Tuesday, March 28, 2017

Passing the Peace is for More Than Sundays





“Hello, my name is Julie!”

Reach out. Smile. Shake a person’s hand. Then say, “Hello, my name is…” 
See where the conversation goes.

And don’t be afraid to write you name in ink and be who you are in Christ.

Monday, March 13, 2017

God's Guest List

I had an opportunity to meet Debbie Macomber 3- or 4-years ago. She spoke at a retirement community I served at the time. 

I had read one Debbie Macomber book at the urging of an independent resident.  I liked Ms. Macomber’s welcoming and warm personality so why not stay for her talk. Her head with her expectant eyes and radiant smile was all that shore over the podium.  Her work ethic and passion for writing were evident.  She talked about renting a typewriter as she was a stay at home mother of 4-chlidren. The rejections and how she continued writing. She interwove her talk with her faith, which I found uplifting.

I never picked up another Debbie Macomber book until this past December. I joined my friend, Mary and Terry for dinner at the Crossroads Mall. Mary recommended Debbie Macomber’s book, God’s Guest List:  Welcoming Those Who Influence Our Lives to me. I read it throughout the Christmas holiday.

Each book has a starting place. This book starts with Presents, People, and One More List:  An Unfinished Guest List.




There is a story that goes something like this:  A woman arrived at the gates of heaven to be met by St. Peter.

“You may want to join the others at the throne,” he said to her, “and then greet those you loved on earth. But when you are ready, I’ll take you on the tour of heaven.”

When the time came for her tour, she could hardly take it all in. It reminded her a little of her earthly home, but she could see that earth had only been a pale shadow of what she was seeing now. They explored every nook and cranny of heaven – waterfalls, fields of flowers, exquisite buildings, and streets of gold.

As the tour drew to an end, she noticed one massive door they had not yet explored. A gold padlock secured it. “What’s in the room?” she asked.

“You don’t want to see that room,” St. Peter said, steering her away from it. “It’s only a storeroom.”

“But I do. May I see inside? I want to see every bit of heaven.”
St. Peter didn’t answer. Instead he took a large key out of his pocket, put it in the lock, and turned it. The tumblers clicked and the padlock opened. He took the lock off, and opened the door.  The woman had to blink several times to take it all in. Inside the cavernous room were stacks and stacks of gifts, wrapped in all the colors of the rainbow and tied with all colors of heaven.

She clapped her hands with delight. “Is this were you store presents for everyone in heaven?”

“No. These gifts are not for heaven, they were meant for earth.”
“What do you mean ‘were’?” She walked through the stacks and came to a pile marked with her name. “Look these gifts were marked for me. “ She fingered the paper and ribbons. “May I open them?”

“No. You do not need them now.” St. Peter put a hand in her shoulder, guiding her toward the door.
“But if I don’t need them now, does this mean I needed them on earth?”  She couldn’t take her eyes off the pile. To think she would never get to enjoy all those beautifully wrapped gifts.

He nodded his head. “Yes, you needed them on earth.”

She looked around the room, realizing that must have been millions of gifts. Maybe more, since she couldn’t see an end to the room. “Why weren’t my gifts sent to me on ear?” As she looked closer, she could read the names on all gifts been sent?”

St. Peter sighed. “You don’t understand. Every one of them was sent.” Moving his arm in an arc that encompassed the whole room, he said, “All of these and more. These are the ones that were returned on unopened.”  He moved her toward the door. “Many people on earth don’t recognize God’s gifts and fail to open them.”

I love gifts – both giving and receiving. When I first heard the story, I wondered if there was any truth to the parable.  Had God sent gifts to me that I hadn’t opened? When I get to heave, I don’t want to discover that I failed to recognize. The gifts God sent into my life. I don’t want to miss a single one.

Unfortunately, in real life God’s presents don’t always come gaily gift-wrapped, and they are not always easily recognized. Some even initially come looking like challenges. And often these gift are people shaped.

I never had Debbie Macomber on my guest list. I added her and placed a check mark by her name.
“Who is on your guest list?” And,  “Why?”






Saturday, March 11, 2017

Shalom




I wonder sometimes is heaven on earth. Or have we created a hell from our frustrations of our daily life? The unresolved frustrations turn to anger and then to rage.  Hate is spewed cowardly towards others in the darkness of the night.  Sprayed from an aerosol can, the words come to light, where they are not right.
I have entered the doors of the Temple De Hirsh Sinai to hear the Rev. Dr. Roland Stringfellow preach, who is from my hometown of Fort Wayne, Indiana.  I have not passed through the Temple De Hirsch’s doors since.



I drove down a street to the side of the Temple. It was the first time in more than 17-years of living in Seattle that I noticed the wall and the columns. I was drawn to this area.

As the rain repeatedly hit my car’s windshield, I searched for a parking space along a side street.  I slowly walked with my cane on the wet pavement. I took in the Star of David. I stood in front of the wall and placed my hand on it. I offered a prayer. I reflected upon the massive columns and how small I am yet I can do my part in giving back to our world as I reached out in this sacred place among the city sounds.

As I drove to a meeting yesterday, Seattle police surrounded the place I previously prayed weeks ago. The vehicles lights shone bright in the momentary overcast that enshrouded the ominous scene yet I continued on my journey.
The police evacuated. There was calm. I then noticed the words on the wall in big black letters: “Holocaust Is Fake History.”



I pulled my car over to the curb and silently prayed and then quietly sat as I looked at the wall. I thought, “It is my ‘wailing wall.’ As a community...as a neighborhood, it is our wailing wall.” I wept for my brothers and sisters.  As I drove away with my tear stained face, I mouthed, “Shalom. Shalom to our brothers and sisters."