Spencer's Mom

Except a kernel of wheat fall into the ground and die, it abideth alone: but if it die, it bringeth forth much fruit.

Follow Jesus: No Lines, No Waiting

A good lunch, but not the Bread of Life

Let me start by saying I love Chick-Fil-A. When my husband and I were down south in May we were in a long drive up line and a young man approached our car to take our order, apologizing for the wait. Then he asked if it was our first time and for my husband it was. “Oh, then your meal is free.” Impressive. Also impressive is the fact that they close on Sundays, like all of America used to when I was a child. A day of rest. Take it, America, we really, really need it.

But if you’ve followed the recent news at all, which I don’t, but my husband does, there was a recent uproar over several cities seeking to ban Chick Fil A from their gates, because the owner is Christian, and has stated his opinion that gay marriage is wrong. For this opinion, whether you agree with it or not, apparently his fast food chain is not welcome in these-here parts. And in opposition apparently Christians all over the Chick Fil A territory of the US mobbed their beloved fast-food chain, causing record breaking sales and emptying Chick Fil A’s of fried chicken and sweet tea.

Do mayors really have so little to do that they have their finger on the pulse of a food chain owner’s beliefs? What does the Burger King owner believe in? Dominoes? Does he own guns? Spank his kids? Maybe they support sweat shops in Hong Kong or worship Satan and sacrifice small animals. Ban them all! It probably wouldn’t hurt America’s blood pressure. My point is no more significant than anyone else’s. Which is exactly my point.

If I’ve learned anything at all as a Christian it’s let’s keep the main thing the main thing. Funny how when your world comes crashing down around you and all you can see is blackness, and all you can feel is bone crushing pain, the gospel of Jesus Christ becomes very simple. “Come, “ he says. When the weight of despair and the complexity of a fallen world crush you and leave you with no other thought than, “Get me out of here,” He says, This way, follow me. I am the truth, the way, the Life. And He doesn’t follow anyone. Conversely, not everyone will love him or want him in their town.

The Bible says God’s ways are not our ways. He walks among us now, but mostly in places where opinions fail to deliver, social issues become shallow and irrelevant and life is derailed from talking head entertainment. In hospitals, crack houses and funeral homes, in our solitude and fear. In the streets of India, Nigeria, Pakistan and Columbia where Christians are giving their lives, gladly, so that they can simply obey His voice, “Follow me”. What do they think about all us American Christians standing in line at Chick Fil A?

Opinions are okay. If you know me at all you probably think I have too many of them. But I’ve been humbled in my faith and brought down to a place of silence, and as Job did in ancient times, I put my hand over my mouth. There’s a much, much bigger picture at work here, and it is all under the hand of a sovereign, sometimes surprising God. That’s why as Christians we would do much better just trying to obey the simple instructions Jesus left. Love one another. Bless those who persecute you. Yes, love even your enemies.

Just follow Jesus. Leave the big stuff to Him. He is just and righteous, yet so full of mercy and grace…and wild, extreme love, beyond measure or comprehension. I know. He even loves me.

 

One Holy Night

Cast, musicians and a few angels backstage

A tired religious leader who admits his faith has dimmed, a young radical who takes out his rage and bitterness towards his own circumstances on the ruling party, a defeated young couple blaming their poverty on a system they feel trapped in, a group of working class men questioning any hope of life offering something larger than their own bleak existence, a father and husband extolling the virtues of capitalism while advising his children to “make money and marry well” and to forget any hope of a God that could rescue them. Sound familiar? Yes, this could take place anywhere in America or elsewhere in the world today, but these characters are part of the play, “One Holy Night”, an original production at Victory Chapel. And the setting is actually Bethlehem on the night that Jesus Christ was born.

I’ve had the pleasure of being a part of this play and working alongside some very dedicated and fun brothers and sisters in Christ who really love God and hope the message of this play will reach many. There is an answer! “Let every heart prepare Him room”. The play runs one more night, Friday Dec. 23rd at Victory Chapel, 7 pm. It’s free. God’s gift of salvation runs for the rest of your life. And it’s free too.

