The Player

The Old Testament story of Jacob and Esau has always been a bit annoying to me. Jacob, whose name means "deceiver," swindles his brother's birthright and blessing from him and then has the gall after he flees from home to wrestle with an angel from God. I have always thought before as I heard this story, "Who in the heck does he think he is--to wrestle with God and then have the nerve to ask for a blessing yet again?" One of the aspects of the story though that I have missed is his persistence in not letting go of God. While Jacob is definitely a player, he is a needy one.

As I think about the many people I have known through the years, many were very close to God until, as the cliche goes, "the going gets rough." It might be an unexpected early death of a loved one, devastating personal financial losses, the breakup of a marriage, or any number of other causes that make us rethink our relationship with God. Jacob, it seems, had a choice to either let go of the angel (God's representative) or to keep hanging on and expecting a blessing to follow. He chose the latter.

I remember a conversation with my daughter after she lived in Los Angeles for three years. She basically came to a point where she agreed with Celie's belief in The Color Purple that, no matter how hard one tries, it is impossible to live without God. It seems there is something to be said for one's tenacity in hanging on to God in spite of the negative events in life. Who knows what blessings may still lie ahead?

A Ram in the Thicket

Our Bible study group last week at church struggled with the Old Testament story of Abraham, who after being childless for one hundred years, was finally sent a son. His name was Isaac. Yet the irony of the story is that God tells Abraham to take his son up to a mountaintop and sacrifice him. Some read the piece and suggest that Abraham came through the test by God splendidly since he was willing to do so. Others say, "No, Abraham failed because, while he could debate the saving of the people in Sodom and Gomorrah with God, he would not debate the sacrifice of his son."

To me, the real interest of the story is the ram in the thicket, a sacrifice provided when God tells Abraham at the last moment not to kill his son but kill the animal instead (I am aware that animal rights' activists will not like either choice). For me the story is much more about God's grace, instead of Abraham's obedience and faith.

As I reflect upon my life, I think of many instances where a ram in the thicket has been provided. Some are small suggestions of grace, and others are much bigger. Two examples will suffice. Ten years ago one of my best friends and I got into a silly argument that escalated into telling each other everything we had always hated about each other. She listed four items on her list while I had just one, but it was a devastating attack. We have not seen each other for a decade. Last January I sent her a copy of my two books, one a family memoir and the other a spiritual journey. I heard nothing for nine months. Last week I received an invitation to her only daughter's wedding. She extended, while not exactly a ram in the thicket, an olive branch.

A larger example of God's providing a ram in the thicket involves finances. A number of years ago I got a call from a friend who said she and her family were coming to visit for a week. My husband and I were absolutely without funds even for groceries. At that time an acquaintance called to ask if I would sell my piano. I did gladly and, therefore, was able to buy groceries for the upcoming visit.

Our conservative denominations among us believe in the literalness of the Scripture while more liberal denominations believe that it is more symbolic and metaphorical. I do not have a problem believing in both and that the Scripture has many applications for our lives today.

Cricket Choruses

I am happy that fall has finally arrived for a number of reasons. Among them are not having to turn on the overhead fan every time I sit down at the computer, being able to open the blinds without worrying about the heat of the day encompassing the room, and not hearing the ever-singing crickets and katydids making their incessant noise in the grass and trees. It is only now that I can appreciate the sound of silence outside my window. I recently, however, got an entirely different perspective on cricket choruses.

One of the aspects I most enjoy about attending the Episcopal church now is that the theologians have simplified belief into two major tenets: creation and incarnation. All of the worship within the church tends to focus on these only. As a congregation, we do not worry so much about sin and everlasting punishment or the coming Armageddon. The hymns, creeds, and sermons are much more positive within the Episcopal church.

A recent example from our Bible study group reminded me of this great gift to us. We were reading Flannery O'Connor's famous short story, "Revelation," when we came to the concluding paragraph of the piece. It is where Mrs. Turpin has had the great revelation where she sees many souls ascending to heaven. The final paragraph states, "In the woods around her the invisible cricket choruses had struck up, but what she heard were the voices of the souls climbing upward into the starry field and shouting hallelujah." Our Bible study leader then played a cd where someone had intentionally recorded crickets singing on a warm Southern night but had slowed the speed considerably. I was amazed that the cricket choruses sounded like a well written symphony written in praise to God. Actually, the idea of a musical order of the universe has been inspirational in the history of the human mind for thousands of years. Pythagoras, a early Greek philosopher, even spoke of it. I am just now beginning to think of the implications of the idea.

