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It was very, very early one New Year's Day, a Sunday, when I arrived outside a Quaker Meetinghouse to make sure the furnace was working. As I made my way from the curbside towards the back door to enter, I suddenly realized I had not been watching very carefully where I was walking. I was headed straight toward two young men and if I hadn't stopped when I did I would have walked right into them.
How boys make it to the age of five is beyond me.
One of my grandsons, Kevin, age two and a half, was running around with other children inside a large indoor play area recently. Kevin was running at a pretty good speed when apparently something got under foot causing him to stop short and sit down in the middle of the floor.
Bending his leg to see the bottom of his foot, Kevin picked off something round and slimy. He squished it gently between his fingers for a second, held it to his nose, and before anyone could get to him, he popped it into his mouth and swallowed it!
With that, he jumped up and continued running.
When the star in the sky is gone,
When the kings and princes are home,
When the shepherds are back with their flocks,
The work of Christmas begins.
To find the lost. To heal the broken.
To feed the hungry. To release the prisoners.
To rebuild the nations. To bring peace.
by Howard Thurman alt="poem by Howard Thurman"/
Seldom has one single poem moved me so, especially around Christmas and near the dawn of of a brand new year. And I admit that the "Christmas Season," whatever that is, year after year looms as a personal challenger for me to cope and surrender into the genuine balm of good cheer and merriment and spirit of those around me. I struggle oftentimes to hear that melody that deserves to be sung and sung mightily.
But I pray, that way will open for me as one person, a soul among many, to find and attend with patience and love, the one or the many who are lost and alone in the months to unfold in 2008. And if by voice or presence or touch, I bring some fraction of healing closer to just one, or more than one, that, for me, will be Christmas celebrated over and over again.
I should feed the hungry, and all of them, but how? Perhaps, way forward will come by whatever measure and step. We shall see. That my country, the United States of America, the richest nation on the planet, has children of its own who go to bed, hungry still, is shameful. That the US, my country, continues to drop more bombs than bread on the neediest of my brothers and sisters in far-off places is nothing less then criminal.
As for prisoners, I would start tomorrow, the release; from Guantanamo; from the dingy overcrowded county jails of sheriffs who rise politically on the backs of addicts and others who are trapped in a world without.
My nation I would rebuild tomorrow, beginning with releasing too, my President. I'd apologize to all our world-wide friends, and foes alike, and pledge to find new leaders that could listen, learn, and act from intelligence, not strength alone. And peace would come, or some increased measure of it certainly, by breathing in the Gods of many, and knowing then with gratitude and wonder, so this, at last, is Christmas. That would be my news and hope for a new year.
As the New Year comes closer, I am reminded of an experience that taught me that things don't always unfold the way I think that they should.
Some years ago in connection with my work as the Youth Advocate in town, I was called to the Town Clerk's Office to "meet" a young man who obviously, in addition to being chronically homeless, was also suffering from some form of mental illness. It seems he had migrated from the nearby small city of New Bedford to Dartmouth, and had been seen going through people's trash and sleeping in their sheds behind their dwellings. Apparently some of the "out-buildings" in our town, in addition to keeping out wind and rain, are also warmer then the outside elements and this young homeless person was making full use of that fact.
I invited him to my office where we talked about this and that, and how I could best help him find more suitable places to sleep. Turns out that Rick was 28 years old and has been on the streets on and off since he was 18. I contacted his family, who under no uncertain terms let me know that "Rick" could not go there or to any other relative's house for that matter. Rick was not surprised, either. Turns out that Rick has stayed at the shelter on numerous occasions in the past until he moved to the 'burbs' in Dartmouth a few months ago. After I bought Rick lunch, and a new jacket, he expressed a willingness to sleep at the shelter downtown. I drove him there in time to sign in and get a bed for the night. The shelter volunteer informed me that Rick was indeed well known to them and efforts to get him off the street had not yet proved successful.
Months later he returned to my office in Town Hall saying that he was just walking by and decided to stop in. Since our building is barely two miles from downtown, and knowing how far Rick and other homeless folks walk in a day, it was likely he did walk all the way here, though I suspected he intentionally stopped in on purpose.
This time Rick was carrying a cut-down cardboard box with several items of clothing and personal items inside it. He also walked in an awkward way with the box directly in front of him and not tucked under his arm the way most people would carry such an item. As luck would have it, a town resident had stopped by weeks earlier and gave me a brand new L.L. Bean backpack, thinking I would find a suitable home for it with a needy teenager, etc. Seeing Rick's tattered cardboard box with his possessions in plain sight, I offered the backpack to him. He jammed everything, clothes and cardboard box included, into the expandable backpack, swung it over his shoulder and said he had to go.
About a month later I ran into Rick walking downtown. To my surprise, he was walking with the same old cardboard box directly under his chin, this time with the backpack I gave him in the box. When I asked him why he wasn't wearing it on his back, he told me that he couldn't see it back there and was afraid that someone would try to steal his stuff. I couldn't convince him that his possessions would be safe in the pack. But he was quick to say that he liked the backpack very much before heading on his way.
And all this time I thought I had done a small but good deed for this troubled soul, when it seems like all I did was give him something else to carry.
Well, for what it's worth, here are ten suggestions for parents to consider:
© Text Copyright. Kevin Lee, All rights reserved
I'm kicking off a new category with this piece called "Raising Parents!" My goal is to write about the challenges, joys, and occasionally the ridiculous situations that parents sometimes find themselves in while parenting and raising their children. I plan to draw upon my own experience as a father of three grown daughters, as a Friend involved in pastoral care to children and families and from my work professionally as a youth counselor for the past 24 years in my community. Hopefully, we can share some honest truth, float some ideas and have a little fun along the way.
