Standing on the Shoulders

Yesterday, I attended the memorial service of a loved one, albeit one that I felt I barely knew. My great aunt Jane, better known as J.J., passed away at the age of 85 on Wednesday. When I received the text from my dad informing me of the news, I found it hard to describe the emotion of the event, most likely because, as I said, it had been a few years since I had even seen Aunt Jane. I was definitely sad, but I hurt more for those that would be affected by her passing. I thought of my grandmother (Bet Bet, affectionately), and her loss of a sister. My mind went to my dad and his sisters at their loss of a beloved aunt. Finally, I went to my distant cousins, those I knew and had relationships with, but barely ever saw or communicated with, yet those that I hurt for at their loss of a mother and a grandmother.

These were all people I empathized with, relating to because the sting of losing my grandfather a year and a half ago is still fairly real. While I didn’t know Aunt Jane incredibly well, these people did, and I could almost feel their hurt. They were the most affected, having encountered this woman in a real way, knowing and loving her, being directly affected by her loss. What I didn’t realize going in, however, was all the people that my mind didn’t immediately go to when I learned of her death.

Rev. Joe Elmore, who officiated the memorial, spoke of looking through the archived history of J.J.’s church which bore the title “Standing on the Shoulders of Saints, Servants and Sinners.” I sat through the service hearing stories about my great aunt and her groundbreaking work in Tuscaloosa as an attorney, her service to her church, and her love for her family. Having these thoughts in my head, I decided to look up the article that was written in the Tuscaloosa News after her passing. This article chronicled her achievements all the way from being the first practicing female attorney in Tuscaloosa County to her work in starting a United Methodist Children’s Home for at-risk children, as well as her advocacy in Chapter 13 bankruptcy.

It was reading this article that got me to thinking. No, I didn’t know Aunt Jane that well. The hurt I felt for her loss extended more so to the people that I was closest to rather than her actual loss. But, I realize now that the influence we exert in our lives goes far beyond those we come in direct contact with. Aunt Jane’s passion for “unselfishly doing good for people” [my loose paraphrase], as my cousin Julia spoke of at the service reaches out beyond those clients she dealt with on a daily basis. Her heart for advocating for those who had no voice touches many more than those children that were provided a home at the Genesis House.

Aunt Jane’s influence reaches past two generations to touch even my life, as I see those values that were apparent to her family such as Bet Bet and later Pop, as well as to her nieces and nephew, my aunts and father. All these people that, unlike Aunt Jane, I am close to, have instilled in my life a passion to serve the poor, to do good at all costs and, as Jane used to say, to never give up when your cause is just.

All of this is evidence that we, as a people of faith, stand on the shoulders of those saints, servants, and sinners that go before us. The values and ideals of those that teach and lead us, whether in our lives directly or indirectly, guide and shape ultimately the disciples that we become. We go forward and learn more not because we are smarter, but because we stand on their shoulders, seeing further not in spite of, but rather because of. May we take those examples of women like Jane Dishuck and learn. May we recognize that because of women like her we move forward to accomplish that which has been set out for us. Doing justice, loving mercy, and walking humbly.

Thank you, J.J. May you rest in peace after a life well lived.

"Give Me My America Back"

I was watching the Daily Show the other day when I saw a clip of a recent town hall debate on health care reform. A woman held the microphone and, while sobbing, pleaded, “This is not my America. I don’t know what you’ve done with my America, but I want my America back! Give me my America back!” As Jon Stewart quipped in reply, "Go tell that to the Indians." To see the actual crazy person-ahem...excuse me-crazy citizen, click here. The aforementioned clip begins around the 1:10 mark.

Obviously, she didn’t want “socialized” medicine, “government death panels,” “hostile government takeovers of our entire health care system,” or whatever else Rush Limbaugh, Sean Hannity, Ann Coulter, Glenn Beck or any other Fox News talking head had been telling her the President’s reform measures would bring.

My question immediately was, “What and where is this America that she was talking about?”

The root of her fear, it seemed was that the government would invade every facet of our daily lives and ruin all that is good with “her America.” Fear of the government, as the Great Beesh would tell you, is a very healthy thing. But, fear based on blatant misinformation can be completely destructive.

