Risk

There’s been a recurring thought bouncing around inside my brain for a few years now. The older I get, the louder the thought screams at me. It’s pretty simple. I don’t want to die without sometime in my life having risked something for a cause I believe in. I’m not sure it’s a requirement for getting to heaven but it’s just something I think is important. Jesus certainly risked for me. I think we’re all called to risk for the things He taught us.

What’s the point in believing in something if it’s not going to be important to you…important enough to risk. Otherwise, I’m just not sure it’s worth it.

When I got sort of serious about this idea a couple of years ago I found a peace march and went out and marched for peace. It was a lot of fun and certainly something I’d never done before. The weather was perfect and it wasn’t all that long of a walk. I knew I wasn’t risking getting arrested. But even if I had been arrested there’s no big deal there. Getting arrested for marching is sooooo 60’s. There’s just no risk there.

So I went back to the drawing board. I figured out that one thing I’ve never done before in my life was put a political bumper sticker on my car. Now that’s a risk. Back when I worked for a small business with the owner of the business sharing a parking lot with my car there was the risk of losing promotions or salary increases. I think right now the biggest risk would be danger to my car in a Wal-Mart parking lot. I worry if the temptation to just let go of their cart and let it roll into my door might be greater if I had an outrageous sticker on my bumper. I know how I feel when I see one of those self-righteous stickers from someone I don’t agree with. I’ve never harmed the car with opposing beliefs myself, seeing as how I’m perfect and above all that and everything. But I have to admit the temptation is there.

So I’ve sent off for my Obama bumper sticker. See, there’s my first big risk. I’ve never told who I’m supporting for president before in this blog. Now you know. I'm sure this comes as a big surprise to everyone who knows how conservative I am. All things being equal between Obama and Clinton, I just don’t see the experience factor as being that big. After all, we’ve had this Bozo for eight years, haven’t we? How hard can it be—really?

I worry about Hillary’s hair kind of like I worry about the hole in Willie Nelson’s guitar. I’m sure it really doesn’t make any difference but there’s a chance it might. That’s where Obama has a huge advantage over her. The guy always looks the same. Wears the same suit every day, or, if he doesn’t, it sure looks the same. His hair always looks the same, for sure. And here she’s got to not only wear something new every time, she has to make sure it is a color that compliments her. She has to make sure it fits, for goodness sake. What a drain on her energy that must be. AND her hair has to look good 24/7. Every woman knows how hard that is to accomplish. Gosh, Barack Obama barely even has hair.

I get tired just thinking about it.

Anyway, I’ve got to go. We’re putting in a new door to the hobby shop/guest house. We’re taking the old door off and we don’t know how long it will take to get the new door on. And since we live in such a wilderness we’re running the risk of possums and raccoons moving in if we don’t get the new door put on today. Uh-oh I hear hammering. Gotta go. Better words next week, I promise.

Earth Day Report

Yesterday, we got a call from Emily that their #1 cat, Charlie, was at the vet in ICU. A pack of dogs had taken him to use as a toy. Charlie showed up on the front porch with internal bleeding and the vet wasn't sure if he would make it through the night. Fortunately, he did, and Emily called this morning with a good report. But it did remind me what they named their #2 cat, EBK. That stands for Emergency Backup Kitty.

EBK's story is one of my favorites. Our oldest daughter has a petite white cat named Scratch. She's about as spoiled as a cat can get. Elizabeth was hesitant to put in a cat door because she didn't want to risk her running away. But Scratch was fascinated with the outdoors and the ability to come and go as she pleased without bothering Elizabeth was a big factor. So Scratch got her door.

One night Elizabeth heard a horrible screech in the kitchen. She ran to find Scratch cowering in the corner and a fluffy gray cat calmly eating out of Scratch's bowl. Elizabeth shooed the intruder away but the problem went on for over a month. Not only did the stray come and go as HE pleased but one time they got into a fight and Scratch lost big time. It was changing Scratch's personality. She lived in fear and spent most of her time watching the pet door, powerless to ward off the hungry bully.

