The Fringe

The Fringe

The fringe. People on the outside. People living on the edges. People beyond the limits.

Homeless.

Helpless.

Hopeless.

Worthless.

The poor. Addicts. People of color. Immigrants. Wasters. Takers. Infestations.

Kick the immigrant children while they sleep on the cement floor. The fringe.

Give children food they can’t eat because it’s frozen and smells bad. They are hungry.

Women drink from the toilet. They are thirsty.

Laughter at the boy crying in the bathroom because he is scared out if his mind.

The babies are not all reunited with their parents. Cages. But they are just the fringe, so who gives a shit?

The stories of the fringe are coming out. As they are released, they are asked, “So, how was it in there? How were you treated in America, “the land of the free and the home of the brave?”

There are those in the Chaos Administration of this country who say it will take longer than expected to reunite families. That’s funny, it didn’t take long to separate them.

The fringe.

I preached today. I stood in a pulpit and preached the Good News. Sometimes it’s hard.

“And wherever he (Jesus) went, into villages or cities or farms, they laid the sick in the marketplace, and begged him that they might touch even the fringe of his cloak; and all who touched it were healed.” Mark 6:56

The fringe of his cloak.

The fringe of his cloak. If they touched even the fringe, they were healed.

I get it. I get it. I get it.

WE are the fringe. The fringe of his cloak.

We are the ones closest to him.

We are the keepers of the Good News.

We are the sharers of the Good News.

We are the ones who do not judge, or discriminate, or hate “the other.” We are the ones who know that all people are made in the image of God. All are worthy of welcome, acceptance, love. All are worthy of bread (the bread of life, too). All are worthy of fresh water (the living water, too). All are worthy of a chance to live in the light and not the darkness (the light of the world, too).

We are the ones who need to reach out and touch those in need with care, gentleness and respect. We are the fringe of his cloak meant to unite the lost, undo oppression, erase bigotry, heal the sickness of addiction, and be as open and loving as Jesus Christ who felt the crush of the world, a world begging to touch just the fringe of his cloak.

We are the conduits of hope, peace, grace, life, love. And in the midst of evil and cruelty delivered lavishly by the leaders of this country, the fringe wins.

What a solemn joyful burden it is

                                                   to be the fringe.

Water

WATER

Hot summer days invite sprinklers, pools, lakesides and ocean beaches. Cool water to play in. Cool water to drink after the play.

Happy squeals from little people as cool water touches warm skin. Splashing, jumping, laughing.

I remember jumping off the edge of the pool, just a little girl ready to fly. I could fly because my dad was in the cool water, his hands raised, ready to catch me. He never missed.

With my own children, bath time was another water time. Little people splashing chubby hands, sending bubbles bubbling. A soft towel, a clean diaper, and clean jammies.

“Water cleanses; purifies; refreshes; sustains.”

This week a fourteen-month-old baby boy, who had been taken from his parents at the border and separated for eighty-five days, was returned filthy and covered in lice.

No water. No bath. No excuses.

Our country did this. Our country missed. Our country doesn’t keep the babies safe. Our country cages babies in filth.

All the little ones are supposed to be reunited with their parents by tomorrow, July 10. But our country’s (b)administration separated families without a plan in place to put them back together again.

Some little ones have been in court. Alone. Sitting in a much-too-big chair with much-too-big headphones on their little ears. So they can hear the translator. They are not safe. Not protected. Defenseless.  

One little one had his bottle and toy ball.  He was all alone. Not safe. Not protected. Defenseless.

Our country’s (b)administration did this. Our country missed. Our country puts toddlers on trial.

So, because there was no plan in place to put families back together again, there will still be little ones unsafe and away from their parents when the deadline passes tomorrow. The days tick on.

I ask, what is a pastor to do? What is a mother with perfectly safe children to do?  

I remember holding my son in front of the font. The baptismal font. I said these words: “Water cleansers; purifies; refreshes; sustains.”

Baptism liturgy. Sacramental water. My son safe in my arms. Safe. He was clean and fed.

“Wesley, for you Jesus Christ came into the world.;

for you he died and for you he conquered death;

all this he did for you, little one,

though you know nothing of it as yet.

We love because God first loved us.”

I touched the water in the font. I made three little water crosses on his tiny forehead.

“I baptize you in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.”

