Full Circle

When I was a young woman my husband, Ken, and I were deeply involved in urban ministry.

Don't know what that means?

After leaving seminary in Atlanta, where we were heavily influenced by Martin Luther King, Jr. and other Civil Rights leaders, we were sent to a downtown church in Ft. Lauderdale. Ken was the associate pastor. During that time we both became active in the community. Housing for the poor was a big issue. Along with others, we put together a group consisting of city leaders and homeless people, church activists, housewives, etc. and eventually put up a 501c3 apartment building. Later, the Kiwanis took our plans and put up another one next to it. This sort of thing had never happened before.

Yes, there were problems. Drug dealers were everywhere. Putting residents on the apartment management board helped but the biggest help was moving three really tough nuns into a ground floor apartment!

And, by the way, those apartment buildings are still there.

That was the beginning of a very hard, scary, but oh so fulfilling, nine years of urban ministry. It wasn't just about helping people. It was about empowering people. Including ourselves.


When you see a well-to-do church going suburbanite simply become friends with a poor urban woman and then discover how the system discriminates against the poor - that's sometimes the beginning of systemic change.

And now, almost forty years later, there's a chance that my church might step into urban ministry in a big way. If we do, it certainly won't be the same as it was in back then. The needs, the knowledge, the skills and the times themselves are different.

But the changes that will take place within the folks on this journey will be just as amazing.

One evening in the 70s I attended an urban ministry meeting to discuss the horrendous racial strife in Broward County. A black, urban psychologist suggested that what was needed were classes for primarily white community and church groups, helping folks work through their fears and prejudices. He identified a brilliant young black Episcopal priest who would be able to pull it off. But the group decided he needed a white female co-leader.

I wondered that night who would in the world would be brave and foolish enough to do it.


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Hereafter

What does Clint Eastwood know about the hereafter that I don't?

Nothing.

But I wanted to see this movie so Dave and I went last night. With some major reservations, I liked it. He didn't.

Here's the problem. It's badly in need of editing. I could have edited out 40 minutes myself without losing any of the plot. For instance, when Matt Damon's taking the cooking class we spend lots of time watching him chop tomatoes and I don't even like the way he's chopping. If there was a point to it I missed it. Later, while waiting in line to get his book signed we have to see another person get hers signed first, then another, then another and so on. What's the point of that?

For those who love special effects the promos have shown the Tsunami that takes place in the first 10 minutes. While it's a horrifyingly accurate portrayal of a real tragedy, it's the only spectacular, wild special effect in the movie. So some folks are feeling cheated.

It's a quiet movie. It's a sad movie. The three plot lines that come together in the end feature attractive people who are suffering - especially the little boy.

But the movie lifts up ultimate concerns. It makes us think - not only about the hereafter but the present.

The annual poll that tells us the reality for 18 year olds said recently that they know Clint Eastwood only as a great, old, sensitive movie director.

And that's what he is.

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Is Sanity a Possibility?

Last night Rick Scott and Alex Sink, the two candidates for governor of the state of Florida, held a debate. I tried to watch it but it was just too stressful and embarrassing.

It was a slug fest.

One commentator likened it to second graders on a playground.

You're a liar. No you're a liar. I know you are but what am I?

If you were looking for how one of these candidates would lead the fourth largest state (population wise) in the country you didn't get a clue last night.

But here's some good news. (For me, anyway.) John Stewart is going to lead his Rally to Restore Sanity in Washington, D.C. on Saturday. No shouting, you will want to use your inside voice. It will (hopefully) be people who are not on the fringe of anything. Just us folks in the middle wanting our leaders to learn to work together.

For those of us who can't go, there will be places across the country to gather and watch the rally on television. These places will be kid friendly. Everybody is welcome.

Just plan to use your inside voice and be civil.

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A Pleasant Surprise

This morning I was looking through old diaries and journals for some "profound" thing I'd written several years ago.

As you might imagine, I have volumes. At times, writing has kept me sane. Literally.

A few years back, when I was going through a particularly rough patch which included days of not sleeping, my good friend (who, by the way, is much more creative than I am) gave me an "Insomnia Journal." It's mostly blank pages but some of them have hints about treating insomnia.

