Living Stones and Refined Gold

Pain is something with which I am intimately familiar.  There are many kinds of pain that range from physical and emotional to spiritual and mental.  I've dealt with chronic physical pain since I was a child.  I've also had my fair share and then some of the other types of pain.   One of the questions I wrestle with is why?  Why does God allow me to be in pain?  Why does He allow me to go through painful circumstances?  Can't He see that I've had all I can take and that this isn't fair??

After many years, I think I may have found an answer to my question that satisfies me.  But I can't give away the answer, you'll have to build a cathedral with me first.

 To build a cathedral, you can't just run down to the hardware store and buy some giant stone blocks and arches.  To build a cathedral you have to find a quarry of the right kind of stone.  Chances are you will then have to transport huge chunks of stone quite a distance to your building site.  After you get there, then you have to spend years carving perfect pieces that fit together just right so that you have a structure that can support it's own weight.  Do it wrong, and it all falls apart.  After much work and time, you finally get to make your cathedral beautiful.  You must carve each bird, picture, face, and word that you want to adorn your cathedral.  All of this takes time.  A lot of time.  When most of the the great cathedrals of the world were built, the men who started them did not see them finished during their life time.  Can you imagine spending your entire life working on a project that you may never see finished?  It's frustrating just to think about it.  One of my favorite verses is found in 1 Peter 2:5  It says, You also as a living stone are being built up into a spiritual house with a holy priesthood so that you can offer up sacrifices to God that are pleasing and acceptable.  (The Martha Translation).  You know what that means?  It means that I'm a cathedral.  I am a living stone.  I am being continual shaped into something more beautiful by every single circumstance and person I come in contact with whether it be good or bad.   I am being shaped by pain.

It's a foreign concept to us that pain and suffering can be a good thing.  It goes against our humanity to embrace suffering.   It is the opposite of everything our body and mind says is right and good.  But imagine the freedom that can be found in seeing a higher purpose to pain.  Even the most petty annoyances can be used for good.

Still not convinced that your pain and suffering are a good thing?  Then let's refine some gold.

Gold doesn't just show up in a pure form.  It has to be refined.  There are many ways to refine gold, but all of them involve separating the gold from other compounds or impurities.  Gold is also the most malleable of all the metals.  One ounce of gold can be beaten into 300 square feet.  One of my other favorite scriptures is 1 Peter 1:7.  It says "The trial of your faith, being much more precious than gold which is temporary, though it be refined with fire, will be found unto the praise, honor, and glory at the appearing of Jesus Christ."  (Also the Martha Translation)  This verse seals the deal for me. This tells me that no suffering is pointless if I belong to God.  No pain is meaningless.  No fire of life will kill me, it will only refine me.  It will all be used for the glory of God, if I let it.

There is no promise or guarantee that following Christ will be easy.  In fact, it won't be.  If it were easy, it wouldn't mean as much.  There will be pain and there will be suffering.  It may be physical, it may be emotional, and I can guarantee that some of it will be spiritual.  But there is great beauty to be found if you look.   Whatever form your pain takes, whether it be the sharp chiseling pains of being sculpted or the the burning pain of being refined, let it be used for something good.  Let God take the pain and use it to make you into something beautiful that has far more worth than gold and will last long after the last cathedral has crumbled into dust.

Un-parents

I started to write this post around Mother's day and decided to wait and finish it for Father's day.

While I'm all for celebrating the men and women who are parents, these holidays make me a little sad.
It seems that these days are specifically focused on the parents who have contributed genetic material to form a human being.  But what about the rest of us?  You've heard the saying "Any man can be a father, but it takes someone special to be a dad."  I'm sure there is a counterpart to that saying about mothers.

You may be the best mother or father in the world, but I guarantee that you didn't do it by yourself.  Look around you.  There are teachers, coaches, aunts, uncles, family friends, Sunday school teachers, grandparents, and many, many more who support our and allow you to be an amazing parent.  Don't believe me?  Stay with your kids 24 hours a day for two straight weeks and no one else around and see how difficult your life would be.

Someone is picking up the slack from your rough days and days that you just want to hide in the closet from your kids.  Someone is not only spending the majority of the day with your children 5 days a week to educate them, but they are also teaching your child to be a responsible and kind person.  When you are not around, there is someone else answer your child's questions about how babies are made, what holds water together, and how far away are the stars.  When they are older, there is one more trusted adult to encourage your child to make wise choices, not date idiots, not get drunk and drive, to make good grades in school.  When your child fails (and they will) there is one more person who will storm the castle with you and help rescue your child.

