Category: children

Living A Different Story: A Message From Jerusalem

Kay Klinkenborg at Church of the Palms UCC sent us this article and knows Elie Pritz, the author of this piece, who lives and works in Jerusalem. She was raised there and is a Christian who, 10 years ago, founded a NGO to work on peace curriculum in teaching children K-12 non-violent options and peace building. Elie has lived her entire life in Jerusalem, has an American father and Swiss mother. Her pain about the issues in Palestine/Israel is palpable. She wrote this for her December newsletter.

It was about a month after the war started that I walked into Hand in Hand—a Hebrew-Arabic school in Jerusalem. We had originally planned to meet on October 9th, which clearly didn’t happen after the war broke out on October 7th. I was surprised when, a month later, they contacted me and asked if we could try again. Wasn’t their plate already ridiculously full, trying to keep a school like theirs running during a war? But we set a date and time, and two days later I was sitting inside the principal’s office, preparing to talk to her and one of the English teachers about our Peace Heroes program.

Bilingual schools (Hebrew and Arabic) are very rare in Israel. The vast majority of schools are sector based: secular Israeli Jewish schools, religious Jewish schools, Palestinian Israeli (Muslim and Christian) schools. Schools don’t integrate. The nine bilingual schools dispersed throughout the country are an anomaly—a place where Jewish and Palestinian Israelis can learn together in one another’s languages.

Peace Heroes' founder and program director, Elie Pritz.
Peace Heroes’ founder and program director, Elie Pritz. 

I could only imagine how recent events would have greatly strained this mixed school community. So I asked the Jewish Israeli principal how this war has affected them. 

“Look,” she said, “we’re in a war. And our students represent both sides of this war. It’s hard. But unlike some other organizations, we don’t have the privilege of going into ourselves right now, to reflect on the situation and decide how to move forward. Our students are coming to school every day. We have to figure this out every day.”

The English teacher, a Palestinian Israeli, said: “After October 7th I didn’t want to come in to work. But I chose to come anyway. Every day I wake up and I make that choice all over again—the choice to be here…It’s not easy, but it’s my choice. It’s the choice every single one of us in this school is making.”

We spent the next hour talking about Peace Heroes, brainstorming ways they could make it part of their school program. It was the first time in a month I felt inspired and even hopeful. Here is a school that is doing the hard (hard!) work of figuring out how to live life together. Here is a school that understands, at an existential level, how crucial it is to raise the next generation of leaders in this land to be pursuers of peace and mutual thriving. They loved the idea of using stories of Peace Heroes from all over the world—as well as from the region—to not only model to their students how to navigate really hard things while still upholding the dignity of all people, but also to open up difficult conversations around identity, justice, and security within the safe space of storytelling.

At the end of the meeting the principal told me that our hour together felt like oxygen to the soul. I understood what she meant. For the first time in weeks, I felt like I could breathe again, even if only for a moment. To be in the room together with people who, like me, were making a supreme effort to swim against the tide that in this moment is dividing not only the people of this land but also of the world, brought me to tears. Tears of relief in feeling that there are others who are doing what is possibly one of the hardest and most isolating things to do in a war: fighting to stay united, to be in relationship, to be mutually empathetic to and supportive of one another’s identity as well as experience of the nightmare we are all living through.

October 7th and its aftermath is changing our landscape in a way that will take us years to fully understand. In the days following the beginning of the war, people everywhere asked me to tell them how I was doing, to explain to them what was happening. It felt impossible. I was stunned into silence, completely unable to articulate the chaos, trauma, fear, and grief we were all suddenly plunged into. And yet, even while I sat in this stunned silence, I was completely taken aback by the onslaught of divisive and damaging words being spewed out by people around the world, aimed at one or other of the communities in this land. This tsunami of hate-filled words quickly spiraled me down into a despairing depression. I felt as voiceless as I’ve ever felt, and so alone in my desire to push forward another narrative, to tell a different story.

But slowly, I began to hear other voices speaking the words I could not speak—local peacemakers, both Israeli and Palestinian, whose stories I had written, whose organizations I had been following since the days I had started my journey with Peace Heroes more than a decade ago.* These people were articulating what I could not: the unbelievable pain of the moment we suddenly found ourselves in, AND the absolute necessity of upholding the dignity of all the people in this place. Their voices anchored me the way nothing else could. They gave me solid ground to stand on and brought me back to myself and to what I knew to be true: that violence is our common enemy, and that taking a stand against violence and its dehumanizing effects is the only way we will ever come out of this moment with our humanity still intact.

Words matter. They matter so much. Words can break our world or they can remake it. It took me a few weeks to connect the dots (blame the war—it messes with one’s ability to think logically), but it finally dawned on me that I do have life giving words. I’ve been writing them for a decade, telling the stories of people from all over the world—as well as from Israel and Palestine—who have faced devastating situations and have chosen to be a light in the darkness, a force for healing rather than division, hate, and fear. Voices that will never stop trying to remake our world.

