On the Side of Mercy

6 The Lord passed before him and proclaimed, “The Lord, the Lord, a God merciful and gracious, slow to anger, and abounding in steadfast love and faithfulness, 7 keeping steadfast love for thousands,[a] forgiving iniquity and transgression and sin, but who will by no means clear the guilty, visiting the iniquity of the fathers on the children and the children's children, to the third and the fourth generation.” Exodus 34:6-7

Ah, mercy. My phone dings at 5:15 am. A habit honed by long years of emergency calls from hospitals makes me reach for the phone and check my email. I switch on the light and read the message from Nehynalit, one of the international high school students I teach. "I have many tasks due today," she writes, "and no one to help me. Will you help me?"

 Four years of teaching English as a second language has taught me that students feel much more supported if I respond to a written request in their home language. "Por supusesto," I respond. "Nos vemos en mi habitacion a las 8:00." I push "send" and settle back into my pillow for another hour, thinking about Nehynalit and my other ESL students. Many of them are still working their jobs at bodegas or construction sites to help with the family finances. Others are watching little brothers or sisters while their parents work. But I have no doubt that Nehynalit, who came to the United States with her mother and her sister from Venezuela three years ago, will meet me in my room at 8:00.

At 7:15, tea mug in hand, I log into my school email and send a message to Nehynalit's teachers: Will they accept late assignments? Almost immediately, I get responses back. The one from Sr. Ave Armstrong, who teaches English Language Arts, gives me pause. "These are hard times," she says, "and we must err on the side of mercy."

Mercy. There is an idea there, a memory from a Bible story, but I put it aside while I read back over Nehynalit's earlier email listing the "tasks" she needs to complete. She means assignments, of course, but the English and Spanish words are cognates, similar enough. At 8:00, I log into my Zoom room online and hear the "ding" of Nehynalit's arrival. We talk for a few moments about the assignments that are due, set priorities, and spend some time looking up a current event--which she needs translated--and reading a scene from a novel. When the hour is up, she's completed several of her "tasks" and I promise I will continue to check in with her during the day as I work with other students.

Like many other teachers, I am now seeing my students in a virtual classroom, trying to help them creep towards the end of the academic year as the entire world battles against the pandemic produced by COVID-19. My first question to my students--always--is "Estas bien? Esta bien tu familia?" Only after I know that these students--my kids--are alright do we begin an assignment.

Because it is, as Sr Ave so aptly said, a time for mercy.

Exodus 34:6-7 extols the merciful aspects of God. The entire chapter is an example of God's exceeding mercy to us. The first time Moses went to the mountain to talk to God, the Israelite became anxious and  went to Aaron, who "took what they handed him and fashioned it into an idol cast in the shape of a calf" (Exodus 32:4). Despite the blatant disobedience of the people, the Lord was willing to meet with Moses again, renew the covenant with Israel, and reveal His attributes. 

And wonderful and merciful attributes they are. In just two verses, God tells us that He is merciful to us both before and after we sin, extending His power over all of nature and humankind. He has compassion for our human frailty and gives us the mercy we do not deserve. He is slow to anger, giving us ample time to repent, and abundant in His kindness towards us. He is always truthful and recalls the deeds of the righteous. He forgives our sins, our willful ways, and our errors. He cleanses us, making us whole again.


I think back to the morning news cast. Along with depressing statistics about the virus and the death toll, the economic down turn and another recession, are some upbeat stories. It seems that in the seven weeks since most of us began self-isolating, 80% of the greenhouse gases have lifted. Los Angeles, once the foggiest and smoggiest of cities, now has superior air quality. And the canals in Venice are crystal clear for the first time in hundreds of years.

I believe it is because of mercy. God's mercy. Yes, the virus is devastating. But in the past few weeks, there have been miracles. People have recovered. Families have been spending more time together. People are working less hours. We may have less money, but we aren't spending as much anymore. We may miss seeing one another face to face, but we are finding ways to engage in a virtual world.

By 9:00, all of Nehynalit's teachers have echoed the words of Sr. Ave; yes, they will accept late assignments. In the most confusing and difficult times, they are willing to extend a little mercy. As I work with Nehynalit and other students who have no one at home to help them with assignments written in English, I recall again and again the need to "err on the side of mercy."

