Who will carry the flag?

It’s Memorial Day.  If you’re stateside, as I am, the ribs, hot dog buns, and charcoal are all sold out at your local Wal-Mart.  If you logged onto Facebook or any other social media today (or really anytime this weekend), you’ve probably been reminded endlessly to remember and be thankful for those who gave the ultimate sacrifice in the service of the United States.    And, hope you remember.  And, I hope you’re grateful.  Many of things we enjoy here came at a cost-a high, high cost.  

Service and patriotism seem to be genetic in my family.   I come from a long, long line of veterans and those willing to serve their country in various capacities.   There were the couple of grandfathers who served in the Revolution.  One stayed on in our first army, and lost his life in a battle in 1791.  Another grandfather and a set of uncles were involved in the War of 1812.   When the Civil War came, a grandfather and an uncle fought in blue, and the uncle fell on the field at the Second Bull Run, while other grandfathers and uncles fought in gray-one grandfather, whose name my son and I carry, carried a mini ball in his shoulder for the remainder of his life from Kennesaw Mountain and returned home to care for his sister whose husband never returned from Vicksburg, while another grandfather left Fort Morgan, and his state of Alabama a prisoner, never to see his home again, dying in a POW camp in Elmira, NY.   Other relatives served in World War I.   My grandfather (that same family name my son and I carry) and great uncles on both sides served in World War II.  My dad and my uncle were drafted and served tours in Vietnam.   My brother was in the army during the Gulf War.   Many friends and loved ones have served in some capacity in the current conflict and in peace time.   Some came home.  Some did not.  

Actually, that’s not true.   None of them came home.  Not a one. 

Memorial Day is a time, a day-a 24 hour period, in which we set aside time to honor and remember those who have died while serving their country.   A noble and worthy cause, no doubt.   And I ask you…no, I beg you.  Remember them.  REMEMBER them.   Remember their service.  Remember their sacrifice.   Remember what they stood for.   Remember what they stood against.   Remember those they loved.   Remember those they left behind.   Remember those who are no longer whole because the absence they leave behind can never be filled.   And remember WHY.  Always remember why they fought, why they died.   Do this.   Do this today.   And do it tomorrow, and the next day and the next week, and everyday afterward…because a mere 24 hours is simply not enough.   Thank God for them, because their sacrifice deserves it.  Their sacrifice requires it.

Yet, none of them came home.   None of them really came home. 

Remember those that came home, too, because none of them, especially those that served in war time, really came home either.   At least not fully.  I am the sister, daughter, niece and granddaughter of war time veterans whom I love and admire.   And this, I can tell you without hesitation-part of them is still “over there”, wherever “over there” happened to be for them.

My grandfather served in the European Theater in the Army in World War II.   We were close.   Very close.   We did everything together.    We were definitely members of the “mutual admiration society.”   We talked about, among other things, music, fishing, travel, and history.   And travel and history often collided with his experience in the war.   So we discussed it.  Often.  I knew he was trained near New Orleans-and this afforded him the opportunity to play jazz on Bourbon Street before he shipped out.   His father was working the railroad in Mobile at the time, and often visited him when he had a weekend pass-and my grandfather visited him in Mobile the day before he shipped out.  He hated chocolate the rest of his life because his mother spent all of her ration tickets on a 5lb box of Hershey’s chocolate, which he ate in one sitting on his first day on the boat, and, in his words, “Every fish in the Atlantic Ocean got a taste of chocolate the next day.”  He despised the idea of being in a boat in the ocean for the same reason.  He told me all about London and Paris.   I knew that he wanted to be a pilot, but was too tall to fit in the cockpit.   I knew that it probably wouldn’t have mattered anyway, as my grandfather had a few skills that the army desperately needed-railroad experience and the ability to operate telegraph communications and understand and communicate in Morse Code.  That particular skill ensured that he didn’t come home when everyone else did because he was needed in the rebuilding process.  I knew that while in France, he had a jeep driver named “Georges” who often took him into to town to play with local musicians during their free time.   He picked up a little French while there, and often tried to have conversations with me “en francais” when I struggled through French in college.  (That was an epic fail if you’re wondering.)  He told me about his time in Germany, and we compared notes and places we’d both seen in Germany, England and France after I traveled to play music in 1999.  He refused to eat chicken (unless you didn’t tell him it was chicken) because his mother bought every chick she could when she found out her boy was coming home, and they ate fried chicken for—well, for a long time after.  And he made darn sure I knew that he wanted his casket draped in that flag when his time came, and what it would mean to him (and me) for me to have that flag and be proud of it, and that “Taps” was to be played at his funeral.  He was my best friend.    And, as best friends, should, I knew all there was to know about him. 

