Rally Day

Springfield, Illinois

So today I dabbled my toes in the sea of American politics. I weighed the issues and decided it was important enough for me to at least get acquainted with the process. Accompanied by 150 teachers from our district and thousands of others statewide, we marched, listened to speeches and talked to legislators. Oh, we also ate hot dogs. What's a political rally without hot dogs?

For those whose media outlets were blasting teachers and screaming about teachers wanting higher taxes, please read on.

For the first time in my life, I was here in a legislator's office with a group of colleagues and was able to explain my concerns about education. He listened politely.

It is true that 20,000 teachers statewide have been RIFed (Notified that will not be employed due to Reduction In Force). Would we like to see these young promising educators keep their jobs? Certainly! AND...we'd like to see them remain in Illinois as a resource to the children of our state rather than migrate to the surrounding states where the prospects are less bleak.

But the bottom line is.... without an educated electorate, democracy is doomed to failure. I am teaching because I believe in the value of education, and I believe in democracy. Students should leave our schools able to read, write and do arithmetic. They also need critical thinking skills in order to listen to candidates and decide for whom to vote. They need the skills to understand the system and run for office themselves someday. They need the confidence to talk to legislators and government officials, to express themselves clearly and with purpose.
We neglect the education of our nation's children at our peril. This state must do something to fund education and to fund it more equitably for all children. It means responsible spending and a responsible budget. The message was: SOS (Save Our Schools!)

And we had a great time with friends...and making new friends. The day gave us lots of time to share ideas and have fun!Five of the six representatives from Ellis. The other was meeting with a Representative at the time.

Oh here she is...on the bus!!! Great day!

EASTER, 2010
(Those few pictures I remembered to take and for which I could locate the camera!)

Three 6-foot tables seated the 20 guests. Meal was buffet style.

Such an interesting day. It was beautiful, sunny, warm. A marvel here in Northern Illinois at the beginning of April. I was setting up for a dinner on Sunday for extended family, with eighteen guests. :-)

I was looking for centerpieces for three table of six. and completion pieces for my place settings...I did the discount housewares round, the craft stores, the department stores and then for the glass pieces for some floating candles, the community thrift store. This drifting in and out of varied cultures reminded me of some reading I've been doing on Native Americans.

I plan to start next year with a unit on Native American stories and poetry, even cave painting to coordinate with the American History class they're taking. Native American culture always fascinated me. My great-great grandmother was from the Cherokee tribe. So I am Indian. But I don't have the culture, at all.

Tribes lived as one family, happy or not. They shared food and the necessities of life. An Indian wouldn't dream of eating when his neighbor had none. When a child was given a toy, say a doll, the child played with the toy until they tired of it. Then she passed it on to another child who kept it as long as she was interested. So a doll might be in the hands of 2 or 3 little girls in the course of a year. Amazing.

At at each place, I looked around me at the abundant "things" we enjoy and thought of the immense selfishness which pervades us-- I mean, me! And I'm still thinking. I really need to get rid of some "things", including attitudes and entitlements. I don't know what I'm doing yet. I just know that God is nudging me.

God, thank you for that little voice that speaks to me. Thank you for nudging me to examine values and attitudes even in the midst of shopping!! Let me have "ears to hear!" Amen!!

SPRING BREAK

I spent a marvelous two days with my granddaughters, cooking, exploring the Museum of Science and Industry, and playing a newly invented game of Hide and Go Seek, which included a version of tag, and sword fighting. Don't ask. These princesses love swords!

Now it's time to prepare for a series of lessons that I have committed to deliver. I've been feeling sadly out of touch. Out of touch with myself mostly, wondering whether God can really bring change in me, wondering if I'm living on the same planet as the people that I rub shoulders with. Wondering what on earth I can say that will make a difference in the lives of those listeners to whom I am charged to deliver an encouraging word.

All the while, in the back of my mind, a little voice is asking whether I can make it for the next few years in the classroom again. Will I be able to motivate and inspire the way I really want? Will I be able to reconcile those ideas floating around in my mind with the cold, harsh "learning standards" on the written page? Will I be able to make my classroom a creative oasis, even for those reluctant or rebellious learners that walk our halls? Can I live out in the classroom, the ideals that I've be able to communicate in the Interventionist's office? And...can I do all these things while keeping up with those huge monsters, "Grading Papers" and "Recording Grades?"