From Hand in Hand’s website

Hand in Hand school is one of these voices. They understand the toxicity of the space we are living in, and the urgency of raising our voice to tell (and live) a different story. Peacemakers are often the first to be sidelined in a war, but I believe it is precisely these people who are doing the hardest work of all: the work of daily choosing to live out a different reality. A reality that says to people across the divide: “You matter, and I will live my life in a way that manifests this conviction and upholds your dignity as well as mine, no matter what.” This is the only reality that promises any kind of viable and shared future in this land. 

As this year comes to a close it is my deepest hope that we will all follow in the footsteps of these peacemakers. May we live a different story–one that daily chooses to remake our broken world. 

Slaughters of the Innocents

by Rev. John Indermark

The second chapter of Matthew contains a story routinely left out of the Christmas narrative. Shortly after Magi arrive, and then leave, a mass murderer enters the scene. Intent on clinging to office, King Herod ordered the slaughter of innocent children.

I have heard reasons for this story’s banishment from the season’ readings. No other record exists of this massacre, so scholars say we cannot establish its factual truth. In services with sanctuaries still decked for Christmas, we also don’t want Herod raining on our parade. And so, typically, we leave it for another day, a day that tends never to come. Of course, our thoughts and prayers are with the families of those children…

I wrote very similar words to these in December of 2012, when the Innocents of Sandy Hook went slaughtered. To be sure, other mass shootings had occurred in prior years: Virginia Tech, Columbine. But in Sandy Hook, these were children. First-graders. Innocents. Murdered by – oh, I don’t know. A deranged young man. A culture infatuated with guns. An industry that had the gall to announce shortly afterward that the only way to stop a bad guy with a gun is a good guy with a gun. You know, increase sales.

I had truly – and naively – hoped that the Slaughter of Innocents in Sandy Hook might be the turning point. Again, these were children assaulted with an assault weapon. But the key word there is naively. I may not know if Herod’s story is factual, but by God it is true. Clinging to power, abetted here by the political ammo of campaign contributions, brought to a screeching halt any hope of change after Sandy Hook. As it has ever since.

And after slaughters in El Paso and Parkland and Buffalo and elsewhere, innocent people going about their daily lives gunned down because, by gum, we have a right to any weapon of our choice: now we are back to the Slaughter of Innocent Children. In Uvalde. In a state where the governor campaigned not to be number 2 in the country for gun ownership but number 1. Congratulations – I guess you got your wish. Of course, as your lieutenant predictably tweeted, our thoughts and prayers are requested.

Unless and until pious words for gun victims become righteous actions to prevent gun violence, the Slaughter of Innocents will continue unabated. How did Hosea 8:7 put it?

They who sow the wind will reap the whirlwind.

If It Dies, It Produces Many Seeds

by Rev. Victoria Ubben

Scripture: Jesus said, “Very truly I tell you, unless a kernel of wheat falls to the ground and dies, it remains only a single seed. But if it dies, it produces many seeds.” (John 12:24)

Two things become unmistakably clear from John’s Gospel lesson. One is that transformation is difficult. And transformation is glorious. So, the question is “What needs to be transformed (or die) in you during this season of Lent so that something new can be born?”

Just about three years ago, I represented our United Church of Christ on an agricultural mission trip to visit three indigenous communities in Guatemala. Six years prior to this, Growing Hope Globally had worked with several mission partners to teach women to farm in their communities (as many of the men had migrated, leaving women and children behind in these three villages). With an absence of men, plus obvious effects of climate change in the region, people were malnourished and starving. The purpose of our trip was to follow-up on the progress (and success) of these new farming techniques.

A brief (and simplified) history: The Guatemalan Civil War ran from 1960 to 1996. It was fought between the government of Guatemala and the rural poor (many of whom are ethnic Maya indigenous people and ladino peasants). After the Guatemalan conflict, when the natives came out of the jungle where they had been hiding, they began to look for their lost friends and loved ones. Of course, most of them were nowhere to be found. 

One man we met, Cristobel, told us (through a translator) that when he was only seven years old, almost his entire village had been massacred on one dark night. Cristobel, and his five-year old sister, Catarina, hid silently under the lice-infested straw in order to survive until the coast was clear. Since that time, he has made it his mission to search on the mountainside for unmarked mass graves. He found them and unearthed the decomposing bodies. Years later, he set up a memorial for the 87 people in his small village who had been killed in just one night.

Someone like Cristobel said, “They tried to kill us and bury us; they did not know that we were seeds.” Now Cristobel’s community has risen from the earth. They are no longer malnourished and now they have what we call “food sovereignty”…which means that these people are not dependent on anyone else for their food. They can focus on local resources and local markets. The campesinos (peasant farmers) have risen… children have risen out from under the lice-infested straw…the spirits (I suppose) of 87 bodies also have risen from a mass grave.