This is something a pastor does. It’s a sacrament. It’s holy. It’s God’s promise to every child. Through the sign and symbol of water.

Because every child is made in the image of God.

I’ve put water crosses on more babies than I can count. They always know I’m not their mother. Sometimes they put up with me, sometimes they throw-up on me, and sometimes they cry. I speak the liturgy and I make the water crosses. When I’m finished with this sacrament, I hand them back to their mothers or fathers. Where they feel safe.

If it were possible, I would go to the little ones who have been brought over our border. I know you would too. I wouldn’t go to baptize them. That would be a waste of time, breath, and water. There is something much more urgent going on there.

I would go to unlock cages, to unlock the doors housing the older ones. I would think of my dad’s hands catching me every time I jumped. He caught me, and I knew I could fly. Flying is the opposite of being caged.

WE (are you with me?) would go to the detention centers during these hot summer days with baby bath and shampoo. We would find the water and clean away the filth. We would clothe them with clean diapers and soft jammies. We would go to them with arms ready to hold and comfort. We would go with soft voices to whisper loving words and sing lullabies. We would do this until we could hand each baby to their mother or father. Where they could finally feel safe.

For now, the only water they feel are the tears on their own cheeks. My tears are useless, but still fall.

“Water cleanses, purifies, refreshes and sustains.”

“and whoever gives even a cup of cold water to one of these little ones in the name of a disciple – truly I tell you, none of these will lose their reward.”  Matthew 10:42

   

Cleaning House

CLEANING HOUSE

JULY 4, 2018

I write as a woman of faith...

Today I cleaned the house. Last night was one of those nights when sleep eluded me as I fretted over the happenings in our country: A child of five sitting before a judge all alone in a courtroom. Babies in cages (I won’t stop writing about this). An administration not clear about how they will put families back together again. The gains of the rich and the plight of the poor. A long list.

I am a Christian. I respect your faith, or your choice not to have one. But this is an interesting story from my faith. It’s the time when Jesus got mad. Violently mad. He was at the temple and the money changers were charging more money than they should have been. They were taking advantage of those who had to make a sacrifice to be rid of their sins. The money changers had the upper hand. They could take what they wanted from everyone. And they did. Even from the poorest poor…

Today I vacuumed. I hoped the whirring sound would drown out the babies’ cries in my head. It didn’t.

I dusted pictures of my son when he was six months old, four years old, and six years old. Good God! Wes in a cage? Wes, sitting alone in a court room before he could even spell his own name?

I cleaned bathrooms ferociously and left mirrors and faucets shining.

I mopped kitty paw-prints off the kitchen floor.

All clean. Everything in its’ place.

Jesus cleaned up the money changers. He pushed over their tables and sent their blood money scattering across the stones of the temple. He screamed at them to stop making a mockery of God’s Holy house.

He cleaned things up. Everything and everyone in the right place.

I am pondering a few things this afternoon as sit in my clean house:

When will the families be families again?

When will babies be loved and nurtured by their parents, and small children be spared from going to trial alone?

How will the school kids of our own country, the ones who watched their friends attacked by a gunman and shot and killed, handle fireworks tonight? I only hear bullets.

How can I escalate my love for the poor, the stranger, the sick, the fearful and the outcast, while at the same time speak truth to corruption and cruelty?

Where would Jesus be turning over tables today? Where would he demand the end of the mockery of what is purely good? Where would he be defending those most in need? Those who have already made their sacrifice?

On this Independence Day, I wonder about that other house? The beautiful House of the People, the White House? It belongs to the country, not to a person. How in the world will we ever clean up the mess that is being made by the administration in that house? How will we remove the stains of bigotry, racism, misogyny, and corruption? When will the People’s House be clean and shining and the beacon of hope for hopeless people?

I think we can do some cleaning now. We are a majority of people who value justice, kindness and mercy. We are a majority of people who want sensible gun laws. We are a majority of people who want families reunited and fair immigration policies. We are a majority of people who respect the rights of others, all races, all religions, every socio-economic status, the freedom to love who you love, and be who you are innately meant to be.

We are a majority of people who can give our time, our money, and our votes for equity. We will turn over the tables.

The stains will be scrubbed away. The mess will be sorted.

Everything in its’ place. The House will be clean again.

