What's in a Name?

“Do not fear: I have redeemed you. I have summoned you by name; you are mine." Isaiah 43:1

 I passed out blank paper and pencils and asked my students to choose several colors. Then, using the room’s white board to draw my own example, I asked them all to write their names in the middle of the paper, nice and big. Puzzled, they looked at each other and then at me. Surely this was not content for a college class?

But as I wrote “Linda” in the middle of the space I’d made on the board, they followed suit. “This is the name the world knows you as,” I said. “But what other names or roles do you have?”

With no further instruction, I turned back to the white board and began to cover the square I’d drawn with other words: Mother, wife, sister, daughter, teacher, aunt, writer, reader, knitter, professor. Then I added nicknames I’d had through the years: Honeybear, Bubbles (don’t ask), Giggles, Lyn, Da (my brother’s childhood name for me).

 Still curious and unsure of the purpose, the 31 adults in the class began to fill their own pages. Within ten minutes, they’d loosened up, using a multitude of colors, writing in cursive and print and bubble letters.

 Finally, I turned back to them. “We all have a lot of names and a lot of roles,” I told the class. “Now I want you to circle the name or the role that YOU choose to identify yourself. Who are you?”

 Slowly, they all began to smile. Returning to college as an adult is not an easy task. They needed to see themselves as capable students, to break away from the naysayers who told them they could never earn a college degree. To be something other than what they had been.

 On Sunday, Pastor Tim told the story of a woman in Joshua 2 who was known by one name: Harlot. I imagine her blank piece of paper might have held other words: slut, prostitute, whore and additional derisive terms. But she could have added other roles: daughter, sister, spinner of linen, protector of family, seeker of truth. Roles no one else in Jericho called her, but things she saw in herself.

 All of Jericho knew what Rahab did. It was how she was known. Her house was built against the outer wall, the seedy side of town, and all her neighbors could see the many men that entered into the house. The travelers who came seeking “the harlot Rahab” told her stories of God’s miracles, such as the parting of the Red Sea and the overthrow of Sihon and Og (Bible Gateway). And while her neighbors only saw a woman with loose morals, God saw someone whose faith could make her a heroine.

 Can you imagine the scene? In Joshua 2, the spies come
to Rahab. Given her reputation, no one thinks it odd when strange men enter her house. The neighbors probably just shake their heads and wink at each other. But she, astute woman, knows the stories she has heard from travelers about the God of Israel are true. She makes the decision to throw her lot in with the spies; she takes a risk to save herself and her family.

 Pastor Tim summed it up this way:



1. Rahab knew there was a problem. In her case, more than one. She was not only a prostitute, she did not believe in God.
2. Rahab responded to God’s salvation. She did not let her name or her reputation stop her.
3. We are like Rahab. We might not have her exact sins on our piece of paper, but unflattering things about us are scrawled all over it.

 In Matthew 1:5, we note another name Rahab can add to her paper: ancestress of Jesus. Rahab lived the rest of her life as the wife of a righteous man, Salmon, and was the mother of Boaz. She is one of only four women mentioned in the genealogy of Jesus. Quite a change from the name she was known as on the streets of Jericho.

 After the initial “Introduction to college skills” class, most of my adult students went on to graduate. Some even asked for letters of recommendation to graduate programs. And many still keep in touch with me, years after they have gone onto other things. They came to see themselves, not as others saw them, but as they saw themselves.

Just as Rahab came to see herself as God saw her.

 It does not matter what happened before. All that matters is that God knows us and calls us by name.

 He has redeemed us! (Isaiah 43:1)

https://docs.google.com/document/d/e/2PACX-1vSSBkKattFwptkhJljzO5LyOJpWqJWwjJeaU5ZLGQtncZ9TJ3D8UoppyMHheXz23nr2NXPpWcIFB7p9/pub

Won't You Be My Neighbor?

Luke 10:27. He answered, "Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind and love your neighbor as yourself."




The other day, my BFF Chris and I were bemoaning the fact that neighborhoods aren't what they used to be. Used to be, we said that neighbors helped each other out. You know, the guy with the snowblower did everyone's driveway without expecting more than a "Thanks" and you could borrow a long ladder from the fellow down the block to clean out your gutters without having to go on Takl and place a bid.  You knew your neighbors would watch your house while you were  on vacation and send a kid over to collect your mail. And if someone in your family was sick or in the hospital, your neighbors would provide you with casseroles and home made brownies. 


As an older woman with a disabled husband and an autistic son, I could sure use some neighbors like that.