But I didn’t.   At least not for a very long time.   My grandfather landed in France the day after D-Day-to a carnage that I simply cannot fathom, and part of his responsibility was to help “clean up” the mess, and identify any who might still be saved.   And as much as my grandfather talked, and believe me, he could carry on a three hour conversation with a brick wall, he never spoke of it, except the one time to acknowledge that he had been there, and that he just couldn’t talk about what he saw.   You see, no matter how fully he lived afterward, no matter how happy he was to be home, a part of him forever stayed on that beach in Normandy.

My big brother was my idol, my knight in shining armor, my hero.   And that was before he joined the army!   I practically worshipped the ground he walked on.   I pretty much went along with anything he wanted me to do-well, except for that time we had a fight over which one of us had to drink the “New Coke” we accidentally got out of a drink machine once.    No one was more proud of him when he joined the army, and I don’t know that anyone was more crushed when, while he was on leave, we came home to find his leave had been cut short and he had to immediately return to Fort Bragg in order to prepare to leave for Desert Shield.   I know exactly what he looked like when he got on that plane at 4:30 in the morning, and I know exactly what he looked like when he got off a plane in Birmingham roughly eight months later.   And to this day, I can’t put a finger on it, but he looked different.   And he was different.   Really different.   I still worshipped him (and probably do a little still), but regardless, it was never the same.    Part of him, I can only guess, is still over there in the sands of Saudi Arabia and Kuwait.

And then there’s the Vietnam vets in my life-my father and my uncle.   I came after the fact, so I’ve only seen the aftermath, but it’s there.   I have always known my father was proud of his service in Vietnam, but I only recently have learned more about it, and I doubt I’ll ever know all of it.   He was an MP,  in the 504^th, Company B.   I now knew he was in some way involved in Ban Me Thuot and I know he was in the area of Pleiku, but I didn’t know that til the last 15 years or so when his buddies found him and asked him to come to a reunion.   Before that, I knew he was an MP and his best friend’s name was Zeigler, and that Fess Parker once visited them while there.    That and that something had terrified him.   He’s always hated loud noises, especially fireworks.  And then there were the nightmares.    Plus, just a general uneasiness he’s always had about him.    A far cry from the wild country boy I heard stories about.  There are problems lingering from Agent Orange-problems my uncle (his brother) fought til the day he died-and the mental anguish I can only assume comes with what they saw-so horrible that his brother tried to keep him from having to go by offering to stay.    Whatever it was, I see it in him still when he sees pictures.   And still, we don’t talk about it.  His demons are there, as I imagine they always will be.   They were there til the end for my uncle.   Those demons replace what was there-that part of him, that part of my uncle, that never came back.   I will never know my father fully, although I saw him last week, because part of him is still in Pleiku.

And there are those who are worse.  Those who come back physically and mentally impaired.   Those who came back, physically living, but so dead inside that all trace of their humanity has disappeared.  Those who are no longer recognizable to even their dearest, closest relatives.   Those who lost their very souls fighting for something they believed in though they are still breathing.    And those who can no longer live without what they left behind “over there”  and so end it all rather than dealing with the pain.  

