See? God Loves Me!

 Not  long ago my bride and I visited a coffee shop for their 10 year anniversary of being in business. She knows the owner and we always have a very pleasant visit while we enjoy a fancy coffee. 

On the day of their celebration we decided to stop in and celebrate with them. Since we were headed to different destinations, she drove her 2020 Outback and I drove my old 2009 Honda Civic. We parked them next to each other and headed into the coffee shop. 

We had a pleasant time visiting  with each other and  the owner. My bride was headed to her ladies bible class and I was headed to a doctors appointment. As we reached our cars, which were parked side by side, I found a sticky note with the message "God Loves you" stuck to the drivers side window. I sort of chuckled about it, looked around to see if any of the other cars in the parking lot had similar notes attached. None did. My car was by the far the least desirable car on the lot. I walked around my car to my bride's car still amused by the note to show her and see if she had received a similar note. When she saw the note, I asked her if she had gotten one on her car and she replied sardonically, "No, I know God loves me. Look at my car!" It was such a clever and  outrageous response that I stood there laughing while she got into her car. Several times since I have laughed about this exchange. She so perfectly and sarcastically  nailed the current American Christian mindset that I have not thought of a better analogy since. 

I am tempted to expound philosophically about this incident, but her response was so perfect  and so timely I will simply have to let it stand as is. 

But I will say this. If you have an older, beat up car with parts falling off and paint long gone, relax God Loves You, too. 

Godspeed to all you rust bucket owners, you are not forgotten. 

Aunt Anna

 Almost 50 years ago I met Beverly, the girl who would be my bride. We met on campus at Abilene Christian University and have been together ever since. She was and is and will always be my world. 

Early on in our dating I was taken to Aunt Anna and Uncle Ken's house. It was only a block from the college. Having grown up in Abilene, I had driven past it numerous times without any thought that my life would be included in the lives of the people who lived there. So very early I was introduced to Beverly's  extended clan . 

I had actually met Uncle Ken due to his being the registrar of this small local college. He had advised me on a degree plan (sorry Uncle Ken, it was probably a waste of your time) he should have just given me a handshake and said, "Good luck". Aunt Anna simply drew me in to their world and made me a spot. She would cut my hair, feed us, laugh and tell me stories of the other parts of the family. It was in her presence that we found a safe and warm place. 

For several semesters we would end up over there for a Friday or Saturday night. I was working at a local machine shop from midnight to 7AM, shower and hit the morning classes, study and nap, then as the relationship grew deeper take Beverly out for dinner or more likely to the "Rasco's". More times than not I would snooze on the floor while the Aunt Anna and Beverly would visit and Uncle Ken would sit in his recliner and "do degree plans" until it was time to roust me up and take Beverly to the dorm and I would head to work. There was a lot of laughter, some singing, great food, and advice so subtly dispensed that I did not see it until years later. 

So our marriage had a healthy dose of what it looked like to open a home and hearts to people who were simply wanting a place to rest and visit and have no demands. Aunt Anna made that place happen. 

Over the years I have discovered that we were not unique, but she made us feel that way. It was with a twinge of jealousy that I found others from other years before us and others since from my kids to my grandson after us that she took in. If there is such a thing as a crazy cat lady, Aunt Anna was a crazy people lady. Always gracious, always good humored, always wanting everyone to get along ( a tall task for that side of the family).

The world is a little more empty now with her gone. Someone dimmed the lights just a little. It seems when someone like her passes, we lose more then their company, we lose the impact of their life. She was one of the best of us. It is my hope that, in us, the world can still experience the gift of grace, dignity, humor that she represented. I know I will miss the way at the end of each visit she would hold my face kiss me on the cheek and say, "Oh Don, thank you so much for coming by." I am so grateful that I "came by". 

Godspeed Aunt Anna. I am not sure how this heaven thing works, but I hope you and Uncle Ken can now enjoy the earned right to be together without pain, or suffering, or any indignity. I know we will miss you here. 

Don

Memory Snapshot

 There are moments that come to all of us on this journey where the view and the moment overwhelm, not only in the beauty, but the impact of the moment. It is that understanding that this moment is captured in our minds and hearts and will reside there until the very end. These moments come at us in all phases of life, but as I near my 7th decade they seem to have deeper impact on my emotions and spirit. 

Our son and his family had come to Texas for a summer time visit. The visits over the past few years have been infrequent and tenuous when planned. COVID did a number on travel and consequently emotions. So to have them here, to see the cousins all playing and laughing and swimming together was a moment of pure joy. 

At one point we decided to eat lunch at Tacos4Life. One long table for 16 people, grouped according to age with the adults at one end and all the kids at the other end. My kids were all talking and giving each other a hard time about perceived grievances from childhood. I was catching a fair amount of grief for the cars I obtained for their first cars, and all other forms of unfairness in their eyes. 

It was at this moment that I looked down the table and saw my 3 grandsons all bent over some meme on the eldest one's cell phone, the little girls from 8-10 and my eldest granddaughter chattering away, and our littlest sitting on her mother's lap, but engrossed in all the chaos. At that moment my brain took a snapshot. A memory snapshot. One I will carry forever. Then I looked across the table at my bride and sent her a message via telepathy that old marrieds develop. "We done good, girl"

How many of these are left? I don't know. Two years ago I was afraid we had seen the last one already. The oldest is headed to college in a few weeks. The son and his family have headed back to Denver. Holidays are still a gamble with all the events in the world. Will I ever see them all together again? I don't know. What I do know is that I will pull this snapshot out every once in a while and drink in the joy of that moment. 

My hope is that there will be many more gatherings that the brain's camera can just snap shot after shot. But if not, the  newest one will be put in the album to be viewed whenever I want to see my crowd together.

Godspeed to my little band. They have made this the very best journey a guy could have. 

Don

Last Day

 After 32 years in public education my bride is hanging it up. The past couple of weeks have been a little emotional. When she started she was a PE aide which reflected her interest from her college degree. Our youngest one had just started kindergarten and she was able to find this job in the Red Oak ISD which matched her schedule to theirs. 

Then she was moved to the library. It was in this assignment that she found her passion and her place. For over 20 years she managed the library, through generations of students, with numerous changes in administration, she was able to continue in the role that she embraced with all her heart. 

We have stacks of children's books in our house. She would bring them home, read them, remember them, and realize their worth. Many times over the years I would take her lunch and we would sit in the corner and chat and eat. Without fail a student or a teacher would come in looking for a specific book or topic and she would hop up and find it for them offering her opinion on the book and the merits for that child or teacher. She never once acted like it was an inconvenience. I would sit there and marvel at her knowledge and enthusiasm. 

