My America. Yours Too?

28 09 2017

Let me start by saying that this is not a political post–I won’t be taking sides. I respect the opinions of other people. We live in a free country where equality is celebrated. But as I think back over the weeks and months, I am filled with great sadness. There have been moments when I’ve been proud of America, moments such as Hurricane Harvey, when so many offered help to the Texans affected by bringing in food, resources, volunteering physical labor for clearing and rebuilding. Moments such as Hurricane Irma, when we offered our neighbors in Florida the assistance they needed to find safety, get clean water, and begin the monumental task of reconstruction. Now we are faced with yet another hurricane which has totally devastated our territory of Puerto Rico, whose people are also American citizens. They need the help of their neighbors more than ever before, and I hope we will stand the test and be there for them in every possible way, because there is such great need there.

But there is much going on in our world that makes me sad. We are quick to judge without checking facts. We accept what we read on facebook and twitter without checking facts. We superimpose motives to the actions of people without finding out the story behind the action—without checking facts. We rush to conclusions without an open heart to hear what the facts are. We trust the word of certain people just because they said it, without checking facts. Yes, two people can look at the same situation and have two differing opinions. Everyone comes from unique backgrounds and has their own take. But we have to start from the point of truth before forming an opinion. And many times a person’s opinion comes from their personal experiences, often painful ones. Shouldn’t we be respecting their pain? Shouldn’t we be trying to understand rather than condemn? Shouldn’t we be actively listening with our hearts?

My sadness comes from all the unrest, the disunity, the bickering over unimportant things. I believe we were created to be kind, to do unto others as we would wish it would be done to us, to think of others before ourselves, to help each other, affirm each other, love (unconditionally) each other, forgive each other (because goodness knows we need all kinds of forgiveness ourselves) and be tolerant and understanding of each other. And to give grace by being willing to allow those differing opinions. Because no one knows what it is to walk in my shoes. No one knows what it is to walk in yours. Pure, sincere empathy should be what we all strive for without rush to judgement or the impulse we have of “you’re wrong and I’m right.” God will take care of the judging.

Why can’t we be blind to color? Why can’t we embrace our differences? Why can’t we respect each other instead of condemning and belittling and mocking those not like us or with a different opinion than ours? Why can’t we value each other? Why can’t we listen with open minds? We have a rich mix of ethnicities, backgrounds, ideas, viewpoints, creativities, and opportunities in this country. We can all contribute to the greatness possible in America. “God so loved the WORLD that He gave His only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth on Him shall have everlasting life.” John 3:16.

I don’t see any exclusions there. Do you?

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…And A Little Child Will Lead Them

31 08 2017

My heart has been heavy these past months. I’ve seen increased tension, animosity, hatred, impatience and intolerance. Because of the divisiveness, my once-unified country has begun to crack. This is the country my parents, my brother and I fled to after Nazi Germany decimated the Netherlands, followed by the threat of Communism. This is the ‘melting pot’ where all races and ethnicities came together to form a free and welcoming land, a place for all to find opportunity and a better life. This is the place where religion could be pursued without persecution. This is the country where opinions could be freely expressed without fear of retaliation.

What happened?

I recently flew to Washington to visit family. On this flight there were people of many nationalities, and because I chose Southwest, the seating was open. I was one of the earlier boarders and took an aisle seat. As the other passengers filed in, a white gentleman across from me offered the seat beside him to a young black woman. They conversed off and on throughout the flight. Just ahead of me across the aisle sat a little blond girl no older than 2 ½. Occasionally she would turn and smile at me, her dimples flashing, and her plump little leg sticking out the side of her seat. Across from her was a black mother with two children, one an older boy, the other a baby of about a year. The baby was fascinated by the little girl, and reached out a hand to her. Grinning broadly, the girl touched his fingers and giggled as the baby chuckled and toddled toward her. They interacted for several minutes, alternately initiating the contact. People around them were smiling as they watched the children, each child blind to the color of the other.

