Where did I learn faith and faithfulness? My father. Stricken at nearly 51 years of age with a stroke that rendered him void of his abilities and life's work, he has never faltered in his trust in God. Though dependent on others for his safety and well-being, barely capable of communicating his thoughts, and subject to periods of confusion and fatigue,  he has never cursed his fate or given up on life. Today I watched him in amazement as he praised God for His goodness and care. He had gone out for a walk even though he hadn't quite been feeling his best. My mother and I had left at the same time to walk the dogs. Of course, we passed him quickly, and on our return trip found that he had gone farther than we had expected. We passed him again, confident that he could make it home. However, as Mom and I neared the house, suddenly the wind picked up and it started to rain. The weather in Savannah is capricious. I hurried into the house, grabbed my car keys, and set off down the street to get Dad. I pulled up to him as the rain started coming down hard, and Dad smiled as he got into the car.  Back in the house, he had barely seated himself in the recliner when he called my name. He wanted to tell me something. In halting speech, he communicated what I understood to mean--Ever since his stroke at age 50, God has never left him alone, never not taken care of him. His "rescue" from the rain had reminded him of that once again, and his face shone with amazement, gratitude, and love for the God who has always shown Himself to be faithful. A holy moment kissed with the divine presence.

Tears well up and spill over unexpectedly as I lie on the couch resting from an afternoon of working on making this Savannah house our home. My mind was skating along recent memories and landed on Christmas day when our children gave us a portable fire pit--to take the place of the fire pit they built for us on our land in Cedarville. That's what did it, and I am amazed at the grief, latent under the surface, that from time to time reaches up to grab my throat.  And then I must walk down that path again, remembering the comfort and warmth that I felt in that place, the feeling of being truly "at home." It was a unique experience, one that I may not ever have again. That piece of real estate was so much more than a property. I find comfort in the knowledge that God clearly revealed to me that we would have that place for just a season, though that knowledge does little to stem the flow of tears when the grief rushes in. However, that knowledge reinforces the belief that God was present in it all, providing for that time a place that cushioned us from the evil forces around us. And I find myself rehearsing again the good things that came from our time in Ohio--none of it was wasted--but I grieve at the reality of a Christian world that forces people to become "other," a world that produces loss like ours. Lord have mercy upon us, your people, and forgive us for the blight of disunity, pride, and self-aggrandizement.

I can be a "bull in a china shop," "steam-roller" kind of person. That's what I was yesterday, for the 100th, (1,000th?), time. When will I learn that bold, emphatic, confrontational statements and dire warnings delivered with emotional intensity seldom achieve a positive result? I suppose there is a place for the impassioned hyperbole that I am so adept at delivering, but most of the time, a gentler approach is more effective. Oh, Lord, corral this passionate spirit of mine and temper it with Your grace and tenderness. Illumine my mind to see people the way You see them and to know when to give free rein to the fervid nature within me (if there ever is occasion for that) and when to quench those fires with the soothing water of Your affable presence.

Exactly one week ago today, Erin and I, along with her friend Melissa, were in the labor and delivery room pushing hard to give birth to Kyah Annelyse. The memories of those eight hours of labor are still distinct in my mind--possibly the most incredible experience of my life. Oh, Lord, may those memories never fade, stamped on my mind like stigmata.
I see so vividly the look of desperation and intensity on Erin's face and hear the sounds of her birth struggle as she grinds through the most difficult and most rewarding work of her life. I hear the "he-he-hoo" of breathing with the unrelenting contractions and remember the connection of mother/daughter eyes. I feel the resistance of her leg in my arms as together we travail with each push. I hear my own voice reminding her that she is strong and exhorting her to "one more time" push again, encouraging her with news about her progress--"I see the head; she's coming."And I feel the thrill of birth, the split-second of anxiety waiting for the cry, and the ecstasy, relief, and gratitude as new life is handed to my child. Thank you, Lord, that in Your mercy, You heard our prayers.

