Thursday, August 27, 2009

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.
And the word dwelt among -----me?
 
Psalms 46:10 Be Still, and know that I am God
 
Chances are if you have ever been involved in a retail business, you realize the most difficult task on a daily
basis is cultivating peace and serenity in your life. From keeping customers happy to constantly being on
the go, planning, creating and executing the daily duties of running a business involving the public. It is no
Wonder my life seems to be in constant turmoil.
Well one evening that changed even if just for a little while. I remember being particularly caught up in
Work. I rushed and rushed and rushed some more. I was in Indianapolis picking up supplied for a
wedding and I headed east on highway seventy to rush home. I remember passing the Mount Comfort
exit as I was approaching the Greenfield exit. The same exit I had taken for many years. Suddenly I
realized I was past my exit. How in the heck could I have done that? I first felt stupid. Than mad. Than a
bit frustrated. Than concerned as to how I could drive from Mount Comfort past Greenfield without
remember seeing the road.
 
As I spotted the sign that said twelve miles to next exit, I let out a little breath and looked out my window.
The sun was just going down. The Indiana countryside was bathed in sunlight making what lye before me
look almost like a picture postcard. It was beautiful. I was at that moment filled with awe.
I realized that maybe me driving several miles without seeing had nothing to do with me. Maybe it was
God’s way of watching over me and forcing me to slow down. I could only rejoice in that much needed
time alone with Him to talk and to bath in the glory of His creation.
But that was not the end of this story. Soon I got to the Knightstown exit and turned my car around to go
back. Because the son was now setting in the west I say the most beautiful sunset ever. Here I thought I
had already received God’s gift and instead his real gift was over my shoulder all the time. I was so excited
I could hardly wait to get home and share this with my family. I had definitely forgotten how God speaks to
us in such direct ways.
I still rush a lot. It is part of my business and usually is a necessity when you deal with the public. God was
not saying “don’t rush”. He was saying don’t miss the sunsets in life. It is so easy to speed right by your
exit and miss the important things in life.
 
 
 
It is not I but God,the spirit
bellowing through me
pushing , tossing , proding.
Unrelentless.
Gentle as a whisper on a child's cheek
awesome as a windmill drawing water from the dirt
lifting. sailing. soaring
Carried toward a new and glorious place and time.
I must bow to His call......even for a time,
A sacred spear of life in total turmoil with itself...
.needs a carver to chisel down the layers of grief and misunderstandings.
Can I be the chisel or am I that which is to be chiseled.
crack me open......
help me mine the perfect peace that comes from
knowing God.
Fill me with passion and presence
so I overflow with need to embrace the spirit
and spill that embrace into the world.
Three angels stand at my door.
hope in a place that is hopeless
hunger in a world that is filled
Love that joins hands across the border.
I embrace....I become......I am the tear on Gods dear cheek.
I have no choice but to listen...I am because God is.

I Stare at the Vacant House

                                                                             


                                                                                                    Stephen J. Jeffries
 
I stare at the vacant house,
empty of the reason to be filled with love and laughter.
Even memories seem a distant dream.
I feel the tears of grief and sadness, pressing against my eyes.
Like an ever filling fountain, dammed up, eager to escape but
Fearful of the hollow ending at the loss of grief.
Fearful of letting go the sadness .What will fill it’s space?
I step out, sightless and numb, only to be blinded by the sunlight
That seems to have escaped the darkness.
I push through the rhythms of life that continue unaware but persistent.
Drawing me into the light , leering me with children’s giggles and
Music floating on the crystal clear sunset.
My sadness takes me to the edge, ready to become the wind.
Ready to become the grief.
Shirley as I feel the closeness of the breeze,
A hand extends from the glare of sunlight pulling me out of darkness
Into, out of , over, around,
I release the burden of grief
Only to find, not an empty vessel but an infilling of memoires and smiles
Of a rich and joyful life.Becoming the grief is two times death.
Filling the grieving spaces with celebration
Pumps breath into that which is breathless.
On The Edge of the Hankie Generation
Never heard of the Hankie Generation? Well now you have. You must know who I am referring to. It is the generation, like my father , who would not feel dressed without a hankie in their back pocket or in the breast pocket of their Sunday “best”. I am pretty sure this wasn’t a “guy” thing as much as a the insistence of a protective mother. It must be available for all the emergencies of life. My Dad always had a drawer full of hankies mostly white with an occasional red or blue bandana thrown in for less formal affairs.
Now that I think about it, except for the occasional cold or runny nose, what were these hankies used for.
This was from the time when men were not allowed to cry in public. I can’t recall seeing my Dad openly cry, except the night we were watching the news and we learned that his best friend , John, had been killed in an automobile wreck. I am sure he shed many tears over a life time, but not in front of me and probably not in front of anyone else.
What is very surprising to me is that I am an unofficial member of the “hankie generation” only because for most of my life I have received a package of hankies for Christmas from, guess who, my mother. I have enough ,some never used , to start a new trend of hankie carrying men. Very seldom do I use them except to clean my glasses or if I can’t find the Kleenex box.
In the last three years I have witnessed the weddings of all three sons. In all three instances I was able to find one of my Dad’s hankies to present to them as they walked down the aisle. Since all were very close to their grandfather, I am pretty sure the symbolic jester was felt in their heart. I know the tears and DNA had all been washed away, but the memory of a man , even one who wasn’t allowed to cry, I hope gave them permission to show emotion on a very emotion filled day.
The hankie may never make a big come back with our generation. It will for me always remind me of a generation past and all it meant to be a part of the “hankie generation”.
 

