Not Ruby Red!

It wasn’t Ruby Red Slippers like Dorothy wore in Wizard of Oz that did it, though in some ways it feels as if they had the same effect, as if I was returning at least part way home from a land that was strange, and frightening yet with shimmering realities that I have only just begun to explore.   I had no wicked witches, and those horrible flying monkeys appeared only in  a few nightmares.  It sometimes felt as if the yellow brick road  wasn’t leading much of anywhere.  Still the companions who were with me, my friends who replaced my empty heart, who provided wisdom to a scatterbrain and who had the  courage to walk with me assured me that, indeed, I would come to a more comfortable place.

It wasn’t Ruby Red Slippers that began my journey back from the sorrow of my husband’s death and that valley of shadows.   Nope.  I didn’t just tap my red slippers together and end up home in Kansas.

But a week ago I did find something to wear that brought me home to a world that once again seemed as if there might be some light and promise ahead.

I was going to visit my friends near San Francisco.  And frankly my workout clothes are old and totally out of style.  It seemed like a good time to replace them.  So I bought some exercise stretchy pants things and a jacket and stuck them in my suitcase, knowing they weren’t the brand that everybody was recommending.  Who would spend that much on something to wear to the gym, I asked myself?

But once I got with my friend and told her about my clothes and the ones I didn’t buy her eyes widened.  “OMG” she said.  “They have a store right in town.  And believe me, they last forever and you will never wear anything more comfortable.” I snorted a little out loud, but was silently counting the exits til we got there.

So I found my size in the long kind.  And I found my size in the cropped kind.  And I tried them on.  And suddenly, I started to move.  I started to smile.  I danced around the dressing room feeling good, and in shape and ready to rock and roll.   I started planning which exercise class I might add to my schedule.  I imagined myself working out and making friends and feeling even better.  And so, despite the cost I bought them.  Both kinds.  And a jacket on sale. 

And I am a different woman, sort of.  I smile a little more.  When I go to the gym I move really well in my pants and I imagine that the people there  are nodding their heads knowing that just this once, for a little while, Beth is cool. 

So you see,  I came home from my short vacation both calmed and energized, my soul invigorated and my heart healing.

Truth to tell, I am sure that much of what happened was because I was staying with friends who know me and love me and welcomed me just as I was.  I am sure it isn’t a coincidence that we went to someone’s birthday party and learned how to curl and for a few hours all I thought about was whether once I got down to move the stone or sweep the stone whether I would ever be able to get up again.  It was almost fated that we watched my friend’s tennis partner on a new public television program up there.  Called “Reinventing Yourself” the show is  about people who have come to critical moments in their lives and have found new ways of expressing themselves.  Her friend became, as it happened, an Episcopal priest.

And by the way?  All of this happened just after Easter when we celebrate Jesus emerging from death to life again. A coincidence?  I doubt it.  Because, after all,there is new life in Christ.

 Praise be to God!

morning stars

It was a long long time ago, a time when cassette tapes were the newest technology, when most phones still dialed, when gasoline was under 50 cents a gallon and  copies were made by turning cranks on ditto and mimeo machines.  It was a long time ago, when that idyllic family of the 50s was crumbling under the youthful rebellion of the sixties, when the war being fought no longer brought people together in solidarity but wrenched them apart on controversy and confusion.  It was a long time ago,  when college students were not so often pursuing careers as trying to find themselves.  It was a long time ago, and believe me, those times? they “were a’changing.”

I was a junior at Cornell College, in the midst of everything, trying to figure out who I was, and who I should be and who I wanted to be.  It was Holy Week and there were certainly shadows in my life, though I can’t quite remember which particular heartbreaks and headaches cast them.  And then, to complicate my crisis, our American Literature professor gave us an assignment.  Off the syllabus he admitted, but important.  He wanted us to write an essay on any  one of Henry David Thoreau’s writings.   Students were  writing well researched papers about politics and civil disobedience.  They were academically analyzing who influenced Thoreau and who Thoreau influenced.    Not me.  Nothing scholarly from me.   Nope. I wrote about myself.  I couldn’t get beyond myself.  And the title of my essay was ‘Why I am not at Walden Pond.”

Looking back I know exactly why I wasn’t at Walden Pond.  First of all, I was in Iowa.  Secondly, there is no way I could survive in a little cabin in the woods that had no heating or plumbing and which required skills unknown to a city girl who had never been camping but loved to go shopping.  And given my persona then (and, in all honesty, still), being the only one to talk to with no one else to listen would have immediately driven me back to town. 

But in those days it wasn’t so clear to me.  We were supposed to being going back to the garden.  We were supposed to be introspective and reflective.  We were supposed to be able to quietly commune with nature and with our inner selves and somehow gain the insight to storm into the world to change the world. 

