A Sermon of My Own

When Robert Kennedy became New York’s Senator, he began an untiring fight for educational and economic reformation. He began by concentrating on Harlem and Brooklyn before moving on to Chicago and Appalachia and the Mississippi Delta; speaking out for communities all over the United States. And then he started on the rest of the world. He strived to galvanize the human race to look beyond the inconvenience of poverty and into the faces that lived in it. He stood in front of South African university students in the summer of 1966 to give his Day of Affirmation speech. The entire speech is quite moving, but this is just a very small portion of it:

We must recognize the full human equality of all of our people; before God, before the law, and in the councils of government. We must do this, not because it is economically advantageous, although it is. Not because of the laws of God command it, although they do. Not because people in other lands wish it so. We must do it for the single and fundamental reason, that it is the right thing to do. Few will have the greatness to bend history itself, but each of us can work to change a small portion of events, and in the total of these acts will be written the history of each generation. It is from numberless diverse acts of courage and belief that human history is shaped. Each time a man stands up for an ideal, or acts to improve the lot of others, or strikes out against injustice, he sends forth a tiny ripple of hope, and crossing each other from a million different centers of energy and daring these ripples build a current that can sweep down the mightiest wall of oppression and resistance.

When I read this, the part that stands out the most to me is “Not because of the laws of God command it, although they do….we must do it for the single and fundamental reason, that it is the right thing to do.” Many, many, many Christians serve others because of religious reasons. Because they believe that God would want them to. Because Jesus did, and would do, the same. I think this is great. This, to me, is one of the truest ingredients of Christianity. Perhaps THE truest (after serving God himself). But there are also many, many, many “non-Christians” that choose to serve others. The lot of them might very well serve because of moral conviction. There could be limitless other reasons. As far as I’m concerned, it doesn’t matter WHY someone chooses to love and serve by action, as long as they do it sincerely. What matters more is HOW they do it. What gives anyone the right to disvalue heartfelt service just because it might not be done in the name of Christ?

I’ve developed a conflicted opinion; I guess you could say, of individuals and organizations both that offer service/aid/help to people who need it…but with strings attached. It’s easy for us to offer “love” and “goodwill” on our own agendas and not even realize our fault (arrogance, really) in doing so. Why should any of us feel good about meeting someone’s needs with the attached condition that they attend a sermon or say a certain prayer or join a certain church? To me, all this says is that OUR sermons and OUR prayers and OUR church is the only one worthy of whatever love or service we’re providing. We’re saying “Yes, we love you. And we want to help you. But only if you believe what we believe. Otherwise, we’ve wasted our time and efforts.” And that isn’t really sincere love at all, is it? It’s conditional. It has a price tag. Shouldn’t we be delirious with satisfaction that we’ve bettered someone’s life just because they have the right as a human being to have it bettered?

A tiny example: A wonderful religious organization here in town has recently begun offering prescription drug cards for other area agencies to give to clients. They can be used at any pharmacy for any prescribed drugs EXCEPT for contraceptives. This is because, of course, their religion doesn’t smile upon birth control. They’ve offered these cards to all agencies that work in the same communities that I do. Our clients are poor and uneducated (for the most part). Quite a few of them have never been exposed to the concept of planned parenthood or responsible parenting, as is the case in the majority of impoverished communities all over the planet. They don’t practice safe sex or use any form of birth control because, first of all, they can’t afford it, and secondly, they’ve never been taught to. In my position, I’m not allowed to address or promote any practices either way in regards to the subject, so my involvement in this process is very limited. But I have a problem with the said organization denying clients the power of choice and control just because their religion says so. Instead, they’d rather see generation after generation continue to bring more and more children into poverty…children that cannot and will not be properly cared for…thus recycling some of the CAUSES of generational poverty…which is the organism that this organization supposedly strives to put to death on a daily basis. It just doesn’t make sense to me. It infuriates me. There are SO many other instances like this…problems with the system that we all hear about from time to time. I’m just incapable of ignoring them now that I work where I do.

I’ve vowed to myself that I will never again (even though I’ve done it before) offer myself to an individual or cause with the intention of convincing the world to believe the way I do. I love God. I love Jesus. I live my life fueled by this love, and I’ll discuss it with anyone who is interested. But I also love people. In my imperfection, I strive to love people the way I believe God loves people…and I won’t ever stop believing that people deserve the best of life’s joys and the best of God’s love no matter where they stand.

Hee hee.
I needed something pointless to make me smile. Thought you might, too.

brief thoughts on passion

I came across this quote. Think about it.

"Sometimes you have to watch somebody love something before you can love it yourself. It is as if they are showing you the way."

My personal definition of "passion" (in a non-sexual way) is caring about something enough to DO something for it/about it. Passion is a path to action. Without action, that could-be passion is just another good intention. This quote is nothing all that profound, but it made me think about passion. I think to say that we're passionate about something should mean that others can watch us and KNOW that we love it...and that our loving it will serve as an inspiration. If passion doesn't inspire, then what is it worth, anyway?

I've been spending a good bit of time in recent weeks trying to pinpoint what I'm truly passionate about. I'm done with good intentions.