Tuesday, August 18, 2009

Hondouran Adventure

I squinted my eyes as I stared out the window of the airplane. I could almost make out the skyline of Indianapolis through the snow filled sky and clouds as we descended onto the landing strip. Every time I leave home and return I am always reminded of how lucky I am to have a family and home that I am glad to return to. Thirty Six years ago when I flew back from Viet Nam I remember singing and humming “I’m Getting Married in the Morning. Ding Dong the bells are going to chime. I’m Getting married, I’m getting married, so get me to the church on time.” Any one hearing me I am sure was convinced I was on drugs. But this was the only thing I could do to calm myself and keep me from falling on my face in tears.
Returning home from a two week mission trip to Honduras,
The tears I felt this time were different. I was sad about leaving a country I had grown to love and a group of people that I felt very comfortable with and also grew to love. When you travel in groups like this you always say you will keep in touch but the reality is that everyone’s life takes them in different directions. The sadness I felt for Honduras cut deep into my very being. I had quickly grown to respect this country for it’s absolute beauty and grandeur as well as its people. Before this trip my image of Honduras was a land of extreme poverty and sad people living in dire need. Maybe the television advertising ads that show Ethiopian children with their frail bodies and their sad eyes had colored how I perceive all third world countries. The people we visited on the top of the mountains were happy , friendly and full of life. Sure some if not all had health and survival issues. They lacked basic health care and proper drinking water and sometimes electricity. They too suffered from disease and parasites. But the people we came to love were not pathetic and as best you could tell living their lives with what they were given.
When we started our adventure there were twenty people. Each individual was unique in both their personality as well as their gifts. As I close my eyes and study each of their faces in my memory log, they all had a story to tell. What bought them to this particular place in time was their mutual love and respect for mankind.
This medical brigade was sponsored by the Indiana University Department of Family Medicine. Several years ago they established the International Medicine Honduras Project. Working closely with the Honduran government their goal is provide education and research to students and doctors while improving the quality of life for the underserved populations of rural Honduras, especially for the elderly and children. Both of these groups are at particular risk for malnutrition, anemia, and other illnesses associated with extreme poverty.
Another positive for a trip like this is to improve the knowledge and awareness of the Spanish speaking culture and better enable the students and doctors to treat the rapidly growing population of patients from this part of the world.
Out of a population of nearly six million people, a very small percentage can afford or even have access to any kind of health care or medication.
Like many people I told about my trip to Honduras, I questioned my qualifications for such a trip. After all this was a medical brigade and I was just a floral designer. The idea of taking volunteers to entertain the village children that arrived the day of the medical brigade was entirely new and the task was not even specifically designed. All we were told was that we needed activities for from 75 to 100 children each of the five days of the brigade. After consideration, I was confidant that when it came to children I was as qualified and as eager as anyone could possibly be to try and give them what they needed.
Kevin Rose , my pastor and friend, brought even stronger qualifications to the project. His education and background had been focused on teaching and Christian education. The two of us were equally anxious to see Honduras and its people and convey some of the compassion we read about in Sunday School.
We each were allowed a carry on bag and two checked bags. We managed to stuff and poke enough craft supplies and play equipment into our luggage to entertain the approximately 500 children we anticipated seeing. Paper masks and colorful feathers, pinwheels and magic markers, even brown paper bags that could soon become hand puppets were included. We tried to think of individual as well as group activities. I had thrown in a furry raccoon puppet that I had received twenty years ago while recuperating in the hospital from surgery. It had become a symbol to me of the love and caring I shared with my family during that difficult time. Even than it was difficult for me to accept being on the receiving end of this type of care. Up until than I had always been on the giving side of compassion and caring.
I also took three small battery operated bubble machines. I could entertain my grandson, Jackson, with them for hours. I was sure they would be a hit with these children.
I was glad I only had a short time to prepare for this trip. After I had committed to go, I found the difficulty not only of traveling out of the country but of traveling to a country with an almost epidemic of malaria and other diseases. I went to a good friend at the local health department and she assured me that the shots that she gave me would protect me as well as possible. The trip to the post office to get a passport was nearly as painless. I did have to pay almost double to put a rush on my passport delivery. But I never even imagined I would have a need for a passport in my lifetime. One thing I questioned in the requirement for travel was the repatriation insurance. I did not have a clue what that was until I investigated and found it to be insurance that would pay for the return of my body in the event of my death overseas. I had determined that if such a thing happed to me while traveling I wouldn’t need to worry about it anyway.
Jennifer Custer the leader of this venture was fluent in Spanish. She had spent several years in the Peace Core in Honduras working with water systems. She had been traveling back to Honduras for several years taking many such groups as ours. You could tell from day one she was a pro at her job. You could also tell she was determined and dedicated to getting all nineteen of us there and back safely and with as little problems as possible. Her code word for sudden problems or difficulties that seem to always popup on such trips, was “pineapple”. She was hoping for no “pineapples” on this trip but those hopes would soon be dashed. By the end of the trip we referred to her affectionately as “Julie McCoy”. You know Julie from “Love Boat”. I had known Jennifer for many years. I watched her grown up in our church. I probably always thought of her as a friend but it wasn’t until we finished this trip that that friendship was sealed for life. I had to admit to her father who was also on our trip that I was entirely in love with his daughter. Not in a perverted way but in the way I love my children. I told him she was not only beautiful on the outside but her beauty not only went skin deep but more like “soul” deep to her very core. She is just my idea of a “good person”. When we traveled to Trujillo on the Northern Coast , our group was cut down to seven and she began to relax more and radiate her love for this country. Her very being bubbled with excitement and her face glowed even more as she guided us and introduced us to Honduran culture and the people that make that real.
Bob, Jennifer’s dad, had been in my church also for many years. I counted him as friend. He and his wife Sharon had traveled with Jennifer last year on a similar medical brigade. They had taken Bob as the pharmacist to relieve the doctors and students and allow them to have more experience with the patients. He knew enough broken Spanish or as we learned to call it “span glish”, to distribute pills as the doctors prescribed. With little experience I am sure in this field , he seemed to glide seamlessly into this position. The joy he felt was sincere and compassionate. I learned an even stronger respect for his friendship.
For Kevin I almost think this trip and the experiences it would bring, were almost an escape from what had become his reality. After all he was a minister and a teacher . More than that he as a gay minister and a teacher. I can imagine that just being a minister full time and all that people expect from you or that you expect from yourself can be overwhelming and difficult to escape. Likewise being a gay man in today’s society must be exhausting. Always being and trying to live and speak as a positive example of what it means to be gay must sometimes be a burden. The qualifications and requirements for this trip had nothing to do with his ministry or his being gay. He could just be Kevin, a compassionate caring person who enjoys children as much as they enjoy him. No teaching or sermons or any reason that being who he was as a human being would interfere with his task with these Honduran children. I think it was like taking a deep breath and being free to let just be.
Dr. Sevilla and I got acquainted early in our trip. I had met the Doctor on the phone as he gave me directions to his home in a pretrip get together. I had run a map quest to find his address only to end up lost and wondering in Zionsville. When finally arrived I was impressed with his hospitality and his personality. He was a native of Honduras but had lived and worked in the U.S. for over ten years. In all respects he would have been entitled to live out the American dream and become a wealthy doctor and take on all the trappings that this usually implies. His house was nice but not extravagant. He was from the very beginning someone I would want to get to know.
 
 
 
At the airport after converting our dollars to Lemperas, I was assigned to ride with Dr. Sevilla in a brand new truck that had been rented for our transportation. He made it clear from the beginning that he was not particularly comfortable with driving such a nice vehicle.
We sped through the streets of San Pedro Sula, straining our necks to absorb all that we saw. We were surprised to see so many familiar businesses. Kentucky Fried Chicken and Dunkin Donuts, seemed out of place. We stopped at a fast-food chicken place and quickly ordered our first meal. I stuck with chicken that looked familiar in the picture. I passed on the little dish of slaw as I recalled Jennifer advising us to stay away from things with salad dressing.
I had already been warned about the water, which included ice and maybe even ice tea. I stuck with bottled water or cola drinks or beer if it was offered.
When the meal was over we piled back into our rides. The doctor had been concerned when we left the airport that we all stay together and in touch with the walkie talkies that they each had. To Jennifer’s dismay he informed us that vehicles get stopped and robbed on this road on occasion and traveling in the city made him very nervous. As we came back to the road that we had just traveled in on we stopped at an intersection to what seemed to be an endless flow of traffic . Three lanes going one way and three lanes going the other way. No stop lights or traffic cops. To access this road you had to get across the three lanes and stop in the little median and hope to heck traffic slows down enough to pull out into that traffic. In an instant we were sitting in the middle of this highway, T-boned by one of the few cars we saw that day. The vehicle of choice seemed to be the pickup truck. The blessing I think now was that it could have been a large truck or semi and I could have more than a bump on my head.
The Doctor, visibly shaken, checked on the people in the other car and calmly came back and told us we didn’t want to stay around for what seemed a major undertaking. My first thought was not to leave the Doctor alone but we didn’t question his suggestion and began walking back to the restaurant we just had left. When someone finally came back to “rescue” us we learned that upon discovering that the driver of the truck was a “rich American doctor” the process became even more complicated. We also learned that auto insurance was non existent and that Israel, our local guide and Dr. Sevilla’s best friend, would “arrange “ for the truck and car to be repaired by a friend of a friend.
We walked back to the scene of the accident only to find our entire group gathered by the road being entertained by a Mariachi band. Yes you heard me. A Mariachi band in full costume had happened by and offered to play for us while the accident was being handled. My first thought was where are the movie cameras and what part do I play in this movie production. It was totally surreal. We all laughed and sang along as traffic rushed by and gawked at a group of silly gringos.
It wasn’t long until we returned to our trip and arrived at the Honduyate Marina which we were to call home for the next week.
I really had no expectation about our lodging. I knew chances were that it would be decent. I figured traveling with doctors would insure at the least safe and healthy accommodations if not moderately nice. I realized that could have been a thatched hut but didn’t really expect that. I also didn’t expect to be welcomed by such a nice place. Operated by Richard and Lilliana, we found a resort setting on Lago de Yojoa a large lake in central Honduras. Richard retained his thick English accent tempered with years of learning and living in the Honduran culture. Water had recently come up and destroyed much of his shoreline and most of the week was spent by him supervising the repairs.
The most personal contact I would have with Richard was while watching the local labor force move large stones with a backhoe. He explained that it cost him as much as a week’s wages for one man to pay for the fuel for the backhoe. He said men he used did a better job and cost less. In this area the average wage was five dollars per day. Richard said near the northern coast they received five times that. He knew it was a matter of time before the local price of labor escalated. He was glad the economy was improving but he was also trying to push to get as much work done as soon as possible.
I also shared several conversations with Liliana. Mostly we talked about our children. Her son had left years ago to become an actor. He tried breaking into acting in Hollywood but ran out of money and moved to France. He was performing there but has never lost his dream to move to Hollywood. You could tell the way she related to our group of young people that she missed her family.
 
