He wished me a good day...

At 6:20am I started walking over the Memorial Bridge, about half the distance of the bridge ahead of me I saw this mountain of black garbage bags being pushed on a grocery cart. The bags were so high and full that I couldn’t see the cart at all. There had to have been at least a dozen of the largest bags available. It was even difficult to see the man pushing this mountain toward West Springfield. He was in the road; cars would have to get into the middle lane to go around him. Every few yards I’d see him peek around this slow moving massive pile in effort to redirect the cart toward the side of the road. He would also stop to wipe his head with a yellow hand towel, the only bright spot in this visual experience. After making it around the rotary, I thought he was going to continue up Memorial Drive; he turned on to Main Street. Straining to push this load, he made it up a place where he could sit. It was at this point that I caught up with him as he wiped the sweat from his body. I commented on how much work pushing that load was and he told me that he had had to change his clothes twice at this point and was going to need to again. I agreed with him and as I passed him he said, “Have a good day.” I returned the same comment.

As I continued down Main Street I began to reflect on his request that I have a good day. Regardless of what my day holds, it will never be like his. I will never have to strain pushing a cart of empty cans and bottles to be redeemed in order to get my basic needs met that day. It was early morning when I met him and he had to have been up since sunrise working toward the redemption of his load. This simple conversation brought to me the realization of how much I am blessed as well as how grateful I need to be regardless of what fills my day. May we all “Have a good day!”

Blessed are the Peacemakers

“Praise God from whom all blessings flow. Praise God you beings here below.
Praise God you spirits from above. Praise God, the Son and Holy One.”

My simple prayer as I walk in the early morning hours. Sometimes I make up verses for different thoughts of praise going back to this as a refrain.

As I was praying this morning at 6am on my way by the bus station I became aware of a man (I’m going to call him Isaac) dressed in a vibrant printed outfit of perhaps one of the African cultures. He was carrying a white hand carved delicate stick. I’m not exactly sure when I became aware of his presence though I know I was in the middle of my prayer refrain. This man was about 20 feet in front of me having just crossed the bus station parking lot, just continuing his journey south on the side walk. Our peaceful moment was disrupted when a man walking north on the side walk pushed Isaac into the bushes. Isaac quickly scrambled back to feet, trying to straighten his clothing and access what had just happen, saying to the man who knocked him down, “Why’d you do that man?” The man then tried to knock him down again as Isaac repeatedly asked his question. In self defense Isaac ended up swinging his small stick to make the man back off. The man never answered him, only uttered a few obscenities. When Isaac got the man to back off enough to turn, he did and began trying to walk away. I could tell that that man wanted to go after him again. At that moment I decided to walk in between them. The man took a few steps in our direction, Isaac had no idea what was happening as his back was to us. The man met my gaze as I walked. He then changed his direction and left us.

As I continue to walk, I began to reflect on how volatile life is- out of a peaceful morning walk violence crept into our lives. A few blocks later I caught up with Isaac. I noticed his medallion was hanging down his back, misplaced after the assault. I went to pass him and I mentioned it to him. Isaac was visibility still shaken as he assured me it was okay. I stated that I didn’t want him to lose it and wished him a good day as I passed him.

A few steps later, “Blessed are the peacemakers…” came to mind. Did I become a peacemaker in that moment? How fragile life is. How easily peace can be disrupted in an instant. It wasn’t just one man disregarding the peace of another. Anyone whom I share this with is touched.

“Praise God from whom all blessings flow. Praise all the peacemakers here below. Praise those peacemakers who spirits we love. Praise God, Son and Holy One.”

Tootsie Pop Prayer

Gracious radiating energy, bring us into that space that each of us holds sacred for your presence. Open us as we gather for your creative movent and thought...

Life is so much like a tootsie pop. There are those days when we are so wrapped up in how we feel or how something is going to affect us personally that we forget that others are wrapped up in the same ways.

The color of our wrappings may be all different. Our perspectives even cause our wrappings to be wound tightly around the "stick" that supports us. Our wrappings may even come undone with the wear and tear of being tossed around in life's pocket.

When we take off the protective covering, (which if you think about it...it hides the true self from the world, protecting very little) there is a hard surface ready to face the world. How often do we show others our hard surface?

yes, this uneven hard surface can act as a buffer against life's bumps and bruises; however if dropped or struck in a certain manner it can crack or chip. Let us recognize that this coating has a pleasant flavor for those times when we choose to enjoy life by ourselves or with others.

God, inside that hard protective outer covering is a special place where we allow so few...sometimes only you touch us there. It is place though, that is the same in all us tootsie pops. It is the soft spot within that we all possess, that is your gift to us.

