Simply, Part Two:

The day at the center had been hectic.  Four new families had been admitted to the program, and some of them required additional services.  One young mother had no idea how she was going to pay for inoculations for her school age son.  We set her up with an appointment at a nearby clinic, and even gave her some further information on state funded healthcare.  Another family was looking for someone to do some low cost repairs on the home they'd just leased from a notorious slumlord.  So much need.  It still boggled my mind how in this day and age, entire families can be displaced, uprooted, relegated to utter poverty without the cataclysmic shock of some natural disaster.  These days, poverty comes at you as you simply go about your day, trying your best.  One year you're celebrating Christmas, piling gifts up under the tree; the next year Christmas dawns the same as any other day in your lean-to under a bridge. 

As I headed to the shower, Scott drew my attention to the stack of blankets piled by the closet door.  I had promised Olivia we would drop them off at the SPCA in the morning, after I'd donated at the blood drive.  He offered to put them in my car, and I continued on.  Arriving upstairs, I realized Olivia was only in the first twenty minutes of her shower (how much do little people have to wash?!), so I hopped on the computer to check the latest news.  I've discovered that, as I age, I've become my mother.  I begin by quickly scanning the headlines, then move on to the important stuff -- the Obits.

Her familiar face smiled at me from the screen -- no black holes, no yellow shingles -- a beautiful, white, young smile; the smile of someone healthy and happy.  Immediately I began to recall the past few weeks; when was the last time I had seen her?  When was the last time I'd even questioned whether she was there?  Aside from her dilapidated appearance, she'd become as insignificant to me as a telephone landline -- another expense, and even sort of a bother while it's there, but not much of a liability when its gone.

The headline proclaimed, "Local Socialite and Philanthropist Dead at 73."  Socialite? Philanthropist?  I read on.  The life this woman had lead was nothing short of amazing!  She had earned numerous degrees, had served in the Peace Corps, and even met the English Prime Minister.  She'd become the head nurse at a prominent hospital, held positions of leadership in several local organizations, served on the school board, and received over a dozen awards for her equestrian skills.  She and her husband were still on the books as the largest donors of a local children's center, and together they had founded a commemorative military museum which had become a benchmark for smaller museums everywhere.

My mind reeled from the news -- not simply the news of her passing, I mean, let's not sugar coat this -- I hadn't even noticed her missing.  But, how?  What had happened?  And how did such a woman wind up here, in a program for the impoverished?  Why did I never know who she was?  She'd once had it all; she'd been someone who, in her abundance, had helped others.  To me she'd been another client on a far too long list.  She'd had love and family, talent and -- it seemed -- ceaseless energy.  To me she was destitute, and alone, with little to offer, and struggling with every breath.  To the local paper she was "Local Socialite and Philanthropist;" to me she was simply Mrs. M.

Simply, Part One:

She walked into the brightly lit foyer, her moth-eaten and faded sweater hanging, loose and sloppy.  Her frame, though bent and frail now, betrayed the fact that she'd been a sizable woman at one time.  She made her way, one laborious step at a time, toward the registration table. 

Debra, the registrar, smiled warmly and offered her a seat.  She refused.  No doubt, the effort it would have taken her to sit briefly and raise her weakened body only moments later, would have taken more out of her than if she remained standing.  "A body in motion," and all that.  Debra explained that we were updating our database; all clients must complete another information form.  Frustration showed in her eyes; shoulders that appeared to be unable to fall any further, slumped in defeat.  She managed a smile, and reached for the form.  Her fingers were gnarled, her nails yellowed and broken.  As I watched, I tried to decide whether her inability to hold the pen was brought on by one of her many illnesses, or by the addiction that had caused her malaise in the first place.

"Judi, would you give Mrs. M a hand filling out the form?  You could move on over to that table there."

I followed Debra's finger to a small garden-style table tucked into a nook across from the registrar.  To say the table was in a "cozy little spot" would have given the scene far too much Helen Steiner Rice.  The table was isolated for the sole purpose of privacy, removed so clients could discreetly pour forth the intimate details of their finances and employment situations in order for us to determine program eligibility and provide counsel.  The close quarters, the stifling heat and, almost assuredly, Mrs. M's propensity to bathe in little but her own urine was going to make this an interesting encounter.

As she moved toward the table, I couldn't help but notice her thick, leathery skin; it was an unhealthy shade of yellow-gray.  The skin draping from her face and neck seemed to move one way as she moved another.  All in all, it was a tragic scene, one from which you cannot seem to remove your eyes.  Halfway through the journey, she attempted a smile.  It was then I realized I was staring -- rudely.  The black holes where her teeth should have been, and the decaying yellow shingles that hung between, now clamored for my attention, but guilt broke my gaze.  I offered a forced smile, keeping my teeth firmly behind closed lips.  In response, she struggled to apologize for her lack of speed; even her smoke-stained voice was thick and leathery.  I muttered my assurance, but in my heart, felt disdain rising to the surface.  Helping the down and out was one thing, but those who live their lives just asking for divine retribution was another.

In the moments and weeks that followed I "helped" her through clenched teeth.  Sure, she was pleasant enough, and seemed genuinely grateful we were there to help, but the weeks she was MIA?  For someone so desperately in need of the simple necessities of life -- food, toiletries, clothing, and water -- she sure didn't keep them high on her list of priorities.  Most weeks we were closing up shop when she'd appear in the doorway, asking if we were still "open."  And the other weeks?  Some unlucky volunteer would have the privilege of dropping off her things, catering to her carelessness when she didn't show.  I began to develop such a distaste for this woman, I didn't even notice when she stopped appearing completely.

When Two Worlds Collide

We were made to grieve.  We were made for joy.  Memorial Day is the epitome of these truths.

Ecclesiastes 3:4 says there is a "time to cry and a time to laugh. A time to grieve and a time to dance."  What grief to know that young men and women, on their last tour before retiring safely stateside or just beginning their young lives, with babies or just "babies" themselves, have given their very lives so that I can sit on my sofa here pontificating on whatever strikes my fancy.

But what joy to know they willingly gave it all for us, that someone would find it in their hearts to do that, that someone whose name I will never know would make that sacrifice for me -- someone whose name they never knew. 

God bless those who today remember those whose names they will never forget, and God bless those who are standing in uniform waiting to make that sacrifice for us today.

We Are Not "Merely" Human

I just thought I would share this with you...

In June's issue of In Touch magazine, an article entitled "Truly Human (Again)," by Winn Collier says the following:

"...we need help believing the truth that God delights in our humanity....God created our humanity to reflect His own glory and goodness.  Being human is God's idea.

"This means that every human act, when done as a reflection of (and in submission to) God's reign in the world, is an intensely spiritual activity."

He goes on to say, that despite the failure of Adam and Eve to live in relationship with God as He designed, "the commission to exert their God-given humanity was not retracted.  They were still to work the ground and bring children into the world.  They were still to do their best to make beauty, only now such efforts would progress with immense difficulty.  In fact, all of life would be futile, were it not for the promise that God would send One who would restore their humanity and full dignity, and release them to once again be their true selves."

Jesus, God in human flesh, had communion with God in such a way that it was an expression His humanity; His godliness was never at odds with his humanity.  "Jesus taught us what it looks like to be truly human."

Collier quotes Augustine (City of God) when he says, "We know ourselves better in God than in ourselves."

"Jesus came in flesh to give His broken body and His gushing blood for our redemption...  [Even]
with all our human creativity and expression on display, God's Spirit is actively loving and restoring us -- and hopefully using us to participate in healing every person in the world as well.  God longs for us all to be home, for us all to be truly human.  Again."