He gives the barren woman a home, making her the joyous mother of children.
Praise the LORD!   Psalm 113:9

Mother’s Day isn’t my favorite day. In it’s greatest sense, it is a prideful reflection on how far my child has come and all he has accomplished. My husband and I can laugh at those car pools of sweaty, exceptionally fragrant teen athletes, where every window was open so I didn’t pass out from the smell; or the numerous times I had to remind my passengers not to hit one another in their groins.  The concession stand gigs and the laryngitis from screaming for my son at football and lacrosse games remind me of cold nights and good times.

In its darker sense, it is a reminder of the limitations of my version of motherhood. I am the stepmother of a handsome, intelligent man. He is kind and loving. I came into his life when he was nine years old. At twenty-three, I have been a fixture for more than half his life. Our relationship has evolved over time. I think it’s better, and I have some thoughts on why. But it will never be what I have hoped for when I imagined motherhood.

Most Mother’s Days, I want to stay in bed, covers over head. It reminds me of my infertility, my miscarriages and the life of being important but not the most important woman for the child in my life. I love my son like my own, and I know that I- like the woman in Matthew 15 begging- will benefit just as much from the crumbs as the bread itself.

I have only had one full mother’s day with my son, somewhere around his 12th year. His mother was called away for a family emergency. He was so distraught about being left on mother’s day that he spent all of it sulky and angry. It wasn’t the perfect mother’s day of my dreams, but I took it. I was grateful for it. I think about it often. I know that my adult child has other distractions besides appeasing the two women who raised him. I myself cannot spend the entire day showing gratitude and love to my mother. I have responsibilities. I also know from my own upbringing that relationships are complicated things, full of transgressions and forgiveness.

On Sunday, I will ask God yet again why I cannot have little children drawing me pictures and making me a horrid, inedible breakfast, as we did for mine. But I will also praise God for making me the joyous mother of a child. For allowing me the opportunity to cheer for a son, celebrate his victories and mourn his losses, even if I am not his biological mother. I will eagerly await his wedding and his children, and I will love those sweet blessings with the all my heart. In that way, I will be a mother, a grandmother, a vessel for love. And blessed. Praise the Lord!

Exodus 21:23-24 But if there is serious injury, you are to take life for life, eye for eye, tooth for tooth, hand for hand, foot for foot,

Matthew 5:38-39 “You have heard that it was said, ‘An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth.’But I say to you, Do not resist an evildoer. But if anyone strikes you on the right cheek, turn the other also

      The images covered in the media in Baltimore have launched voluminous conversations on social media. I have seen posts that quote Booker T. Washington and plenty of other opinionated folk. Most are dismayed at the damage and lawlessness they have witnessed. They question what rioting behavior will solve. Some remind us that when rioting occurs after sporting events we shrug our shoulders and look the other way with nary a word spoken. Others try to speak to a problem that is deeper and has existed longer than one man’s untimely demise could have caused. And, in the far off corner are those who stoke the fires of racism.  Somewhere in the eye of the storm is footage of a mother, physically beating her son away from the rioting crowds.

     It’s difficult to explain a situation to you that many of you will never understand. Poverty and a lack of opportunity for quality education and jobs are not solely urban issues. Many of us grew up in homes where money was tight and more than a few had a high school education that was out of reach for our parents and grandparents. The key to that sentence is the past tense; overwhelmingly, you have achieved more than your parents did before you. You had a job. Your father had a job. You lived in a house, one that your parents owned. It was small but safe. If you rented, you still lived in a neighborhood where you didn’t see drug deals on the front steps. Your world was predictable and you could count on your family. Stability was your staple.

      Consider this quote: “Among civilized nations, only those who have nothing to lose ever revolt.” It is from a book entitled, Democracy in America. Surely the author, Alexis de Tocqueville must understand something about 21st century people who disrespect the law and are bent on destruction, right? Not quite. He published his book in 1835. If you are up to it, read chapter 14, where he talks about the chasm between economic classes, and how the legislative process is affected. It seems that we, well meaning capitalists, with our tendency to treat the poor as the lowest caste, have fed a systemic problem day upon year, decade upon century until we have created an economic class who are so oppressed they truly have nothing to lose- no owned homes, no education, no high level employment.