*New location: 320 Kidds Hill Rd., Hyannis.

 

And Wonders of His Love

Ready for Christmas 2011: Brooklynn and Olive MacLeod.

I did not even think of the three hooks set into the trim of the staircase in the living room until that December. Now, as I passed by them daily, or sat on the couch staring numbly at the Christmas lights on the tree, my eyes invariably turned to the three hooks. Three hooks. Three Christmas stockings. But now only two sons. Spence had died January of that year, 2002. I had endured all the painful reminders of his loss and yet this one seemed unbearable.

The stockings themselves were unique, something I was proud of creating. You see, I don’t sew. I dislike sewing so much I taught my sons how to sew so I didn’t have to mend their clothes and replace their buttons. But the stockings were different. Following my mother’s tradition, (and she was an excellent seamstress) each stocking was made of real red velvet and lined with green satin. But the best part was each stocking was decorated with something that pertained to the individual child. Spencer’s stocking, being the first child, was the most ornate. His dad was a fisherman at the time, so I made a boat with beaded sails and stars in the sky, then attached different symbols over time.. a rocking horse he loved, a guitar with glittery musical notes above it. Each boy’s stocking filled up over time as I introduced skateboards, basketballs, cowboy hats and drums using felt, beads and glitter. And each one was a labor of love, especially from someone who DOES NOT sew.

Three hooks, two children. I tried to ignore it. Then one day my youngest son Jake, who was ten at the time said, “Hey mom, where’s the stockings?” and Miles chimed in from another room, “Yeah mom, where are the stockings?” I acted surprised like it had just been an over sight even though they had always been hung weeks beforehand. I retrieved the two stockings and hung them, my heart weary with loss. I knew it was a small thing but the red velvet stocking with the fishing boat on it had to go too. One more thing that should have been there but…

That clear memory was exactly nine years ago. Miles has his own beautiful family now and my granddaughter, Brooklynn, proudly pointed out their Christmas stockings to me; four hung across their mantle. Jake’s stocking is around here somewhere. He’s a man now too so his stocking is more of a sentimental keepsake. And I kept Spencer’s stocking. One of those quirky things mothers who have lost children do.

When my mom had a second stroke a few years ago, my brother Bob and I went to her apartment to start packing her things up, knowing she would not return there. In her closet, up high on a shelf was a box. We opened it to discover my brother, Timmy’s things. Tim died in 1964 at the age of nine. There wasn’t much; a few small metal soldiers, Cub Scout patches, blue ribbons from a field day at school. And there, folded neatly among the little boy things was a red velvet Christmas stocking. I understood a secret part of my mother now that I never knew before. Things we can’t resolve we just pack away. It’s a private place only God can fit into with us.

After Brooklynn showed me the stockings she ran back over to the camera (thank God for Skype) and said “Guess what Ama? It’s Jesus’ birthday!” with such excitement I expected to see Jesus sitting at the table with her blowing out candles. Joy unspeakable! This is the tender mercies of such a very loving God. He saw the empty hook and a crushed heart and he saw ten years down the road and two granddaughters that would flood the same heart with joy. This Christmas season, I am in awe of His boundless love. “Oh tidings of comfort and joy, comfort and joy! Oh tidings of comfort and joy!”

 

Giving Thanks

Sara is in the middle

 

I will always remember a Thanksgiving in Pawtucket, about six years ago. In my memory I see a tray of Italian pastries and the beautiful dark eyes of five Puerto Rican children; eyes that had already seen too much in life but could still hold wonder and joy for small things. I remember hearts that were fragile and guarded but still knew how to be grateful. It was actually the night before Thanksgiving.

After church we were indulging in some desserts that were donated by the bakery down the street for our community dinner. Then it was time for me to take Migdalia and her four-year-old granddaughter, Sara, home. Migdalia lived in the worst project in Pawtucket. The first time I went there a little girl gave me a tour and showed me where all the people had died and how. Some on the sidewalk, some inside the dark doorways. Knives, guns. Migdalia had been given a flyer inviting her to our church. She said she slept with it for two weeks then called me one day. Yes I could pick her up. And so began the first of many trips to Galego Court, my station wagon becoming familiar after time and children, moms would wave at me as I drove through.

