Mothers Prayers

Mother’s Prayers
I remember standing in the back of the church on Morgan Street while some old man began to pray. I almost always cracked one eye open , hoping to see who else did not close their eyes when they prayed. I always wondered what would happen if my eye looked out only to find another eye staring back. I knew I would either be in a lot of trouble or be sworn to silence not to tell on that person.
When my Dad prayed , now that was a different story. I always closed my eyes and often folded my hands because his prayers were the real thing. I knew when he spoke to God , God had to listen because to me growing up, he was the closest thing to God that I knew.
My mom, on the other hand never prayed. Not out loud at least. I always figured she prayed some time but just not in public. I considered her a good person. I just never thought of her up there on a pedestal with God like I did my dad.
I am sixty years old now and mother is ninety. The truth is I had just not been listening close enough to hear my mom’s prayers. I realize now that even thou she was never a deacon in our church. She never gave great speeches or sermons, she had a powerful message showing in the way she lived her life. She lived a quite simple life , raising her children and grandchildren and living her prayers in our home and in our church.
I know her faith was what kept our family together. Her silent but dynamic prayers were what kept us close to God and sheltered us time and time again. Her love and faith made me want to be “the good son” when I was nine years old and today at sixty her love and faith continue to inspire me to be a better person.
I will never place my mom upon a pedestal. Not because she doesn’t deserve it. I know in my heart she is one of the great “saints of heaven “that we sometimes sing about. But my mom is a real person. A real person that made mistakes and isn’t always perfect. But she has taken what God has given her and led a full and loving life doing the best she could with what she had.
Thank God for the silent prayers of all mothers.

THOSE SHOES by Stephen Jeffries

THOSE SHOES

by Stephen Jeffres

This is not a Christmas story but it could be.  Instead of being about those red Christmas shoes, it is just about those shoes. You remember  those shoes that we think we need as a child or even as an adult.

It was a busy day at Changing Footprints Shoe Pantry in Greenfield. A family came in to "shop" for shoes for back to school.

I took the two boys into the mens shoe room, hoping they would find something  they liked.

The first boy found the perfect shoe. He was thrilled. His younger brother was not so lucky.

I soon realized he was not looking fot just any shoe. He wanted "Air Jordons".  I  mentioned that they were rarely donated but told him to keep looking.  

I went on to another client in the other room when the young fellow came running In with a pair of Air Jordons. He exclaimed "  Yippie I'm a Millionair" He was so happy!!! I congratulated him and went on to help someome else find their special shoe.

When his family  finally went home, he  was sad again. The prize shoes did not fit. So he left our shop

with a big frown and no Air Jordans.

A week later he came back to help pick up his big brother who had volunteered that day.  I  remembered  his love for name brand, expensive shoes.

I sat him down at the table

and ask him to read a new book i found.    The book  intitled "Those Shoes"  was about a small boy who wanted new shoes to help him fit in at school.

His grandma finally pieced together enough to buy the shoes, only to have him give them to a teammate who he felt needed them more than he did. It was no shock to have this story make me cry. After all that is pretty much what Changing Footprints is all about in it mission and message.  He read the story

and spoon ask if he could look again for shoes.

Later i was back sorting shoes when again this small boy came running in yelling "I found "those" shoes" .He had finally found his Air Jordons and he was so excited that this time they were his size.

Later as i walked his family to their car, I encouraged  this lad, to think about not being so hung up on brand  names, especially expensive name brands. I reminded him of children who were attached and often hurt because they wore expensive shoes.

He sheepishly looked  up at me and told me how this one boy at school bullys him if he dosn't have the "right" shoes. Often he was frightened to go to class.

Suddenly I saw this kids

desire for "those shoes",

in a different light.  It reminded me of some of

my grade school memories.

We all have wants and needs.  Child or adult, we have to decide what and why our needs are important.  I thought I understood this young boys quest fo"those shoes" , but life is complicated.

I am thankful and very blessed to play a small part in helping children and adults find "those shoes".

Most people sometimes take shoes for granted.

But it dose not mattet if you live in a place where

not having proper footwear to protect your feet is a life and death issue, or if the shoes you wear effect your mental health and self esteem.  Getting "THOSE SHOES" 

on feet is the number one misson of Changing Footprints.

Since we continue to be an all volunteer organization,

the value and worth of our volunteers is priceless. We

thank our voluteers for continueing to help us "CHANGE THE WORLD TWO FEET AT A TIME".

On behalf of Deb Cherry and myself, we wish.you amd your family a very

MERRY CHRISTMAS.AND A

A "SHOEPER" NEW YEAR!!!

Thankful

Thankful                                                           by Stephen J. Jeffries

A thankful tear lingers on my cheek,

                                                                          As I left the homeless shelter.

I have a home and shoes, and how can I know where they are standing,

    or lying or reaching.

Yet my heart aches and their eyes pierce like an arrow pointing, to my soul.

Brown heavy boxes piping with clean dry shoes.

They stand, waiting for their turn.

Their weary eyes say thank you.

Their tired loney feet stand still.

The shoes,I left there, won't take them home or give them work.

