Who is to blame?

I watch a lot of documentaries. I inherited this habit from my dad. In a recent phone conversation, I interrupted his viewing of a documentary on Machu Picchu, which coincidentally, I had watched the previous week. Our conversation about ancient, mountain-top drainage systems makes me laugh. This apple fell right under the paternal tree.

Documentaries are like visual thesis papers. They present facts, tell an historic tale and try to persuade the audience to accept a point of view. (All of this sounds about as exciting as a tooth extraction, I'm sure...)

In honor of Memorial Day,  our PBS station aired a documentary about a bloody battle during the Korean War.  It's called "Hold at All Costs", and they interview men and women from both sides of the battle. The overall picture of what happened is straightforward and devastating.

The end of the documentary gives the reasons for why it happened, why so many had to die, why fighting was right and good and necessary. This is the part where history ends and persuasion begins.

It made me curious about the Korean War. What were they fighting over? In the documentary, U.N. forces were protecting the weak South Koreans. In Chinese histories, the reason for helping North Korea was to prevent the American Imperialists from threatening their homes and way of life. Both sides place themselves in the right, both vilify the opposition. Which one is telling the truth? With so many casualties, so much horror, who is to blame?

My husband and I watched "Inside Job" this weekend. It's a whistle-blower documentary about Wall Street corruption. A few weeks ago we saw "Food, Inc.", which highlights the nastiness of our current food industry. The rallying cry is to press the government for financial regulation and eat organic food! Save the planet and the common man!

I suppose the underlying theme of these films is that the world is a mess, and (point the finger) is to blame, so fight back!  They can really raise my righteous ire with a mental: 'How dare THEY do THAT!'

This is the danger of documentaries for me.  I get busy looking at what everyone else is doing wrong.

I don't doubt that Wall Street is corrupt, or that the food industry is greedy and hurtful to our nation. I don't doubt that on both sides of war their are people doing evil things with poor motives. That is not the issue.

The issue is, given the choice, power, position, would I do any better? I hope so, but I do not know so. We are so good at justifying our behavior and trusting our own hearts. Even in confessing wrong-doing, I try to soften the edges of my own infamy.  I have so many good excuses that a prosecuting attorney would sympathize with my plight.

We prefer to think of ourselves as basically good people, born good, with good intentions. But any mother will tell you how difficult it is to train a child to do right, to live unselfishly. Our hearts are deceptive above all things.  I know when injustice is happening to me or to someone else, but I do not readily see when I am unjust. I do not want to see the corruption of my own heart. I like to be associated with the victim and not the oppressor.

Perhaps the best exercise for me after watching documentaries is to turn the lens on myself, and with the help of God, uncover the malignancies in my own character. Because it's so easy to blame, so easy to vindicate self and overlook personal culpability...

Lord help me see what I do not like to see. Be merciful to me, a sinner.

Beautiful Scars

This has been a hard few weeks. It's been hard for loved ones in the midst of serious struggle, hard for me as a helpless spectator to their pain.

I was washing my hair a few days ago and noticed again the white scars dotting my hands.  I remember the origin of most. On my right ring finger is a faint scar below the nail from the time my dog shot passed me in yellow-labrador-torpedo fashion, pulling me through some icy gravel.  I have a small triangle gouge on my arm from a friend's protective cockatiel. It is an unfriendly bird.  There's a line on my right hand from when I was a new Young Life leader trying to make friends with kids, and fell prey to an alphabet scratching "mercy game". Chicken-pock scars, cuts from chopping vegetables, burn marks from an oven door... my scars are fairly insignificant.

Yet it occurred to me that scars are a special gift. They mean we've survived something (like a cockatiel attack).  Even acne scars are a reminder that we survived adolescence.  They are reminders of surgery healed, of sickness overcome, of a wounding survived. I see the scar on a chest and know that a heart attack did not win. I remember the emergency C-section scar and rejoice in the baby's life saved.

The skin has recovered. It is no longer flawless, but in healing has become stronger, more resilient and unyielding.  Perhaps this makes us more stiff and sore. Perhaps it changes our appearance in a way we think is ugly. But the scar means we have survived.

This week, my awareness of hardship and uncertainty is more acute than usual. No amount of planning and insulation, cleanliness and good living will prevent struggle from intersecting our lives. I know this world is an uncertain place, and this week it's hit a little closer to my heart.