 
he first day , Friday, we arrived at our first village. To get there we turned down an almost unnoticeable road and passed what appeared to be a dumping ground. It was scattered with trash and birds and a few children combing the debris for something they could use.
We arrived at the tiny school house , cleaned and setup the clinic and pharmacy and almost immediately we were greeted by the village children. We opened our game bags and pulled out Frisbees and balls and began to play.
As the crowd grew larger we decided to start a craft project.
The projects we brought were good for any age group and needed little explanation. We had pinwheels to be decorated and assembled. We had masks that would be adorned with feathers and foam stickers and magic markers. It was fun to see each child display their creativity and see how proud they were when the finished.
I pulled out my grandchildren’s bubble makers and remembered they needed batteries. Finding the batteries I had to round up a tiny screw driver to install them. The children loved the bubbles. We were so excited and caught up in the activities of that day, that we had not noticed the bubble machines, the frizzbees and balls were disappearing into the village. never to be seen again. The glow was taken off our first day with the children as the day ended and we realized other things had been taken. We brought candy and some toys to give away but mostly we brought games to use all week in each of the villages. We had planned on leaving some items with the school or the orphanage at the end of our trip. But we were caught off guard when they started taking our equipment.
When I brought out my raccoon puppet the screams and laughter was only tempered with the children pulling and grabbing at the puppet and it’s tail.
I had it in my firm grasp but I wonder if it would have disappeared if allowed.
We learned early on the first day that most of these children and parents were used to groups like ours coming in with gifts and handouts. We had taken games and toys but not to give out but to use all week at each village. I am sure well meaning visitors did not realize how handouts can sometimes diminish pride and sometimes teach that they deserve and should expect other handouts in life.
When looking back I remember being fully aware that a good percentage of the children we played with were to come degree sick and probably had lice or other parasites. ; My normal emotion around children of any kind is to scoop them up if not in my arms at least into my heart. It was totally against my nature to hold back and keep my heart at a distance. I was not always good at doing that. One moment I remember vividly was when I pulled out my raccoon puppet. This puppet was no ordinary puppet at least to me. I had received it when I was very vulnerable in the hospital recovering from surgery about twenty years ago. It had always been a symbol of that time in my life and all the good feelings of family and friendship. I was working my way down the very long line waiting to see the doctors. This seemed to be an exceptionally long line of children today. Suddenly I bent low to the level of small little girl in a red pleated skirt that nearly touched the ground. Our eyes met and I was totally caught off guard. Her eyes were glazed over and I could tell she was very sick. My heart ached in pain as I my eyes were filled with tears and nearly broke down in emotion. Staying detached was definitely not an easy task for me.
 
Kevin and I both were careful not to blame the children. We did wonder if the reason they found it easy to take our equipment was the patterns that had been set by other groups on other trips. Had they been taught to expect free handouts much like what has happened in our country because of the welfare system?
 
Our first day, though exhausting, was a total and complete success. The children enjoyed the day and we enjoyed the children. It made us feel really good to pass the homes as we went back to down the mountain, only to find children still wearing their masks and running with their pinwheels. We could still hear the laughter float down the mountain.
Standing in the back of the truck as we made the journey down the mountain I couldn’t help but notice the side of the road cluttered with trash and debris. I have always been told that you can tell a lot about a person by their trash. I was surprised to see pop tart wrappers, broken toys, and other American style food wrappers. Were other groups making the trip up the mountain to give out pop tarts when they needed safe water and medicine. Most of the villages had electricity, some had water in their homes. But some had no electric and carried their water up and down the hill from a well probably build by the Peace Core years ago. There was no way the water they did have was completely safe and free from the parasites that plagued the children and their parents.
That night after arriving back at the marina we pealed off our sweat soaked cloths and after a long shower got back in the truck and went to a nearby restaurant for supper. This was the first time we had all gathered as a group and had a chance to open up to each other.
When I left home my mom slipped me money and told me to buy some” power bars“. She said stay away from the food. This would be the first true test for me. After a little help from Liz I managed to order what was called on the menu “Gordon Blue”. How could they mess that up? Others were brave and ordered whole fried fish, complete from eyes to tail. I was so very glad I had chosen my meal. It was wonderful and better than most “cordon Blue” I had been accustom to.
For Kevin and I, the evening was highlighted when Scott, one of the Doctors, stood up and presented us with the first award of the week, for the day we spent with the Children and how much they appreciated our being on this trip. In the past it was a real issue as to how to entertain all the village children that always seemed to accumulate on Brigade day. It was great to be affirmed and appreciated especially by this generation of young people.
This somewhat spontaneous award of the first night grew to be the highlight of each evening as a plastic Pepsi bottle was passed from person to person and decorated and redecorated by each recipient. It came to be called Nachito Blanquito. The giving and receiving of this award came to be a vehicle for not only laughter but a certain and long lasting bonding of the entire group.
 
When I awoke the next morning I was well aware that this was Sunday morning and my normal routine of getting up and attending church would be changed . When I stepped out onto my balcony overlooking the Lago de Yojoa lake, I was never more convinced that church was wherever you found the presence of God. Looking trough the early morning mist and listening to the symphony of nature sing glorious hymns of praise, I knew without a doubt I was in God’s presence. Even the rooster that sometimes was annoying to hear in the middle of the night, shouted halleluiah in the midst of a faithful world. The echo of God rang out across the early morning lake mist. `` Even the roar of the semi trucks on the ever present highway outside the hotel compound seemed to add a reminder that we were living amongst a real world with real people living real lives. Often when you escape to a lake or mountain hideout you are isolated from real life. For this day and for most days in Honduras, we were never too far removed from the struggles facing a large population of Hondurans.
I feel so privileged to be in the presence of this group of young doctors and medical students. They give hope in a world so in need of hope. The exude a passion for people in general and the underserved people in specific. Most all of these young people are at a crossroad in their lives, seeking to finally choose
Their specialty. I have no doubt that the time spent here and other similar trips will make them stronger and more compassionate doctors whatever field they choose.
In the afternoon on Sunday we were invited to take a boat ride to the other side of the lake for a picnic and a day of leisure. When the time came we piled into what appeared to be an antique World War Two boat. I was glad to see the roof on the boat because as much as I enjoy the sun I didn’t savor the idea of setting in the open Honduran sun for two hours on this day. As we traveled out onto the lake and looked back at the compound , the mountain range that we were nestled into began to raise. Up it went until the horizon was sculpted into a beautiful breathtaking panorama . In life as in this situation it is important to step away to get a full view your surroundings as well as your life.
Until we traveled across the lake and ventured out , we could not realize or fully appreciate where we were located.
The picnic was complete with sandwiches and beer but more complete with conversation and relaxation. The afternoon was capped off with a hike up the mountain. Jennifer asked one of the locals to be our guide. Seeing that he carried a machete , I questioned, to myself of course, the sanity of taking such a “little”stroll though the woods. I was well aware that we were not in some Indiana forest that might be the home of a raccoon, squirrel or an occasional snake. We found out the machete was required to clear most of the path that we traveled especially when we got further up the mountain and saw the trip was taking longer than anticipated and requested he guide us on a “shortcut” back down. In spite of the treacherous terrain, the presence of unknown plant growth, the sometimes muddy path , we all made it back to the bottom with only a few minor cuts and scraps and skin irritations. Like any activity that requires endurance and perseverance, this simple little “walk in the park” brought the group closer and helped in the bonding process that had already begun.
 