Single parents or working parents seem to have a tendency to hold a grudge that someone else is doing this for their kids.  I promise you that even if you were with your kids every waking hour of every day, there are still questions your child will be more comfortable asking someone other than you.  Don't look at this as a slap in the face, look at it as a blessing.  There is one more person in your child's life that would do anything for them.

Sadly,  in today's culture there seems to be a stigma attached to being childless, especially regarding women.   Some people can't have children.  Some people haven't met the right partner to have children with.  Some of them had children and lost them.  I'm here to tell you that to us, none of that really matters.  What matters is that there are children in front of us in whose lives we can make a difference; even if it is small.

Don't make the mistake of thinking that we are always happy this way.  What hurts even more than the fact that we don't have our own children is hearing the snide and catty remarks from parents.  "Wait until you have children of your own."  "You'll think differently when you have your own kids."  "Your opinion doesn't matter, you don't even have kids." "You don't understand how hard this is."

Stop treating us like babysitters.  Stop assuming that we quit caring the minute we walk out the door.  Stop telling us that we know nothing about raising children.  We have plenty of other things we could be doing in our lives, but we are on this journey with you because we choose to be.

In some cases, we know your kids better than you,  especially if you have a trophy child (just for show).  In some cases, we run unseen interference between you and your child.  In some cases, all it takes is to have another adult backing you up with your kids.  In all cases, your child is just as important to us as our own child would be.

Donating genetic material doesn't make you a dad anymore than going through child birth makes you a mom.  Parenthood is sacred, and it's about the state of your heart.   Whether you are single or married, rich or poor, barren or otherwise, parenthood is about giving your time and love to someone.  It's about nurturing and comforting.  It's about learning and growing.  It's about cooking meals and kissing scraped knees.  It's about reading and storytelling.  It's about discipline and mercy. It's about innovation and practicality.  It's about being part of a child's life.

So as you celebrate the days set aside to honor you for being a parent, take a moment to thank the un-parents who always have your back and who are silently smoothing the foundation and laying the bricks to help you raise the best thing that ever happened to you.

Open Letter To The World At Large

Do you ever stop to think of how many times you hear women being referred to as "slut", "hoe", "beeotch", and much worse by Hollywood, song lyrics, literature, and just about everywhere else?  Does it bother you?  Do you ever stop to think of how often you use those terms?  Does it make you stop and think?  

Do you ever wonder why this language is reserved for women and seems to not have a counterpart in the male world?  

I wonder the same thing.  But I also wonder why those terms and the rest like them are seen as culturally acceptable.   I'm shocked and surprised not only by how prevalent and acceptable they are in our culture, but by who I hear using them the most.  It's not always men who are screaming at their wives.  It's not always guys who are mad at their girlfriends.  It's not always a rap song that you really like.  It's boys and girls talking to and about their friends.  I can't tell you how often I've heard girls and boys refer to their friends and often themselves by using this language.  I don't just mean teenagers either.  Sadly, this type of language is prevalent in the adult world among both genders.  

I have somethings I would like to say on the subject to everyone who reads this.  This is my point of view and you are in no way obligated to even respect what I have to say.  But you should :)  

Variations of these terms have been used for centuries to describe women who sell their bodies for profit.  In the Bible they were called harlots.  In Shakespeare's time they were called slatterns.  The various terms have devolved over the years until the meanings are often blurred.  The point is this, today these terms are all used to degrade women regardless of if the user understand the meaning of the word.  More often than not, these words are used in a flippant and joking fashion.  

This is the language of hurt and abuse.  These are the words that someone uses when they want to debase and degrade you into what has historically been seen as the lowest form of humanity.  Why would you ever use these words to describe yourself or those you love?  Girls, if  a guy says these words to you, he certainly isn't trying to make you feel loved and appreciated.  Guys, is the name you are flippantly calling your female friend going to make her feel safe with you?

Girls,  you need to stand up for yourself.  Don't just stand up for you, stand up for the women who can't stand anymore.  There are women so beaten and broken by the world that it is just easier to keep being abused than it is to fight back.  Don't let people treat you this way.  Don't treat other people this way.  

Guys, you want to know how to make a girl respect you?  Treat her with respect.  Want to know how to get girls to notice you?  Treat every woman you meet honorably and with decency.  Protect the women in your life, especially the broken ones.  