I hope never again to complain about the sounds outside my window on a summer night and see them as annoying but will, instead, listen carefully the cricket choruses. Perhaps they are singing in praise to God.

Baseball in Heaven

We had only been home from our vacation in Seattle less than a week before my son asked us to babysit our two grandchildren here in Little Rock. We always love going over to their house and playing with the children for a few hours. I keep encouraging our son to have a date with his wife every week.

On this particular fall evening, nine-year-old Caitlyn (as she typically does) already had an agenda for playtime. We would light candles, sit in her room, and think about someone who had died. It seems that, since Caitlyn has been attending a private Christian Episcopal school, she has enjoyed playing "church." She often has her prayer book, reads various and sundry prayers to her brother, and preaches. On this night, since Episcopalians pray for the dead, she wanted to ask questions to someone who was no longer on earth. We decided upon her mother's grandmother as a possibility. Caitlyn, Charlie (her four-year-old brother) and I sat in the candle-lit room, took a flashlight to shine in our faces, and asked her deceased great-grandmother a question. I asked, "Are you happy where you are?" She then passed the flashlight to Charlie. He was thoughtful for a few seconds and then asked, "Do you play baseball in heaven?"

Caitlyn and I laughed for a moment but then assured Charlie that he had posed a good question. My mind immediately went to my grandmother, who raised me from junior high school through high school. I used to love the stories she told me about her childhood during the time I lived with her, especially about her love for baseball. Since she had two older brothers, Bud and Dell, she loved to play baseball with them on warm summer Southern evenings. Unfortunately though, since she was a girl, she was responsible for rocking her baby sister, Elise, every night to sleep and always had to miss the game she loved the most. I can still hear her mimicking her mother's voice, "Ethel, Ethel, come inside and rock the baby."

My grandmother has been gone for almost thirty years now, but I am now wondering also (along with Charlie), "Are you playing baseball in heaven?" Somehow, I think she is. I know she deserves to be.

Pecans and Fireflies

It was a late September autumn evening in Seattle when my husband, daughter, and her partner, Sheri, arrived to hear writer Alice Walker read from her latest children's book entitled Why War Is Never A Good Idea. We arrived early at City Hall downtown so that we could be assured a seat for the event. We took our places dutifully, made small talk with those around us, and waited for the doors to open. We were greatly looking forward to the evening since Alice Walker has been a favorite writer of ours since the wonderful Color Purple was published.

I was surprised when Alice Walker came unto the stage in that she had a quiet, small voice and also that she looked very young and attractive. I guess I had expected her voice to be as strident and booming in person as it is in her activist writing. I also had forgotten that she was my age, not the ancient matriarch I had also imagined in my mind because of her spiritual insight and wisdom.

After the reading, the audience was promised that Alice would sign copies of our books. We could also have a brief time for pictures and/or questions. My question for her as I waited for her to write an unrecognizable signature in my book was, "Do you ever miss anything about the South?" I knew that she was raised in Georgia, had left rather early in her life, and came back only to participate in the civil rights marches of the 1960's. She at first said, "No," but then she revised her answer and added, "No, I take that back. I miss pecans . . . and I miss fireflies."

I guess every child who has been raised in the South could also share Alice Walker's memories. My aunt Elise was blessed with a number of old large pecan trees in her yard. Since she was a widow, she and her son, David, would gather the pecans from the ground every fall, shell them, and put many away for baking in the future. They also sold all the extras in order to get their Christmas money. As for the fireflies, Southern children often have to be coaxed inside at the end of long summer days by mothers who are more threatening than encouraging. Chasing, catching, and bottling fireflies was often a competition to see who could gather the most. It was almost a magical light as the various jars glowed after darkness descended.

The South has so many more attributes, however, than these two. It is sad that--perhaps because of the racial discrimination in her time--Alice Walker remembers only two.

Reflections on Being In Country

We have all been inundated recently by the movie and television productions featuring wartime situations--most notably, of course, has been Ken Burns' most recent fifteen hour documentary entitled The War. My husband and I have been taking some time to reflect on what it means to have a war fought in one's own country. Thankfully, the United States has been spared this atrocity since the Civil War. Even though World War II has been over some sixty years or so, we still argue with each other about the use of the atomic bomb to end it. Today as our volunteer soldiers fight in Iraq and Afghanistan, they are once again in country with its resulting devastating effect upon citizens and the environment.

