Barbara Edema's Blog, page 6

Letter to the President. For "the least of these."

Dear Mr. President,
You are not dear to me, I’m just being polite.
It’s a good attempt on your part to try and change the narrative right now, days before the midterm elections.
Instead of paying attention to the mutilation and death of journalist, Jamal Khashoggi, at the hands of the Saudi Crown Prince’s henchmen, you would like us to focus on a group of immigrants who are coming from Central America looking for safety within our borders.
It’s your ridiculous message of hate and fear. But we don’t buy it. We know the people travelling toward our country are mothers, fathers, children, and grandparents. They have seen loved ones be tortured and killed. Perhaps, they have experienced some of that torture themselves.
They are trying to protect their children. Which any of us would do if we lived in a country with brutal leaders who cared nothing for their people. We would flee with babes in arms to give our children a chance at life.
We are not afraid of the people coming here who need safety and who love their families. They are guilty of nothing.
We are not afraid of “The Other” because we believe we are all one in God’s eyes.We welcome the stranger and the foreigner because that’s what Jesus did over and over and over again.
You said we can’t presume the Saudi Crown Prince to be guilty of Khashoggi’s death before a thorough investigation.
You said we couldn’t presume Brett Kavanaugh to be guilty before he was investigated.
And yet, you have presumed each immigrant walking toward our country to be guilty. GUILTY. You haven’t met one of them. You know nothing about them. Yet, they are all guilty.
That’s why two-year-old’s and five-year-old’s go to court all alone, once you’ve had them ripped away from their parents.
You strangled the investigation of Kavanaugh. We now have an abuser on the Supreme Court.
You’re doing the same thing regarding the Crown Prince of Saudi Arabia. Because you are personally making a tidy sum of money from that country and your crooked deals.
You think you are winning. You think you can decide how to fix the game. How to rig the election with your Russian lover, Putin. You can proclaim the innocence of the guilty and the guilt of the innocent.
Your followers are blind. Your followers are unable to think clearly for themselves. I marvel at their inability to see how you have taken this country hostage and how they will inevitably go down with you. I do not wish that for them.
But the majority of us see you for the fool you are. You are unintelligent and thoughtless. You are cruel to the most vulnerable of society. You are a laughing stock and embarrassment to our country and the world.
Jesus Christ blessed the children, restored health to the ill, fed the hungry, sat with the outcasts of society and gave them hope. His love had no limits. His grace had no boundary. His kindness held the oppressors of the downtrodden accountable, and his anger was unleashed on the money changers who stole from the poor. Jesus Christ. The Savior of the World.
“Love kindness, do justice, walk humbly with God.” 
Even your “Christian” supporters spew hateful language and condemn brothers and sisters who are different.   
Your chaos won’t last. Your godlessness will not stand. Your greed will leave you in poverty.
We will not allow hate to run and ruin this country.
Our attention will not be diverted.
You are not almighty, but God is. And as it says on the money you love so much:
“In God We Trust.”
And I certainly do.
Sincerely,Pastor Barb  