This is not a language that builds and supports, but one that tears down and damages.  Even if you are joking, these words still hurt.  Have enough respect for the people in your life to find better ways of expressing yourself.  Have enough respect for yourself to not use abusive and degrading language for any reason.  Better yet, if you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all.   

My Friend

One day when I was somewhere in the vicinity of  9 years old, I met a person who has changed my life in more ways that I can count.  When she reads this, she is probably going to disagree with most of it. She won't believe some of it, and some of it we probably remember differently.

It was a Sunday; the first Sunday in a seemingly endless line of first Sundays that happen when you are the daughter of a somewhat transient pastor.  

I hated these Sundays.  There is nothing quite like walking into a new church, being the daughter of the pastor, and more often than not, dressed exactly like the rest of the people in your 8 person family.   I can't think of words to describe the feeling of knowing that you now have to befriend not only the children your age, but basically everyone else in the church as well.  It is what you do, you are the pastor's daughter.  

After you befriend them, you answer questions like "Why are you all wearing the same clothes?" "Where do you buy your clothes?" "Why do you go to school at home?" "Do you get to wear pajamas all day?" "Is it weird to have so many brothers and sisters?" "What do you DO all day?" "Can you really make your own clothes?" 

For every answer you give, there are a million more questions.  Yes, I can cook, do laundry, bake, preserve food, change a diaper, clean anything that needs to be cleaned, plant a garden, milk a goat, ride a cow, supervise my younger siblings (and a few of the older ones as well), translate Greek and Hebrew into English, demonstrate proficiency at multiple types of handcrafts,  and the list goes on and on and on some more.  After this list of questions there are more questions that usually start with "Why."  What it all boils down to is this question, "What kind of a freak show is going on in Tuckerville?"

  Once we have established sufficient grounds for friendly acquaintance, then we start the dance.  Our relationship becomes complicated.  You don't know what to think of me, I don't know how to act with you.  My whole view of this is not that I met a new friend who I enjoy spending time with.  My 9 year old self wants to be your friend.  My freaky adult-like self knows that in all likelihood, I'm not going to be at this church long enough for it to matter.  If I am,  I can do nothing to dispel the belief that I am weird.  Also, getting to know your parents, grandparents and every other adult in the church is more important because I have to answer important things like my views on homeschooling, raising children, the Triune God, baptism, prayer, healing, speaking in tongues and anything else that comes up.  I am a Tucker, I am home-schooled,  I can quote entire books of the Bible, and my mission in life is to give all glory, praise and compliments to God - and to be a good reflection of my parents.  This is my life.  

After 30 years of being the preacher's daughter, there is a long list friends that I met as a child in church that were and still are my friends.  If we narrow that list to people my age, it gets drastically shorter.  If we narrow it again to girls my age, the list can be counted on one hand.  

Back to 9 year old Martha.  I walked into Calvary Bible Church in Abilene, Texas that Sunday morning 21 years ago.  I knew at this point that there was a vast difference between a friend and an aquantaince.  I was 9 years old and I didn't have friends.  I had brother and sisters.  The only two people I could call a friends in the traditional sense of the word were Annie and Abigail.  Even they were people I saw only on special occasions.  They were my "default" friends because our dads were best friends, we occasionally went to the same churches and they were also home schooled.  They actually fit better into the 'sister' category anyway.  

That day, I saw a girl who I assumed to be my age all the way on the other side of the church.  She wore the most beautiful dress I had ever seen with purple and yellow pansies all over it.  She had the the most beautiful blonde hair and looked almost exactly like a china doll I had seen once and desperately wanted for Christmas.  I didn't get it, because I never told anyone I wanted it.  It wasn't practical, serviceable, useful so it wouldn't have made the cut anyway.   

Lacey Gamble was the most quiet, shy person I had ever met in my life.  She was also very "girly",  a staunch vegetarian, and I had a sneaking suspicion that she mostly wore clothing purchased from actual stores.  She was in every way, everything that I wasn't.  Oh, and she went to school outside of her home.  She was normal.

I launched my "preacher's daughter friendship" campaign because I was supposed to.  It didn't work well.  So I stepped it up a notch.  I made a point to talk to Lacey.  Lacey made it a point to nod and smile.  After a few weeks of this, I saw it as a challenge.  This girl was going to be my friend whether she liked it or not.  So I resorted to a tactic that has proven highly successful for me.  If the shy person seems like they don't want to be your friend, talk to them, sit next to them, ask your mom to let them come over and play.  My plan is simple; they'll either eventually like me and want to be my friend, or they will be my friend simply so I'll scale back and stop bothering them so much.  It worked like a charm.  

