5:00 p.m.

“Hey!” Jin nudged his friend, Claus, as the train took off, heading for Korea Town.  “That was a movie being filmed, right?”

Claus looked up from his phone.  “What?”

“Didn’t you see that lady in the long dress?” Jon persisted.  “That giant crane with a camera?  The boom hanging from a pole?” He tapped his friend’s elbow.  “No wonder you’re always confused!  You don’t pay attention!”

Claus’ round face looked concerned for a moment, but quickly lost any expression at all.  He returned to the game on his phone.  “I’m confused because you’re always interrupting me at the most inopportune times!”

Since he was six foot two inches tall, Jin looked over the heads of the other passengers. None of them seemed too concerned with the film-making at the platform.  Jin shook his head, discouraged.  

An eighteen year old college freshman, Jin sought out hope in the world still.  No one seemed too interested in convincing him that there was such a thing as hope; or even steering him where it might possibly lay.  He attended Los Angeles City college sporadically with his friends who, like him, could take it or leave it.

“What are you doing after you leave the train?” Claus asked him.

Jin was surprised to hear Claus’ voice: he seemed too caught up in the digital war he was waging on his phone.  The tunnel had thwarted reception and Claus was actually trying to engage Jin in conversation; it made him smile.

“I guess going home,” Jin answered. 

“You guess?” Claus was starting to laugh, and he would have if Jin’s face hadn’t turned to stone. 

Claus could tell by Jin’s expression that he saw something- a big something - over his shoulder.  

“What is it?  A robbery?”

Jin’s face was ashen, but he shook his head.

“It’s Yoda, dude! Reading a newspaper.”

“Shut your face!” Claus whispered loudly, and then looked over his shoulder to see a tall man, reading a newspaper, seated comfortably in the bench by the sliding doors.  He looked back at Jin, who was unable to stop staring- a pathetic look on his face.  Claus looked back again.  “That’s yoda?  Are you sure?”

Jin nodded, star struck.  

For a moment, Jin wondered if the seated man would actually talk to him.  Would he be one of the snooty Hollywood elite who refused to sign autographs or talk to his fans?  There was only one way to find out.

“I’m going to say hi,” Jin bravely told Claus. 

Claus grabbed his friends’ elbow.  “Don’t make a fool of yourself, dude!”

“Chill.  I won’t.”

He carefully squeezed his way through and around passengers, who were gripping the rail above them to steady themselves.  Most of the people looked intelligent enough, why could they not recognize greatness in their midst?

“Hi, Frank,” Jin said, extending his hand to the man behind the newspaper.  The man looked up at the sound of his name and into the eyes of Jin. 

“Do I know you?” He held his newspaper calmly in both hands, even after noticing Jin’s extended palm.

Jin leaned closer, as if he meant to speak discreetly.  “I’m a big fan of yours,” he whispered.  “I think you’re amazing.”

At the sound of praise, Frank Oz put his newspaper down and shook Jin’s hand.  “Thank you for coming over.  I’m glad you appreciate my work.”  The other passengers didn’t seem to notice the exchange. 

“Do you have any advice for me?" Jin asked boldly.  "Any words of hope?”

Frank stared back at the young man, a handsome fellow who seemed to have a lot going for him.  What should he say?  “Well, like what?”

Jin smiled, trying to hide his immense admiration for the person of yoda.  Mr. Oz was his voice, but he also made the character come to life.  He had to have some secret of life worth imparting. “I don’t know.  What would Yoda tell me?”

“Oh,” Oz smiled broadly.  “This is about Yoda!”

“Maybe…” Jin started to feel silly. Was it about Yoda?  Maybe it was about listening to an unlikely hero that had survived so many things.  Who lived humbly, but was so spiritually powerful.  Maybe it was about Yoda, maybe it was about hope.

“Hey,” Frank said, shrugging his shoulders.  “It’s Lucas, not me.  I read what’s in the script.  And I just read it like Yoda would read it.  That stuff doesn’t come from my head.”  When he saw Jin’s wounded expression, Frank sighed.  He re-positioned the newspaper in order to draw a barrier between himself and the needy young man. “You know, it’s just Yoda.  He’s not the Dali Lama.  He’s not Moses or Jesus Christ, after all.”