Will my episodes of "Chemobrain" impede my attempts at the massive organizational process it requires to simply run a classroom? Those days when I cannot sustain a thought long enough to accomplish a complicated task, will I be able to "fake it" well enough to "Make it"?

And then I just read the most marvelous blog: Enjoying the Small Things.

Let me rephrase that: I just cried my way through the most marvelous blog. Then fast forwarded through her blog to the present: Enjoying the Small Things to look at more pictures and thoughts. And I realized just how God takes our battles, struggles and trials and allows us to speak to others, even though their circumstances may be vastly different. Kellie's story spoke to me though I'm old enough to be her mother. It spoke to me even though my childbearing years (her circumstances) are far behind me. It spoke to me even though my past experiences of childbirth were far different from hers. And may I say, I LOVE the community, the sharing, the family and friends who were there. In my generation childbirth was a lonely, lonely experience. Beautiful, but lonely.

Still....her experience spoke to me. In the way that our dreams may be fulfilled in ways we never imagined. In that gifts we receive from God may not be what we were looking for. In her amazing attitude of thankfulness and acceptance of the gift she received. Her obvious love of that precious little girl spoke in the pictures, the tone of her writing, the interactions that can be seen on camera.

So, I understand that even if the audience has a widely varied experience, our humanness speaks in the way that we handle life's circumstance. Faith and love speak across generations, across culture, across background experience. God speaks through us.

Thank you, Lord for finding us. In moments of turmoil, in moments of doubt, in moments of fear. Thank you for turning that to Peace, Faith, and Love.

SPRING LIGHT

Is there anything more miraculous than the way golden light changes thing? The light was perfect this afternoon, giving a golden glow to all of nature. God's light gilding man's creations to works of perfection!

