Memories of My Mother

Fourteen years ago today,

My dear, dear Mother slipped away.

The color draining from her cheeks,

Her body silent ‘neath the sheets.

I knew that the day was near,

I knew I could not keep her here,

I tried so hard to ease her pain,

I knew my efforts were in vain.

I was grateful for the sweet release,

Her weary face at last at peace.

But, from her bed, I saw the tree,

Wondered, “What would Christmas be?”

Outside the ground was cold, but green,

No white Christmas, it would seem,

Yet  as I watched her body die,

White flakes descended from the sky.

A final gift of wintery white,

As her spirit took its flight,

These the memories I recall,

Each year when Christmas snowflakes fall.

I Went to Jail This Morning

I sat there alone for some time in the jail reception area with no particular desire to converse with the other folks waiting.  It’s not that I felt superior to the rest of the visitors, but I didn’t have much in common with some of the attitudes being expressed.  Two women who apparently were there to see the same man talked with each other, and the air was electric with their contempt for one other.  My guess is that one was the mother and the other the girlfriend.  Eventually the younger woman stalked out.  The older woman said aloud to no one in particular, “Can you guess I don’t like her?  If she dropped dead right here, I wouldn’t give her CPR.” 

When the reception window opened, we all went up to sign in, surrender our IDs and receive a badge to wear during the visit.  I returned to my previous seat and found it had been taken by an attractive and dressed-better-than-most, forty-ish woman.  I sat down next to her.  She was there to visit her son.  I was there to visit my granddaughter’s boyfriend.  I’m not even sure how the conversation began.

She didn’t want to be there, but felt obligated to come.  Her son would always be her son, in spite of his poor choices.  She had raised him until he was 12, and then he had gone to live with her ex-husband.  She remarried and has daughters who are good students and cause no trouble.  Her son has been in jail before.  Recently they helped him get set up in an apartment.  He got a job.  They thought this was the time he would be successful.  But, here she was visiting him in jail….again.  She never did tell me exactly what he had done.

I didn’t want to be there, but felt obligated to come.  The biological and adoptive family members of my granddaughter’s boyfriend do not visit him.  My granddaughter can’t visit him, because there is a “stay-away” order.  I couldn’t think of anyone else who would visit him, so I figured it was my job.  But, it isn’t fun to visit someone in jail.

I have been in jails many times in my life.  From childhood through my teen years, I attended a church which held monthly services at a local prison.  I went frequently.  I sang solos there.  Later as a professional person, I visited jails to offer health services and information to staff.  Of course, I went through metal detectors and listened to the doors lock behind me, but that was not as dehumanizing as going to visit a prisoner.  You are required to be there 30 minutes before the visit begins or you are turned away.  After signing in and surrendering your ID, you wait.  You are then herded into an entry room and the door locked behind you.  From there, you go into a locker room.  All of your personal items must be placed in a locker.  You take nothing with you from that room but the clothes on your back and the locker key.  Next are the metal detector, and another room and another locked door.  Finally, you enter the visit room.  The prisoners are already seated at small tables.  You are allowed a brief hug and then you sit opposite the person you are visiting for one hour.  You cannot leave early or wander about the room.  A guard sits at an elevated desk constantly observing.

The visit is over.  I smile at the lady I talked with earlier and ask if her visit went OK.  She nods with a bit of a smile playing on her lips but sorrow in her eyes. 

We never even exchanged names.  I suppose we each like our anonymity, but we share a sad and heavy common bond.

Broken World

Broken world,

Broken lives.

Scattered fragmented pieces,

Rather than beauty and wholeness.

Violent thoughts,

Violent deeds,

Actions filled with hatred,

In the place of comfort and love.

Babe in a manager,

Savior on a cross,

Your purpose was healing.

We are guilty of wounding.

Our fractured world,

Our broken land,

Our sinful hearts cry out,

Only you can make us whole.

All creation groans,

 In anticipation,

Make the crooked straight,

Make the rough places plain.

You came once humbly,

Come now in power.

May every knee bow to you alone,

Creator, Sustainer, Sovereign Lord.

Merciful Father,

Hear our cry!

Evolution and Despair

I just watched a clip on "Through the Wormhole" about "Directed Evolution."  The premise is that as humans advance in genetic technology, we will be able to control our own evolution, and that if we want to continue to "evolve," we must do so.

There are some things in this piece that leave me scratching my head in wonder.

The statement is made that "evolution is a random process that usually leads to dead ends."  Hey!  I believe that, and it is exactly why I believe in an intelligent Creator bringing about the world and everything in it.  The odds are astronomically against complex organisms developing by chance. Evolutionists supposedly think we (creationists and intelligent designers) are silly to believe this, but now here is an argument by an evolutionist that what we have said all along is true.  So, now since evolution doesn't work all that well on its own, we must tinker with our genes to continue improving our species.

I don't think we are yet anywhere near wise enough or knowledgeable enough to begin this tinkering.  We are not much past the now debunked belief that our DNA contains lots of "junk" that has no purpose.  Until we know the ramifications of our tinkering, we need to proceed with excessive precautions, lest we alter something we think has no purpose and discover we were mistaken.