If we die…like a seed…we produce more of what this world needs.

  • So, what if we loved our neighbors as ourselves? Then we would not be as segregated in our communities as we are.
  • What if we lived out God’s word and did not spend time trying to defend it? Then more people would be drawn to Christ.
  • What if we were simply faithful Christians being the light that sits upon the hill? Then others would see our good works and glorify God.
  • What if we really believed that all people are created with unalienable rights of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness? Then we will not see some as aliens and threats, but as brothers and sisters in Christ.

What if …

They tried to kill us and bury us; but they did not know that we were seeds? Then, like Jesus, we will rise up out of the grave and sprout into new life!

Closing Prayer:

Dear God, shine your light of conviction and truth upon our hearts. We offer our feelings to you that are heavy and burdensome, and those feelings that are yet hopeful of your good work among us. We surrender all to you, trusting that you are producing good fruit within each of us. Amen.

  • To learn more about the mission of Growing Hope Globally, check out: growinghopeglobally.org
  • Some of these ideas in this blog post are drawn loosely from An American Lent – Repentance Project, 2019.

photo credits: Alex Morse and Max Finberg

Oh The Humanity

by Davin Franklin-Hicks

I met Auntie Rose when I was four or five. She had to be 184 years old, give or take 100 years. Old was ancient to me, like the pyramids, dinosaurs, and God. Auntie Rose lived next door to my mom and my mom’s three kids of which I was firmly in the center. My older brother and my baby brother were my orbit. My dad was a satellite across town while my mom was the moon, sleeping during the day and shining somewhere far from me at night. It wasn’t a world with cohesion, just one with intense gravity. 

We lived in apartments with too many kids and too few awake adults so anyone who took an interest in me became family. That was how a stranger named Rose became Auntie Rose and her husband (by association, not at all earned) became Uncle John. And I loved her. She was sweet to me and had a soft lap. She made me eggs some mornings when my mom wasn’t all that aware of my grumbling tummy. She asked me about things like hopscotch and fights with my brothers and my wishes to be the President and a country music singer, dual careers that felt realistic and achievable.

There was another ancient woman on the premises that everyone called Granny. Now Granny really was the oldest person alive, of that I am certain. I don’t have the Guinness Book of Records to prove it, but my memory filed her away as the oldest person ever and I still hold every centenarian up against her. Granny played solitaire, smoked cigarettes, watched daytime television, prayed the rosary, and made cookies. Auntie Rose visited with her several times a week for many years and I would trail over after her. Granny had one of those little plaques with wooden blocks that spelled out JESUS if your eyes adjusted to it in just the right way. I thought that was brilliant. I would let my eyes go in and out of focus while tracing the lines, amazed that blank space could become something else if you saw it the right way. Auntie Rose’s words and Granny’s cigarette smoke would waft around me as they talked about nothing that actually interested me, but held me just the same. I thought Auntie Rose and Granny were actually related. My mom let me know years later that they were not. I guess I was making chosen family for as long as I had the ability.

Auntie Rose wasn’t my neighbor for long, but while she was, she likely heard a lot through the thin wall that separated her home from mine. My mom’s boyfriend, my future step-father, wasn’t a kind man and expressed that loudly in all sorts of ways. She didn’t like him which made me like her more. She also didn’t like her own husband much. I could tell that right away. I could give or take him. He was silent and sullen. She did something that no ancient person ever did in the 1980s: she divorced him. And then she moved away. 

Auntie Rose kept coming back to visit Granny, though, so I didn’t lose her. It was one of those visits when something shifted that never shifted back. It was a moment I remember so vividly and so clearly you would think something traumatic happened. It wasn’t traumatic, though. I had been in the living room, talking to Granny. Granny asked me to go give Auntie Rose a vase as she was in the back room doing some kind of rearranging of a closet for Granny. I walked down the hall to the bedroom and there was no Auntie Rose. Then I heard her call from the darkened bathroom that had the door wide open. “Need something?” I walked toward her and then froze when I heard the unmistakable sound of urine hitting the water of a toilet. 

She was talking to me. While peeing. And can you even? I could not. I froze and felt my stomach hurt. I said, “Uh, no. Nothing.” I set the vase on the bed and hightailed it out of the apartment, confused and disoriented by the whole experience.

There is such a fragility in early childhood, a constant reckoning with the stimulus all around. A sense of awe or mortification seem equally in reach at any given moment. I had been awed so much by Auntie Rose’s unfailing kindness and love that mortification had an easy entry. She had seemed above need, above doing anything so base as having to use the bathroom. I never forgave her for being so very human when I had cast her as Love.