Finally, Elizabeth called her sister one Saturday to come help. Emily arrived, feeling the power that Scratch lacked, ready to take over and do whatever it took to get rid of the stray. Our family has a friend who works at the city pound. We've long had the fall back solution to any animal problem: we could take them to Cookie at the pound and she would take care of the matter. Emily grabbed the stray and started out the door to take him to the pound. This was fairly easy because the cat had made himself at home there and didn't fight being picked up. By the time she got to the front door she turned to her sister, "Elizabeth! He's purring." She stopped and stroked his fur. "This is a great cat. I'll bet he'd clean up nice." Elizabeth could only respond in shock, "That cat beat up my cat!"

EBK went to live with Emily and is now a solid member in good standing in their household. He's gone through several real names but the one that's stuck with me is EBK. Elizabeth has never forgiven him and refuses to pet him. She can't understand how Emily could love him and Emily can't understand why her sister can't. He stands in the wings and waits. He's the Emergency Backup Kitty in case something happens to Charlie. Thank goodness Charlie is OK, though. I hate it when nature turns ugly.

Yesterday was Earth Day and everyone was supposed to enjoy the serenity of Mother Nature, the beauty of the fresh spring. I had planned to spend my day outside but didn't do a very good job of it. I mowed a bit. But most of my day was indoors.

However, I did managed to rescue a baby bird who doesn't appear to be a natural born flyer. We've had a barn swallow build a nest in the same spot for two or three years now. She puts it above the front porch overhang. It's protected from the rain and offers an easy escape. The problem is that's where our dogs spend a lot of their time. They sleep there at night sometimes and when it rains all three huddle up on the porch under the nest. Last year at this time I stood on the porch and noticed how big the babies had grown; they barely fit in the nest. I worried what our dogs would do if a bunch of birds spent time chirping, flapping their wings and hopping around on the ground learning to fly. Their future looked pretty bleak. Then, while I was watching, the whole nest full of birds took a couple of practice circles around the front porch then flew straight for the trees in the front yard. Those birds could fly! It was a beautiful thing to witness.

But not so yesterday's friend. I was pulling some weeds and came upon him sitting there in the grass looking very bewildered. I got the ladder and put him back into the empty nest. All of his siblings had already figured out the flying thing and left home. At the end of the day I went to check on my weak flyer and he was gone so maybe he figured it out. Or not. The cat was suspiciously late for breakfast this morning.

I guess the message of Earth Day 2008 is that it's not all fresh green grass. Sometimes it's the survival of the fittest and that even applies to cute baby birds.

May you travel in peace today.

Too Many Genes to Fit Into My Jeans

I decided I’m going to blame all the bad stuff I do today on my Uncle Henry. Maybe I shouldn’t have had the apple turnover at lunch, but it was new to the menu at the Winnsboro Bakery and I have been taught all my life to try new things. I’m sure Uncle Henry would approve. I will just overlook the tiny detail that he was fairly careful about his diet. His main interest at the restaurant we visited a few months ago was introducing me to the newest concept in dining: “the world’s smallest sundae.” It was the last time I saw him. The last of the three Stuart brothers died this week.

This will be my third funeral in three weeks. Wow, I definitely could have had more fun staying in Mississippi.

My Daddy was the oldest of three brothers but my heritage doesn’t stop with him. Not only was Daddy Tom Stuart’s son, more importantly, he was Jane Stuart’s grandson. I inherited the nickname “Janie Go” from her and bear it with great pride.

The entire Stuart family has always embraced life with both arms opened wide. One of my favorite stories is of the time Great Granddaddy Stuart came home for lunch and told my great grandmother to pack up for a trip to California; they would leave the next morning. And Janie Go was ready by the time he got home at the end of the day. This story always sounded suspiciously like the guy was running from the law but Uncle Henry insisted it was true, that he was there to see it happen and, no, his Granddaddy wasn’t running away from anything. He was looking for his next adventure.