“I know,” Jin stood up straighter.  “But he is the Grand Jedi Master; the oldest and most powerful in the Star Wars universe.”

Frank raised his eyebrows and nodded.

“Look, I know he’s not real.  I’m just saying if he were, what would he say to me?”

Frank shook his head in a way that implied he was finished talking.  “I can’t say.”

Jin nodded.  “Okay, well.  Thanks anyway.”   He wondered why Frank would be so stingy with sharing the hope behind Yoda; why he would be so stingy with his own advice…

After an awkward moment of watching Frank reading his paper, Jin worked his way back to Claus, who had been watching the whole thing. 

It was five o’clock.  It was a time when the commuters were wearing the expressions of panicked rats trying to find a morsel of food on a stinky sinking ship.  He wondered if the same life was in store for him.  After college, after studying, after day after day on the train watching Claus play the same games…would it be the same for him?

Where was the magic of Yoda?  Where was the wisdom he sought under ever rock and behind each curtain?

“What did he say?” Claus asked, once Jin was at his side. 

Jin shrugged.  “Nothing much really.  Nothing much at all.”

“Well, what did you say to him?”

“I asked him for hope.  For advice.”

Claus felt terrible suddenly.  He saw that Jin had been wounded, deeply.  He resisted the urge to put his arm around him, if only to offer him consolation.  “Don’t worry about it, man,” he said, flatly. 

“He’s not really Yoda.”

“No, he’s not.”

Five o’clock.  It was, perhaps, the saddest time in the whole wide world.  It was the time that lacked hope more than any other hour of the day.  

.

3:00 p.m.

At 3:00 the post was distributed and Belita waited for the envelope to be placed in her box before taking it outside to read.  She now sat on the bench outside with the unopened letter in her hand.  Its contents would decide her future.  If the envelope contained a form letter, thanking her for her participation in the contest, she would be staying in Diepsloot until the next opportunity to model.  If the letter was an affirmative invitation, she would soon be on her way to Los Angeles, in order to pose for a lingerie feature in a national magazine.

Belita had modeled lingerie since she was sixteen.  Her first job was very dodgy, where the models were asked to pose for a photographer with a hand-held camera in front of a sheet.  She had been taken to downtown Johannesburg with three other models in a long car that served them champagne and told them they were going to be rich.  It was only partly true: the models took home two hundred and fifty rand that day.  Posing in a bra earned her whole family groceries that week, which was good enough to warrant congratulations from her Gogo.  Belita did not have the heart to tell her that she modeled her underwear for strangers; she knew her religious Granny would not approve.

At first, Belita kept it a secret from everyone, until she started getting national recognition from photographers and advertizing agencies.  At eighteen, she posed for a headshot advertisement with a young man she thought was quite homely.  To her surprise, one of the photos was used for advertizing  Durex Condoms.  Her friends teased her, saying she was now famous.  They asked her for money, assuming that she would collect part of the royalties for her face on a million street signs.  Little did they know the eight hundred rand payout was for one-day’s work.  She had signed a release and didn’t profit from the picture at all- no matter how popular it became.

After two years, the condom stigma wore off.  Her Gogo found out she was a lingerie model and pretended to object; she didn’t stop eating the food Belita brought home, however.  The Pastor and his wife took her aside one day and confessed they were worried about her salvation; they advised her to find other work. 

In truth, it was easy for others to judge.  It was easy to say “Oh, yes, I will begin looking for other work!” In reality, modeling lingerie put food on the table – lots of food.  The more reputable the agency she signed on with, the less nonsense she had to put up with.  It led her to some very nice work environments; all she had to do was look good in bras and panties. 