That memory was created when I was eight-years old and I must think of it at least once a month with a very specific trigger: embarrassment on behalf of another’s humanity. I feel the burn of embarrassment the most intensely when it’s my own humanity revealed at the most inopportune time. 

There’s a great scene from a mediocre show that also occurs to me frequently alongside this memory. The show was Nurse Jackie and the scene depicts a conversation between one of my favorite fictional TV characters Gloria Akalitus and a second character named Dr. O’Hara. Gloria Akalitus is the head of an overtaxed ER. She is every medical administrator I have ever met with a wonderful, lovable, terrifying personality. Dr. O’Hara comes upon Gloria eating and says, “I don’t think I have ever seen you eat before.” Gloria’s response is, “I like to hide my humanity. Or at least keep it to a minimum.”

Why is admitting we are human the hardest thing we do all day? Feels like it has something to do with the red rover game between capability and vulnerability that plays throughout the entirety of our living. 

So what didn’t match up for the eight-year old me that day? Was it that she was in the bathroom with the light off? Was it that the door was open? Was it that it was unexpected? Or was it just too human?

It was being confronted with base need where strength and comfort had been the only resident prior. It made everything feel a bit more fragile in a world that already wasn’t sturdy. I am thankful for that moment now. I know it’s a weird thing to be thankful for – someone using the bathroom with the door open. I am, though, because it serves me. It pops up when I want to run like my young self did. It presents itself when another’s humanity feels far too real or when my own feels far too ugly. I pause now instead of run. I remind myself that we are all just humans working out our needs the best we can. I remind myself of my own capability and of yours. And, most of the time, I stay.

I imagine if I hadn’t run that day then Auntie Rose would have likely finished her business, washed her hands, and come out of the bathroom to take the vase from me. She likely would have had a kind word for me as she often peppered mundane moments with affirmation. I would have likely returned to Granny while she played her millionth game of solitaire and smoked her millionth-and-one cigarette. My stomach would have settled and cookies would have been consumed. Life would have simply continued.

I don’t know what it is about being human that sometimes makes the stomach hurt and causes us to flee, but I do know that most of us have moments that feel too naked and real. May we not change them or run from them. May we wait them out and see what happens. May we accept our need as fully human. May we close the door when we go potty.

“Red rover, red rover, send acceptance right over.”

Reflections of a Children’s Chaplain

by Dr. Kristina “Tina” Campbell

As we walk the hallowed halls with a deep desire to bring spiritual comfort to patients and families, there are times when we must pause to experience our own humanity.  There are times when we must pause to connect with our own spiritual source for perspective, strength, and refreshment.  There are times when we must reconnect with our own sense of being human.  There are times when we must step back and mourn.

As we view a child’s body pulled from the bottom of a green pool, we must step back and mourn.  As we witness teenaged attempts to take their own lives by hanging, gun shot, starvation or overdose, we must step back and mourn.  As we witness a nurse drape a newborn baby for transfer to the morgue, we must step back and mourn.  As we view the mangled body of a joyride gone bad, we must step back and mourn.  As we see the skyrocketing cases of children with COVID gasping for air, we must step back and mourn.  As we witness the contorted physical pain of sickle cell, we must step back and mourn.  As we view the strained face of a doctor informing a grandmother that there is nothing more medicine can do, we must step back and mourn.  Amid panicked fear, threadbare nerves, and lives forever changed or ended, we must step back and mourn.

Finding a private space in the quiet corner of our hearts, we bow and we weep, because we know if we do not, we will lose our human connection and become mere robots.  We are trained, we are hurried, we are present, and yet our calling is to be fully human.  In acknowledgement of our common humanity, there are times when we must step back and mourn.  Amen.

Dr. Campbell, UCC clergy, BCC, is a Staff Chaplain at Phoenix Children’s Hospital.

What Does God See When God Looks At Me?

For Mothers

by Deborah Church Worley  – May 2013

I dedicate this poem 
to my mother, Joyce Mary Payne Church–
who put up with me as a kid;
to my kids, Sarah, Ryan, and John–
who are putting up with me as a mom;
and to all moms everywhere,
who are doing their best every day
to love their kids!

God bless you all!