Now, I don’t know this woman. I don’t know what her exact political views are. But, I think it wouldn’t be too irrational to assume that she longs for the days of Republican/George Bush power. Power that brought warrantless wiretapping, secret CIA prisons across the globe, torture, Dick Cheney and Halliburton tomfoolery, waterboarding, even more torture, the Patriot Act and the politically-motivated firing of US attorneys.

Programs and acts, it appears to me, expand government’s role far, far more than a public option so forty million of Crying Woman’s fellow citizens can proceed without fear of being tossed into financial ruin because of a broken health care system.

These programs fly in the face of the sacred document each President swears to uphold. Those are forgotten, though, when a Democrat takes office. Bigger government role in social programs? Nay…it is socialism, we’re told.

Fear, when kept in check, is a healthy thing. The fear of the Lord, for example. But fear of Uncle Sam in a SWAT team outfit kicking your door in and killing your grandmother because she is unproductive is destroying democracy.

In a blog written by my man Bob, he tells that it’s time to get back to school, where you don’t speak unless you raise your hand and are acknowledged. If I had shouted down Shannon Jones in third grade like some of these “grassroots protesters” (sarcasm implied), I would’ve been strung up…literally. It’s about respect…respect for the Constitution, respect for your fellow man, and respect for the democratic process…all things that are a part of “My America.”

This woman’s? I’m not so sure.

***For a much better and more well-written response to this video and sentiment, visit THIS blog.

Toasty/Bagel Hope

My apologies for the Dust-Bowl type drought in the updates. I would tell you that I just didn’t have time, but in an effort to be transparent, I’ll just say that I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Honestly though, the second half of the summer was much, much different than the first. We didn’t have as many groups that came on Sunday night and stayed till Friday morning, for whatever reason. Because of this, there was a substantial amount of downtime for Tori and I. Many groups came in just for the day and worked or painted, while some came and stayed for only a few days. To pass the time, we brushed up on our forensic skills and tore through Season 1 of CSI.
Now that the summer is over, I’ve been trying to process what I learned, or didn’t learn, from this summer. It is safe to say that while last summer taught me extensively about things I’m good at, this summer taught me exactly the opposite. It seems to be a theme of this particular journey. Being reminded of my inequities is a good thing, I suppose, but is never an easy thing to stomach. It’s a good starting point in addressing things I need some grace for, beginning ministry. It is, however, hilarious to look at the ways you can rationalize or talk yourself out of doing certain things is certain situations. I would expose some of these things, but I’m not ready to be quite that vulnerable yet. I’m sure you’ll understand.

Much of what I’m about to type has been said before by Deb, so I’m not going to act all profound by saying it here and claiming credit, just so you know. Just giving credit where it’s due.

There were many times this summer when I asked myself “Why am I here?” My experience this summer had the unfortunate and unfair position of being compared in every way to my experience from last summer, so I was continually asking myself if what we were doing was accomplishing anything. Last summer, we oversaw 15 homes that were repaired to be warmer, safer and drier; that is, the families that occupied those homes’ lives were vastly improved. This summer, inevitably because of many of our volunteers, I struggled to see the good in what we were doing. Sure, the homes looked much better with a fresh coat of paint and trim, but what did we do to alleviate the problems that faced these homeowners? We would only be there a week (maybe two), so it’s not like we could enter into deep, meaningful relationships. We were just…painting. The neighborhoods they lived in were still riddled with crime, the schools would continue to be subpar, the health problems many homeowners carried around were still there and they would continue to be overlooked. Painting their home for them seemed to be, in my eyes, putting a band-aid on a gunshot wound.

Thankfully, as the summer progressed, I was able to see a bigger picture. In the neighborhoods we worked and lived in, there wasn’t much light. Crime, as I said, drugs and poverty were simply ways of life. But throw a coat of paint on a house, though, and a little light begins to break through. Deb mentioned of times when neighbors, seeing the new house, would come outside and try to tidy up their own property by picking up trash and doing yard work. Hope, she said many times, is contagious. So while many homeowners still have rotten siding, accumulating medical bills, live in fear of their own neighborhoods, and struggle to buy groceries, perhaps we have done just a little to brighten up their lives. Hopefully, we have made enough of a crack in what was despair so that some light can break through.

Light, in toasty and bagel.