I am a Pastor and this is my Sexual Assault Story

I am a Pastor and this is my Sexual Assault Story.
At the age of twelve my childhood ended.
It ended in the church when a Youth Pastor decided to rape me. He did that for two years whenever he got the chance. After two years he, his wife and two children moved away. I was fourteen.
My dad was the Senior Pastor of the church. I was at church all the time. My dad didn’t know what was happening at the time. Church was a bad place.
I turned fifteen and got into a relationship with a boy in high school. I should have known it was bad the first time he threw me into a tree. I should have known it was bad when he threw me down on the ground. I am a small person. Easy to throw.
In ten months, he got me pregnant three times. I had three abortions. My parents knew about the last one because I made my mom take me to the doctor. I did this on purpose. My parents, who were going through a divorce, came together, and took me in for the third abortion. They knew I couldn’t have a baby. They took care of me. I am thankful for that. They loved me. Me.
I kept moving through life. I was going to work in Hollywood. I found an agent. She was happy to sign me to a contract.
Church meant nothing to me. I didn’t hate it. I just didn’t need to be there. At all.
Hollywood. That’s where I needed to be.
That’s why God sent me to Israel at the age of eighteen. I had a five-day warning. Then I flew to Israel and my life changed. But no one knew my secrets.
I told my secrets to a new friend. She listened, empathized, and gave me hope. The first layer of healing began. God whispered. I listened tentatively.
When I returned home, I went to college. I had some anxiety. But in tiny Orange City, IA, there was a therapist who worked with college students. She helped me do the hard work of speaking and feeling everything – Every. Single. Thing. I re-lived what had happened to me as a child and teenager. Acceptance and health and more hope began to flow. She let me know I wasn’t the only person in the entire world who had been raped and who had experienced abortion.
I told my mother everything. She is an intelligent woman of action. She set up a meeting with denominational leaders to discuss the rape. To make sure the Youth Pastor was not allowed to be near young women again. A room full of white males listened to my story. They did nothing. The Youth Pastor went from church to church raping and stealing childhoods.
I got married. Wrong marriage. Wrong person. I birthed four children. I had a miscarriage in between my second and third daughters.
My children are remarkable. I was able to be an attentive, loving, present mother. They are all grown up now and they are doing wonderful things in this world.
The church was a bad and horrible place for me as a child.
Is that why God beckoned me back to the church? I don’t know. I just know I was Called. I want church to be a safe, comforting, joyful place. I want God’s gentle power to flow. I want everyone with hurts and pasts and fears and anxiety to feel part of the family.
I’m fifty-six years old. My trauma occurred forty-one years ago. I don’t think about that time of my life often. I have a lot in my life to focus on. If it disappoints you that I’m not living under a cloud of guilt each day, too bad. I’ve had relatives and poorly chosen confidantes who have looked at me with fake sad eyes, as they called me a murderer. You are wrong.
I am passionately pro-choice. I would never tell a girl or a grown woman to have a baby if she felt she couldn’t. I would drive her to a clinic for an abortion if asked. Adoption isn’t the one and only answer. The well-being of a child or a woman with an unwanted pregnancy can’t be dusted away.
You don’t have to agree with me. Just don’t try to convince me otherwise.
During twenty-four years of being a Pastor, women have come into my different church offices to pour out stories of abuse, rape and abortion. I did not burden them with my story. I just chose to love them and listen. I helped when I could. That is my role and my passion as a Pastor. You are loved. You are forgiven. You have worth. You look like God. I do too.
If you are a friend of mine and I have never told you this story, I had no need to. And it was none of your business. I feel no compulsion to explain it anymore. Please don’t look at me with sad eyes. I am not sad. I am angry that so many women have suffered at the hands of abusive men and have not received the care they need. I am angry that many women have suffered at the hands of other women who have judged and condemned them with a repulsive self-righteousness. Women against women really pisses me off. We all need acceptance and safety with one another.
NO SINGLE EVENT DEFINES A PERSON’S ENTIRE LIFE. For those of you who think that your past pain and decisions make you a bad person, or someone has told you that you are going to hell, or you have told yourself hell is your fate, please hear me: Those voices aren’t telling you the truth. Those voices are lying.
My life has been filled with so much goodness. I am now married to a good and compassionate man. I love him and I am loved. We have combined a large family of great adult children. I enjoy work, in any capacity, in the church. Sanctuaries are where I find all that is holy and true. I live with joy.
My story is not meant for your sharing as gossip. The details are not your business. If it helps someone, I will be thankful.
If you are a friend of mine and want to dig into details, please don’t ask me to tell you my story over lunch or a cup of coffee. I won’t. Instead, let’s work together on protecting women, children, and men who are in unsafe and precarious life situations. Let’s listen to those who need to be listened to. If you are one of the people suffering now, I have time, compassion, and love for you. Let’s talk.
I am expecting some hate and judgment to come from sharing this. I can take it. I accept my life and I love who I have become.
For those of you who are hung up on the abortions, please remember this: At the age of twelve my body became a crime scene.
Overcoming that, has given me a voice and strength and purpose. I will go forward with joy and hope. I want you to be able to do that, as well.

