“CANCER GENES TENDER SECRETS”; FRIENDS, FAMILY SHARE JOY


Beverly Birdwell Blair, diagnosed with chronic myelogenous leukemia Labor Day weekend 1999, searched fruitlessly for a bone marrow donor for weeks afterward. Various drug therapies failed her and by November, after suffering through a course of Interferon, she despaired of life itself.

Her husband Bob, always thoughtful, but disheartened as well, set up a five-foot somewhat straggly spruce for a Christmas tree that year. The two-story atrium in their living room dwarfed the tree.

Despite the obstacles, through prayers and tears Beverly determined that she wanted to live. She asked Bob to get another tree.

Bob delivered with 10-foot tall silk tree.

As the weeks went on, Bev, empowered by the love of her family, by the prayers of hundreds, and her desire to live, followed every possible lead for an effective treatment. She discovered Dr. Charles Schiffer’s study of the drug Gleevec going on at Karmonos Cancer Center in Detroit. Persisting until granted an opportunity to try the drug, Bev’s hopes soared.

Since beginning this drug in 2000, every test for cancerous cells has been negative including molecular level screenings. She emailed me a link to today’s New York Times piece, “Slowly Cancer Genes Tender Their Secrets” describing the development of cancer treatments based, “not on blasting cancer cells with harsh chemotherapy or radiation but instead of using a sort of molecular razor to cut them out.”


Becoming relentless fund-raisers for the Leukemia & Lymphoma Society, Bev’s brother Barry Birdwell and his wife Michele, train themselves and mentor more that seventy others though the Leukemia Team in Training program. Their goal this year is to run the Musical Marathon Series which includes four marathons. Barry serves on the Central Florida board of the society.

Beverly, my best-friend since childhood, thrives this Christmas of 2005. When she entertained the faculty from Warren, Michigan’s Lincoln High School, where Bob serves as principal, someone commented that Bev's tree was the most beautiful tree they had ever seen.

Under that ten-foot tree Bev celebrated the holidays with family including Bob’s sister Dr. Rhonda Blair, a drama teacher at SMU; her oldest son Jesse, a teacher and coach at David Lipscomb High School in Nashville, completing an MBA; her second born son, Zachary, a missionary in Guatemala this year and a likely law school student next year; her youngest son, Alex, an undergrad at Harding University; her brother Barry and his wife Michele working and running in Melbourne,Florida; and her mother Lois, living close by loving Bev and the boys.

From the age two until our twenties and marriage took us away, we spent every Christmas of our lives together. When I read the headline today, “Cancer Genes Tender Secrets…” I thought of the secrets tendered by best friends over the years. A flood of love and memories overwhelmed me and I had to pause to say thanks to God for the grace of friendship and for each day of life he has afforded us.

I know for Beverly Birdwell Blair thankfulness to God for his grace and Gleevec dwarf chronic myelogenous leukemia.

FESTIVAL OF CHEAP COOKIES

Iced oatmeal, brand-X vanilla crème sandwich, and very small, very round, very hard sugar cookies-this fare along with gallons and gallons of Kroger lemonade set the stage for a celebration at Greater Atlanta Christian each December of my last ten years.

At the yearly Festival of Cheap Cookies, entertainment consisted of a video primarily written, produced, and directed by Balloon Calves Productions featuring timeless characters like The Finch, Spartan Boy, GAC Man, and the Men’s Drill Team. Along with actions films, dramas occasionally emblazoned the festival screen. Dramas like the David and Angie Fann wedding drama.

Matt Elliott, Mr. Balloon Calves himself, part chaplain and part comic, extraordinary at both, launched the careers of a diversity of dancers and actors including Christopher Dowdy, Aaron Paul, Jared Thomas, Wade Roberts, Jimmy Chupp, Dana Davis, David Fincher, and Donna Strickland.

In between exams, for a short forty minutes, the GAC senior high gathered for bad cookies, weak lemonade, and riotous laughter.

Other traditions at GAC exuded more dignity, but the Festival of Cheap Cookies possessed a certain store-bought baked goods charm that I am missing right now.

Actually I miss a great deal about GAC. Not because there is anything wrong with Memphis Harding Academy, but because I feel like I never really got to say good-bye to my friends and to the students I love so much.

The other day I was in an assembly at church or school singing a song Matt taught us our first year at GAC. I felt myself a little short of breath. Not the short of breath one experiences from exercise, but more like the what I think folks may experience in a panic attack.

One moment I was in GAC chapel singing “Day by Day” while Chris, Afro and all, sang with the freshman a few rows back. A fifth grader, Trevor, just yards away, was singing praises too while wading through Alpha-psi-whatever and collecting pogs.

In dream-like time ten years passed. Now Chris, 24, and Trevor, turning 21, make their life music miles away and I too have left GAC.

The years in that moment enrich my life with memories of teaching politics, history, and high school psychology in a double wide trailer with Dr. Alan Henderson in the room next door leading minds to ponder Jeus and world religions.

Recollections of praise songs, debate trips, Rock for___ Concerts, presidential elections, Dana Davis Eagle conferences, faculty singing, construction projects, trips to the Czech Republic, senior trips to Orlando, valedictory speeches, and graduation ceremonies rush through my consciousness.

I cry when I remember saying goodbye to Doc Love.
I cry when I remember the class of ’99 and the loss of Melissa Davis.

I sense the sweetness of victories and the sting of disappointments and failures that dot the landscape of those years.

I embrace the precious moments in which I worked at GAC alongside my sister Kim and her husband Ted with all of our children here together. Sometimes my mom, JoJo answered the phones and we enjoyed what I think are God greatest blessings-family, community, meaningful work, and spiritual passion.

In those days, I would have worked at GAC for free. Every day was a delight.

I see Atlanta from Stone Mountain and relive the senior class devotional we shared the same week Lincoln Hamilton was baptized. I can almost feel the cold water in the Gulf of Mexico, a lake in Covington, Georgia, and a swimming pool in Birmingham, as I recall the baptisms of dozens of GAC students.

I hear Trevor telling me, "The guys in 8th grade guys are really happy I am going out for spring football. Mom, they are as excited as when I was baptized."

I count ways Matt Elliott, Clif Jones, Brad Kinser, Uncle Ted Thames and others inspired, loved, and encouraged my boys, but time constrains me.

My friends' faces appear in frames. I imagine them animated like the HP printer ads and wish they were here with me.

I recount the gifts from the faculty Christmas luncheons, although admit I still startle when the little reading lamp from last year starts to open.

I take some pleasure that in all that transpired, I escaped without ever receiving a gift from Brad Kinser and Thom Jacquet at Christmas.

I thank God for grace shown to me by this dynamic community of believers, full of lovers of God and doers of his Word.
I cherish the committment to quality education in a Christian environment.

I smile when I think of Matt Elliott and Balloon Calves Production moving to Buford, going from 0 to 3 in a few short years. But what a legacy, Matt--The Festival of Cheap Cookies.

So, today, in honor of a grand tradition, I eat iced oatmeals here in Memphis as I run off my final exams and raise a plastic cup of weak lemonade to my friends at GAC.

RUSH LIMBAUGH AND SILENT SAINTS

After imbibing chili with church members we gathered in the den to chat. As one of the fellow guests got up to leave I saw black letters from his orange t-shirt glaring “Club Gitmo.”

I asked him where he got his shirt. Smiling, assuming I was admiring it, he said, “Rush Limbaugh’s website.”

It was one of those moments.

It’s been said if someone is saying or doing something evil, and you don’t respond you are implying agreement.

I pondered.
Can Christians really make light of Gitmo?
Can Christians really advertise for Rush?
Should I disrupt the Christian chili-klatsch with what might be considered “liberal hand-wringing”?
Am I exchanging social grace for complicity?

Ryan Bieler, a web editor for Sojourners, links readers to Rush Limbaugh's recent remarks in response to the capture of four members of the Christian Peacemaker Teams:

“…part of me that likes this. And some of you might say, "Rush, that's horrible. Peace activists taken hostage." Well, here's why I like it. I like any time a bunch of leftist feel-good hand-wringers are shown reality. So here we have these peace activists over there. I don't care if they're Christian or not. They're over there, and as peace activists, they've got one purpose. They're over there trying to stop the violence.”