     If you are like my many, you will blame the parents for not teaching their child better. You will champion the mother who physically disciplines/beats her son away from a situation that has the potential to be deadly. My experience in dealing with impoverished children and their parents is that one household of struggle begets the next. Each generation falls a little further down. Throw into that mix early pregnancy and minimum wage earnings and the view gets grimmer. Physical discipline is not the exception, it’s the rule. Owning your home is unusual, and if you do you are probably sharing it with extended family. The picture is so far from Norman Rockwell- hell it’s so far from your upbringing I doubt you could scarcely imagine what one day is like, lest a lifetime. There’s love, yes. There’s camaraderie, but the definition of what and who is family is looser on purpose.

     You can blame this on slavery, poor examples, laziness or whatever; but my friends we all own a piece of this pie simply because we have been in the seat of privilege and it has served us well. The posts, tweets and opinions do nothing more than to prove Tocqueville’s point. You can comment with authority without having to live the life. And that may be the saddest commentary of all.

This is NOT what we have been taught- to condemn and destroy. Jesus calls us to equality and love. What will that post look like?

Deuteronomy 1:17 You must not be partial in judging: hear out the small and the great alike; you shall not be intimidated by anyone, for the judgment is God’s. Any case that is too hard for you, bring to me, and I will hear it.”

The great orator and social justice advocate Dr. Martin Luther King said in a speech, “the arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends to justice.” I want to believe that, but I fear sometimes its arc is longer than I like and that I am too impatient in its arrival to justice. In August of last year, my husband and I toured Auschwitz and Birkenau, two concentration camps outside of Krakow, Poland. We walked shell shocked through barracks and across open fields littered with stone chimneys, the only remnant  of the many wooden building torched by the Nazis. We saw the stone steps that led to a subterranean crematorium. We witnessed piles and piles of shoes, braces, teeth and human hair saved by Nazis after being confiscated from the Jews that arrived in the camps; 75% of whom died immediately after arriving via cattle trains.

I remember with great clarity my feelings upon hearing that only a tiny fraction of those responsible actually met any kind of punishment for the horrific treatment visited upon Jews, Homosexuals, Communists, and Gypsies. I began to question how we cannot seem to bring evil to justice, and I was faced with an even crueler reality: to bring every person to justice would be an arduous task. For those who lived in the surrounding country knew well of the pungent smoke and ashes that filled the skies from the crematorium. They saw the frail workers. They were aware that the depots they worked at were the starting point for hundreds of cattle cars, filled with Jews departing under heavy guard. They may not have known the deportees were bound for death, but they must have wondered.

Germany is beginning to put former Nazi guards and soldiers on trial for their hand in the deaths of millions of Jews and targeted individuals. In the past, there needed to be direct evidence that the guard caused a death. In 2011, the language loosened a bit, and an Ohio autoworker was deported to stand trial for his crimes within the Nazi regime. Today, Oskar Groening, 93 years old, will answer for his part- as a counter of confiscated goods and infrequent guard for the unloading of trains.  He freely admits his role and has given interviews, namely one to the BBC 10 years ago where he describes with great clarity the treatment befalling a young child. I noticed that as he spoke, the child was referred to as “it” rather than he or she, an indicator in my book that his opinion of the humanity of Jews hasn’t changed much.
Although it would be easy to question the futility of putting a 93 year old on trial (the Cleveland, Ohio deportee, John Demjanjuk died at the age of 91 after being convicted. He was in the appeal process at the time of his death) for many still alive today, his trial shines a light on a genocide many believe to be a hoax. Sadly, it was no hoax, as thousands can recount the day they watched their siblings and parents die.

Perhaps it is proof texting to reference Deuteronomy. It props up my belief that since justice is finally at hand, we shouldn’t be easily swayed by age or fragility. But the charge you read is the one Moses gives to the good men he has chosen to hear complaints and  render judgment. So, I don’t feel too guilty. It gives me hope for all who have scraped by in this world cruelly, using others for their own gain- whatever that may be. God will hear the worst, and will judge. No one escapes final judgment, not even you or I. Even though the concept can be daunting (Repentance, anyone?) I’ll take it because I trust in God’s justice above the justice of this earthly world. Still, for those who suffered I hope this trial brings a small measure of peace.

The real crime that will never be punished, is the role of the human mind. The war against Jews and the like was waged with propaganda and received by willing hearts. We do it today with partisan politics and the people whom we fear. If only we feared the Lord as much as we fear one another.

NRS Luke 14:34 “Salt is good; but if salt has lost its taste, how can its saltiness be restored?

MIT Luke 14:34 Salt is useful. But if the salt you obtain is a low-percentage admixture, what will you use for seasoning?

