Fadeless Memory

Fadeless Memory

In the days of old
His voice rang out
To speak to us today.

He said
Remember me.
As if His memory would fade away.

He lived among us
A sinless life.
And died upon the cross.

Yes, He showed such love,
For you, for me
Even when we were lost.

And now, in days of new
And tomorrow and eternity.

We have hope.
We have life.
And we have it all more abundantly.

An Equal Life

I like math.

 

I wouldn’t go as far to claim to be an Euler or Pythagoras. No, I probably won’t have a postulate or theorem named in my honor.

 

I think it’s the idea of balance and symmetry that appeals to me. I think it’s the idea that every problem has a solution—if only one digs deeply, searches widely and thinks outside the isosceles triangle.

 

Our lives are like one gigantic math problem. You know the kind…one of those complex ones that fill a chalkboard with sigma notations, Greek letters and squiggly nomenclature.

 

At the assumed end, there’s an equal sign and then an answer. Sometimes, the “answer” on the right is as long and cumbersome as the figures preceding it on the left. But the premise is always the same: the left side equals the right. What occurs on one side of the fence is equivalent to the other side. If not, you have an inequality.

 

I was at the funeral of an acquaintance once. Her death was sudden for me—I was unaware of her illness.

At her funeral, I sat and listened as various speakers shared their special anecdotes. I found the experience a bit jarring—what I heard didn’t match up with the woman I thought I knew.  Could it be that I simply hadn’t taken the time to get to know her? We’ve all heard the phrase, “This doesn’t add up.” In this case, it wasn’t an issue of mathematical operations. She had lived an unequal life. What was thought on one side of the equation, didn’t balance the other side.

 

I wish to live an equal life. No surprises should occur at the end. No skeletons should turn the closet door knob and dance in the light. I hope to be as real, open and genuine as I can possibly be.

 

Often, folks are scared to be real, open and genuine. Perhaps they fear rejection or criticism. Maybe they like being hid—even if the hiding is from themselves. Maybe they don’t know who or what they are.

 

I read a poem in 8^th grade that has stuck with me all these years.  I can’t recall the author’s name.  It goes:

 

A single rose,

Stood all alone

Surrounded by

A wall of stone.

 

All around the rose,

Other roses grew

Yet neither knew

The others grew.

 

So often we,

Like roses dwell

Too deep within

Our human shells

 

And pass through life

Not understood

Nor making

All the friends we should

 

I would like to change that last stanza to:

 

And pass through life

Not fully being

The creature God

Designed us to be.

 

You know, a rose with its thorns is beautiful all the same.

 

Here I am—I flawed vessel, yet beautiful in the hands of the One who created me.

 

Our lives are indeed like a long math problem. It unveils and scratches its symbols on slabs of slate as we live each day.

 

There’s a solution to the problem our life creates. It’s a narrow road that few pass. It’s a search for undiscovered territories in time. It’s thought arrived at ingeniously and retrospectively.

 

Perhaps an axiom will not be named after me or after you. But like famous mathematicians of the past, each of us will leave definite life prints in the cement of time.

 

I pray yours resonates an equal life.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Pint-Sized Bully

“No, I won’t get down. You can’t make me. You can’t make me do nothing.”

 I stared into the blue eyes of the pint-sized bully who stood on the chair in front of me.

 Calmly I said, “You’re right kiddo. I can’t make you do anything.” I walked off.

Just another typical day with Stephen, I thought. For fifty days, the five year old occupied my attention through his mischievous behavior. Today, he continues to permeate my thoughts as a whiff of smoke that I can’t brush away.

Each morning, I went through the same ritual. Around 8:00, I held my breath. Thoughts flew through my mind. Perhaps he’ll be absent today. Maybe his mom decided to move him to another preschool. But like clockwork, he always appeared by 8:05 with Pop Tart or dry cereal in hand.

Prior to Stephen’s enrollment, I serenely spent my hours as a watcher, guider and instructor. After his arrival, I became a firefighter–constantly putting out his fires of contention across the room. Once, another student, Jesse, created an intricate train village using blocks for roads and houses. In this community, plastic tress and people abounded, and a train twisted though the center. Jesse busily talked to himself and to the people in his town. If the play people could talk back, they would have screamed in terror; for moments later, Stephen’s vicious foot squashed all Jesse had built. Jesse’s train village was derailed.

“He was in my way!” Stephen defiantly replied after my interrogation.

“Jesse, what do you need from Stephen?” I inquired.

“I need him to say, ’sorry,’” came the response.

A somber look crossed Stephen’s face as he mumbled, “I’m sorry.”

Perhaps we’re making progress, I remember thinking. My victory was short-lived; as soon as I turned my back, I heard Stephen’s voice add spitefully, “Not!”

Stephen did not discriminate among his victims. Even Ashley’s peaceful meditation in the puzzle center became the eye of his unrelenting storm. Across the room, I stood transfixed while I watched Stephen grab a puzzle piece, taunt it in front of her and slap Ashley across the back. With this action, my frustration, which started as a seed, grew. My repertoire of methods, so reliable in the past, failed me. Time out had no effect on him. Private talks proved fruitless. A truce occurred whenever I spent one-to-one time with him. However, these interludes were short and few between, since I had 17 other children to supervise. Thus, our days were still filled with disruption; my circle time chaotic; my nap time became unrestable.