The offending machine. It's a cross between a punch press and a vice grip, cloaked in innocent-looking clear plastic with enough pressure to set off a Seismic event of cataclysmic proportions.

~~~~~~~~~

It's still a man's world

I got rippin' mad Friday leaving our local hospital. It was not the hospital--it's a beautiful brand new facility. Personnel were friendly, helpful and knowledgeable. No complaint.

But as I'm standing in a little room in the Women's Health section with tears running down my face because a certain body appendage is being squeezed beyond belief, I have the thought: "If men had to have an appendage smashed to the screaming point, I'll bet somebody would find a better way to do this." In fact, my thoughts continued, there is a better way. An MRI is said to give a much more effective view of the mammary tissue. But, "Oh no" I say to myself in a squeaky little voice, which is all I can manage at the time due to the pressure I'm enduring standing stripped to the waist while an Amazon-sized female is applying enough pressure to cause Mt. Helen to erupt again! "Oh, no. An MRI is TOO expensive." Yeah. Too expensive. A woman's comfort isn't worth that much money. BUT...I yell back (still squeaking) if it were a MAN, I bet the insurance would FIND the money!!! (Still yelling to myself) And it isn't a matter of comfort, this is pain and suffering!!

In fact, when I first went into the torture chamber, the ever so friendly Amazon-like attendant said, "We have new digital equipment." My first thought was -- oh wow!! Somebody thought of a less painful way to get these pictures. "But it doesn't require less pressure. It just gives a better image."

"Great" I answer in my head. "Better pictures," in my best Betty Boop voice.

She was right about no less pressure. But then I was complaining to my family at lunch today and my DIL asked if I'd ever had an MRI for a mammogram. No. But I've other MRI's...liver, for instance. "You have to lie on your stomach in a superman pose for, like, forty minutes," she informed me. "I'd take the other kind any day." There went the MRI idea.

So, I left the hospital aching from head to toe. What is it about sympathetic pain anyway? I'll never again question the scripture: "If one part suffers, every part suffers with it" I Corinthians 12:26.

And I still say, if it were men who had to endure that much pain on a yearly basis, somebody would have found a less painful exam!!

Earthquake

Yep. Not only do we have a fresh foot of snow on the ground, but at 4:00 a.m. an earthquake hit. The epicenter was about 40 minutes west of us, but it was felt strongly where we are.

Me? I woke up, wide awake. But at my age, that's not unusual. I did what most people do at my age when they wake up. I went to the bathroom, completely ignorant of what really awakened me. Just the usual middle-of-the-night urge. Even though it wasn't.

Isn't there a book like that for kids? Some kid is in his house bored, nothing to do. Ho-hum. Outside the window thieves are stealing things, people are dancing in the streets, a volcano is erupting, all kinds of exciting happenings.

That's me. Earthquake? Ho-Hum. Just a bathroom break!!! And that's life, well past 50. :)

It's snowing yet again!

Where is Global warming when you need it?? I'm actually getting sick of snow. I frequently get sick of the cold, but usually I find the snow very beautiful. I'm so sick of it, I'm having difficulty finding the beauty in all of the cold white stuff!

Should have a fresh foot and a half on the ground tomorrow.

What a morning! Before he left for work this morning, my wonderful husband went to my car and turned the heater on full blast so that I could use the remote starter an hour later when I had to leave for work.

When he came back into the house, he informed me that he had graciously thrown away my half-full bottle of San Pellegrino (Mineral water) I'd left in the car because it was frozen.

"But that was my cold drink for today," I protested.

"It's frozen. It will burst," he explained patiently.

"It's not full. It will thaw when I take it into the meeting."

"It will burst," he persisted. But bravely went dumpster-diving to retrieve my precious frozen bottle. (Yeah. He's a keeper.)

I race to the kitchen, put on a skillet with a bit of oil to fry an egg. I'm making my own breakfast burrito this morning since Mickey D's is the opposite direction from my meeting. Skillet heating, I head to the computer to print a report necessary for the meeting.

He comes back, "The kitchen is full of smoke."

Oh! I race back to the kitchen. He had pulled the skillet off the burner. I toss it in the sink. I grab a different skillet to try again. Pour a bit of oil, dash back to the computer.

"Your skillet is on high," he returns.

Dash back to the stove. Turn the burner down, add an egg. Back to the computer. More reports. I remote start the car.

Hubby exits for work.

Still more reports. Run back to the kitchen. The skillet is off the burner, the egg still raw on top. I flip the egg, put the skillet back on the burner, muttering only slightly, wondering who has removed the skillet. Did he have time to do that before he left?

Teresa comes in, "I loosened the egg for you. I didn't want it to overcook."

"Thanks," I respond, completely insincerely, vaguely hoping my voice doesn't betray my emotion. "It needs to be cooked solid to go on a tortilla." I put the skillet back on the burner. Again. She hovers.

Back to the computer for one more report. Pack the computer bag. Is there a worn spot in the carpet from all this back-and-forth? Probably.