Your comments (below) are always appreciated.
The first call came in about nine one evening, from a woman I'll call Joannie.
I first met Joannie and her four children shortly after they moved in to a shack motel on State Highway some five years ago. This call though was different than most. Joannie called to tell me that her father-in-law was very near to death and she was staying by his side until the end came. We talked about the importance of being there, and how death sometimes brings with it a kind of grace and beauty in the process of letting go. Joannie assured me that she would try and nap some during the overnight hours and that we would talk in the morning.
At 8:45 AM the next morning Joannie called to say that her father-in-law had just died minutes ago. She was with him in the hospital when he passed away. The elderly man actually wasn't her father-in-law by marriage, just emotionally and by the heart. Using that title just saved a lot of complicated explaining. Nobody else from the man's family ever came to see him. It was just him, passing at age 79, and Joannie in the hospital room.
In addition to sharing the sad news, Joannie had another reason for calling. Minutes after the gentleman passed away, Joannie thought to throw the curtain and blinds wide open, allowing the early morning sun to come streaming in. She turned to see where the sun was landing in the hospital room, and through a patchwork of reflections bouncing off of nearby equipment around the old man's bed, a muted splash of light ran up across his still frail body. and that's when Joannie saw something unusual.
There, on the old man's arm, was the number "18." Joannie said it wasn't bold, not large, but it was there. She was sure of it. When I asked what she thought it meant, Joannie immediately said, "I knew right away what it meant. It means Psalm 18 in Scripture. I don't remember it all, so could you look it up for me?"
I found the Psalm and began to read it to Joannie over the phone. "I love you, oh Lord, my strength. The Lord is my rock, my fortress, and my deliverer, my God, my rock, in whom I take refuge."
"That's it." she said. "I knew that's what that number meant."
Our conversation ended shortly thereafter. For a few moments after hanging up the phone I found myself in prayer and thinking about one life passing and the lives continuing to make sense and meaning of it all.
Our excellent new Clerk of Meeting called yesterday to say that "Friends are being encouraged to stay home and stay warm" by not going to Meeting for Worship on Sunday. Interesting. A smart move, actually, especially given the fact that a 'Noreaster is bearing down on our area for early in the day. The forecast calls for snow to start then turning to sleet and finally rain later on. But with a fair amount of snow and ice on the ground from a storm two days ago, this decision to cancel our Sunday worship seems wise indeed, especially with our older members in mind.
Individually, we know that we can still settle into worship within our own homes at the appointed hour if we want to. But in all honesty, who really will? And knowing that our faith tradition as Friends makes holding our own Meeting for Worship at home very easy to do, takes away any and all excuses for not doing so!
But with a playful eye in mind, it's amusing to think that with a few calls by as many Friends on the Meeting Phone Tree, that just like that, the one scheduled weekly religious service of our spiritual community is canceled!
What would old George Fox say? And with a nod to the bumper sticker, what would Jesus say? Maybe Jesus slept in too? Maybe God would be the first to say, "Hey, that's my body you're putting at risk walking on that icy patch. Stay home, drink hot cocoa, and think of me there."
Today I hit my "moving targets" 216 times and it felt good. Laser tag.... if you're going to shoot anything or anyone, this is the way to do it!
Once or twice a year fourteen middle school-aged girls load into vans and head to an indoor laser tag facility in nearby Fall River, MA to play laser tag. It's a darkened maze of ramps, hide-outs and over-looks with thumping music, random strobes and hoots from all the excited players... We played a total of three games, each lasting about 20 minutes in length. (Between games, young people hit the arcade that's part of the facility.)
Teams have colors, this time red, blue and yellow and the goal is of course to hit an opponent's vest with the phaser we are carrying, which seems easy enough to do. But their young, supple bodies move at lightning speed, stop, twirl, duck, and shoot with unnerving accuracy. Me, on the other hand, at 57, wider, and a whole lot slower, I chose my moves more carefully. You know, wisdom, life experience and all that. Sure. Still they spot me, shot me, easily. One girl shot me ten times in three minutes, each time whisking past me, stops, leans back and says, "Sorry Kevin," then impishly blows me a playful kiss and runs away. Swell. Things are as they should be.
Twenty minutes per game doesn't seem like much time, unless you're playing, that is. During our third and final game I spotted an old chair next to the control room and decided to modify my strategy. I dragged the chair into a darkened corner thinking I'd just pick off the little rascals as they thundered by. Worked good, for about 10 seconds. In less than a minute I got hit by every kid in the place.
When each game ended, girls dashed to view the video monitor that shows who won, who shot whom and who had the most points. I got a drink of water and sit down and watch them watch the monitor as their stats roll up. "How come you don't check your score, Kevin?" one asks. I smiled and answered, "My job is to make your score even better."
Riding home they joke about how easy it was to "blast" Kevin. Glancing in the rear view mirror, I see smiling faces, nodding to the ever present thumping music. They laugh, twirl in their seats and make faces at the second van of girls traveling behind us. For now, the world is at bay, the weaponry used, just play. There were no tests to take, no tryouts, just fun for the very sake of it.
Arriving home, girls plop on the couches and chairs in our meeting place, waiting for parents to arrive. We close with our usual lit candle and settle into a noticeable moment of quietness. One girl says, "That was fun. I'm exhausted." And I thought, perfect.
