I’ve always believed in miracles. I’ve known some really big ones in my family.
Big miracles are like the fireworks on the Fourth of July — they make an instant impression amid the ooohs, and ahhhs, and the jaws that drop. Small miracles are different; they give us joy when life is easy and good, and peace and comfort when things aren’t quite going our way.
Our small miracle this summer has been in these flowers. In April, I planted my usual three to four flats of impatiens, in red and white; caladiums, fuschias, New Guinea impatiens and some ferns. In May, we had to cut down a huge tree in the middle of our yard, the very tree that provided the shade for my flower bed. As my once-shady spot was now receiving several hours of full afternoon sun, I held out little hope that my plants would continue to flourish.
I’ve been proven wrong. Here’s Exhibit A. In these 99 – 100-degree temperatures here in South Hell Memphis in August, these babies have somehow survived. In fact, they’ve done better than my tomatoes, which are withering in the heat. This container is at the back corner of the bed, and gets the most direct heat. And now, in mid-August in Memphis, they still bloom. I’m going with miracle. These flowers are not supposed to be alive, let alone blooming.
These impatiens are the ones who have borne the brunt of the July and August afternoon sun. A little leggy, but I think they’re doing darn well considering.
This is the shadier side of the bed, but these plants still get more sun than they like. And still bloom.
It hasn’t been the best of summers for us, but this yard remains, as always, a sanctuary from stress and struggle. A quiet place where the birds sing so loudly you sometimes wish they would tone it down a bit. Where our dogs run and chase sticks and the other dogs they hear behind the fence. On our (at least) 10-year-old patio table I’ve set many a glass of wine, numerous books, and held too many outdoor work sessions on my laptop to count.
See the hanging ferns? They just do not do sun. At least not normally, but this year, in my garden …
It’s not perfect by any means; Southern Living won’t be scheduling the photo shoot any time soon. But it’s ours. And, really, impatiens in afternoon sun in August? Miracle.
The day winds down as Jim puts chicken on the grill.
Don’t believe in miracles? That’s your prerogative. As for us, we’ll just keep enjoying our garden.
I’m taking a deep breath now. The way you would inhale right before you jump out of an airplane (which I’ll never do). While I won’t take a physical leap at 10,000 feet, I’m taking a bit of a psychological one here, because I’m about to express an opinion on a highly-emotionally-charged subject, and I’m pretty sure I’ll alienate some folk.
I’m going to tell you why, as a Christian, I cannot support the death penalty.
I used to. Right after Jim and I were married, we were held up at gunpoint in a parking lot late at night. In a nice part of town, in case you wondered. The robbers took all my jewelry and made Jim lie spread-eagle on the very cold asphalt before speeding away with our brand-new wedding rings.
To say I was traumatized is to grossly understate the terror I felt nearly all the time. Around the same time as our robbery, several brutal, seemingly random home invasion robbery-homicides occurred. One poor woman went out to get her mail and the robber accosted her in her driveway, forced her into the house, and shot her in her own bedroom. These things became connected in my mind in the midst of my post-traumatic stress, and for several years I lived in fear. I was afraid to walk out to get my mail. Afraid to be alone, even during the day. Terrified of parking lots. I was afraid to take a shower when I was alone in the house.
My life was ruled by fear. And so were some of my opinions and beliefs.
They caught the person responsible for the robbery-homicides, and I wanted him tried and fried. I wanted to be sure, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he wouldn’t kill me or anyone else I cared about.
Enter the senior pastor of my church, sometimes in the late 90s. He was a man whose theology and life I admired then and still do. Until one day he talked about capital punishment. And he was against it.
When someone I respect presents an alternate point of view, I think it’s worth it to consider their argument. Maybe I’ll end up agreeing, maybe not, but I always consider it. This time I changed my mind. A 180.