It feels awful right now and hard to accept what JRR Tolkien, author of Lord of the Rings, said: "What punishments of God are not gifts? All. All is grace. All is mercy." Maybe this is a test for us, a chance to return to God. Maybe God's mercy is giving us time to rest, to restore, to cleanse ourselves. Maybe, as the God of all nature and humankind, this is not punishment, but compassion. After all, "All things work together for good for those who love God" (Romans 8:28.) It's not a Disneyland sort of promise. Even the hard things, the difficult things, the tragic things are gifts.

By noon, Nehynalit has submitted the last assignment and I take a moment to send her a quick message of encouragement before I log onto my next group of students. "Estas bien?" I ask them. "How are you?" We work our way through chemistry, and social studies, and physics assignments--none of which I am really qualified to teach--and end each session with ," Mantente bien y seguro." Be well. Be safe.

It should be quite obvious by now that none of us can get through this alone. Just as my students need me to help them get through the rest of the academic year, we not only need each other to survive this pandemic, we need God. We were warned that we would face adversities (2 Cor. 1:8). But we were also given the tools to overcome them. We cannot overcome the fallen and fickle world alone. We cannot address what is even greater than our need for food, clothing, and shelter. Our greatest burdens are carried within our souls. And we have been given the answer: “Our help is in the name of the LORD, / the maker of heaven and earth” (Ps 124:8).

God is showing us His compassion. Let's all err on the side of mercy.

A Time to Heal

1To everything there is a season,

and a time for every purpose under heaven:

2a time to be born and a time to die,

a time to plant and a time to uproot,

3a time to kill and a time to heal,

a time to break down and a time to build

Ecclesiastes 3:1-3

My daughter and I have spent a lovely two hours on the beach at Rehoboth, stowed the umbrella, chairs, and towels into the back of my SUV, and are now strolling along the boardwalk. Actually, she is strolling and I am limping. My flip-flops, perfect for the sand and surf, are not great at walking on wood and concrete. Quickly, I have developed a blister on my right foot.

"Let's get you new shoes!" announces Bonnie, so we slip into the air-conditioned quiet of the Kite Shop. Among the flags and Frisbees and beach toys we find a pair of slip-on sandals with some cushion to them. She insists I throw out the flattened flip-flops from last year. Or maybe they're from the year before.

"You need to buy yourself something new once in a while," she says as we continue our walk. I am aware that our time, as always, is limited. This has just been a quick overnight trip to visit my 91-year-old father. This evening we will drive home again where she and her husband will go look at some houses tomorrow, hopeful to move, and I will return to Allen and Ron. "You do everything for Dad and so much for Allen. You need to take care of you."

I shrug. "There is never time," I say. "Or money." I sigh. "Your dad requires a lot of both."

Despite the July heat, she takes my arm and snuggles up to me. "Someday there will be time," she says and I nod, fighting back tears. The older kids and I had realized a few months back that, despite our best efforts, countless surgeries, and nursing help, Ron was not getting better. We didn't talk about it, but the inevitable end was in sight.

I need to sit down for a moment. The blister on my foot is painful and the sand is rubbing into it. We choose a bench facing the ocean and let the salt breeze cool us. I shake my head. "I never thought--after the car accident--that your dad would be ill this long. I thought he'd get better." I gulp. "I don't know how long I can do it."

She puts her head against my shoulder and for long moments we sit there, facing the ocean, reluctant to move on. "You will do it," she says, "as long as you need to."

She was, I knew, right. God had provided me with whatever strength I needed in the last 19 years. God alone knew when the time would be right to call Ron home to Him. My part was to continue doing all I could and look to God to shore up my flagging energy. "Guess we should be heading back to Pop Pop's," I say after a few more precious moments. I limp back up the boardwalk, the blister on my foot becoming more aggravated, and we head back to my father's.

After dinner with Dad and Peg and a phone call home to Allen, who reports he went to WaWa to get Ron a soda and a pretzel, my daughter and I throw our overnight bags into the car and head on home. My foot is hurting so Bonnie drives and around Smyrna we stop at a Gas and Go for a first-aid kit of band-aids and Neosporin. Bonnie insists I buy two.

"Keep one in your purse," she says. "It might take a while for your foot to heal. Healing can take time."