 
 
 
Upon returning to the compound, showering off the mud and sweat, we prepared to take a step back from the realities of Honduras and into an evening of watching the SuperBowl together. The “techies” in the group had
rigged Richards projection television to show the telecast of the super bowl on the wall . Of course in this area it was telecast in Spanish. Now I know a touch down is a touch down in any language, but I was glad to hear that they also rigged the sound to come trough a computer and a karaoke machine so that we could actually watch the Spanish telecast but hear the play by play in English. Now I am not a real avid football fan. But since the Colts were playing even I was interested. All the time we watched though I was always aware how far removed we were from what we call our “real world” and how close we were to the “real world” that the Honduran people lived daily. There was and intense contrast to the money spent on a single football game and the fight for survival of a people whose only fault in life was to be born into a land that lacks basic health and environmental facilities that are accessible to all. If the money from one such event as the super bowl were to be spent wisely in a country such as this, we could I am sure, rewrite the statistics of a land so overcome with sickness, parasites and a lack of the bear essentials needed for survival.
Monday came and we climbed back into the truck to travel up the mountain to an isolated village. When you speak of mountain top experiences this was to become that kind of experience both literally and figuratively. As we stood in the back of the pickup we grasp the rail on the sides and we swayed to and fro back and forth and around as we traveled up the dirt , seeming almost impassable trail. In the states I am sure this would not be categorized as a road.
Even the truck pulled and struggled to get its cargo up the mountain. As we moved up the mountain I was sure that any minute we would be touching a cloud. The view was beyond breathtaking. When Joyce and Jeremy came home from Colorado a few years ago, they tried to explain what they felt like standing on top of a mountain there. On this day I think I finally realized how they must have felt. My biggest disappointment was that I knew I could never really share this particular view or the feelings it manifested in my soul. You can capture moments with a camera and even pictures from the top of the mountain. But you can never recapture what it feels like during these brief moments in life. .
When we arrived we quickly set up our craft area and looked for a good location for games. Most of the schools that we visited had little or no playing areas. The ground surrounding most of the schools was rough, unleveled and grown up with grasses . We drug out a few wooden school desks and began demonstrating our craft projects. It seemed communication was never an issue. It was so rewarding to see all ages eager to create something with their own hands. It wasn’t long until children were running around with colorful whirly gigs or feather covered masks .
Before I came to Honduras, I made an almost worthless attempt to learn some Spanish words. I thought it would be a good gesture on my part. The few words I did memorize and attempt to speak almost always came out of my mouth in what I felt was almost a mockery of their language. Even the children in their simple honesty were prone to chuckles as I made faulty attempts to butcher their language.
 
 
In spite of this I still had ;little problem communicating with the children. I soon discovered that a laugh and the words of joy and even a cry are the same in any language. Children small as newborn and as old as probably sixteen or seventeen came to us not knowing what to expect. As we began to demonstrate the craft projects we had brought over , we in return did not know what to expect from them.
 
 
I had brought a white plastic side from one of our tents to use to collect handprints and signatures of the Honduran children. Each day I would bring it out before we went home and had them draw their hands and sign it. I am not sure what will become of such a large banner but I am sure it will be a vivid reminder of all the lives we touched and all the lives that touched us during our visit to this country. For me personally looking at this banner will always remind me of the children that are reaching out to all of us from many countries of the world. In the Bible when it speaks of raising our hands to God, it is just this simple jester that seems to reach up to God and out to us.
The day was complete when we brought out the rainbow parachute and the beach ball. Of all the activities we brought this worked best to bring all the kids of all the different ages together in one event. When all the children raised the parachute as it filled with air, it brought laughter and joy to everyone. There we many different activities to be used with this parachute each seeming more appreciated than the other. As the day came to a close we were able to include the medical brigade team in playing this game. I am sure after spending the entire day attending to the village patients, it was a welcome time to be with these children.
I was well aware that there were some children that did not enter into the games. I took great effort to insure all the children that felt good enough to play and that wanted to, were included. Later in the day I spotted a small girl that was waiting out front to see the doctors. She seemed shy but friendly and
did not join the others in playing. It was obvious that she was not feeling up to par. I grabbed a beach ball and the two of us continued to toss the ball back and forth. She too began to laugh and for a few moments was able to enjoy playing. In that moment I was taken back to my childhood when I often played alone or felt isolated when it came to group activities. Because we spent such a short time with these children, the usual human dynamics were not visible on the surface. But it seems human nature being what it is, in any group of children you will discover the bully, the leader, the joiner and those that are on the outside and never seem to join in. I don’t believe this to be an American trait but observed in any society or culture.
 
Before we left the village Jennifer took us up the street a bit further to see the village water supply that had been constructed by the peace core. One of Jennifer’s missions while in Honduras with the Peace Core was to help villages construct water systems. She said the biggest problem most villages have after these are built was funding repairs and improvements that would inevitably come with time and wear. Most villages had no tax structure or source of income for these kinds of repair.
 
 
The views going back down the mountain, as we said good by to the children and made our way back to the compound, were equally awesome. Seeing the difficulty we had in getting up and down the narrow winding path, it made me question why people would isolate themselves in these remote villages. Whatever the reason the truth is their life could hardly be anything but tough. The same style housing lot relocated to the U.S. would more than likely be chosen by the very wealthy to build an elaborate house looking down on the world. I wonder if what Jesus said about the poor and meek inheriting the world was referring to this time and place and this people.
 
Our final day in the mountains was much like the rest. Seeing the children enjoy the crafts we brought to them and enjoy the time of laughter and play we provided, continued to remind we why we were there. By this day my energy level was leveling off and it took more effort to keep up with the children. But no less joy was felt.
 