In the kitchen, the egg is done. I remove the skillet and grab a tortilla and slap it on the burner. This time, I don't leave because tortillas cook in about 15 seconds on a hot burner. The tortilla isn't cooking.

"Cook, tortilla!"

Look up...the burner is off. "Oh, no. The burner is off."

Teresa responds, "I turned it off when I removed the egg."

"It needed to finish, and I have to cook the tortilla." I'm hoping that my voice is non-committal. I'm balancing on first one foot then the other, wishing I could hurry up the tortilla. Did I mention that I'm ADHD???

She hovers in the background while I finish. I roll the egg in the tortilla, wrap it in a paper towel, and head back to my office.

Five minutes to cook a tortilla. Grrrr. I grab my coat, frozen mineral water, towel wrapped burrito, bag full of reports and head out to my toasty warm car.

When is help too much?? Or, do I need a keeper????

And...no, my egg didn't look nearly this good. Poor thing!

Here are pictures of the house where we stayed. Looks like one section fared better than the others. That bottom picture is the clinic, (partly standing) and three floors of guest rooms and facilities above! All flat! The older cobblestone part withstood the quake better.

Lack of Infrastructure

So many scenes from the Haiti earthquake and the struggle to bring humanitarian aid to the hurting people bring back memories of my visits there. It is incomprehensible to the average American mind what lack of infrastructure means.

Lack of Infrastructure:
· No garbage pickup
· No mail delivery
· Sporadic electrical service
· More sporadic phone service
· Product shortages – milk, eggs
· Scarcity of clean water
· Understaffed Police Department
· Nearly non-existent Fire Department (I never once saw a fire truck or a fireman. Don’t know if they even had any)
· Lack of Hospitals – lack of supplies & staff in the hospitals
· Few clinics - understaffed and poorly supplied
· Weekly or Monthly clinics with lines of people
· No evidence of organization anywhere
· Roads are nearly impassable; no road signs; no street signs
· Shanties constructed randomly on mountainside
· Shanty Town near port worst I’ve seen anywhere

It was 2005. We stayed in a guest house of which the bottom floor was an orthopedic clinic. One evening we helped sort orthopedic limbs into bins: left leg, right foot, left arm, etc. Creative therapists would take these generic castoffs from American sources and customize them in large pizza ovens (also American castoffs) to soften the plastic or metal parts. Clinic was held once weekly. The line lasted all day with patients seated all over the lawn, patiently waiting for a limb to be examined, fitted or scheduled for fitting. Open sores were cleansed and bandaged. There were no antibiotics, no pain-killers, just the basic first-aid: alcohol, a dab of cream of some sort and a gauze bandage. Limbs were measured. The worker would search through a bin for an appropriate appendage, measure the work to be done, mark the orthopedic limb for pizza oven adjustment with advice to come back next week or next month. And that was an orthopedic clinic.

In Haiti, “Clinic” is an event, not a place. “Clinic” is held when there are doctors, nurses or therapists available. Groups of visiting medical professionals visit a small building and hold “clinic.” People lined up for blocks to have someone look at a goiter, a wound, a growth, a fever, a rash, etc.

In Chicago we joke about roads and potholes. In Haiti, it isn’t a joke. Two or three kilometers outside Port Au Prince the main road deteriorates to a few small patches of asphalt every hundred yards or so. The majority of the road is one pothole after another, some large enough to lose a car, all of them large enough to cause serious damage to the careless driver. I’m talking holes a yard wide and a foot or two deep. No exaggeration. There is no driving the roads at night. At all! Average speed on the road is about 15 miles an hour because now and then on a good stretch, it’s just a simple bumpy dirt road. Remember: This is PRE-earthquake. The road from the airport in Port Au Prince was asphalt with Chicago side-street-sized potholes: The kind of potholes that reporters like to show on the evening news to show that the “City-that-works” isn’t working. This was the BEST road in Port Au Prince, PRE-earthquake.

At the airport, I was startled at the lack of amenities. It reminded me of old movies of African airports in the 1940’s, although there WAS a conveyor-belt to bring out the luggage from behind plastic curtains that separated the passenger part of the airport from the working baggage handlers. I was relieved to see our host at the baggage carousel to greet us because I could tell we’d have been in trouble on our own. Unfortunately, I speak no Creole and about three words of French. Spanish doesn’t cut it in Port Au Prince. We waited for a couple of hours before it became evident that our bags hadn’t made the plane in Miami.

Our host never did find anyone official to confirm that; he did find a baggage handler willing to tell him that all the baggage from that particular plane had been offloaded and was on the carousel. Our baggage might make a later plane. Our host left us at the guest house with the promise of a phone call later that day. The phone call never came.