Labor Day

Labor Day.
Around Memorial Day this year I wrote the blog, “Where are the Children,” then the next month I wrote “Cages.”
It became known that children were being taken from their parents at our border, placed in detention centers and the littlest ones in cages. It took awhile to find out the truth, to find people who were outraged, and to find people with power to begin the process of reunification. It’s still not done. Another month will begin with hundreds of children and parents still separated. Reports of abuse are drifting out of these centers. Pictures of toddlers who don’t recognize their parents are heartbreaking. For anyone who says they are sick of this story, it’s not going to go away. This is America today, and this will be part of our ugly American history. This story will live forever in the destroyed lives of the trodden-down and the powerless.
So, here we are this Labor Day weekend.
If you google Labor Day this is what you find:
"Labor Day, the first Monday in September, is a creation of the labor movement and is dedicated to the social and economic achievements of American workers. It constitutes a yearly national tribute to the contributions workers have made to the strength, prosperity, and well-being of our country."
Whether we go to work in yoga pants and a tank top covered in baby food peaches, a tailored dress, medical technician scrubs, a police uniform, a suit and tie, or cargo shorts and a T-shirt, we are part of the American workforce. Congratulations. Thank you. You’re welcome.
The strength we give to the country is not merely the backbone of our society, it is the full skeleton, muscle mass, and tough skin that supports one and all.
Almost all.
The prosperity we contribute is through creating, building, teaching, selling, buying, and giving. Prosperity for one and all.
Well, almost all.
Lawshave been formed to protect our hours of work. Our workplace environments. The age when we can legally work. Safety and protection for one and all.
Mainly all.
We contributeto the well-being of our land by finding a place to use our time to make something out of nothing. Create a new strategy. Teach something to someone who doesn’t know. Learn something new from someone wiser. Buy. Sell. Even working for free. To help the well-being of those who need to be well.
So, here’s the thing. There are still places that aren’t fair to their employees. There are still places that don’t pay a living wage. There are still places where power is abused in terrible ways. There are people who try to find a job but can’t. There are some people who don’t look for a job because they’ve tried and been rejected. There are some people who are incapable of working by no fault of their own. And some have retired from long careers of working hard.
Do strength, prosperity, laws and well-being belong to all?
It’s interesting to me that the President of the United States decided that federal workers will NOT get a raise come January. A raise they had been promised. Apparently, there’s not enough money in the budget. What a shame. People who spend their days serving this country have to go without a raise next year because we’re out of money.
It seems like the rich are getting richer. No, I’m sorry, the rich ARE getting richer. But we’re a country all out of money. So, for those who aren’t necessarily seeing mind-boggling prosperity…
I’d like to give a shout out to teachers. Hey! Since I am related to some of you, and some of you are personal friends, I think if the government can’t afford a promised raise to their own employees, they certainly should not be purchasing deadly weapons, such as guns, for each of you. That would be stupid. Maybe instead of guns, they could give YOU a raise. Or maybe some supplies. How are you doing with supplies? Do you have everything you need for your classroom? Are you able to teach our children without concern? Are you making a living wage? You should definitely be paid more than you are being paid. I know that for a fact. We put our children in your care every day. You are teaching the next generation. How about no guns, more computers? Thank you for what you do for our kids and our future.
Hi, nurses. Thank you for caring for us and our physical well-being. Thank you for working a gazillion hours and never quite being paid what you’re worth. Thank you especially to the ones who go the extra mile by returning phone calls, spending longer than the allotted fifteen minutes with a distressed or confused patient, and learning a new EMR that Satan obviously designed. You care for everyone who walks into your workplace even if we are rude and demanding. A pay raise for you is a no-brainer. Your incredible care saves lives. Thank you.
For every worker who harvests fruits, vegetables, and many other foods around this country, you deserve a raise. You deserve great living conditions, not just good, but great. You do back-breaking work, so we can eat. Right now, you are under fire because many of you have skin that isn’t white. A bunch of old, white, men in Washington DC have decided you aren’t worthy for them to defend or fight for. But they will fill their stomachs with the food you have harvested every single day. Thank you for your labor. You deserve to be part of the prosperity this land has to offer. This land with its’ strength and wealth is for all of us. Thank you.
Native Americans. We owe you everything. Absolutely everything. And this is why: a lot of stupid, greedy, cruel white foreigners came here and took absolutely everything away from you. You are the only people who aren’t immigrants in America. There aren’t enough apologies to make up for what we’ve done to you.
CEOs? There you are. What if you take less and give more to your workforce? Just a thought. For those of you who already do this, you are awesome. Thank you.
There are so many other people to recognize. People who do what they do for the betterment of those around them. People who go the extra mile to guide and guard the “least of these.” People who labor in love and goodness, always thinking of others first. I can’t list you all here. But we each know people who live their lives this way. I’m sure we can each thank someone this weekend.
For anyone who works for ICE or HHS or Homeland Security: If you happen to be someone with a heart doing this difficult work, and if you are doing kind and caring things for the little ones who don’t know who their parents are anymore; if you are showing gentleness to the babies and mercy to the children, and don’t abuse or intimidate them; if you encourage, support, and protect them in every way, then my tears of thanksgiving are for you. Many of us wish we could labor and work for the innocent ones. But since this is your work to do, do it well, and treat each child with respect, dignity and love. For each one is made in the image of God. Thank you.
You absolutely deserve a raise.            