 
I did today manage to take a break and venture out beyond the confines of the school yard. I walked down the path they called a street to find homes and buildings similar to any we had seen so far. This particular village had electricity. Most of the houses had their front door open and few window coverings to protect from insects. I bravely approached one house only to be welcomed into their living room and offered a seat. Again language was not an issue as being friendly and welcoming is the same in any language.
I was a bit astounded to realize as I set with this young man in his early twenties, that we were watching music videos on his television. This particular home had three Televisions setting on their shelf. I asked why three and his response was that two didn’t actually work. When Beyonce came on to gyrate and sing a familiar song, I covered this fellows little brother’s eyes mostly in a joking manner. We all laughed but like I said some things are the same in any language. Before I left I peeked into the back of the house to find two woman cooking or washing dishes. Pretty primitive by our standards but in comparison to some we had seen so far, a pretty decent home.
Our final day was spent going to a school to give physicals to children preparing to begin their school year. We were there during their “summer vacation”. This day we were able to draft some of the team to help us and when all the children started filing into the school house we were glad they did. This day we had more space and manpower and were able to bring out all the craft projects and set up stations and work areas. I started one craft and soon was able to start another and another. Before long the building we were in was a buzz with activity. This day was over before we knew it and we piled back into the pickup.
Early in the week the burning question for me was what will become of these people ;when we leave. The treatments they received, the small plastic baggie of pills seemed so much like a pretty band aide on a larger wound. What happened when we left? The hope I saw while were there was in the form of four walls and a concrete slab that with money and manpower, mostly volunteer, will someday become a large clinic that will serve this area and provide a home for visiting doctors and students. When finished it will not only house a clinic, it will provide a garden and a store to earn income for the clinic and at the same time provide work for senior citizens. The equipment to put in the clinic is setting a warehouse in Indianapolis waiting for the building to be completed and of course the ship to transport it. Money, time and of course volunteers will make this happen.
It was not until I got home that I learned much about the other team on our medical brigade. The public health intervention group that also traveled with us included a public health doctor and several public health students. During the week they put their focus on one community where previous medical brigades had found a higher than normal incidence of asthma, chronic obstructive pulmonary disease, emphysema and other pulmonary problems. Because the community is smoke free, they preformed indoor air quality assessments of the homes and gave lung capacity tests to the village . It is believed that the method of cooking, using open-flame wood burning inside the homes, mostly with no chimneys or ventilation, is the cause of these illnesses.
I also recently found out about the Lorena Stove Project. A stove very similar to the ones traditionally used is called a Lorena stove which has a vent pipe to carry the smoke out of the house. In addition, the stoves burn wood more efficiently therefore, decreasing the demand for wood and decreasing the need for cutting down trees. Thus this goes beyond being a health issue project that can do good in Honduras. It is also a solid support of the global effort to cut down on global warming and preserve our environment. Supporting this project is also something that makes helping others in our world an attainable goal. It is too easy to become overwhelmed by so much need in our world and end up not doing anything at all. This is an inexpensive and relevant project.
I am usually asked now that I am home, if this trip changed me? I would be lieing if I told you it my life had not been changed by this experience. But lately it seems my life is in constant change. Moving to a new home, witnessing the birth of my grandchildren, my life is on the constant move. Witnessing first hand the Honduran people and their plight in this world of ours not only touched my heart it touched my soul.
But were do we go from here? My prayer for myself is that in someway the network of friends that I made with Dr. Seville, Dr Renshaw and the young people who we traveled with, and the even closer friendship I forged with Jennifer and Bob and the common bond I will always share with Kevin, will somehow lead to a permanent connection with not only this country but a world in need of love and compassion. I pray that in someway what this band of sojourners began will lead to a brighter and healthier future for at least Honduras and it’s people.
 
 
 
 
 
 

His Hands

His Hands
My Dad has been gone now for a long time. Yet in an instant I could feel his presence right here with me.
I never know when I will feel him close. Lately just looking in the mirror and seeing pieces of him in my refection has brought those feelings . .
Growing up I was especially close to my Dad. My mom wasn’t an affectionate person. Most of the affection I received was from my father. I never doubted my mother’s love for me. It is just that my dad reinforced those feelings with hugs that brought a close connection. Even as a grown man I had no problem holding his hand and showing him affection.
My deepest memory of this was in the middle of the night after his massive heart attack . He was unconscious when we got to the hospital and for a brief moment I got to hold his hand. It seemed cold and lifeless and unresponsive and I will admit scared the hell out of me. The surgery , the waiting, the sheer misery of knowing that there was a possibility that I would never feels the grip of his hand ;all this was very frightening.
In the time of waiting and anticipation I was taken back to all the times I had held his hand. His hands were full and strong; chaliced and a bit rough. I feel I work hard but my hands will never be like that. His hands had such a since of character earned from 70 years of using his hands to fix things. Whether it was my bike or a lifetime of appliances etc. he was fixing , he drew strength from repairing life’s problems. I remember just holding his hand made me feel the world ,in spite of all its troubles ,would somehow be all right.
After the surgery and as he recovered, I hung tight to his hand. Gradually the strength returned and I was given back those feelings that ran like an electric current between our hands . He came home from the hospital and seventeen days later He passed in his sleep. My last memory of him was in the casket as I held his hand for the last time. To this day I can close my eyes and feel his hand and the strength of his affection for me. It is a vivid reminder that he and God are always with me even when life seems tough.
Until recently the feeling and sensation of his hand had only been in my imagination. But one day not long ago I was standing in the kitchen and my son ,Jeremy ,reached down and grabbed my hand. I don’t know if we were praying or what but my eyes were closed. Suddenly just the shape and feel of his hand seemed so familiar. This is a hand that I had held for over 27 years by now. This is the hand that stretched up to grab my finger to take his first step. When did this tiny hand become a man’s hand. I swear for an instant I knew it was my dad’s hand. It has the same firmness and texture that I remember unique to my dad. In that instant a warm rush came over me.
All my sons have no problem being affectionate with me. There has never been that feeling that they were too grownup or too much a “man” to hug and kiss their “ daddy”. I thank God for that. As secure as I am in myself and my faith in God, I would be totally lost with out the love of my children. The love shared between husband and wife is truly special. The loved passed between parent and child in totally different and invaluable. I know too many families that don’t share that closeness that we share and I wonder how they survive.
Holding Jeremy’s hand made me look for other signs that my dad was still present. As I pondered this, I reflected on many times since my dad’s death that his spirit had been reborn in my children and even in myself. His character and values and his love for God live on in our daily living. He left his mark on all of us and returns to us daily in the way we handle life’s difficulties as well as how we celebrate life’s joys.
I have a grandson now and just this week celebrated the birth of our grand daughter. . They will never have known their great grandpa. Our job now is to make sure they both feel the legacy of his enduring love through our lives and our demonstration of God’s love in our family. But than isn’t that all our duty as a Christian. We are the only link our children have with the present and all the goodness of God’s love that came

Sherri

 
Sherri Stephen J. Jeffries
Sherri Jeffries Freeman was my neice and the mother of McKenzie Freeman.
It was a tipically cold winter afternoon, in Indiana. as she greeted little Sherry as she stepped off the School bus. Susan was used to the cold weather from living in Maryland all of her life but the wind seemed more intense out on the Rush County country side amoung the vacant fields and farmland.. Sherry's little nose was about all she could see as it peeked out her winter hat and scarf.
She was all smiles as Susan unwrapped her, almost as if she was unwrapping a package. The doting mother had taken special effort to layer her clothing even though she spent most of the trip to and from school in a warm school bus. She noticed that she only had one glove on as she searched her tiny pockets for the lonely mate but with no avail. Being careful not to scold her , she asked what had happened to her glove. This was the not the first glove that had gone missing since school had began and her first thoughts were that some older studunt was taking her glove from her.
She looked up and began to cry. I quickly assured her that I was not mad as she began to tell me about her friend. You see her friend at school did not have a pair of gloves to wear. Her dad had lost his job and they could not afford to buy any. So I gave her my glove and we just put the other hand in our pocket. That way we were both warm.
As her eyes filled with tears she assured Sherry that she had done a good thing but quickly suggested that they go down to the store and buy her friend a pair of gloves of her own. That way they would both have warm hands.
When I first heard this story I was amazed at how wise this little girl had been. You can not teach this kind of raw compassion. It can only come from the heart. I believe God asks us to make sacrifices for our neighbors, who ever they may be, but I don't believe He wants us to go hungary in the process. He lets us "keep the other glove" so to speak and hopefully share the burdan of hunger and poverty in our world as best we can. We are all very capable of giving up something that keeps us "comfortable and warm", like that glove. It might be money but it also might be time and energy or even kind words. When you think of compassion in the world, think of this tiny girl and the compassion she shared with her one glove.