Two months ago, she entered a global contest called “Pearls of Africa” – a scouting of fabulous models from all over the continent.  She submitted a portfolio of work that she had managed to save over the years.  She had also enlisted the help of her brother, an amateur photographer, who took additional shots with a borrowed camera.  They sent the portfolio off, paying an exorbitant price for DHL shipping.  Her return address was a box at the 3-in-1 at Fourways Crossing, down the road from the township.

The letter arrived today from the magazine; Belita was strangely afraid to open it. 

She had made peace with modeling, even lingerie modeling.  She had not yet made peace with success.  Success meant she might be choosing a wicked path and disregarding the pastor’s advice.  In truth, she sought the counsel of God at every step; He remained the very core of her being.  He was the One who had caused all of this to happen, Belita thought.  If He willed it, it would come to be. 

“Lord,” she whispered.  “Not my will, but yours be done.”

The wind blew and she quivered, clutching the envelope tightly.  At last, she dared to break the seal.  Inside was a letter that was addressed to her, looking official.

“Dear Ms. Mbantwa,

Thank you for your entry in the Pearl of Africa Photo Shoot contest for Divine Magazine.  We regret to inform you that you were not among the Top Ten applicants chosen.  Your portfolio was beautiful, however, and we would like to invite you to come to Los Angeles as an alternate model for the upcoming lingerie feature.Your entry provided us with a phone number that has been disconnected; we are hoping that you will call us when you are in receipt of this letter.  Kindly phone our offices in Sandton at 011-456-0809 at your earliest convenience.  We would like to discuss the possibility of bringing you to Los Angeles as soon as possible.

With Warm Regards, 

Chanelle Rossy

Executive Director, Lingerie Department
Divine Magazine
New York, Los Angeles

Belita read the letter three times before going back into the 3-in-1 to ask Janet, the clerk at the counter to read it as well.  Both ladies agreed that the letter was not a hoax and that a phone call should be made. 

Janet allowed Belita to use the landline behind the counter since her boss was ill and therefore not around.  As soon as the phone was answered, the woman directed Belita’s call to her supervisor.  The next voice Belita  heard was deep, professional, and sincere. 

“Miss Belita Mbantwa!” he said.  Belita could tell he was smiling.  “Good day to you!  You are a very hard woman to find!”

Belita looked up at Janet, and the two ladies smiled at each other.  They both knew that Belita would be soon bound to Los Angeles for the trip of a lifetime.

third

The Twelve Days of Christmas was originally a French carol.  Why, especially would they need a reference to “ 3 FRENCH HENS”?  Aren’t all hens in France French hens?  Why would the carol make note of an obvious distinction?

The reference to a “FRENCH HEN” (rather than an English variety of chicken) may have just been because the rhyme sounded better that way.  In the original French, the carol sang: “Trois poules françaises” – literally three French female poultry (a hen). 

The habits of French hens are very different from breed to breed.  The Crèvecoeur is the oldest of the standard-bred fowls of France – black with a beautiful plume on its head.  The Houdan has an unusual butterfly-shaped comb, and is one of few breeds to have five toes rather than the usual four. La Flèche hens look a lot like our chickens and lay very large white eggs.  Of all the French breeds of chicken, it is said that the La Flèche became the most popular around the world and therefore… the obvious choice of this referral.

Three hens stay together and work together; they sleep together and hunt food together.  Because of this, when a person buys hens they are advised to buy three at a time. 

On the third day of Christmas my true love gave to me – THREE FRENCH HENS.

It is said that this referral is to FAITH, HOPE and LOVE (I Corinthians 13:13) the things that “remain” in our faith.  When all is said and done, our belief in God, our identity as sons and the core of our being boils down to faith, hope and love.  

I think of my own life – the cornerstone of my faith is Jesus Christ  - his finished work on the cross and His resurrection.  After that, what remains in me is faith, hope and love – the hens that work together and are seen together in the courtyard of my life.

If we don’t have a benefactor who gives without finding fault, we all would be in a place where we need to love more.  Our faith would be cold…nothing more than knowledge of Christ and His sacrifice.  Because of our true love we are given gifts of faith, hope and love.  We just need to open them and see what oozes out!    

On the third day of Christmas, my true love gave to me THREE FRENCH HENS – Faith hope and love.  