The climax of the Stephen era happened at Sesame Street Live at the Frank Erwin Center. My parent volunteer and I took turns taking children to the bathroom. When it was her turn, she took Stephen and Alex.

I should have known better.

The parent returned frantic–Stephen had walked off. After a frenzied search, we found him watching a vendor. My frustration ripened.

“You will not leave my sight again,” was the only response I could muster. I took his hand, and to my horror, he started wailing. Oh great, I thought, now these people will think I’m trying to steal him.

“You’re causing a scene,” I hissed. “Why are you crying? You’re not hurt.”

To my relief, the racket stopped. Stephen regained his composure remarkably quickly and nonchalantly said, “I’m just a jerk.”

What possessed this child, I wondered. I felt like an archaeologist deciphering a code with few clues. Realizing that my frustration was rooted in helplessness, I rethought my approach.

After attending a workshop and reading relevant literature, I devised a plan which involved Stephen, his mother, the preschool director and myself. The other adults involved were doubtful; I was hopeful. Based on my observations, I divided Stephen’s day into small manageable sections. Some sections lasted thirty minutes, others an hour. The director, Stephen and I met and discussed what it means to “do the right thing.” For each period of time that he could behave appropriately, he received a star on his chart and a small treat. Stephen’s mom received the chart at the end of the day, and it became her job to praise him for any progress shown. My goal was for him to completely fill all ten slots and to gradually increase the time periods but decrease the treats.

It was bribery, but it was scientific.

The star chart showed promise. Unfortunately, the patience I exhibited did not extend to others around me. His ten weeks with me were over. The preschool headed the complaints it received from other parents. Thus our center became the third in the area to expel Stephen.

Stephen will be in first grade this year. I sometimes wonder what he is like now or who he will become in the future. The answer to these questions are not mine to own. I’ll never know what he thought of my attempts. I will never be certain if he knew that I tried so hard because I cared. I’ll never know if through it all, I reached him.

All I really know is that he reached me.

 

Mary’s Praise

My heart ponders your birth

and I think:

     You are magnificent

     my beautiful, tiny, boy

     I hold you in my arms

          my precious lamb

          my cherished one

     I adore you.

     ten fingers and toes

     like dew kissing a flower,

     your skin engulfs you softly

 

     I am amazed by the birth of this baby boy.

 

     You are Immanuel

     my precious, exalted redeemer

     I hold my heart to you

          I’m overshadowd once more

          and swaddled by love

     I adore you.

     My fingers tremble and know

     I hold God robed in flesh

     the prophets words unfurled

 

     I praise you Lord

     for the birth of the Savior of the World.

 

 

 

 

 

Anna’s Praise

O Lord,

my arms raise in praise

at the sight I see

a man child,

the Holy One

who has come to set Israel free.

 

Out of my mouth comes

wonder, laughter

a well of words.

As I proclaim to all ears:

the Christ child has been born.

 

For the years of sacrifice

in this temple I’ve made

Nights and days of prayer,

You, O Lord, have

given me this reward.

 

Now, as my old feet jump up

and my new tears fall down,

my heart races forward

in a rhythm that

beats with this Holy Baby.

It’s a heavenly tune

it’s true bliss

For all of this,

I praise you Lord.

 

(A praise poem based on Luke 2:36-38)

Write Your Story

Didn’t you just get here

     a short time ago

     with bright eyes and hopeful dreams?

Didn’t we just begin

     our journey together

     of learning as a team?

But now you will leave

     and start a journey anew

     into the unknown lands of middle school

     with new friends and a new crew.

Just remember:

     Life is like a book of stories,

     waiting to be told.

Before you start–there’s a blank slate.

On it, you write your words

                         your ideas

                         nice and bold

Punctuate your life with happiness

     and spread your wings.

For where ever you go and what ever you try,

     you can do hard things!

 

 

A 1000 Tears

I do believe I have

a 1000 tears inside of me

each waiting to escape.

 

I do believe on each

is a word

collectively, they spell:

sorrows

hopes

life wished for

dreams dashed.

 

Escape from your prison.

Run free.

Leave behind barrenness

the cold

the cement

the clang, clang

the click, click

the incessant discord mixture

of chains and cackles and calls.

 

Run free

to open lands

oxygen, rolling cheeks,

a chin.

Then plunge into oblivion.

 

I do believe that behind

the 1000 tears

an idea still burns.

 

It is fueled by a furnace of dendrites.

It lives in coals of

grey matter.

It twists and turns

and loops and lurches in lobes

and is cradled in liquid love.

 

An idea—

Ignited by GOD

on day six

somewhere in the third second.

Personally, gingerly, with His fingertips.

Divine breath, blowing, encouraging

beginning embers

hesitantly amber.

 

Divine sight, seeing a future bonfire burst

a crackling and snapping

a hungry inferno

a cacophony

of specifically placed purpose.

 

A consuming life

that engulfs

the darkness

the despair

the destitute.

 

Burn bright

you God-given idea.

Burn on fully and tenaciously.

Do not be extinguished

by false torrential disappointments

fighters of fiery truth

futile windy debris

 

or by a 1000 tears.

 

For the Lord’s plans

are good

and will last 1000 times 1000 upon 1000  years.

 

This, I do believe.