It does matter. It does make a difference.

If you've followed this blog for a while, you know that I am involved with a group called "We Walk Together Charlotte." It started just a few weeks after the terrible shooting at Mother Emmanuel church in Charleston, SC. We have walked well over one hundred miles here in Charlotte, getting to know the city and each other. During 2016 and 2017, we incorporated a volunteer component. We walk on the 15th of every month and we volunteer on the 30th. All over Charlotte.

Most of the time when we walk, we are just walking and talking to each other. Getting to know the city a little bit, and getting to know each other fairly well as we walk and talk. Many times when we volunteer, we spend an hour or two, perhaps three hours, serving food to the hungry, hammering nails at a Habitat for Humanity build project, hanging out with young people in crisis, among other things. One time, we baked cookies for the residents of the local Ronald McDonald house. Another time, we painted fingernails at a home for young women who are pregnant and cannot live at home for one reason or another.

I confess that there are times when I wonder if what we are doing makes a difference. I mean, we are just walking the streets of the city. Sometimes we pick up garbage as we walk. Often times we greet the people we meet as we walk. Always, we get lost in conversation with each other. And when we volunteer, I have often thought, "Does it matter that we are here only once a year, serving lunch or serving dinner? Are we making a difference for these families by baking cookies in the kitchen of the house where they stay while watching over a sick child in a nearby hospital?

Yesterday, on the occasion of our final volunteer project for 2017, we delivered furniture to two people who have just recently transitioned from homelessness into permanent housing. We delivered couches, end tables, chairs, a coffee pot, a small television, and even an ironing board to two different homes. We wished them well in their new homes. We prayed with them. We hugged them. And we left. The whole thing was finished in less than two hours.

As we drove away from the second home, it hit me. Hard.
It does matter.
It does make a difference.
Because if we hadn't started walking together in the summer of 2015,
if we hadn't continued to walk,
if we hadn't begun to volunteer once a month,
then some cookies might not have been made.
some meals might not have been served.
and those two people might not have gotten their furniture yesterday.

Maybe I'm overstating that. Maybe those things would have been done anyway.
But they wouldn't have been done by us.
We wouldn't have had the privilege of looking people in the eye and giving them food.
We wouldn't have had the opportunity to provide homemade cookies for people who cannot be at home because someone they love is sick.

We wouldn't have stood in those two recently furnished living rooms yesterday and had the high honor of wishing those two individuals a happy new year in their happy new homes. 

After being homeless for a while, the man we met yesterday expressed his happiness at not being outside on that cold morning - it was in the 20s in Charlotte yesterday morning. He had obviously been sleeping on the floor there, but last night he slept on a mattress and box spring. (For some reason, he didn't choose to have a bed frame.) That matters. That makes a difference. 

No matter how small it may feel to you, say hello to the security guard at the door.

Acknowledge the presence of the person asking for money, even if you don't give them anything.

Greet the person behind the cash register or the receptionist desk with a smile.

Thank the person cleaning the rest room.

And if you are the security guard, 

the person behind the cash register or the receptionist desk,

if you are the person who cleans the rest room or has asked for money,

I see you. I thank you for your service. I honor you for your courage to ask for help.

It does matter, friends.

It does make a difference.

Can I plagiarize that decades' old Nike motto for a moment?

Here goes - Just do it.

Happy new year to you. 

Happy new year to all of us.

Thanks be to God.

Thankful Thursday - the last one of the year

How can this be? How can this be the last Thursday of 2017?
The last hour of the last Thursday of the year?
I do not know, but here we are.

There is so much to be thankful for.

1. I am grateful for hope, for the hope that keeps me moving forward,
the hope that keeps me studying in seminary,
the hope that keeps me teaching at church and other places,
the hope that has thrust me into conversation about the possibility of a job.
Hope that will not back down when injustice rolls into town.
Hope that will not back down when fear returns.
Hope that refuses to surrender, no matter what.
I am grateful for hope.

2. I am grateful for Christmas cookies, especially the ones that are
brought over by neighbors or baked by friends or given as gifts.

3. I am grateful for laughter. I am grateful that my two adult children still
like to play games with me and my husband - and they love to laugh with us.

4. I am thankful for friends - for long walks with friends, for museum crawls with friends,
for sitting with friends before surgery, for laughing with friends over the
head-shaking, heart-breaking, laughable realities of marriage and parenting.
(What on earth were we thinking???)