Barney

There is a tree outside my window that has leaves that are orange and red and yellow.  The tree is called Barney because when me and Daddy planted it he said we had to give it a name.  I said what about Barney and he said that sounds good.  It was right before he left us.

Barney was a green tree at first and had to be supported by big stakes, just like broom handles.  Daddy dug a big hole in the front yard and he was sweating.  I asked him if I could help and he said just hold that tree son and I did.  When it was time we put Barney into the hole and then covered him back up with dirt.  Mama came out of the house and said that the tree was planted too close to my window and not to be scared if the branches hit my window when the wind blew.  Daddy asked her how do you like the tree otherwise and Mama said its fine.  Then she went back into the house.

That was just before Arnie was born, my little sister.  I think she is cute and shiny but she poos a lot and Mommy is the only one who changes her.  I can’t change her because I can’t stand the smell of poo, even my own poo.  Daddy used to hold her until she pooed and then he’d hand her to Mommy.  She would say I sure would like some support around here she’s your baby too but Daddy said the smell made him gag.  I laughed at the face he made and I said it reeked to high heaven, which is what he usually said.   When I said that both Mommy and Daddy laughed and looked at each other, which was nice.  Then Daddy said you got that right son that diaper sure stinks but I love your sister. Arnie wiggled around while Mommy changed her and I went to find my tricycle.

Later Arnie learned to crawl and Mommie took me to a place called preschool where I met Ted and Tyler and we started a club that climbed on the monkey bars.  We are the climbing rangers, that’s the name of our club.  We like each other and we will not let girls join, which makes me a little sad because there is a girl Sarah who climbs the jungle gym all by herself when we are done.  I wish she could join our club but Tyler says no. 

One day I came home from preschool and Mommie said we need to talk Ben.  She only said that to me one time before and that’s when Rodent my pet hamster died because I didn’t feed him.  I thought I was in trouble but then I saw she had my snack on the table like usual so I walked over there and sat down.  She made me chocolate chip cookies without wall nuts that day and there was a glass of real milk not almond milk for me to drink.  All of a sudden I realized I did something good.  Boy I thought she was gonna tell me something good.

Then Mommy told me that Daddy had moved out and he was going to live with Pop Pop and Grandma for awhile until they figured some things out.  I thought she was joking, so I put down my cookie and went to the closet and all his work boots were gone.  I looked back at her and she was crying which I hate. When she cries it makes everyone in the house sad.  Arnie was wiggling around in Mommie’s lap and trying to reach for my cookies, so I ran back to my place and took a bite of one and pushed my face close to hers, just to show her that it was mine.  Mommie said don’t do that Ben she’s just a baby and so I said sorry and sat back down.  Mommie stood up and blew her nose in the bathroom.  When she came back she sat down and she wasn’t crying anymore so I asked her who was going to mow the lawn.  Mommie said Daddy is still, which made me feel better because Mommie never has the energy to mow the lawn and I don’t know how to.  Besides, I get to help Daddy mow the lawn and Mommie brings us iced tea and its pretty fun.  We stand up and drink it together and say cheers and clink our glasses.  After a few sips of iced tea Daddy says are we ready to get back to work, son? And I say I guess and he starts mowing the lawn again and I look for rocks in front of the lawn mower.  It’s pretty fun to work with Daddy  and I think it would be bad if we couldn’t do it together.

Now at dinner time we eat without him and Mommie cooks spaghetti like normal or sometimes she makes masanya which is really good.  I feel bad for Mommie because she has to watch the news all by herself and say things like how about that to me instead of Daddy.  I’m hoping that she doesn’t want me to start watching the news with her - I can’t because it’s just like poo.  I can’t stand it.

Baby Arnie is starting to take her first steps and Mommie called Daddy three times and said if you want to see her first steps you better get over here but he didn’t come.  Daddy lives far away at Pop Pops and he drinks beer with him and Mommie says Daddy is busy too busy to see his kids.  I know she’s mad at Daddy but she’s nice to me and Arnie so that’s the way it has to be.