Every year I would participate in the book fairs as the cashier. PTA book fairs were a huge event. On Sunday before that week we would spend a couple of hours setting up the book cases, the tables and the displays, hanging the posters and banners. It was a special sort of moment for me to work with her in a large quiet school building anticipating the sales event. Then on the night of open house I would cash out the ones buying books while she worked the floor. And it was with the same delight in the event that she would help the kids and parents find the just the right book. 

For generations she found the right book for the right child at the right moment. It did not matter the reading level of the child, it did not matter the subject matter, she would ask questions and find just the right fit. Can you imagine the amount of joy in reading that she fostered in those years? A joy that opened eyes and expanded horizons for young minds. She was a wonder worker for all those generations. 

There is a quote I found recently that stated, "The greatest asset in any library goes home at night" It was my greatest blessing that I got to share that home. She was and always will be a librarian. 

But alas, bureaucracies seem unable to let people of passion and dedication stay in the spot where they can fully embrace what they were intended to be. So a decision a couple of years ago was made to "reassign" her. She was heartbroken.  And she was assigned one of the hardest areas to work. Young special needs kids, some not verbal, some not potty-trained, some of them almost her size. In the first semester she would come home with bite marks and scratches and once with a dislocated shoulder. I wanted to find that bureaucrat and have a quiet conversation out behind the gym about the decision. I encouraged her to quit then.

 But if you know my bride you will know that she is strong willed and refused to let them win. She dug in and with the same grace and dedication as she exhibited in the library she made it work. It is this integrity that I find so awe inspiring. She proved to be better than the system that took her away from her passion. 

This is the person they are losing and the person that will have more time to bless the lives of my kids, our grandkids, and me. Children's books will still be stacked up in our house until we are both gone, just in case that one child needs to be handed that one book at just the right moment. 

Godspeed to the love of my life, Beverly Jean Lindsey Jolly. I have always loved you and always will. That is only gotten better because of how intensely proud of you I am. 

"Mimi" Margaret

 In the last 15 months Bev and I have lost her mom, my dad, and now to finish the journey, my step-mom. They were all in their 90's and it is easy and right to say they lived and  loved a long time. From each of them I learned a lot about life and more importantly the end of life. 

Mimi came to us after my mother died in 1982, she married my dad in 1983. It was a whirlwind romance and an intimidating task of melding two families. The kids were all grown and there was already a healthy start of grandkids on both sides. I have no idea what her dreams were for this large and expanding family. I'm sure she had visions of holidays and birthdays and family reunions being this Hallmark moment to be repeated over and over again. 

There had to be sobering moment when she realized there were stubborn and opinionated kids on both sides. My mother had only been gone for a few months and there was still grief and loneliness that only death can provide. The Ware boys were having to learn to share their mom. It was an explosive mixture. 

After a few attempts to persuade the kids to gather in person and gather in mind she came to the conclusion that these kids (particularly the stubborn group she inherited) would have to be dealt with differently than she imagined. 

So here is where the lesson kicked in. I listened yesterday to the recounting of stories, memories, sayings, by the mixed group of these stubborn kids from years ago. And she taught me again that the way to get these people to come together was actually pretty simple and ingenious at the same time. 

She decided to love all the grandkids as they were her very own. It is really difficult to find a picture of her over the past 38 years that do not have grandkids draped all over her. It mattered little if they were Wares or Jollys, it didn't matter if they were boys or girls. She would play dress up, wade in the creek and get muddy, she would cook and mend and hug and kiss and pray. She loved them into us loving her. How do you push back against someone loving on your kids with such abandon?

And all the while she loved my dad. As you know from other blogs he was the guiding moral compass in my life. He was not a philosopher or a complicated person. He simply treated people right, he never lied, and he loved his wife with all his heart. Their lives were complicated at the end. Physical capabilities diminished almost daily. But at the end she would comfort and with no reservation left in her, tell me exactly what I needed to be doing to help him. Even as her health failed she fought for him. So my lesson is that I will fight for my bride as long as I have breath. I will try to accomplish what she needs done. Lesson well taught, Mimi. 

The last one. It is hard not to feel a little abandoned. I hope I can remember all they have taught me. It is hard to discern who taught me what. It is hard to tell a story about one and not include the other. They taught me that when the marriage is strong and committed, it becomes a story of two. 

Godspeed, Mimi. You will be missed. Kiss dad for me. 

Don

A Long Journey's End

 The theme of this blog for the years I have been creating it has been the events and the considerations that come from this journey we call life. The posts have been about the twists and turns, the moments of joy and the moments of tragedy, the successes and the set backs. Rarely has this blog dealt with the end of the journey. 

But September 5, 2020 my dad, my mentor, my hero ended his journey of 98 years. With a body worn down by age and complications from hearing loss and dementia, he finally set his pack down and rested. We had all six sons (technically 3 were step-sons, but in this moment it was diffused distinction) each had a few moments to remember dad. The constant theme was that he was a simple, gracious, humorous, hard working man. He loved us all and embraced us all. Just the family he loved was over 80 people and every single one of them lovingly called him Grandfather. Each has a different memory of this man, each special in their own way. 

So we spent the week thinking about him, remembering all the funny and poignant things he said and did. He loved puns and quirky little sayings. The last couple of years he would greet everyone with "I'm looking better!" Then explaining he could still see and was proud of that. With his memory issues, he would repeat this every time he saw someone, even if it was just a few moments before. And the graciousness of people who knew him would laugh each time and he would grin about his clever approach to old age. I never tired of seeing how much he enjoyed these word games.  

His body had begun to wear down over the last several years. His memory was short cycled questions over and over again. He went through a time where he knew he was forgetting and it frustrated him. It was a blessing when he would forget, but not realize he had forgotten. It eased my heart to know he was not angry with himself over his memory. He was not as mobile as before and refused to use a walker, but as time went on even he had to concede that he needed assistance. 

But in spite of all that was failing him, his memory, his hearing, his body, he remained  sweet, gracious, humorous and faithful. Faithful to his God, faithful to his wife, faithful to all us. When it would have been easy to be bitter or mean, he remained who he truly had always been. Perhaps as we age and we begin to lose the independence, perhaps we reveal who we always were. And to me he revealed his greatness in his last moments by showing that the man he was years ago is still the same man today. 

Godspeed to dad, Grady B. Jolly. You were truly one of a kind. And if I haven't said it enough, I love you and I will miss you. 

Don 

COVID, Stroke, Hospice

Sunday afternoon in the midst of getting our Sunday agenda completed, I received a call out of the blue saying Dad had a stroke and was in the ER. After a moment of panic and fear we moved into our emergency mode, making calls, informing. My panic was slowly morphing to dread as the day wore on and the reports continued. Due to COVID I could not visit in the ER, so we continued to parse every word and every nuance from the nurse to the doctor and back again. "Lost use of his left side and his speech is slurred." stuck in my mind and settled on my heart. A man known for his energy, though diminished in years, was now lying alone in an ER trying to hear what was said and wondering what was wrong. If nothing else, this COVID scare has separated us and those we love. I detested it before, I hate it now. 