Happy birthday America. Today we celebrate the history of all who are now within the borders of the land of the free and home of the brave.

And we live into the promise of liberty and justice for All.

The Dream

I write this as a woman of faith. You may not be a person of faith, which I respect. But perhaps you will connect with some part of this if you are a person of love. Love is action.

The Dream

The tables are long because the family is large.

Summertime family reunions usually call for long tables.

There is excitement in the air to see those who haven’t been seen in a while. It is time to prepare.

White table cloths are ironed. The Whitest white.

China and silver. Really? Yes, paper and plastic won’t do. We will have the shiniest silver.

Food has been cooking, good things have been baked and are cooling in the breeze. That beautiful breeze. Cold drinks have been plunged into icy bins.

Because family matters.

Family members deserve the very best.

Who found the flowers? (did you?) Beautiful, fragrant flowers are laid down the middle of every table. Their perfume is the final touch.

We take a moment to change out of our work clothes and put on something clean and colorful. We run brushes through our hair and our teeth. Ready to smile big smiles and hug big hugs.

Summertime is hot on the border of our country. We (you and I and the rest of us) have traveled far to get here. But we have shade over our tables and the breeze blows.

We are ready. We are so ready for the family reunion.

That’s why we are where we are: at the border. Where summertime is really hot. We had to come here.

As we finish preparations, we look around at all the doors. So many doors. Locked doors. We can’t get in. Those locked doors are why we are here. They must be unlocked.

Then… bolts slide back. Some of the doors open. You and I can see them.

They are the mothers. Hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of mothers. They blink into the bright sunlight. Through their bleary eyes and their teary eyes, the silver gleams, the china sparkles, the white tablecloths are so white…they are confused.

More bolts slide back. More doors open.

They are the fathers. Hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of fathers. Walking out of the dark. And through their bleary eyes and their teary eyes, they look beyond all that shines, for the one they came here with. The one they walked so far with. The one they hoped and dreamed of having a safe life with.

The reunion has begun.

We want to watch, but it’s so intimate to watch the immense pain these dear ones have suffered in this (our) country. Frantically they search and slowly find the other half of their heart.

More bolts slide.  More doors open.

Oh…oh…they are the children. The older ones carry the babies out of their prison. Out of their cages. Hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of children. And through their bleary eyes and their teary eyes they see a world sparkling. Whitest white. Shiny silver. Flower perfume fills small noses. They look, they see…

And then the shouts! And then the screams!

For what mother does not know her own baby?

For what father does not know his own child?

We are unable to move as we watch through bleary eyes and teary eyes, the miracle of reunion.

We stand in awe as broken apart families search and search, and then finally find the ones who make them whole. They cling to one another. Their tears puddle on the floor.

After a very long time of seeking and finding, we slip our arms through theirs. We take their life-worn hands in ours and we all sit at the tables.

The tables which are set for a family reunion. Nothing has been spared. A holy meal begins. We pass platters and platters food.

(“This is my body, broken for you,” Jesus says.)

No more brokenness.

We pass thirst-quenching cold drinks.

(“This is my blood, shed for you,” Jesus says.)

No more bloodshed.

Silver clinks on china. It sounds like angels laughing.

The Holy Spirit breeze continues to blow. It blows through our brushed hair. Through our bright clothes. It blows through our souls and connects us to one another.

We are sitting with our sisters and our brothers. With all the precious little ones (who have suffered far too much) who are the sweetest part of this big, noisy, crying, laughing, reunited family. For we are all made in the image of God. Each and every one of us.

And we (you and I) are called to alleviate suffering. We must.

Then one of us (is it you?) stands up and says to the ones from behind the bolted doors:

Welcome home.

The work begins. The healing begins. Hope flickers. Love will win.

 Because family matters.

Cages

Cages.

Children wailing. Children screaming for their mamas and papas.

Children in cages. Little ones.

Very. Little. Ones.

Parents in anguish. Why? Because they have lost their children. They were holding their babies when someone ripped them away and hid them in cages. They were holding the hands of their children when someone grabbed them and took them to...somewhere.

“Anguish” is not a big enough word.

Human rights violations. Oh, yes.

Crimes against humanity. Definitely.

Such corrupt governments who do this to children are far away. Lands with toxic leaders who leave people powerless and afraid.