I realized that other than escaping immediate physical danger, no wise decision is ever made from fear. I wanted the man to die out of my own fear. Fear stokes the flames of racism, bigotry, and a refusal to respect anything different than what we believe. The time had come for me to stop being ruled by fear.
I became ashamed of my arrogance. How is it my right to judge whether another human being, made in the image of God, should live or die? And how on earth do I reconcile my sense of vengeance with anything Jesus taught?
For me, there was simply no way to square the death penalty with my faith. It is God’s place to say who will live and who will die. His, and His alone.
Some of you would say, “Well, they took a life, they chose the sin, they were cruel, brutal, tortured and terrorized a person.” Yeah, many of them have. But I’ve sinned, too, and, no offense, so have you. I’ve been unkind, selfish, prideful, and I’m guessing you have, too. None of us are without wrongdoing.
It’s ironic to me that some use the Bible to justify capital punishment. The story of the Bible is God’s redemption of our souls, not His condemnation. Don’t we realize that we are just as culpable as the murderer? And yet, God chose to send His Son to atone for our sins, and for those of the ones we would put to death. To put another person to death is to say that they are less deserving of His atonement and redemption than we are. And friends, that’s prideful.
The only One who is perfect and fit to judge shows us infinite mercy. We who are imperfect, rather than choose to imitate Jesus, prefer death over mercy for a brother or sister. I’m thankful that my Heavenly Father’s mercy is greater than my sin, even if it means His mercy is also greater than the sin of the murderer.
One last thing. Nothing that is devised and mediated by humans is perfect, and that includes our justice system. I started to look up the statistics on how many prisoners have been executed and later found not to have been guilty of the crime. I started to, but I didn’t. Because, for the purposes of this post, it doesn’t matter.
Tuesday, February 19, about 8:45 a.m. Just a bit more than nine months ago.
I was about to leave for work when my phone rang. I recognized the number as Jim’s old cell number and wondered why on earth he was using it to call me.
The answer came when I accepted the call. His work cell phone was no longer his, nor was his office. The CFO had informed him that due to a reduction in force (RIF), his position as vice president, software applications, was being eliminated. Along with 24 others, including one additional vice president, he was ushered out of the building by security and told to return on Saturday to clean out his office.
Somehow we both managed to get in touch with our girls, our families, and others who needed to know. I decided to stay home from work that day just to be with Jim and offer support. But there was no need.
Jim wasn’t coming home just yet. He had already planned two coffee dates with people from his network and would visit several recruiters before the day was done. When I came home after work, our dining room had been converted to what we jokingly referred to as The Office of Transition. The centerpiece was replaced by an aging iMac, and the table was already littered with papers, business cards, notes with phone numbers, and numerous unfamiliar items that had formerly lived in his office. By the end of the first week, he had already found several good job leads in Memphis. Not bad for an introvert.
The higher you go in management, the fewer positions are available, and we knew this would be a long process. After a few months, we prepared ourselves for the possibility of moving away from Memphis for the next opportunity.
We decided to think of it as an adventure in empty nest living. Maybe we’d live in a small miniscule downtown condo in Chicago; a rambling stony house with a beautiful pool in a Houston suburb; Minneapolis, where we would finally get enough snow for my taste; a home within walking distance of the beach in Jacksonville, Florida; or maybe in a city like Roanoke, Birmingham, Atlanta, Louisville, Nashville, or … St. Louis. I could almost hear the crack of the bat in Busch Stadium, where we’d have season tickets.
Having Jim home each day was new for me, and we began to develop routines. In the late afternoons, we’d both take a break and watch Gilmore Girls together. Some days I’d work from home and we’d head to the patio to work and enjoy the outdoors. Many mornings he made coffee, and I loved waking up to the smell. We counted the days until the opening day of baseball season, and the Cardinal games meant we always had something to do in the evenings. When Sara Ann moved back in with us, he was here to spend time with her and help her move, and he enjoyed taking walks with the dogs.