I have no idea to this day when the magic moment was that we became real friends.  I think it was when we were sitting in her pink, frilly bedroom (that she didn't have to share with ANYONE) and telling our middle names.  She told me her middle name, and I told her about a book I loved that had a princess with the same name.  Thus launched the first real, honest to goodness, I-haven't-known-you-since-birth, we are close to the same age friendship of my life.  

I did most of the talking, she did most of the laughing.  She liked Annie and Abigail (pretty much a pre-requiste for any sort of lasting relationship in my life), they in turn liked her.  Her dad made me memorize the Circle of Fifths, Fourths, and some really weird jazz chords that I still don't understand.  My mom gave Lacey and her brother piano lessons.  Her dad gave my brother and sister flute lessons.  Possessing adequate knowledge of all things musical, I managed to escape most of these exasperating music lessons and got to know Lacey's mom really darn well.  This earned her mother in the second ever awarded spot in the "Martha's Mothers" club (alternately known as the adults to who I can say or ask anything and be given not only wise advise, but more importantly, it won't be repeated verbatim to my parents) and thus essentially making Lacey and I sisters.  

After a few years, my family moved on to another church.  Lacey stayed my friend.  

Lacey had an endless supply of knowledge for things I knew nothing about.  Disney movies, the Dixie Chicks, Elvis, the Beetles, mascara, nail polish, hair accessories, and a whole lot more.  In return for this forbidden knowledge, I provided as much knowledge as I had for the things that were probably in retrospect totally foreign to her.  

Somewhere in the 2nd or 3rd year of this friendship, it became ok to talk about things that we weren't supposed to talk about.  I don't mean cute boys and gossip magazines.  I mean family problems, I-don't- understand-my-mother problems, things that no one else knew about me that were not blood relatives.  Actually, a lot of things I still don't talk about with blood relatives were discussed on the privacy of the the trampoline or in the horse pasture.  

Fast forward through our short-lived housecleaning business in which I had the distinct honor and downright pleasure of guiding her through the cleaning of her first (and at the time swore would be the last) bathroom only used by males.  It was hilarious.  I laughed, she gagged.  She left her school and was home schooled.  She talked me into going with the youth group to Six Flags.  It was the first and only time I've been.  

We started our first "real" job at the same place either at the same time or within the same couple of months.  We were the Burger Queens of Abilene.  She developed an interest in a particular boy (who is now her husband).  I am still largely annoyed by most males (quite possibly the reason I'm still single). I've had a key to the home she grew up in for more years than I've had keys to the house I grew up in.  I know more about her brother than I know about most of my brothers-in-law.  At some point around year 3 or 4, my family moved on to another church.  Then we came back to Calvery. Then we left again.  Then we came back again.  

Somewhere in our teenage years we had a brief patch of heated disagreements, hurt feelings, huge miscommunication, and probably a lot of raging hormones.  I have no idea how it started but I do know how it ended.  Our boss and youth group leader hauled me into his office and sat me down for a come to Jesus meeting.  I aired my feelings and was told that a friendship this good was worth the fight.  I was instructed to go straight from work to Lacey's house and sit down and work it out and not to leave until it was resolved.  I've never asked, but I think Lacey may have also gotten a come to Jesus meeting.  I've also never asked, but I'm pretty sure he called Lacey's mom and told her to lock us in a room and not to let us come out or feed us until we fixed the problem.  I remember we sat in her room, yelled, cried, explained, re-explained, cried some more, hugged and resumed our lives.  I also remember that it took a while.  

After that our relationship started to change.  She left our Burger joint job.  I stayed for  6 years.  I went to college with a passion.  She did not share that passion.  We both became busy with the details of our young adult lives and by necessity and busyness stopped seeing each other as much.  We both had cell phones though and boy did we keep those minutes rolling by.  