Are you a social worker? a young man asked me with restrained anger one night as I sat parked outside. A boy named Macho, who came to church sporadically, heard him and ran up to the car. No stupid! That’s the preacher’s wife! And the young man hung his head and mumbled Sorry. That’s OK honey. Why don’t you and Macho come to church sometime? He looked around. Maybe… Macho’s dad was in jail again and Macho rarely came to church. Always on the street. Always shouts “Hello Miss Robin!” when I drive by. So bright this boy was. My breath catches as I drive away and watch him walk back to a gang of kids on the sidewalk.

Under Migdalia lives Maria, a little Portuguese lady who speaks no English but has come faithfully to church the last year because Migdalia asked her to come. And Migdalia plants flowers under Maria’s window. Across the street lives Mandy, Migdalia’s daughter with her four kids. I asked her oldest son one night as I was dropping him home which room was his. He said” We all have the same room” and I said, “Oh! You have bunk beds?” and he laughed at me like I was an idiot and said patiently, “No, Miss Robin, we all sleep in one bed.” All four.

As we were eating our pastries at church I asked Migdalia what she was doing for Thanksgiving and she said she was eating with Mandy and the kids. At Mandy’s? She chuckled. Mandy has no couch. They will come over to my place. Migdalia’s place is the size of my kitchen, barely room for a twin bed, a love seat, and a small table where Migdalia reads her Bible. What will you eat? I asked. Turkey, potato salad and Mandy has a ham and rice. She made it sound like a banquet. I looked at all the pretty Italian pastries…pumpkin, cheese cakes, fruit filled with cream piped across the top of everything, and chocolate cakes. “Take these for your family Migdalia.” After much insistence Migdalia picked a tray and we piled in the car, Maria who laughs in Portuguese and little Sarah in the back, holding the tray on her lap.

On the way we came to a stop and I glanced in the rear view mirror and caught Sara’s dark eyes looking at the tray of assorted pastries on her lap. As I pulled up to the curb in front of Migdalia’s building she waited dutifully for Grandma to come open the door and take them from her. “Tank ooo!” Maria said and giggled as she tapped my shoulder. I turned my cheek so she could give me a kiss before she got out. Migdalia’s face shone, reflecting her beautiful spirit. “God bless you, Miss Robin!”

I watched them move up the walkway across the dirty grass, hearing their laughter fade in the night. Thanksgiving. Giving thanks. How is it those with so little can find such joy? There is a universal language. It is written with God’s boundless love in a destitute heart. It is the glory of a loving Father who provides all and every little thing in the midst of a dark and dirty world. When you give thanks this year, think of five little Puerto Rican children in the projects picking an Italian pastry from a tray in a crowded apartment. They would tell you there is so much to thank God for.

 

G.O.M. (Grumpy Old Men)

Not as grumpy as they look

I love Grumpy Old Men. Maybe it’s because if my dad was alive, he would be one. He died at my age, which was 30 years ago and he was a WWII Navy vet, submarines in particular. I was a little girl surrounded by brothers that had to spend part of every vacation touring smelly dark subs or visiting war memorials. That’s likely why I am a drawn to military history; a little odd for a woman.

This affinity for GOM plays out at work, where I frequently have to care for them. The WWII generation is quickly becoming extinct and they are filling hospital beds. I can always spot one because the nurse from the previous shift will be exasperated and worn-out. “Mr. Johnson (not real name) is stubborn and demanding.” Or the softer nurse-language; the patient is “non-compliant”, code word for difficult, or making my job miserable.

