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! 

To Love and To Cherish and For Richer, For Poorer are both coming soon! They will be available at Pen-L.com and Amazon.com.  Pull up a pew and get to know Pastor Maggie and her flock. You are welcome in Cherish!

Here is the latest review of To Love and To Cherish:

Review

Absolutely charming!The simple pleasures of life are brought to life in this endearing story about the young newly appointed pastor, named Maggie, of “Loving the Lord Community Church.”

Maggie is youthful, loving and motivated to do her best to minister and guide the new flock that God has ordained her to shepherd. Readers follow along as she deals with the trials, disappointments and victories that all, naturally, come along with pastoring a small town congregation.

With help and mentorship from friends, Maggie learns to love the unlovable and help those in need. Her wisdom is astounding and I learned a lot through this realistic story. Through everyday life with its ups and downs, Maggie teaches her flock as well as readers how to maintain a life filled with joy, patience and love through Godly principles and guidance. Being so young, she is learning these life skills, as she progresses and grows in her position as Pastor and her own personal life.

I love all the quirky colorful characters that Barbara Edema has created in To Love and To Cherish. They are all fully developed, each with their own distinctive personalities. Some lovable and some - not some much. But, even the unruly ones, are written in such an impactful way, readers are glad they are in the story.

In, To Love and to Cherish, the storyline is funny and engaging. The characters are woven within the plot so naturally and splendidly.

The account, revolving around the small town called Cherish, is bursting with life, beautiful vivid scenery and sensory delights.

As I was reading I kept thinking, “I want to live in Cherish.”
However, things aren’t perfect there, but it seems such a realistic delightful place to live and to be.

There is a lot going on in this story, and a lot of characters, as well. However, Barbara Edema skillfully pulls it all together to create one picturesque town and one beautiful narrative.

Come and visit the town of Cherish and meet pastor Maggie and her congregation filled with fun loving and quirky townsfolk. Chick Lit Cafe fully recommends this wonderful inspiring and faith building story

Jewel Hart

Manager Marketing/Social Media Expert

Chick Lit Cafe

books4chicks@gmail.com

For Richer, For Poorer

For Richer, For Poorer, (book three of the Pastor Maggie's series) is ready for pre-order! Book groups, church groups, and other large groups can order directly from Pen-L.com for a discount!

www.Pen-L.com/ForRicherForPoorer.html


Here are some kind words about For Richer, For Poorer:

ChickLit Cafe Review:

For Richer or For Poorer, by Barbara Edema

Splendid, charming and compelling!

This is the third book in the “Pastor Maggie” series. Author Barbara Edema has done it again. After reading and thoroughly enjoying book two, “To Have and To Hold”, I was anxiously awaiting the next installment in the series. And “For Richer or For Poorer” did not disappoint. It is excellent.

I was brought right back into the scene at Loving the Lord Community Church with all the interesting parishioners and characters.

As a wonderful twist, Pastor Maggie takes a group of her parishioners to Ghana, Africa for a mission trip. The chapters are beautifully interspersed, taking the reader back and forth from Cherish to Ghana.

All the characters are extremely well written and developed. Some of them have grown and evolved nicely from the previous books.

Once again I was drawn in by the personalities with their particular quirks, issues, strengths and weaknesses. I've grown to love some of these characters. They are fully developed, thought out and formed. Author, Barbara Edema has a special way of developing likable interesting characters that the reader will fall in love with. They are familiar and unpredictable. Their interactions with each other are realistic and endearing. They are woven into the storyline in a very simplistic smart manner.

I loved the plot. While it is full of drama, it is not lacking in warmth and fun. It is delightful and mysterious at the same time. It is filled with humor, anguish, and romance. The author has a way with words that is unlike many other authors. She keeps the reader wanting more. She writes with a lot of emotion that nourishes the soul, She skillfully develops the storyline, while meticulously interweaving the characters within.

Maggie has an awakening of the soul, as she ponders the differences between true wealth and poverty, generosity and judgment, the open-hearted and the close-minded. Her struggles embolden her ministry. 

I couldn’t put “For Richer or For Poorer” down. It is filled with many important life issues while keeping a fantastic work of fiction. The warmth of the characters and their interactions will make the reader smile and ponder many things. I turned the pages quickly wondering and anticipating what would happen next. The trials and triumphs of the people in Pastor Maggie’s congregation is inspiring. This is a very fun story as well. It shows what the power of love can do. It is creative and extraordinarily imaginative. I think that readers will be very satisfied, inspired and happy with this third installment of the “Pastor Maggie” series.

Jewel Hart, Chick Lit Cafe