facebook’s own internal systems and tools that it relies on for daily operations.” 

 

Facebook explained the outage, indicating it was caused by “configuration changes on the backbone routers that coordinate network traffic between our data centers,” apparently connected to an issue with the Border Gateway Protocol. Kind of like what’s been happing at the southern border of the U.S.  

 

I chuckled at the reports that some Facebook employees couldn’t get into conference rooms and the space where the routers are because their systems are all connected. “Um, boss, I’d fix the problem but my key card isn’t working.” Kind of like Facebook jail, when the offender wants to explain but can’t get anyone to listen to them because they’ve been unfairly booted from the site. Karma, anyone?

 

And rumor has it that poor Mark lost six billion dollars in net worth on Monday – or was it seven billion? I lose a twenty dollar bill and I’m bummed out for days. It sounds like a new book in Judith Viorst’s series is in order: “Zuckerberg and His Terrible, Horrible, No Good Very Bad Week.” Not much sympathy here, I’m afraid.

 

The complaints were fierce, the Twitter jokes even fiercer. I’m guessing some small businesses will even try to sue, as they lost potential sales on FB Marketplace for six hours. But that may not work out too well, because bottom line, Facebook allows us to access all this marvelous content for free! Yes, I know ads pop up from time to time, convincing us that Facebook has spies in our bedroom, and they’re mining our data, whatever that means, but I don’t pay a subscription fee for Facebook or Instagram. So if they have a bad day, who am I to complain? You get what you pay for, right?

 

What am I willing to pay for? The question is coming up quite often these days, as a click on a FB post leadx to a brick wall, a message that says, “subscriber only.” For a while, it was mostly on newspaper sites, a bait and switch that whets our appetite for a story of interest, only to tell us we need a subscription to the New York Times or the East Podunk weekly to read any further. I get it. Journalists have to eat too. If only the bulk of that money was going to journalists instead of hedge funds.

 

But now that model is creeping over to some of my favorite writers, who will tease with a social media post that provides a hint of content and then leads to a paywall. Again, I don’t begrudge their need to make money from their work, especially if the money can go in their pockets instead of into a corporation’s, but if I purchased the number of Substack subscriptions I really want, I’d be broke. The business model in media is changing, and it’s killing me. 

 

I’ve whined for years about paying for four hundred channels on cable television when I only watch five, but that was a bargain before Hulu, Netflix, Disney+, HBO Max, and Peacock came on the scene. Sure, I could subscribe for two months to watch something I really want to see, but those subscriptions renew automatically, and, like the Columbia Record club of my teen years, the records will just keep coming unless I remember to cancel.

 

Now it’s happening in journalism and other forms of writing too. Join my exclusive club for $5 or $10 a month, and you can have access to a special podcast, a longform essay, a prayer of the week, an extended warranty or maybe even a swatch of the Shroud of Turin. I exaggerate, but you get my drift. 

 

I have great sympathy for my fellow writers. Unless you’re Stephen King or Danielle Steele, book contracts are tough to get, and pay for freelance journalists is less than we can make at McDonalds, so I can’t fault anyone for trying to monetize their work. Yet today’s trend is already limiting access to vital voices that bring words to life, and those with limited resources are left out of those exchanges. Not sure what the answers are, but for today, I’m grateful for the platform of Facebook, and the social security check that allows me to write without starving.  

 

 

Turning Into My Mother-in-law

One of my favorite stories about my mother-in-law is when I came to her house one afternoon to find her in tears. When I asked her what was wrong, she said, “Sally died.” I shifted automatically to sympathy mode, wanting to comfort her in her grief, but then I finally asked, “Who is Sally?” “She’s on my show,” was the response. A longtime fan of daytime drama, Myrtle was broken-hearted that one of her soap opera friends had passed away. 

 

After more than eighteen months of the isolation that has come with the pandemic, I think I’m turning into my mother-in-law. I base that assessment on the depth of my excitement as my television friends return to my living room after a long summer break. Olivia, Fin and Rollins are back in the special victims unit, my Chicago friends are hard at work at the hospital, fire house and police station, and Leroy Jethro Gibbs has been saved from a fiery death as his beloved boat exploded on NCIS. The Reagan family is finally gathering together around their dining room table, so all is well with the world – the Blue Bloods are watching out for us. Now if the Pearsons can get their act together (This Is Us), I’ll be a happy camper – or is it snowman?