Through a restless night and impatient waiting and asking for results from C-scan and other tests, they decided to admit him into the hospital. The first tiny bit of good news was that this particular hospital would allow 1 specified visitor a day from 11AM to 6PM. I was there at 10:30am eyeing the people already there who I calculated I could beat to front of the line. Fortunately I did not have to body block anyone and we all got in pretty quickly after the standard questions. They gave me new mask, a wrist band that said "VISITOR" and a sticker to wear in case anyone missed the wrist band. I was logged in, banded, stickered, and approved. Then I raced to the elevators and impatiently rode up to Dad's floor, signed in at the nursing station and got directions to his room...

I had not seen Dad since April. The COVID lockdown was severe at the memory assisted facility. He had fallen in March and April and I had picked him up from the ER both times at the curb and delivered him to the memory care facility to the curb, but I had seen him twice. Both times he had hit his head and had bruising so he looked like the loser in a prize fight. Both times it made me sad, but it was still him with his questions and good humor. (I told him the second time that I didn't know whether to laugh or cry, he said go ahead and laugh, he would do the crying). This time I was not ready. He was shrunken and misshapened from the stroke. I bent over him and he seemed bewildered by who I was. Fortunately the nurse left the room at that moment and I yanked off my mask so he could see my face. He tried to smile and garbled out "..on" Yes, its me.."on" 

The next few days brought MRI tests, swallow tests, physical therapy, oral therapy and very few positive results. At 98 a stroke had leveled a sweet, gentle man of integrity. As the next few days slipped by filled with decisions and reporting my siblings, it became clear that this event had done more to end his time than anything in the last 10 years. In a fraction of a second, a tiny artery in his head had undone all the vitality, the memories, the good works, the essence of the one I call "Dad". And as the days continued it occurred to me that this was not going to change. This stroke had done the damage that even anti-aircraft fire in the second World War could not do. 

So my days were filled with making decisions based on lousy choices. The tension between quality of life and hope for recovery was infused into every decision I made. After a late night conference with my siblings we all agreed that quality was paramount. But I agonized in private about the consequences of those decisions. Until today. 

They delivered him back to the memory care facility after I had gotten him signed up for Hospice care. The first night was rough. He was restless and wanted to get up. Margaret was trying to make him rest. The Hospice nurse called me 3 times to say he can't stay in the bed that he and Margaret had shared for almost 40 years. I was exasperated that I couldn't help due to the lockdown. In frustration I asked the nurse, "What do you want me to do?!?" She realized then that I was blocked and she would have to handle. So at midnight they found a solution (an aide sitting by the bed). They delivered a hospital bed for my dad and twin bed for Margaret the next day. Not the ideal solution, but those are all gone anyway.

Then this morning I called the attendant in the facility and asked how they were doing. The attendant giggled a little and said they found Margaret getting into his hospital bed. He was very sad and she wanted to comfort him. And all those decisions about rehab hospitals and feeding tubes and hospice care all fell into place. He is with the one he needs the most, and she is with the one she fears won't be here with her. It was a sweet, sad, and somehow affirming moment for me. To know that his life partner, however longer that is, will do what she needs to comfort them both. Can any of us ask for more? 

So, Godspeed to all out there who have lived this same week at one time or another. I come through it exhausted, emotional, and grateful. I guess that is the best we can do at the moment.

Don

Pride and Prejudice

This post has been brewing for a while. Not because I didn't have opinions, or because I was afraid of the backlash, or even because I am lazy (well, I'm a little lazy). This post was delayed for a vary simple reason. I am a white, mature (read older) adult male. And apparently it is my voice that has not been strident enough or loud enough or condescending enough to make the change in our culture that everyone is crying for. Several Facebook posts have claimed that only my voice can change the situation. Sort of a "you caused this mess, now you clean it up." So the voice you hear may be a bit confused, a bit hesitant, but it will also be honest.

White privilege keeps getting applied to my life in ways that are both apparent and covert. I understand the application and I understand the ways that simply being white and middle-class clears so many hurdles for me. Until recently prejudice was something that I observed, but never felt. But two things have happened that have stirred a bit of awareness in my world.

First of all I have gotten to the age in life and stage in career where my age is a primary factor in job opportunities. Several times over the past couple of years job opportunities came to me and I was not even considered. "You are too valuable where you are..", "we are looking for someone outside this industry.." Legally they can't say, "you are too old and we want someone younger". It took some time to figure out that they didn't look at my years of experience, dedication to the job, expertise, skill, previous victories. But instead looked at my birth date and disqualified me. There are only two areas where white men feel the frustration of prejudice; age and obesity. Outside of that we never have a moment of fear or frustration or humiliation.

Second event was the adoption of our youngest granddaughter who is a mixed race child. She has captured us completely with her spirit, her busyness, her hugs, and all the other little joys she brings to us. And as every grandparent will tell you the concern is not once removed.  I spend a huge part of my spiritual disciplines on behalf of my eight grand children. But little Miss Ruby, our little brown girl, brings a different focus to my prayers and thoughts and contemplation. My heart aches and my hands curl into fists to think she will be mistreated or abused  because she is brown. It is no longer a fight against the prejudice in the world, but now a personal fight against anyone who would harm this bright, little girl who adopted us.

So what does this mean? My bride and I were discussing all the ways this current state of affairs has changed our American world. My point was that no one can speak without being condemned by someone else. If I quit my job and become a full time advocate for minority rights, I will be skewered because I came down from my mountain and deigned to share my privilege. And these attitudes towards me will come from all parties, from all sides. On the other hand, if I stay silent I am the problem (silence is affirmation, etc).

My bride (who is far more insightful than I am) took her poke at the world in this way. She ordered some female apparel and the color designation was "skin tone", read white skin tone. When asked by the manufacturer if she would recommend this product she told them, "I don't think I can until you change the color designation to beige or tan or something like that. This is not skin tone, there are multitudes of skin tones." The message was so subtle in the marketing of the product that I missed it entirely. My bride did not. The subtle message was that "skin tone" is white and the other skin tones don't count. And she knows if it affects sales, they will change it.

I'm not sure but what the changes that need to be made won't be the small subtle changes in everyday life. We can all rage and rally when the obvious injustice is done, but the event won't help the victim. We must find ways to make the changes so the victims have a voice after the event. Then find a way to stop the events of racial prejudice. The only way to do this is to treat everyone with the same compassion, fairness, and integrity as we do our sweet Ruby and the other 7.