CSI Discovering God

CSI Investigating God's Mysteries by Stephen J. Jeffries
 
Anyone who knows me well, is sure to know how much I watch television. Through a life time of watching television, I have become enthused about a certain series and very much unenthused about the same series in the same season of viewing. As of late I continue to be excited about watching any of the CSI dramas that began in Las Vagas and continued intoNew York and Miami. The story lines are always interesting, sometimes relevant to life and generally a mystery solved by using current scientific methods that on the surface appear to be magic.
My Christian life and beliefs can be compared to these CSI investagations only without the victum lying in the street or in a morgue. Since I was old enough to think and reason, I have investigated and searched for answers to what being a follower of Christ really means. When I was first Baptized, I was told and believed with all my heart that the mystery was over and all the troubles of this nine year old boy, would be washed away in that baptizimal pool. From now on if I did every thing the Bible said to do or not do my world would be magically transformed. Pray and "wallah" I would receive the stuff of life to include but now be limited to health, wealth and happiness.
The promise of "life everlasting" became my number one goal in life. In order to reach this goal upon my death, I had to become worthy of God's love and completly free of sin. If I did fail to live up to God's expectations, I would need only to admit my "sins" and God's magic would "save" me again.
As I grew as a young Christian, I looked to my baptism and to monthly communion for the continued magic of God. I was taught earlyon that communion was a way of remembering the horor of the crucifixtrion and the magic of resurection and that I most certainly was unworthy of God's love.
It took me years of searching and investagating my own faith before I came to the realization that God is not and never has been about magic.
I think I first incountered this loss of magic the months after my dad passed away. When I was called to Methodist Hospital after his heart burst , I did the only thing I knew how to do. I prayed. I prayed for God's magic to heal my dad and never once even dreamed that God would not miraculacely bring my dad back to me. After standing by while the doctors ripped his chest open to repair his damaged heart, I saw him go from a lifeless shell back to the man I loved with all my heart. We brought him home on January first and God's promise was complete until seventeen days later when I got the call that he had gone to sleep and just didn't wake up.
Was it my fault? Had God judged me unworthy of this answered prayer? Had I not prayed enough? The questions and soon anger abounded toward God. Every thing I had ever been taught about prayer went into question. Not only did I question being good enough for God, I questioned if my dad, the man who was my Christian guild and mentor, was worthy of being given his life back.
I soon went from anger at God, to anger at myself for beleiving in prayer. I was angey that If God wasn't going to heal dad completly, than why did he need to go through that horrible open heart surgury, and why had I selfishly prayed so fervently for this to happen. I was so guilty of wanting to hang on to him, I put him through "hell" on earth.
It has been a gradual and sometimes incomplete journey to erase the magic out of God's love. I choose now to believe in and search for meaning in the mystery of what it means to follow Jesus. Like the CSI investagators I continue to find new ways to discover what the "truth" is. Whether it is the magic of a newly discovered DNA test that confirms a person's existance and follows them like a finger print or a high powered microscope or computer that brings evidance to light that the human eye is unable to see or comprehend, the CSI uses science not magic to solve their mysteries. To the average untrained person their "tests" look like magic. But the reality is that the tests and investagations conducted in these labratories are done with the brains and intelligence of humankind and not the slight of hand or tricks that past generations would consider in trying to answer life's questions. In our Christian investagations it is our intelect , tempered with life experience that continues to shines a light on the world around us and answers questions that before seemed unanswerable.
The mystery of why my Dad died that day in January will never be answered for me, but I don't blame God for not being magical and I don't blame myself for not being good enough. The honest truth is I am still searching for the answer to why we pray. I feel strongly that we are called to communicate with God and live with a constant presence of his being. But this remains a mystery and I have come to accept that some questions may never be answered.
In many churches in our country and around the world Christians are taught to not question the magic of God. Those same people are taught to take the Bible as the literal word of God. Of course most generaly they are taught to skip over certain parts and hightlight others.
God spoke directly to us through the biblical writers and just the suggestion of adding to or subtracting from this "Magical Holy Word" would be the ultimant sin. Do not get me wrong. I believe in and love the Bible. I find peace and understanding almost every time I read it. But I am not "in love" with the Bible. I have come to believe that some turn the Bible into an idol as much as the early jews created idols and graven images out of their gold. I see us doing the same thing with our church buildings and often times those church leaders that we choose to place on pedestals and elevate to a place of authority, being convinced that they are bearers of the" truth".
We all seek to solve the mysteries of God in different ways. Reading the Bible, singing songs, meditating over a sunset all become ways to place ourselves in the presence of God. I discovered years ago that the simple act of opening the palms of my hands and turning them upward on my lap,usually during a spiritual song, can for me be a conduit that draws the spirit of God into me, and gives me a vivid feeling of the precence of God. Life makes it hard to be in a continueal presence but if we keep seeking His presence, what ever that means to each of us , the pains and troubles as well as the joys and triumphs become easier to bear.
 
I find great joy in knowing in my heart that Kevin and Wyatt continue to teach us and prepare us with the "tools" and "tests" that will help us solve the CSI -Christ Scene Investations- of our life. The mysteries of Jesus and God may never be tied up a in pretty package like on televison but we can surly continue to seek ways to answer the mysteries of God and in doing so, place ourselves in the continueal presence of God.

How Do I Picture God

HOW DO I PICTURE GOD?
 