What am I doing?   What...am..I doing?  What can be done?

Hopeless and helpless, I will go home.

Home to my cozy comfy chair, viewing life in HD on a sixty five inch screen.

Home to my walk-in closet to decide...brown shoe, black shoe?

But I will return with more shoes and more hope because there will always be more feet.

And I know this for sure...in a moment

my feet could be those feet,

                                                            Thankful for new  shoes and the chance to walk tall again.

I'm left with a thankful tear stain on my cheek.

Grateful for Lisa and Chad and Pam and all those with careing hearts.

They build a place, not home, but warm and away from the street.

Away from the wondering and wandering.

The power and strength of knowing someone cares fills the moment.

Knowing gives hope. Hoping allows two feet to stand and reach...

Thank you Horizon House                                                Thank you Wheeler Mission        

                              Thank you Hope House.

Thank you   Changing Footprints!

Thank you for not giving up on caring and sharing

Thank.you for being God's hand and feet

                                                       and hug.

I walked the CFBC labryienth last night. It was cold and dark and often hard to follow. Sorta like life at times. When I finally arrived at the center  I felt relief somehow and sad and happy all  at the same time.

I  kept on walking around the centered candlelight feeling like I had finally arrived. Like I was home. 

The year has been a true challenge of faith but through  it all the I never felt afraid. I knew I had Joyce and my family holding me up. My faith in God   and the unbelievable strength of my wife and her love for me lifts me up each day and reminds me how blessed I am.

I stayed in the center on the stone circle for a while maybe because it 

felt safe but soon realizing I wasn't at the end of my journey. Nor was I at the beginning.   even though the center of the Labrienth had caused me a few tears of remembrance....of my mom and dad,  of this years challenges  of all the friends we have lost in our church family,

I was still happy to be allowed  to continue my journey.  

I am not sure I fully understand the spirituality  of the Labrienth yet but I do understand the feelings I seem to get when I walk it. It is such a

 metaphor  for life.

..

Its a Howdy Doody Christmas

I believe this was Christmas 1951. I was with my two best friends at the time  Howdy Doody and my big brother David.  It mow seems pretty progressive of my parents to give a boy a doll. But Howdy Doody was a bid deal that year and even though my parents were pretty poor at the time, the splurged and gave me a doll. Here I am 70 years later and I still am not marked or changed forever by this gesture of love.

I did not have a lot of close friends at that time or even later in.life. A beautiful.little blonde headed girl with Shirley Temple long curls in her hair and my cousins who continue to be "best friends" were my blessings.  Howdy soon filled the spot  of best friend.  I remember talking to him and giving him presents on later Christmases.

Joyce found him in the attic  near my 35th  birthday and took him to a doll hospital and had him restored, probably from a bit of too much 

 friendship and a cracked composite head made years before plastic heads.   Howdy is hidden away  now now from fear stolen nut from.my Grand daughters that  thought he looked a little too much like" Chuckie".   

I really think my childhood gift from parents that loved me probably taught me how  to be a loving careing  father and maybe even husband.    I do know we should all cherish the memories of Christmas and continue to make new memories with our families and friends.  Merry Christmas!!!

VIET NAM VETERAN

I would never hope to speak for all vetetans.  But I do think that many would agree that as a veteran it is nice to receive the discounts and thank you's  on November 11th. It is nice to be acknowledged as an important part of the American fabric.  So I say "Thank you"

Being a US veteran is hard⁰ sometimes. I sat on Friday with a group of veterans who probably saw and experienced the  horors of terrible  wars and spent their lives trying  to live a normal life.
It took me until I was in my fifties to even  accept the  fact that I was also deserving  to be called a "veteran:

Many of the men I sat with were wounded , maybe not physically but within their soul where
it really counts.

I avoided the draft in 1967 by joining the air force.   I  was pretty sure I was not very well suited for combat or for
carrying a rifle. But I also had been raised to believe serving in the military was a calling from God.
Nievely I took.my Christian belief  into a war zone  somewhat out of choice and somewhat out of necessity.

Little did I know my life and faith would  be made better by a war that  to this day is morally questioned and still determined to be a  black spot in American History.

I get alot of "thank you for your service" comments . I appreciate hearing that but it  sometimes seems  more like a scripted greeting when you meet a Viet Nam Vet. As Americans we are sorry that the welcome home parades after World War I and II were not lavished on the Viet Nam Vetetans.  In fact I vividly remember being told to not wear my uniform  or advertise that I was a returning Vietnam veteran. At the time I did not care.  I was just glad to be reunited with my family.

It took me a lot of years and soul searching before I could even tell people that I did not know, I was vet.
So glad I got to the place of being proud to be part of such a great and diverse group of people.

I will be the very first to admit now after forthyseven years that I was lucky to have served in the US Air Force.   I was assigned a job to assist the commander of a  fighter squadron.  I was responsible for a room full of M=16 rifles.   I did my job to support the war effort as I was told but never fired a rifle or  hurt a soul.  I never saw blood or anyone die.
I was lucky. But I was there. I was  in the midst of a war torn county that was just as afraid  as I was with one huge difference.   This was their home.  This was was where their babies  were born and where  they sought  to survive  the anguish of war.