Godspeed to those who have felt this more strongly and more intimately than I have for much longer than I have. I'm sorry my voice has been so long silent, but it will be no more.
Don

Bado

I met Betty Evelyn Lindsey in 1973 while in romantic pursuit of her daughter who would become my bride for the next half century (almost). As in most cases by young, in-love young men I did not pay much attention to my bride-to-be's parents. They were a normal hurdle to get over to marry the one of my dreams.
But the intervening years have been filled with moments that involved Betty known as Bado to the family. My  youngest daughter caught her essence pretty well in a FB post pointing out correctly that she was not the "let's bake cookies" grandmother. Nor was she the wisdom dispensing mother-in-law. As my daughter pointed out she was stubborn and independent. And she was those things. Other words I would use are fiesty and independent.

She had a hard time in life. She lived in a problematic marriage, she was extreme in her opinions on politics and religion, she could exasperate the best of us. But there were some other qualities as well. Qualities that I see crop up in my bride. The most basic quality is one of enduring strength.
It would have been understandable for her to give up, to stop flailing at the winds life kept blowing her way. But she stood defiant in the efforts to subdue her. She might say outlandish things, she might get on your last nerve, but she was a force in the family and to those around her and she never shied away from letting you know how she felt.
The other quality that my bride shares with her is this. At the end of the most intense arguments where voices were raised and doors were slammed, she would insist on a hug from each family member as the family was gathering up to leave. While moments before you might be ready to push her down a flight of stairs, she would insist on a hug. You still might be tempted to see if the hug could be especially tight we all usually gave in. If you were family she would hug you and tell you she loved you. It was up to you to deal with the dissonance of your own emotions.

She and I had our own run-ins. Especially after my kids came along. It was important to draw the boundaries and make it clear (she was not good at understanding subtelty). But as mentioned above, she would insist on a hug and a fairwell "yoohoo" as the car pulled away. We all joke about the yoohoo now, making us chuckle as we leave each other in a sort of tribute to her and Aunt Bess (gone these few years) and the last of the surviving sisters, Marianna.

For the past year the primary care has fallen to my bride. It has been long and difficult struggle and the independence that so fully described Bado was finally taken from her.  Bado struggled this past year with numerous health complications and a continual decline. It wasn't until the health finally left this almost 92 year old that the independence finally was burned away. However, the strength and the independence lives on in my bride, but this time around seasoned with grace.

Godspeed, Bado, you were one of a kind. Rest assured you left some really good things behind. And I am especially grateful you left me with the love of my life.
Don

National Adoption Day

Yesterday we welcomed a new granddaughter into our family. She did not come to us in the usual way. She has been around for 16 months. We have watched her grow from a tiny 29-week premie in NICU to a typical toddler. She laughs at her older brother and sister, she explores and gets into everything, she eats like a champion. She does all the things a 16 month old can and will  do. Which includes stealing our hearts.

I wrote about the need for Foster care in this country in my post called "The Littles". But this one stayed longer and captured us more completely than the other placements. People tell me when I brag about my youngest and her family being foster parents, "I couldn't let them go! I would become too attached!" I know, we get it. But we found out yesterday..sometimes you don't have to let them go, sometimes you keep them in your home and your heart forever.

So we gathered up about 20 people and along with numerous other large families all traipsed in before the judge (who commented during the proceedings to my son-in-law that he and Carrie "travel heavy" due to their support group) and witnessed this little girl become a permanent part of our crowd.

Leading up to the day and during the events a song kept running through my head. A beautiful  and personal hymn that I hope they send me into the great uncounting with, but one that with a little situational license seemed to fit so well

I have a family

They formed my heart

Before even time began

My life was in their hands

They know my name

They know my every thought

They see each tear that falls

And they hear me when I call

I have a family

They call me their own

They'll never leave me

No matter where I go

They know my name

They know my every thought

They see each tear that falls

And they hear me when I call

Adapted from He Knows My Name

She is "foster" no more. She is us and we are hers. From this day forward her life will be molded and shaped by us. We have big dreams for her and big moments to be shared. Life to be lived and experienced. 

Yes, she came to us the most unusual way, but her life will be with us, no more foster, no more adopted, no more wondering where her place is..it is with us..it is us. 

Godspeed little Ruby Gabriela Nimz, I can't wait to see who you become. 

Grandaddy

The Librarian

Today marks the first time in 28 years my bride will show up at Red Oak Elementary and not head to the library. And she loves the library. She loves everything about it. With over  10,000 books under her care, audio visual equipment, computers, the list goes on, she kept it straight and usable all this time.

But the love of the children's library ran much deeper than the space, now called the learning commons. Each year she would read hundreds of children's books to get an idea of content, of level, of story. We had them stacked all over the house, on the coffee table, the nightstand, on the kitchen island. She could tell you what was in each one. She has a vast and long history of knowing the authors and the way each one fit in the library and who would most benefit. The greatest joy that she mentioned day after day, week after week, school year after school year was the joy she felt when she matched a book with a young reader and the young reader would find new places, new ideas, new horizons. Those stories lit up her eyes and lifted her voice like nothing else.

Occasionally when I was in town I would pick up lunch and we would camp at one of her library tables and visit. But those visits would be interrupted with some student coming into the library looking for a particular book or topic and she would leave our lunch and guide this seeker of books to the correct section or the correct book. It was amazing to me that she never grew impatient or let the interruption spoil her mood. These times would be what made her the happiest.

Then there were the years of working the book fairs. There was always a PTA meeting or an open house that coincided with the book fair. This made for a lot of traffic and noise and chaos. But we found that if I worked the register it freed her to work the book fair, making recommendations, finding the right book at the right cost for each student/buyer. The set ups on Sunday afternoon were just the two of us, me supplying the brawn, she the brains (not a huge shift from the rest of our lives). Then the take down on Fridays and getting all the furniture for the library back in its place, set for the schedule first thing Monday mornings.

I have never met anyone more suited to what they did than her in the library. It was both her job site and her home. She was comfortable with the way it was set up and run. And while she grumbled about Education's shift away from books in general, she still found a way to place the right book in the right little hands to create the perfect match. It distressed her when the books were not returned, or were damaged. In recent years, because the administration would not back her up, it made her job more difficult because she was firm in demanding return or payment of books.

It saddens me that they took this away from her, when it was not necessary. She will retire in the next year or so, but not from the library. While the administration may have a sense of academic intelligence they do not have any level of emotional intelligence. And the sadness extends to the students. How will they learn the value and the love of books? Can the new librarian do it? Perhaps, but it has not been a lifelong mission.

It is my hope that she can look back and realize all the good she has done and have that as her legacy in this elementary where she dedicated over a quarter of century to introducing the love of books to multiple generations of young readers.