Bieler comments, “His (Limbaugh’s) reference to reality is intriguing, coming in support of an administration now widely regarded as out of touch with the reality in Iraq. Promises that we would be greeted as liberators, that Iraq would pay for its own invasion with oil revenue, that we knew where the weapons of mass destruction were, that only a few troops would be needed - all evaporated in the face of a reality that the likes of Limbaugh can only imagine, while the men and women of the armed forces, CPT members, and the people of Iraq experience its horror on a daily basis.”

Frequently conservatives decry an appalling lack of outrage on the part of Muslims throughout the world to attacks on civilians. Beiler’s essay emphasizes that Muslim politicians and clerics have called for the release of these hostages.

As the Bush administration sends Bush confidante Karen Hughes to listen to the Muslim world to help the US mission to win hearts and minds, they recognize that military force and buying the Iraqi press isn’t going to be enough to make things right.

Is it possible that courageous Christians actively pursuing peace through non-violence might speak to the Muslim world?

Undoubtedly, lovers of Jesus concerned about genuine threats to America’s security from Muslim extremists have opposing views of how to deal with these vital concerns.

Yet regardless of how you think about policy, how can Christians embrace the commentator Rush Limbaugh who says he “likes it just a little when he sees them blindfolded with guns pointed to their heads”?

I have to wonder what it will take for Christians to distance themselves from this man and his form of entertainment. How can some Christians have the energy to fuss and fume over the president’s greeting cards saying “Happy Holidays” instead of “Merry Christmas” and yet not be screaming that Rush Limbaugh is a little gleeful over this kidnapping?

Several gatherings remain on the holiday horizon. Otherwise sweet church-going folks sporting or spewing Rush-isms may abound.

Is silence at a party complicity?




"It is not enough to say we must not wage war. It is necessary to love peace and sacrifice for it."
Martin Luther King, Jr.

Veteran’s Day

She survived the Warsaw uprising, Auchschwitz, and Bergen-Belsen.

Less than five feet tall, Mrs. Diament’s size belies her strength. Well over 80, she drives daily from the suburbs of Memphis to her office downtown where she owns a paper company. She shared her story today at a World War II remembrance day at Memphis Harding Academy,

Asked if there were any good moments--any kindnesses shown to her by the Germans in the camps, Mrs. Diament said no. Whatever you have heard about the camps, she said, the reality was worse. Hungry for five years, she weighed 60 pounds when the Allies liberated Bergen Belsen.

Months after liberation, her husband came to the door of her sister’s home in Belgium. She had not seen him for three years.

Having no desire to live in Europe, they found their way to Memphis. For years, busy with work and family she did not dwell on the terrors of the camps. Now, her husband deceased and her children grown, she is often alone.

Memories haunt her loneliness.

When asked what message she would give to children today she seemed to wave the question way. She is pessimistic. She laments the way the “we must never forget” talk languished as cruelty raged through Cambodia, Bosnia, and Sudan.

She wanted to live at least one day longer than Hitler. Now, sixty years after the end of the war, she finished the interview, and briskly refused assistance as she walked off the stage.

Her strength sings.
Her pessimism stings.

EMBRACING THE SHATTERED

Gunfire shattered Tina Obsey’s apartment window Monday night.

Tina Osbey left New Orleans when told by officials to evacuate in anticipation of Katrina’s landfall. She and her three sisters, Crystal, Shasta, and Desiree, found their way to one the shelters offered by Christians in East Memphis. When the Osbey sisters and their families walked into the shelter, all seventeen of them opened their arms and hugged us all.

That embrace characterizes most of our experience together.

The children ranging from primary grades to seniors in high school enrolled in school and the sisters began their trek through the maze of assistance ostensibly available to evacuees. One queue after another followed by one snafu after another left them frustrated daily. I would be at school teaching all day and would drop by many evenings to see how things were going.

Weeks went by.
What did you find out from the city of Memphis?
What will the Red Cross do for you?
Did you find out what FEMA will do?

Day after day, line after line, frustration mounted.

One day when Desiree finally got to the front of the line, the two FEMA reps couldn’t agree on what would work.

As the weeks went by, one of the sisters, Crystal, left with her two children. She heard FEMA had their act together in Houston. She left one weekend in mid- September and moved into an apartment by the next Thursday.

The same weekend Crystal left, Ken and I went to Atlanta to put our home there on the market. On the following Tuesday, the same day the virtual tour of my suburban Atlanta house went online, Tina found an aerial view of her New Orleans home submerged near Lake Ponchatrain.

As I looked over her shoulder at the computer screen, I felt I was living through a Tale of Two Cities.

After weeks of wrangling, finally the Osbeys experienced a ‘yes.’ They received FEMA vouchers. They found some apartments close by the shelter. The children would be close to their schools. The sisters loved the quiet neighborhood. They paid their deposits.

The Osbeys waited three weeks until the anticipated vacancies come about. Last week as they sat at the table ready to sign leases, the word came from “corporate” that they didn’t want to lease their apartments to the evacuees.

“Corporate” would not accept the FEMA money.

Wonder why? Because these new residents were black? Because they were poor? The lease was paid for a year.

Quickly arrangements were made for them to move to another complex—miles from the shelter and from the children’s schools--miles from the quiet of the East Memphis neighborhood that had welcomed them so warmly.

Last Friday night I went with Tina to the apartment complex that accepted the FEMA vouchers. As they moved the few belongings they have accumulated while at the shelter, gangs of young men walked around everywhere, staring.

When we dropped by on Saturday, dozens of groups of younger kids roamed around staring at the Osbey family.

The apartments, I was told by a sister from church, is known for being full of gangs. She lives only blocks away.

Last week’s celebration going on over “the evacuees finally getting their own place” belied Tina’s sadness. Protective of her boys, longing for them to experience a calm neighborhood and good schools, she ached at the prospects of living in this place.

Sunday afternoon as the Osbeys tried to walk down the stairs of the apartment, a large group of young men sat on the steps forcing the family to walk over them.

Monday night Tina called. “Beverly,” she said, “someone just shot a gun through my window. My window’s busted out. The bullets went right by face.”

An assailant in a black hood shot numerous times at a fellow running by Tina’s apartment. Along with the bullets shattering her apartment window several other gunshots marked the hallway outside her apartment.

Scattered shells surrounded Tina’s car out in the parking lot.

The sister from church who lives in the neighborhood went over to check on the family. A bunch of young kids milling around the yard outside Tina’s place filled the sister in on the details and were about to describe the assailant’s car when the police finally arrived. Suddenly the children knew nothing.

The police seemed indifferent. The apartment management didn’t board the windows. Tina and the boys spent the night in Desiree’s apartment worried that the few belongings accumulated since Katrina would be stolen.

Tina told me the apartment was broken into overnight although apparently nothing physical was stolen.

According to Tina, the day manager seemed indifferent to reports of violence and the break-in.

The Osbey sisters, though strong and charming stand in the column of those battered by more than Katrina. When the youngest, Desiree was six years old, their father shot and killed their mother while eleven year old Shasta looked on.

Since the Osbeys came to the shelter, those of us working together to offer a theme a temporary home and some comfort, along with learning to love and laugh with them, have learned in bits of pieces a little of what its like to grow up black, in poverty, and in poor health.

We pray the embrace experienced at the temporary shelter will continue to encircle the Osbeys and the other evacuees who have captured the hearts of scores of Memphis Christians eager to offer to comfort and assistance.

We see the vast needs created by Katrina, exacerbated by issues of poverty and race, demand the combined efforts of Christ’s church, the business community, and the government.

Meanwhile Ken and I believe the pulling of the plug by “corporate” bears investigation.

We feel deeply that FEMA and all levels of government nearly breached the social contract in the wake of this disaster.

Monday night’s gunshot speaks of things shattered beyond the glass of Tina’s apartment window.

DARK ROOMS AND BEAUTIFUL FEET

“Dark rooms. There are some very dark rooms.” Shirley Dowdy Plunket, eyes closed, uttered these words under the influence of medications given after a surgeon amputated both of her legs last week.

What she saw in that altered state of consciousness reflected the reality of her journey over the last two years.