What does God see
when God looks at me?  
Does God see my elbows?
Does God see my knees?
Does God see my nose
and my misshapen toes?
The shape of my chin?
the color of my skin?
Does God see me in the morning,
when I’m looking quite scary?  
Does God see my legs,
when they’re scaly and hairy?
Does God see those bags
I’ve got under my eyes?  
Does God see jelly jiggling
when God sees my thighs??
Sometimes I wonder what God sees 
when God thinks to look at me…


What does God see
when God looks at me?  
Does God see that bulge
where my waist used to be??
Does God see the [mark of honor] stretch marks
that adorn my lower belly?
…and the muscles underneath
that have now turned to jelly??
Does God see the parts of my body
that will never again be lifted?
…and how my view of the world around me
has forever shifted…
because I am a mother?
The toughest job I could ever love (well, mostly!…)
is being a mother…  
Does God see my gratitude for this gift
that is truly like no other?
Sometimes I wonder what God sees 
when God thinks to look at me…




What does God see
when God looks at me?  
Does God see me when I’m buried
under dirty laundry?
Does God see me stagger out of bed
to feed my crying baby?
‘Cause I’d do it with a smile
if I thought God was watching…(maybe!)
Does God see the moments of panic
when I realize how true it is
that I really don’t have a clue
when it comes to this mothering biz?!
Why didn’t You send an instruction book, God,
when You sent this child to me?  
What You saw in me when You gave me this gift,
I’m not so sure I see…
Sometimes I wonder what God sees 
when God thinks to look at me…

God whispers to me, “I see it all…,”
and then in my heart I hear God call,
“You are my Beloved…

…and you are more beautiful
and more capable than you know!”

What does God see
when God looks at me?  
Does God see me putting band-aids
on banged-up knees?
Does God see me steal a cookie
when I’m making all those lunches?  
I can’t help it, God–sometimes I get
those early morning munchies!!
Does God see me put thousands of miles
on the car, going back and forth?  
And that’s not even counting their activities–
that’s just trips to the grocery store!
Do You see when I get frazzled, God,
trying to keep everything straight?  
I’ll tell You, it’s a good thing I’m married
‘cause I sure as heck don’t have time for a date!
Sometimes I wonder what God sees 
when God thinks to look at me…
 

What does God see
when God looks at me?  
Does God see me as I really am?
or as I’d like to be?
I hope God sees me when
I’m being sympathetic, patient, and kind,
and hears me when I’m inconvenienced,
saying, “It’s okay, I really don’t mind!”
I hope when I’m being crabby,
God has looked the other way,
but when I’m loving & sweet again,
has just happened to turn back my way!
Does God see me when I’m short-tempered? 
Just ask my kids–I get downright mean!
But it’s only when I’m being a good mom
that I really want to be seen…
Sometimes I wonder what God sees 
when God thinks to look at me….


What does God see
when God looks at me?
Does God see me cleaning up vomit
at a quarter to three?
Does God see me when I stay up late,
just to wash my son’s favorite shirt?  
Does God see when I want to shake him and say,
“Stay away from her–she’s just a big flirt!”?
Does God see me when I’m trying
to scrape that old gum off the couch?  
Does God see when, sometimes in seconds,
I go from “loving mom”
to “screaming grouch”?!?
I try to always keep my cool, God,
I really, really do…
but some of what I deal with from my kids
would even be trying for You!
Sometimes I wonder what God sees 
when God thinks to look at me…
 

God whispers to me, “I see it all…,”
and then in my heart I hear God call,
“You are my Beloved…

…even when you’re frazzled and crabby!
But keep breathing–you’ll make it,
and remember–all shall be well….”

What does God see
when God looks at me?  
Does God see my heart stop
when my baby screams?
Does God see I feel the same
whether she’s five or fifty-eight–
when I know my child is hurting, God,
my heart just breaks…
Do You see, God, how deeply I long to shelter
my child from life’s pain?
Yet I know that if I somehow succeeded in that,
there’d be more loss than gain…
While no one wants to go through hard times,
it seems to be how we learn best…
Does God see me pray for my child, 
for strength & wisdom when facing life’s tests?
Sometimes I wonder what God sees
when God thinks to look at me…

What does God see
when God looks at me?  
Does God see the pride that fills me
from my head to my feet?
Does God see the delight I feel
when I hear kindness in my son’s words?
when there’s compassion in his actions?
when genuine caring is felt and heard?
Does God see the disappointment I feel
when he chooses to do wrong?
and how I pray for courage for him,
to do the right thing and not just “go along”
with his friends, without thinking,
just part of the crowd…
God, help him be true to himself…
If not for his own sake,
then, God, please, for mine,
for the sake of my fragile mental health!
Sometimes I wonder what God sees 
when God thinks to look at me…

What does God see
when God looks at me?  
Does God see me hold in my concern
as I watch her climb that tree?
Does God see the slight sadness in my heart,
though overshadowed by great joy,
when she walks down the aisle in her lovely white dress,
on the arm of that wonderful boy [or girl!]?
Does God see I just want what’s best for my child,
with all of my soul and heart?  
I know I can’t live her life for her, God…
I’ve tried my best to give her a good start.
Help me to trust that she’s in Your hands,
that You love her even more than I,
And help me to remember that she belongs to You, God,
that You’re just sharing her with me for a while…
Sometimes I wonder what God sees 
when God thinks to look at me…