How many licks does it take to get to the center of a tootsie pop? Only you God, know for sure. Help us to get past our wrappings and the wrappings of others...past the protective outer coating that shields or allows us to hide from who we really are... help us to reach out from the soft centers where you are really present to us. May there not be too many licks to get to the center of our true beings as persons you would have us be. Amen.

White Mountains

 

There by the Grace of God

There by the grace of God…
As I was coming home midmorning after a doctor’s appointment there was a couple from Latin America in the street at the bottom of our driveway. They were collecting bottles and cans. Unfortunately, the containers out on the street were the blue ones- paper and plastics recycling. The likelihood of finding the five cent returnable treasures was pretty slim in the recycle bins of the Gray House. The majority of those who staff some of the programs are neighbors who volunteer their services and receive from the thrift shop, food pantry as well as the other programs depending on need. If there are any returnable cans or bottles it is most likely that they will be collected by someone who spends their day in service to the Gray House. I could see the disappointment on the man’s face as he opened a few of the bins to see they were filled with boxes.
I’m a diet soda addict. I keep a bag in the trunk of my car for the empties. Usually I donate these collectables to Jane for Homework House. Seeing the disappointing look on this couple’s faces, I knew that the bag had to go somewhere else this time. I retrieved the bag from the trunk of my car and offered it to them. They took it gratefully and thank me several times. There wasn’t more than two dollars worth of bottles and cans in that bag, but to them it clearly made a difference.
I also began to think about this encounter in a couple of ways. The first was that we made a connection, if even for a few moments. The couple didn’t have to pick out of the trash, I asked them if they wanted it and I handed it to them as well as thanked them for taking it for me. There was dignity in this exchange.
Upon more reflection I remembered an experience I had when teaching high school sophomores about fifteen years ago. It was Thanksgiving time. There were classroom collections for food. Discussions about being poor and how some could end up homeless or exceedingly needy by just a few misfortunes, such as a parent losing their job or an illness were major topic. One bright young woman, from a financially secure family was very adamant that her parents would never allow the family to ever end up in a needy situation, nor would any of her classmates have to experience what we were discussing. It was great that she felt so secure in her family and community. She didn’t know however that one of her classmates, a popular athlete, was experiencing exactly what we were talking about. His mother had just had to apply for food stamps as they were referred to at that time to feed her son. Their single parent income just couldn’t make ends meet. She also didn’t know that there was a family with three siblings whose school breakfasts and lunches were their main meals Monday through Friday. When our principal found out about how these students needed to scrounge for food every week-end, she would have the kitchen staff pack up all the leftover lunch food from the week for these children to take home.
I felt a learning situation coming up. The next day when the students came to class they were divided into group. One group had a breakfast of donuts, fruit and juice. Another group had fruit and juice, the third fruit and the last group which was the largest had to share two rolls left over from dinner. There were many reactions. The secure young woman ended up in the group with the rolls. She wasn’t very happy. Some students made the best of the experience. In follow-up discussion, I explained how each group represented a section of the world population from the wealthy to the developing nations. It was an eye opening for many of the students. My previously very verbal student still held to her security that this could never happen to her family and friends.
How does this go with my experience of the couple collecting cans and bottles this morning? Perhaps they never thought they’d be supplementing their income by going through the trash on the streets. I began to think about the fact that I am probably never going to have to go through someone else’s trash to get my needs met. I realized this afternoon that I’m a lot more like that young woman without realizing it. My family (religious community) will never be in a situation where my sisters and I will be out collecting cans and bottles or other necessities for daily living. At least I like my young student believe that those responsible for us will make the decision necessary to keep us from having to experience what truly being poor is. My parents were hard working individuals who rarely bought something on credit that they didn’t have the money for in the bank. They never let my brothers, sister or I feel that we were poor. We always had what we needed, not always what we wanted. I know a great deal about the poor and poverty. I do not know what it to really be poor or to have to struggle to survive from day to day.
There by the grace of God go I… may I be grateful for all that I have, not taking for granted those things that I rarely think about because I am cared for so well. May I use the gifts and talents I have for the good of all I journey with on the streets, at work, in our house and in those moments of prayer in gratitude for all that I am gifted with in life. May God’s grace go wherever we all go.