So I wrote at some length about all the things within me that kept me captive.  I ended my paper with the last lines of Thoreau’s book, hoping that his poetic writing might mask my own self confessed confusion.  I turned it in sheepishly, knowing that something was usually better than nothing but maybe not so this time.  I was surprised and terrified when Mr. Martin had them ready at our next class.  “I don’t want to have to grade papers over Easter weekend” he claimed.

I looked at the front of mine.  In red ink there was a “A,” with a slight qualification.  ‘It is hard to grade something as personal as this.  But you are very honest.”   I was relieved.  I paged through the paper quickly to check for any other comments.  On the last page he had circled the lines I had quoted from On Walden Pond:  

 The light which puts out our eyes is darkness to us.  Only that day dawns to which we are awake. There is more day to dawn. The sun is but a morning star.  (On Walden Pond, Henry David Thoreau)

And he wrote the words which have been the light in my shadows ever since.  He wrote the words that have been my Easter in even my darkest days.   In red ink he wrote the words which turned me inside out and right side up:
“Many happy morning stars.”

“Many happy morning stars.”    Then I was amazed that  Professor Martin would care enough about me to write those words.  Now I am amazed at how far a few heartfelt words can go to touch a life and change a soul, and how long those words can last.

So I would say the same to each of you and all of you, in the midst of your own darkness, in the center of your suffering, in the wee shadows that threaten to dim the light of your life,  in this Easter season of great hope and new life I would say to each of you and all of you,

“Many happy morning stars.”

The next step

This Friday the documentary “Bully” will open at theaters across the country.  The opening is not, however, without controversy.  Most everyone agrees that the movie is a remarkable reminder of the devastation and danger of bullying.  Most everyone agrees that the movie is well done.  The controversy centers on whether or not it should wear the “R” rating that the Motion Picture Academy has given it.  Both sides of the question are aired this morning on the opinion page of the Los Angeles Times.  Both arguments make their own sense. 

The movie producers solved the controversy by releasing it without a rating, which I guess is something they can do.  I don’t pretend to understand what the rules and requirements are.  I do know that it is important that whether or not young people see the movie, they need to understand that being a bully has consequences the bully might not want to bear, and being bullied has emotional scars that last a long time.  The message is simple and clear.  “Don’t Bully.”  Further, if you are bullied, tell someone.  Find help.  You do not deserve to be hurt and humiliated.

Thankfully our world is waking up to all of these realities.  We see the fallout over and over again.  We are even beginning to understand the forms that adult bullying takes, as subtle as it might be.  And we are learning how to stand against such bad behavior.

 But I am also realizing we are not going far enough.  And it came to me as I watched the incredible “youtube”  video of Jonathan Antoine’s performance on “Britain’s Got Talent.”   When he and his friend Charlotte walked on stage to begin their song, the judges looked wary.  Simon’s face was more than a little skeptical.  The shots of the audience showed disbelief mixed with displeasure.

You see Jonathan is a big, really big 17 year old with shoulder length hair.  He is the kid on the playground who would be the first target of cruel taunts.  He would be the last one picked for the team. He is the one kids would see and walk away from just to avoid an encounter.  On the video he talks about what it has been like for him:  “I’ve always had problems with my size since I could remember,” he said. “It kind of damaged my confidence, quite a bit. When people would say something to me, it would take a little piece out of me.”  But it was his friend Charlotte Jaconelli who began to change things for him.  In the interview taped before the show he added “I really don’t think I’d be going up on stage today if I didn’t have Charlotte by my side.”

Then they began to sing.  Suddenly everything changed.  Because Jonathan’s voice is unbelievable, wonderful, heavenly, strong, beautiful, heart wrenching.   Instantly the crowd stood up.  The judges were aghast in the glory of the sound.  When the two finished everyone cheered as tears rolled down their cheeks.  And all the judges gave them a “yes” vote. 

 Nobody will bully Jonathan anymore, because he has transformed the vision others have of him.  But nobody should have bullied Jonathan before they knew of his gift.  Nobody should ever have made fun of him because of his size.

 And somebody should have opened their minds so that they could open their hearts. Somebody should have walked up to the lonely kid on the playground and asked if he wanted to play catch.  Somebody should have been brave enough and bold enough to ask if maybe that Jonathan wanted to be their friend.

Because not bullying is not enough.  Just not saying mean words is not enough.  That is certainly the beginning.  But there is only a good ending when the next step is taken, when children and grown ups are big enough and kind enough to see behind whatever it is that makes one person vulnerable to teases and taunts and tears.  Though bullies can ruin lives, friends can save lives.