God whispers to me, “I see it all…,”
and then in my heart I hear God call,
“You are my Beloved…
Your child is my Beloved…
and I have you both in my hands…
Trust me…”

 

What does God see
when God looks at me?  
Does God see my abiding thankfulness
for my family?
Does God see my gratitude
for everything that we have shared?
for all the ways and times and places
that we’ve shown each other we care?
I admit there have been moments, God,
when I’ve wanted to run away,
when it all just seemed too hard,
and I didn’t think I could do it for another day…
But I hung on, I said a prayer,
I took a deep breath, I called a friend…
And I got up again the next morning,
trusting that the rough times would eventually end…
Sometimes I wonder what God sees 
when God thinks to look at me…

But here I am, God, still a mother,
and a mother I forever will be.  
It doesn’t matter whether my child
is one week old or 103!
I’m an imperfect mom who makes mistakes,
but who hopefully gets some things right–
I hope my child knows he’s loved
when he goes to sleep at night…
I hope she knows she’s cherished and valued,
and that she’s beautiful, too…
And I hope at some point they will know for themselves 
how deeply they are loved by You…
That is my deepest and most heartfelt longing;
it’s for that I most fervently pray…
And I have to trust that You will answer that prayer, God,
in Your time and in Your way…
God, sometimes I wonder what You see 
when You think to look at me…

“I see YOU, my child!
I see it all…
and to you, my dear one, I continue to call:
You are my Beloved!

I see you as a mom,
trying your best…
Just keep loving that child–
don’t worry so much about the rest!
You are beautiful, you are capable,
yes, you’re grouchy once in a while–
but you’re allowed!  After all, you’re human!
And that’s a good thing to show your child…
You’re not supposed to be perfect–
that was never part of my plan.
I only want you to be you,
as courageously as you can!
Don’t be afraid, my dear one,
to be who I made you to be!
Accept my Love deep within yourself,
and you will truly be free–
Free to love and accept your child,
and who she is at her very core…
That’s the best gift you can give your child;
he couldn’t ask for anything more!

You ask me what I see in you
when I look your way?
I see a beautiful, capable woman
to whom I continue to say,
‘You are my Beloved!’
Hear it…Let it sink in…Accept it…
and go love on your child!”

I hear it…and I let it sink in…and I accept it:
I am God’s Beloved!

Awesome.  🙂

And you are God’s Beloved!
Let’s go love on all of our kids!!

Happy Mother’s Day!

Bribery Works!

by Abigail Conley

“Bribery works” is my very best parenting advice. I don’t have kids, but it’s born out of personal experience. Bribery works and works fairly well. I wouldn’t have made it through Kindergarten without it. 

In the summer of 1989, I went to KinderCamp, the transitional, two-hour version of Kindergarten for kids entering school that fall. Preschools weren’t really a thing then, especially in rural areas, so this was new for most of us. Even full-day Kindergarten five days a week was new at that point. My birthday is in August, so I was barely five when the whole endeavor began. But really, the problem started at KinderCamp. 

KinderCamp was held with Mrs. Robinson, a soft-spoken, incredibly patient teacher whom I was certain would be wonderful. (Years later, I babysat her kids. I remain confident in the opinion of five-year-old me.) A few weeks later, a decision to close a nearby school came down, and I got Mrs. Nelson instead. She was nearing retirement and very kind in many ways. She also was nearing retirement and was very done in a few ways. She was especially done with raising her voice, so she used a whistle to get our attention. 

Barely five-year-old me hated the whistle. I was scared by it, and also an incredibly shy little kid. As a result, I both hated the whistle and wouldn’t tell anyone I hated the whistle. And so begins the year of Keeping Abby In School: A Community Effort. 

Step 1: Let’s begin with the bribery. That was my grandfather’s idea, and he funded the bribes. He had a knack for figuring out little kid problems, so it was a solid plan. He previously had great success ending bedwetting by giving me a flashlight so I didn’t have to walk through the dark to the bathroom. His bribery plan was simple: fifty cents a day to go to school and not cry. I would report to him when I saw him on Friday and he would pay me for every day I went to school and didn’t cry. Fifty cents was the cost of a can of pop from the school vending machine. Back then, sugary snacks at recess were expected. My best lesson in money management comes from the whole bribery endeavor, but that’s a different story. 

Step 2: Next up was getting me to school. I had loved watching my sister get on the bus each morning, but was not so keen on getting on myself. My dad started dropping me off on his way to work. The fourth-grade teacher, Mrs. Swint, always took the early morning bus duty. She was waiting in the gym for me, ready to take me from my dad. I’m told I was both cute and pitiful, wiping tears from underneath my Mickey Mouse glasses as I went from my dad to Mrs. Swint. Who knows how long it took her to settle me at the Kindergarten table. 