Ours is a painful world, a wounded and fallen place.  But I am reminded of another set of scars, set deep in the wrists of One who took all this world's pain on His own shoulders... and survived. "In this world you will have trouble, but take heart! I have overcome the world!"

By His wounds, we are healed. Beautiful Scars.

Ironing Board Songs

On Sunday, the choir sung a favorite hymn of mine. It's one of the songs I used to sing to myself while working as a house manager. A memory of ironing napkins in the basement laundry accompanies the lyrics whenever I chance to hear them.

I love that these songs are in my head. I hope that if I grow old and forgetful, these songs will stay with me. Here are a smattering of lyrics that renew me, and maybe you too...

"Be still my soul, the Lord is on your side. Bear patiently the cross of grief or pain.
Leave to your God to order and provide. In every change, he faithful will remain.


Your God does undertake to guide the future as he has the past.

Thy hope, thy confidence let nothing shake; all now mysterious shall be bright at last.
Be still, my soul: the waves and winds still know his voice..."

"Behold the man upon a cross, my sin upon his shoulders. Ashamed, I hear my mocking voice call out among the scoffers. It was my sin that held him there, until it was accomplished. His dying breath has brought me life. I know that it is finished."

"What language may I borrow, to thank thee, dearest friend?

O make me yours forever, and should I fainting be-- Lord, let me never, never outlive my love for thee."

"No guilt in life, no fear in death; this is the power of Christ in me.

 No power of hell, no scheme of man, can ever pluck me from his hand. 'Til he returns or calls me home, here in the love of Christ I stand.

"Why lies he in such mean estate, where ox and ass are feeding? For sinners here, the silent Word is pleading. Nails, spear shall pierce him through, the cross be borne for me, for you.

All hail the Word made flesh, the babe, the Son of Mary.

"Holy Holy Holy, All the saints adore thee, casting down their golden crowns. Blessed Trinity!

"O the deep, deep Love of Jesus, vast, unmeasured, boundless, free!

"He breaks the power of canceled sin. He sets the prisoner free. His blood can make the foulest clean.

His blood availed for me.

"Christ has regarded my helpless estate, and has shed his own blood for my soul.

"Lord, haste the day when my faith shall be sight, 
the clouds be rolled back as a  

scroll.  
The trump shall resound, and the Lord shall descend. 

It is well with my soul." 

I guess I'm showing a penchant for older, minor key hymns. But the words make the gospel so fresh to me. They remind me I am forgiven, protected, secured, loved and pursued --all beyond condition and circumstance. He is a wonderful God who offers himself to us. There are none like Him.

I was glad to be reminded again.

Hold Sway or Be Swayed

I had a plan for my day. It included writing this blog, updating my website and working on a painting.  But while I was making breakfast, I opened an email asking if I could deliver a painting in the next hour.  A client was at an appointment in the north (meaning north of her home) and since she was so close, could I meet up for the transaction?

What did I do? Did I feign missing the email, belatedly apologizing and asking if we could reschedule a time that was more convenient for me? Did I say that I needed more notice?

Nope.

I choked down my breakfast, dressed hurriedly and hopped in the car to trek 45 minutes south to the "convenient" location.

On the way I started reflecting on my behavior. Why did I drop all my plans to meet with this retired grandmother at her convenience while greatly inconveniencing myself?

Because of Sway.

She holds Sway, and I sway. In this instance, the sway is a paycheck. My business is struggling to stay afloat, and I can't pass up the chance at finally getting paid.  My swaying is pure, mercenary survival.

But I realized that I sway a lot.  I've swayed into apologies even when the other party was in error because there was no other way to restore the peace.  I've swayed into silencing my opinion in the face of strong personalities in order to maintain the relationship. I've swayed into uncomfortable commitments for fear of disappointing a community leader. Even the state of my struggling business, isn't it the result of swaying into unpaid invoices for the sake of maintaining friendships?

It occurred to me that maybe our world is full of these Sway Holders and Swayers. The "Holders" have the power of personality and charisma, they run the show. Political parties, families, social gatherings are determined by their dynamism and ideas. But bring two such "Holders" in a room together, and civil war may ensue. So the "Swayers" act as buffers between them. They provide the cushion of a following and keep the peace.