If you've read my blogs, if you're my friend, or if you go to my church, you know how this day ended. You know that Bonnie and I arrived home around 9:15, walked into the house with a cheery, "We're home!" and found that God--infinitely wise and merciful--had chosen to call Ron to Himself. Phone calls were made, EMT's and police and friends arrived, Bonnie's husband and older brother and his girlfriend came. Allen, who lives on the edge of the autism spectrum, stayed quiet and withdrawn.

My foot still hurt. Throughout the week, the funeral, the burial, the luncheon, I limped, the blister gained on the boardwalk at Rehoboth a daily reminder of my more intense pain. I used the band-aids and the Neosporin Bonnie had insisted I buy. I threw myself into tidying up end-of-life issues, dispersing medical equipment, sorting out clothing, taking unused prescriptions to the pharmacy. I spent weeks helping Allen come to an acceptance of his father's loss.

Slowly, my foot improved. By the time I returned to teach English as a Second Language at an urban high school in September, it no longer bothered me. It had taken the time to heal.

But perhaps I hadn't given other things enough time to heal.

If you're reading this now, it's probably because for the first time in a loooonnnnngggg time, you're not overwhelmingly busy. According to an article in Forbes (Pontefract, 2018), Americans live in the age of "freneticism"--always busy, always on. This, says a survey from StressPulseSM (2017) leads to being stressed and stress decreases our satisfaction with life. And also interferes with our ability to be creative. Writer Kimberly Hines (2018) notes that the tendency of Americans to multi-task is not the great tool we think it is but leads to "shoddy work, mismanaged time, stress, and forgetfulness."

Back in January of 2020--pre COVID-19--the Center for American Progress reported that America was the most over-worked of developed nations with no maximum length of a work week, fewer paid sick days, no paid parental leave nationally, and only 13 days of paid vacation per year.

How times have changed. The corona-virus pandemic has brought all of us extremely busy bees to a grinding halt. And while many people are tragically dying, and healthcare workers are pushed to the limit, and a lot of people are out of work, and toilet paper is the new gold standard, I'm not sure there isn't something positive to be said for our mandated need to slow our roll. Maybe we all desperately needed a wake-up call to stop and smell the roses.

Ecclesiastes 3 shows us that God--not man--is the master of time. Not a single one of us can predict how long we have. Only God has that ability. It behooves us, then, to make the most of our time and that does not mean working 70 hour weeks. It means redeeming the time in healthy ways. It means taking care of each other and our planet. We all need to take the time to heal.

Writer Jonathan Watts (2020) reports that the changes to the environment without all of us humans messing around are clearly seen from space. Pollution belts are clearing, air quality is improving, and I haven't had an asthma attack in a solid month. Creativity is sprouting up as parents find ways to occupy their young children at home, teachers take on virtual instruction, and family dinners are again a seated at the table affair. At my house, board games rule the day. My daily walk through my small village show the ingenuous efforts of the kids on Maple Street who have chalked an exercise game on the sidewalk. Neighbors I do not know sit on their porches in the morning, cups of coffee in hand, and shout "hello" from a safe distance.

And, I'll be honest here, I needed some time to heal myself. While I gave my blistered foot the attention it needed, I was not so kind to my heart. I rushed headlong back into school and work and busy busy busy without allowing myself the proper time to take a breath, regroup, think about what I wanted the next chapter of my life to look like.

One of my favorite scenes in one of my favorite apocalyptic movies is Morgan Freeman's final speech in Deep Impact. While recognizing the loss of life, the fictional President of the United States tells the world, "We honor them with every brick we lay, every field we sow, every child we comfort and then teach to rejoice in what we have been re-given: our planet, our home. So now, let us begin."

One day, the virus will have run its course. We will come out from our houses and pick up our plowshares and our portfolios. But I hope we will be the better for having had some time to heal. As we "begin again" I  hope we will take to heart the words from Ecclesiastes 3, "To everything there is a time." Let's make this our time to heal.

This time, let's do it right.

Unexpected Blessings: Voices from the edge

My son is in a hurry to get the marketing done because I have promised him Wendy's for supper. He races around Save a Lot, gathering the things we get every week: pizza, chips, soda. I take a more leisurely approach, pushing my cart up and down every aisle as I peruse my list.

"Do you know where the baking powder is?" asks an elderly woman in the baking aisle.

"Right here," I say and reach up on the top shelf to get the item. I hand it to her.