Step 3: Breakfast. I started to write food, but we should talk about the two school meals separately. I have never been great at mornings. Food has never been great for me in the morning, and I stopped believing the “you’ll grow out of it” promises around age thirty. I need to be awake for about two hours before I eat in order to not feel sick after eating. I was also a strictly cereal child, with limited likes. This resulted in my mom packing a baggie of cereal for me each morning, and buying milk at school. The lunch ladies would always give me a bowl so that I could eat my breakfast at school. This was the system unless the state inspectors were coming and we couldn’t break the rules. They would make sure and tell me this so I could adjust my plans.

Step 4: Then, lunch. Yes, I was a picky eater. My mom would pack my bologna, cheese, and ketchup sandwich if needed, but preferred if I would eat school lunch. While we received the monthly menu, it would occasionally change. This meant a phone call to my home early in the morning to notify me of any changes, especially if the lunch ladies knew it was something I didn’t like. They would make a peanut butter sandwich for any kid in a school where many kids didn’t have something to pack. They also knew I didn’t care for peanut butter sandwiches. (We were a peanut butter crackers family.) A phone call was an easy way to make everyone involved much happier. 

Step 5: Keep up steps 1-4 for an entire school year. 

Step 6: Make special allowances on days when things do not go as normal. One day we had a substitute teacher and I freaked out. Mrs. Kenni, the secretary, let me sit in the office with her, which was just fine with me. She even showed me how the giant safe worked and let me lock myself inside and let myself out. She made her son try it first, so she knew it worked and I couldn’t actually get stuck in there. I’m sure there were other things, too, but I mostly remember her rescuing me the day Mr. Mason was there. 

I should mention that there are failed steps, too. My mom thought I missed my family so she sent me with pictures. She was wrong on that one. My dad likely tried, “Dry it up,” a few times; that was his standard response to crying. I’ve also probably forgotten the ineffective attempts to help. I realize things would have been much harder in a different school. My class had twelve or thirteen kids at any given time; once, we might have gotten up to sixteen. My school had about a hundred students. 

Still, let me tell you: bribery works. 

For All the Saints

by Abigail Conley

Today, I remember the saint who listened carefully as I recited the Beatitudes, the Lord’s Prayer and the books of the Bible. An ornament from that Sunday school teacher still hangs on my Christmas tree every year. My ten-year-old self was enamored with the decorated ball that I chose from the box she offered us.

Today, I remember the saint who shows up every Sunday to make coffee. Every Sunday. Like, as often as I do, and I’m paid to be there.

Today, I remember the saint who paid for a rental car so I could come and sleep and be fed in a friend’s home when my first call was so difficult.

Today, I remember the saint who offered his arm to the wobbly elderly woman, too proud for a cane, and made sure she reached her seat, received communion, and made it back to her car safely.

Today, I remember the saint who gave every kid in the church a half dollar every Sunday.

Today, I remember the saint who came and preached about his work as a missionary. I’m willing to bet the small box of natural cotton he brought with him to talk about his work is somewhere at my parents’ house. He was the first person of color I ever met there in the most unlikely of places.

Today, I remember the saint who listens intently to three-year-olds, not just nodding along like most adults, but discerning every word.

It is the season of remembering the saints who came before us. Dia de los Muertos celebrations begin this weekend and All Saints’ Day is not too far away either. Those who have gone before us were beloved and, presumably, gave us some things to emulate. In my congregation, we don’t worry too much about canonical saints. We’re much more likely to remember all our dead on All Saints’ Day.

In the midst of several memorial services in my congregation, I am increasingly aware of the profound process of becoming a saint. Most of us will never perform the miracles that grant official sainthood by the Roman Catholic Church or any other body. Instead, we will live faithful lives with beautiful, rich moments. People will have good things to say at our funerals, woven from the stories like the ones I remember about others.

I am most thankful for the saints who are close, who choose to be present day in and day out, and who show their love of neighbor and love of God in a thousand tiny ways. It is those people who taught me what becoming a saint looks like. Today, I remember all the gifts in becoming of the saints, too.

Global Ministries Partners Making Huge Impact for Migrant Communities

by Randy J. Mayer, The Good Shepherd UCC

In the last five or ten years, the world has stepped into a sweeping global immigration epidemic where one in every seven people are being pushed by war, violence, climate change, or poverty out of their home countries and pulled into countries that are often resisting their arrival. In many ways, it is an exodus of biblical proportion from the global south to the north. The UCC and Disciples adopted parallel resolutions at General Synod and General Assembly this summer on the state of Global Forced Migration, which can be found by clicking these links:

UCC link
Disciples link

The United States started to experience the impact of this exodus as early as 1993 even before the NAFTA free trade agreement was signed. For more than 25 years there has been a steady flow of migrants, refugees and asylum seekers traveling through the Sonoran Desert. In 2000 the Good Shepherd UCC in Sahuarita, Arizona had no choice but to get involved in the humanitarian movement. What else can a faith community do when desperate people are knocking at your door asking for water and help? What else can a faith community do when dead bodies are found in your neighborhood in alarming numbers? You start asking questions, developing programs to help the people knocking at your doors, you start going up the river to see why so many dead bodies are appearing in your neighborhood. Never would we have dreamed that 20 years later we would still have knocks on our doors and dead bodies in our neighborhoods.