5. I am grateful for journals and paper, for pens and colored pencils.
I am grateful for the fact that I have journals that cover more than thirty years
of my life, love, heartbreak, travel, loss, joy, and the extraordinary wonder
of ordinary days.

6. I am thankful for the soul-healing gift of prayer.
I am grateful that I can pray in my journal,
that I can pray out loud with others,
that I can pray as I do dishes and fold clothes,
and grateful that I can pray all by myself all the time.

7. I am grateful for firefighters, for ambulance attendants, for doctors,
for nurses, for the folks who care for nursing home residents,
and for chiropractors too. I am grateful for office managers and receptionists,
for record keepers and for janitors. I am grateful for the hard work of the
countless people whose faces and names I will never know, but without whose
diligence and discipline I could not live the life I enjoy.

8. I am thankful for my spiritual director, my pastors, my mentors,
my seminary professors, and so many others who know me well,
who see into my soul - and that love me anyway.
I am grateful for your questions, your challenges, your strength,
and your willingness to take risks with me and on me. I am grateful
for your generosity and your wisdom. I am grateful for your love for me
and your loyalty to me. I am grateful for your invitations to come to your
homes and your offices, your cities and your churches. I am grateful for
your text messages, your Whats App messages, your emails, and your
snail mail. I am grateful for your podcast suggestions and your website links.
I am grateful for your live videos and your face to face presence most of all.
I am grateful for your prayers on my behalf and your requests that I pray on yours.

9. I am grateful for loose leaf tea sweetened with local honey.
For fresh pita bread and homemade hummus.
For green smoothies and green juice.
For cashews, almonds, pistachios, and prunes.
I am grateful for key lime pie, chocolate chip cookies, and ice cream.
I am grateful for pizza and fried chicken, for bagels and for bacon.
I am grateful for the ridiculous bounty I encounter at the supermarket.
I am grateful that we can partake in that bounty so fully and so often.

10. I am thankful for the miracle that is this life. I am grateful for breath,
for strength, for balance, and for good health. I am grateful for sight,
for hearing, for a sense of touch, for fingers to type, and for the ability
to read what I have typed. I am grateful for every opportunity I have
to give thanks. There is so much beauty in this world, even in the face of
all the destruction and devastation. There is hope in this world, even in
the face of fear and hatred and violence. And I am enormously thankful.


Thanks be to God for the indescribable gift of Love.
Thank you, thank you, thank you.

Now what?

The presents have been opened.

The wrapping paper has been recycled.

The food, so much food, has been cooked and eaten.

I have eaten more sugar in the past 48 hours than I wish to honestly assess.

Now what?

I am half way through seminary.

Two and half years down.

Two and a half years to go.

I've forgotten more Biblical Greek and Hebrew than I wish to confess.

Now what?

It has been five years since I was in kanswer treatment and the mourning began in Sandy Hook, CT.

It has been nine years since her diagnosis.

It has been fifteen years since we moved to Charlotte.

It has been twenty five years since I have had a full time job - outside of our home, that is.

Now what?

The truth is that I have no idea what's next. 

I don't know who is next.

I don't know what the future holds. 

But I enter it, whatever "it" is, with wonder.

I enter Christmastide with joy.

I enter with hope.

I enter with questions, too.

I enter with concern, too.

I enter with doubts, too.

And I enter the future with today on my mind.

With the story of Christmas on my mind and in my heart.

With the story of an old woman who became a first time mother late in life.

Elizabeth, the mother of John the Baptist, had to have entered her future with practical questions, reasonable doubts, and great concern.

Her young cousin, Mary, the mother of Jesus the Christ, had a remarkable story of her own.

Unwed. Teenager. Pregnant. Ready to deliver her first child. No room in the inn.

Her concerns, doubts, and questions should have been countless.

But somehow, when asked to enter into her unimaginable future with an unbelievable story, she was able and willing to say, "May it be unto me as you have said."

In other words, what you are asking me to do is crazy, but let it be. 

This is an outrageous thing to ask of me, but let it be.

I have no idea how all of this is going to play out, but let it be.

I'm willing to take the chance that this unexpected adventure 

will bring joy and hope to my people and many more, so let it be.

I'm nervous and unsure. 

I have more than ten thousand questions.

I have absolutely no idea how I can do what you are asking of me.