But my conversation with Chris got me thinking. What happened to the day of the friendly and helpful neighbor? Linda Poon (2015) writing for the website CityLab, reports that a full third of Americans do not know the names of their neighbors. Yet only five decades ago--you know, those prehistoric days when the Flintstones and the Rubbles were spending every waking moment together--people interacted with their neighbors at least twice a week. It's true our hectic schedules--what Mac Dunkelman (The Vanishing Neighbor, 2014) calls "limited social capital"-- allow us less time for this sort of camaraderie, but is there more to it than that? And, more importantly, can we change it?

 
The Story of the Good Samaritan in Luke 10:25-37 is often told in Sunday Schools; we want our children to applaud the acts of the stranger in stopping to provide succor to the man beaten and left for dead. We tell the kiddos that the Samaritans were pretty much despised by the Jewish people without going into detail. To get an idea of how far the loathing went, think Severus Snape in the Harry Potter books. How ironic, then, that the Samaritan--like Snape who was trying to protect Harry all along--turns out to be the hero.


But if that's all we see--the grumpy old Mr. Wilson coming to rescue Dennis Mitchell--we're missing the point. According to Marilyn Salmon, a Professor of New Testament Studies at the United Theological Seminary, we need to look at the story from the perspective of the robbed and beaten man, lying broken on the side of the road. He didn't care who offered him help. Priest, Levite, Samaritan. Heck, even Severus Snape would do.



And rather than casting ourselves in the role of the hero, let's realize that we ARE broken people, in desperate need of a hero to save us. And that hero is--ta da!--Jesus the Christ, who serves as an example of the most neighborly of neighbors. 


Remember the Samaritan left the injured man at the Inn and gave the Innkeeper two silver coins as a down payment on the man's care? While experts are a bit hazy on the exact amount, the two silver coins would have bought at least two weeks room and board! Getting involved is costly. Just look at the price that Jesus paid.So if we can put ourselves in the place of the wounded and beaten stranger, we realize that we need to look not at the "otherness" like race, religion, and culture of those around us but the humanness. We're all broken. Every single one. 


It is a young lawyer who asks Jesus, "What must I do to receive eternal life?" The irony here is that the fellow already knows the answer. But Jesus recites Deuteronomy 6:5, the "great commandment", not to embarrass the man but to make a point or two: the way in which we walk with God and connect with others in our lives cannot be separated.


So instead of complaining about the good old days and wishing someone with a ladder would just show up and offer to clean out my gutters, I have decided to take a cue from Jesus and be as neighborly as possible, and that means being open to what their needs might be. When the lady next door told me it was hot in her house because she couldn't carry her room air conditioner up from the basement, I grabbed my tall son and we headed over with a screwdriver. It wasn't two pieces of silver but it was what broken people could do.



It's what I would want someone to do for me. 

Voices from the Edge: Tale of a Haircut

My youngest child got his haircut yesterday, and as I sat watching the very patient hairdresser continually checking with him and asking if he was alright, I almost began to cry. Haircuts can be traumatic. But before you begin asking for photos of my bouncing baby boy, let me tell you that Allen is an adult on the autism spectrum and getting him to even consider a haircut --let alone actually allow someone to take a scissors to his treasured locks--was a process I began two weeks ago.

With Allen, I have learned to take things one step at a time.



The Center for Disease Control (2012) estimates that caring for adults with autism costs the government between $175 and $196 billion per year. But this figure, high as it seems, only amounts to 7% of the total allotted to research and education for children on the spectrum. Research from Sweden indicates that this amount could be cut by 2/3s with early identification; while this makes sense, it is little help to those who, like my son, were not identified until adulthood. Currently, the Office of Autism Research Coordination (OOARC, 2019) states that only 1% of government expenditures for autism goes towards the care and needs of adults with ASD. That's depressing news for 2.7% of the adult population.

Meanwhile, those of us who are parenting an adult child on the spectrum are essentially flying without a net. We learn by doing, stepping back and forth in a dance with our offspring, figuring out what works and what doesn't. Then figuring it out all over again when the tried and true method fails.

In Allen's case, surprises are a no-no. Careful preparation is required for anything more than a change in dinner menu. If I need to address a new situation with Allen, I lie in wait like a mother lioness on the prowl, sniffing for clues that might allow me to broach a new topic.

Two weeks ago, as Allen stood at my dresser mirror, lamenting his thinning hair and the sad fact  that, "all men's haircare products lie," I saw my chance. I stowed the clue away in my brain and waited for an opening, which came a few days later when he and I were running errands and he ran his hands through his hair, expressing dismay at the tangles which had taken over his head.