Being on the front-lines of the immigration struggle along the US/Mexico border has created natural connections with our global partners around the world that are now finding themselves in the midst of the flow of immigration into their communities. Recently, my wife Norma and I were able to visit our denominational partners in Italy and Greece and observe first hand their faithful hospitality to the stranger.

Our relationship with the Waldensian Church in Italy began six years ago when we received a call from Global Ministries requesting that we host a group coming from Italy that was just beginning to get involved in the growing immigration situation in the Mediterranean Sea. We hosted them and began to make a powerful connection that the call to care for the stranger was the same in the Mediterranean Sea as the Sonoran Desert. Now, years later we have had multiple visits and exchanges. Gaining perspective from another part of the world has given us both a different angle to glimpse the struggle and gain valuable insight on how to do faithful ministry, as the global politics moves toward building walls and abandoning the principles of inclusion and welcome of the stranger. Today the Waldensian Church is a leading voice in Europe as they put their faith on the line to finance and work on the rescue boats named, “Sea Watch” and “Open Arms.” They are performing dramatic rescues of desperate people, abandoned by their smugglers in the Mediterranean Sea. They also have developed a project called, “humanitarian corridors” that is an agreement with their government that allows the church to legally and safely bring a set number of asylum seekers into Italy each year and resettle them in their communities. While we were attending the Waldensian Synod in Torre Pellice the Italian Prime Minister Giuseppe Conte in a speech to the Italian Lower House, called for concrete initiatives “such as the setting up of European humanitarian corridors” to enable the European Union to “leave behind emergency management” of the migration crisis. A powerful example of how people of faith can inject themselves into the political discourse and human tragedy to create healthy models that address the immigration struggle.

From Italy we traveled to Katerini, Greece to visit the Evangelical Church of Greece, an historic church with a long tradition of putting justice into action. We spent five days with them learning about their incredible immigration and refugee program called Perichoresis. It began in 2015 as a simple act of Christian hospitality as they responded to the arrival of thousands upon thousands of Middle Eastern refugees to camps near the border of Greece and the Former Yugoslav Republic of Macedonia. They went to the camps to offer support and supplies, which led to welcoming the asylum seekers into their homes, which led to the development of large scale programs to receive and care for the asylum seekers. Today, Perichoresis has fifty staff members giving medical care, legal and psychological support, and housing managers that have created living facilities that are safe and stable. Perichoresis now rents 126 apartments to temporarily house 600 vulnerable asylum seekers escaping the horrors of war and exploitation. They have rented an additional 10 apartments to integrate and permanently settle families in their community. Their resettlement and integration program is so well established that the United Nations Human Rights Council Union has lifted up the work of Perichoresis as the premier resettlement program that should be implemented throughout Europe to successfully settle and integrate asylum seekers and migrants into Europe.

Small bands of believers making a huge difference and showing the rest of us how to be faithful and welcome the stranger. Small protestant churches sprinkled like leaven and salt, barely visible to the dominant church and culture in their countries, but they are doing big things in the eyes of God and the building of the Kin-dom on earth as it is in heaven. Thank God for our UCC and Disciples global partners, may they continue to inspire and lead us in the ways of faithful living.

Laying Out the Napkins

by Karen Richter

There are a couple of questions that have captured my imagination in adulthood. The first one is “Do I want a contemplative life?” This question came to me in the midst of training as a spiritual director at Hesychia. The program (it’s awesome, by the way) assumes that participants are approaching maturity in their spiritual practice. My Hesychia cohort and my own spiritual director have been immense help in wrestling with this question… which remains open for me and serves as a guidepost.

The second question is “What does contemplation during the season of raising children look like?” This too is an open question, but I will share with you one answer that I’ve discovered.

Contemplation is laying out the napkins.

My children are older (22, 17, and 13 yikes) but most nights we still sit down together to a meal that I’ve prepared. Often evenings feel hurried. People have places to be and things they want do be doing. Yet there’s a moment – the microwave has beeped and the pasta has drained. The carrots are cut and the sauce has thickened. Everything is ready. But I pause. I lay out napkins and fill water glasses. I pause and I breathe before I call everyone to dinner.

It’s nothing, really. Just seconds, a mere moment of being present and grateful. Silent retreats and long sessions of prayer might be a larger part of my life in another season. For now, I’ll continue laying out the napkins.