You see, the fact is, no one who leaves for war ever comes back  from it.   They can’t.   It’s impossible to see what they have to see, to endure what they have to do endure, and be the same person that left.   Hence the young man my great grandmother said goodbye to was not the same man that returned to her years later.    The two sons my grandma had to let go overseas were not the ones who she welcomed home.  And that is the reason why the brother I watched get on the plane was not the I watched get off one.

Aside from learning a few more details about my father’s army service, I’ve learned something else since my father has been attending his military reunions.    They are not merely a unit.   They are a family, bonded by trial and fire.   And they love each other, care for each other, and protect each other until the bitter end, whether it’s been 2 months or 30 years.   Nothing, and I mean nothing-not even death-can separate that loyalty and love.   

Today is Memorial Day.  Remember those who were lost entirely.   Hold highly in regard those who gave their lives so that we might be safe and protected, and care for and remember those whom they left behind.   Their sacrifice is the greatest of all, and should be honored as such.     Be grateful that they loved enough to lay down their lives in service.    But don’t just remember them today.  Remember them every day, because it’s the right thing to do.  Pray for them and for those that are left pining for them.   Help honor their memory in any way you can.    But remember also that no soldier returns as he or she left.   Part of them is still over there as well.  Pray for them and do what you can for them, too, because that is what their brothers and sisters who did not make it home at all would have done, and it’s the least we can do to honor their memory.

“No one has greater love than this, to lay down one’s life for one’s friends.”   John 15:13

In one of my favorite films, Glory, the commander asks his troops before the final battle, “If this man should fall, who will carry the flag?”.

Many have fallen.  Who will carry their flag?

Because their sacrifice demands it---Get up and go!!

Profiles in Light: Green Beans Coffee Company and Cup of Joe for a Joe

Ever wondered how you could send a quick thank you to a random service member?    Well, here’s an answer for you.

In 2009, the Green Beans Coffee Company began a program called “Cup of Joe for a Joe.”   Simply put, this program gives people back home the opportunity to say “thanks” to a service member through buying them a cup of coffee, tea, etc., and sending a note of encouragement along with it.   The company operates at several overseas and forward bases.   Service members sign up to receive the gift of a cup of coffee, and Green Beans Coffee Company randomly selects service men and women to receive the gift through a program developed to help ensure all who sign up receive at least one gift.   

You can purchase a Cup of Joe for a Joe for just $2.00 or have a box sent to the front for $7.00.   You can donate as many cups or boxes as you’d like.  If you happen to have a service member you know, you can purchase a gift card to have sent to them.

You can donate a cup or box of coffee or find more information at the Green Beans Coffee Company website found here:

https://www.greenbeanscoffee.com/coj/index.php

You can also find them on Facebook here:

https://www.facebook.com/cupofjoeforajoe

So, please, if you have a little spare change, take a second this Memorial Day to remember those who are putting their lives on the line.   

How Long, Oh Lord, How Long? - A Good Friday Reflection

John 19:16b-30

“So they took Jesus; ¹⁷ and carrying the cross by himself, he went out to what is called The Place of the Skull, which in Hebrew^[d] is called Golgotha. ¹⁸ There they crucified him, and with him two others, one on either side, with Jesus between them. ¹⁹ Pilate also had an inscription written and put on the cross. It read, “Jesus of Nazareth,^[e] the King of the Jews.” ²⁰ Many of the Jews read this inscription, because the place where Jesus was crucified was near the city; and it was written in Hebrew,^[f] in Latin, and in Greek. ²¹ Then the chief priests of the Jews said to Pilate, “Do not write, ‘The King of the Jews,’ but, ‘This man said, I am King of the Jews.’” ²² Pilate answered, “What I have written I have written.” ²³ When the soldiers had crucified Jesus, they took his clothes and divided them into four parts, one for each soldier. They also took his tunic; now the tunic was seamless, woven in one piece from the top. ²⁴ So they said to one another, “Let us not tear it, but cast lots for it to see who will get it.” This was to fulfill what the scripture says,

“They divided my clothes among themselves,
    and for my clothing they cast lots.”