There were times that it felt like too much, as if the house would fall on us and we’d be left standing in the midst of fallen walls and shattered windows. When our girls were small and they were afraid, I’d tell them that nothing is as scary as God is strong. In their childlike faith, those words were comfort; in our adult doubts and fears they brought peace as we realized we were not alone. Over these months we were reminded that faith is more than just church on Sunday morning and a check in the offering plate. We learned anew that beyond every disappointment there’s a bit of new wisdom and that God is always, always faithful. I knew I’d grown when, after a particularly difficult no on a potential position, I realized I wasn’t upset or angry, but confident that the right opportunity would come, and excited for something better that must be in store.
From the moment I caught my breath after that phone call in February, our faith gave us an underlying peace, as we knew that God was with us, He was in control, and that the important things in our lives are not things. As the hymn reminds us, morning by morning new mercies I see. And we did. Some large, some small.
Jim’s old iMac, which should have long since stopped working, is still going, though frustratingly slow. His car needs $1200 worth of work, none of it critical, and will likely be done by whomever we sell it to after the holidays. My freelance work picked up so much that for a while I had no downtime. We were taken to dinner too many times to count, and spent long hours lounging in my sister’s pool. In May, my mother treated me to a incredible trip to New York, and in October my sister and brother-in-law took me to a World Series game in St. Louis.
Family “picnics” after church in a meeting room we borrowed. Some of the best-tasting peanut butter & jelly sandwiches ever.
But most of all, God gave us four seasons of faithfulness: spring flowers, home-grown tomatoes, beautiful sunsets, cool breezes, and fall leaves of every color. There is nothing that He cannot use for good, and He has outdone himself in our lives. Growth and learning always follow adversity, and to have faith is to be assured that divine good will ultimately outweigh earthly struggles.
The happy ending
Last week, Jim began a fantastic new job at a Memphis-based company. It’s essentially a raise, a promotion, and carries the added perk of an I-240-free commute each morning. Next week I’ll celebrate my 55th birthday. Yes, in my kids’ eyes, and probably many of yours, that’s old. But I like to say that no cancer survivor ever complains about getting older. Each year is another year of life that cancer didn’t take away.
Another year of wisdom — and 365 more days of new mercies.
Funk has at least three meanings: it is defined as a genre of music, a foul smell, or a dejected mood. I’m kind of familiar with the first definition, all-too acquainted with the second (we have dogs, remember?) and am currently experiencing the third.
I’ve thought twice about writing about this, because I like to stay positive, I try not to moan about my (mostly first-world) problems, and, as a person of faith, I sometimes expect myself to be brimming with joy at every moment.
That’s a load of crap.
We all have adversity; Jim and I, like everyone else, have endured our share, from serious illness to loss, and, now, unemployment. And though I do have an underlying peace, that doesn’t mean I feel like smiling all the time. In fact, recently I haven’t felt like smiling at all. I’m seriously bummed out for three reasons:
Job. Blah, blah. Jim hasn’t found anything yet, which isn’t surprising or even particularly concerning. He’s at a higher level than he was last time he searched for a job, and those jobs are harder to come by. I know he’ll land somewhere awesome. I’m just ready for it to happen. Now. It’s hard on him not to have an office to go to every day — somehow, the Office of Transition (aka, our increasingly cluttered dining room) just isn’t the same.
Stress. He’s stressed, I’m stressed … everyone knows about stress. I find myself much more easily overwhelmed these days, and it gets worse when things pile on. Having to put Molly to sleep, a stupid branch that fell on our roof and cost $200 to remove, and the computer Jim uses, which is much better at displaying the spinning beach ball than loading a Web page; little things, big things, medium-size things. They all add up to make us want to scream.
Pain. I’m not just talking about psychic pain, though there’s plenty of that. I have a long-standing herniated cervical disk that has begun to bother me again. And by bother I mean torment. It’s nearly impossible to sleep because every position hurts, and it’s torpedoed my summer running program. Lack of sleep brings irritability, inability to focus on a task, and discouragement at my low level of productivity.