"Thread Count"...A Measurement of Love

One of the many things I'm a tad bit obsessive about is my bed linens. First off...I have way too many of them. Most people have ONE comforter/bedspread/quilt (whatever), along with coordinating sheets and pillowcases that they use until they all fall apart. Or, at least until they go out of fashion. I have 4 or five sets, all completely different, that I rotate seasonally. I don't just rotate them seasonally, really. Sometimes I rotate them to accommodate my mood. I even have certain scents of candles and linen spray that I use to specifically compliment the colors and textures of each respective bed outfit. Secondly...I'm very particular about how my sheets are tucked in and arranged on the mattress. You know how some people sleep all messy and their sheets are never tucked and all the covers just lay balled up and twisted and they never care to straighten them out? (You're probably one of them, aren't you?) I CAN'T STAND THAT. Seriously, I can't handle it. It makes me want to scream and claw the air like a rabid mountain lion (that's quite the image, huh?). If I mess the covers up, it is imperative that they be amended before I get into bed again. Thirdly...sheets must be clean. We all know that it doesn't take a lot of imagination to picture the types of things that go on in our sheets and the types of cooties that, therefore, reside on our sheets. Yes. They must be clean and, more importantly, smell clean.

So, last night I was stripping my bed down because it was time for a sheet rotation. I spent a ridiculous 15 minutes obsessing over which ones to use next and ultimately decided to change everything. And it had to be done right then, or else I wouldn't have been able to think about anything else all night long. I put a lot of thought into this...as I always do. "What feel am I going for?" I asked myself. I settled on coolness and comfort.

While digging through my linen trunk, I came across a pair of sheets that I had forgotten I had. They were my grandmother's. I smiled with nostalgia upon seeing them and held them close for a moment. The cottony fabric is soft and so worn in places you can almost see straight through it. Staring at the swirly pattern of lime and aqua flowers, I noticed a corner where the colors, at some point in time, turned an orangy yellow. Hmm. I had forgotten about that corner. I like that corner.

I feel the same way every time I'm around my grandmother's linens. Sellers...that's what we called her. That's what everyone called her. When I was little, one of the things I liked best about visiting Sellers was sleeping in the bed she'd have made up for me. I don't know what it was, exactly, that made it so special. I remember being anxious to see what sheets she'd have pulled out that time. They were usually mismatched, but I liked them that way. Funky stripes (some in gold....from the 70's, and some just like them in purple), pretty florals, a weird geometric diamond pattern...I can see them all. I would climb into their welcoming, cuddly embrace and be soothed by the aroma of Downy and...sugar. Like spring-fresh, just-out-of-the-oven cookies. I always wondered how she got them so soft and fluffy. Even in my adult years, I've never been able to get my sheets that soft.

Reminiscing about bedtime at Sellers' house makes me think about all the other things that were so wonderful there. Grits and cinnamon toast and Tang for breakfast. Butterbeans and mashed potatoes at supper (she called it supper). The Coty powder box with the black and yellow flowers that she kept on her dresser. The little bookcase in the hallway that displayed all of Pappy's knickknacks; including the ceramic grandpa in the armchair and the flamenco dancer figurine my father brought home from Spain while he was in the Navy. (I have that bookcase in my bedroom now.) Family photos on the walls. The crayon box, coloring books, and hoola hoop she kept for me in the coat closet. Her Pyrex dishes. Her pretty little feminine hands. I would hold them and ask her where her "age spots" came from and make her laugh. Her melliflous voice telling me the story about the goat on the front porch that I asked her to tell EVERY time I saw her.

As I made my bed last night, I thought of all these things and I missed her so much it made my chest hurt. Over her beautiful old sheets I laid a thin, white, chenille bedspead. The bedspread isn't old, but I bought it several years ago because it LOOKS old...and it made me think of her when I came across it in a store. I set up a box fan in the hallway and let it blow towards my bed. The loud humming sound of a fan or window unit air conditioner reminds me of Sellers, too. Reminds me of sleeping in her house. On her sheets. Surrounded by her love. The Downy smell and the cool air danced around my pillow as I fell asleep and it made me feel small and young and safe. It was a good night.

Poss-A-Bil-A-Tees

I remember way back when...soon after I moved into my apartment...I mentioned concern at the possibility of puking while living alone. My exact words were " What if I..... get sick in the middle of the night, puking in the pot, and what would I do with nobody there to call out to? Who would hold my hair back? Who would bring me lemon-lime Gatorade and a straw?..."

Unfortunately, that possibility (or inevitability, if you will) has been realized. fulfilled. faced. It happened. It was one of those horrible nights that keeps you awake with fever and wretching and cramping and all other varieties of awful.

In the midst of this event, I found myself disappointed to be reminded that Bridget is, in fact, a useless animal and not the brilliant human daughter that I so often liken her to. Every time I got sick, I actually felt embarrassed because she would just stand in the doorway of the bathroom and stare...big eyed, yet complacent...as if to say "Eww." I felt the need to apologize to her for freaking her out and being so gross. I wanted to yell "I'm sorry! I can't help it!", but my throat hurt too badly. She didn't once offer to hold my hair back or bring me a cold beverage of any kind. In all fairness, she did attempt to make me some hot chocolate (the kind with the mini marshmallows), but who the hell wants that when they're yaking?

After I had returned to my bed after the 5th trip of stumbling around in the darkness...and I was all shaky and shivering from the spiking of my possessive fever...Bridget perched herself on my midsection. I told myself that she was trying to keep me warm, but I really knew better. Every time I looked up at her, she was eyeing me from a sideways glance with her nose crinkled away from me...so that I couldn't breathe on her. The ironic thing is that one morning last week I got out of bed only to stick my heel in the slimy wetness that was her coughed up hairball. How dare she judge me? Anyway, the story ended happily. I called my mom once daylight struck and requested that she come take care of me. And of course she did. She showed up with Sprite and Campbell's Chicken and Stars soup. Sometimes it just feels SO nice to be treated like a 6 year old, doesn't it?

be a member of my entourage

In efforts to increase my savy in the ever-growing field of technology, I have installed a subscription link to my blogsite. If you're interested, you can sign up through the link down on the left hand side of the screen. I guess you'll get an email every now and then when I've posted a new entry. Honestly, I'm not exactly sure how it works. We'll find out together!