²⁵ And that is what the soldiers did.

Meanwhile, standing near the cross of Jesus were his mother, and his mother’s sister, Mary the wife of Clopas, and Mary Magdalene. ²⁶ When Jesus saw his mother and the disciple whom he loved standing beside her, he said to his mother, “Woman, here is your son.” ²⁷ Then he said to the disciple, “Here is your mother.” And from that hour the disciple took her into his own home.

²⁸ After this, when Jesus knew that all was now finished, he said (in order to fulfill the scripture), “I am thirsty.” ²⁹ A jar full of sour wine was standing there. So they put a sponge full of the wine on a branch of hyssop and held it to his mouth. ³⁰ When Jesus had received the wine, he said, “It is finished.” Then he bowed his head and gave up his spirit.”

This is the Gospel of Our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ, The Word of God for the People of God.  Thanks be to God.

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I love Peanuts.   My uncle and cousins often farm peanuts, and my dad works with them on the farm, so I have a lot of experience with the edible kind, but in this particular instance I’m referring to the comic strip and animated television series created by Charles Schultz featuring a boy named Charlie Brown-that lovable, hapless, unlucky fellow that most of us have been able to relate to at some point in time in our lives.  

Several years ago, I cut out a Peanuts comic that appeared in the Sunday paper, featuring Charlie Brown and Lucy Van Pelt.  The comic strip had a place in several of my offices before eventually getting displaced in one of our moves.  In this particular strip, Lucy was playing with…you guessed it, a football. Charlie walks by, determined not to pay attention, but Lucy manages to not only lure poor Charlie Brown in, but cleverly convinces him that this time, this first and one time, she will finally let him kick the football.    Charlie, bless his heart, takes the bait.   You can see the determination in his eyes.  This is going to be the time.  This will be the best kick ever.   He is going to give it his all and make it just as perfect as he’s always envisioned this moment being.

Charlie takes several steps back in order to get a running start, and begins charging at full speed towards the football that Lucy is holding.   He readies himself to kick, and of course, the inevitable happens.   Lucy snatches the ball out of the way just as poor Charlie is about to kick it, and the force of Charlie’s kick sends him flipping through the air at warp speed, where he eventually lands flat on his back, devastated and defeated.    Lucy walks off, smirking that some blockheads never learn, and the final frame of the comic shows our beloved Charlie Brown, still flat on his back, pondering, “How long, oh Lord, how long?”.

You’re a good man, Charlie Brown, because we’ve all been there at some point in our lives.  I’ve always said that Charlie Brown may have had a hard time as a kid but he was probably a better prepared adult for it.   Charlie learned pretty quickly that life’s not always fair, and well, those poor souls like Lucy may have had a hard lesson to learn when things went south the first time later on in life.

I learned pretty early on that things don’t always go your way.  Twenty years ago, my brother became a father-to a beautiful baby girl.  Now, I was particularly close to my brother, so the birth of his first child was a pretty exciting thing for me-especially since it was a girl and we had already been blessed with two nephews.  I saw her twice right after she was born.  I fell head over heels in love, and Bo was flat out silly over her. She was perfect.   Absolutely wonderful.  But, the relationship between her parents wasn’t.  And a few weeks after she was born, her mother left with her and went home to North Carolina.   We were all no doubt crushed and devastated at the idea of her being so far away from us, but Bo made the best of it, making frequent trips to see her and spend time with her.   But it didn’t last.   He went not long after her first birthday only to find that she and her mother were gone.    We didn’t hear any more from them and we didn’t know where they were.  Various efforts were made to find the child throughout the years, but nothing ever turned up.   For years, I bought birthday and Christmas presents, just in case we found her-I didn’t want her to think we didn’t love her or had forgotten her.  We, especially Bo, were heartbroken, so much so that her existence was rarely ever mentioned after a while, because the memories were just too painful.