But God...

But God has mercy on those who fear, honor, respect, and obey Him.

But God lifts the lowly and fills the hungry with good things.

But God has already done great things for me, and I have no reason to doubt that God will remain faithful.

But God promises the strength needed for the journey.

But God assures me that I will never be alone.

But God says that my prayers are heard and will be answered.

But God...

So, Mary said, let it be unto me as you have said.

Let it be, dear Lord, dear God, dear Spirit of the Living God.

Let it be.

Here I am; use me. fill me. empty me out for my people, for our nation, for the world.

Christmas Day is nearly over.

2017 is nearly over.

2018 is less than a week away.

Now what?

What now? 

Let there be hope.

Let there be indestructible hope.

Let there be subversive hope.

Let there be persistent hope.

Hope against all the odds.

Hope against all reason.

Hope that faces unbeaten foes and refuses to surrender.

Hope that knows that darkness has not overcome the Light.

Hope that believes that darkness cannot overcome the Light.

Let there be hope.

And let it be unto me, let it be in me, let it begin with me.

Merry Christmas.

Happy New Year.

I wish you irrepressible joy.

I wish you unflinching hope.

I wish you deep peace.

Joy, hope, and peace that surpass all your understanding,

and exceed your every expectation.

Thoughtful Thursday: A time to mourn and a time to rejoice

Five years ago today, I was sitting in Starbucks with my kids, sipping sweet drinks.
It was my birthday.
I had completed two out of six chemotherapy treatments. (Kanswer sucks!)
We were rejoicing and celebrating a glorious mid-December day.

As we sat talking there in Starbucks, my phone rang.
It was my best buddy calling.
She lives in Sandy Hook, CT.
I figured it was a birthday greeting.
I was wrong. Dead wrong.
She asked me to be praying because there had been a school shooting in her town.

So now, every year, on my birthday, I celebrate.
I am grateful to be alive, especially after going through kanswer.
But I also remember - there are many hundreds, thousands, of people
for whom today, December 14th, will always be a day of remembrance,
of mourning, of missing their beloved ones.

It is my hope and prayer that, in the midst of their tears, they are able to rejoice.
To give thanks for the time they did have with their loved ones.
And it is my hope and prayer that, because of their tears,
they and we will work harder to bring an end to the senseless gun violence
in this gun-crazed nation.

There is so much to mourn these days.
Sexual misconduct on all sides.
Coming within a hairs-breadth of electing an alleged (known) pedophile to the US Senate.
The loss of net neutrality.
A tax plan that will truly make the richest among us even richer
and provide precious little relief for anyone else.
People, far too many people, still sleep on the street or in abandoned buildings or cars.
Jobs are still being lost.
Food is still a necessity that many do not have adequate access to.

But there is also reason to rejoice.
Black people showed up and stood up and voted to keep that pedophile out of the Senate.
Food pantries are open - and there is work to fight the injustice that keeps people poor.
There is indeed Room in the Inn - and there are people fighting to provide Housing First.
People are providing funds and presence in and on behalf of the lives of others whose voices are not often heard.
Others are using yoga and meditation, peace and joy as their methods of transforming the world around them and us.

Like everyone, I have moments of deep sadness, despair even.
I weep. Often.
I wonder, as my daughter mused aloud earlier today, "Do they even have hearts?"
I know they do have hearts.
I wonder what broke their hearts, what made their hearts so hard that they are unmoved by the suffering that new laws and policies, as well as the abolishment of old policies, inflict on so many.

But I know that a change is gonna come.
Change is coming.
Transformation is happening right now.
Even as I write.
Resistance.

I am a woman of subversive hope.
Unshakeable hope.
Undeniable hope.
And faith.
Faith in God.
Faith in so many that i know are doing the work.
Not just staying in their bubbles and safe places.
People who are quitting high paying, insulated, isolated jobs in order to work with and for folks whose lives will never be insulated or protected.
People who are working so that all children can receive an education that is worthy of the paper on which their diplomas will be printed.
People who insist that our criminal justice system can actually bring about justice, rather than injustice.

Tonight, my husband and I will eat, drink, and be merry with some good friends.
We will rejoice and celebrate.
But inside, I will raise a toast to and say a prayer for the families of Sandy Hook and Houston and Puerto Rico. I will remember the folks living around the leaking oil pipeline in the Dakotas, the slaves still being sold in Africa, and the hundreds of thousands of young American residents whose very presence in this nation may soon be deemed illegal.