When my dad passed away in 1987, I was totally devastated. I not only lost a parent and mentor, I lost my best friend. I reconciled my grief by building this image of him living inside of me. His spirit with in me somehow gave me not only strength to wade through a very depressing time in my life, It also filled me with the warmth and security of his constant presence. It was reassuring than, as it is now to be able always to feel his presence and be able to have a continuing conversation of sorts.
Soon after I framed a collage of pictures of his life at several different stages.. Each picture had a definite significance for me and helped to keep his memory fresh in my mind and heart. Each morning when I got up and each night as I prepared for bed, he was there When my recollections of him faded a little, the pictures were there taking me back to places and times I shared with him.
For fifteen years or so I kept the collage of pictures over my dresser. As time passed the feelings of closeness to him of course faded some but still the warmth of his presence was there inside of me.
I came home one day and the hanging pictures of my dad were missing. I searched and soon found on my dresser in it’s place a small framed picture of both my mom and dad. Joyce had done some “redecorating” and had relegated this large collage of pictures to the back of my closet. I was unexpectantly fine with it. After all I am the usual person to do the “decorating” and I knew it didn’t “fit” in with the scheme of things. I think after all those years, I realized my dad’s image was pretty well implanted in my mind’s eye and this small picture was perfect.
Fast forward to last year. We decided to do a complete overhaul of our bedroom, which meant we moved out for a month or so, to enable the walls to be reworked. In the midst of all this chaos , the framed picture of my dad disappeared. When we moved back into our bedroom , I was minus a dresser and a picture. In the process I realized once and for all that the image of him in a frame was no longer required to feel his presence . I had grown to be a nearly 60 year old man and he had been there ever present in my soul and remains there to this very moment.
In church lately we are in the process of redefining our concept and image of God and Jesus. Just like when my dad died we keep pictures and crosses in our presence to remind us of God and Jesus. Once a month we take communion so that we can reflect on God and Jesus. Pretty much everything we do or say in church reminds us and hopefully takes us back to a time when we were in a perfect relationship with God and Jesus.
Recently I visited my dads grave and it reminded me how my image of him has stayed the same even though I know his body still rests in that grave and there is no way it bears any resemblance to the man I knew .
Our image of Jesus is built on what makes us feel good, not necessarily on a true “picture” of the man called Jesus. Growing up in the church we all choose different ways of seeing Jesus. I choose not to reflect on the bloody Christ of the crucifixion. I prefer a more attractive somewhat fatherly dark skinned Jesus much like Salman ,the artist , drew him.
Our image of God has been much more difficult to define. It seems we gave God a human body and patterned our image after anyone or anything we were taught was powerful and wise; usually a bearded old man in long white flowing robes. The closer I get to calling myself old and wise, the more I am sure this is a poor image to look up to. I certainly don’t think age necessarily makes us all that wise.
But still we talk of God in human language. It comforts us to feel God’s arms around us. It reassures us to have Gods hand in all of our business dealings. The words that came out of his mouth speak to us through the e Bible and through prayer. We are never alone when we walk with God. We sometimes even feel his breath as the wind swirls through our lives.
I enjoy being a human and thank God for that opportunity . I even enjoy thinking of God with human
characteristics. This is part of my religious tradition. But I think also that giving God human qualities only limits who he is and what he is about. While retaining my traditional image of God, I am constantly trying to redefine who and what God is for me personally. In one of our classes at church we spoke of the “thin places” in our lives. I understand this to mean those times when God is most present and most visible. It is like the smoke suddenly clears and we can see and touch and smell and feel God with us.
For me ,It could be as dramatic as seeing the birth of my grandchildren and as simple as singing a special song.
As I get older and maybe wiser I find that God is there even in those mundane times of everyday life, when it seems like nothing is happening .
Going to Honduras recently, I first saw God in the mountains and the trees. But more importantly I saw God in the faces of both children and adults. I saw God in young doctors and students with compassion and hope in their eyes. I saw God in a concrete slab that will someday house a clinic to meet the needs of a deserving people.
The God I choose to follow is in the eyes of my grandchildren and their parents. The God I choose to follow is also in the eye of a small child looking up to his two fathers who some would say do not deserve the opportunity to be a husband or a father because of their sexual orientation. It is the quiet places of my life that I see and feel the warmth of God’s loving heart. There I did it again, didn’t I. I gave God a human heart. Well tradition is hard to change and in spite of my new image of God, I still get comfort in thinking of God’s arms around me.
The pictures I have of my Dad as well as the images we create of God and Jesus will always be there to remind us. But the true image of a personal God can only come from within each of us. It takes effort.
I may never have a complete image of my God. But that is alright. God is God and he made us and will never expect more from us than to be human.
 
 

Swinging

Swinging
Stephen Jeffries
After over thirty years in the same home, moving can be very traumatic. I had grown to love my house and home almost like another member of the family. All the memories of raising our children were invested in that place. The opportunity to live and make a home out this house will always be greatly appreciated.
When we talked about moving several years ago, I could not picture calling any place else “home”. It was not a materialistic hold that this place had on me. It was much deeper and more spiritual. I grew in to being an adult Christian almost always relating my home, my state and my country in a spiritual sense. I don’t mean I worshipped my House. But the feelings of home and safety , the trees in my back yard all gave my spirit joy and often drew me closer to God.
We left that house and moved into our new home on McClarnon. It is much smaller, but we found out quickly how the convenience of a newer home can outweigh the charm and history of an older home. From someone who has lived in a century old house, you really appreciate windows that open without effort. Floors that don’t creak and shimmy. Doors that don’t stick.
Some of the shock of moving probably was lessen by redecorating the new home in the exact colors of the old. Fitting our furniture in to the smaller area was a challenge but was accomplished and left us feeling almost home from the very beginning.
After several months, I was happy to be in the new place. I had not shed the tears of regret that I anticipated.. I was glad we moved. But it takes more than furniture and paint to make a house a home. I was certainly having some trouble feeling completely at home ;in spite of all our efforts.
That brings me to the last item to be moved. Our yard swing. As swings go it is pretty nice. It is make of cedar and has a arched roof. I bought it for Joyce u p on Post road for one of our anniversaries . We had place it several places in our back yard on East street. It finally settled in the far back beneath the huge Linen tree and in front of the blue spruce that has grown from a tiny Christmas tree on our kitchen counter. It was a beautiful setting. But the distance from the back door to the swing seemed at times almost insurmountable. As time passed we used the swing less and less. Once in a while I would force myself to make that trip to the back of our yard. Not using the swing was not a matter of being too lazy or too tired to make the trip to the swing. It was life whirling around our heads that kept us almost isolated from living and doing the mundane. It became a rare occasion that we used the swing. The arrival of new grandbabies became our only incentive to sit and swing.
We couldn’t move the swing to our new yard until recently. When it arrived I knew right where I wanted it. Right next to the garage close to the house. Nestled between the house and one of our two trees, the spot was perfect and with in moments I was enjoying a new love affair with my swing.
It has happened on several occasions. It may happen early in the morning or late at night. It may happen when I am cradling Khloe or Emma or Jackson or Liliana in the swing. I may be when Joyce and I swing and reflect on 38 years of marriage. It rushes over me like a wave of peaceful happiness. I finally feel ----“at home”. I can’t define it or explain it but it has certainly brought me closer to God and to my family. I know this house will never be completely home until I stop and take time to let it. I know that being home is much more than a house or a yard or even a swing. It is taking time to love and enjoy your family and remembering to thank God for how fortunate and blessed our life can be.
When my dad Charles Jeffries passed, I received his little black Bible, he always carried in his “deacon suit”. Inside crumpled and worn I found this hand written prayer neatly folded and well used over a life time of serving his Lord.
 
Our most gracious heavenly Father we draw nigh unto thee and glorify thee. For all thou hast done for us , we are ever mindful of thy loving care and we desire to grow more like thee every day. Lord we know we have fallen short of the expectations, we have been weak when we should have been strong, yet thou hast been kind and long suffering with us. Lord we give thee thanks for the many blessings of life. Help us to show our gratitude by the lives which we live. We pray not only for ourselves but for thy people everywhere. Wilt thou bring a renewal of health to those who are sick. Wilt thou give strength to those who are tempted. Wilt thou bring comfort to those whose hearts are heavy with discouragement or sorrow, we ask these things in Jesus holy name. Amen
 
 



Hearing Ann Lewis, one of the oldest and dearest members of our church, pray on Sunday took be back to memories of my dad and his prayers. I grew up at the First Baptist Church in Rushville. When I say “grew up” I can honestly say I spent almost as much time at that church as I did at home. I witnessed a lot of different styles of praying. The loud , the soft, the long the short. Some prayers seemed to flow and some seemed to ramble on. As a kid, I thought it was cool to look around while someone prayed. Once in a while I would get caught looking, but I always knew if they saw me peeking than they were looking also.
There was one time that I was sure to close my eyes during a prayer. It was when my Dad prayed. He was my prayer “mentor”. He was why I wanted to be a good Christian. My heart overflowed with respect for him as a father; But more importantly as a Christian.
I was always astonished as he spoke. He was a quite man. Left school after eight grade to work and help out at home. He wasn’t a great speaker and often his silence spoke volumes to me growing up. But when he got up to pray, the words always seem to flow. The “thee’s and the “thou’s” made every prayer a classic. How could these words come from such a simple man?
It wasn’t until after his death that I found the answer. My mom found his small black testament that always caressed his heart on Sunday morning as He wore his “Deacon Suite”. She gave me that Bible and it remains a most valuable piece of who I am. Inside that little book was neatly folded a simple slip of paper. On that paper was the prayer I had admired for so many years. Reading it was like hearing his voice again. But it didn’t take long for me to smile and think how he had put one over on me growing up. Not only was he reading this prayers but it was probably copied from some book.
Finding this out didn’t alter my respect for my Dad. If anything it made that love more real. Because it reminded me that He was a real person.
It reminded me that God hears us speak, where ever our words come from.
Now I am so very happy that I did close my eyes when He prayed.
I share this prayer with you as my family. As you read this, listen to all the saints that came before us .
 