It's too simplistic a formula, of course.  I think most of us have both tendencies in our nature,  neither one  is all good or all bad, and our positions of hold or sway are largely situational. But beware falling too much in one camp.

Those who always dominate and require their own way, who keep people waiting and break rules when it benefits them, who never give-in and never admit fault have an unbearable weakness of pride and selfishness. They are more tolerated than loved. And those of us who sway into being overly accommodating reveal an unhealthy dependence on pleasing others. We can be bitter, resentful, passive aggressive and insincere.

All of this was a heart-check on the way to this morning's  meeting. The insincerity of my behavior bothered me most.  In my actions, I appeared gracious, kind and giving, but my heart was spewing resentment and private indignation.

I have a lot to learn about when to sway and when to hold fast.

Trapped in a wounded mind

Some years back, I worked as a paraprofessional in a classroom for severely disabled high school students. I was a "one-on-one" para, primarily responsible for the well-being of one boy, Jayse.

Oftentimes when I share about these two years,  folks tell me I am a saint and laud my sacrifice.  It's a kind but inaccurate sentiment.  I needed a job. I wanted to work at the school. Here was an opportunity, and at the time I had no idea what this job would mean.

My second day with Jayse, he slapped me across the face. Jayse was a young man, average height, very strong, very wiry. I had red finger-shaped welts on my cheek all afternoon.

I cried every night that first week. Undoubtedly exhaustion and stress, but the greater part of my tears came from the break down of a very secure wall around my heart. These kids had no walls of there own and demanded vulnerability from me. They undermined my defenses.

Jayse had profound mental disabilities. I was told he had the mental capacity of a two year old.  But Jayse had amazing perception of emotion. He sensed what I was feeling, regardless of  my attempts to mask it.

After that initial slap, I was intimidated. The first month, I did what was necessary for him, but would work with another student when I could. I knew he was my responsibility,  I even felt like God had intentionally chosen me to work with Jayse, but I was afraid.  Jayce felt this, and made my job very difficult at first.

And then, one night in a dream, Jayse came up to me and said, "Pay attention to me".  In reality, Jayse couldn't speak, he only hummed nursery rhymes. But the  dream command hit the mark, and I knew needed to change.

Over the next months, I learned to dodge the occasional slap, to tell him with authority not to hit.  I think he approved of this. He knew I was no longer afraid of him. We did a lot of sitting, walking, singing, and paper shredding together.  I could sometimes get him to write his name, hand over hand, with me. He occasionally would draw a picture too, but the boy was an athlete more than an artist. If life had been different for him, he would have been a sports star.

Jayse and I got along famously. I really loved him, and he knew it. He was like a son, and at the school the teachers referred to him as my boy. I knew that he loved me too. He would come up to me sometimes, thumb in mouth, grab my head and blow in my ear. He would lean against me or hold my hand. And sometimes I would fall prey to one of those non-pucker baby-like kisses. A few times he tried to sit on my lap, which always required redirection, because while innocent, it looked really inappropriate.

He had different kinds of seizures. The Grand Mals were always  the most frightening, helpless situations. As he labored to breathe,  I would watch his lips turn blue and count the seconds, trying to tell him encouraging things until it was over. I don't know if people can hear during a seizure, but I believe he appreciated it.

He really liked cheesy tater tots and chicken nuggets. He had an insatiable appetite and a huge sweet tooth. His metabolism was so fast that I was told to give him food whenever he wanted it. He did not favor oranges or most vegetables... but maybe it's just because cafeteria food is, well, cafeteria food.

Loud noises, like the beeping of the bus in reverse or the fire alarm, became my nemesis. Jayse couldn't stand those noises.  He would start to sing in an aggravated way, slap the side of his head and bite himself.  I hated that. My ears tuned in to every potential noise hazard so that I could steer him clear of it.

Later on in those years, Jayse rarely hit me. Never hard, and always on the arm. When he was frustrated--even when I frustrated him, he would mostly hit himself. I would grab his arm and say gentle words, and he would calm down and let me clean him up. Only later did I realize that he didn't want to hit me,  that he would rather beat himself than hurt me.  His mental capacity wasn't limited to two years old. Jayce was just trapped in that wounded mind.

Those kids, and Jayce in particular, taught me more than my entire formal education. It was a classroom full of laughter and great suffering, but devoid of vanity, pride, pretension, prejudice, and class consciousness.  While still trapped in his own mind, Jayce offered me freedom and healing in mine. It was the best job I've ever been given.