Life’s not fair.   I know it’s not.  I’m literally sitting in it right now-for the second time in a year.  You know it as well as I do.  Things go wrong.  Plans go awry.  People do stupid things.  We get smacked around. To quote Forrest Gump, it happens.  We’ve all had our hopes raised, only to be dashed.   Maybe it was a promotion you worked hard for and deserved-perhaps even a job loss.   Maybe it was a trip that cancelled.  Maybe an illness or injury.  Perhaps it’s the loss of a loved one unexpectedly.  Maybe an unexpected financial loss.   The car broke down, the central unit went out, the roof needs replacing.   That stuff.  It doesn’t take but a quick glance at the news to see the unrest in the world around us.   Shootings, war, greed, slavery, acts of nature, tragedy. Eventually, you find yourself at  the point where you’re in absolute despair and you just want to cry out “How long, oh Lord, how long!??!”

I suspect Jesus’ followers felt the same way.   They had waited and waited some more.   Their hopes had been raised and then smashed on the ground time after time.   Their history had been a chronology of failures- Moses and that stupid rock, Samson and that woman.  Even David and Solomon had failed-and forget their descendants-That bunch of hoodlums had landed their people in exile  under the rule of  Babylon and Persia, and now since only a small percentage had returned to this land after the exile, they were spread all over the known world.  Then the Greeks came in and tried to change their culture   Now, the Romans were in charge, and they certainly weren’t getting anywhere with them.

Then comes this Jesus fellow.   And he’s doing it right.   He seems to have God’s favor, and a remarkable relationship with the Almighty at that-God even identifies him as his Son!   They’ve seen miracles.  They’ve heard his teaching.  People are drawn to him.   And best of all, he hasn’t managed to screw it up-he’s blameless!  No accusation of sin can stick to him!  He is THE one they’ve waited for, the one that was promised.   They know it.  They feel it.  They’re sure of it.  The time has come.   God is fulfilling His promise.   God does indeed love His people!  Hallelujah, Hosanna in the highest!!!

But wait.    Just when he appears to be making his triumphant entry into Jerusalem, something goes wrong.   He’s arrested.   He’s put on trial.  He’s beaten and mocked.    God doesn’t even save Him when the crowd is given a choice between him a known violent criminal.   He’s led up a hill, placed on a cross where he is further mocked and humiliated, and he suffers.  Yes, he suffers-crucifixion is one of the most horrific manners of execution in human history.    And then, like a book that is slammed shut, it’s over.  He’s dead.  It is finished. The sky turns dark, and their hopes are shattered into tiny little embers left to finish burning off in the ashes of what could have been.   And his followers are left wondering, “How long, oh Lord, how long?”

   

One year and one week ago, I got the urge to do a random search for a little girl that I had not seen in 19 years.  Every now and then, the gut feeling to check and see if I could find anything else would hit me so hard that I just had to do it-and the results were always the same-a heart wrenching nothing.  Another glimmer of hope snuffed out, another reminder that life wasn’t fair.  So, I began, preparing myself once again to feel the hurt of not knowing.   But this time, something popped up-an obituary for her mother’s father, which led me to a married name for her mother, and a Facebook page for another relative that led me to another Facebook page belonging to a beautiful young woman- who had a striking resemblance to me and my brother-holding an infant.   And I knew, and hope began to glimmer just a little stronger.