Last night Mommie came into my room and said it was supposed to storm and howl and the tree might hit my window.  I looked at Barney and all his leaves were so pretty but they were falling off.  I asked Mommy if Barney’s leaves were losing their coloring fill and she laughed.  She said where did you hear such a thing and I told her that Miss Jenny told us at school.  The leaves on trees turn orange and yellow because their coloring fill goes away.  Without coloring fill they cannot be green and make the air nice and they will fall off the tree.  Miss Jenny said this is called FO TO SIN THE SIS and in autumn we see the leaves change color because they are already dead.

Mommie was smiling at me and she shook her head and said my smart boy are you paying attention in class like you are sposed to and I said yes and she kissed me.  Then she got tears in her eyes and said -everything changes Ben everything changes.  I didn’t know what to say so I said that a square has four equal sides just to see if she would smile again but she didn’t.  She said if you get scared just come into my room and tell me.  I said I would but I wanted to tell her that I’m pretty big now and I don’t get scared anymore.   

When she left my room I looked out at Barney and thought about how he lost his coloring fill and his leaves were already dead they were just hanging on.  They were good leaves but they had no choice – they had to die because trees have seasons and one day they’ll be back. 

There’s been so much change this year for me and Barney.  I think about Daddy and how he and Mommie are living in different houses now but that’s the way it has to be.  Mommie gets sad when she talks about it and Daddy says there’s nothing I can do about it son Mommie just asked me to leave and I had to.  I think I notice that he’s gone the most on Saturdays because that’s when he was a Daddy, not every other day.

I wonder if I’m like Barney, losing my leaves and not knowing it because they were dead already. Day by day I’m changing and now it’s almost winter and I better get a coat soon or else I’ll be cold.  I’m glad I’m not a tree like Barney because soon he’ll be naked like all the other trees on the street.

tree

I was an adult when I read it for the first time and tears came to my eyes in the bookstore.  It was all Leo Buscaglia’s fault.

I majored in Speech in college and I was captivated by Buscaglia, the man who told the best stories of love and normal family life and finding happiness in a hurting world.  In one of his many talks, he mentioned the name Shel Silverstein and referenced the book that many consider the most poignant of all children’s works.  

I found it in a bookstore and read it in its entirety, loving the illustrations as much as I did the words. 

The book is simple; almost simplistic.  At first glance, there is almost nothing to it.  It’s about a tree (one that instantly takes on human qualities) that can’t move who “loves a little boy” who can.  The boy is a classic boy with non-stop energy and imagination.  He is (at first) the story’s protagonist. 

Things change as the boy grows and he is exposed as a selfish man who thinks only of himself.  Gone is the innocence of his youth where he thinks of the tree as his companion.  Instead of feeling cheated by this strange fact, the reader’s attention turns toward the tree, who loves the boy.  As much as the tree gives, it is she who is happy – never the boy who is receiving everything she can possibly give.

 I read it again today in one scroll down with my mouse.  It was lacking the pictures, but it made me remember.  I remembered my children, freshly bathed snuggling close to me to hear a few books before bed.  Even as an exhausted mother, it was my favorite time of day.  Right after the dinner dishes were finished and the kids were squeaky clean and their hair was damp and their eyes sparkled as they carried their choice of books to me for read-aloud time.  I always wanted them to pick The Giving Tree, my favorite even then.   

The Giving Tree is more than a book; it is a painting of how things work in many relationships where there is one giver and one taker.  It is an invitation for the reader to rethink the concept of happiness, forgiveness and identity.  It is an explanation of how it is possible to love with a special selflessness, remembering the best about our beloveds.  Love, the book tells us, is a wondrous, beautiful thing that costs us everything and makes us happy.

It is seldom the takers who are happy in this world.  I love the book for its reinforcement of this fact.  It does it over and over again with one line.  