The stewardesses on the flight treated each child equally, cooing and talking to the little boy, and chatting with the girl. As I observed this throughout the four-hour flight, I felt for that short time as if all was right with the world. This is how it should be. This is the country my family came to for a fresh start. This is the colorblindness Jesus preached—all equal and equally worthy. It gave me new hope.

Now I’m back to reality. The news is full of the hatred between races, the degradation one group thrusts on another, each refusing to take into account (or accept as valid) or even listen to the viewpoint of the other. It hurts my heart. I hope it hurts yours.

There is a saying: A journey begins with a single step. Let’s make that single step. One by one we can spread the gospel of love. One caring act at a time, we can turn the tide. That little girl didn’t see the color of the baby across the aisle. She saw a smile, a child like her on a long flight, a kinship beyond race.

Texas is showing us all what it is to be unified. In the midst of the flooding and devastation brought on by Hurricane Harvey, everyone is helping in whatever way they can. A kind word, a helping hand, a place to stay, food and water to share, encouragement that this too will pass, tears shared because of the myriad of losses the people are feeling already. Offers of help started pouring in as soon as the hurricane hit landfall. Volunteers are lining up to go to the hard-hit areas and help with cleanup. Donations are being offered (water, food, medical supplies, money) given even by those who have little themselves. People are caring, they are praying, they are giving, they are helping, they are loving. There is no regard of color, race, religion. 

This beauty in the face of tragedy, this is my country.  





An Invaluable Legacy

8 08 2017

There is a tremendous emphasis these days on income. How much money you have and what you do with it has become a benchmark of success. As if money could be the precursor to happiness. As if your bank account equates your level of contentment. As if those with little money ought to be miserable.

I don’t deny that lack of money can make life difficult, especially for a family with children whose very existence require a decent income to sustain them. But more to the point, the richest people in the world don’t necessarily have a corner on the happiness market. Yes, those whose income is either non-existent or very low have a much harder life than the middle-income range, but here’s the thing. The most giving and kind-hearted people are often those who have the least.

These bold statements come from personal experience.  As a child, my parents were poor. Were it not for the twelve cows my dad milked for income and which provided milk and butter for us, the meager six acres of asparagus he grew, and my mother’s skillful negotiations for ‘sale’ prices on cases of dented canned sauerkraut and other vegetables, we might likely have starved. Potatoes mashed alternately with apples, kale, sauerkraut and spinach became an every-meal staple for us. Never did either my mom or dad talk about our poverty. Never once did I hear either of them complain, argue, or in any way indicate our lack of income. I wore my cousins’ hand-me-downs, as did my brother. We were always clean, always loved, and always expected to be respectful and well-behaved. Dad made a game of going to a Saturday sale, waiting until the very end when the auctioneer would pile various things into boxes and sell them for a quarter. Often those boxes yielded treasures, things Dad could fix up and use, or fix up and sell at the next auction. He took childlike delight in the money he earned in the process.

I remember vividly the generosity my parents practiced. There was always room for one more at the dinner table, and they shared as though they had more than enough. Often Dad went to the bank to borrow against the next year’s crop because the frost or drought took this year’s. His first priority the next year was to honor his commitment to pay back what he borrowed, even if that meant we got no profit.

And here’s what I learned from all that. I learned that being honorable is a great virtue. I learned that kindness can save a person from despair. I learned that generosity is possible, even when there is next to nothing to share. I learned that we are all equal on this earth if you measure equality in terms of integrity and strength of character. I learned that loving your fellow man is an active verb, something you show in a visible way. And I learned that hope is the one word we all need to hold on to. My parents did that. Their hope and their strong faith carried us all those years ago. What a legacy.





The Forgotten Ones

6 04 2015

IMG_1145I have this picture of my mom. She’s wearing a kerchief over her hair, a knife in one hand, an apple in the other. She has the serene smile of someone who has  a deep-seated contentment, a trait she shared with my dad. Mom loved all fruit, but the apple is the one I associate with her the most because of that smile as she sliced it. She was a purist–loving all things in their simplest form. Meat was always cooked with salt and a little Dutch spice, potatoes were ungarnished and served quartered, vegetables had freshly grated nutmeg and a pat of butter on them. Dessert was pudding and stewed or fresh fruit. On special occasions we were allowed home-made ice cream.