Many of you know Shirley Dowdy Plunket, the mother of my husband Ken, Jim Dowdy Jr., and Dorlea Dowdy Rikard. Through her marriage in her seventies to the late Lamar Plunket, she is the proud stepmother of Trudie Plunkett, Bonnie Plunket Barnett, Rodney Plunket, and Joe Plunket.

Reaching the status of octogenarian on September 23, friends and family members alike will quickly agree with Rodney’s wife, Margaret, that in spite of the fact that she is eighty; Shirley is simply not OLD. Her grandchildren, the Dowdy’s, the Rikards, the Plunkets, and Barnets, don’t think of her as old. Her grandchildren call her on their cell phones. The grandkids call, not under duress, but because they genuinely like talking to her.

Young people have always loved to talk to Shirley.

She’s not old, but in her eighty years the collection of folks for whom she has been a nurturer, a listening ear, a hostess, a bearer of gifts, an encourager, and a comforter may be akin to the descendants of Abraham—as hard to count as the stars in the sky.

After coming of age in the mountains around Denver, marrying her World War II GI sweetheart Jim Dowdy, and settling in Huntsville, Alabama, Shirley walked through life remembering what it meant to be a stranger. She turned that reality into a home renowned for hospitality. Scented by her cooking and baking and infused with her love for special occasions, every room in the Dowdy home sparkled with holiday décor and glowed with the warmth of her welcome.

The Christmas before Ken and I married she welcomed not only me to her home, but my mother and sister from Michigan, and my sister, her husband, and infant son from Atlanta.

Photos displayed in the hallway of her home included young men who had lived with them at various times mixed right in with the photos of Jim Jr., Ken, and Dorlea.

If there were pictures of all the weddings, showers, teas, and parties hosted by Shirley, the hall could not hold them all.

As bright as the rooms in the family’s home in Huntsville were, they could not keep Shirley from walking through the valley of the shadow of death. After over forty years of marriage, she lost Jim to cancer. Within a few years of that loss, she walked to the gravesides of both of her two surviving brothers.

Shirley turned that path into a ministry of grief recovery blessing scores of others surviving the loss of loved ones.

The brightly painted rooms in the home she eventually built in Florence, Alabama provide a light backdrop to picturesque displays celebrating her various affections—children and grandchildren, the Southwest, crystal, cookbooks, a plethora of cool gadgety items, and her years with Lamar.

Taken from her active church and social life, the joy of travel, and her usual paths of service by a devastating staph infection, for the last two years Shirley brightened rooms of hospitals and nursing homes by her spiritual response to the intense suffering she endured. Last Thursday she submitted to a double amputation of her legs due to the unrelenting infection in her knees.

Resolute and understandably a bit fearful, Shirley helped me and others around her cope with her condition. As time for surgery approached, it was gut wrenching to me to think of her losing her pedicured feet. I cried when I saw her closet and remembered how much she always loved shoes.

But as family members sat nearby and listened to her positive assessment of the situation and her faith in the Lord, I thought of the passage in Romans extolling the beautiful feet of those who carry the good news.

When she muttered about the dark rooms, I thought--Shirley Dowdy Plunkett, you have passed through some dark rooms, but no infection, no surgery, no power on this earth, can take away your beautiful feet.


She would love to hear from you.
Shirley Dowdy Plunkett
Mitchell-Hollingsworth Nursing and Rehabilitation Center
805 Flagg Circle
Florence, AL 35631

photo by Julia Elliot
Pictured standing on left-Rachel Formby Dowdy, Kiley Rikard
Seated-Shirley Dowdy Plunket, Dorlea Dowdy Rikard, Beverly Choate Dowdy
Standing right-Meagan Rikard Haney

I PROMISED THEM YOU WOULD PRAY

A year, maybe more, seemed to have passed between Thursday, September 1 and Monday, September 5.

My husband Ken’s new role as administrative minister at the White Station Church of Christ in Memphis put us in the middle of starting a congregational response to the Katrina. Once a team of folks got together and identified some needs, they decided to open a shelter on Friday night. So, dozens of brothers and sisters, all committed and competent folks, have been praying, planning, praying, scheduling, crying, recruiting, purchasing, donating, folding, organizing, crying and praying.

Sunday afternoon members of the Osbey family of New Orleans, including four sisters, one finace, and twelve children came to stay at the shelter. They told us that their first cousin Cherlyn Nettles left New Orleans with three children when the evacuation order came and went to Baton Rouge to stay with a relative. Her husband Terrell stayed behind with their 10 year-old child who had a handicap. When the flood waters came Terrell tried to keep the child elevated, but his ankle broke and he lost the child to the floodwaters. He was rescued and taken to a shelter in Arkansas.

Sunday evening, the Osbey sisters got word that the couple had found each other. Monday they received confirmation that the child’s body had been identified. Terrell is taking a bus this week to Louisiana to make arrangements for the child, and Cherlyn, Terrell, and their surviving children may come to the shelter on Quince Road in Memphis.

I told them that my friends at church and other places around would pray for them every day this week as they go through this ordeal. We are saving a place for them so they can stay with their cousins if that works out for them.

So, please write down their names: Cherlyn and Terrell Nettles and call them aloud to our Father. Please pray for their cousins, the Osbey sisters. Pray the Osbey children as they start school.

God have mercy on all the survivors.
May God have mercy on us all.

By the way, this makes the stress of selling our house in Atlanta and purchasing one here seem--how shall I say it?

Minimal.

AFFIRMATION, REPUDIATION, and EDIFICATION
Happy Valentines Day! On February 14, 2006 Harding will be hosting Jose Maria Anzar, President of Spain from 1996 to 2004, instead of Ann Coulter. In an act affirming the highest ethic of Christians--love--and repudiating Ann Coulter's vitriol, though of course, not her conservatism, Harding selected a known statesman.

Now, I will write Dr. Burks a letter saying thanks for listening.

RUMINATION, EDUCATION, AND VITUPERATION

In the dark hours just before dawn, distressing thoughts sometimes persist. Often I pray them away. Just this morning I battled some darkness of spirit.

About 3:45 am today I awakened. For some reason, Ann Coulter’s image entered my mind. I recall thinking Ann Coulter’s popularity among my Christian friends represents a pernicious feature of religion and right-wing politics.
Ann Coulter spews vitriol poisoning political debate with contempt for political opponents.

For some blessed reason, the Lord let the moment of dark reflection pass. I went back to sleep, awakened at a good time, got ready for work and enjoyed teaching my government classes.

I taught about the Israeli Palestinian conflict.

During the course of the day, I observed that there is a time for war and the courage it demands. I added there is a time for peace, the pursuit of which demands tremendous courage as well.

Peacemaking is not for cowards, I urged.

We listed some peacemakers: Anwar Sadat, Yitzhak Rabin, Martin Luther King, Jr. Gandhi, and Jesus.

We could have added another peacemaker--Brother Roger who began the Taize reconciliation movement in France after World War II. This week he suffered a fatal stabbing.

Peacemaking remains a dangerous, but apparently rewarding business. Doesn't it say somewhere that peacemakers will be called sons of God?

As I am getting ready to retire for the night, I read online that Ann Coulter has been asked to speak at the Christian university of which I am alum. While an undergrad there I often winced at the assumptions made there that conservatism in politics was the only way. It was often conveyed that it was the only way in much the same way it was conveyed that Christ was the only way. I winced, but still engaged with enthusiasm in political dialogue, social activities, and spiritual enrichment during my days there.

In the years following, I have taught government and economics for many years. In all of those years, it has been my aim to challenge my students to think deeply, read widely, and speak with civility. I pray they will fulfill the Lord's requirements “to do justice, love kindness, and walk humbly with their God.”

Many of my students have gone on to attend my alma mater, Harding University. I often speak highly of the potential for an excellent undergrad education. I aver the kind spirit at the university. I have done this often in the presence of their classmates who exude skepticism about Harding University. Some assume a small liberal arts college in Arkansas could not be anything but provincial and arcane. I try to disabuse the skeptics.

Tonight, as I contemplate early morning ruminations, hours of teaching, and the news of the evening, I am chagrined. Bewildered. Disappointed. Saddened.