Twenty-four hours later, I began the attempt to make phone calls: to the host, to the airport, to the airlines. All to no avail. I received some sort of signal indicating no lines available. About then our host drove up in a pickup truck. He had also been unable to contact anyone, but recommended that we just go look. Happily we climbed aboard to go retrieve our bags.

At the airport, no one would let us in through the front door. Passengers only, they said. So our host led us around to the side of the airport. He banged loudly on a couple of solid metal doors before finding one ajar. Tentatively, we entered the terminal. Folks, this is the BACK of the airport. We just broke in; well, it was already broken, but we entered. There were a few employees about, but no one gave us a second glance. One Haitian man, one American man and four American women in the working part of the terminal and no one batted an eyelash. Live and let live seemed to be the policy. Our host found someone willing to talk and asked about unclaimed baggage. The man gestured in the direction of the largest pile of luggage I have ever seen in my life. I instantly regretted not bringing my camera. But how was I to know that it would be a Kodak moment?

Stunned, we eyed this enormous pile of luggage, roughly 30 feet in diameter and 10 feet tall. We’re supposed to search through this pile on the off chance that our baggage is there, I thought. We tentatively looked at the tags on bags around the edge. Then one of my cohorts spotted a red bag that was ours. The two men pulled it free from the pile. Yep. It was ours. Our host and the lone male in our group began looking through the pile. This was going to take forever. Our time on the employee side of the plastic curtain wasn’t going to end quickly or easily.

I directed the three women to a clear spot to one side with instructions to watch our bags. I have no idea why. They’d been sitting there unguarded for who knew how long, and we were hoping they were all there. What could happen in a few more minutes? But according to our culture, I distributed the jobs, one of which was “guarding” the baggage. Then I turned my attention to the pile. I climbed nearly to the top of this unsteady blog of “stuff” to retrieve yet another of our bags. Finally, someone had the idea to just organize them as we went. So we began our work as baggage handlers, setting suitcases in straight lines for future retrieval by their owners as we sorted our way through the pile. Two hours after breaking and entering the airport, we headed out with our luggage. Every piece of it.

I listen to the news and I remember. I remember what lack of infrastructure meant to us in terms of efficiency and effectiveness. Delay is something that Haitians are accustomed to. When the devastation of the earthquake, the additional unavailability of medical attention, and the urgency of receiving medical treatment for wounds are added, my heart aches for the patient Haitians. They who are accustomed to so little, who are happy with small things, need help in a big time way, and no one can find a way around this infrastructure problem.

Who is capable of making deliveries to the neighborhoods? Who is organized enough to care for the elderly in nursing homes, for the newly-made orphans, for the wounded waiting for care? Who is available to hold classes for the children, to occupy young minds while the world around them is crumbling? My brain goes to the resources I know are there.

Haiti has no government left to fill the void; the United Nations has no organization left to pick up the slack. What are left are the churches. I know, there’s the whole problem of church and state. But what’s wrong with employing the churches to deliver aid to their neighborhoods during a time of crisis. It was Ghandi who said, “There are people in the world so hungry, that God cannot appear to them except in the form of bread.” Isn’t that Haiti, now? What better thing than to have a troop of local people entrusted with feeding their neighbors?

No infrastructure. None to speak of. But the churches are there. They are organized; they know where the hurting people are. Will somebody please empower these pastors to feed the hungry; to clothe the naked; to find medical help for the wounded? Please??

Fire on Elma Street

At first I stood there transfixed. The sight of a shell of a house with orange yellow flames leaping from what only a few minutes before had been windows or doors, tall pillars of flames where the roof line should have been, the scent of smoke all conspired to transport me to 1961. Not since then have I witnessed in person a house completely consumed in flames. The scene around me brought me back to reality and 2010. In 1961 there had been no neighbors gathered round, no firemen with silver reflective stripes on their backs, no firehoses soaking surrounding trees and houses, no fire engines or ambulances. There had been only our little family of four to fend for ourselves, to escape from the awful heat and orange flames.

And, oh, yeah. I even had a camera tonight. I've wished any number of times I'd had a camera that other night. My love of the visual extends even to recording my own story of tragedy.
So I snapped a few shots. Prayed for the people. Questioned a few people to assure myself that the occupants were safe.

And I walked the block home, thankful that it had only been one house, that everyone will survive. Sad that not one single thing is retrievable from the rubble.

I prayed for them because I knew that this evening would forever be a defining moment for that family, for those involved.

I knew that someday each might encounter a situation and remember 2010.