Now, a funny thing happened next.   After close to twenty years of searching and wondering, I had the information I was looking for-I had a location, a picture, a start!  But all of a sudden, I didn’t know what to do with it.   It scared me, so badly, in fact, that I went to a friend’s house that night (Brian was working the prom) to show her the information and pictures I had found and to try to determine what to do.   You see the thing is, after all that time feeling hopeless, love had kept that one little ember of hope burning, and I was terrified that it might die out.  I simply wasn’t sure how much more disappointment my brother (or myself) could take on this matter.  I wasn’t sure my brother would be willing to take the chance.  I didn’t know what she’d been told, or if she would even want to know us.  Suddenly, when it seemed all like it might be about to happen and hope was at its highest, what could well be the end of all of this, and not a pleasant one, became all too real.   The truth was, if this went badly, it would end and all would be lost.

Unbeknownst to me, at the same time, 700 miles away in North Carolina , a 19 year old and her fiancé were wondering why their three month old son was so long, when neither of them are particularly tall individuals nor are their immediate family members.   She speculated that her father might have been tall, but she just wasn’t sure.   All she had was a name, and a location where he was when she was born.  She’d tried before, but not with a lot of luck, and it was no wonder.   After all, our last name is Johnson-there’s only 29 million or so of us in the world-you can’t throw a stick without hitting one of us. And, his given name is Ricky.    Finding a specific “Ricky Johnson” in the United States is basically the equivalent of finding a needle in a haystack.   They’re everywhere.   But this time, she found one that gave her reason to believe that he might be the one. 

I gathered all the information I could and prepared to broach the uncomfortable subject with my brother for the first time in years.   I emailed him everything I knew on Thursday.   On Sunday night, his phone rang-she had found him before he’d been able to locate a contact method for her.   By Wednesday, he was holding his grandson, and having lunch with his daughter.  And since that week, I’ve gotten texts, pictures, emails and calls every week and more often than not, every day.   And I’ll be more than happy to show off those pictures to you at any time.

I tell you this today, to say this.   Hope does not die.  It can’t die.  It may be broken, beaten and whittled down to a tiny little ember that’s barely glowing with life, but it will not die.   There will be dark times, but that’s when hope will shine the brightest, because the darker it is, the easier it is for that faint light to be seen so it can lead the way.   And it shines because love wins.  Hope is connected to love, and it cannot die because love wins.  Do you hear me?  Love wins.

Life isn’t fair.  I don’t understand why some things are the way they are or why things happen the way they do.  I can’t make sense of it.  And it drives my little analytical brain crazy.  But I know the most important thing.  Two thousand years ago, when heaven itself wept and the world was at its darkest, hope remained because God loved us still, and that love won.  Love won.  And God loves us still today, so love wins. 

Easter is coming, but it’s not here yet.  In the meantime, all is not lost.  We are not defeated.   It’s always darkest before the dawn, but if we wait and lean on that hope that is just barely clinging to life, I just bet we will see love prevail once again.

In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.  Amen.

Goodbye, Miss Mittie...

Over thirty years ago, a precious lady named Miss Mittie came into my life and never left.   She was first my Sunday School teacher, but as time passed she became a mentor, friend, supporter, and perhaps most lovingly, a grandmother to me.   Some of my favorite childhood memories were spent in her Sunday School class, and in her home.  We had cokes and snacks, usually stop signs (the Lance Golden Cheese chip/cracker things for those of you who don’t know their “proper” name) every Sunday during our lesson, which was usually on the back of a poster with a picture depicting the particular Bible story we were studying, and she packed old cigar boxes with various activities to occupy our attention in the days before children’s church-and she always made sure the boxes contained several Hershey’s Kisses.    Every Sunday right after Sunday School and before worship, all the children in the church would gather around Miss Mittie and sing while she played the piano.   Our standards were “Zacchaeus”, “This Little Light of Mine”, “Climb, Climb Up Sunshine Mountain”, “Jesus Love Me”, “Jesus Loves the Little Children”, and “I’ve Got the Joy, Joy, Joy” (This was my personal favorite because I liked the part about “if the devil doesn’t like he can sit on a tack…ouch!”).  She was a school teacher, and she intended for you to do your best at all times-I remember a few occasions where we didn’t sing loud enough or with enough gusto in special programs, and she stopped us mid-song and had us re-do it correctly, but it was a good lesson to learn, and there was plenty of laughter and joy to go with it.  One of her favorite stories to tell about me was my surprise performance of a slightly less than traditional version of “We Three Kings” I had heard on a California Raisins Christmas special at the ripe old age of 4.   She was so proud when I told her I knew the song, but the expression on her face when I proceeded with the, shall we say, “updated”, version of the chorus is now local church legend.   Nevertheless, she was proud of me.   She always let me know she was proud of me.