Godspeed to the best librarian this little elementary will ever have. Love your passion, Beverly Jolly, you were a godsend to the hundreds of students you taught to love books.
Don

When the Words Won't Come

We all reach a moment when the stresses of life seem to stack up on us and infiltrate all other moments. For the past several months and in particular the last month or so has managed to align the deepest stresses for me and land them on my head and on my heart. Each of our three kids and kids-in-law have a major shift going for them. Some will be short term, some will have a lasting impact. We have generally kept quiet and only offered solace blended with a tiny bit of advice. My bride is struggling with work set backs, dealing with a reluctant parent being moved into assisted living, and concerned over her grown and not so grown chicks. My work has been particularly challenging with a new system transition in our job place that has created continuing and nagging non-closures. So the mind becomes a bit numb and the discipline of prayer either escalates or withers depending on my mood and temperament.

Prayer has always been a struggle for me. It is the one spiritual discipline that I wish would be more natural. Of course there are moments when it is intense and vibrant, but generally it is sporadic and unfulfilling (not sure this is a good confession coming from someone who has spent a great deal of time learning the disciplines). Perhaps it is my natural bent towards skepticism, or maybe I am just not a quick learner, or it could be as simple as laziness. But when the stresses build to a certain point, you are driven to ask the one who made it all the simple question, "What now?"

Several weeks ago I found myself with a late night drive from Amarillo to Red Oak. Because of circumstances and the pressures of the following day I would be driving alone. So as I prepared to leave the going away reception for my eldest (one of the stresses mentioned above) it occurred to me that this was an ideal time to spend the time alone, to think, to pray, to let the mind wander (and wonder) over all the stress that has engulfed me. The trip was made leaving about 7:30PM to arrive home about 1:30AM. And I drove it with no radio on, or listening to music on my iPhone. The trip was made in silence. Which brings me back to the prayer conundrum.

At first I tried to pray on each situation. This prayer for my oldest daughter moving to the Dallas area after raising her family in Amarillo for 17 years. Another prayer for my son and their struggles with a new home in a new place in a new situation. And the prayer for my youngest in her struggle to handle all the pressures of teaching 2nd graders and raising her own and caring for a foster baby for over a year now. The prayer for my bride and all she has piling up on her. And the prayer for the family making a huge step of faith to align themselves with my company based primarily on their trust in me and how that works in the midst of huge shift.

The articulated prayers lasted about 30 minutes..or until about Claude, TX (look it up). Well crafted prayers they were too. Carefully laying out all the reasons they should be answered the way I presented them. Drove another 30 minutes....no answer. Tried it again, slight changes, a little bargaining...another 30 minutes...no answer.

But then the most amazing thing happened. I stopped praying. It was enough to sit and let my fear and anger and control and humiliation and self awareness just sweep around me inside the car. It is hard to explain the concept of just letting my emotions dictate the moment. To give up my perception that the process was supposed to follow a certain pattern.

As the miles slipped behind me and the words had stopped coming, the emotions of my distress slowly dissipated. I was not left with joy or exhilaration, but sense of calm. The prayers of my mind had created greater stress and were not answered , the prayers of my heart created peace and that was the answer I needed. In the final thoughts it occurred to me that the answers to problems are still not resolved, but God has answered the prayer.

There will be other moments of stress in the time I have left. The physical answers might not seem what is best. But the real insight is that God wants to answer our hearts, not our desires. I hope this gives someone hope who struggles with the concept of "thundering silence" as I have. To be close to destruction in your spiritual walk and to hear...nothing. It is because God chooses to not speak to us, but to hug us close..to answer the prayer whispered by our hearts.

Godspeed to those who can feel God's love even when you can't hear his words. This is a prayer of different sort.

Don

The Littles

We are not sure why our youngest daughter and her husband decided to foster kids. They have two of the best ones around (before my other two kids call representing my other 5 grand kids, they are included in the "best"). Our daughter is a 2nd grade teacher, so there are plenty of other kids to keep her attention. Both of her kids are involved in all the normal school activities, church, friends, sports, and dance. They even have a dog and cat. So there is plenty to keep them busy and tired.


But somewhere along the way they decided that they needed to do something. They saw something I had never seen. So classes were taken, house was brought up to state requirements, grandparents were trained and less than 24 hours after getting their certification they had a placement. That should indicate the level of need. No warm up, no waiting around, no anticipation. They got the word and at midnight they received their first placement. He stayed 2 months, endeared himself to all of us, became a great little buddy to our 9 year old grandson and broke all our hearts when he went to live with an aunt. When he left our grandson cried for a time, then asked his mother, "When are we going to do it again?" And asked if he really wanted to he said, "Yes, I'm ready." So we wiped our tears away, all put our big boy pants on and followed the maturity of a 9 year old and forged on to the new ones.

There have been others since that first one. A 2 year old who spoke zero English, a baby for a weekend, a preemie that has stayed for months and has wormed her way into our lives and hearts. These are the ones that society has attempted to discard. They are the ones that statistics will say 1 in 5 will end up in prison and rehab. Some will never leave the system, some will struggle from now on with the nagging doubt that at some point they will be abandoned.. again.

Truthfully I had never even thought about the cast-aways in our society. They were there, but never here. It never occurred to me that a 2 year old would raid the freezer compartment in the house and eat whatever he could find, frozen vegetables, ice cream, whatever was there. At 2 years old he had developed the skills of a scavenger. And I had blithely moved through my life never understanding the depth of their abandonment, or considered the emotional trauma this has caused. My wealthy, white, affluent, entitled life had never considered that there was a strata of society that could open a freezer and dig out a pack of frozen corn and hide it away waiting for the inevitable future missed meal or days of meals.

When I talk about this journey of my youngest with others their response is almost universal, "I could NEVER do that! I wouldn't be able to let them go!" And while I understand that sentiment it has occurred to me that the real point is that it is not about you or me. It is about those in our society that need, desperately, a place and moment of safety and comfort and love. That for a moment in their sometimes very short lives they do not have to live on the fringe and scavenge for life. I was holding the most recent placement not long ago, late at night while she slept. I whispered to her that she was the luckiest little girl I knew. She had not been aborted, she had not been thrown in a dumpster, she had survived an impossibly premature birth, and last and certainly not least she had been fostered by some of the best people I know. People who had fed her, clothed her, loved her, snuggled her, gave her the safest, warmest home imaginable. She was a lottery winner.

So I wish we could politicize this need. Then we would have people show up and help. This new chapter for all of us has re framed the pro-life, pro-choice debate for me. I have found that pro-lifers are not really pro life, they are anti-abortion. If you want to prove you are pro life, take the courses, remodel your home, change your schedule, lose sleep, get spit up on, and never ever condemn the mother of the baby who ran out of choices and time. And I have found the same to be true of pro-choice, allow all to have a choice, a choice to live safe and warm and fed and loved. Take the same classes and make the same sacrifices.