I share all of this to say that sometimes we need to trust others enough to be transparent, to be real, to stop saying, “I’m fine” when we’re really not. I have people in my life who like/love me whether I’m wearing my happy face or not, and if you’re one of those, I’m grateful. If you’re not, well, you probably stopped reading at the third definition of funk.
OK, the thought vomiting expression of frustration is over now. I realize and appreciate how blessed we are to have amazing supportive friends and family, not to mention faith. I think otherwise we’d have both lost it for good by now.
This past Sunday we were at an outdoor event, and after a brief summer thunderstorm, there was a lovely rainbow, which I realized only comes after the rain.
We’re still standing. And if you made it this far, you’re awesome. Thank you.
Y’all are going to think there is something wrong with me.
So a few caveats are in order before I tell this story:
I’m an intelligent, educated woman, and have, in the past, supported myself quite well.
I am not a backwards ninny who has to ask her husband’s permission to do things.
Jim and I are equal partners and everything is an open book. Passwords, text messages, email and all the analog stuff.
When Jim was RIF’d* a couple of weeks ago, he was handed a large envelope just before he was escorted out of the building. In the envelope (and I’m speculating here) were some papers he had to sign, insurance information, and an outline of the severance package.
Of course, I was eager to know about the severance, and that’s one of the first things I asked him when he got home that day. He told me he hadn’t looked at it, and wasn’t ready to. I respected that and decided I’d let him just do that on his own time.
A couple of days passed, and he hadn’t mentioned the envelope, so I didn’t either. I wanted to know about the severance package, but still wanted to respect his timing. After a few days, when he didn’t bring it up, I started to ask him, then realized something.
It doesn’t matter.
Our security is not in the number on that check. There is nothing in our lives that really matters that can be taken away by anything that’s on — or not on — that check.
Jim knows the number and, more importantly, God knows the number.
In this post, I talked about how I think it’s cool that this happened during Lent. So I decided to give up my need to know about the money for Lent. Not just my need to know, but my need to try to control, to get things done under my own steam. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not in la-la-la denial land. We’re not spending a penny on anything other than necessities and I’m working as hard as I can and have several freelance projects lined up in addition to my job. Jim is doing his networking ninja thing that he does ridiculously well.
What I will not do is stress and worry about it.
Because all we can do is all we can do. The rest we cannot control. It is in the hands of the Wise One.
So I still have no idea what the severance package is. I know that I can ask Jim any time and he’ll tell me, but I’m not going to. I’m going to remind myself that:
Who we are, how we are and where our hearts are have nothing to do with dollars.
Though we don’t know how and we don’t know when, God knows every detail of the next opportunity. He’ll tell us when it’s time. So not asking Jim about the check is practice for waiting on God, which my often-impatient self surely needs.
Wherever He takes us, we won’t be alone. If it’s a great new job, He’ll be with us. If it’s … not, He’ll be with us there, too and wherever He leads us, there will be goodness. His goodness, not necessarily human goodness.
Now, that does not mean we can’t use your prayers, and we certainly appreciate a heads-up on any opportunities you may know of, or folks he should talk to.
But if you think we’re smiling more than we should be, it’s not because we’re faking it, or just too dumb to know better.
It’s because God is very, very real and He knows far better.
*Remember, that’s an acronymn for reduction in force, as the kids are calling layoffs these days.
We’re about two weeks into the unemployment and, of course, there are big changes around here. Some good, some not so good. I wrote about it last week.
Bad news first:
We’re in only-spend-money-on-necessities mode. That means no extras; no restaurants, no clothes shopping and no hair appointments. Very first-world-problems. I know. Almost ridiculously so. In fact, I’m a little ashamed.
Good news:
The smell of coffee in the house in the mornings. I love the smell of coffee — just don’t make me drink the stuff. Jim loves coffee and does the whole bean grinding thing and it smells heavenly.