Age 17 to 24 I don't have as many interesting stories to tell.  This was a time in my life the details of which few people know all about.  Lacey is at the top of that list.  Even fewer people have heard me be totally open and brutally honest about my thoughts, feelings, and experiences of those years.  Lacey is one of 3.  Those same 3 are the only ones that I completely trust to take my hand and help me revisit the memories of those years.  She's heard the same things about the same events for more than 10 years now.  It doesn't matter if it keeps on for another 30.   That giant long discussions when we were teenagers to sort out our differences is the moment I first realized that I'm not the type of person who can discuss, analyze, process, and heal.  My road to healing is fraught with discussion, analyzation, processing and then repeat it all again.  She knows me and loves me enough to walk through all the repeats, all the possible outcomes, all the possible shortcomings, every possible variable and then sit back and watch a small part of me heal.  Then we do it all again.  

One of the best moments of that time in my life was getting the phone call from Lacey that she was engaged to the aforementioned boy.  Even better than that was playing at their wedding.   Of all the weddings I have attended in my life -which is a lot - theirs has been my favorite.  But that is a whole other story.

Age 25-26 we set off into a brave new world.  She was a wife.  I was a teacher.  She lived 10 minutes from her family.  I live two hours from mine.  She went through a time of fighting her own demons which were in some ways very similar to mine, but in other ways polar opposites.  Her issues were rooted in the discovering her identity.  My issue were rooted in juggling mine.  The phone calls lessened significantly.  What did not lessen was the knowledge that if we needed each other, we would find a way whether it be by phone, email, text, carrier pigeon, or prayer.  

The purpose of what I am writing is this.  There is a lot to Lacey that people don't know.  Lacey went on a mission trip to China that transformed her from my childhood friend into someone that is mighty in spirit, bold, and honest.  Lacey also deals with a severe anxiety disorder.  We have spent many hours sitting in her car trying to figure out what causes it, how to deal with it, and more importantly, how to live with it.  We have boldly sat in Olive Garden long past finishing dinner because if you have to do battle with the Devil, you may as well have eaten awesome food first.  One recurring issue the last 6 or so years has been weighing the decision of wanting children, but first needing to not be on medication that makes you able to function.  This is an issue that we have in common; Lacey for anxiety and me for chronic pain.  We have both always known we would grow up and be mothers.  It's one of those things we both want, but not necessarily with the same intensity.

In 2011, I moved to Dallas to take a job that has easily proved to be the most stressful, challenging, and time-consuming of my life.  I basically shut down for a year and didn't communicate with anyone if it wasn't by a two line text message.  I frequently found my self driving home from work at 10 or 11 at night in tears.  Not just tired tears,  but full-on I am totally alone tears.  I'm pretty sure in that year I actually physically saw Lacey 1 time and spoke to her on the phone maybe twice.  One of my biggest fears in life is growing apart from my closest friends.  I've come to realize that we aren't growing apart per se, we are just growing and maturing in different ways.  

In October 2011 my phone rang.  At this point my first reaction when I see Lacey calling me is worry and concern, so I freaked out, hung up on my mother and answered the call.  Lacey was calling to tell me she was pregnant.  I distinctly remembering shreaking from joy and then stopping myself to ask her how she felt about this.  I think it is a fair bet to say that in that conversation, I was by far the most excited (what can I say, I'm nutty about babies)  We talked for a while about the pregnancy, nutrition, how to deal with anxiety and I'm sure a million other things.  Knowing Lacey's fears, she was promptly moved to the top of my daily prayer list (which is prayed for from 5 am to 6 am while I get ready for work).  We also texted a lot.  Right about the time she started getting used the whole pregnant thing, I got a second phone call.  This time, I was in the middle of doing something, answered the phone and thus set fire to something in my kitchen because I went into 911 mode when I saw the call.  She was calling to tell me she was expecting twins.  Again, I was the most excited person on the phone.  I think if we had nicknames to describe our reactions from my point of view, I would be name Wild and Unbridled Joy.  Lacey would be named Cautious Optimisim Leading up to Joy.  

Without telling you about every single sonogram pic I saw, every single text and phone call, and every single detail of Lacey's pregnancy, I will tell you this.  Every phone call ended with prayer over Lacey's mind, body, emotions and the health of those babies.  Every discussion about gender and baby names and diaper brands and everything else are memories I treasure.    But it is not just the memories of these times we shared that I'm going to remember for the rest of my life.  