 

Yes, I’m one of those people who still watches dramatic series on network television. I’m not big on movies, don’t bother with Jeopardy!, and can barely navigate Hulu or Netflix. But if Olivia Benson and Elliot Stabler are on television, I’m watching – in real time. I know I could catch today’s episode tomorrow or next week, but there’s something ingrained in me that  heads to the television at 9 p.m. on Thursday to check in with my friends. I’m OK with that, but when I start bringing bowls of ice cream over to the couch at 10 p.m. as my mother did every night for years and years, schedule the intervention.

 

Two take-aways from this for me. The first is that the pandemic has put a damper on much of the routines we practiced for years. Whether it’s Wednesday night Bible study, bowling league on Tuesday evening, friends at our Sunday dinner table, Monday band practice, or a cup of coffee with a friend on the spur-of-the-moment, we’ve missed the routine activities that provided a weekly rhythm to our lives. 

 

Here’s the other part. As the pandemic has progressed, we’ve found ways to protect connections with those closest to us, but many of the casual friendships we’ve enjoyed over the years, from that weekly Bible study or the PTO meeting, still haven’t returned to what they were two years ago. Social media helps us keep in touch, but it’s just not the same as seeing someone in person. 

 

Rhythms and relationships – both are essential elements that define our humanity. The pandemic has brought devastating consequences to so many, but it has also disturbed the rhythms of our days and stripped away the unexpected joys that come to us through relationships. No wonder we feel out-of-synch. 

 

As I was plotting out these words in my head, I caught a glimpse of my hands in the mirror, and in a heartbeat, I saw my mother’s hands – just a bit plumper. For one brief shining moment I was my mother – and my mother-in-law. I’d write more about that revelation, but Blue Bloods is about to come on – I might as well embrace that transformation and grab two bowls of ice cream on the way to the couch.

 

 

A Happy Snowman?

When Frozen: The Musical announced it was rehearsing and opening its Broadway touring ensemble in Buffalo, my sister was at the front of the line to buy tickets. Unfortunately for her, the long-awaited performance ended up conflicting with a commitment to her son, so the text came: would you and Madelyn like to come and use my tickets? Is the Pope Catholic? Does a bear . . . You get my drift.

 

What an amazing night. Shea’s Buffalo is a majestic setting. Filled with masked attendees in the 2021 pandemic version of a costume ball, the theater was abuzz with anticipation. The show is coming to Cleveland in August 2022, and it’s worth every cent of the price of admission. Save the date, Madelyn, Lizzie and Emma – we’re going (sorry, Henry, but I’m afraid my favorite Energizer Bunny couldn’t sit still – your time will come).

 

My favorite part of the night was when Olaf sang “In Summer,” the clever composition by Kristen Anderson Lopez and Robert Lopez. There is something about the little snowman’s character that is enchanting. Created of snow, he has only known the cold of winter, but as he sings, he considers the perks of being warm. “But  sometimes I like to close my eyes and imagine what I’d be like when summer does come.” As the song nears its conclusion, Olaf dreams out loud: “Winter’s a good time to stay in and cuddle, but put me in summer and I’ll be a . . .” Into the song’s pregnant pause, the adults in the audience held their collective breath, knowing that the next word, rhyming with cuddle, will be puddle. If Olaf only knew . . . But into the silence of the theater came a tiny voice from the audience, beating Olaf to his punchline: “a happy snowman.”

 

Of course every child in that theater knew those words. So did the grandparents. We’ve head the song a zillion times as the little ones have watched the movie and listened to the song over and over, and we believe with Olaf. Sadly, this precious understanding of a shared meaning won’t last past the Disney experience. 

 

I first heard the phrase ‘post-modern’ about twenty-five years ago. We were moving from modernity, with its emphasis on realism, to post-modernity, a cultural construct that rests on the idea that there’s no such thing as absolute truth. Your truth is your truth and my truth is mine, and we’re both right. In post-modernism, we no longer have a “happy snowman” common experience. Remember when Hulu was a dance, an apple was a fruit, and a fox was a sneaky animal trying to get into the henhouse?  Not anymore. With the internet, podcasts, blogs, and hundreds of cable channels bombarding us daily, our input is so varied that our output is bound to be as well. No wonder we have such varied opinions about what is right and what is true.

 

I sense a meandering in my thinking and writing about my little snowman friend. By the end of Olaf’s song, even his innocent dreaming is faced with a threat, as Kristof says, “I’m going to tell him.” What Kristof knows is that snow melts under the summer sun, and without some kind of miraculous intervention (see Frozen II), Olaf will become a puddle rather than a happy snowman. Olaf has one reality, and Kristof another, but in the real world, there is absolute truth. Snow melts as temperatures rise. 