Full story of Elma Street explosion. Click here.

*Adventure With Grandma*

I remember my first Christmas adventure with Grandma. I was just a kid. I remember tearing across town on my bike to visit her on the day my big sister dropped the bomb: "There is no Santa Claus," she jeered. "Even dummies know that!"

My Grandma was not the gushy kind, never had been. I fled to her that day because I knew she would be straight with me. I knew Grandma always told the truth, and I knew that the truth always went down a whole lot easier when swallowed with one of her world-famous cinnamon buns. I knew they were world-famous, because Grandma said so. It had to be true.

Grandma was home, and the buns were still warm. Between bites, I told her everything. She was ready for me. "No Santa Claus!" she snorted. "Ridiculous! Don't believe it. That rumor has been going around for years, and it makes me mad, plain mad. Now, put on your coat, and let's go."

"Go? Go where, Grandma?" I asked. I hadn't even finished my second world-famous, cinnamon bun.

"Where" turned out to be Kerby's General Store, the one store in town that had a little bit of just about everything. As we walked through its doors, Grandma handed me ten dollars. That was a bundle in those days.

"Take this money," she said, "and buy something for someone who needs it. I'll wait for you in the car." Then she turned and walked out of Kerby's.

I was only eight years old. I'd often gone shopping with my mother, but never had I shopped for anything all by myself. The store seemed big and crowded, full of people scrambling to finish their Christmas shopping. For a few moments I just stood there, confused, clutching that ten-dollar bill, wondering what to buy, and who on earth to buy it for.

I thought of everybody I knew: my family, my friends, my neighbors, the kids at school, the people who went to my church. I was just about thought out, when I suddenly thought of Bobby Decker. He was a kid with bad breath and messy hair, and he sat right behind me in Mrs.Pollock's grade-two class.

Bobby Decker didn't have a coat. I knew that because he never went out for recess during the winter. His mother always wrote a note, telling the teacher that he had a cough, but all we kids knew that Bobby Decker didn't have a cough, and he didn't have a coat. I fingered the ten-dollar bill with growing excitement.

I would buy Bobby Decker a coat!

I settled on a red corduroy one that had a hood to it. It looked real warm, and he would like that. "Is this a Christmas present for someone?" the lady behind the counter asked kindly, as I laid my ten dollars down.

"Yes, I" replied shyly. "It's .... for Bobby." The nice lady smiled at me. I didn't get any change, but she put the coat in a bag and wished me a Merry Christmas.

That evening, Grandma helped me wrap the coat in Christmas paper and ribbons (a little tag fell out of the coat, and Grandma tucked it in her Bible) and wrote on the package, "To Bobby, From Santa Claus" -- Grandma said that Santa always insisted on secrecy. Then she drove me over to Bobby Decker's house, explaining as we went that I was now and forever officially one of Santa's helpers.

Grandma parked down the street from Bobby's house, and she and I crept noiselessly and hid in the bushes by his front walk Then Grandma gave me a nudge. "All right, Santa Claus," she whispered, "get going."

I took a deep breath, dashed for his front door, threw the present down on his step, pounded his doorbell and flew back to the safety of the bushes and Grandma. Together we waited breathlessly in the darkness for the front door to open. Finally it did, and there stood Bobby.

Fifty years haven't dimmed the thrill of those moments spent shivering, beside my Grandma, in Bobby Decker's bushes. That night, I realized that those awful rumors about Santa Claus were just what Grandma said they were: ridiculous. Santa was alive and well, and we were on his team.

I still have the Bible, with the tag tucked inside: $19.95.

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He who has no Christmas in his heart will never find Christmas under a tree.

This little story has been around for a few years. I checked around and couldn't find an author to whom to give credit. If you have a source, please advise. (It could be one of the stories in Canfield's "Chicken Soup for the Grandma's Soul". I don't have the book and checked for this title. He has an entire section of "Adventures with Grandma".) It's a possibility.

The Christmas Pledge

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Believing in the beauty and simplicity of Christmas, I commit myself to the following:

1. To remember those people who truly need my gifts.

2. To express my love for family and friends in more direct ways than presents.

3. To rededicate myself to the spiritual growth of my family.

4. To examine my holiday activities in light of the true spirit of Christmas.

5. To initiate one act of peacemaking within my circle of family and friends.


-from Unplug the Christmas Machine , by Jo Robinson and Jean Coppock Staeheli

Side Effects of the Season

Sadness seems to have more depth at this time of year, kind of like the layers of snow that keep coming and piling up before the previous layer can be taken care of. Some situations feel even worse in the sparkling glow of colored lights and the tinkling sound of silver bells.

I run across situations daily. There’s the teenage boy living with 3 siblings and a dad in a one bedroom walkup with one bath. He doesn’t complain. Last year’s teachers remember bits and pieces of his situation. I confirm them. There won’t be Christmas this year. There’s no money.