So as Harding University announced with fanfare the name of Ann Coulter as a speaker in their American Studies program, she becomes part of the heritage and intellectual life of HU students as have other conservative luminaries like Moshe Dyan, Colin Powell, and Barbara Bush. Ann Coulter will join that roll call with others as well. Like Spiro Agnew.


Long ago, I accepted the fact that the university embraces a conservative ideology.

Ideology is one thing.

Hatefulness, spitefulness, and contempt for others is another.

Even a brief perusal of her website shows, that Anne Coulter has earned her review from the Washington Post Book World, as “a fluent polemicist with a gift for Menckenesque invective”.

During my years at Harding, I kept these words from J.B. Phillips translation of James on my bulletin board

3:17-18 - The wisdom that comes from God is first utterly pure, then peace-loving, gentle, approachable, full of tolerant thoughts and kindly actions, with no breath of favoritism or hint of hypocrisy. And the wise are peace-makers who go on quietly sowing for a harvest of righteousness - in other people and in themselves.

I believed that then; I believe it now.

I think I'll write a letter to the president of the university. My husband and I are not big donors. Our objections to this announcement may not carry much weight. Ken is a minister. I am a teacher. Although I have never embraced the political ideology of the institution, I would like to think that we exemplify the core values of our university.

But featuring Ann Coulter makes me think, Harding does not value us.

Moving Rocks

After a little over ten years in the same house and at the same job, I am moving from Roswell, Georgia to Memphis, Tennessee.

If it “takes a heap of living to make a house home,” what does it take to move?

It depends on what you have to sort through, on what you have to pack, and what you have to unpack.

My friends know we have had a garage that no cars can fit in, because we’ve a good bit of our past with us.

For example, I have a box of rocks.

I have been moving some of these rocks for at least thirty years. Fossils appear in this box from my husband’s childhood collection. The fossils weren’t formed during his childhood. We’re pretty sure they were already solidified by 1952. In high school he displayed them in his room in some fishnet hung from the ceiling over his antiqued avocado green dresser drawers.

A red rock with some sparkling qualities dominates the box. This rock hales from a park in Colorado. The Civilian Conservation Corp constructed the fences and pavilions at that park. Ken’s dad, Jim, proposed to Ken’s mom, Shirley, at that park during World War II.

Once the boys, exultant in discovery, uncovered shards of broken Coke bottles, rusted AW Root Beer caps, and some pieces of broken concrete. When someone disparaged their finds, one of them defended with, “One’s person trash can be another’s treasure.” A concrete treasure stays in the box of rocks.

I’ll admit, my box of rocks, my portfolios of Trevor and Chris’s artwork, the CD jewel cases, the boxes with the school certificates, medals, trophies, and immunization records needed some thinning out.

Paper, scissors, rocks.

When you move what do you keep? What do you cut? What’s solid and sustaining?

It’s not really the things I see that make moving so hard.

Well, okay. Stuff does make moving hard.

Cleaning stuff out that garage reminded me of a weird little film called Housekeeping in which an eccentric woman dealt with her obsessive keeping of stuff by torching her abode. Okay, so a few thoughts of arson have passed through my mind. Figuring it would be hard to set a fire that would selectively preserve some of the priceless papers has repressed the impulse.

My rocks might have survived a garage fire.

After ten years of boys, of teens, of laughter and tears
of work, of play
of faith and fear

After ten years
I am saving and sorting the things of life
our boys’ childhood
the seasoning of our marriage
the weaving and unweaving of friendships and careers

I have resisted torching stuff
I have sorted, straightened, sifted, and tossed

Now, so much is gone
Yet, so much goes

I have packed
much joy
some sorrow
failure and success

I have packed some fear
and bundled up some doubt

I have packed prayer
and a confidence hard won by sharing the yoke of life
with a loving empowering God of grace

I cannot pack Trevor or Chris and Lauren

I cannot pack my sister, Kim, her husband Ted,
or their children Katy and Josh

I cannot pack my many precious friends

I can take my life with Ken
my mom, Jo, along with the heritage of love we bring from all of our parents
the continuing treasure of parenthood

and my box of rocks

I can make the unpacking a work of art
a labor of love

Unpacking can reveal
gifts received
the grace for which my weaknesses continue to beg
the antcipation of joy, friends, and ministry

Moving hurts
Moving exhilarates
Moving rocks


.

MOTTO SHOPPING

While shopping at Nordstrom Rack last weekend my two sisters began a campaign to find a motto. Not for a business. Just for them. Since it wasn’t for any real enterprise they figured it could be co-opted from a legitimate source and employed for reckless and meaningless self-promotion. The first potential slogan catching their eye was for Nike socks, “appealing exterior-inner strength”.

What kind of family produces sisters who seek mottos?

It became clear to me when we were all together the same weekend to celebrate the wedding of Deborah’s daughter, Emilie Shepherd, to Dale Rohrbach. The minister, Mark Frost said, "Someday Emilie will be raising little Rohrbachs. And someday Dale will be raising little eccentrics."

I think eccentric families seek mottos.

While having breakfast yesterday at Panera Bread Company, Kim discovered the coffee flavors there provided two phrases, either of which might be a fitting motto. She saw potential in “bright and balanced” as well as “dark and vibrant.”

It’s agreed that that “fair and balanced” cannot be a motto. It has already been co-opted.

What kind of sisters do I have that would continue the motto search?

Kim’s a sister that yesterday stopped all of her activities to call and tell me she saw a bumper sticker that read SOMEONE ELSE FOR PRESIDENT. Then, she laughed really hard when I repeated jokes I heard on a Prairie Home Companion rerun. Jokes like, “Hey, John Kerry—what’s with the long face?” Next, she told me all about her Sunday school class in which a graduate theology student from Emory student explained why the ten commandments should not be co-opted by politicians and made out to be a mere public historical document, because the commandments are by their very nature sacred.

Kim’s a person who works hard all of the time to care for her family, to do a good job in her career as a librarian, and to serve the poor. For a couple of years now she has coordinated the COW, Clothes on Wheels, Northlake Church of Christ's clothing ministry serving poor Atlantans.

Deb’s a sister who would find a piece of Victorian crazy quilt embroidered and assembled by our full-blood Chippewa grandmother, have it framed, and then wrap it up and give it to me for Christmas.

Deb’s a person who works hard all of the time to care for her family, to do a good job in her career as a librarian, and to serve the poor. For a dozen years now she has coordinated S.O.S., South Oakland Shelter, Troy Church of Christ's annual one week immersion in homeless ministry serving Oakland County, Michigan. This year's SOS week at Troy Church of Christ began on the Sunday following Emilie's wedding. Never a dull moment for Deb.

Along with hundreds of other books, Kim and Deb read Tolkein, Lewis, and Rowling and tons of the King Arthur stories from the Mists of Avalon to the Crystal Cave.

They embrace the power of story and joyfully believe, as Lewis did, that there is one great Story that is the True Story.They attempt to live out the Story from day to day with grace, guts and passion.

In my life they shine like the son, radiating hope, and inspiring faith.

I don’t think there’s motto adequate to capture their essence, but just for today, it’s a toss up between "dark and vibrant" and "bright and balanced."

PRAYERS WITHOUT BORDERS

To: bevchoatedowdy@yahoo.com
From: Chris and Lauren
Date: Monday, June 27, 2005

“I just wanted you to know that we went to church with the president yesterday morning.”

My son Chris and his wife Lauren attended worship at St.John’s Episcopal Church Sunday morning. They said they sat about five feet away from the President. They experienced a strong sense of his warmth, charm, humility, and sincerity.

Their sense of this confirms everything I have ever heard of and seen of President George W. Bush. I see him as sincere about his faith and humble in the realization of his place before God. I understand him to be one who comes before God to seek wisdom and strength.

The fact that I challenge his administration’s policies doesn’t fly in the face of that perception.

Thinking of the president at worship reminds me of how sad it is that there is such a climate of animosity in politics today. It’s a bit of irony of to me that at the point when Bible believing Christians have gained a good bit of influence, there is a marked abundance of mean spiritedness.