The true hero of the story to me was always Great Grandmother. How do you pack, and what do you pack, for a trip half-way across the country in a Model T? For sure she didn’t need to take her curling iron or blow dryer but she also didn’t have instant coffee available. I’m not even sure motels had been invented then and even if they were, it wasn’t like they could e-mail for reservations. No, she had to pack everything they would need including tents, food and pots and pans; all on a moment’s notice. She was my kind of chick.

My father’s family has always been people to try new things. Daddy instilled in me an important component in making any decision. Any time I’m faced with two choices I should always try the new thing I’ve never experienced before. It’s as though the Stuarts are sure St Peter is going to ask how many different flavors of ice cream they’ve eaten in their life and the people who’ve tried the most are the ones to get past the pearly gates.

Uncle Henry’s obituary took up a couple of columns in the newspaper this morning. He had done everything from sailing through the Carribean (just he and Aunt Marcia in a small sailboat) to owning a vineyard in France. He was a war hero who went on to build the largest private airport in Dallas and then, for good measure, served as chairman of the DFW airport board.

But the thing I always loved was the twinkle in his eye that reminded me simultaneously of my grandfather and a leprechaun. Like my own father, the Stuart men simply enjoyed the hell out of life.

They weren’t modest, either. Grandaddy was full of stories hinting broadly that we were descendants of the royal Stuarts in Scotland and it became a sort of running joke around the family. I vividly remember a time when I was around eight years old and we were having a family gathering. It was probably Thanksgiving. That was the time when most of the Stuarts gathered at Henry’s house. Since my birthday is at the end of November sometimes our Thanksgiving celebration would take place on my birthday. For years I thought what a wonderful kid I must be to merit such a huge party, with turkey, pies, cakes and assorted cousins to run around with.

Thanksgiving was always the best time to be a Stuart. Besides the cousins, there was a mountain of food and Grandmother Stuart was famous for her pecan pie. It is only with typical Stuart humility that I can say that my pie is slightly better than Grandmother’s. But only because I take it one step beyond and, in the best Stuart tradition, add more pecans than Grandmother put in hers.

But it was at one of these gatherings when I was little that I somehow ended up with the assignment to fill a sheet of notebook paper by repeating the phrase: “I am a Stuart.” And I did indeed fill the page with the phrase over and over and over. I don’t remember the reason for this exercies but I never forgot the incident. It made me feel important mostly because it seemed important to everybody else at the time. No person is an island. Everyone is a product of the way they were raised and the people around them. I’ve always been glad to have been born a Stuart. Eespecially when they taught me to never pass up a new dessert.

Things I Can't Get Out of My Mind

I knew this would happen. After four months in Mississippi I can’t find the keys to my old life. I knew I wouldn’t need the keys to things like our post office box or the hobby shop or the barn so I left them here at home. I very carefully left them in a place I figured was safe. On purpose, I did this. Thinking all the while, “Gee, I hope I don’t forget where I’m putting this.” And, of course, I did.

I felt like I left my home in suspended animation. When I walked into the house last week the first thing I saw were the Christmas cards still on the kitchen table….next to a few plastic Easter eggs the kids left from their spring break stay. Yes, that means that Beaven didn’t exactly keep the house the way I would have, but it also says how long I’ve been gone.

I’ve been going through a real culture shock for the last week. I forgot how to work the Tivo. I looked in my closet and wondered what on earth I ever did with so many different things to wear. For the last four months I’ve worn the exact same outfit every day, including Easter Sunday. I really should have gone into the military; the uniform thing is right up my alley.