As I thumbed through it this morning I noticed that my friend had written very funny and sweet responses to some of these words of wisdom.

For instance, in the notes on Tryptophan, a natural sedative, the book suggests warm milk, turkey and scrambled eggs. My friend had added: Best - a turkey leg floating in warm milk. That created such a funny picture in my mind that I laughed out loud.

On another page the book suggests childhood comfort foods. She added: Buttermilk over potato chips in a glass works for me!

When I was a child my bedtime treat was bread chunks in a glass of milk and sugar. It was good but it didn't help me sleep.

Finding the journal this morning was a sweet reminder of how friends can help us through anything.

And, yes, I found the notes I was looking for. They were in the last place I looked.


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The Ferris Wheel Revisited

As you may remember, Dave and I had our first date in Chicago in 2005. One of the highlights was a romantic ride on the Ferris wheel at the Navy Pier.

Since then, every year at this time, we walk to the annual fair on the campus of St. Mary Magdalene Catholic Church and School to ride the Ferris wheel and eat something silly.

It's not as big as the one in Chicago but we can still relive the romance.

So this past Friday night we walked to the fair. We saw friends, watched people stand in line waiting for food while eating plates of food, and then ambled over to stand in line for the Ferris wheel.

A little boy, about six years old, stood in front of us. His grandfather was letting him ride by himself. When we were almost to the ride the little boy pulled on my shirt and asked us to ride in the same car with him. Of course we said OK.

"But no swinging the car!", says I.

We boarded. I sat next to Dave. The little boy looked at me and said, "Please sit by me."

Good thing I did because it was a wild ride indeed. The kid talked non stop. He jumped around. He tried to grab the posts as we whizzed by. I grabbed the tail of his shirt several times when he tried to stand on the seat.

When we stopped on top he kind of panicked and said he wanted out. We talked him back down into his seat.

I certainly wouldn't want to label this little boy but he seemed to have a big attention deficit and was extremely active. What was his grandfather thinking sending him on a Ferris wheel alone?

So it wasn't so romantic this time but it was interesting.

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Running to the Fire

We all know this phrase, made famous by the 9-11 fire fighters. I was reminded again last week when the rescue workers at the Chilean mine volunteered to go down into the mine in that tiny capsule to assist the miners in their trip up.

Yesterday I met with my Power Rangers. A handful of the most remarkable women you could imagine.

All of us are doing exceptional things. One of us is going to Haiti in a couple of weeks to work in a children's hospital with families suffering from Hiv/AIDs.

One of us is involved in a family tragedy that is beyond anything most parents could imagine. It's the kind of slowly unfolding story from which epic books are written and inspirational movies are made - about the unbreakable human spirit.

She has a history of making the hard choices - even when all kinds of other options are available.

She said to us yesterday, This is where I choose to be. (meaning here with her family in the midst of this long, ongoing tragedy.) I don't want to be anyplace else.

We Power Rangers are getting older. In some ways we're losing our power. But in the most important way we have all the power we need.

To continue to run to the fire.





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Losing People

In the past several days some people I know have died. It's sad and sobering. It happens more often than in the past and in all likelihood it will increase exponentially before it happens to me.

Since I'm not a very emotional person I've gone about sending notes, and just doing what I need to do. Being thankful for these people having been in my life. Being pragmatic. Soldiering on. That's what I do.

Then two things happened. Tom Bosley died. I felt unusually sad. And I thought "This is crazy." But he's been a part of our lives since Happy Days and Murder She Wrote. And Dave and I saw him on the stage three years ago in On Golden Pond. We were in the first row. I loved seeing his wrinkly face up close. So, in a way, my unusual sadness made sense.

Then I saw in the paper this morning that Ed Hayes died. As some of you know, he's been a writer in central Florida forever. Since 1957 he's written sports, then a very popular column called Hushpuppies.

Since retirement he's written a syndicated column called Heydays. Very sweet and homey. I've often said to Dave, "Ed Hayes is my roll model. 86 years old, still has his marbles and is still writing."

Now he's gone. I never met Ed Hayes but I am beyond sad this morning.


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