 

No tidy little package this morning, I’m afraid. Speaking in the courtroom of “A Few Good Men,” Jack Nicholson indicts us all: “You can’t handle the truth!” If he’s right, then at what cost? That’s what I’m wondering this morning.

So Long, Farewell

When the Salvation Army Kroc Center first opened in Ashland, our welcome center staff fielded a variety of phone calls. Potential visitors inquired about the hours of operation and the feeding program menu for the day. One of my favorite calls asked if Ray or Joan Kroc was in, and another wanted to know if we did exorcisms. No. For quite some time, the daily calls included a complaint from Jim Becker, aka Mountain Man, telling us “there’s no such thing as homeless.” 

 

As part of the county’s Homeless Coalition and heavily involved in ACCESS, the church-based sheltering program, we knew Jim’s premise was incorrect – there definitely were unhoused and precariously housed people in Ashland. To pretend there weren’t was a disservice to those who needed stable housing. But as I look back on his words from the perspective of a decade, on some level, Jim was correct and perhaps even prophetic in his words. Vocabulary is changing, and now we are more likely to speak about people without homes, or unhoused people, rather than “the homeless.”

 

It’s happening in other fields as well. American Indians became Native Americans and are now spoken of as indigenous or First Nations people. Mental retardation services are now programs for those who are developmentally disabled, adjusting our language to use descriptors rather than shaming labels.

 

It’s a good reminder to me that words matter. How we speak about each other and how we speak about ideas make a difference. For the past fourteen years, I’ve had the absolute privilege of crafting words to offer my perspective on all kinds of topics, with the hope there might be a reader or two who responds, “I never thought about it quite that way.” Early on as a newspaper columnist, I came to grips with Brett Stevens’s guidance: “What a columnist owes his readers isn’t a bid for their constant agreement.” Judging by a few vocal critics, I succeeded in that.

 

I’ve written as a smitten immigrant to Ashland, and as an even more smitten grandmother to the lovely Madelyn Simone, the delightful and determined Elizabeth Holiday, the charming Henry Kyle and the sweet Emma Belle. Nearly every year, I’ve claimed that hope springs eternal for the Browns, the Cavs, and the Indians. Together we’ve grieved the loss of Ashlanders we’ve loved, and celebrated amazing accomplishments within the community. Although not primarily a column on faith, a columnist writes from where they sit, so that’s been present as well. It’s been a good run, much longer than I expected when I first stuck my head into Ted Daniels’ office with a hesitant question about an occasional column. Thanks for saying yes, Ted.

 

However, this will be my last column for the Ashland Times-Gazette. I’ve written before about the struggles of small town newspapers, and now that struggle has impacted regular contributors to the paper, myself included.

 

I’ll miss writing about the food at the Ashland County Fair, the Cleveland Guardians, Ashland’s  incredible Women of Achievement, and the excitement of the Kroc Center’s upcoming production of Frozen Jr. And what about Bishop Sycamore, the high school that’s not a high school? I was hoping to tackle the topic of how I am becoming my mother – and mother-in-law, and wanted to be able to write about Lizzie’s on-going wish coming true – the end of the Corona. But as Elsa of Arendelle knows so well, sometimes we just have to “let it go.” Ingrained habits are hard to break, however, so I may be writing and posting for families and friends on Facebook, keeping up a blog for lack of a better platform at the present. 

 

Rogers and Hammerstein’s “The Sound of Music” was one of the first movies I saw in a theater, and I still have the dog-eared copy of its tunes that I played day after day on the piano. Madelyn, Lizzie and I listen to its soundtrack often, so I’ll conclude with a song. With deep gratitude for the opportunity and for my faithful readers, I join with the von Trapp children to say, “So long, farewell, auf Wiedersehen, goodbye, I leave and heave a sigh and say goodbye.”

 

Running for Office

How do people choose who will provide leadership to them? In some cultures, leadership is passed from father to son (less commonly, to a daughter) or announced as an anointing. In other people groups, the leader may be the loudest, the bravest, the most charismatic or the richest. In the United States, a rather elaborate system has evolved of campaigns, advertisements, endorsements and voting that selects leaders of both local communities  and national interests. It’s called politics.