We live in a harsh and demanding world. It is unrelenting in its attack on the weakest and most vulnerable. It is clear that politics and rhetoric and opinions are useless to protect the littles. If we are truly a "christian nation" would this not be our first priority? I read somewhere in the old book that true religion is pretty simple, take care of the orphans and the widows. I am coming to understand in my maturing years that that scripture is not talking about the church on the corner, but the church in my home.

Godspeed to the foster parents, grandparents, foster friends, and especially those huge hearted foster brothers and sisters. You show us all what is good and all that we can hope for.

Dreaming Life Forward

Over the past couple of years I have heard in variations of the following sentiment: "You are too old."
Most of the time these sentiments were offered in ways to blunt the sting, but the thought was the same,
"Why are you building a house at your age?"
"You can't make a mistake at your age."
"It is good to see your enthusiasm at this point in your career."
On and on.

So I stepped back from my life and wondered about what I had ahead. The past 6+ decades have been adventurous, and hard, and rewarding, and disappointing, you get the drift. We have had good times and tough times, but we have moved forward with dreams of the next portion of the journey.

And then the comments above. What does my life look like without a dream or goal? Have I accomplished all that I can accomplish? At what point do I leave behind me the idea that there is not a new horizon? I remember my dad telling me about his grandfather who came to live with them on the farm and Dad's recalling of his granddad's time there was spent in the shade whittling. Finished with work, with responsibility, with life. 

And the world conspires to shut us down, to move us to the side. Even our own bodies don't function like they used to. I spoke to a friend of mine recently about this very thing. He seemed a little more adjusted to the idea than I was. When I recounted that working in the Patch I couldn't really work as hard as I used to, or as long, or accomplish the same things, he said something like, "That's the way it works". My response was that it just made me mad. Mad at myself, mad at my older body, mad at the way this was robbing me of the things I like to do. There seems to be a lot of shaking my fist at fate and time.

But I heard a line from a sermon months ago and wrote it down and studied it for a long time. Dreaming Life Forward. In my life  the true indicator of old age is the setting aside of dreams. Of living a life of existence, not acting and moving towards dreams and desires and goals and life. My bride has put up with a life of me having dreams and following them, a lot of the time at her expense. Getting my college degree a day before my oldest child graduated from college. Then on to a Masters because I was fascinated with the idea of resolving conflict. Taking risks on jobs that were more building than rewarding. Dreaming and dreaming and dreaming. Some fulfilled, most not. But it has pulled my life forward.

Then I read a passage in a book by Barbara Brown Taylor called Learning to Walk in the Dark,

"With the gravitas that arrives when life is more than half over, people at this age are ready to spend and be spent, emptying their pockets in one last-ditch effort to make meaning." The emphasis is mine.

My dad is 95, soon to be 96. If any of those longevity genes are in my makeup I have roughly a third of my life left to live. To LIVE.

At the end of a little known movie called Second Hand Lions, the story wraps up after stories of battles won, riches gained, of love found and lost. Not knowing what was real and what was embellishment. The son of the antagonist of the two brothers from their fanciful stories shows up and comments to the boy the old brothers have taken in, "I just wanted to see if they really lived."
To which the now grown boy relies, "Yes, they really lived." What better epitaph? Yes, He really lived.

Godspeed to the dreamers, the wanderers, the wonderers, and the spenders of age.
Don

Monuments and Statues

It is still unclear to me how we moved from the current cultural discord to the taking down all the Confederate statues. I guess last weekend when I took a sabbatical from the news and the world the argument shifted to these symbols that represented a fairly short period time in the human experiment. And the arguments are compelling on both sides; the statues represent oppression and slavery, and/or they represent our slice of our cultural history. Who decides to take them down? And the argument rages on.

This morning in the midst of my disciplines I was trying to focus on something else, but the prompting to think about this cultural argument kept cropping up and disrupting what I had planned to do. If you have spent time in meditation and reflection you know how annoying this can be. Finally I gave up and simply let my mind wander and wonder about all this.

There was finally a moment of clarity when I decided that all the monuments should come down. Although I had a great grandfather who fought with the confederacy, I realized that I had no allegiance to the statues. My historical family was comprised of people who apparently found it easier (and more fun?) to have a bunch of kids to do the back breaking work of farming. So we owned no slaves. So why should I care about the statues? It was a bit disconcerting to realize how many Confederate memorials there are in north Texas. You know why it surprised me? Because I had never visited a single one.

And while we are at it, lets take down the 10 Commandment monuments as well. They do not represent me. At no time in my life have I lived under the Law. It was written to about 4 million ragtag Hebrew slaves because they couldn't get along with each other, or their leaders, or their god. My tribe claims to have moved beyond these symbols of times gone by. Why should I or any of us find reason to argue over a monument?

But the explanations above do not reflect what I think is important. What is important is that we find a way to coexist in a reasonable and charitable manner. Will the tearing down of these monuments and statues help us find a place of reasonable dialog? Can we best show accommodation by arguing or lending a hand in taking down something that is offensive to someone else? How can we show people we desire relationship with each other over winning and argument?  In my opinion when we value statues over people we have turned them from statues to idols. And the history of my worldview is a constant reminder against that very thing.

The arguments against what I have said above is already exploding in some heads. "But they will just keep taking and taking and taking!!"
Probably. But here is the key; they can't take more than we can give. Think about that. At some point they will be satiated in their anger, and we will still have more to give them.

There is a final issue from my thoughts this morning. We are making history now. What monument or statue can we raise so that the generations behind us can look at them for inspiration, for guidance, for reassurance? What is our legacy? Hatred? Strife? Violence? Vitriol?
Or can it be compassion, accommodation, truth, mercy, tolerance?

Godspeed to the peacemakers, for you will be called Children of God. A God of peace and compassion.
Don

Voice of Reason

Over the weekend I worked alone at our place called The Patch. No radio, no TV, no FB. My phone stayed on so I could talk to my bride and text with our kids and friends. But other than that I was isolated and intentionally alone.

This post began to brew over a year ago with the ambush of the police officers in Dallas. But there have been almost daily events since then that have brought the question to my mind over and over. In this time frame our country seems to have hit a new level of hatred and violence and intolerance. On all sides. People hurt, people killed, all sides hate and loath the other side. Rhetoric is gaining vitriol as never before. And the blame is being spread across the entire culture. It simply does not matter which side you are on, you will have some of the blame splashed across you. It's Trump's fault, no it's BLM fault, no it's Alt-right fault, no, no, no.

And in this moment where are the voices of reason? Where are the men and women of higher calling to point us upward and outward? Where are those who will call us to be our best selves? It seems we had some of those in our history.

JFK "If we cannot now end our differences, at least we can make a world safe for diversity." "

MLK "We must develop and maintain the capacity to forgive. He who is devoid of the power to forgive is devoid of the power to love. There is some good in the worst of us and some evil in the best of us. When we discover this, we are less prone to hate our enemies."

Abraham Lincoln "Do I not destroy my enemies when I make them my friends?"