Silence

Silence. . .
In the falling pink and white petals of the spring blossoms as they make their way to line the sidewalk for all who walk like rose petals scattered down an aisle to set the tone for a new journey to begin
In the drops of blood dripping down the eyelashes of an injured homeless man as he lies on the concrete looking up at the world like a young child wondering who will reach out to help remove the pain
In the movements of a young man who spends his evening dancing alone on a platform in a dance club while scores of others dance beneath him on the floor connecting with smiles, gentle touches and rhythmic movements to the deafening music
In the breath of a poor mother sitting on a step at a cheap motel blowing dandelion seeds to the delight of her young daughter who knows their life is not like the other girls in her class, yet she dances with nature’s melody as the seeds blow away
In the eyes of an adolescent girl who feels alone at a gathering of hundreds perceiving she is ignored by all she tries to connect with, when there is joy and celebration surrounding her, yet her pain only increases like the volume of the music being played as she stands alone and stares at others waiting to be acknowledged by someone, anyone
In the drifting of a boat being maneuvered by the current on the river as rain begins to gently fall on the water like the dropping of a spider from its web, still connected yet free
It’s there; water, boat, rain all connecting like those gathered at a celebration, a dance club, on the concrete and scattered up a sidewalk all connected for those to see and experience
Silence.

Let the little children come

Let the little children come… is the thought which continually buzzed through my head as Jane and I grilled food on the corners of Huntington and Main, then offered it to anyone who wanted a free hotdog.

As we made our way from the Gray House to that parking lot we probably looked a little odd. We had borrowed a rather large cart from the food pantry. I covered the top of it with heavy aluminum foil which made it quite shiny. On the top of this I placed our well used gas grill. On the lower shelf was a milk crate holding the ketchup, mustard, napkins, an extra gas canister and the few other things needed for the breaking of the bread with our neighbors. In a white postal carrier’s box left from the food drive a few weeks ago were packages holding 48 fresh hotdog rolls. All this we pushed down Sheldon Street on to Main being aware that we didn’t want to interfere with any of the small businesses that have stands dotting Main Street these days. I had originally thought about this undertaking the day before with a ripple of “neighbor with neighbor” in our North End growing like the circles from a stone dropped into still water.

After picking our spot I started grilling the dogs. There were two men in the parking lot. I asked them if they’d like some once they were cooked assuring them they were free. They didn’t turn down the offer. One man even made a call to someone else telling them of these two women with the hotdogs. Jane translated his call as it was in Spanish; we then wondered who he was calling and whether or not someone might come to tell us we were doing something illegal. Since we were offering it to anyone who was hungry with no cost or strings attached we didn’t figure there could be too much of a problem.

The first two had their meal. We offered more to a few people walking on the other side of the street, they didn’t want to believe it was free. They would smile and keep walking. I thought maybe that we might be eating a lot of hot dogs if we couldn’t give find someone to give them to. As I offered them to people walking by Jane walked over to a house where children were on the porch. BINGO! Soon we had about six small children all waiting for hot dogs. Seeing this brought more children as well as a few mothers. In the midst of serving all the children, a woman who seemed a little out of place in our neighborhood started by. I made our offer to her, to which she replied, “I don’t have any money.” I reiterated our “it’s free” with a smile. With that she came over. She had been in the hospital. She showed me the bus token the hospital staff had given her; she was trying to find her way to the bus station. To get home she had to get to Belmont which is quite a distance from where we were. She thanked us. With hotdog in hand she made her way toward the bus station.

The line of children increased. Jane was getting really good with those ketchup and mustard bottles. We were introduced to brothers, sisters, cousins and Mimi the dog. A child dropped part of his hot dog so even little Mimi shared in the feast. The children waited patiently to be served, no pushing or negative language which is common among those who often have to fight to get simple things others of us often take for granted. Their eyes bright with anticipation and each responded with a gentle thank-you. Our first group of children began asking for seconds. Sharing became the concept of the afternoon by splitting one dog for two with the children choosing with whom they wanted to share. One little girl asked if we were the sisters from the Gray House? It was nice to be identified by our neighbors. Jane and I weren’t just some strange women who happened to have stopped in this parking lot giving food away. We talked a little about summer camp and encouraged Moms to register their children. Though the offer was made, very few men stopped today it was truly about the children. A young mother with five children ranging from an infant to a boy of perhaps 8 years of age apprehensive at first accepted our invitation. Then she and her children returned to the side walk a distance from the group we had gathered. After they ate the mother with her limited English came over to thank us. I thanked her, wishing her a good afternoon as they continued their journey. Her son had a smile and a glimmer in his eyes that I won’t forget.

A little over an hour later we had served the dear neighbors of our block 48 hotdogs. We had the little children come to us. We turned off the grill, packed up, headed back around the block with the odd looking cart just as it was trying to start to rain. The sky could drop all the water it wanted; at that moment nothing could have dampened our hearts or our spirits.