This weekend I cared for a GOM two days in a row. He was a challenge. We started our first day together with him demanding milk for his cereal NOW after keeping me in the room for several minutes while he fired questions at me about his doctor, the day’s schedule and when can he get out of here? Now I learned a long time ago that if you give these guys a sense of control, not to mention dignity, in the beginning of your shift, they’ll turn from lion to lamb by the end of the shift. He was no exception. After answering all of his questions the best I could and writing some of it on his board so he could remember it, I RAN to get his milk. When I returned promptly with it, I could tell we’d turned a page together. “You’re a good nurse,” he said. I thanked him and moved on.

The next day I again received an awful report from an exhausted night nurse. Mr. GOM had held the evening and night nurses hostage to his many demands and stubborn refusal to comply with treatment. He was old, in his eighties, and failing. His daughter told me her mother died five years ago and he wasn’t very good at managing alone but would not admit it. Typical of this generation, they don’t complain. They lived through the depression and a horrific war. They are not quitters, something foreign to following generations of protesters and entitled victims.

I stepped into his room and found a very tired AND grumpy old man that needed help getting to the bathroom. As I hooked my arm under his and took little steps alongside him and his walker he asked me, “And how are you on the Lord’s day?” I was impressed because he realized it was Sunday. “Well, I should probably be in church,” I answered. It’s part of the package of nursing, working every other weekend, and this Sunday was particularly tough to miss. Our church had moved to a new building and I longed to be a part of the celebration.

He stopped briefly and turned to me.

“Maybe He wants you right here.”

We smiled at each other and I tightened my grip on his arm as he started to move again. I forgot to mention this. Grumpy Old Men have a lot of wisdom too.

 

 

 

American Ajima

Brooklynn with the ajimas

I want to be an Ajima. Technically, or biologically, it’s impossible. Ajimas are Korean. But since my visit to South Korea two years ago, where I saw my first Ajima, I’ve pondered how to introduce this cultural phenomenon to America.

“Ajima”, my son Miles explained to me, is a Korean term loosely meaning an elder woman. Elder just means whoever is older, but Ajima more often conjures up the image of an old woman, a grandma. And an ajima is further defined by her physical appearance, a distinct look that you learn to spot anywhere.

First of all, the ajimas perm their hair, soft black curls around their round weathered faces. And the clothes. Ajimas wear billowy long cotton blouses and loose pants, like pajamas. Sometimes the clothes are really outdated looking, like from a old 70’s flick. Young Koreans wear modest but well tailored clothing. Compared to here, all Koreans are thin and fit and the older ones almost angular. Years of hard labor have bent many of them permanently at the waist and they use carriages to hold their bodies up as they walk. It is a culture that has learned to sit without chairs, lie down without mattresses. The cuisine looks like they ran into the backyard and pulled up weeds. That’s probably what they did fifty years ago. Don’t get me wrong. The food was the best I’ve ever had; adventurous, fun and robust, much like the folks who prepare it.

Back to ajimas: they hang out in parks all day long, sitting on benches, laying on blankets in the grass. Clusters of them, animated, talking, laughing, watching the daily flow of passer-bies. And they absolutely loved my granddaughter Brooklynn, maybe because she was only one and would smile at them as we walked past. Maybe they thought her Caucasian features were quirky and odd. But they could not resist scooping her up and carrying her to each little group of bantering women where she would get passed along again and again, eventually surrendered back into my arms. Brooklynn loved them too and willfully went to them, loving the fuss. It was an ajima thing.

I’d like to introduce the Ajima to America. Sometimes I look at myself in the mirror and I see the toll of years worked; waitressing, mothering, scallop shucking, nursing. I don’t need a walker yet, but I’d like to slow down a bit before I have to. Older women in America have an identity crisis. We think we are without value because we live in a culture that worships youth and photoshops imperfections. When we start to slow down we get bumped off the track and ignored. Yet in Korea, life years equals wisdom and the dignity that comes with finishing well. We could learn much from them.

So I’m checking out some loose shirts and baggy pants. Not so sure about the permed hair thing. But mainly I like the hanging out together and laughter and squeezing babies that stroll by. Let’s hold fast to the rich treasure of years lived. May God provide the wisdom that brings dignity to our later years and the loving kindness that keeps every heart young.