Dietrich Bonhoeffer "The ultimate test of a moral society is the kind of world it leaves it children."


And as I look back across this list of men with higher expectations I realize that each died at the hands of those who most fiercely hated. Is it our DNA and destiny that we ignore the voices of reason? Is the voice of reason only heard in the aftermath of the destruction? Will we only listen when all else has failed? When we have shed enough blood on both sides? When we have ignored our noble being to destroy those who disagree?

If there was a guarantee that out of the debris of destruction that man's nobler side would emerge, then I would encourage the final destruction so my grandkids and their kids could live in a world where words like mercy, compassion, integrity, moral strength, helpfulness and honor would be the defining words of the culture. Sadly our history does not point to that sort of redemption. Our history points to a continual spiral towards hate and sectarianism, bloodshed and oppression. The good old days were no more forgiving than the new old days.

Perhaps there is not a national stage in which the voice of reason can be heard. No one is listening. So perhaps the voice of reason is spoken quietly, at bedtime into the ears and the minds of those we are chartered to mature. Maybe somewhere in those still moments of bedtime we can whisper the words of wisdom, be the voice of reason in a world gone mad. Frankly, I see no other venue. Schools are a battle zone, churches are politically co-opted, government can no longer govern because of partisanship. Home is the last moment of sanity. And the true moral disgrace is to fill those young heads full of the same hate and bigotry and violence that our culture seems so fond of. Perhaps the voice of reason that I long for is simply my voice, spoken quietly to the ones who will listen.

Godspeed to you young parents. It is my hope and prayer that you will be a stronger voice of reason than my generation ever was.
Don

Wind and Rain

This past weekend my bride headed to Lubbock for a wedding shower, leaving me to my own devices here at the Patch. For months I have been stripping the limbs from the juniper and cedar logs (saving the logs) and building several burn piles. These burn piles burn fast and hot. So I have to wait until everything is soaked from rain and a calm day before I set one ablaze. The lesson here is that levelheaded wives should not leave their husbands at home all weekend with a lighter, a can of kerosene, and a burn pile. The temptation is simply too great.

The pile will burn down to just the stumps in about 9 minutes. Nothing survives within a 40' radius for those first 9 minutes. The BTU's from cedar is off the charts. But after the 9 minutes it down to just the stumps and the root balls of dirt they are attached to. These normally will smolder for days.

But Saturday, at almost dusk another small thunderstorm blew through. If you know anything about Texas summer thunderstorms they are rush in with a high wind, blow horizontal rain for about 30 minutes, light up the sky with numerous lightening strikes which also cause almost a continual roll of thunder. One lightening strike was so bright, with the instant boom that I felt the compression in my chest and wondered if it had hit somewhere in the Patch and I just didn't see it.

Here is what I noticed. As I watched, the stumps that I thought had burned down began to glow a fierce and bright hot red. The wind continued to whip across those burning stumps and even fanned alive flames that had been dormant for most of the day. My incredulity grew as I realized that the rain was having no effect at all on the renewed flames! The wind was creating the fuel needed to burn brighter and brighter in the face of the rain that should have been destroying the fire once and for all. I had never seen this before. Rain always triumphs over the fire, or so I thought. But this fire had the ally of the wind, even though the rain rode on the shoulders of the wind, it could not extinguish the fire.

So my mind began to reorganize the events of the fire and of my life. The flame sometimes lies dormant waiting on the wind to refuel the fire. But the wind also brings rain. I realized that what I expect when the wind freshens and I experience some renewal of the fire within, that the rain will stay away. Not so. I think the rain comes, but is ineffective because the wind carries the very thing needed to renew. And while the wind may cause the stumps to be consumed faster, it seemed like a good trade. To have the fire hot and fresh rather than smoldering and hidden. The stumps were still hot to the touch 2 days later.

There are several analogies to found here and I will let you find your own. It still amazes me when the Creator chooses to show me something from His own hand. He has decided there is still fire here that needs to be bright and hot, at least for a time.

Godspeed to those out there looking to rekindle a smoldering spark. The wind will come, it will bring some rain, but the renewal will be a life, a fire of significance.

Don

Sweet Notes

Today is my Dad's 95th birthday. We had a family reunion/birthday party at the new place on Saturday with little furniture, muddy yard, and cousins (some familiar, some new). There had been the enormous task of getting ready with chairs and reformulation of crowd control due to the rain the day before. It was a moment of intense preparation with everybody kicking in and helping out.
We had at least 65 people with a range of ages from a couple of months to my dad. It was loud and messy and busy. The bathrooms got a workout, the kitchen and living room were filled, there was a steady stream of kids up and down the stairs, in and out the doors. Dad handled it all pretty well. Ambient noise renders his hearing aids worthless, so everything had to be repeated time and again. I'm sure he struggled with the identity of all the kids, grandkids, great-grandkids.
In the midst of all a sweet lady from a another life ago sent a note to my son-in-law to pass along to Dad. In the midst of the storm, the cleanup, and the wind down I did not see it until last night. I've attached the note.

 

 

 

DEDICATED SERVANTS

 

I met Nell & Grady Jolly shortly after my husband died (1975). Highland Church of Christ had a bus ministry. Each bus had bus captains and they were on the route where I lived.  Every Saturday morning they would knock-doors. It was on one of these Saturday mornings that I met Nell and Grady.  This meeting changed my life, as well as my entire family’s life.

I remember how sincere and caring they were, but most of all I remember Nell’s smile and kind eyes.  She had a gentleness and strength that is difficult to put into words.

They shared Christ with me and invited me and my children to church.  I declined.  They then asked me if my children could attend.  I was ready to say no, but there was something about their sincerity that changed my mind.  They assured me the bus would pick my children up and bring them back at my front door.  So I decided to let them go.  Nell never gave up on me and never missed an opportunity to share Christ.

Thanksgiving night of that same year, my children spent the night with relatives.  I was alone and had a sort of crying episode. I felt so alone and so forsaken by God. I could not think of anyone to call but then I remembered Nell.  I called the Jolly’s and spoke to Nell.  They came to my home.  I only wanted to talk to Nell.  She came in alone. She comforted me as only a Christian could do and I got through it.

There was something about Nell that I could not explain at that time. I now believe that I saw Gods love for me in her eyes.

There is not a past history of the Church of Christ in my family system, but when I think of the Church and how I am a member I remember Nell.

As a result of Nell and Grady Jolly’s dedication to the cause of Christ and how they allowed Christ to ministry through them, I, my children, and their families are members of the Church and my son is a dedicated elder.

Jacqueline Williams

 

The note came at a moment in time when I remembered Mom's passing in May 1982 from cancer, and Dad's birthday today, barely a month between. It took me back to the big blue busses. The canvassing on Saturdays. The constant work to corral all the kids from the busses who didn't live on our side of town, or look like us, or think like us. The moment included the intense pride I had/have in my dad and my mom that they were decades ahead of the social involvement it takes to beat racism and the constant criticism they took from church members and neighborhood members.