I am not sure how you analyze it, but it seems to me that the mean spiritedness has not come as a single handed swing from the secular liberals. If I didn’t spend a tremendous amount of time with church going political conservatives, I might be able to blame it on the secular types, but the tone of many among the religious right towards their political opposition often drips with mocking and the assumption of moral and intellectual superiority. I think my Bible believing church going friends and the media, to which they exclusively attend, contribute greatly to the climate of animosity.

Sadly, some folks who regularly pray publicly for President Bush never did so for President Clinton. When President Bush was elected, at one assembly a fellow got up and said, “Thank God we have a Christian president.”

Another fellow in the same assembly turned to his wife and said, “So what is Clinton? Buddhist?”

Whatever you may think about Clinton’s politics and personal life, he privately and publicly acknowledges his reliance on the grace of God.[1] I’m not suggesting you vote him or for his wife. I am suggesting that it’s a little scary to hear condemnations and recriminations of any believer asking for forgiveness.

During the Clinton adminstration, a good friend of mine was undergoing tests for a serious illness. She was told she would probably have to wait four days for the results.I remember remarking "I bet Hilary Clinton wouldn't have to wait for four days."

My friend's minister said, "Well if it was Hilary Clinton, I wouldn't care."

When it comes to political ideology, there are very significant debates to be had, but drawing the borders of the kingdom around views about public policy and politicians may show us to be more the objects of the marketing of political consultants than the disciples of Jesus.

He sees way beyond our ideological, theological, political, ethnic, and national borders and loves the whole world.

This leads me to one of my passionate complaints about church assemblies of late. Since the run up to the invasion of Iraq I have sat in worship assembly after worship assembly made up of fairly conservative folks. Conservative in politics. Conservative in biblical interpretation. One glaring inconsistency to me centers around what seems to be an implicit interpretation of I Timothy.

In these assemblies of worship, the women are excluded from public speaking. This is based on the leaders’ interpretation of the somewhat complicated advice on women in the second chapter of I Timothy. Yet, when I hear prayers led--by the men only--they ignore a direct, simple to interpret, command coming from the first part of the same chapter.

“First of all, then I urge that supplications, prayers, intercessions, and thanksgivings be made for everyone, for kings and all those in high positions, so that we may lead a quiet and peaceable life in all godliness and dignity. This is right and acceptable in the sight of God our Savior, who desires everyone to be saved and to come to knowledge of the truth. For there is one God; there is also one mediator between God and humankind, Christ Jesus who gave himself a ransom for all.”

For years now I have heard prayers for our president and for our troops and for our success in war. I am trying to think of a public prayer I have heard in which we prayed for everyone--for all of those in high positions. I rarely, if never, hear a prayer for peace. I rarely, if ever, hear a prayer for our enemies or for the peoples or soldiers of the other lands embroiled in conflict.

Praying for our troops, our president, and our national security reflects our concerns and our anxieties, but I don’t think that limiting our prayers to these reflects the will of God.

He sees way beyond our ideological, theological, political, ethnic, and national borders and loves the whole world.

We could think of it as living below our privilege. We could be praying for all of the leaders of all nations. We could be praying for all humankind everywhere.

How lonely for our president to go to the table of leaders all covered in prayer meeting folks for whom we have NOT prayed.

What a blessing that we can join together to pray for peace for all nations.

When one looks down on earth from the reaches of space, the multi-colored political maps we usually visualize become the artificial. What’s real is the wide expanse of earth with no political lines.

How precious that Chris and Lauren got to worship with President George W. Bush. How precious for them to gain a sense of his warmth, charm, humility, and sincerity.

We can love and appreciate our president. We can love and appreciate our nation. We can ask for safety and security for our loved ones in uniform. We can debate our ideologies. But we must remember His transcendency. God loves all men everywhere. It's time for us to utter prayers without borders.
[1]
* McDonald, Gordon, ”Body Politics, Amid political tensions, when is a pastor to speak out and when to refrain?” Leadership, Fall 2004 p. 107-108

"Injustice Anywhere"

Ken and I, along with our son Chris and his wife Lauren, walked through the visitors’ center at the Martin Luther King Center last week.

As I thought about the irony of reports of torture perpetrated by US operatives while we work to establish democracy in Iraq and protect our national interest, MLK’s words, “Injustice anywhere is a threat to freedom everywhere,” kept echoing in my mind.

Exhibit after exhibit reminded me:

It’s possible for an entire generation and an entire culture to be wrong about important issues.

It’s possible for Christians be on the frontlines of a social and political issue and be wrong.

It’s possible for an individual to speak truth to power, but it may be very costly.

Seeing the response to Martin Luther King’s criticism of the Vietnam War reminded me:

The government will prosecute failed policies in war if they seem politically expedient.

The government will intimidate and smear its critics in war time and seem justified.

Tonight the president will attempt to rev up support for the War in Iraq. Certainly our soldiers fighting there need our prayers and command our respect.

Meanwhile, we should be unafraid to hold leaders responsible for their policies and their rhetoric. We must be unafraid to exercise the freedom to hold a debate over these issues.

Going to the King Center reminded me that while war making is dangerous business, MLK, Gandhi, and Jesus demonstrate that peacemaking is also deadly work.

Jenny and Hal Runkel
Braves Stadium April 2004

The limits of lilting

“Hello, Mrs. Runkel. This is Dr. _____’ s office.” The lilting voice on the other end left the picture of a woman caller in her early twenties smiling as she continued, “The x-ray taken yesterday shows a mass on your lung so the doctor scheduled a CT scan at 2:30 today.”

From listening to Jenny ‘s account of this, the caller might have been letting her know that reprints from the family vacation photos were finished and could be picked up in the afternoon.

I don’t know if there is any good way to let someone know about a life changing challenge, but it seems to me that there might be a better way.

Perhaps doctors need to review their staff’s approach to calling about results. Just because you tell a staff person once how to make a difficult phone call, doesn’t mean they get it down and remember always. Also, patients probably need to tell the doctor when they experience unnecessary unpleasantness, else the doctor will never know.

So many of you have emailed and expressed concern for Jenny and her family. She has set up a website with regular updates so you can wish her well and let her know of your love and prayers. Go to www.jennyrunkel.com

Tomorrow’s post:
“Injustice Anywhere”
Prompted by a recent visit to the King Center

“Not exactly the summer I had in mind.” Jenny Runkel


Jenny Runkel, my blond thirty something friend possesses a figure taut from tennis and sun kissed skin. She’s just bronze enough to show off her pearly whites with out the tanning bed look. It’s a very healthy I-have-been-on-the-tennis-court-wearing-sunscreen type of bronze combined with the potential to model for one of those dentists that specialize in whitened teeth.

Her blue eyes dance and laugh and disarm.

Jenny is conversant on a wide range of topics from the dramatic and important to the spicy and obscure. So in a given day we can chat about Shakespeare, Jesus, and Tabasco Sauce. Her mind sharpened by great literature, a smart--slightly smart aleck husband, and brilliant senior high students, generates the kind of humor that produces in me those deep down in the gut kind of laughs.

When I am with her, for a few minutes, I forget to take myself so seriously.

After an exhilarating and often exhausting year of teaching high school juniors and seniors, Jenny Runkel planned to enjoy her kids, her husband’s growing writing career, and some time to write a bit herself. She planned a trip to Houston, a vacation in the tropics, and plenty of tennis. Meanwhile, lymphoma has forced itself into her body, into her consciousness, and now challenges all of her plans.

Thankfully, Jenny is not just conversant about Jesus, she’s conversant with Jesus. Besides the fact that we have both lived in south Louisiana and both teach high school, we have the Jesus thing in common.

For now, since lymphoma has reared its hatefulness, I am admitting to having a few angry and sad conversations with Jesus about all this. After being thankful for Jenny’s friendship and registering my unhappiness at this turn of events, I am asking for few things. Immediate healing will do just fine. If He chooses the chemotherapy route to heal her, then I want Him to give her an overwhelming sense of his peace and joy in the process. I am asking Him to equip her with everything she needs to enjoy her kids, her husband's growing writing career, and write a bit herself.

As she requested, I am praying for Hal and Hannah and Brandon to feel the love and support of God and of the many others who love them so.

As she temporarily lets go of the blond, I am asking that she be able to keep up her tennis game and bit of bronze. I am asking Jesus to keep shining through her dancing blues eyes and her brilliant smile. And I am asking Jesus to provide to her, in increasing measure, pressed down and running over what she has given to me, the sense of being loved and respected, and an inability to take myself too seriously.