They are places where dictators don’t care who suffers. They are places where law enforcement has gone bad. Really bad.

Oh. Wait. I know the land…

“My country ‘tis of thee, sweet land of liberty…”

Liberty.

Lady Liberty “…her name Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand glows worldwide welcome… ‘Keep, ancient lands, your stories pomp!’ cries she with silent lips. ‘Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, the wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, the tempest-tossed to me. I lift my lamp beside the golden door!’”

I thought I knew this land.

I do not know this land.

Wretchedness has been unleashed on the Least of These. What we do to them, we do to Jesus Christ.

So, if you are part of the crowd who loves our dictator and believes these very little ones should be in cages away from their mamas, you are the ones who spit in the face of Jesus Christ.

Go ahead. Love your dictator and live in hate.

Don’t be foolish enough to call yourselves pro-life, for destruction of life is being sown every second these very little ones are locked in cages away from their fathers.

Don’t be foolish enough to call yourselves Christians. You do not have the right to wear his name so casually.

Where is Jesus today?

Sitting in cages with the little ones. The. Very. Little. Ones.

Because when it is done to the Least of These, it is done to him.

Where are the Children?

May 27,  2018   For the 1,500 missing immigrant children. For all immigrant children.

Where are the children?

Somewhere. I don’t know where. The children are somewhere crying.

Where are the infants?

Somewhere. I don’t know where. 

Ripped from their mother’s arms. Ripped from their mother’s breast. Last Supper.

Who is the person who can grab a terrified child and drag her away as she pleads for her father’s strong hands to rescue her?

Who is the person who can tear apart a family, a family who has already been through hell, and drive them to a darker horror?

Who is the person who gives a command from far away to destroy lives? Children’s lives? Mother’s lives? Father’s lives?

Where is he? The one who spouts fake everything? The one who lives for destruction? The one who hears an infant’s wail and laughs?

Somewhere. I don’t know where.

A golf course? Yes, that’s it. He’s playing golf. While children cry. While parents go out of their minds.

He’s playing golf.

While parents in Santa Fe, Texas bury their children who will never cry again. They’re dead.

Where are children who came to our border in the embrace of their parents, tired, hungry, and weary beyond belief?

Somewhere. I don’t know where. The children are somewhere crying.

It’s happened before. A self-important country with a self-important leader, demanding trainloads of families to be brought to camps. Children ripped out of mother’s and father’s arms. Infants ripped from their mother’s breast. Last Supper.

Concentration camps where death reigned, and evil was victorious.

For everyone in this country who is cheering the horrible self-important leader who has brought this to be today, I have some questions:

Have you ever held a newborn baby? Have you felt the tiny hand grasp your finger? Have you watched their eyes close in blissful sleep? Babies are babies. Toddlers are toddlers. Young ones are, well, young. Vulnerable. Innocent. Precious.

Does any human infant or child deserve to be tortured? No. Not black or brown or white infants or children deserve to be tortured. To be taken from their parents is the first round of torture visited upon them by us. By the United States. Because, apparently, our leaders and some of our citizens believe that death should reign, and evil should be victorious.

So, on this weekend, as we gather with our families and watch car races on TV, and play in pools, and fire up that grill for a Memorial Day celebration, let’s not forget that on our American soil, within this ghost of a country, families have been wrenched apart.

And somewhere they are crying.

When Prayers Aren't Enough

If it was your child, would prayers be enough?

If the child you sent off to school this morning ended the day in a morgue, with a bullet lodged in their body, would prayers be enough?

If your dinner tonight would be the salt of your own tears, would prayers be enough?

If the load of laundry you take out of the dryer holds the clothes that won’t be worn by their owner ever again, would prayers be enough?

I’m a pastor. I believe in prayer.

I’m a pastor. I pray.

If my daughter, who teaches high school in Phoenix, was dead tonight with a bullet in her head, prayers wouldn’t be enough.

For the family vacations that won’t happen this summer, for the colleges that will have one less student in the fall, for the weddings that won’t take place and the grandchildren that won’t be born. Prayers aren’t enough today.

So, to those of you who are praying as you cling to your guns: JUST STOP. Your prayers are made of hypocrisy and betrayal.

To the politicians who have sold their souls to the NRA, you have blood on your hands. Again. Your prayers are a mockery.

And if it was your child, would prayers be enough for you on this day?