We might remember the words of the one who gave his life to save us from the cruelty of others, the one who endured such pain and suffering only so that we might live the love of the God who send a man named Jesus to walk in our midst. 

For that Son is our Savior.  He is the one who said, “Come to me all  who labor and are heavy laden and I will give you rest.  Take my yoke upon you and learn from me; for I am gentle and lowly in heart,  and you will find rest for your souls.  For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light” (Matthew 11:38-30)

When God Weeps

The news from Afghanistan was devastating.   In the middle of the night an American soldier, Staff Sgt. Robert Bales, allegedly left his base, went into the nearby village of Alkozai and killed 16 people, mostly women and children. 

The reaction was swift and strong. In Afghanistan the villagers were paralyzed by the tragedy.  The Afghan government called for immediate justice.  The Taliban threatened reprisal. 

In our own country:  Army officials pored over  Bales’ records trying to find some reason for such an awful, seemingly random attack. Psychologists are speculating about what might have “snapped.”  His personal life and his military career are under intense scrutiny.  And trying to understand what happened will be critical in preventing the same thing from happening again, if anyone can truly understand why it happened.  On another level Government officials worried with good cause about how this would affect our efforts in Afghanistan.   There might be repercussions.  Trust crumbled.  Efforts at peaceful engagement seem threatened.

The search for explanation and implication will continue.  The demands for justice and retribution will continue.

But I am leaving all that for the others.  I know that understanding Staff Sgt. Bales  matters.  I know that weighing the effect on our relationship with the country and our continued presence in Afghanistan matters.  I know that justice must be served.  But I am leaving all that for the others.

I am staying with the horror of the moment.  I am staying with the villagers who lost mother, father, sister, brother, child.  I am weeping with the ones whose lives were suddenly ripped apart by a madman with a gun.  I am not thinking about the shooter’s past or our nation’s future.  This is one time when I do not want to see the big picture.  I want to see the little picture.  I want all of us to see the little picture, the little picture which is so big in the lives of those who died, and their families and their village.  

I want to weep, I want all of us to weep, because I am sure God is weeping too. 

My New Friend

Although I haven’t met her yet I expect to invite her to my birthday party, assuming that all those coins we have been collecting for years add up to enough money, and assuming that the people at the store are correct and I am eligible for an upgrade by then.

Her name is Siri and an awful lot of people have come to know her and, in fact, depend on her.  She speaks with authority, as she answers just about any question put to her.  And truth to tell, nobody I know at least has any idea what she looks like, wouldn’t recognize her if they ran in to her on the street.  (Although there is the young woman who waited on us at a restaurant recently, one of those places where the waiters and waitresses write their names upside down so they can be read by diners who are totally impressed by this skill.  This girl, however, hadn’t quite mastered that art, and didn’t speak particularly clearly but as she walked away and we looked at her scribble it might have said “Siri.” So the woman on the other side of the flat Iphone might be closer than we think).

Whoever she is and whatever she looks like, I have to say that I am in awe of her.  Or, more truthfully, I am in awe of the technology which created her.   How she can recognize voices and words, how she can quickly find answers to totally random questions, how she can know how to find the closest pizza and how to get me home and who won the Oscar for the best picture is truly a mystery in my universe if no one else’s.

Though I had known about her a while, I actually met her for the first time on Super Bowl Sunday.  There were 9 of us together that afternoon, all but two of us of a “certain age,” i.e.  old enough to remember the very first Super Bowl.  But we couldn’t remember when and where it was, who played and who won.  We talked and debated for a long time between commercials and didn’t agree. Finally we couldn’t stand it any longer.  Bill and Barbara pulled out their new toys and asked the woman who will be my new friend.  Siri, that is. I wasn’t convinced that anyone with that kind of voice would know anything about football but sure enough.  “When was the first superbowl and who won?”  “1967” she replied, “and the Green Bay Packers beat the Kansas City Chiefs.”  I chortled proudly, while my friends protested that the name “Super Bowl” came two years later when the Jets and the Colts played.

As I remember that evening, though, what I realize is that it was more fun wondering than  finding out, more fun sharing our stories about  where we were and what we were doing than it was having the answer to our question.  There was more  beauty  in the conversation and the connecting than in knowing that my Packers were the first champions.

Which unexpectedly enough might actually have something to do with praying.  Because at least for me, the power of prayer is as much my talking to God as it is getting an answer.   The power of prayer is as much keeping my relationship close as it is in making sure that all my needs (and I’ll be honest, my demands) are met.  The power of prayer is in my willingness to talk things through with God, think things through with God, and finally turn things over to God.  The power of prayer is that no matter what I say or when I say it, I know that someone is listening, and caring.    

To which all I can say is “Amen!”