Occasionally, my husband and I also debate the draft vs. volunteer army idea. Is it morally right, I ask him, for our soldiers to be paid (and not very well at that) to die for us while many other young people claim to dislike war but do not have a personal stake in it? I know that, like all wars, it is taking a toll on many there with their extended service obligations. This stress simply increases the likelihood of violence while in the service or out. The film In the Valley of Elah (based on a true story) starring Tommy Lee Jones features such violence between men and within families.

Frankly, I cannot imagine any of our U. S. cities ever resembling Dresden (from the fire bombings in World War II) or Hiroshima (from the atomic bomb). The horror would be too much even to contemplate. Sometimes I hear around here the cliched argument, "If we don't fight them there, we'll have to fight them here." What will it take to take the soldiers out of country and bring them home again? Was General Douglas McArthur right when he said something like, "War means going through hell, but you can't stop; you have to keep going"? Will we really be in the Middle East until 2013?

Cole the Giver

It is always fascinating to watch the development of a child, especially as language skills become a tool with which to communicate. Our two-year-old grandson in Seattle, Cole, is now discovering the world which lies before him each day and is now able to tell us his thoughts, needs, and desires. Many of these center, not necessarily on himself, but on others. He loves to give gifts in the only way that he can at his age--he chooses the creations of nature to take home to his many adoring relatives--two mamas, two daddies, five grandparents, a nanny, her boyfriend, and many cousins. His favorite gifts are flowers (which he chooses from a plethora of possibilities within his yard and patio), rocks (both small and large), and leaves (especially now that fall has arrived and they are gold and red, in addition to the usual green). I have been thinking about what makes one child a giver and another not.

I talked to my sister, Judy, recently about the subject. She tends to think it comes by heredity. She credits our alcoholic father, who would always open his wallet and give one half of anything he carried in it if there was a need. Since she is four years old than I, I do not remember this aspect of his personality. I remember more the times when the tables were reversed, and he came to our house, even after I was married, to ask for money.

I tend to think the act of generosity and altruism is simply due to personality temperament. If we follow the old labeling system from the past, there are four personality temperaments: melancholy, sanguine, phlegmatic, and choleric. Three of these seem to be self-centered, all but phlegmatic. This temperament tends to show a child who can fit in with many types of diverse people; he has many friends; and he thinks of others more than himself. I believe Cole falls into this category.

Regardless of the source of generosity, I hope Cole's will continue it as he gets older. I hope that he will consider volunteer work as an elementary student and continue it as an adult. He is, after all, Cole the giver.

When Love Goes Bad, Revenge is Good

One slow September afternoon recently while in Seattle, my husband and I walked across the street to watch the film Rocket Science. Basically, the plot centered on high school students on a debate team. The star of the movie played a character who, in spite of his stuttering, was selected by a key debater to be on the team anyway. The girl who selects him basically has her own agenda in mind, apparently not his. As I described the film later to my daughter, I said, "It was similar to Napoleon Dynamite but realistic. In this movie, the boy gets the girl, not in the usual way, but through revenge." In fact, near the end of the film, the boy states the line, "When love goes bad, revenge is good." It seems that in modern society revenge is the preferred method for settling scores. I am wondering whatever happened to Jesus' advice about turning the other cheek.

During the past week, for example, we have been inundated once more with two stories of high school violence. One was carried out with the perpetrator shooting two students and two teachers in a "success" school before turning the gun on himself. The other was planned, with investigators making a large discovery of weapons in the home of a fourteen-year-old boy in Pennsylvania. Again, as a society, we ask how bullying of these children can lead to such a horrific result. Evidently, for both boys, the warning signals were clear for weeks.

I am sure as the investigations both are conducted many details will be revealed about the personalities of these boys. I will predict, however, that both were marginalized early on in their lives because of differences, perhaps obesity, personality quirks, attention-getting behaviors, or hostility. One can only wonder what might have happened if someone had reached out to them early and with love. Revenge should never be the selected option.

For All the Brianas of the World

It was an idyllically beautiful September day in Seattle. The park where my husband, daughter, and I had taken our two-year-old grandson Cole had a clear view of the city buildings, in addition to being outlined in the early morning light by an array of autumn trees gently showering down their leaves. I watched as Cole swung high in the kiddy swings and thought how blessed this child was to be loved and adored by two mamas, two dads, five grandparents, a nanny, her boyfriend, and a host of cousins and other relatives.