More time together. It’s kind of nice having him around more. We have more time to just sit and talk. He’s available to do things like come with me to hear me speak to a class about my work.
We get to work together. There’s really not much I can do to help him, except use my gifts and abilities to do things that enhance his networking abilities. Which includes helping him write a cover letter, and putting up this website to highlight his experience and qualifications. And I’ve taught him about things like Dropbox and Google Drive, which is kinda fun.
The next opportunity is going to rock. We’ve been through this before and ended up with a much better position with much better pay. We’re confident that this time it’ll work out for the best as well.
We’re in only-spend-money-on-necessities mode. Yeah, that’s also good news. It’s not a negative thing, especially during Lent, to contemplate what we truly need, rather than what we want. I wish I could say that by our own choice, we’ve stepped back from the daily luxuries we enjoy, but we needed some … encouragement.
Notice there’s only really one bit of bad news, among so much good. And that bad news is also good news. The positive outweighs the negative, and when you strip away the extras, what’s left are the things of true value — people, relationships, time together and all that we will learn from this experience.
We really do believe Romans 8:28:
We know that God works all things together for good for the ones who love God, for those who are called according to his purpose.
We believe that means all things; not just the ones we think are good things, but all things.
Irritated at myself for flooding the bathroom floor, I mopped up the standing water with towels from the hamper and hoped that it wasn’t raining downstairs.
As I ate my oatmeal, checked Twitter, Facebook and Google Plus, and packed my bag for work, I got a phone call that made the bathroom floor irrelevant.
It was Jim. His job had been eliminated. As of … now. Just so you know, official 2013 corporatespeak for this is reduction in force (RIF). It apparently even has its own hashtag. There were about 16 other folks at Jim’s company who met with the same fate.
Nothing like a huge punch in the gut to make you wish for a minor irritation like a wet bathroom floor.
It’s tough when your perspective is adjusted. Even tougher when it happens in an instant. Whiplash.
Time to rethink the word necessary.
We love dinners out and lunch after church. But for now, dinners will be in and Sunday lunches will be hot dogs on the grill or a picnic with homemade sandwiches instead of Central’s BBQ nachos. My gray roots will be covered by me instead of my ridiculously cool and talented master colorist who gives me these highlights. More evenings in, fewer nights out. Alter the jeans I already have rather than buying new ones.
Rethink necessity during Lent? Not a new idea.
This year, I think we’ll observe Lent in a whole new way. Not by giving up chocolate or Facebook, or Muddy’s cupcakes, but by really thinking about living simply and sacrificially. I wish we were disciplined enough that we might live this way on our own, but we’re apparently not. Now that we’ve been somewhat forced into it, I think we’ll embrace the discipline and be thankful for what it teaches us.
So, for those who would ask how we are, I’d say we are good overall. Still reeling a little — shocked, anxious, a little pissed if we’re honest. But beneath it all is peace.
This peace is born not of our strength, but of our faith. Our faith in a God, the evidence of whom is as real in our lives as the problems we face — and infinitely more powerful.
We’ve been here before and God has been faithful. So, even though I wrote these words in 2006, they are still true today just like He is.
That’s the story. The fire is hot, but we’re not alone.
Pray for us, send positive thoughts, let us know of any awesome opportunities. Worry about us? Don’t even think of it.
As much as I love writing, there is writing, and there is … writing. I was asked to write an obituary for my beloved 95-year-old grandmother, who passed away a few days ago. I consider it an honor to have known her, to have loved her and to offer this final tribute.
I wish I’d had more time to find the words that would do justice to her memory, but words aren’t enough anyway. Here’s my effort:
Virginia R. Dohogne, 95, of Jonesboro, died Friday morning, January 28, 2011, at NEA Baptist Hospital in Jonesboro. She died peacefully, surrounded by loved ones, who celebrate a long life well-lived and a legacy of love, grace and dignity.