I was doubly blessed, though, because I not only got to spend my Sunday School time with her, I also got to spend a large majority of my Sunday afternoons and other times with her and Mr. Harry.   Miss Mittie and Mr. Harry would pick me up on Sunday mornings before Sunday School and then take me to their house to spend the day afterwards.    I ate many a Sunday lunch with them-whether it was at the Dairy Bar in town, or at their table-where she almost always had congealed fruit salad.   In the afternoons, we’d walk to Mr. Harry’s store, and get a banana popsicle or a nutty buddy ice cream cone.   They placed pictures of me on the refrigerator right next to their grandkids.    We took trips to McDonalds, watched ballgames and played in their back yard and throughout their house. 

As I got older, they came to ballgames, band concerts, and other events. Miss Mittie got most upset one year when I didn’t roll her yard.   Yes, you read that right.  She was upset because I DIDN’T put toilet paper in the shrubbery at her house-a sin I never committed again.  They even had a camera ready every year at Halloween to take pictures of their freshly rolled yard.   Once, when home from college, I wrote “I love you!!”in toilet paper on their drive.  I know it’s quirky, but it was special to us.

Miss Mittie took a great interest in my education.  She was always checking on my grades and she was determined that I would go to college.  I made it to Ole Miss, largely in part to two scholarships which she helped me apply for, and she didn’t forget me once I was there.   I got cards and notes, reminding me that she and Mr. Harry were proud of me and that they loved me.  

Things didn’t even change when I married and had children of my own.   My husband had to get approval from them before he dared to marry me.  She loved my boys as much as she loved me, even explaining to my oldest in a book she gave him that she was his great-grandmother and how she came to be so.   One Halloween, I took my boys to “roll” their yard.   Miss Mittie and Mr. Harry were tickled pink.   The boys’ pictures ended up on the refrigerator, too, and they loved to go visit because they knew exactly where the toys were. 

My heart is broken.  Her funeral is today, and I cannot attend.  My sweet Miss Mittie went home on Saturday, no doubt to great rejoicing, for I am sure her Lord is well-pleased with His good and faithful servant, and my heart aches for the lady who did so much for me that she didn’t have to, and whom I loved as a grandmother, and for the family she leaves behind.

Miss Mittie always told people that we “just adopted” each other because her grandchildren didn’t live there or nearby and neither did my grandparents.   That’s not the case.   God very graciously blessed my life by giving Miss Mittie (and Mr. Harry, too) to me to fill that place in my life and my heart.  And what a gift she was, because I am who I am and what I am because she was part of my life.   Thank you, Father.  And thank you, Miss Mittie-I love you and you will always be in my heart…until we meet again.   

Thoughts on a Pray-In

Today, on President’s Day, a pray-in was held in front of the White House to protest quotas on deportations and to shine a light on the plight of immigrants in this country.   Several, including church leaders, were arrested for their participation.  

I have a personal story to share with you regarding the issue of immigration.   You see, six years or so ago, I was pretty firmly against any sort of amnesty, welcoming, etc.  My general view was to send them back from wherever they came from post-haste.  It was truly a black and white issue for me.   They were here illegally, thereby breaking the law and should be treated accordingly.   The cold, hard truth, though, is that it isn’t that simple at all.   For some, it literally is a matter of life and death.   And two very heart wrenching experiences changed my outlook entirely.