Because instead of graduation parties and diplomas and pomp and circumstance, funerals will be the event of the month.

For those of you who will plan those funerals, yes, I will pray for you through my own tears.  I will see your loved one’s pictures on TV and mourn.

But because I don’t believe prayers and mourning are enough, count on my action. And the action of countless others. We will march. We will vote. We will give. We will do. Because LOVE is an action word.

For when prayers aren’t enough.

February Ground

February Ground

As the snow melts into the cold February ground, water flows down the drain pipes outside.

It sounds as if the house is crying.

A preacher without a pulpit preaches sermons in her head. She studies scripture and looks at the world and then tells herself all about it.

Today she is preaching to herself about a man named Judas. A man who said he loved what was right and good, he followed a Savior. Judas was going to help make the world great again.

But the murderers got a hold of Judas and said, “We need to know who he is, the Savior. He must die. They made a plan.

Judas had thirty pieces of silver jangling in his pocket when he kissed the Savior right in front of everyone. The murderers watched. They took the kissed man and killed the Savior dead.

And the world shuddered and sobbed oceans of grief.

A sister without a brother thinks about what a world without guns would be like. God’s Holy Mountain? Swords beaten into plowshares? Someplace nice?

But when things weren’t going right in her brother’s head, when pain and confusion reigned, he took a gun, a gun no one should have sold him, and shot himself dead.

And tears came down. Like snow sliding off a roof onto the cold February ground.

A writer without words, writes anyway. She creates a world where life is redeemed. Where a brother lives and breathes, and just maybe she can soothe her mother’s half-empty heart a bit. She writes about a Savior who didn’t stay dead.

The preacher/sister/writer watches the world. She watches the people who have power to change things for the better.

Then she watches breathlessly when mothers and fathers lose their hearts because their children have been shot dead.

When the people with power put on their oh, so, so sad faces for television and say they are praying for the families. Empty prayers from vacant souls. 

The preacher/sister/writer can hear the silver jangling in their pockets. NRA silver jangles and jangles and jangles until she thinks she’s going deaf.

And she screams, “Just do one damn thing to keep our children from being shot dead.”

Because she sees you, all the ones with the power to change things. You held that rifle yesterday. Your finger pulled the trigger. Yes. You.

And waterfalls rush down, because the world is crying.

So, to all the powerful ones who will go home to their families this weekend with silver in their pockets, make sure to hug your children. Enjoy their company. Count your silver – your blood money. Continue to do nothing to make this nightmare go away. Just go around and around and around.

While other parents, the ones with shredded hearts, lay their children in the cold February ground.

Flashlight Friends

Two years ago we were blessed to meet a whole church of new friends.|

 Dr. William and Mitsuko Marx were two of them. They were members of the church Doug and I were visiting (and falling in love with). 

I shared the first version of, To Love and To Cherish (2015), with the book group at First Presbyterian Church of Lansing, Michigan. They took on the task of reading it! In the midst of all this, we in mid-Michigan endured a significant ice storm. Power was out for days for some folks. 

Not long after power restoration, I received the photo above from William (Bill). During the first night of the storm, Bill and Mitsuko decided to make use of the time. They set up several flashlights and Bill read Mitsuko, To Love and To Cherish, in a cold and romantic setting! The picture and the story warmed my heart :) 

I am not wishing another ice storm on anyone, but I'm hoping that for all of you who read the first version of this book, you will consider giving the new version a once-over too! Pen-L Publishing has given me the gift of fixing mistakes and creating more fun in Cherish. (Wouldn't it be fun to do that in real life? Fix our mistakes and make more fun?)

Bill and Mitsuko have remained faithful friends and are now reading, For Richer, For Poorer. Bill still reads it out loud to his beautiful wife.

It's quite a thrill to see the three covers of these books! I never would have thought of writing so many words in my life. It's fun to be a writer.

Three more covers are coming to complete this series. Watch for, For Better, For Worse, later this year!

Until then, I hope you enjoy these first three. If you haven't read any of them, look for the beautiful covers on Amazon.com or at Pen-l.com (don't order the old version of To Love and To Cherish-you'll want the 2018 version-cover above).

And maybe cuddle up with someone you love, like your cat, and read by flashlight or candlelight or twinkle lights. Just for the fun of it!