The Bird

This past week I found an injured sparrow in our yard. It’s happened before.
I retrieved the cage from the basement. It’s held other feathered friends who ate, drank, and mended behind its slim bars. Some didn't mend.
I put my bird in her temporary home. I put her home in a guest bedroom and closed the door.
We have cats.
Cats are predators. Predators hurt birds if they get the chance.
"His eye is on the sparrow..."
There are still almost six hundred children on our American soil who are beginning another month separated from their parents.
The stories are coming out…from the children who have been released.
Physical assault. Sexual assault. Threats of never seeing their parents again. Not allowed to hug a sibling. Cleaning toilets with their bare hands.
Predators. Predators hurt children if they get the chance.
What should be done to the people who inflict these abuses? What would you want done if it was your child? Your grandchild? Your neighbor’s child?
A little girl died after being released from a detention camp this week.  The details are few. 
Except that she is dead.
It seems we live in a country at war with children. Children poisoned in Flint, Michigan. Children kidnapped and abused at our border. Children abandoned in Puerto Rico. No money given to help young people addicted to opioids. No sensible gun laws enacted after children were murdered in our schools.
The GOP – The Gone Old Party – Predators. Predators hurt the most vulnerable if they get the chance. At the very least, they say nothing. Not one word to change one thing.


But it’s going to change. Here we come. The majority. We will change all this. Call it a blue wave or call it a midterm election. Here we come. 
Because children matter, predators need to be removed. Little ones and young people are our future. Why would we allow them to limp or gasp into adulthood, instead of helping them stride purposefully into their lives with everything they need to thrive? Education, health care, protection, love.
Here we come.
My little sparrow lived for three days. She had been badly injured and became weaker each day in her cage. I held her and pet her wings. Then she was gone.
“His eye is on the sparrow…”
I hope someone was holding the little immigrant girl who died this week.
I pray for the parents who won’t be sending their children to school this month. Memories of the funerals are still fresh.
Jesus said, “Let the little children come to me…”
I don’t think he meant for us to kill them to get there.