I have just spent a riveting week in a intensive Holocaust seminar for educators that has included doing a variety of readings, engaging in interactive lessons, viewing images, listening to speakers that included a Holocaust survivor and an American World War II liberator, and participating in the shabbat services of a local Jewish congregation. I have learned about the dangers of the single story and the need to make human connections that eliminate those single stories. I have witnessed, through both print and personal testimony, the atrocities perpetrated upon the Jewish people and others by the Nazis. The concentrated exposure to these horrors of inhumanity is emotionally crushing. Yet, there is hope and beauty in the lives of those who survived, in those who resisted, and in those who risked their lives to rescue.

The week has also included the study of our own genocide of Native Americans and the genocide of Tutsi people in Rwanda. Making connections with people who are "other" adds dimension and richness to life. The image that has come to mind repeatedly is of a garden filled with a variety of flowers. A field of daffodils may be beautiful, but a field of wild flowers is breath-taking. I want the dazzling beauty of a multi-cultured world. Therefore, I must speak up for the marginalized, the disenfranchised, the abused, the slaughtered. Knowledge must be coupled with action.

The following prayer from the Jewish prayer book admonishes us to avoid complacency and self-centered oblivion.

Disturb us, Adonai, ruffle us from our complacency;

Make us dissatisfied. Dissatisfied with the peace of ignorance,

The quietude which arises from a shunning of the horror, the defeat,

The bitterness and the poverty, physical and spiritual, of humans.

Shock us, Adonai, deny to us the false Shabbat which gives us

The delusions of satisfaction amid a world of war and hatred;

Wake us, O God, and shake us

From the sweet and sad poignancies rendered by

Half forgotten melodies and rubric prayers of yesteryears;

Make us know that the border of the sanctuary is not the border of living

And the walls of Your temples are not shelters

From the winds of truth, justice and reality.

Disturb us, O God, and vex us;

Let not Your Shabbat be a day of torpor and slumber;

Let it be a time to be stirred and spurred to action.

The following is my reflection of this experience.

My stomach is a melon split wide within my skin
      Filled up with the agony of millions.

Gazing into her eyes--connection with humanity,
     Aghast at what she suffered.

She kissed my cheek, she who is not other.

Emotion bubbles up and spills over--sadness and joy intermingled.

                                                I, who did not die, who am still living,
                                                     Must tell the story.

(two lines taken from "Making a Fist" by Naomi Shihab Nye)
See the following link for the digital story.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ib2vadgcdaE&feature=youtu.be

My mind still swirls with the words, images, sounds that I absorbed this past week. I see the faces of my cohort and the faces of those who were dammed, those who survived, those who liberated, those who tell the story for the ones who have been silenced. Taking Maggie for a walk after returning home yesterday, I had the same sensation one has after losing a loved one to death--"How can the world just keep going? People are driving here and there, engaging in a myriad of activities, and I alone am bearing the weight of the grief and the knowledge of the loss."

The question remains--What do I do with this information/experience? I'm sure that my response will continue to evolve as I move past the initial visceral response. I already know that my week immersed in genocide has reinforced values of love, compassion, hope, perseverance, beauty, the gift of being present in the moment with a person (I see you, I hear you), and the necessity of speaking up about injustice anywhere I see it. I am reminded that even though I may not agree with a person's religion or politics or family values, etc., everyone is created in God's image and thus deserves love and respect. They also deserve to be seen and heard. I don't have to give up my values and beliefs in order to do this. Looking into another person's eyes and making a connection is part of being human and reflects the divine nature. (Lahai Roi--Gen. 16:13-14) Studying the suffering of people underscores the need for love, which seems a trite saying, but actually is at the core of the gospel.

Oh, Lord, may this Lenten season end with new life.

We are trudging down road with no sign of anything but rejection and despair, as if we will mindlessly drone on and on like robots in a sci-fi feature.  I am clinging to every bit of Holy Spirit word that I can grab from the daily office. What keeps resurfacing is the line from an old hymn which says that I am "learning the patience of unanswered prayer." It is becoming difficult to choke down the cries for relief and deliverance, to try to stay calmly patient. I am constantly reminding myself of the countless others all over the world who are in much more difficult circumstances than I am, but that doesn't seem to assuage the emotion or lessen the rising panic.

And so I pray, Lord, in your mercy, hear our prayer. May we find new life dawning at the end of this Lenten season (however long this season may last).