The Blessings of Home

I have travelled many hundreds of miles this summer, for both happy reasons and sad. Towards the end of this season of travel, I found myself more and more frustrated and annoyed with the constant effort to find routine items amongst my jumbled belongings. At times merely brushing my teeth seemed to be a Herculean task. I was more than ready to return home to a familiar place with a familiar routine, much as I sometimes chafe at the sameness of life here at home.

I am forced to admit once again how often I fail to be grateful for ordinary blessings: a place for my toothbrush where I can easily find it, and the ability to sleep in my own bed in peace and safety. I know that there are many homeless people here in this country. I have met some of them through Family Promise, a program that houses homeless families in churches, including the one to which I belong. I also know that around the world, the flood of refugees fleeing their homes with nothing more than what they are wearing seems to expand almost moment to moment.

This summer, I stopped to think about what it might be like never to be able to return home to a familiar place and a familiar routine. And while familiar objects are mere things and my family matters more to me than any inanimate object ever could, I still find it a blessing to live among familiar things with their reminders of times past and present, a living museum that contains the history of our family. I grieve for those who have lost that kind of comfort, perhaps forever. I weep for those who have lost the blessings of home. And I pray for the coming of that time when God’s peace and justice will prevail in a world made new.

Grace and Peace,

Donna

In the Valley of Shadows

I finished reading Barbara Brown Taylor’s Learning to Walk in the Dark last night. Reading her books refreshes my soul, like a drink of cool water on a hot Texas afternoon refreshes my body. Life has been too full of dark times recently, and I feel weighed down by worry and sadness. I find I have to remind myself to take slow deep breaths rather than panicky sips, and also to remember that life will be brighter again. In the midst of the shadows of illness and death of family and friends, I am comforted by God’s presence. Taylor’s book is a timely reminder that much as I do not like the dark times in life, by God’s grace I have survived them in the past, and through those dark times, I have learned some things about life and about myself I would not have learned otherwise.

As I wait for life to circle back to sunny times, I am trying to continue to care for myself as best I can. I’m finding ways to celebrate life and reasons to laugh with family and friends, and I’m trying to be faithful to my usual devotional, prayer, exercise, and healthy eating and sleeping habits. I’m grateful for my family and friends and for my church family.  I’m especially grateful for those who are patient with me right now, and who are praying for me. The news from around the world of people who suffer from horrific violence and dislocation is a timely reminder to put my problems in perspective. My life is richly blessed in so many ways in spite of the present darkness. God is indeed good, even in the shadow times.

Grace and Peace,

Donna

Blessed Are the Children

I am amazed at the ways the need for clean water unites people from widely different backgrounds. I have yet to find anyone who is against clean water for all of God’s children, the mission statement of Living Waters for the World, a project of the Presbyterian Church (USA). Our local church, First Presbyterian, Temple, Texas, has covenanted with the tiny community of Las Lajas, Nicaragua, to help them install a water purification system early next year. We are raising money for that project now.

This particular mission project has caught fire in our congregation like no other in my time at this church. Our choir director’s wife was especially excited. She teaches at a local elementary school and invited us to come and talk to the students about our partnership with Las Lajas. The students were involved in a weeks-long study of the ways human beings affect their environment. Our Pastor’s wife and I spent a wonderful hour with these kids talking about why clean water matters, and our hopes for the people of Las Lajas.

Last night at choir practice, I received a pile of thank you notes from the students that surprised and delighted me.  They had been surprised to learn there are people who lack clean water and sometimes must walk long distances to obtain any water. They were saddened to learn about children who die from drinking contaminated water. These students too have been fired by the vision of clean water for students like themselves in far away Las Lajas, Nicaragua. In spite of their own poverty by this country’s standards, they decided to do something. They began making rubber band bracelets to sell to raise money for our water project. So far they have raised $33, an offering God will use to provide water for the students of Las Lajas. Blessed are the children, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

Grace and Peace,

Donna

Death of a Family

Last Sunday, I attended the closing service at a beautiful old church, founded before the turn of the 20^th century. Their numbers had dwindled to the point that they could no longer maintain their ministry and their beautiful old building. The final service was a celebration, but also a time of grief for all who were there, especially current members, but also those who had returned to the church of their youth for this final service. A shiver went down my spine at the reading of the words of dissolution: “This building is vacated by the congregation, and the congregation is dissolved.” So final.