Born in Cape Girardeau, Missouri, Mrs. Dohogne lived much of her life in Paragould before moving to St. Bernards Village in Jonesboro 11 years ago. She was a homemaker and a member of Blessed Sacrament Church. Mrs. Dohogne was a member of the Arkansas Methodist Hospital Auxiliary while living in Paragould.
She was preceded in death by her husband, Linus E. Dohogne, her brother, Robert C. Ranney, and by her son-in-law, Dr. James Gramling.
Survivors include one daughter, Martha Gramling of Jonesboro; one daughter-in-law and son, Sallie and Ranney and Dohogne of St. Louis; five grandchildren, Beth Sanders, Sara VanScoy, James F. Gramling, Jr., Carrie Croy and Greg Dohogne; and seven great-grandchildren: Elizabeth Sanders, Will VanScoy, Sara Ann Sanders, Joseph VanScoy, Sam Vancoy and twins Madeline and Annabel Gramling.
She was wise through age and experience, yet blessed with a youthful spirit that resisted the indignities of advancing years. An expert bridge player with a colorful, coordinated fashion sense well into her nineties, her sharp mind, sense of humor and compassionate concern for others made her a blessing to all. She led a full and active earthly life filled with loving friends and family who miss her profoundly, yet are comforted in the confidence of eternal life.
I’m a fan of tradition, especially at Christmas. Some of our traditions are warm, loving and spiritual. And some are downright … um, quirky.
Candlelight and Carol service at the church we grew up in
Mass family sleepover on Christmas Eve at my mom’s; all the kids (loosely defined these days, as we have a 22-year-old) camp out on the floor of my mom’s room
The Christmas morning line; no one can come out of my mom’s room until all cameras are charged, ready and trained on the door where the kids will soon burst through to see what Santa has brought.
Christmas lunch, gourmet-style at my sister’s. Free-range turkey, smoked salmon, exotic cheeses, enough appetizers for a Food Network special; an amazing spread
Baking Christmas cookies; actually mostly just icing and decorating the cookies.
My sister and I shop for stocking stuffers for my mom. Among the essentials each year is the trashiest pair of thong underwear we can find. Tassels, feathers … the more outrageous the better. She rolls her eyes and acts horrified, but we think secretly she kind of likes it.
Some of these traditions are recent, some are long-standing; the thong began as a joke to make my mom laugh instead of cry because she missed my daddy at Christmas. The Christmas cookies and church service we’ve done all my life. But the one family Christmas tradition I miss the most is my daddy’s Christmas prayer.
When my daddy prayed, as we stood in a circle holding hands, he always began by thanking God for the gift of family and he always ended the prayer by talking about the Cross. And in between he reminded us all of the real meaning of love and the real meaning of Christmas. He was thoughtful, wise and eloquent and there was rarely a prayer that did not move us to tears.
I miss crying at my daddy’s prayers.
But new traditions have taken root; yesterday we went to the mall so my one-year-old nieces could sit on Santa’s lap. It’s been more than 10 years since I’ve done the mall Santa. Today we’ll all visit my grandmother in the hospital at various times and take her a plate of food. We’ll still do the thong shopping, but now my sister and I take my grown daughters (18 and 22) with us.
Our family celebration of Christmas has always rightfully begun with the candlelight and carol service. Like all human tradition, the service changes from year to year but the Reason and the focus remain the same. Time and circumstance may change the way we mark this day, but the birth of Christ marks us anew each year.
The kingdom of this world
Is become the kingdom of our Lord,
And of His Christ, and of His Christ;
And He shall reign for ever and ever,
For ever and ever, forever and ever.
Hallelujah!
This morning as my husband, Jim, and I got ready to leave for church, I put on my coat, scarf and gloves to stay warm in the 20-degree weather and single-digit windchill. I had to decide between brown gloves to go with my pants or black gloves to go with my coat; cloth or leather, solid or pattern …
I thought of those who have no warm home to turn on the heat, no hot water to make a cup of tea, no hat, gloves, scarves or coat against this bitter cold. So on a whim, I threw an extra pair of gloves in the car. We had bought them last year and they still had the tags. As we left for church, I said a prayer that I’d find someone who needs those gloves.