What I will remember most about those 9 month is this.  In that 9 months I watched my friend leave behind the cares, anxieties, and troubles of her life to focus solely on her mental, emotional, spiritual and physical health for the sake of her children.  While I watched this I noticed something else.  Even though she still had the same cares and troubles, they stopped mattering as much and by virtue of that fact, stopped troubling her as much.  I watched Lacey grow and mature in ways that astounded me (and I'm hard to astound).  For lack of a better visual image, I watched her turn from a caterpillar into butterfly.  It is a sad comparison for what I saw, but it's the best I can do short of writing a symphony about it.  I watched a miracle.  I watched an answer to years of crying out to God.  I watched the process of cells turn into two perfect little boys.  I watched the perfect doctor be in the perfect place at the perfect time.  I watched Lacey fit all the stuff for two babies into an already tiny house.  Every day of that 9 months was a beautiful, joyful miracle and I'm not even the one who experienced it.  

If we could name children based only on the landmarks of the paths we walk until their births, those boys would be named Grace and Joy.  Thankfully, I'm not in charge of baby names :)

Lacey Brynn Gamble Casey.  This was written because I had a story to tell and this is the only way I know to even begin to express how much you mean to me and the point to which you have impacted my life.  You are one of the strongest, wisest, Christ-like people that I know.  Being a part of your life has been a rich blessing that I'm not sure I have any right to.  My deepest and most heart-felt prayer for you is that in the coming years of your life, no matter what storms or troubles come that you will be able to hold on tight to who you are in Christ and the promise that brings.  If you ever need reminding, ask me about the Lacey that I see, the marriage that I see, and the parents that I see in you and Brian.  If I had to pick one Bible verse to ever say or remind you of, it would be 2 Corinthians 5:17-21   In the Revised Martha Edition of the Bible it would say this. 

Because you are a part of Christ as He is a part of you, you will continually transform into a new creation.  The old you has died and a new one has come.  This is a gift from God who through Christ brought us to himself, reconciled how we see ourselves with how He sees us and gave to us the ability to show this to others.  This is because through Christ, God reconciled the world to himself and did not count their trespasses against them, and then called them to take that message to the world.  Therefore, we are ambassadors for Christ and God can use us as his voice.  For your sake, he took on your sin so that you are now free to transform into the righteousness OF God.  

Thank you for letting me into your life 20 something years ago.  Thank you for choosing to let me remain there.  Thank you most of all for seeing my heart and who I really am under all the crap from my life and my family and for always being there to remind me to keep cleaning off the mud because somewhere under there, there has to be a diamond :)

HAPPY FIRST BIRTHDAY DECLAN AND ETHAN!!!!

Lacey at 9 months

Declan and Ethan with Aunt Martha

Guest Blog on Les Miserables

This is a guest post I wrote for my sister Tammi's blog. You can check out all her blog posts at www.ktmossman.com/tryinglesstrustingmore



 Hello All, Tammi did something very dangerous, which is to ask my opinion. :) While I loved seeing Les Miserables, it is my firm impression that Hollywood and Broadway need to stick to their respective coasts and stop intermingling. I went into this movie with what is for me, a fairly open mind. This is one of my favorite musicals of all time and I was trying very hard to not walk in expecting to be disappointed (I'm a music snob, I can't help it). As I watched the movie, I couldn't help but mentally criticize some of the singing, the changed orchestrations and the choice of some of the actors used to portray some of my favorite literary characters. Around the middle of the movie, I decided to let go of my expectations and just enjoy what I was there to see with a sister that I hardly ever get to see. 

 As I continued to watch, I was moved again by the choices the characters make. Jean val Jean had every reason to be a bitter man, full of hate for the people who wronged him. But he wasn't. Instead, he chose to live a life marked by grace, doing what he could for those around him. It didn't matter to him who needed help, all he saw were people who were less fortunate than he. Fantine chose to do whatever she could to provide for her daughter. Granted, she made less than healthy choices to do so, but in my experience desperation doesn't always see clearly. She also made a tremendously courageous choice to trust her daughter's future to a stranger. Eponine loved someone who couldn't love her in return. Did that cause her to walk out of his life to find someone better? No, she stayed and fought by his side and eventually died without ever telling him how she felt. Marius fell in love and was ready to abandon everything for the sake of a girl, but then chose to stay and fight by the sides of his friends for something that was bigger than all of them. Javert spent his entire adult life trying to live by the law and thus please God. In the end, the grace shown to him by Jean val Jean rips apart everything he has believed in for so long. So he kills himself. Gavroche is a street urchin who chose to fight the injustice that is all he has ever known and dies in the process. 