The Fringe

The Fringe
The fringe. People on the outside. People living on the edges. People beyond the limits.
Homeless.
Helpless.
Hopeless.
Worthless.
The poor. Addicts. People of color. Immigrants. Wasters. Takers. Infestations.
Kick the immigrant children while they sleep on the cement floor. The fringe.
Give children food they can’t eat because it’s frozen and smells bad. They are hungry.
Women drink from the toilet. They are thirsty.
Laughter at the boy crying in the bathroom because he is scared out if his mind.
The babies are not all reunited with their parents. Cages. But they are just the fringe, so who gives a shit?
The stories of the fringe are coming out. As they are released, they are asked, “So, how was it in there? How were you treated in America, “the land of the free and the home of the brave?”
There are those in the Chaos Administration of this country who say it will take longer than expected to reunite families. That’s funny, it didn’t take long to separate them.
The fringe.
I preached today. I stood in a pulpit and preached the Good News. Sometimes it’s hard.
“And wherever he (Jesus) went, into villages or cities or farms, they laid the sick in the marketplace, and begged him that they might touch even the fringe of his cloak; and all who touched it were healed.” Mark 6:56
The fringe of his cloak.
The fringe of his cloak. If they touched even the fringe, they were healed.
I get it. I get it. I get it.
WE are the fringe. The fringe of his cloak.
We are the ones closest to him.
We are the keepers of the Good News.
We are the sharers of the Good News.
We are the ones who do not judge, or discriminate, or hate “the other.” We are the ones who know that all people are made in the image of God. All are worthy of welcome, acceptance, love. All are worthy of bread (the bread of life, too). All are worthy of fresh water (the living water, too). All are worthy of a chance to live in the light and not the darkness (the light of the world, too).
We are the ones who need to reach out and touch those in need with care, gentleness and respect. We are the fringe of his cloak meant to unite the lost, undo oppression, erase bigotry, heal the sickness of addiction, and be as open and loving as Jesus Christ who felt the crush of the world, a world begging to touch just the fringe of his cloak.
We are the conduits of hope, peace, grace, life, love. And in the midst of evil and cruelty delivered lavishly by the leaders of this country, the fringe wins.
What a solemn joyful burden it is                                                    to be the fringe.

Water

WATERHot summer days invite sprinklers, pools, lakesides and ocean beaches. Cool water to play in. Cool water to drink after the play.
Happy squeals from little people as cool water touches warm skin. Splashing, jumping, laughing.
I remember jumping off the edge of the pool, just a little girl ready to fly. I could fly because my dad was in the cool water, his hands raised, ready to catch me. He never missed.
With my own children, bath time was another water time. Little people, splashing chubby hands, sending bubbles bubbling. A soft towel, a clean diaper, and clean jammies.
“Water cleanses; purifies; refreshes; sustains.”
This week a fourteen-month-old baby boy, who had been taken from his parents at the border and separated for eighty-five days, was returned filthy and covered in lice.
No water. No bath. No excuses.
Our country did this. Our country missed. Our country doesn’t keep the babies safe. Our country cages babies in filth.
All the little ones are supposed to be reunited with their parents by tomorrow, July 10. But our country’s (b)administration separated families without a plan in place to put them back together again.
Some little ones have been in court. Alone. Sitting in a much-too-big chair with much-too-big headphones on their little ears. So they can hear the translator. They are not safe. Not protected. Defenseless.  
One little one had his bottle and toy ball.  He was all alone. Not safe. Not protected. Defenseless. Our country’s (b)administration did this. Our country missed. Our country puts toddlers on trial.
So, because there was no plan in place to put families back together again, there will still be little ones unsafe and away from their parents when the deadline passes tomorrow. The days tick on.
I ask, what is a pastor to do? What is a mother with perfectly safe children to do?  
I remember holding my son in front of the font. The baptismal font. I said these words: “Water cleansers; purifies; refreshes; sustains.” Baptism liturgy. Sacramental water. My son safe in my arms. Safe. He was clean and fed.
“Wesley, for you Jesus Christ came into the world.; for you he died and for you he conquered death;all this he did for you, little one,though you know nothing of it as yet.We love because God first loved us.”
I touched the water in the font. I made three little water crosses on his tiny forehead.“I baptize you in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.”
This is something a pastor does. It’s a sacrament. It’s holy. It’s God’s promise to every child. Through the sign and symbol of water.
Because every child is made in the image of God.
I’ve put water crosses on more babies than I can count. They always know I’m not their mother. Sometimes they put up with me, sometimes they throw-up on me, and sometimes they cry. I speak the liturgy and I make the water crosses. When I’m finished with this sacrament, I hand them back to their mothers or fathers. Where they feel safe.
If it were possible, I would go to the little ones who have been brought over our border. I know you would too. I wouldn’t go to baptize them. That would be a waste of time, breath, and water. There is something much more urgent going on there.
I would go to unlock cages, to unlock doors housing the older ones. I would think of my dad’s hands catching me every time I jumped. He caught me, and I knew I could fly. Flying is the opposite of being caged.
WE would go to the detention centers during these hot summer days with baby bath and shampoo. We would find the water and clean away the filth. We would clothe them with clean diapers and clean jammies. We would go to them with arms ready to hold and comfort. We would go with soft voices to whisper loving words and sing lullabies. We would do this until we could hand each baby to their mother or father. Where they could finally feel safe.
For now, the only water they feel are the tears on their own cheeks. My tears are useless, but still fall.
“Water cleanses, purifies, refreshes and sustains.”
“and whoever gives even a cup of cold water to one of these little ones in the name of a disciple – truly I tell you, none of these will lose their reward.”  Matthew 10:42   