I have a computer program that is a bible godsend. It allows me to look at several versions of the bible alongside one another so I can compare word choices, as well as look up specific words and see where they appear in the text, and a bunch of other “cool” stuff. (I use the quotation marks because I know the use of the word cool is subjective. Very subjective.)

The MIT stands for MacDonald Idiomatic Translation. Essentially what that means is this: when looking at original language, for example Hebrew or Greek, words are often translated word for word. In an idiomatic translation, the work is done by taking the native text and holding true to its original idea.

Are your eyes glazing over? Yes? Hold on and stay with me…

I was amused when I came across this bible verse recently, and the way in which one idea is relayed through two unique sentences. One is poetic, the other is, well, more like it was written by Bill Nye, The Science Guy. If you were confused by salt and the restoration of its flavor, you must really wonder about the admixture.

We speak past one another all the time. Even in English, the native tongue. The ability to understand isn’t always about higher education or syntax. Frequently, it is a mixture of context, experience and the desire to seek to understand. In our native mortal state, we are selfish. We want to be heard. (“She  didn’t even listen to what I had to say.” ) However, when we try to reach out, we frame up our words in ways that others just can’t, or refuse, to understand. We pepper the thoughts with emotions that aren’t palatable, gestures that don’t invite belonging, or words that are offensive. Then we wonder why no one gets it. Why they look as if we aren’t speaking English in the first place. They get lost in the translation of words, emotions and action.

Stephen Covey, author of Seven Habits of Highly Effective People, lists this for Habit #5: Seek first to understand, then to be understood.

What if our intention was to truly listen to one another, rather than to use that time to formulate the next thought, compile the next argument, load the verbal bullet? Could we work harder to really hear what is being said, even if it sounds condescending, ignorant, or confusing. Imagine how you would feel if someone took the time to listen and really hear what you had to say.

Our Savior is constantly asking us to overcompensate for one another’s deficiencies. We are told to forgive, to turn the other cheek, to shake the dust from our clothes and move on. The ability to look beyond the surface, even in our conversations, should be counted among those compensations. If we can seek to understand, we may find in our enemy a friend.

Psalm 71:14 But I will hope continually, and will praise you yet more and more.

Quite a few years ago my husband and I decided to visit New England. He had lived the first fourteen years of his life in Massachusetts, I had spent two and half years in Connecticut in my early twenties. I carefully planned a vacation that would travel up to Mystic and would also encompass a visit in his childhood hometown. Because it was fall and our anniversary, I researched cider mills and booked us into a classic New England inn, in one of their private cottages. Romance? check. Quaint activities? check. Beautiful fall colors and views? Check and check!

Here’s what we got: a tiny two story cottage with a bathroom so tight you couldn’t close the door and use the toilet or shower at the same time. There were no closets or heat unless you built a fire in the fireplace, which was conveniently located at the foot of the bed, which was in the living room. There was one small television in the corner that got a limited number of channels (clearly they expected you to be busy doing other things.) The upstairs was a large garden tub, which looked questionably clean. My husband refused to get in it.

It was cold that weekend and I quit girl scouts before fire starting was taught; so my beloved built the fire. In his haste to warm the room, he didn’t open the flue. Smoke was everywhere- we opened windows and doors trying to clear the haze. The smoke detector never went off, a fact I found to be both a blessing and a curse. When the smoke cleared- literally- we lay on the bed and my husband asked how many nights I booked there and when were moving onto the next hotel. Romance? not so much.

In many corners of our minds, we live the life imagined. It has been fed ideas from popular culture- movies, books, from stories of celebrities and “normal” people alike. Somewhere in the mix, we convince ourselves that the right ambiance produces the perfect life. That if we have the wrap around porch, the right kind of car, or even the idyllic cottage we will create a life or moment within it that is perfect. And so we place our hopes in things both attainable and not.

We had a relaxing, wonderful vacation in New England that year. It was not because of the romantic inn or the splendid views. It was because we had a sense of humor and a relationship was built on more than classic images of romance handed to us by someone else.

God is often appreciated more in the less than perfect. When we can see the hand of God at work in the strife- some of it even humorous in its ridiculousness- we come to depend more on our Sustainer than the external stuff that others tell us will fill up our souls. We continue to hope in the light of a saving Redeemer that works miracles with reluctant disciples.  We lift our praise again and again to God who brings us along, misguided as we can be, through good times and bad.