 We can all sit and debate the theology and morality of these and the rest of the choices made in this story but the point is this: almost every person represented chose to put the welfare of others before that of themselves. There is a famous line from this story that says "to love another person is to see the face of God." If you read this quote literally, there are all kinds of problems. I think a better way to read this quote is "Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends." John 15:13 I think Victor Hugo was trying to make the point that by learning to see and love people the way God sees and loves them, we cannot help but to grow closer both to people and to God. If you want to watch a spellbinding movie with a great story, then do so.

 If you want to see something deeper, then look at what drives the characters to make the choices they make. Learn from Jean val Jean that hatred and bitterness will only kill you. Learn from Fantine that you can't always solve problems by yourself. Learn from Javert that there has to be balance in your life. Learn from Marius that sometimes being a part of something great is worth personal sacrifice. Learn from Eponine that love doesn't have to be declared to be real and fulfilling. Above all, take away from this that love comes in many forms. It can be giving someone back their life or giving up your own life for someone. But more often than not, it is simply looking around and choosing to make a difference in the life of someone less fortunate than yourself. If I were Victor Hugo and I had written this book, my famous line would have read something like this, "If you want to see the face of God, go and feed the hungry, clothe the naked, be gentle with the hurting, and love those who are unlovable."

 Martha

The Forgotten Child

I wrote this about two years ago and just came across it again.  It serves as a reminder to me that every time I walk into a classroom and open my mouth, I have the opportunity to make a difference in the life of a child.  Oddly, I think those potential differences have little to do with the subject I teach.  I'm posting this as a reminder to myself that no matter how hard and tedious some days may be, I'm blessed beyond belief to do this work.

The Forgotten Child

We will call him Despair.  He has many names, among them, Fear, Hurt, Self-Loathing, and Loneliness.  He has a sister, or a brother, or thousands of them who share his name.  Despair is one of the Forgotten Ones.  A child whom no one cares about.  There are people who say they care, but when it really matters, Despair finds himself alone.  When you think about a forgotten child, you think of a child whose parents were taken away by war, sickness or death.  In most cases children become forgotten through the far more insidious ways of neglect and abuse. 

We all know this child.  He is the one who was born to parents who didn't want him.  He was the one who got left behind in a divorce.  He is the one whose parents are in jail and he is being raised by other family.  There are many stories of his beginnings, many excuses for why he was forgotten.  They matter, but what matters more is if he will continue to be forgotten. 

If Despair is “fortunate” he has the chance to attend school, where he is even more neglected.  Despair stays away from people, because people hurt him.  He sits alone because no one wants to sit near him.  For you see, Despair wears the same clothes all week because he has no others, unless he wears his mother's jeans and tennis shoes, hoping no one will notice.   No one taught Despair to wash and to take care of basic hygiene issues.  So some days he smells.   Despair doesn't eat at lunch, because he can't afford to and doesn't know that he can ask for help.  Despair walks the hallways in fear of being taunted for being different.  He will be mocked, hit, tripped or pushed everyday.  Physical wounds will heal, but the spiritual and emotional wounds will never go away. 

If Despair is “lucky” there will be one teacher, or one counselor who will take an interest in him.  But this interest is short-lived.  It centers around passing a class or going to the next grade.  This is all overshadowed and made unimportant by the fact that Despair will drop out of school in 9th grade to get a job.   

Despair believes that he has no worth or value in the world.  This will be constantly reinforced by teachers and family who consider him lazy because he doesn't work in class.  No one knows or cares that Despair stays up with his drunk mother at night to make sure she is ok.  No one cares that Despair takes care of younger siblings and doesn't have the time to do homework or study.  No one thinks about what pain they are causing this child when they raise their voices at him or verbally abuse him in front of other student. 

We all know this child.  We know that statistics show that he will start dealing drugs so he can buy food for his family.  We know that he is likely to join a local gang so he can belong to a group who will look out for him.  We know that  he will do anything to feel valued. 

You've heard that it takes a village to raise a child.  In the case of Despair and his friends, this is true.  It will take more than one person to make a difference in his life.  It will take many people and many acts of kindness to show this child that he has inestimable worth.  It will take time more than anything.  The real question is, will the people in this child's life take the time to make a difference?  Will they go the extra mile, spend the extra money, take the extra time and commit to the journey? 

If they will, they will find that the time spend investing in this child and loving him will be one of the most rewarding things they have ever done.  But most of them will never take the time.  Despair will become one more causality in the war of indifference that we choose every day not to fight.  