"You know," I said casually, "Grandmom was a hairdresser.  And she always said that hair grew faster when you cut it. Just something to think about."

And he did. Two days later he approached me and said, "I remember Grandmom cutting my hair. But maybe that only applies to lady's hair."

My pulse quickened, but like the wise lioness, I kept my breathing steady. "Maybe," I said. "Maybe we could talk to someone who knows men's hair about it."

He shot me a suspicious look and I shrugged as if the outcome did not matter to me. "Okay," he said.

Then began the investigation to find a hair salon that worked with adults with special needs. Thanks fo Google, I found Benny's Hairstyling in Springfield. When I called and explained the situation, I was told to make an appointment with Sally. I did.

Next, I started my preparation of Allen, using all of my wily mother lioness skills. We're just talking. You don't have to get it cut if you don't want to. We'll go for lunch afterwards. Yes, anywhere you want.

As a complex development disability, Autism is a spectrum because it affects individuals differently. Allen's hot buttons are mostly sensory--heat, noise, bright lights--but also extend to social situations and the inability to discern non-verbal cues. When we arrived at Benny's, I was pleasantly surprised to find that Sally works in an area separate from the other stylists so noise is limited. Sally invited Allen into her chair, and he backed up with a frightened expression on his face.

Wisely, she took the hint. "We can sit over here," she said, "and just talk."

They did. After a few minutes, he was willing to sit in the barber chair. After a few more, he was agreeable to having his hair trimmed. A little more conversation, and the tangles and knots were falling onto the floor. Then--wonder of wonders--he agreed to let her wash his hair.

According to three different reports summarized on OpenMind.com, in another ten years, 3 out of every 100 adults will exist somewhere on the autism spectrum. And the $330,000 currently spent on researching the needs of adults just isn't--pardon the pun--going to cut it.

Zac Smith, writing for VOX, says this about his own adult diagnosis of autism: Autism  spectrum is a 
broad and constantly redefined space, a frontier of the mind that's still mostly wilderness. The revised definitions of it on the DSM 5--just a few years ago--are still controversial. It's still easier to diagnose aspects of the spectrum in people and more difficult to determine if a formal diagnosis is necessary, if it's even a problem.

Trust me on this, it's a problem and one that is likely to worsen until we recognize the need to explore the wilderness and remove the stigma that is often attached to "having autism."

And we need more people like Sally at Benny's Hairstyling, who treated Allen with the respect and kindness owed to every human being.

And now, since you waited so nicely, here is a picture of my bouncing baby boy. All 6 foot 6 inches of him.

GET YOUR SNEAKERS READY!

For no matter how many promises God has made, they are "yes" in Christ. And so in Him the "Amen" is spoken by us to the glory of God.
2 Corinthians 1:20

My son and I are at the market, loading groceries for the week into the back of my car when I see my sneakers sitting on the back seat. I sigh. I placed the sneakers there four weeks ago, confident that with the evenings staying lighter and reliable nursing help for my disabled husband, I would be able to swing by the river track on my way home from school two or three evenings a week and spend a free lovely moments walking, thinking, praying, and enjoying the spring sunshine.

It was a good plan.

But it didn't work out.

I have found that very often my own plans don't work out too well. I've got great plans, really I do, but something always seems to transpire to keep them from happening. Or at least keep them from happening on my time table.

As I gazed longingly at my neglected sneakers, I needed to remind myself that postponement of a plan didn't mean it wouldn't still happen.

At my church, Pastor Aaron has been preparing us all to "step into the life we were meant for." I'm not completely sold on the idea that God's sole plan for me is to be a nurse maid to my husband, but I am certain that He wants me to serve Him to the best of my ability. I'm also pretty certain he's called me to write and be an example to other women who find themselves in challenging circumstances. Heck, it even says so on my author card: Ordinary Women. Extraordinary Faith. I'm just not sure when it's all going to happen.

So I keep my sneakers ready.

As we near the Christian celebration of Easter and the Jewish observance of Passover, it's good to think about--as that old Sunday School song says--standing on the promises of God. Exodus 6 outlines the many promises God gave to the Israelite while they were still in Egypt, forced to make bricks and denied freedom.

Therefore say you to the children of Israel, I am the Lord and will bring you out of the burdens of the Egyptians, and I will rid you of their bondage, and I will redeem you with a stretched out arm and with great judgments. And I will take you to me for a people and ye shall know that I am the Lord your God, which bringeth you out from under the burdens of the Egyptians. And I will bring you into the land, concerning the which I did swear to give it to Abraham, to Isaac, and to Jacob; and I will give it to you for a heritage. I am the Lord. 