And the tree was happy.

forget

South African Ladies Praying
photo credit: Newsday.com

There is a certain point of no return you reach in relationships.  The person you know and love is solidly in your heart and you can’t pull back into normal friendship where everyone is supposed ti mind their own business and be friendly and not too familiar.  It’s no different in ministry, where you begin relationships that grow and grow and in your heart and then....BOOM!  You realize that the person is no longer someone you are “working alongside with” or “helping” or “praying for”...they’re someone you really care about in a way similar to family.

One of these ladies that has worked her way in to my heart is a young woman by the name of Forget.  That’s right, her name is Forget.  It kind of makes it easy to remember.

Forget lives in Diepsloot extension 11 where there are more shacks than brick houses and only a section has reliable electricity.  Her own shack is nothing so special, it’s small and has a double bed, a dresser and a table for her food preparation.  It’s been clean every time I’ve visited, even when I’ve surprised her. 

Forget runs a prayer group that meets in the courtyard of four separate shacks that face each other.  The courtyard is covered with old carpet and sometimes puddles in the rain.  Still, the sound of joyful shouting and salvation come from inside of its corners.  The ladies are all known to us as “Forget’s Prayer Group”, but they do all have names and I promise I remember them all.  These ladies have made a bond of friendship in a harsh place and do their best to take care of one another when things are tough.

Things have been tough lately. 

One of the ladies was diagnosed with breast cancer a few months ago and it has spread aggressively.  Last week at church Forget told me that Teresa could no longer feed herself and that her breast seemed infected and swollen.  I made an appointment to go see her the following day, and when I met her I found it was as she said: bleak.  In Teresa’s shack Anna was bathing her and caring for her like a mother cares for a baby.   I was touched.  How often have I done this for a friend?

“How are you Teresa?” I asked after sitting down.  I could tell she was not well.  Teresa cried and pleaded for anything to get the pain to stop.  We made arrangements for her to go to the hospital the following day and I left after a few hours of planning with Forget’s prayer group.  One person to take Teresa, one to wash the bedding while she was gone, how much is taxi fare...etc., etc. 

Forget never wavered, speaking matter-of-factly about every detail that would need to be covered.  At one point she told me the washing powder was finished and we went to get more at a neighboring spaza.  Bessie and I left the place after a good holy dose of prayer that can only be felt if you’ve been in a shack with eight strong Christian women from South Africa.  By the time we were done, my ears were ringing.

I kissed Teresa on the head and she began to cry again.  In a way I didn’t want to go.

This morning I called Forget to see how the whole thing went at the hospital.  She told me some glitches and hiccups, but Teresa was in Helen Joseph where the doctors presented her with even more bleak options for treatment. 

“Forget,” I finally said.  “How are you?”

“I am feeling fine, Janet.”  As is their custom, African women don’t complain.  They think it is selfish to unless you are bleeding from the liver or bruised and can’t walk. 

“Are you feeling well in your heart?” I ventured further.  HOW DO YOU FEEL?  I wanted to know.  She takes care of everyone and does she feel taken care of?

“I have had an incredible time with God today,” she said.  I could tell she was smiling.  What a woman!  What a rock!

“Okay, Forget,” I said.  “If you need to reach me please give me a missed call.”  There was silence.

“I think I am alright, Janet.”

“Okay, but just in case...” I persisted. 

“Yes, Janet.” A bit of silence again, then “Pray for Teresa.”

“I will,” I said.  “I am.”

And then we hung up. 

I walked to the car with Mario who was on his way to another meeting.  I wanted to go back to extension 11 to check in on Forget.  I have never had this feeling before about anyone other than my own kids and Portia. 

“Babe,” I asked Mario as we got into the car.  “Do we have time to go to Helen Joseph?”

“Not today, babe,” he said.  “What happened?”

And as I told him, I asked him if we might go tomorrow.  Our day off, but no appointments. 

As I type now, I am supposed to be answering emails. I keep getting distracted and returning to thoughts of her. 

Forget, my strong friend who needs a hug.  

hush

Hush- a -bye,

Don’t you cry

Go to sleep little baby....

When you wake

You shall take

All the pretty little horses

Blacks and Bays

Dapples and Greys

Coach and Six little horses

Hush-a-bye

Don’t you cry

Go to sleep little baby. 