I did not notice the little girl who hovered around Cole and Kimberly for a while. I wondered for a moment if she could be alone in the park, but then I noticed them: the caregivers. They were young but seemingly hung over. She was a bleached blond young woman, and he was an African-American with baggy pants. Both seemed to be smoking pot. They were stirred from their reverie only slightly to hollow at the child once, "Don't do that; that's not your stroller." The child bragged to us that she had chocolate milk with her as a treat. I asked her what she had for breakfast, and she seemed not to know if she had eaten breakfast. Kimberly started feeding both her and Cole some Elmo crackers she had brought along with her. The girl seemed ravenous and ending up eating the majority of them. She said her name was Briana.

I would like to think that Briana was an isolated case in Seattle, but I am not that naive. Having felt somewhat neglected myself as a child being brought up by a mother who was often absentee due to her work schedule, I tried to imagine Briana in fifteen years. Would she be able, perhaps through some mentor, to get herself on track and move to a productive life? Or would she become one of those who sit in front of drugstores and theaters asking, "Can you spare some change?"

Panhandling in Portland

I have been to a lot of cities in the past ten years across the United States, but I have never noticed teenagers and young people panhandling. In the past it has always been what has become the usual stereotype: older men or women carrying plastic bags full of their stuff around with them as they either move around the city by bus or settle into one spot to panhandle.

On a recent trip to Portland, however, I noticed quite a few, young people sitting in front of drug stores especially asking, "Can you spare some change?" When my husband and I returned to our home-away-from-home, Seattle, I decided to look for more young panhandlers. I found them downtown in front of a large movie theater. One of them, a young blond woman, was there on at least two trips downtown. Our last trip before we left she was there, but as we exited the theater, she got up and went away with a young attractively-dressed man in a business suit. The policeman who was passing by did not seem to notice anything amiss. These experiences made me think about the motivation of those young people. Could they not get jobs, or is it simply more profitable to ask for handouts (or to give oneself sexually) every day?

Having watched some television shows in the past on the subject, I know the usual explanation is that these young people are runaways and are many times drug or alcohol addicted. If underage, they cannot legally work and have to panhandle to eat. The ones I observed did not fit this pattern and were well above the age to work.

I think of my own family's experiences when I was a toddler and beyond where my mother and father seemed to be always homeless. My father could not keep a job for a number of reasons. In spite of having a winning personality, he simply could not keep his hands out of the till to support his gambling habit. Thankfully, we had a number of relatives who took us in during the years: my mother's cousin Mary Margaret from Mobile, her half-aunt Elise from the Mississippi Delta, and other various and sundry friends and relatives. In the 1940's, it was rare for a woman to work outside the home if she had a husband. My mother followed my father around the South, always looking for a relatives to stay with first, or if that failed, a room or small apartment to rent by the week for our family. We never stayed on the streets though my father did his share of panhandling through the years to help us get by.

As usual, I do not have any answers for this social problem of young adults. I know that a number of churches and charities do their best to provide shelter and meals for the homeless. My father's favorite was the Gospel Rescue Mission, located in several states. He never minded listening to a sermon in order to get food and a bed for the night. As he lived though, he died: homeless and shot three times along a Mississippi highway in August of 1976. I would like to think that the fate of the young panhandlers in Portland and Seattle could somehow turn out differently.

Treading Water

My husband and I never meant to be treading water in the second year of our retirement. Unfortunately, we are one of the many families throughout the United States who have become caught up in the housing debacle. How on earth did we get here financially we often ask ourselves when the plan was to be debt-free at the beginning of our golden years? We have just reviewed the latest statistics that indicate the sale of existing houses has decreased by 21.5% in one year. Foreclosures are predicted to top two million soon. The stock market has reacted negatively to this news within the last couple of months, fearing a possible recession if Americans quit spending.

It began in the summer of 2005 when we put our dream house on sale. We knew we wanted to live near our ever-growing grandchildren in Little Rock, and we were also looking for a house that had a master bedroom downstairs due to my husband's spinal stenosis. We did not hesitate to purchase a home that had all of the desired criteria a year ahead of my retirement date. Our realtor assured us that our old house would sale within two or three weeks. At the end of six months without an offer, we took it off the market for some recommended upgrades. We put it back on the market after another six months all spruced up and ready to go. Again, in our new six-month realty contract, we got no offers.

We are currently maintaining two houses, paying taxes and insurance, for both. Our savings has depleted. We think we can stay above water for one more year. After that, it appears that we will sink--we and another two million families just like us.