Today - like every day - is a day to rejoice and a day to mourn.
May our tears and laughter mix and mingle on our cheeks and in our hearts.
May we rest and recover for a few hours, perhaps even a few days.
But then, it will be time to get back to work.
To feed the hungry, clothe the naked, visit the sick and imprisoned.
Proclaim freedom for captives and restore sight to the blind.

Ready? Get set...

Prompt #1: "Tell me about a beginning"

So my seminary semester ended last Saturday. I am officially half way through my seminary journey. Thanks be to God. 

And because I'm constantly seeking ways to know myself better, 

ways to write better, ways to be a better version of myself,

perhaps the best version, I sign up for online classes. 

I'm taking three right now - all related to self-study, writing, gratitude, 

and learning how to pay close attention to my life and to the world around me.

So good. So much beauty. 

One of those classes started today.

And the first prompt was: "Tell me about a beginning."

This is how I responded.

(Check out my latest teacher here - Jena Schwartz. The current class is called: What if you knew?)

(Another of the classes I'm taking at the moment is called "Advent of Light - Journaling Course" -  it is being offered by Karen Walrond. She is a gift of light and love and journaling prowess. She and her family recently lost their home to flooding in Houston - she lost all of her journals, except for the one she had with her when they evacuated. Nonetheless, she is teaching and writing and shining a light on how to stay hopeful, how to seek and find light, in the face of tragedy and loss. I've followed her blog and writing since 2007 - at least.)

(The other class is being led by Patti Digh. Another gift in my life. Wise. Sharp. Fearless. Fierce. Honest. Challenging. Inspiring. Real. Generous. Hospitable. Funny. A prolific writer. And one of the hardest working people I have ever known. She exudes strength and determination.)

******

So this is my response, mostly unedited, to Jena's first prompt of the course. 

******

It began when I was a freshman in college. I went to a professor’s house for tutoring in poetry. I didn’t "get" poetry. I couldn’t understand it. When I arrived at his house, he waved me in from the living room where he was watching television. America had invaded Granada. There were soldiers on the ground on an island I didn’t know anything about, protecting American medical students from a threat they didn’t know anything about. My professor was livid - he cursed at the television and at our president. I think it was Reagan.

A few months later, it began again when I was in a political science class and my Argentine professor started talking about American involvement in Latin America, in his home country, and elsewhere. He talked about “banana republics,” but he wasn’t laughing. He talked about dictators and fascists, about take overs, and people who had "been disappeared." I had no idea what he was talking about, but it didn’t sound like the United States I had grown up in.

The beginning continued as I read more and watched more documentaries and listened to my fellow black students talk about their experiences of racism and discrimination in the classroom and in their dorms. I began to see that the bubble I had grown up, the bubble I lived in, the bubble I maintained around my life, my heart, and my body was soon to be burst.

The beginning continued when I met the coach from the Nicaraguan national basketball team. Their national team came to my college to play against our team. The national team! I was thrilled and excited and imagined that they would crush our little division three squad. What I didn’t realize was that the average Nicaraguan man isn’t very tall, nor does he have access to large quantities of food. Anyway, I was introduced to the coach of the team in the fall of my sophomore year (or was it my junior year?) in college, just before thanksgiving. I took him home for Thanksgiving that year. He didn’t speak much English and I didn’t speak much Spanish. He came to our humble home in Brooklyn, New York, and I managed to communicate to him that he was free to eat and drink whatever he wanted from our refrigerator. He opened the fridge and peered in at our leftovers and overripe cheese. He asked if that was our Thanksgiving meal.

The beginning continued when I realized that our leftovers were a feast for him.
The beginning of seeing my life and the world around me through compassionate eyes,
through eyes of deep gratitude and through eyes seeking signs of justice and fairness,
the beginning of the weeping, the deep sorrow at the suffering of so many people,
the beginning of the desire to save other people,
the beginning of the realization that I cannot save anyone,
the beginning of the journey that would bring me to this moment,
to the beginning of a new life of work and service through the church,
it all began when I was a freshman in college, when I arrived at that professor’s house,
when I watched him and listened to him and
learned more that afternoon about life in these United States and
the lives that we took in other nations
than I learned about poetry.