Dad is a simple guy. And he is not distracted by politics and religion. He and Mom saw something that needed to be done and he recruited help and money and dedicated his time to the mission.

Was all that worth it? See above. You tell me. It is easy to condemn the church in a lot of situations and rightfully so. But when you see a story about someone who saw a need, would not be dissuaded and fulfilled the need. And helped make the "church" change to respond to the need. It makes me proud.

 

Godspeed to all who simply do the right thing. Who leave a legacy of work, hope, compassion, and lives changed. He is my hero.

Don

 

Listening to Different Voices

My new habit at the new place is to grab a mug of coffee, slip through the door, and find a porch chair to settle into. Our little island is surrounded by cedars and oaks and hackberrys and elms and makes for secluded and private escape. The sun slowly creeps over the tree line to the east and lights the trees from the very tip top and slowly makes it way down to the ground. It is s peaceful, relaxing moment. Made especially nice because I leave the cell phone in the house and am shut off from the world and the intrusion it causes.

But I am not alone out there. The aviary apparently has a much earlier alarm than I would have guessed. It usually starts with the crows. Their morning conversation is loud and raucous. They jeer and squawk at each other at full volume. Caws are rusty and raspy and incessant.
Pretty soon the mourning doves kick in with their cooing. A subtle and amazing tune that at first earned them their name, but now I tend to think of it as morning note, not a mourning note. But I can see where they earned their name. Cooing through and under the crows loud noise.
Mockingbirds chime in about that time with a repeated three or four note call. Varying very little each time with the same note repeated four or five times at the end. With a little work I can get close to their call. Not sure what I am saying, but they keep coming back to me with the same tune.
And underneath it all is a soft tune I can't quite put my finger on. It is by far the sweetest, but almost lost in the cawing, the cooing, and the calling. And it is not there every morning. Some mornings it is early and chimes right in, other times it is absent. But I find myself listening for it. For some reason that song speaks to me more than the others and it is the rarest and hardest to hear. When it happens it creates a space of peace and calm.

One morning not too long ago it occurred to me that this symphony of bird calls is reflected in my life. The harsh, insistent call of work and demands and pressures caws and squawks and demands my attention. It is never ending, every day, all day. It presses my mind and heart and my soul.
And, as my bride will tell you, there is a small stream of sadness wending it's way through my life. Perhaps I have been wounded or have done the wounding and can't easily escape the scars. It is always there, sort of a mournful sound underlying all the other noise of the daily grind.
Also there, due to some life shift a few years ago is the need to have a repeated song in my life. Disciplines that lend a steadiness that would otherwise swallowed up by the restiveness and the bleakness.

But there is a another song. Not often heard. A song of peace and calm. A song of hope and joy. Straining to hear over the blaring world, the tattered heart, the dulling routine, is the song of tomorrow. When the old book tells us of the voice of God it usually comes in the form of a whisper. Not often heard. But sweetest in note.

My struggle is to be able to hear the best and sweetest song of all. Distraction pulls me away from the art of listening. But maybe if I spend more time on my porch with my coffee and my thoughts the song will get easier to hear. Maybe that is where the life of hope is headed.

Godspeed to everyone who can hear all the songs and realize that each is needed. But I hope that you and me can also hear the sweetest one yet. Above all the others.
Don

A World Away

Last night I had the very special opportunity to eat dinner with four of my greatest treasures, 3 granddaughters and 1 grandson. It was the usual mix of requests for water, the normal turf battles over dining chairs, and the spill zone was larger than usual. Afterwards was the always exciting bath times, reading a book before bed and prayers. Oh, and the agonizingly slow getting pajamas on by a 2-year-old who insisted she could do it herself. Grandaddies drink these moments in like a thirsty plant in the desert.

Another part of my day was spent in a trustees meeting at Global Samaritan Resources where we discussed an event to be held in Abilene on March 25. It was the usual discussion of logistics and money and personnel. But running like a low current under it all was the urgency and passion of these men and women to help others that they did not know, nor would ever meet. But the goal is simple, feed those who are trapped in refugee camps who would rather go home, or as a second resort to go somewhere safe. But trapped and starving in extreme and dangerous situations.

The arguments for and against immigrants has been more than vetted. Even American Christianity can't seem to find any middle ground. Some oppose all immigration for security sake. Others promote full immigration status to all and work out the security later. And there seems to be someone spouting any point in between. In this sense we are a divided nation, and a divided Christian world view. It is not my intent or desire to argue any of these points. Everyone has a found an opinion that works for them and I haven't the skills to persuade otherwise.

But the Christian world view calls for us to help. I think James said that religion that God finds pure and faultless is to look after the orphans and widows. On that we can all agree. So Global Samaritan has found a way to help that does not alter the security of our loved ones.

Global Samaritan Resources acquires and supplies fortified food in boxes. Each holds 216 servings of life-sustaining meals. Or to put it in human terms,  enough food for a family of 6 for a month. A Month. This is the first level of Christian help by Global Samaritan. Instead of saying, "Be fed and filled, I'm praying for you." Global Samaritan is putting food on the plate, sent with prayer and hope.

The second level is genius. Local church kids, local school kids, local grandkids, local kids of all sorts and status are invited to come and decorate the boxes. To send a message around the world to other kids that they are loved and thought of and prayed for. The creativity is unleashed on these boxes by kids for kids. The lesson here is that there is another kid somewhere in the world who cares and loves these refugee kids. Do you see the teaching moment happening?

And the third level is just as vital as all the rest, but far more subtle. Scripture tells us that good overcomes evil, not the other way around. We will never be able to bomb ISIS into understanding our love for them or the world. But we can provide food and hope and prayer for the true victims in all this. The refugee kids did nothing to deserve this except to be born in the wrong place at the wrong time. But if we can provide a moment of compassion it will destroy the world of hate they have come to know. And we do it with a beautifully painted and created box that costs $50 to develop.

As I watched 4 of my 7 grandkids last night eating well, playing with their cousins, and sleeping safe I thought of another 63 year old grandfather. A grandfather who is perhaps watching his grandkids go without another meal, to see them try to sleep with no food, no warmth, no rescue. And the panic rises in me about what I would do and think. What ways could I help with no resources? It is at that moment that a box arrives, colorfully painted with food. And I would praise whatever God brought this salvation to my greatest treasures. Grandaddies everywhere know the gratitude when someone takes a moment and cares. And I would lift a silent Thank You to that other granddaddy who took a moment and few dollars to send a moment of peace.

Godspeed to all the kids who will decorate, the parents and grandparents who will donate, and to a God who fills us with compassion instead of self interest.
Don