"Don't know why they keep changing things around," she grumbles and I just smile. Just then, I see Allen barreling towards us, his arms full of the microwave sandwiches he likes. He dumps them unceremoniously into the cart and rushes on past. My shopping companion holds her hand to her chest.

"Mercy!" she says. "What's wrong with him?"

I turn to look at my son's retreating form, trying to see what she sees. To me he is just my youngest child, an adult on the autism spectrum. But I know the wild hair--getting Allen to comb it is an issue most days--and the brusque attitude is often seen as others to be strange. Add to that Allen's tall stature--all 6 feet 6 inches of him--and some people do feel threatened by him.

But I know Allen. I know him to be gentle and kind and often confused by the world. I turn and face the woman next to me. "That's my son," I say gently. "He has autism."

"Mercy!" she declares again. "You poor thing!" she pats my arm. "To have a mental child like that!"

I take a deep breath. I could smile and walk on. But even though it might fall on deaf ears, I make a decision to educate. I am, after all, a teacher as well as a mother. "His brain works differently than some," I tell the woman. "There is nothing wrong with his brain. It just takes him longer to understand things. And right now," I lean in towards her conspiratorially, "his mind is focused on getting a burger at Wendy's for supper."

"Still," says the woman, her voice a bit unsure now," must be a burden on you."

"Not at all," I say. "Allen and I understand each other. We have a routine. He gets the things we need every week." Just then Allen roars past us again, adding a container of cat litter and a box of trash bags to the cart. He barely pauses as he rounds the corner.

The woman pats my arm again. "Bless your heart," she says.

"You know" I tell her as I begin to move my cart away from hers, " many people are autistic. You might even know some. One in 54 people has some form."

"Really?" She seems surprised. "Are they all like..." she points, "your son?"

I shake my head. "No. Some cannot talk. Some function so well you might not even know they were autistic." I move down the aisle. "Have a nice day," I say.

What's wrong with him? I am sorry to say that I hear that question a lot. Allen doesn't always look like others, or act like others. It takes an intense amount of effort on his part to behave the way society expects him to. His father's funeral a few months ago, for example, required Allen to expend enormous effort to stand by my side and shake hands. And helping Allen process his grief at his father's loss is an ongoing journey. "Autism grief is not neurotypical grief" is a phrase that is now engraved into my brain.

When Allen was born, he seemed to be a healthy baby boy. As the youngest of our three, he was content with very little; he seldom cried or fussed. His older brother and sister made up games with him in the starring role. It wasn't until Allen was 3 that we learned he had some developmental delays. Ron and I needed to help Allen in different ways than we had helped Dennis and Bonnie. He needed different methods of educations. And long with the developmental delays were some physical problems: A blood condition that produces too much ammonia, and an inability to produce salt. he gets dizzy spells sometimes. The diagnosis of autism did not come until adulthood.


Did we ask why? I know Ron did. I know that the thought of a disabled child was troubling. Me? I was his mother. No matter what.

But the woman in the market is not unlike the people in John 9 who asked of Jesus, "Who sinned, Rabbi, his man or his parents that he was born blind?" (vs 2). Jesus responded, "Neither this man nor his parents sinned but this happened so that the works of God might be displayed in him."

Allen, and others who reside somewhere on the spectrum of autism or are differently abled, is a work of God. Others may not see it, but I know the gentleness that resides within my giant son. Each afternoon, he makes me a cup of tea so I can relax before dinner. Each night, he carefully double-checks the locks on the doors to keep us safe.

I am halfway up the frozen food aisle when I see Allen again. He grins at me and places a package of Tastykakes into the cart. "Almost done?" he asks. Now that the task is almost accomplished, he can slow down. Many who are on the spectrum, like him, can only handle one thing at a time.

"Almost," I say and put a few bags of vegetables into the cart. Just then I spy the woman from the baking aisle coming towards me.

"Don't know why they put the bread up so high," she grumbles.

Allen strides over to her. "Which one do you want?" he asks. "White or wheat?"

"What?" She is clearly startled. She steps back and eyes him warily. His hair is still wild, but he is smiling now. "Oh, wheat," she says.

Allen grabs the bag and hands it to her. "That's what my mom always gets," he tells her and moves back towards me. The woman is still standing there, holding the bag in her hand, looking at Allen as we walk towards the cash registers.

Works of God come in many forms. Some of them are unexpected. Some of them are a tall young man with wild hair and a kind smile.