Or the teenage girl whose older sister just ran away with her boyfriend. The boyfriend doesn’t want to get married; the girl’s parents are adamant that they must be married immediately to protect the family name. The teenager at home cries herself to sleep at night, then comes to school barely able to function. At the nurse’s office, she has no temperature, but insists she’s weak and can barely walk. I invite her to my office to talk. We uncover the nature of her illness: She’s heartsick.

There’s the group of girls who fight with one another constantly including in-your-face stuff online and in text messages. Resolving the conflict uncovers a history of abuse in all but one of the girls. We report it only to find that DCFS considers it yesterday’s news. Not confirmable.

One youngster has an office referral; we sit down to discuss the situation. I discover that Dad is in prison, mom has deserted him and his sister. He’s living with a relative. I note that his shirt is soiled – the kind of dirt that comes from repeated wearing without washing. Apparently no one is caring much for him.

Countless students worry about having to move from their housing due to rent not being paid. Some move, usually without notice. They are just gone. Vanished into the night to escape the bills. We might criticize the parents for lack of character in such cases, but what of the children? What of the little boy living out of the car? What of the little girl denied the privilege of saying goodbye to her BFF? Will she make another friend or just shut down in the face of emotional devastation?

What can one person do in the face of such desperation in the children? Not a lot. Oh, we have a giving tree at school; teachers even organized a garage sale to raise money for this season. And my family is scaling our Christmas down this year in order to give away the money we would normally spend. But it seems so small and the needs so great.

In the glimmer of sparkling lights, with a background of Christmas melodies these stories take on new life, with poignancy unfelt in other seasons.

As you grab for the Kleenex, take another look at your resources. This is a great opportunity. Contact a social worker at a school in a poor area of your town and make a donation. Give some time at the homeless shelter that you didn’t want in your neighborhood. Slip a $20 or a $50 in the Salvation Army bucket. Talk to the elderly at your church or synagogue. Do they have a place to go for Christmas dinner? Smile at the harried mom with several preschool children in tow. He came for such as these!

And. . . say a prayer for those in need. Say a prayer for yourself and your circle of friends that God will reveal Himself in ways you would not dream of. That’s another wonderful side effect of the season. It’s a season for miracles!

Things are not always what they seem. . .

One of the important things that God is teaching me is not to jump to conclusions. You’d think at my age I would have learned this already. Alas! I have not. Specifically, some of the things that anger me are not what I presume they are. Imagine that!

Take for instance this morning. I’m driving to work on a snowy morning. I head uphill the last half block to work when suddenly a car backs out into the road in front of me. Now, I have time to stop. But I am partially up a fairly steep snow covered hill. I’m muttering to myself about ignorant people who don’t think about weather conditions before pulling out….. yada, yada, yada.

I did get traction again, fortunately, and follow the new Chrysler up the hill. To my surprise, he turns left into the school parking lot. I’m thinking, “Is one of our teachers really stupid enough to do that? Which of my friends doesn’t have sense enough to deserve to be behind the wheel?”

So as I park my car I keep an eye on this miscreant who doesn’t park, but makes a U-turn in the lot and just sits there. Then I spot a tall teenaged boy coming down the stairs from the subsidized housing next door with a young teenage girl on his back – piggyback style. I’m interested.

The boy walks over to the car and very gently sets the girl down. She is favoring one foot and holding her hand to her stomach as though she is either sick or injured. And I have an aha moment.

The driver of the car is either a friend or a relative of the kids and has answered a call for help to take the girl to the doctor/hospital. And I have a sudden change of attitude. Nice person, to come out at 7:30 a.m. on a snowy morning to give someone a ride for medical treatment.

And I start to wonder. What would it be like to have to call for help for your injured/ill sister. (I’m presuming here – but reasonably probable stuff). To have to depend on a friend/relative for transportation. Where’s the parent of the teenagers? Why isn’t the girl accompanied by someone from her own home? What would it be like to call a friend or relative hoping they’d take you to the hospital?

Yep. My attitude changed. I realized that the car that cut in front of me had passed by the entrance to the parking lot and was turning around to go back when he stopped me dead in my tracks. But he was on an errand of mercy. Early morning, snowy and cold. He had the heart to come help a friend even if he didn’t have the good sense to drive appropriately in the snow. Maybe I had the good sense, but he had the heart.

Turn off the anger. Turn on the compassion! Things are not always what they seem.