The first happened about five and a half years ago.   Our family was in the process of moving to a new town where my husband had been named assistant principal of a local high school.  School was back in session, and my husband, oldest son, and I were still living in a hotel.  It was during these first few weeks of the school year that a local industry became the location of one of the largest immigration raids in U.S. history.   Of course, it was all you could find on the news.  But what tugged at my heart strings was what was not on the news. 

You see, those workers who were rounded up weren’t just a number.   Many were parents.  Parents of children who were students-Students who attended my husband’s school-which put them squarely on our radar.   As news of the raid reached the school, the affected students understandably panicked.  Some worried  about their parent and where they were or might be being sent.   Others worried first about younger siblings who would arrive at home alone because their parents might not be there.   A few even worried about what might happen to them.  

It would be a sad situation if it ended there-but unfortunately, it does not.  When the school reached out to the authorities in charge trying to get information for these children, they were refused.    Other law enforcement agencies reached out on behalf of the school, but were also refused.    And so, the children were left to return to their homes, scared and uncertain that their parents would be home for dinner…or at all…and we were left wondering if it was actually worth it.

Our second encounter, most gut wrenching  experience came a little under a year later.   We were on  a vacation near Progreso, Mexico.   Being history buffs, one of the things we looked most forward to was the chance to see some of the Mayan ruins, so we signed up for a quick tour that would take us outside of town to the ruins at XCambo.  What we got was much more than we bargained for…and it changed us forever.

Our short trip took us a down the shoreline.   Along the beach, you will find grand mansions-fabulous homes that would no doubt suit the most exquisite of tastes.   You will also find the homes of the less fortunate-and I use the term “home” loosely.  Here in “America, the Beautiful” we would likely refer to these people as homeless.  The homes were nothing more than scraps of tin, plywood, and cardboard-yes, cardboard- pieced together to provide some semblance of shelter from wind and rain often no more than five feet by five feet wide.   The tide fills the bottom of these “structures” in the morning and evening, and stagnate water fills low lying areas around them.  There is nothing-no fresh water, bathroom facilities-none of the comforts that we tend to consider basic.  Families-yes, families-as in multiple people-inhabit these things, often subsisting on less than two dollars a day-at times choosing which child to feed because there simply isn’t anything.    And they are everywhere, as far as the eye can see. 

I saw Mayan ruins in Mexico.   I did not care.  What stuck in mind then and continues to stick in my mind today is that shoreline.   That wretched shoreline.   And everything I thought about immigration changed.

You see, I just can’t do it anymore.   I can’t justify herding human beings up and sending them back to that.  I can’t rationalize putting anyone in those deplorable, hopeless, and downright inhumane conditions.  I cannot fault a man or woman who is willing to try to escape these conditions, conditions which affect their very lives and the lives of their children.   And I won’t.

We supposedly live in a country that believes so much in humane treatment, that prisoners, even the most vile offenders, have rights to certain things.  How can we justify how we treat these HUMAN BEINGS who are merely trying to escape the hopeless abyss of despair and death that surrounds them?  How is herding them into detention camps and sending them back to conditions that we would arrest someone for leaving a dog in acceptable and/or humane? 

As Christians, we can no longer sit idly by and allow other human beings to be degraded  and devalued to this extent.  God created these people in His image, they are HIS children, and He loves them.  As should we.   And we must be His hands and feet, reaching out to them in love, creating hope, not more hopelessness.

Today, some Christian leaders took a risk and said simply, “This is not okay.” by having a pray-in.  They were arrested, but their efforts should not be in vain.  They must not be.

Not everyone is called to be a protestor.   But everyone is called to pray.  Pray for these immigrants.  Pray for their situations.  Pray for those who are still living in the grips of hopelessness.   Pray that a solution will be found and that good will come from it.   Pray that hope will prevail.  Pray that those who are called, be it to leadership, protest, or prayer, will have the courage to get up and go.