JoJo--Yours, Mine and Ours

This is my one year anniversary of blogging. I wrote one entry on June 3rd 2004, but the first one I really loved writing was on June 7, 2004 called "Prince Albert Goes to War" and it is still one of my favorites. If you read this blog and have never read that post, I would love for you to do so because it's a sweet story about my mom's brother, Bill, who died this time last year.

One startling reality of that passing is that my mom is the last living member of a large "yours, mine, and ours" family. You wouldn't know by her demeanor that she's shouldered the loss of not just her mate and both of her parents, but also all of her sisters, brothers, their wives, and her niece, who was like a sister.

Her demeanor may be to a great extent influenced by her birth order.

First, her natural birth. Do you know any toddlers whose siblings are all teenagers? You know how little ones like that are often doted on by everyone? You know the little one that everyone picks up and loves? Well, I think my mom, Emma Jo Evans Choate, was a much loved little one. This could have produced an overindulged unpleasant type of person. But, not in this case. This "yours, mine, and ours" baby matured into JoJo.

JoJo opens her arms. She picks us up. She loves us. All of us. The whole family. The whole church. The kids at school. The whole staff at Kroger's.

She loves you and you love her.

But don't be fooled into thinking that her cheerfulness precludes a deep seated grief over the stinging losses she sustains. A demeanor like hers can hardly be sustained simply by a natural birth order. It is her second birth, her life in Christ, her spiritual self that keeps the twinkle in her eye, the song in her heart, and openness of her spirit. It is the Holy Spirit that gives birth to an irrepressible spirit of love and hope.

God loves her. She loves us. We love her.

Because God is her father and Jesus is her brother she has embraced the promise of brothers, sisters, fathers, and mothers Jesus promised those willing to give it all up for him.

JoJo and Jesus. Yours, mine, and ours.

We are all freshman; we are all seniors

At the piano-Kieran Patrick Dowdy of

Huntsville, Alabama on the occasion

of his senior piano recital, Sunday, April 18, 2005

In the foreground, his parents, Jim and Rachel Dowdy

.

The cloudless morning of September 11th brought the class of 2005 into high school and into a new era of life in America. We all became freshman again, treading nervously a new terrain.

We who teach have walked with them on a kind of balance beam seeking a point of equilibrium that may exist at some point out of our range of sight, perhaps out of our dimension. On the morning of September of 11, 2001 my government students opined that their current event assignment was SO boring. The headlines consisted of an education initiative (always exciting to teens) and a couple of shark attacks. The shark attacks were disturbing, no doubt, but hardly brought about any sense of personal threat to our suburban land locked teens.

What followed the World Trade Center attack was the end of our insulation. Shocked into awareness of threats that had existed for a long time, they saw headlines transformed from tedium to terror. From random shark attacks to beheadings.

Then we went to war in Iraq. As Jimmy Carter accepted his Nobel Peace Prize bombs went off in Bagdhad. The political fallout went from the smashing of Dixie Chix CD's, to french fries, to elections in Iraq.

In our examination of public policy, I often felt that we had to balance the possibilities for solutions to world problems with the gravity of the threats. Because even while living with the fog of war--kids still need to be kids.

In those days before September 11, this class charmed us through their toddlerhood, amused us with missing and disproportionately big incisors, entertained us with their voice changes, and startled us with physiques taking adult shapes, overnight, or so it seems.

We assumed this Class of 2005 would have a world like our’s in which to mature. We assumed that we could prepare them for the ups and downs, and to a great extent we have.

But even as we walk under a cloudless sky, we are a country at war.

This week, graduation ceremonies begin, tassels will be turning, taking these kids away from us. The subject of the photo on my blog today rates as my favorite among the class of 2005. He can be favored because he doesn’t go to the school where I teach, and because he is our nephew, Kieran Patrick Dowdy, the child of Jim Dowdy, my husband’s brother, and his wife, Mary Rachel Formby Dowdy. Graduating from Huntsville High in Huntsville, Alabama Thursday night of this week, he will be noted as a summa cum laude scholar. Along with his stellar academic achievements, he has the added charm of being an accomplished pianist.

As we sat at Kieran’s senior piano recital, mesmerized by his rendition of a Rachmaninoff piece, my heart jumped in my throat when my camera captured Jim and Rachel in the foreground with Kieran performing in between them. For a moment I saw them representing all of us who have launched our children. Sitting, watching, and absorbing the artistry of life. Feeling at once the joy and the pain of being a family. Contemplating what love has wrought. Hearing the music, cheering the achievement, anticipating what's next.

We watch this class of 2005 on one hand confident we have equipped them for the trek ahead. We watch this class of 2005 with an unraveling sense that they are walking a path that we have never walked. Both sensibilities are true.

We are all seniors. We are all freshman.

The vicissitudes of pollen and Prague

My hairstylist's appointment book won't budge until after the big dinner. Twenty essays demand grading. Driving to school, my hair at the miserable can't do a thing-with-it-until-its-cut stage; I glance down noting the floor mats need vacuuming. The brake fluid light shines red and the low coolant light beams yellow. Yellow pollen covers the car. The windshield wipers, sans fluid, turn the dust into yellow granular slimes. As I pull out a quick glance at the mailbox reminds me that the mulching is undone and the snapdragons await planting.

Thoughts turn to home and five loads of laundry awaiting sorting, suds, drying, and worst yet--putting away. Thankfully the Christmas tree is down and put away, but weeks after Easter the fancy eggs from Prague still need nestling in their storage box. Problem is, getting that storage box out would mean opening the pantry which would remind me of the need for grocery shopping and restocking. Restocking the pantry will remind me again, that my husband and son are vegetarians and that I just don't have a good rhythm for meal planning yet. So, it's been three years. My pre-vegetarian meal planning rhythm wasn't all that great either.

Thinking of the stack of unread news, home decorating, and church leadership magazines irks me momentarily until I refocus on the irksomeness of the driver in front of me who seems to think blinkers are for ordinary people. I hope that a few minutes of NPR will help me focus on something more than the cruel vicissitudes of appointment books, pollen, and unread articles. Just my luck. It's pledge drive week.

How much more could go wrong?

Now it's nighttime. I stop working on my classes about 10:30 p.m. and contemplate a couple of pictures my husband Ken and I took on our recent trip to the Czech Republic.

First, Wenceslas Square. Home of the Prague Spring. Few folks alive can forget the thrill of seeing thousands of Czechs gathering there expressing their desire for freedom. Few can forget the spring of 1968 when Soviet tanks and troops crushed the nascent democratic movement.

I see the picture we took of a little wrought iron plant holder mounted on a tile on a building close to the square. I asked Ken to take the picture because I thought the plants were cheery and the wrought iron holder clever.Stepping closer, I saw an inscription on the tile. Our friend, Eddie White, read the Czech inscription explaining that it is a memorial to a 50 year-old woman who was shot and killed at that spot in 1968.

Someone, perhaps her grandchildren, placed the color plants.

What luxury--no, what grace---to experience appointment books, pollen, unread magazines, and ungraded essays as the vicissitudes of life.

Wenseclas Square 

Hi friends.
This week Ken and I are in Brno, Czech Republic with 23 other folks with the GACS Czech Mission Team. We have enjoyed cloudless blue skies and the company of members of the Brno Church of Christ as well as the students at the Brno Gymnazium Videnske--a secondary school. If you are interested in our trip journal Czech us out at www.gacsczechtrip.blogspot.com

Grace and peace to you.

Here's a view from the train station...