The psychological impact of these beliefs is enormous.  It we are just the product of chance and need to start directing our own genetics to improve, we are subject to despair.  I am an accident.  I have no intrinsic worth.  My offspring will be as bad off as I am unless I figure out how to improve my own genes.  But if I don't know how to go about this or don't have the money to pay for it, my children are doomed to be as bad off as I am. What is the point?

Contrast this with:  I am a unique creation of a loving God.  He planned for my existence.  He desires to know me and help me to live a meaningful life.  My life and that of my offspring can be trusted to Him.

I am horrified by the number of teens and young adults I meet who believe that they are without value and that their lives are meaningless. Believing in our random evolution has consequences for emotional health.  Not only is it intellectually dishonest, it is foolish, emotional suicide.

Advent Wreath

The church I currently attend generally has an Advent Wreath for the Sundays leading up to Christmas.  Finding a pink candle is sometimes a problem.  This year I volunteered to put the wreath together.  I was really proud of myself for finding a pink candle, until I remembered that the only one I could find was scented, and one of the members of our congregation has allergies which might be triggered by the wafting aroma.

So...I decided to solve the problem permanently.  I purchased a 12 inch square piece of craft plywood, 5 electric candles and a piece of Christmas garland.  I knew I had colored cellophane at home.  

I painted the wooden square green.  While  it was drying, I wrapped 3 candles in purple cellophane and one in pink cellophane, gluing the overlap of the paper.  When the paint and glue were dry, I glued the five candles in place.  The white one in the center and the other four set in a bit from each of the corners. 

 I flattened the cords against the board and used a staple gun to secure the cords to the board positioning them so that they all came off the same side (what would be the back side) close together.  I wrapped the cords together with duct tape to make them easier to manage.  I marked the switches in sequence 1 through 5.  I then arranged the garland around the candles.

I now have an Advent Wreath that won't burn the church down or cause an allergic reaction.
Also...I won't have to go on a quest for a pink candle again next year.

Crazy??? Maybe Not!

My family tree is full of women named Ruth.  I was named after my mother's baby sister who died as an infant.  However, I had two other Aunt Ruths, and one of them, who had married into the family, was generally viewed as rocking off the edge of sanity.

Aunt Ruth was a high-strung, nervous woman, who never seemed as mentally agile as most of the family.  She and my uncle apparently enjoyed arguing...it was their relationship style.  He did, however, always get the best of her.  He used to threaten that if she died first, he would see to it that the hearse was put at the end of the procession to the cemetery, because she had never been any place on time in her entire life, and he wouldn't want her to feel uncomfortable at her own funeral.

Aunt Ruth had some bizarre habits.  If she invited someone for dinner, they needed to plan on the meal being at least two hours later than she had said it would be served. I once watched her fuss over every minute detail during those two hours, even though the meal was not elaborate.  When she wished to cover a bowl before placing in it the refrigerator, she did not use plastic wrap or foil or a lid.  Nope, she placed a sheet of waxed paper over the bowl and spent an eternity taking tiny tucks in the paper to crimp it to the edge of the bowl.

One of the things that caused people to think she was really nuts, was her insistence that when my uncle retired, she was retiring also.  She had never worked outside of the home, so her definition of retiring was that she was no longer going to fix dinner.  Since she began refusing to allow anyone into their home, I am suspicious that she may have also stopped cleaning.  I was not able to verify that, but she actually did follow through on her threat to stop preparing meals,  They went out to dinner every evening after my uncle retired.

My husband and I are now retirement age, and I'm starting to think she wasn't as crazy as we all thought.  I haven't yet tired of meal preparation, but I certainly have tired of the clean up afterward.  I have a dishwasher, and some evenings my husband is quite helpful.  But...I am definitely growing weary of dirty dishes.  I have pondered the use of paper plates, but I don't like to eat from them on a regular basis, and I would still have to deal with the pans and other utensils used to prepare the meal.

"Retiring" as defined by my "crazy" Aunt Ruth is starting to look like an attractive option.

My Grandmother's Song

It seems strange to me that a song my Grandmother sang to me when I was a small child comes to my mind so frequently.  I find myself singing it while driving along in the car.  Sometimes the words play soundlessly in my mind. 

My Grandmother died at the age of 68, when I was thirteen.  My memories of her do not extend over a long period of time, but since we lived with her and my Grandfather at times when I was young, my memories are deep.

I can recall how it felt to sit on her lap and hear her frail, but true to pitch, voice.

Jesus bids us shine,

With a pure, clear light,

Like a little candle,

Burning in the night.

In this world of darkness,

Bids us shine--

You in your small corner,

And I in mine.

This represents a slight alteration in words from the original, but it is the way I remember her singing it.

If Grandma had lived longer, allowing for adult level discussion, I might have inquired about the meaning of this song in her life.  Was it just a children’s song, she thought I would enjoy?  Was she purposely trying to instill its meaning in my young mind?  Was what she believed in her heart flowing out without specific thought as to its impact on me?

I know there have been long periods in my life….perhaps, years….when I haven’t thought of this song.  But, now that I am the age at which I last remember my Grandma Baumeister, the song has resurfaced and imbedded itself in my mental playlist.

And so...

Jesus bids us shine….you in your small corner, and I in mine.