In the summer as she gardened Mom would pop a carrot or radish into her mouth. I can still smell the earthy odor of the garden soil as she pulled root vegetables free, shaking each before laying it in the bucket beside her. The red of beets, the orange of carrots, the white of peppery radishes, the brown of potatoes she dug out of the hills, each with its own brilliant green foliage, all colors of summer.

Year round Mom hung wash on the line strung in the back yard, allowing it to flop in the breeze until the smell of fresh premeated each piece. Sheets carried the sweet scent of outdoors, and I remember as a child burying my nose in in them after climbing into bed on washday. I followed her lead  after starting my own family. I gardened, froze and canned the produce, hung out the wash, allowing my children to enjoy that experience of freshness only Mother  Nature can provide.

And then one year it was Dad who planted and tended the garden while Mom sat motionless in her chair gazing out the living room window at nothing. She had ceased to speak or acknowledge us. Dad was the one who froze the strawberries and canned the abundant harvest of beans. Dad cut the juicy stalks of rhubarb, discarded the poisonous leaves, sliced the sour stalk into a cooking pot and covered it with sugar. Dad fried the meat, peeled the potatoes, topped the beans before settling them into boiling water. And Dad decided to use the dryer instead of the wash line.

Mom had slowly walked into the mist of Alzheimer’s Disease. Bit by bit, her spirit ceased to exist as she became a shell of the person we loved. Dad was her sole caregiver (by choice), at first handling things well. Mom was docile, easily steered to the table or her favorite chair, able to take care of her private needs, to feed herself. That lasted only months, soon giving way to Dad having to take her to the bathroom, help her take care of her hygiene. Then the night wanderings began, and the care that had covered daytime hours stretched to 24 hours a day. She lost bladder and bowel control, so he changed her adult diapers,cleaned her, washed sheets, towels, clothing as they were soiled. He carefully fed her at each meal. And he lost weight, this tiny man who hadn’t an ounce to spare. He looked weary. He looked old.

Everyone asked after Mom. How was Anne? She didn’t look sick. Was she in need of anything? She seemed fine in church on Sunday. Did she get around all right? Was she staying healthy? How was the disease progressing? (Dad had fed and dressed her, guided her to the car, put on her seatbelt, taken her out of the car, steered her toward the church building, gotten her through the door and delivered her to a pew before sitting beside her. And then he did it all in reverse after the service).

But here’s what amazes me. No one, not one person, bothered to ask how Dad was doing. All the attention was focused on my mom, and Dad became secondary. He’d lost 20 pounds (a huge amount for a man who weighed 140 at his peak) and his face was drawn, the lines of exhaustion right there for them to see. I was over 2000 miles away, raising a family and holding down a full-time job, unable to help more than a couple of times a year, but I saw what his care-giving was doing to him. Was I the only one? Really?

I begged Dad to get help, hire someone, have Mom admitted to the local nursing home. He refused (I promised ‘in sickness and in health’) until he had no choice. One day Mom couldn’t stand. When Dad tried to get her out of bed she crumpled to the floor, and he couldn’t get her up. Not only did she outweigh him, she had become inert. At last he acquiesced and had her admitted to nursing care. Six weeks later she died. Though he mourned losing her (he said he lost her twice; once to Alzheimer’s and then again through death), gradually, my dad became his old self. The weight came back on, his humor returned, he slept well at night. But it took a while.

I know several caregivers, individuals who dedicate each day to filling the needs of a loved one, ministering to both their physical and their spiritual needs. I see it happening to them just as it did to my father, that gradual wearing down. People show concern for the ill person. Ask questions as to the sick one’s welfare. But what about the caregiver? I try very hard to let those earthly angels know that they are in my prayers along with the one they care for. They are heroes, every one of them. I know it’s lonely work, I know they’re exhausted. Do you know what they tell me when I thank them for their service, these invisible, forgotten  people? They consider it holy work, a sacred gift, a privilege. A privilege. That gives me chills. It is all they have to give their beloved one who is dying, and they give it with joy.

I am in awe. God bless them, every one.