It was a vivid four months and I’ll never be able to shake it off, nor would I want to. Brief memories come back to me in flashes. Here’s a list of things I can’t get out of my mind:

· How small the tent was that contained all of Jan’s possessions. She is going to have to move out of her FEMA trailer before she could get a cottage and needed a place to store all her stuff. I went over to help her put up a tent and we had a fun time doing it. But, after I got back to the camp, it hit me that she was going to put everything she owned into a space no bigger than a small bedroom. She is one of many who simply lost everything.

· How empty Miss Henrietta’s new house is. How on earth will she fill it? How do you start over when you’re 80 years old? Some of the elderly are slow in moving out of their trailers and into their homes once they get their Certificate of Occupancy. I wonder if that’s when it hits home to them that there’s nothing to put on the walls, nothing to put on the coffee table. Moving to the new, permanent housing will be another reminder of how much they lost.

· The disarray in Miss Susie’s backyard. When I left she still hadn’t moved the bags and bags of clutter out of her small house and into the new shed we built. We kept coming up with reasons to hang around her back yard to bring her out of her isolation. We kept painting the shed. Then we built a pump house and painted it. We mowed the yard and burned trash. Certainly it made the yard look better but the real goal here is to get her to move the bags of stuff outside into the shed. I think she was getting used to the idea. The presence of so many visitors and new friends had a very healing effect on her.

· How big the new sanctuary at the First Missionary Baptist church is going to be. How will they ever find enough people to fill it? How will they find the money to pay the electric bill? But then I remember last year at this time wondering if they would ever find the people and the money to build it this far so I guess I need to just stop second guessing God.

· Every time I passed the spot on Interstate 10 where Rich Cozzone drove off the road to his death. Those of us on the PDA staff when he died have a deeper meaning when we tell each other goodbye and say, “Have a safe trip.”

· The time Chloe ran, literally ran, to greet me when she saw me, then jumped up into my arms. I can never forget her bringing me a copy of her report card. (And they were VERY good grades, too.) The school lets them request as many copies as they want for their family. She asked for enough copies so she could give me one. You don’t forget something like that. I may have to frame that report card.

· The woman kneeling in the road, stoned out of her head from crack so bad that she couldn’t tell me her name. I heard later from the fire department that her name is Leslie and she ended up in the county jail after breaking her restraints in the hospital. I will always wonder if she got help. And pray for her still.

· Likewise, I can’t forget Trudy, our homeless friend. After a couple of days, I called the place who took her in so I could thank them. Trudy was still there. But she was working around the center and they were content to let her stay.

· Burying Jan’s cat. She was out of town when the cat got run over so I took its body off the highway and dug a hole in her backyard. Swarms of gnats flew around my face while I dug. I was torn between getting the cat buried deep enough and just wanting to get away from the gnats. Afterwards I noticed blood on my jeans. It reminded me of the mud I got on my jeans the day I wrestled with the crack head in the road. The stains wash out of the clothes but the experience stays in your head.

· How great it felt to see folks lined up at Hattie’s Hamburger Stand.

· I remember Miss Susie’s hugs. And Shirley’s. Even Dallas’. Each one is unique. Sometimes they differ because of their size and bulk (Rev Rawls is so big, it’s more like just leaning against him than a hug) and sometimes they differ depending on their mood. Miss Susie is inclined to add a little kiss on my neck if she’s in a pretty good mood that day. It always tickled a bit because Miss Susie has a kind of bristly little old lady’s mustache.

· But my most memorable experience was the way Mrs. Rawls hugged me when I dropped in to tell her goodbye. I’ve never had a hug like that in my life. It was like she had enclosed my whole body with her love. Back home my pastor wondered if I had felt Jesus’ touch while I was gone and I realized that was Mrs. Rawls’ hug. It was as though Jesus borrowed her body for a few minutes. I wish everyone could have an experience like that. You never forget a hug from Jesus.

A Sermon Without Words

I’m writing this on Monday afternoon. Beaven and I will leave early Tuesday morning and be home that afternoon. So I’m feeling a little melancholy at the idea of leaving this town that’s been my home for months. But I have more than one reason to feel sad. I just found out one of our dear friends died. His funeral will be Wednesday afternoon so I need to get Wednesday’s post in before then.