Be Still

And the word dwelt among -----me?
 
Psalms 46:10 Be Still, and know that I am God
 
Chances are if you have ever been involved in a retail business, you realize the most difficult task on a daily
basis is cultivating peace and serenity in your life. From keeping customers happy to constantly being on
the go, planning, creating and executing the daily duties of running a business involving the public. It is no
Wonder my life seems to be in constant turmoil.
Well one evening that changed even if just for a little while. I remember being particularly caught up in
Work. I rushed and rushed and rushed some more. I was in Indianapolis picking up supplied for a
wedding and I headed east on highway seventy to rush home. I remember passing the Mount Comfort
exit as I was approaching the Greenfield exit. The same exit I had taken for many years. Suddenly I
realized I was past my exit. How in the heck could I have done that? I first felt stupid. Than mad. Than a
bit frustrated. Than concerned as to how I could drive from Mount Comfort past Greenfield without
remember seeing the road.
 
As I spotted the sign that said twelve miles to next exit, I let out a little breath and looked out my window.
The sun was just going down. The Indiana countryside was bathed in sunlight making what lye before me
look almost like a picture postcard. It was beautiful. I was at that moment filled with awe.
I realized that maybe me driving several miles without seeing had nothing to do with me. Maybe it was
God’s way of watching over me and forcing me to slow down. I could only rejoice in that much needed
time alone with Him to talk and to bath in the glory of His creation.
But that was not the end of this story. Soon I got to the Knightstown exit and turned my car around to go
back. Because the son was now setting in the west I say the most beautiful sunset ever. Here I thought I
had already received God’s gift and instead his real gift was over my shoulder all the time. I was so excited
I could hardly wait to get home and share this with my family. I had definitely forgotten how God speaks to
us in such direct ways.
I still rush a lot. It is part of my business and usually is a necessity when you deal with the public. God was
not saying “don’t rush”. He was saying don’t miss the sunsets in life. It is so easy to speed right by your
exit and miss the important things in life.
 
Written by Stephen J. Jeffries

Monday, August 10, 2009

First Steps

Writing is a spiritual journey for me. I have used words to express myself on paper since I first began to write in elementary school. A few years back, my mom gave me a scrapbook filled with most all the things I had written since I was a small child.

In some ways I still feel like that young boy trying to put on paper my feelings about life and about God in my life. We often say "if I knew than what I know now, things would be different in my life". At sixty two years old I am not sure that would have made any difference in my life. As I look back now I am so thankful that my life has continued to be about relationships...with those around me and with my God....and not so much about "things". The "things" of this life have usually let me down while the relationships have risen above and beyond the realms of what I could only imagine.

I recently lost my mother or at least her physical presence. As I say that I question the fact that I lost her or her physical presence because in most ways, I still feel her right here with me maybe even more so than during her last days.When my father in law passed, I consoled my mother in law by telling her that "dad" was not gone but now lives in her heart and will be with her into eternity. I also said something like "now you don't have to share him, you have all to yourself living deep in your soul" It seemed to help her through that rough time and now that I am faced with my mom's death, I need to hear this in my own life

The night before she died, I sat with my mom, holding her and trying to soak up as much of her as I could. I talked to her about ocean breezes and and tried to focus her thoughts on a time and place by the ocean that I knew were treasured memories. I told her that I was a bit jealous that she was getting close to finding out what this thing called heaven really was. I described my perfect heaven to be a beautiful sunset morning on a sandy beach as the mighty sounds of the ocean rolled in and out. I knew she was ready and she knew she was ready. Finally the next morning God knew she was ready and she when quietly.

When I last saw her on a gurney in her room, she was curled much as I had left her the night before as she clutched a white furry stuffed bear, cradled in her arms. I was selfishly jealous of that bear but I knew if she could she would do the same for me, her baby boy as she often introduced me.

I wrote these poems for her as a part of my greiving:

I Love You a Bushel and a Peck and a Hug Around the Neck.
 
That …was the claim she made as I said good by to the
old lady in the wheel chair. Each time she struggled
to awkwardly hold me tight to her chest and kiss me
on the forhead, I could only guess how much love was
in a bushel and a peck. I knew she was special. I
knew she made me feel special. I didn’t know really
who she was. They called her mom and grandma and
great grandmother. I just knew she was the old
woman in the wheel chair.
Someday I hope I remember her. Someday I hope I
will know how much love is in a bushel and a peck. I
want to know why she loved me. I want to know why
she loved me so I can learn to love that much. I want
to know why she loved me so I can completely love
myself . I want to know why she loved me so I can
learn to love even more than a bushel and a peck and a
hug around the neck. I just hope I don’t have to wait
until I am “the old woman in the wheel chair“.

The great grand daughter



If I Die Tomorrow as written for Marie Jeffries by her loving son Stephen

If I to die tomorrow,
I would be happy.
Not happy to die,
but so very happy…
to have lived.
To have loved.
To have been loved.

If I to die tomorrow,
My life would be complete.
Not finished,
No I would never be finished with
living
and loving
And caring.
I will surly take that task with me to the grave,
And beyond.
If I die tomorrow,

I leave no gold or silver.
My only gift to you is
My strong will
My determination
My unwavering love for God.
And my constant love for my family.
 
 
If I die tomorrow
It’s OK to cry,
because I’ll miss you too.
But the day will come to stop crying
So stop crying and get on with life.
When you do stop crying
I won’t be far away.
Cause I plan on living in your hearts
As long as you live and breath and laugh.
Oh I’ll be with Jesus
But the Jesus I believe in also
lives in your heart.
If I die tomorrow
I’ll be somewhere between your heart and the golden streets of heaven…
The ultimate commute .

If I die tomorrow.
Don’t be afraid to look for me
If you don’t feel me in your heart….
Look for me in the faces of my grandchildren
Or in the ocean breeze
Or in the church
Or in the melody of that song you’re humming.
Find your own place to look
Cause chances are if you are there
I’ll be there also.
If I die tomorrow……..
I love you.
I love You
I love you.


JACKSON'S POEM 
 
 
She called me her "sunshine" as I came into the room,
a little bit of light to fill a day of gloom..
She never failed to grab my hand
or say"I love you so."
I couldn't wait to kiss her cheek
and hug her to and fro.
She called me her "sunshine"
and I know it to be true
cause each time I saw great grandma
her eyes would really glow
Like the sun on summer days
they twinkle and they flash
I hope I filled her heart with light
to hold her to the last.
 
 
 
 
Mother by Stephen J. Jeffries
 
 
She lay there....one eye open,
one eye shut
almost awake......but not quite.
She knew me.
She clutched my hand.....almost tight
but not quite.
She knows it is her time,
and she is ready and not afraid of what is ahead.
She is dying as she lived, with dignity and strength
.......... one step at a time.
I felt her hand, warm soft
so glad to be held
and so glad to be holding.
As she lay there half asleep,........... half awake
....... I fought back my tears
It was all it could do
not to curl up on her boosam
like a newborn carresses his mother.
It was all I could do
not to grab her frail little body up into my arms,
cuddled and cradled
like a father caresses his child.
Each moment,,,,,each second,,,,each word became a monument.
The clock is sweeping my breath away with each toc,
The faith she willed me....gives me strength and assurance
that all is well.
I will cry. I will morn.
but today I will celebrate!!!
a woman,
a sister,
a mother,
................a friend.
 
 
 
 Writing is a journey, one step at a time.