When I was pregnant with Vincent a mommy friend of mine gave me a cassette tape of lullabies that I loved.  I was a single mother, a recovering addict and had no idea where my life was going.  I had one thing: renewed hope of a life with my son and a new Savior I had just put my hope in.

For some reason, as I sang them to my infant son, I sang them to myself.  I sang in hope that the peace cooed over my baby would somehow bring me comfort.  It did.  It brought a soothing hope that calmed me down.

Hope.

It is the thing with feathers. 

It pits itself against tragedy and lifts its head up to the sunlight.

There is something better tomorrow, even if today has my heart broken.

I think it has been one month since I last blogged.  Blogging is a normal part of my life, an online journal.  To say I’ve been unable to blog is not so true.  I’ve been able, just not desirous....

I came home like a wet dog that comes in from a storm and collapses on the tile floor.  It took me awhile to bounce back and sing this lullaby to myself again. 

I had gone home to the USA for my granddaughter Alannah’s first birthday.  I had a short (and incomplete) visit with part of my family.  I had to leave in a way I had never done before, leaving me weeping as I took off.  I lost my passport in Dubai (found it in the airport lounge) and almost didn’t make the plane.  By the time I recovered from jet lag I was still coping with the heartbreak of living in two worlds.

Did I mention that I came home with my original manuscript of my newly completed novel, inked-up with re-write suggestions from my editor?  I also submitted a proposal to an agent my editor recommended ...and she rejected me... or at least rejected my “project”. 

So here I am, back again.  Back in the blogging saddle, writing as an update of how things are going.  It sounds so bleak, but I have seen the light and I am uplifted again.

I have hope, the thing that will not disappoint me.  I miss our families and I think I always will while I am here, but nothing can change the distance that separates us, other than us moving back, which we are not doing right away. 

In the last week, I started reading a new book that my neighbor, Gill lent me.  It is written for people who find themselves disappointed in life.  It is called “The Secret of a Radiant Life”  by W.E. Sangster, first published in 1957 (I wasn’t born yet...). 

I want to end my post with the last part of the second chapter, which I have just finished.  I think I want to end this post with it because in all of our lives we are desperately in need of hope, hope that can only come from God.  I am hoping that it will encourage you, like a lullaby so that in an ocean of emotion that will not stop churning you can find hope in the simplicity of His arms, like a lullaby. 

“We need God! There is the truth of it.  The demands of our turbulent nature are not to be calmed and controlled by the human will alone.  The stupid purposelessness of a universe without meaning sickens us in the very soul.  The vanity of still supposing our race can save itself from destruction even while we drift to the things we dread is a conceit we can no longer entertain.  The ache for inward peace, and the outward sheen which tokens its presence, are not made on this earth.

We turn to God.
‘Help us, O God!’

Where the saints and seers of all the ages have found victory and peace, we will find it too.”

love

“It's not enough to have lived.  We should be determined to live for something.  May I suggest that it be creating joy for others,  sharing what we have for the betterment of personkind,  bringing hope to the lost and love to the lonely.”                         Leo Buscaglia  1924-1998

“It's not enough to have lived. 

We should be determined to live for something. 

May I suggest that it be creating joy for others, 

sharing what we have for the betterment of personkind,

 bringing hope to the lost and love to the lonely.”

                        Leo Buscaglia  1924-1998

When I first heard Leo Buscaglia speak, I was a freshman in college.  His personality was so large, that no matter what he said, it was filled with life and joy and I couldn't help but love him...and he spoke mainly about that very thing: love.

A college professor, he once told a story about a class he taught: LOVE 1A.  It made me laugh.  Being a freshman, I was taking every 1A class there was: Algebra 1A, English Literature 1A, etc., etc.  It was a way of the University saying "Since we're assuming you don't have a good working knowledge of this subject, we will give you one."  

