Monday, January 24, 2011

Exit Earth Mother

Now I've been told that I'm an enabler, which I'm sure is true.
I like to get people to like me by doing what they ask me to do.
Some call me the fairy godmother, others the wicked witch;
It depends on their perspective, and how I scratch their itch.

I don't build up to a crescendo; I'm here and then I'm gone;
The changes I leave in my wake leave some feeling quite forlorn.
So, I've decided that a little of me time goes a very long way
I usually get into trouble when I'm tempted to stay.

I'm like a walking meth lab, and apparently as dangerous
Explosions happen all around me and I cannot hear the fuss.
Until the toxic waste of these bombs chases all away,
And I'm left with nobody with whom I can play.

So I hide in my room because I don't want anyone hurt,
But when bullies enter the playground, my passions start to perk.
I usually come out flailing to protect the weak
And when the fighting's over, I'm told to take a seat.

The disciplinarians see me as big and strong;
The bullies act so meek, it looks like I am wrong.
But all I want is to make sure that the babies aren't harmed
I didn't know that I could cause such wounds without being armed.

I guess there is a reason they say the pen is mightier than the sword.
Whether spoken or written, it seems the mightiest weapons are words.
I am trying to sit back and stop fighting the battles of others;
I have to keep reminding myself I am not the whole earth's mother.

Healing of the Holy Spirit

Today was Youth Sunday at my daughter's family's church. This meant that the pre-teen and teen-age members of the congregation played all the parts in the service. There were songs written and played by the kids. The sermon expertly delivered by one of the girls that I have known for many years was a sterling example of the type of warm, personal, human testimony that were hallmarks of the sermons given by the former pastor that I heard yesterday on the subject of evangelism.

My first grandchild read the gospel with passion and concise diction, showing a great deal of stage presence. When she stood with the youth and sang, I wept copious tears flashing back to her early days in this same church, with these same families, my beautiful little angel granddaughter belting out her joy in Jesus like a baby Ethel Merman. Thankfully, she still shone as brightly with the glory of her God.

My pre-teen granddaughter had the role of the seemingly self-appointed encourager-in-charge of the various other participants in the program. (I like to believe that she got some of her cheer leading ability from her Granny.)Although she spends much time unsuccessfully attempting to hide her light under a bushel basket, she was masterful on the piano as the congregation "nailed" their burdens onto the cross of Christ. I asked my daughter to bring up my burden of multi-generational wounds, something my mother died praying for.

I was struck by the continuity in the liturgy; it all centered on the forgiving nature of God. The young men who gave the children's sermon had a wonderful way of explaining the importance of not burdening ourselves with shame over our mistakes. What great hope and joy these children exhibited! And what a wonderful legacy of their former pastor's evangelical abilities, which always put me in mind of what I've been taught about the ministry of Jesus.

Something that also struck me, both while I heard the former pastor and as I reveled in the beauty of the next generation's faith, was the lack of focus on confessing our sins against one another to each other and attempting to make amends. I left both gatherings with a heavy heart knowing how much pain is passed on from generation to generation because we don't believe that making the world right entails making amends for our transgressions to the people we have persecuted. And the sins of the parents continue to compound with each non-repentant generation.

My prayer several times each day is, "Holy Spirit, heal our hearts and heads. Oh, and please, Holy Spirit, take my tongue."