 

In this politically tense world of 2021, why would anyone in their right mind want to run for public office? For the one with a desire – or a calling – to lead, dipping a  foot into the election process is a daunting task. It helps to be on the right (or left) side of a demographic, and the ability to raise money remains an important key. It’s apparently not necessary to have previous political experience, as football coach (Tommy Tuberville), minister (Raphael Warnock), and ophthalmologist (Rand Paul) are among our U.S. senators. But regardless of background, one thing is clear – political candidates have got to be willing to pick up the phone to call potential donors, and, at least pre-pandemic, knock on a lot of doors and kiss a baby or two. 

 

If I ever seriously considered running for public office, my past experience of going “door to door” would scare me away. I thought first of my days of training to be a Salvation Army officer, when we donned our uniforms on Saturday morning to go door-to-door, selling The War Cry, the Army’s magazine. Interrupting someone’s leisurely cup of coffee to pitch a magazine that our potential customers probably didn’t want was a not-so-subtle attempt to solicit donations and invite conversation about faith. As an introvert, I dreaded Saturday mornings during those two years.

 

I’m wondering if my dislike of door-knocking was rooted in a traumatic experience I had as a young child. My mother was often tapped to visit her neighbors for a donation to a worthy cause, such as the March of Dimes or Easter Seals. At age five, I was helping her collect money for the hospital expansion drive when I fell off the porch of one of those neighbors, breaking my arm. No wonder the hospital needed to expand.

 

I’m not up for election, but I have great respect for those who take up that challenge. In the absence of the dreaded television commercials that ran ad nauseum a year ago, we may not realize that we’re currently in the midst of an election cycle in local communities across Ohio, but we are. In a little over two months, we’ll go to the polls to vote for city council members, school board members, coroners and maybe even dog catchers. Some voters will sit this one out, while others will look for a familiar name or pull the red or blue lever just because that’s what we’ve always done. 

 

Instead, can this be the year to take seriously Tip O’Neill’s claim that “all politics  are [is] local,” and get to know those willing to offer leadership within our cities and towns? As an example, two friends of mine are ‘rookies,’ running for public office for the first time. One’s a Democrat, one’s a Republican, but  their character and commitment to their community takes precedence over whether they lean left or right. In Orville, Bev Squirrel is running to represent her neighbors on city council, and Ashland’s Emily Huestis has the same goal. Both are smitten immigrants to their cities, so I can relate. I’ve watched them parent their children, serve their communities, and offer hospitality to both friends and strangers. They have a good heart for people, probably a better qualification for public service than professional wrestling fame (former Minnesota governor Jesse the Body Ventura).

 

Here’s the challenge. Between now and November’s election, get to know them and the others who hope to serve. If they knock on your door, hear them out. Ask yourself: who will govern wisely, with commitment and compassion? Then get to the polls on November 2 and vote.

The Fierce Rookie

When my grandchildren were born, I added a descriptive word to the names given them by their parents. Thus we have the lovely Madelyn Simone, the delightful Elizabeth Holiday, the charming Henry Kyle, and the sweet Emma Belle. By the time Elizabeth was about six months old, I felt the need to add a second word to her description based upon her emerging character, and she became, quite appropriately, the delightful and determined Elizabeth Holiday. 

 

Our Lizzie is now six, starting first grade, and living up to her name as she takes to the soccer field for the first time. Having attended her team’s first two games, I have my doubts as to their prospects for a winning season. The loudest cheers from our team’s sideline have come when our goalie successfully blocks the many shots that come his way, as (sigh) we are still waiting for our first goal at the other end of the field. 

 

This past week, it was close to ninety degrees at game time, and the humidity was high as well. Some of Lizzie’s teammates were MIA, so her team had no substitutes. Whenever time was called, she staggered over to the sideline, where her trainers sprang into action (cue the music from Rocky). Her mother handed her the water bottle, her sister smoothed the hair out of her face and held a cold bottle to her neck, and her dad gave her an animated pep talk. If there was enough time, she grabbed a sweaty hug from her grandparents and headed back out to the field. By the start of the fourth quarter, she was exhausted, yet still she reached down deep for a well of energy and ran out to join her teammates one more time. 

 

As a rookie, this is all new to Elizabeth, her first foray into competitive sports of any kind. Yet there is a determination in her, even a fierceness, that is impressive. She may not be the next Mia Hamm, but I’ll take her on my team any time. Plus, with her red cheeks and her bouncing ponytail, she is adorable.

 

Saturday mornings, on a soccer field behind Jackson High School, our granddaughter is learning tremendous lessons about how to live that will shape her values far into the future. But what is she learning? Will she learn to take direction, to listen to a person older  and more experienced so she can learn about something new? Will she learn to trust her body, to  get up when she’s knocked down (and drill that penalty kick), drawing upon her reserves when the going gets tough?  