Buscaglia told the 20 students he began the course with that he was going to "encourage learning how to love".  Most of them stayed for the full semester, not earning any college credit.  The class soon became USC's most popular course, with a waiting list of 600.  College freshmen, dying to learn how to love.  Many disconnected, just trying to make it through the day.  The concept of Love 1A opened the eyes of the world.  Can a human being be taught how to love other human beings?    

Love is a wide, deep, tall subject that has more facets than a diamond.  It is a moving ocean, with rules and people changing places constantly, with very few benchmarks of success.  Many people who consider themselves experts on love are usually accompanied by large, painful failures and wide open, bleeding scars where those they loved have hurt them.  Such "experts" choose to love and love again - open wounds and scars and all.

I have been too blessed in my life with love.  When I think of how much I have loved in my life, I get tears in my eyes.  I was raised by loving parents, surrounded by loving siblings, committed (and lost) my heart to more than one or two boys that made me feel stupid and weak, so deep was my love for them.    

In the shadows, and almost as a balance, I can say that I have also experienced darkness and hopelessness.  I had years of just barely making it... knowing I would never find true love, and been swallowed by a hopelessness that made me feel hollow and dark and cold and helpless and wrung out.  For some reason, in the darkest place, I was shown the most excellent love: the love of God, which defies description.  All I can say is that it made me realize He was real...and that He is love.

I had a child, a son, with black hair and blue eyes, and who looked at me and instantly showed me what love was.  I  loved him so deeply that it shattered my soul; he loved me so much that I felt I had purpose.

I was given Mario, who I married and loved with everything in me.  Even so, the tight-rope walk of loving someone so desperately felt precarious, and I was filled with aching insecurities because I wasn't super-model material...and he was.  He came with two boys, who gave me a chance in their lives and I was so grateful, even though I knew they hoped that their parents would reunite...and I ached for them in their disappointment, in a way that didn't fit in my happiness to be married to their father.  I loved their hope and spark and wanted us all to be family without any issues, but felt the strange ache of half-ness  that comes with blended families and step-mothering.  

We had a daughter together that stole my heart and I thought I would explode in my happiness and inside I was desperate to be on steady ground, be the perfect mother that they would love forever and ever...

My parents, my siblings, my children, my husband...as if I could explode with love already, I was given Africa to love.  I looked into faces of children who ached for connection and orphans with hope and widows who searched for the best thing this world has to offer: love.  Working alongside of my heroes and my friends and my family here who loves me and laughs at me and takes me seriously and rejoices in my purposefulness.  

Each day my heart grows.  That's what love does to a heart, doesn't it? As I write, I understand the unpredictable losses and grief that gut us and make us want to die and be done with this heart... are balanced by the joy-filled, sparkly, outstanding surges of cartwheels that only love can bring.  

Love has made me cry when I've realized that a person I love hates me in a way.  I've grieved openly in a train when I realized that my grandmother was gone for real, and the tears were inspired by the love we shared.  Love has made me stay here even though there is so much love there.

My purpose in life is to love....

What is yours?

The Skin Horse had lived longer in the nursery than any of the others. He was so old that his brown coat was bald in patches and showed the seams underneath, and most of the hairs in his tail had been pulled out to string bead necklaces. He was wise, for he had seen a long succession of mechanical toys arrive to boast and swagger, and by-and-by break their mainsprings and pass away, and he knew that they were only toys, and would never turn into anything else. For nursery magic is very strange and wonderful, and only those playthings that are old and wise and experienced like the Skin Horse understand all about it.

 "What is REAL?" asked the Rabbit one day, when they were lying side by side near the nursery fender, before Nana came to tidy the room. "Does it mean having things that buzz inside you and a stick-out handle?"

"Real isn't how you are made," said the Skin Horse. "It's a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real."

"Does it hurt?" asked the Rabbit.

"Sometimes," said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. "When you are Real you don't mind being hurt."

 "Does it happen all at once, like being wound up," he asked, "or bit by bit?"

"It doesn't happen all at once," said the Skin Horse. "You become. It takes a long time. That's why it doesn't happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don't matter at all, because once you are Real you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand."

                                                                     From The Velveteen Rabbit, by Margery Williams