We go to church in a wealthy neighborhood in east Memphis and we live in Germantown, an affluent suburb. So the likelihood of seeing a needy or homeless person between our home and our church … almost nil. In fact, I’m not sure I ever have.
Until this morning. As we drove home from church, a man was walking down the street wrapped up in a blanket. There was no place to pull over, so we had to circle a block or two, then come back around and find him again. As we turned back onto a major street, there was a homeless man at the intersection holding a sign. Jim and I gave the man what cash we had in our wallets. He already had gloves, so we kept going and found the first man in a parking lot, wrapped up in that ratty blanket — with no gloves and very cold hands. It occurred to me that if the first man had been at any other point on our route, we’d have been able to easily pull over and would never have seen the second man. Coincidence? I’m going with no.
Beginning with the rest of Advent, I’ll commit to pray this prayer every day: Help me to keep my eyes open for those in need. To go looking instead of just waiting for them to come to me. I’m going out today to buy some gloves, hats, scarves and maybe a blanket or two to keep in my car. I’ll pray that God will show me someone in need, that I will not just give and serve when it’s convenient, but that I’ll go looking for opportunities.
Because if He can place two needy persons in our path between Laurelwood and Germantown at that moment in time … what greater impact can we have if we actively seek to serve?
I’m not waiting for opportunity — I’m going knocking. Come with me.
Earlier this week, I volunteered at Manna House (more about Manna House here,here and here) as I often do. There is never a time that I leave there without some new insight, but on this day I left with a book in hand as well.
The book, Radical Compassion, Finding Christ in the Heart of the Poor, (Amazon link*) is by Gary Smith, S.J., a Jesuit priest who lived and worked among the poor of Portland, Oregon for nearly 10 years. It is a journal of his ministry to them and their ministry to him, a collection of personal stories about his relationships with people who have been neglected, abused, beaten down and have endured struggles and hardships that are painful to read.
But God chose the foolish things of the world to shame the wise; God chose the weak things of the world to shame* the strong. He chose the lowly things of this world and the despised things — and the things that are not — to nullify the things that are, so that no one may boast before him.
I Corinthians 1:27-29
Note: King James Version uses the word confound — to perplex or amaze, especially by a sudden disturbance or surprise; bewilder; confuse — instead of shame. But I think both are applicable.
Some of the stories are funny, some sad, some are agonizing to read, but the story of a man named Robert is particularly poignant — the kind of poignant that makes it difficult to see the pages through the tears. Father Smith met Robert, 38, depressed, addicted to drugs and HIV positive and for the next two years or so, walked with him through his illness and death. Toward the end of his life, Robert asked to be baptized and during that holy moment, Father Smith shared the story of the good Samaritan. His reflections on that passage are profound:
You are the good Samaritan, Robert, because you have pulled all of us out of the safe trenches of our lives. And your love — so squeezed out of you by life and history — you have claimed again and given back to us a hundredfold. What a grace it is to be present to see you commit your life to the one who is the author of your love. Your faith is healing oil for our wounds.
And so the weak shame, confound — teach, nurture, edify — the strong. May we all know a good Samaritan.
*The only thing I get if you buy and read this book is a bit of satisfaction.
Shane Claiborne doesn’t look — or live — like an average preacher. This author, Christian activist and sought-after speaker wears no tie, not even a blazer and jeans, but casual, comfortable clothes and has dreadlocks that hang past his shoulders. Raised in east Tennessee, he now lives and serves among the homeless in inner-city Philadelphia in community with others who share resources and live frugally on about $150 per person per month. He ministered in Iraq during the bombing of Baghdad in 2003 and spent one summer among the poor in Calcutta with Mother Theresa.