 

I wonder what she’s learning about being part of a team. Does she know that she can depend on them to have her back, or is she getting as frustrated as I am with a teammate who is counting the blades of grass while the ball sails by? At six, I’m not sure she can comprehend that not everyone has the same abilities,  nor do they put in as much effort as she does (a good lesson to learn prior to group projects in third grade).

 

Youth sports, clarinet lessons, nature hikes and swimming instructions are not just “feel-good” activities to keep kids busy; no, according to researchers at The Search Institute,  they provide vital building blocks called the Forty Developmental Assets, those preventative measures, positive experiences, and personal qualities that young people need to grow up to be healthy, caring and responsible. The more assets such as support, empowerment, positive value and identity that a child has, the higher the probability they will avoid being caught up in substance abuse, delinquent behavior, or dropping out of school. 

 

As for our Lizzie, one day, when laboring to birth her first baby or taking the bar exam, perhaps she will remember these first soccer games, knowing there are people in her corner, cheering her on. She will innately understand that just as she reached down deep within herself and ran back onto the soccer field, so too can she face whatever challenge lies before her with courage and determination. Might this be so for all children.  

 

We Remember and We Shiver

I keep a short list of ideas for this column on a scrap of paper on my desk, but those topics got bumped this week. The unfolding story of sexual harassment and New York’s Governor Andrew Cuomo has revealed some cobwebs in my mind that I thought I’d swept out long before my seventh decade of life. We remember, and we shiver. Thus, a trigger warning for those who are shivering in light of the news reports from New York.

 

Like the women in Cuomo’s circle as outlined in the AG’s report, like nearly every woman my age or indeed, of all ages, I have personal experience with sexual harassment and abuse. The images are  faded but vivid. A man fumbling with his zipper in the darkened confines of a Greyhound bus. Repeated kisses on the lips when greeted by an older colleague. The stubble of whisker brushing against the cheek in the long embrace of a community leader. Trembling while reading the obituary of a man who groomed and abused fifty years ago. Even after many years, we still smell the sweat mingling with aftershave, taste the salt of our confused tears. The body remembers.

 

For my age cohort, the images are complicated due to the lack of vocabulary available for a girl coming of age in the 1960s and early 1970s. In high school, certain boys were known to have “roamin’ hands and rushin’ fingers,” and we developed tactics to slow down the boyfriends who wrestled with the buttons of our blouses and their own raging hormones. But when those hands and fingers belonged to an uncle, a teacher, or a youth group leader, we had few words to use for their insistent touch. What do we say? Who do we tell?

 

As we got older, the hands continued to touch, now joined by off-color words and workplace demands. Writing in her column last week, USA Today’s Connie Schultz tackled this subject, and told of an incident of sexual harassment in the newsroom years ago that she initially attempted to ignore. However, when she witnessed similar actions towards a young intern, she realized that her own lack of response had made her an enabler of her boss’ advances. 

 

I bristled against that description. When used regarding addiction, an enabler implicitly accepts the abuse and allows it to continue. Since when should a victim, often with limited resources, less experience, and little power, get described as an enabler? Am I my brother’s keeper?

 

The answer is complicated. Many victims are not in a position to confront the behavior, nor should they ignore the fear they feel, as they have genuine reasons to be afraid. And, as Robin Williams repeatedly tells the long-abused Will (Matt Damon) in “Good Will Hunting,” “it’s not your fault.”

Unwanted sexual advances, whether defined as harassment or abuse, are not the fault or responsibility of the recipient, even when guilt and shame repeat the lie. 

 

But when do we have the responsibility to act, even knowing it’s not our fault? Often, as Schultz describes, it comes when another is in danger, is suffering. Ashland writer Sarah Wells pointed me to the work of Mark Labberton in “The Dangerous Act of Loving Your Neighbor.” He writes about suffering that relies “on the complicity and distraction of our ordinary hearts.” Ouch. As Wells explains, this overwhelming suffering is “too much for one person to carry . . . all the suffering in the world is not mine to bear. But some of it is.” What Labberton suggests is that we pick one focus, and make the work of justice for that single injustice the passion of our heart.

 

Our work of justice may expose a hostile work environment or care for the Afghan refugee. It plants a garden, submits a letter to the editor, or teaches a child to read, and stands in solidarity with one who suffers. Henri Nouwen reminds us that “courage often starts in small corners,” and that image offers hope as we take a step forward, establish our rhythm, and join hands with allies. Once again, MILCK’s words echo: “I can’t keep quiet . . .”