Please look around you and find the child in your life who fits the description of Despair.  Choose to make a difference no matter what.  You may be the only one who ever says a kind word to this child.  You may be the only face of Christ that he or she ever sees.  Please choose to love the unlovely, fight for the weak, and be a shield for the hurting.  There are more of these children around you than you think.  Look closely,  and then act.

Martha's note:  Sometimes something weighs so heavily upon me that I have to write about it.  As a teacher, I see these children every day.  Sadly, I also see them in the homes of people I know.  Neglect happens on a small scale everyday in normal, happy families.  These children need champions.  They need someone  who will show them unconditional love and acceptance.  As someone who has dreamed for years of starting my own family, I see these children as a God-given opportunity to be a mother for someone who may not have one.  It's a hard calling, but I believe we are all called to help these children.  I pray daily that God will allow me to see these children as He sees them and to guide me as I try to help them.  Please join me in the fight to save these children from the futures that are ahead of them.  This writing is dedicated to Edwin and Kris Bumpass who made sure that Alie Grace would not be a forgotten child.

Dear Brother

Dear Brother,


You died on this date several years ago.  I don't know how many years because I avoided reading your obituary, death certificate or anything else that might provide a cleaned up account of your existence or lack thereof..  I'm not actually sure this is the correct date for that matter.  It was the third week in June, that's as close as I can get.

I don't know how else to start except to scream: I hate you, I hate you, I hate you.

I spent most of my childhood not saying or thinking this because it was wrong to hate someone.  I hated you for how you treated me.  I hated you for scaring me all the time.  I especially hated you for locking me in that big wooden box under your bed.  You were flat out one of the meanest people I've ever known.  I don't think childhood hatred is really hatred, or even an absence of love.  I think it was just the strongest word I knew to use for how helpless and angry you made me feel.  But you know what I  actually, really, truly hated about you?  I hated that not once, in 30 some odd years of being my older brother did you  ever stand up for me or protect me in any way.  Not once.   I hated you for repeatedly taking advantage of the blind trust I had in you.

As we both became adults, I tried to let go of all of this.  I at least tried to get over it.  I tried to be your friend.  I was so happy when you had children, I think I saw it as a way for you to redeem yourself somehow.  Or maybe it was to redeem me.  I tried to listen to you and be on your side when you got divorced.  I swore to you to protect your children if something ever happened to you.  When you got so sick, I sent you all the money I could as a college student so you could afford your medicine.  I found you places to stay when you came to see the kids.  I kept you apprised of how they were doing.  I ran interference between you and other family members.  I did everything I knew to take of you.  That was how I loved you.

You were a sick and distressed  man.  I know you were in pain, hurting and confused.  I know you did not want to be a burden.   I blamed myself for years for not doing more for you.  I hated myself for not answering those last phone calls.  It took many years and still it is hard for me to believe I couldn't have saved you if I had tried harder.  I would have done anything to help you if you had let me.

I am so incredibly hurt and angry to this day about your curtain call.  I need to understand but know that I never will.  I don't know what to tell your children when they are grown and ask about their father.  I don't know what to say to the families of my friends when they take the same exit.  All I can do is cry with them and hope that somehow I can show them that there is still life left in them and that death is not the end.

I've done everything you have ever asked me to do.  I have done everything to be the aunt/father to your children that you can no longer be.  I've failed miserably,  but I did do my best.  I like to think that if you were still here we would have been friends.  Or at least that you would be proud of me and finally approve of me.

For the first three years I thought about you thousands of times a day and dreamed about you every night.  I was shocked one day to realize you weren't everywhere in my mind.  But without fail on your birthday, Christmas, anytime we have a new baby born into the family,  a grandparent passes away, or the third week in June, I turn into a person I am afraid to be.  The depth of my sorrow seems like a wide gaping mouth ready to swallow me.  I don't understand how I still feel this way after so many years.  I don't understand why you still haunt my dreams.  I don't even know I've dreamed about you until I wake screaming.   I don't know what else to do to make myself back into who I was. I don't even know if that is who I really want to be.   You shattered my world and I hated you for it.

I've stomped on your grave and cursed you.  I've screamed until I had no voice and cried until I had no tears.  I have wrestled the devil, God, and everything in between trying to understand. There is a huge emptiness inside me for a brother who was never what I needed, but that I am afraid I learned too late how to love.

I miss you, I miss you, I miss you.