Are you seeing all those promises? God promises to bring us out of bondage; that's deliverance! And to redeem us; that's freedom! And to take us--warts and all--as part of His family. He says we can have a relationship with Him, the God of all things! And He promises us satisfaction and a purpose for our lives.

Dear friends, I don't know what's got you making bricks in bondage today, but I do know it won't last forever. Even when I fall into bed at night, so exhausted my eyeballs hurt, I know that God has given me free choice: I CHOOSE to care for my husband. I may not like the additional burdens the untimely break with the nursing agency has cast upon me anymore than the Israel children liked having their daily quota of bricks increased, but I know that one day--in this life or the next--the burdens will be gone. In the meantime, I count on God for the strength I need.

Because while my timing tends to be flawed, God's timing is perfect. The promises God made to the Israelites--and to us--are not gone and forgotten. God is still making good on His promises. I know He's not going to let me done when I have to change Ron's sheets one more time, or make the tenth phone call to the benefits coordinator, or fill out the hundredth form to get medical coverage. It may well be I need to know these things for the purpose He has for me.

My sneakers are still in the car, waiting. I thought about bringing them in with the groceries. but I recalled how the children of Israel stood with the staffs in hand and their cloaks tucked into the belt, waiting for their deliverance, waiting to step into the lives God had for them.

So I'm gonna keep my sneakers ready to step on in.

Broken Lives Matter

 For you created my inmost being, you knit me together in my mother's womb. I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made.
Psalm 139:13-14

He was still and gray against the white sheets of the hospital bed. Tubes ran in and out of his body. "He's unconscious," the recovery room nurse said, "but you can talk to him."

So we did, my daughter and I, telling my husband that we loved him, that we were there, that everything would be alright. We said it because we believed it, not knowing that infections and complications would result in many more surgeries and hospitalizations, eventually leaving Ron disabled and in chronic pain. Nine years after the car accident, a parade of nursing aides now care for Ron while I am at work. It's not what we planned.

But I have to  believe that Ron's life, however disrupted and broken, still matters.

January 20 was Sanctity of Life Sunday and while I sat in the pew next to my best friend Chris, I listened to Pastor Aaron read from Psalm 139. My mind was taken back to March 2, 2000, the day when the lives of my family--Ron, me, Dennis, Bonnie, Allen--were drastically changed, bent from our intended trajectory and launched into the unknown. We were woefully unprepared for what was to follow.

But God was not. In verse 7 of Psalm 139, the psalmist says "Whither shall I go from thy spirits?" assuring us that God is ALWAYS aware of just where we are and what is happening to us. Acts 17:28 says, "In him we live and move and breathe and have our being." It is often difficult to remember that while I sit in yet another waiting room outside an operating theater.

It helps me to know that David, the accepted writer of Psalm 139, had his own challenges in life. John Gill explains that this particular Psalm was written at a time when David had been falsely accused of many dastardly deeds. In fact, David didn't live the life one might think of as kingly. As the youngest of Jesse's sons, he suffered from loneliness and exclusion, spending many long hours in the field with only the sheep for company. He, the anointed King, spent years running and hiding from jealous Saul. In many ways, David failed as a king (2 Samuel 24:9-10) and a father (2 Samuel 13:21). He had troubles--lots of troubles there in River City--some of which he brought upon himself.

Sure sounds like a broken  life to me. How could such a life be of any value to anyone?

Sanctity of Life Sunday was initiated by President Reagan in 1984, who noted the date was the 11th anniversary of Roe vs Wade, the landmark Supreme Court case that legalized abortion. Since then, the third Sunday in January has been set aside to celebrate the gift of life--ALL life--and to commit to protecting life at all stages, no matter how bent or broken they may be, no matter how little value they seem to contribute to society.

All lives matter. All lives have meaning.

Ron can no longer work to support his family, or play baseball with his sons, or walk more than a few feet. His care has often put a drain on our finances and my energy. Yet his life is still one of meaning. In the last nine years, we have had countless opportunities in many hospitals to display our faith and our commitment to our marriage. One doctor said to me, "I do not know how you have done such a big thing," and I told him, "I serve a big God."

Recently, Ron's afternoon aide told me it had been a particularly difficult day, but added this. "I've worked with a lot of folk, but I think you and your husband are the nicest ones. You care about each other and other people, too. And your husband never fails to make me laugh."

And isn't that a valuable thing?