Now I look back and  the time I spent "in country"  seems so brief. but as I remember counting off tne days away from Joyce and Michael,  it seemed like an etetnity. 

Now trying to  put this part of my life in perspective,  I know without the weekend trips to Kim Chou Orphansge, with my friends and with a young Irishman named Patrick,  my life could have been much diffetent.

I could never celebrate the Viet Nam War. I could never celebrate any war.
But I also have no regret  for the time I spent there.   Are the people of Viet nam better because of this war or because I was there. I doubt there life is better but I know I  am  better for having met Patrick and  the children of Viet nam.

We heard stories of so many children who died at the end of the war.  I was haunted  with that reality and by the fact I did not know what had happened to the orpahans I fell in love with at the orphanage. 

Patrick had maintained some contact with the orphanage. The small boy named Nam that I had so wanted to bring home with me, is in his fifties living  in Saigon, working as a barber.

Being a veteran has changed  me but it has also taught me that being an American  citizen  is also an awesome responsibility and should never be taken for granted.  We can all serve our country  by participating in  making it a better place to live not just for ourselves but for all citizens  of our great country.  

The Cross

For most Christians the old rugged cross brings back memories of Christ’s suffering. I too think of that, but more than likely it first reminds me of my Dad, not for his suffering but for his ability to always look for the good in everything.
Most people would have called him a “pack rat“. I always knew the clutter of “junk” in his repair shop on Morgan Street in Rushville had a higher purpose. Most things he saved he could just not bear to give up hope on. If he could not “fix’ or remake what was broken, he was sure to find a piece or a part that would complete or repair something else he had “saved”.
As it was with the broken alter cross from my home church in Rushville. You see the church burned to the ground when I was a teenager. Lost in that fire was the home of a lifetime of memories of growing up. Lost were the “stain glass windows” that had been added . Surprised were the members that watched them melt in to liquid vapor reminding them they were not “the real thing but plastic made to look like real stain glass. For me as an early Christian this whole event cemented how fragile our lives are and how much more a church is than a building and its contents.
Searching through the ruble of what once was First Baptist Church of Rushville, My Dad came upon the alter cross, blacken and in pieces. I know he knew it wasn’t really “holy” or sacred. It was just a cross and a symbol of what is holy and sacred. Yet the shiny cross had reflected a lot our our family’s lives thru the years. It had seen me as I went forward to be baptized. It had seen both my parents dedicate a life time of living and giving to their church. My Dad had served communion many times from the table that held this cross.
Since I was a jeweler, Dad had mentioned several times through the years about having the cross restored. I had never picked up on what he was asking and to be honest had let it pass. It wasn’t until Thanksgiving Day when He had a heart attack that I saw the cross. Nestled in the turmoil and chaos of his shop was the cross. I realized the importance of the cross when I first saw it.
Next to it I found a bronzing kit that he had purchased from the the back of some magazine. You know the one that says” become a millionaire over night. Bronze baby shoes as a business.”
I could tell he had applied the bronzing solution to the cross.
My first thought was I will try my hand at restoring the cross. A few days before Christmas my Dad’s heart burst and he was rushed to Methodist Hospital for open heart surgery. When He finally came through the surgery, I began to look at the cross. I soon realized the bronze paint that had been applied peeled off rather easy and after peeling off the entire cross with my thumb nail, there it was the shiny alter cross that I remember growing up. Evidently the solution Dad used ,took off the black and damaged surface and restored it’s luster .
On January 16, I was so proud to show my Dad “The Old Rugged Cross”. By than I had repaired the base and except for a few scratches , it looked pretty great. As he walked out of my shop for the last time he said “maybe now it could be back in the front of church where it belongs.” Little did I know that this would be his last words to me. My Dad went to sleep that night and didn’t wake up.
In morning his death I first clutched this cross as a symbol of all that my Dad stood for. In my heart I knew he was right. It needed to be back on the alter where it started. But I also was realistic enough to know not everyone would feel the same way about it that I did.
That was over ten years ago and I still have a problem letting go of the cross. I can make a thousand excuses why it should remain in my closet, protected from the trash heap. I have just never found the time or place to return it to. Yet I still hear his last words and feel I let him down.
Wherever this cross ends up, it remains a cherished memory of my Dad and his ability to see the good in all things. I have been called a “pack rat” also. Yet I confess that my motives for saving things are not always as pure and gracious as my Dad’s. I just seem to accumulate a lot of “stuff”. If it is for good use, that remains to be seen. I do hope if I leave no other character trait to my children, I hope they grasp the ability to see the best in all people and not to give up on them

I did return the cross .eventually to the church.

Not sure it was appreciated as much as I appreciated returning it.  No it did not go on the main alter as my dad had said.  It was put in small chapel where my brother was married to wife number three. I also was overjoyed to know it was in the church as we laid my mom to rest.  

I am in the process of letting go of the residue of The Acorn Tree and all the "junk" I accumulated.  It brings me back certainly to thoughts of my dad and I can not help but wonder if anyone will see the value in any of my "stuff".