One night at the cinema and a week of TV news

Hotel Rwanda
Red Lake Reservation
Fulton County Superior Court
Woodside Hospice
Guantanamo Bay

A tiny kitchen in a small apartment in Duluth

Matters of life and death
Matters of morality
Matters of politics

As we celebrate the resurrection of Jesus from the dead
Do it again God
Do a mighty work

Let your angel roll away stones
stones of
unbelief
hatred
racism
violence
oppression
war

Let your people find their broken selves
quickened by
faith
love
brotherhood
gentleness
service
peace

at our kitchen tables
may we speak truth and love and purpose
in the face of hopelessness and threat
may we copy the courage of Paul Rusesabagina
and be students of Ashley Smith

in the halls of power
may we speak truth and love and purpose
in the face of hopelessness and threat
may we copy the courage of the prophets
and be the imitation of Christ

The Object of a Thousand Prayers

"'One day we may able to laugh at this, but right now I have to tell you that your son is going to die." Speaking softly with his Indian accent, the doctor went on, "The number of white blood cells in his body will be nearly impossible to overcome. We have ordered a life flight helicopter to take Trevor to the Children's Hospital in Birmingham."

Monday, March 10, 1986

The evening before he spiked a fever. We rushed him home from church. After pouring some Tylenol down his little throat and giving him a bath, we put him to bed planning to call the doctor in the morning. Trevor awoke early running a high fever. We got into the car heading for the pediatrician's office calling the doctor while on the way. On the examination table lay my Trevor listless and bleary-eyed. After ruling out strep and an ear infection, the doctor suggested it might just be a virus. I was to give him fluids and bring him back if he did not perk up.

I asked if the doctor wanted me to bring Trevor back the next day, and he said, "No, bring him back today." He muttered something about Reye's syndrome. I didn't know much about Reye's syndrome, but I knew it was serious.

Bewildered, I put Trevor in his infant car seat, and believe me, it was the easiest time I ever had putting him in. No thrashing, no resisting, no trying to get out. I offered him a cup of juice which he took and then let fall out of his hand. As I drove watching him in the rear view mirror, I realized that although he was not asleep, he was not moving. I turned the car around and went back to the doctor.

Spinal tap

When we arrived back at the doctor's office, he directed us to the nearby hospital where Trevor was quickly admitted. Right away they tapped his spine to check for meningitis. A nurse came out and commented that he was "sooo goooood." Remember, this was Alabama. Then she said, "We tapped his spine and he didn't even cry." That's when I fell apart inside. When I was four the doctors at Henry Ford hospital in Detroit tapped my spine. To this day I recall it as the single most painful experience of my life. No crying meant something was very wrong.

Within a few minutes the doctor told us that Trevor's spinal fluid showed positive for meningitis. Whether it was viral or bacterial was uncertain, but the doctor hooked him up to intravenous antibiotics anyway. He ordered a life-flight helicopter. The prognosis could not have been worse.

Trevor's strawberry blond curls matted around his neck and forehead. Motors, monitors, bottles, tubes, and needles flushed fluids into his tiny little hand. Flat on his back, he laid comatose on a gurney. Ken and I went in. We washed his hot, still body with a rag and sang a little song we sang to him everyday, "Trevor, Jesus loves you; Trevor, Jesus loves you; Trevor, Jesus loves you; and love came gushing down. Seek and ye shall find, ask anywhere, give a knock and the door will opened and love, love, love came gushing down." Then the next verse, "Trevor, Daddy loves you," was followed by "Trevor, Mommy loves you," which was followed by "Trevor, Christopher loves you." The song continued through nearly all of the grandparent, aunt, uncle, and cousin verses. Then it went to the folks at church.

We kept singing. We kept wiping his head. We breathed in and out, but the air seemed heavy. Finally, came the roar of the helicopter landing and life-flight attendants transferring Trevor to their gurney. Just as they were leaving our sight, I saw a little hand grab at the IV cord. My heart skipped a beat. Trevor's reach was the first voluntary move I had seen for hours. The first flicker of hope.

The EMTs wouldn't let us ride in the helicopter. One hundred miles lay between our new home in slow, sleepy Sheffield, Alabama and the relatively big city of Birmingham.

The receiver on the phone seemed to weigh ten pounds. I tried to call my mom in Michigan to ask her to pray. The hospital operator patiently waited as I tried two or three times to remember our phone number and then my mom's. The numbers would run together and get out of order. I stopped and started several times until all the numbers came to me.

After receiving the call, Mom said she sat in the same chair for hours waiting to hear from us again.

The long road to Birmingham

The sun went down on the longest two-hour one hundred mile ride of our lives. Hurling through the darkness, we whispered the possibilities. Everything we ever wanted, thought, and believed seemed to crowd into our consciousness.

I remember trying to recall every promise I could think of in the Bible and I could not come up with ONE that said our baby would live.

My knowledge of meningitis consisted of three cases. Two victims died. One remained profoundly crippled both physically and mentally. The doctor told us that this infection of the lining of brain could affect any function the brain affected.

It took me an hour to begin to think of what words to think about praying. I knew I had no bargaining power. But on the other hand, I knew that God could move mountains if He chose to do so. If he could move mountains, he could cure my son.

I knew Jesus raised a couple of kids from the dead.
But he didn't raise them all.

I thought--I can ask. I can ask. I will ask.

I asked God to give us Trevor. I pleaded, if we could raise Trevor to be His Child, to be a good, loving person--then please, please, please, let him live. We wanted him. We would take him blind. We would take him deaf. We would take him crippled. We would take him mentally impaired.

We would take Trevor anyway God would give him to us.

Bright blue doors opened into the ER at University of Alabama Birmingham's Children's Hospital. As we pushed on the doors, we did not know if Trevor would be dead or alive. When the bright lights from the center hit our eyes after our long dark ride, we blinked back temporary blindness. Somewhere in that blur we heard Trevor crying.

Walking a few steps into ICU following that raspy little cry, we saw him thrashing around trying to get the IVs out. He recognized us, smiled, and when I leaned over and sang "You are my.."

He filled in, "sunshine."

Someone in the ER called our name announcing a call from a Dr. Mark Ottenweller. Mark, a brother from our church in Baton Rouge, Louisiana called to check on Trevor and to let us know that folks there were praying for him. My college roommate, Ann McDonald Lane called me. Phone calls came into the ward from all over the country including my home state of Michigan. Hundreds of Christians from the metropolitan Detroit area happened to be meeting that night at my home congregation, Van Dyke Church of Christ, to hear a fellowship luminary speak--someone like Max Lucado, Rubel Shelley, or Jim Woodruff. They prayed for Trevor.

Ten days of antibiotic therapy followed based on the diagnosis of bacterial meningitis. The head pediatric neurologist told the med students on their pediatric rotation that Trevor was an amazing case. He said there was no explanation for the his recovery.

20-15

As the years passed and Trevor reached new developmental stages, we silently, anxiously watched for residual effects. There were none. At fourteen after a battery of tests, we found his vision was 20-15. His hearing more acute than the average person. Intelligence testing---well, all parents think their kids are smart, but he's darn smart.

There is no secret brag here about our faith. We were mostly afraid. There is this memory and the realization that his life was spared.

There is the recollection that we prayed and that our friends prayed.

There is the realization that many others pray and God does not grant them the life of their child; many others pray and God does not grant the physical or mental health so deeply desired.

An aside

So this to you, Trevor--though the scriptures give no specific revelation about your life it remains true that against all odds, you survived. You not only survived, but were blessed with vision, with hearing, with intellect. You see the most intricate and interesting features of everything from photographs to flowers. You hear not only the notes in everything from symphonies to punk rock medleys---you hear everything we say no matter where or when we say it.

Now that you are a grown man please realize that your life and well being have been the object of a thousand prayers.
May God grant that you see what He wants you to see; hear what He wants you to hear; and you hunger for the knowledge of His Story.

An epilogue

As for me and Ken, we still have never found that we can laugh at this, but we thank God for Trevor, Chris, and for the length of journey here together.

arriving at the Brno train station



Only a few weeks left until--Lord willing--we will see the sign for Brno for the fourth time.

Czeching on Unity

“I believe deeply that Christians must seriously be concerned about everything that threatens the lives of people created in the image of God. Abortion is important; war and economic justice are also important. “
Jim Wallis
"An open letter to Chuck Colson"

A recent BreakPoint commentary by Chuck Colson criticized the message of Jim Wallis of Sojourners. Check out Colson’s assertions and read Jim Wallis's Open Letter to Chuck Colson. This conversation goes to heart of a Christian dialogue about politics in America. This is a time to join Jesus in his prayer for the unity of believers.