Maundy Thursday

It's Passion week: Palm Sunday, Maundy Thursday, Good Friday, Holy Saturday, all culminating in celebration on Easter Morning, and today is Maundy Thursday in the church calendar.

As a young girl, I pronounced it "Monday-Thursday", which was a mystery beyond my abilities of reason. Why would "Monday-Thursday" have any significance? What were they getting at? (Other words, like "half-fast" as a descriptor of how I cleaned my room, were easier to figure out. Obviously it meant that I had cleaned at a quick-to-middling pace and therefore wasn't thorough. It still makes more sense to me than half-assed... rabbit trail...).

Maundy Thursday is probably the most underrepresented of these days. Maundy isn't really part of our vernacular, but it comes from the latin mandatum, which means authoritative instruction. This is the night of Jesus' last teaching to His disciples before He faced the agony of the cross.

Maundy Thursday offers a privileged seat at their Passover table, lets us listen in to the intimate conversation between Jesus and His closest friends, allows us into private struggle before the public shame.

On this eve, Jesus washed the feet of His disciples like a lowly servant, and told them, "I have set you an example that you should do as I have done." He gave them a new commandment: "Love one another. As I have loved you, so you must love one another."  He told them He would be betrayed and killed; that He would leave them. He told them the Counselor, the Spirit of truth, would come to guide them.  They would never be alone.

On this night, Jesus spoke of heaven, the house of many mansions. He told them He was the life giver, the vine who fed their branches. He admonished them to stay connected to Him so that they would truly live, and indeed, do greater things than He had done.

He warned them of hardship, of how the world would hate them because of Him. They would weep and grieve, but their grief would turn to joy."In this world, you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world."

He prayed for them: protection, calling, knowledge of the truth. He prayed for us, and all who would believe His message, that we would be united to God and know His great love.

On this night, He prayed in Gethsemane with such anguish that He sweat drops of blood. He battled internally against the darkness, and accepted His Father's will of the cross. This is the night He was betrayed by a friend and wrongfully tried before the temple courts.

This is the night of bread and wine, body broken and blood shed, of "do this in remembrance of me," love as I have loved, served as I have served, follow as I have followed, and die as I die.

Jesus Christ, our Word made Flesh, our Passover Lamb, our God. If only we followed His mandatum: "By this all men will know you are my disciples, if you love one another."

Empty Rooms, Empty Rooms

When we were young, my siblings and I walked home from the library during the Chicago summers. Our route passed an impressive, two story house on an expansive lawn. It had dark, sage-colored siding, and white trim with shiny black shutters. We considered it a mansion, and would heatedly fight about which of us would own it. Funny how often we argued about something to which we had no rights.

Sometimes I'll pass an elderly manse and that old "big house" longing returns. I always figured I would fill it's many rooms with children- my own and adopted. How else could one justify owning a house that big?

We own a home now (with the help of the bank). It's a sweet, brick ranch from the 1950's, and I really love it.  Ironically, I occasionally wonder if we should find a smaller place. Not that it's a big house, but we have two empty bedrooms. One is a guest room, but the other is just empty. Empty of life, anyway.

At the moment, it contains a queen box spring that I need to sell and odd pieces of furniture that don't fit anywhere else in the house. My new sewing machine has also recently settled there. But it's still an empty, misfit room.

Every month I wander into hoping, realizing belatedly that I've done so, that perhaps this time next year the room will contain a little life.  Without regard for common sense, my imagination creates murals for the walls and curtains for the windows, places crib and rocking chair, and scatters toys across the floor. It fills the space with laughter and cry, coo and lullaby.

Every month the hoping is confronted by reality and the empty room, which feels so much more empty in the aftermath of hope. How is it possible to miss a life that has never been? Perhaps it is better not to have a room that can be so empty.

A few years back, I visited my home town and we drove past the old, much debated mansion. It seemed to have diminished in size and magnificence. The sage green paint was dingy and peeling, the black shutters faded to grey, and the lawn pocked with yellow patches and crab grass. Reality had slithered up to our mansion as well.

Are hope an reality always at odds? Where does the persistent hoping come from? It can't possibly come from this world. There's too much bad news for hope to be borne here.

Maybe hope is only realized in a different kind of dwelling. I just haven't gotten home yet.