We’ve known Dick Kueser for almost 25 years-ever since he and Sandy showed up at our church with their two kids who were close to the age of our daughters. Dick had an opinion on everything and usually I agreed with him, though whenever I didn’t I still had too much respect for him to make it an issue.

Dick was a truck driver. He drove big 18–wheelers across the US by himself. He looked every bit like a truck driver, too. He was a huge man: both tall and wide. He was a challenge to hug because there was simply so much of him. But I’ve seen him help a little old lady up the church steps with a gentleness that was dramatic; that someone so strong could be so gentle. He had a heart as big as all outdoors. He had a generosity to match and fire in his eyes if you dared to questioned him for giving a homeless man cash.

My favorite story of him is the time he was driving his truck in northern Louisiana in the roughest part of the state in the deepest part of the night when he spotted a young woman standing outside her car. Knowing how dangerous that road was at that time of night and probably thinking about his own daughter who was that age, he stopped to see what was wrong. The girl told him her car had broken down but that if she could just get to a phone she could call her father to come get her and fix the car.

On the drive to the gas station, Dick kept up a friendly monologue but noticed how afraid she seemed to be. She had been reluctant to accept the ride but at 2 a.m. she didn’t have much choice. Dick knew he was probably the exact picture of the men her parents had warned her against, especially in the middle of the night on dark roads. He said that she hugged the door handle all the way and said very little when he tried to talk to her. At the gas station, she got out and started walking inside but stopped and her shoulders slumped. She turned around to tell him she didn’t have any change for the phone. Dick pulled out the contents of his pocket and held it out for her to take a quarter for the phone. She went inside and called her dad, then came to tell Dick that her father would meet them at the car left on the roadside. One the way back to the car, Dick said, she was a totally different person. She was relaxed and talkative, full of details of her life and questions about his daughter.

When they got to the car and the father arrived, Dick prepared to go on his way but, first, he said, he couldn’t leave without asking what had changed. Why had she been so tense at first then comfortable on the way back?

She told him that when he held the contents of his pocket to offer her a quarter, she saw that he carried a pocket cross and at that moment she knew she would be safe with him.

We’ve given these crosses out for years now at our church. Every person who joins gets one. But the interesting thing in this story is that Dick Kueser wasn’t an eloquent man. In fact, he used to have a stutter that he overcame over the years. He was not a person to preach the gospel with words. But, by stopping to help, by simply holding out his hand with quarters for the telephone and a single pocket cross, he had preached a sermon. A sermon without words.

That story reminds me of the first time I went to Guatemala on a mission trip. I was asked to lead the morning devotion so I took Dick’s story and a bunch of the pocket crosses with me. One of my big concerns in going to Guatemala was that I don’t speak Spanish. I worried about how I could communicate without knowing the language. After I told Dick’s pocket cross story and passed the crosses out, we sang one of my favorite songs, “They’ll Know We Are Christians By Our Love.”

We will walk with each other
We will walk hand in hand…

And they’ll know we are Christians by our love, by our love
Yes they’ll know we are Christians by our love.

And this is what people are doing in places like Mississippi and Louisiana where they are coming to rebuild after Hurricane Katrina. Many times folks come here full of idealistic energy thinking they are going to rebuild a house in one week and that just doesn’t happen. Then very gradually it sinks in that building the house is only one part of why we’re here. We’re here to just Be Here.

We’re here to witness with our own eyes just how bad the destruction was; how much people lost and how much need Katrina created. We’re here to listen and to cry and to laugh and to sing and to hug. We’re here to join friends in worship of the one God we share.

There are a lot of things Katrina left in her wake that we can’t fix. But, just by the simple act of our presence, we stand with the people of the Gulf Coast and say, “We care.”

We’re here to preach a sermon without words.