Since then, I’ve been thinking about the death of a family, a church family, and how hard that is for its members. My church family is my extended family. My older relatives are all gone now, so I am especially grateful for the aunts and uncles, cousins and brothers and sisters I have found in my church. They know me and care about me. When I have been in need in the past, they have been there, and they will be there again in the future when life knocks me flat, as it does to all of us at times.

I’ve also been thinking about the words I spoke to the members of my own church family on Ash Wednesday, at the beginning of Lent just weeks ago: “You are dust and to dust you shall return.” A gritty reminder in our death-denying culture that death is a part of our reality. It is a part of life. Fortunately in the midst of this season of Easter, it is easier for me to remember that death does not have the last word. God does.

Somewhere in the midst of the pain of the death of this church, God is still working. Like a seedpod that has been opened and its contents scattered, the remaining members of the congregation will spread out to other churches and places where they will take root and continue to serve God. New life in new places will come from their efforts. Absent this death, that new life would not happen. That knowledge gives me hope, even if it does not take away the sadness.

Grace and Peace,

Donna

Hungry for Home

As we walked into the tiny Cuban café that had opened recently, I noticed two men, one younger than the other, sitting at one of the tables. The older one with the slim face and graying buzz cut asked if we had eaten Cuban food before. I smiled and responded not since our last trip to Cuba several years earlier. My husband ordered the Cuban: beef and French fries on a long French roll, weighted and grilled like a Panini. I chose the ham and cheese Panini with mustard, lettuce, tomato and pickles. We each ordered a Mexican fruit soda.

When our order came, I looked down at the generous sandwich, and tears welled as I remembered the hungry people we had met in Cuba. Not long after, the older man came and stood tentatively near our table. He asked if we had been allowed to take pictures during our Cuba trips and whether he could talk with us about our experiences after we were done eating. My husband promptly said, “Have a seat!” As we reminisced about the two church mission-study trips to Cuba, the memories flooded back. We told him about our travels to Sancti Spiritus in the center of the island on the first trip and to La Habana on the second trip, with one night away at the seminary in Matanzas on the northern coast.

Sarge said he had been born in Matanzas, and had left Cuba as a seven-year-old. He had been back only once as a seventeen-year-old to visit relatives. He said he belonged to Little River-Academy Methodist Church, and his pastor had been urging him to go along as the translator on a mission trip to Cuba. He admitted he was tempted, but at the moment he wanted to know more about how the Cuban people were doing.

I said they were poor, and that I felt guilty eating the sandwich remembering how bread was rationed there. We told him we had spent our time in Cuba visiting Christian brothers and sisters and hearing about their ministries: laundry services for the elderly in a place where soap is a luxury, and gardens to provide fresh vegetables for the hungry. We also told him that in spite of the difficulties of their daily lives, the Cubans we met enjoyed life and were devoted to their families. There are many artists there: singers, dancers, sculptors, painters and poets. Perhaps because their earnings were much the same regardless of their jobs many pursued their artistic gifts to create beauty in a place where beauty is as scarce as soap.

Sarge asked if he could see our pictures some time, and then hastened to add, “No hurry, just when it’s convenient.” I said, “Of course!” and promised to stop by soon. My husband said, “I need to get back to work.” He stood and shook hands with Sarge. When Sarge reached out to shake my hand as well, I saw the sad look in his eyes, and impulsively gave him a hug.

I know what it is like to have no early home to return to, as my parents are both deceased. I don’t know what it is like to have left my home country behind and have only childhood memories to cling to. Our hearts long for home, for a place where we belong. In this Holy Week as I walk once again with Jesus towards the cross, I’m reminded that God has promised us a permanent home in a new heaven and a new earth, a place where death and mourning and crying and pain will be no more—a place where God himself will make his home with us. Maybe that’s the real home we all hunger for here in this world. Easter is our yearly reminder that the world as it now exists is not the end of the story. Thank God for that!

Grace and Peace,

Donna