Two dead. Ick. Died a few hours after that last post. One in a most grusome way that included being thrown from a second-story landing into the freezing cold. No autopsy was performed to determine if impact or temperature took the little creature.

I'm sleeping slightly better, but where two have gathered, there could well be more so I'm on guard.

 

 

 

One week none of my Sunday School kids showed up for class, so I popped into the little kids' room to offer help wherever I could. That meant cutting paper, holding cry-ers, and convincing little mobsters there is nothing about the echo-y room that requires shouting. And a little theologizing, as it turned out.

Red-haired, freckled Ely (pronounced Eli--mom put a "y" in all three of her children's names though none of them need it...don't do drugs, kids) is Opie Taylor in color. But home is bad. Mom is in and out of prison and grandma doesn't want them ("I raised my kids already") so great-grandma is stretched to her limit caring for three kids seven and under. Great-great grandma--the kids call her Granny Helen--often walks with a cane and wears hearing aids that emit a shrill tone. It's a wonder the neighborhood dogs don't howl. Granny is the one who brings them to church. She doesn't hear much of anything while she's there and if she finds out one of the kids misbehaved in Sunday School, there's no explaining to her that it's already taken care of. Instead, the offender stays home the next week as punishment.

So it worried me when I saw Ely labor over his craft project. I've seen him become increasingly frustrated numerous times in the past, and it always escalates to the point where he won't finish the activity and, crying, wads it into a ball and throws it away. I could see this morning was headed in that direction. In the past, I've been the only adult with not only him, but his volatile younger sister and brother, as well as other children and couldn't spend much time with any one child. But this Sunday I was an extra, so I took Ely aside.

Ely, I understand how frustrating it is when what you have in your hand isn't looking like what you see in your head. Not every one gets upset over that. Lots of people don't care if they don't do a good job or if their art turns out badly. Most people don't care if what they work on doesn't turn out perfect. You have a special gift from God. God gave you the gift of wanting things to be right, to be your best. That's a gift that God can use in you. Maybe he wants you to be a doctor or a preacher someday. Your gift will help you in lots of jobs you might choose. But the bad thing about this gift is that sometimes we think what we do will never be good enough so we want to give up. We can't. I want you to go finish your picture. But instead of crying if it doesn't turn out like you want, just ask me for help.

He nodded at me with tears still dripping from his big blue eyes down his chubby freckled cheeks. I wanted to say so much more to him, but I doubt he'll even remember what I did say. I wanted to tell him that the bar of perfection is unreachable, that we won't ever live up even to our own expectations, let alone God's. I wanted to tell him how miserable we have the power to make other's lives when we try to hold them to our standards of perfection. I wanted to tell him this desire to see everything be perfect is how God looks at the world, and he, too, longs for all to be right. I wanted to tell him how grace is precious--and for us perfectionists, it may take a lifetime to grasp. I wanted to say so much more, but Ely had already joined the others at the table, ready to finish his picture.

Thursday and Friday this week I was off work as my entire office went to Branson for a retreat. Nothing really went as planned but we had a great time, ate delicious food, and shopped (my boss gave us each $50. That's a good man.) Regarding Branson....I have much to say. First of all, it really is beautiful there. I understand why people love it. The traffic and the massive buildings to house stupid shows, however, are a blight on the landscape.

We went to see The Shepherd of the Hills, which, though cheesily acted, was full of Branson history that I really did find interesting. It turns out the grandparents and some great uncles of the dentist I work for were involved on some level in some of the events the story chronicles. And the show ended with a narration about the end of this life really only being the beginning because there is so much more to God's plan than just what we see here....I was ready to mull over that for awhile when the first actor came out to start the curtain call....or so I thought.

No. He was not starting the curtain call. He came out to announce the curtain call would be in just a moment. But first, if we could, if we would, please stand with him as we honor our veterans and those currently serving. As we all stood, out rode five horses with riders holding giant flags and a slow, old-school country version of the Star-Spangled banner began to play. The horses circled around and adjusted their gait to a canter as the rocket's red glare, etc gave proof. The horses and riders then stood at attention all lined up as a voice recited the Pledge of Allegiance and we all joined in. Then came a choral rendition of America the Beautiful with a John Wayne narration extolling the virtues of our landscape (google John Wayne America and you too can experience this, sans horses and flags). The audience stood through it all, then whooped and hollered as the horses galloped off with flags whipping out behind them.

Apparently I was the only who felt like that was the most bizarre ending to what had turned out to be a thought-provoking show. I thought it would have been an all right enough opening, but for me, it undid everything the show had seemed to lead up to. If this life is just the beginning, and God has much more in store, then why turn right around and pay homage to what is temporary? I'm far from being a patriotic person, but I'm certainly not anti-patriotic either--I realize my quality of life isn't a stroke of luck or an entitlement, that people have worked hard for it and they should be respected and honored for that. It just felt ill-placed.