Don't Stop Believin'--the magic of Christmas

By Lara

Christmas Comes But Once a Year by Charles Greene (Wikimedia Commons).

 


We all know Christmas is about an innocent baby born in a manger. But for me, what embodies the spirit of the season this year has to do with a 49-year-old man who will be getting out of prison this week.

I know that doesn’t make you all warm and fuzzy the way your footed pajamas and hot cocoa by the fire does.

I get that.

The birth of our Savior is the greatest story ever told, not to mention it has baby lambs in it too.  There’s no way I can compete with that.

Certainly, the man in prison is no Christ-child.

He is an addict.

He is an ordinary Joe.  Well, kind of anyway.

What I mean by ordinary is he made a mistake, and how much more ordinary can you get than making mistakes – it seems to be at the essence of our humanity.

I guess what is unique about his mistake, unlike so many of mine, is it landed him in prison.

Thirteen years ago Joe was arrested for buying cocaine for personal use, and was charged and sentenced as a trafficker.  His punishment was 20 years with no chance of parole.

Kind of harsh.
 
The world is full of addicts though. It seems everyone’s addicted to something — drugs, fame, possessions, power and oh, how I could go on.  So, Joe is kind of ordinary that way.

Joe is one of six boys whose family grew up next door to a dear friend of mine.  Their moms were best friends for 40 years.  Even the way my friend described her childhood, that Joe was so much a part of, was kind of ordinary.  They carpooled together, teased each other, and played with all the other kids until way past dark.


Read the rest at Lara' blog Mercy Me! I've got work to do.

I go to prison

By Lara

 

St. Peter in Prison by Rembrandt (Wikimedia Commons).

An eye for an eye has been realized.

Every horror that has ever been wished on convicted felons by those of us in civilized society reveals itself in prison.

I saw it for myself on my visit to Florida State Prison in Raiford.  I heard it in the stories told by the Deacon who goes several times a week to minister to the imprisoned.

They have committed horrible crimes, and for that they are punished in a way that seems inhumane and unfathomable.

This may please you. This may comfort you.  This may somehow validate your righteousness or your sense of justice.

It did none of those things for me.

I entered into a concrete world of razor wire, metal bars, shackles, bolts and locks.  There is a tower guard with a gun perched high at the entrance.  There are gates that open and close intuitively and imposingly.  I didn’t go very far without encountering another gate, making me ever aware that I am going farther and farther from the life I know into the cavernous depth of depravity.


Continue reading at Lara's blog Mercy Me! I've got work to do.

Forgive and forget

By Lara

The Penitent Girl by Rotari (photo credit: Wikimedia Commons).

I’m in a bit of a pickle.  Over the past year, I have completed most of the works of mercy.  But there is one that I have avoided with a vengeance -- forgiveness.

Forgive others.  It sounds simple compared to some of the other works of mercy that have been more time-consuming. After all, I wouldn’t have to find a person in need or an organization to help.  I don’t have to make phone calls or appointments.  I don’t even have to go anywhere.  Doing it lies within me.  Yet, when I get into the elusive details of this fundamental teaching of my faith, forgive and forget easily turns into forget.  As in, forget it.

The concept of forgiveness truly mystifies me.  I picture a magician waving a wand, saying an incantation – maybe even a small cloud of smoke appears. Poof!  Ladies and gentlemen, we have forgiveness!

Except we don’t. 

I don’t want you to misunderstand either.  I am a very easy going person.  I don’t hold grudges.  There’s nobody I wish ill on and to my recollection there never has been. 

A few months ago, a decades old wound was opened.  I was surprised how bad it both hurt and angered me when it was something so far removed from my life. 

Would I have felt that way, if had I forgiven this person?

For days I thought about the encounter.  I hated that it bothered me. I was mad at myself for being bothered.  I felt angsty, confused and sad. I thought a lot about the person I was at the time.  It occurred to me that I needed to forgive myself as much as anyone.   

 

Continue reading at Lara's blog  Mercy Me! I've got work to do!

Drive-thru religion

by Lara

The Seven Works of Charity by Master of Alkmaar (photo credit: Wikimedia Commons).

I think I hit rock bottom last week, but really, who can remember?  It seems more often than would be possible for someone without a dementia diagnosis, I forget things.

Actually, it’s more that I am distracted than forgetful.

I can’t always remember if I washed my face in the shower and fear that I am often repeating this task. Or, I inadvertently put shower gel instead of face wash on my Clarisonic which results in a vibrating, floral-scented, foamy mess.

The week before, when I was cutting Brussels sprouts off its stalk I was half way finished before I realized that I had thrown the tiny cabbage-like balls into the trash can instead of the bowl that conspicuously sat on the counter.  I also opened a box of granola bars to throw into our snack bin and tossed them in the trash instead.

Frustrating, but relatively harmless, I spend a lot of time digging things out of the trash and re-washing body parts.  But sometimes the consequences are a little less benign– like when I accidently donated my husband’s suits to charity instead of taking them to the drycleaner.  That was costly.

My real wake-up call came the other day when I went through the Wendy’s drive-thru and was corrected by the cashier because apparently I was repeating myself.  “Ma’am, you already said you wanted an unsweet tea to go with your #1,” she reprimanded.  Geez, cut me some slack I thought.  I stammered along with the rest of my order and then fearing I had repeated something else, I fully disclosed that I couldn’t remember anything and wanted an unsweet tea.

I am terribly distracted much of the time.  And I worry that as I age my husband will not be able to tell what is merely my normal distracted-ness and what is really dementia.

We are all told to live in the moment, but which one?  I know I am not the only one doing a minimum of three different things at any given moment.  And often those three things don’t have much to do with God as they should.


Read the rest at Lara's blog  Mercy Me! I've got work to do!

Hope and an unexpected pregnancy

by Lara

The Visitation (by the Master of The Visitation; photo in public domain).

 


I went to clothe the naked, but ended up counseling the doubtful.   Stripping away layers of pain and doubt didn’t really have much in common with providing clothing, other than the dignity given from putting one on and taking the other off.

I was at the Women’s Help Center to pass out baby clothes and diapers to mothers in need.  It wasn’t much different than the last time I volunteered — women tell us what size clothes they want for their infants and we put together a bag of outfits, diapers, and wipes that will hopefully sustain them until their situation improves.

One woman, whom I will call Mary, came in looking for more than baby clothes– she needed a pregnancy test.  I tried to act as nonchalant as I could, but inside I was freaking out.  Pregnancy tests to me are synonymous with freaking out.  If you are pregnant, you freak.  If you are not, you freak.  You may be happy or sad depending on the results — but either way, it’s a big deal.  After all, the potential for new life exists, and even when unplanned, it’s ever precious.

She returned from the bathroom with her cup of urine (you ladies know the drill), and I inserted the pregnancy stick inside trying not to obsess on freaking out.  It was a little awkward sitting across from someone whom I just met, with a cup of urine on the side table like we were just two girlfriends at Starbucks for an afternoon latte.

She said she was a little nervous.  Feigning calmness, I asked why, and listened as she told me how she couldn’t afford to have a baby right now.   Clearly she hoped she wasn’t pregnant.  As I listened, I watched the pink line on her test magically appear affirmative, striking through her concerns as unapologetically as a teacher crosses out grammar infractions with red ink.


Finish reading this story at Lara's blog  Mercy Me!I've Got Work to do.