We live in the privilege of this unity, but have a ways to go to fully realize it. One reason we need to realize it lies in the big picture. We have a story beyond politics. We want that Story to reflect the essence of the message of Christ to world. We want to become one with the image of God. To that end, we must continue to examine, to search, to find, and to express this reality. This Story is a story of love, grace, and justice. We, in a free society, must continue to discern the policy implications of this message because that is part of how we express his will.

This all comes home to me as Ken and I lead a group from Greater Atlanta Christian School in a trip to Brno, Czech Republic. Our students will be participating in a cultural exchange with 19 students from a local “gymnasium” --a college preparatory secondary school. The students have been emailing each other for weeks now, and will meet when we arrive in early April. This will be our fourth time to make the trip. Of course, a major part of our culture is our life in Christ. Please pray for our group. Pray for our spiritual formation as individuals. Pray for our group spirit. Pray that we will plant seeds of the kingdom of God.

As you do, consider today's New York Times review of a Jan Hrebejk's "Up and Down," an academy award nominated film emerging this spring from the Czech Republic. The headline of the review, "Czechs So Divided That Bad News Is Rarely All Bad" speaks of disillusionment and fragmentation.

Of course, I cautioned my students that films from Prague have their limitations in expressing the nature of life in the Czech Republic as do Hollywood's films in picturing our collective life.

Are we all "Dazed and Confused," "Rambo,"Rocky," or "American Beauty"? No, but are we all a little of these? Maybe.

May it be that we are united in the essence of Christ Himself. May we, participating in the simplicity of His love and in the purity of The Story be bearers of good, good news.

Heaven goes wild


I opened the alumni section of a Christian university magazine. My eye went right to it. An alumnus from the 70s shares an update on her life:

“Divorced after 31 years and filed for bankruptcy…”

Success is sweet. We share our advanced degrees and our promotions. We sometimes subtly announce our new addresses in the gated community. And we do rightly rejoice with those who are rejoicing. Hard work and dedication in our free economy often provide the diplomas, the positions, and the deeds of our dreams.

But for some, the certificates read painfully of divorce, death, and debt. Blame can go around and around, but we’ve been around long enough to know that every divorce, every bankruptcy, and many accumulations of debt accrue through the actions not of a duo, but of one. At the same time, some such debacles result from the collaborative effort of two or more weak, sinful people.

Who among us can’t say that we are not in one way or another bona fide, certified among the weak and the sinful?

Most of us keep the pain in marriage, the burden of debt, and the certainty of our failures our deep, dark secrets waiting for success before we share.

Wonder why?

It may have to do with our lack of compassion for the failing of others. When our judgment visits us, it’s a tough companion. Maybe we hear our friends mock the poor. Maybe our view of God is such that we believe he only blesses the successful. Maybe we buy into the media images of winners and losers. Americans gets such a kick out of watching someone else hear the words, “You’re fired.” We laugh at the weakest link.

Recently I read a story from Larry James’ Urban Daily blog. Reportedly, Rich Little, comedian, did an impersonation of Ronald Reagan at inaugural party,

"'You know, somebody asked me, 'Do you think the war on poverty is over?'
I said, 'Yes, the poor lost.'

The crowd went wild. "

The crowd went wild. When we are broken from life, at times the victims of the sin and failure of others, and more often the owners of our own sins and failures, we need to remember that at the point we turn to God in our brokenness, HEAVEN GOES WILD.

The alumnus, divorced and bankrupt, ends her update with a note of grace, “…in spite of a rough year, she is still praising God.”


2 Corinthians 12 from The Message
God told Paul, "My grace is enough; it's all you need.
My strength comes to you in weakness."

Luke 15 from The Message
Jesus assured his followers of heaven's joy.
"Count on it---there's more joy in heaven over one sinner's rescued life than over ninety-nine good people in no need of rescue."
"Count on it--that's the kind of celebration God's angels throw every time one lost soul turns to God."

Profiles in purging--finding the strength to ban the bothersome

According to the Washington Post, Dennis Hastert has purged the House Ethics Committee of those bothersome folks who investigated Tom DeLay and resisted weakening ethics rules.

In reference to the ousting of Rep. Joel Hefley, (R-Co.), the chairman of the committee, Hastert’s spokesman reportedly said, "It wasn't really removing him. It was more like relieving him of his duty. The speaker doesn't like to have people who are such talented legislators like him have to spend so much time on ethics."

But don’t worry. The speaker didn’t just get rid of Hefley, he also replaced two other bothersome Republican committee members, Reps. Kenny Hulshof (R-Mo.) and Steven C. LaTourette (R-Ohio), with Reps. Lamar S. Smith (R-Tex.) and Tom Cole (R-Okla.). The Post editorial states that both of these men contributed generously to Mr. DeLay's legal defense fund.

The immoral of the story is: Don't waste your time and talent on ethics.

Stone, Campbell, & Company in Detroit

In times past, when I told people I was from the Detroit area, Church of Christ folks from other regions sometimes said, “I guess the church is pretty weak up there.”

That startled me because there were about 60 congregations of the Church of Christ when I was growing up there. Why Rochester College (the nascent MCC back then) brought us Otis and Alma Gatewood and Lucien Palmer.

Times and places all around Detroit, Michigan brought Jesus into my heart.

Summers at Michigan Christian Youth Camp.
School years with the Metropolitan Detroit Youth Chorus.
Sunday mornings at the Van Dyke Church of Christ.
Sunday nights at the Troy Church of Christ and other congregations.

With my teen Church of Christ friends--Beverly Birdwell Blair, Jan Palmer Van Horn (before Jon), Jan’s brother Ron and Linda Brown Palmer, and (no relation, except Christ) Joel Palmer, Jeff and Karen Schlender and others, the Jesus factor was so big we did things like have communion together when the clock struck midnight and Sunday began. We lit candles at our church buildings on many a New Years Eve praying in the New Year.

Lots of being together. Sort of Acts 2:42ish.

In Hearing God's Voice: My Life with Scripture in the Churches of Christ, Thomas Olbright, mentions the progressive Christians in Michigan. These non-sectarian believers provided powerful teaching and writing about Christ and discipleship. Like my friends who published the journal Integrity.

Detroiters got to hear Joseph Jones, Wayne Baker, Jerry Rushford, and Larry Bridgesmith.

One fellow, who would like to remain unnamed, read aloud to us at church camp from a book called Voices of Concern, a collection of letters from folks who had left the fold of the Church of Christ due to their objections to sectarianism. I didn’t know what to call it back then, but I remember being in 8th grade, bewildered and challenged. He probably wouldn't read such a thing in the same a setting today, but the wrestling with hard questions about church and fellowship at a young age served me well.

Dowell Flatt preached excellent expository sermons at Van Dyke for 10 years engendering a great deal of harmony and growth. He left us to attend seminary in New Orleans then on to chair the Bible Department at Freed-Hardeman University. I regret he has left us for good now, but a rich legacy remains in my heart.

Pat Boone provided our star power. He came to Detroit in 1968 and did a benefit show for us at Cobo Arena in Detroit to help MDYC raise money for our European trip.I think it was later that year, a friend named Averill Allen played a tape of Pat Boone in which Pat shared his new experiences in the Holy Spirit. We were all pretty curious about that New Song.

Up to that point, we thought maybe the Holy Spirit was a pen and ink.

We were not very Acts 2:43ish.

Once an area congregation hosted David Wilkinson of The Cross and Switchblade at a youth rally. In case you are too young to know, he was a nationally known Pentecostal in urban ministry. Afterwards, I recall hearing an elderly gentleman lead a closing prayer saying something like “please forgive us for exposing our young people to this mourner’s bench religion.”

Not everyone valued the nonsectarian thing.

Hearing John Allen Chalk at the Roseville Church of Christ inspired me beyond words. Finding me beyond words? Doesn’t happen often enough.

I’d list the women speakers, but well—let’s just say I heard pretty powerful stuff at home. My mom, Jo Choate, referred to scripture so often, so naturally when we discussed the vicissitudes of teen life that I sometimes accused her of trying to make a religious issue out of everything in life. My sisters, Deborah Choate Shepherd and Kimberly Choate Thames spoke of and served Jesus with passion and grace.

Mom remains guilty as charged.

But a church weak in Detroit? Those folks just guessed wrong.