Cleaning House

CLEANING HOUSEJULY 4, 2018
I write as a woman of faith...Today I cleaned the house. Last night was one of those nights when sleep eluded me as I fretted over the happenings in our country: A child of five sitting before a judge all alone in a courtroom. Babies in cages (I won’t stop writing about this). An administration not clear about how they will put families back together again. The gains of the rich and the plight of the poor. A long list.I am a Christian. I respect your faith, or your choice not to have one. But this is an interesting story from my faith. It’s the time when Jesus got mad. Violently mad. He was at the temple and the money changers were charging more money than they should have been. They were taking advantage of those who had to make a sacrifice to be rid of their sins. The money changers had the upper hand. They could take what they wanted from everyone. And they did. Even from the poorest poor…Today I vacuumed. I hoped the whirring sound would drown out the babies’ cries in my head. It didn’t.I dusted pictures of my son when he was six months old, four years old, and six years old. Good God! Wes in a cage? Wes, sitting alone in a court room before he could even spell his own name?I cleaned bathrooms ferociously and left mirrors and faucets shining.I mopped kitty paw-prints off the kitchen floor.All clean. Everything in its’ place.Jesus cleaned up the money changers. He pushed over their tables and sent their blood money scattering across the stones of the temple. He screamed at them to stop making a mockery of God’s Holy house.He cleaned things up. Everything and everyone in the right place.I am pondering a few things this afternoon as sit in my clean house:When will the families be families again?When will babies be loved and nurtured by their parents, and small children be spared from going to trial alone?How will the school kids of our own country, the ones who watched their friends attacked by a gunman and shot and killed, handle fireworks tonight? I only hear bullets.How can I escalate my love for the poor, the stranger, the sick, the fearful and the outcast, while at the same time speak truth to corruption and cruelty?Where would Jesus be turning over tables today? Where would he demand the end of the mockery of what is purely good? Where would he be defending those most in need? Those who have already made their sacrifice?On this Independence Day, I wonder about that other house? The beautiful House of the People, the White House? It belongs to the country, not to a person. How in the world will we ever clean up the mess that is being made by the administration in that house? How will we remove the stains of bigotry, racism, misogyny, and corruption? When will the People’s House be clean and shining and the beacon of hope for hopeless people?I think we can do some cleaning now. We are a majority of people who value justice, kindness and mercy. We are a majority of people who want sensible gun laws. We are a majority of people who want families reunited and fair immigration policies. We are a majority of people who respect the rights of others, all races, all religions, every socio-economic status, the freedom to love who you love, and be who you are innately meant to be.We are a majority of people who can give our time, our money, and our votes for equity. We will turn over the tables.The stains will be scrubbed away. The mess will be sorted.Everything in its’ place. The House will be clean again.Happy birthday America. Today we celebrate the history of all who are now within the borders of the land of the free and home of the brave.And we live into the promise of liberty and justice for All.

The Dream

I write this as a woman of faith. You may not be a person of faith, which I respect. But maybe some piece of this will resonate with you if you are a person of love.
The Dream
The tables are long because the family is large.
Summertime family reunions usually call for long tables.
There is excitement in the air to see those who haven’t been seen in a while. It is time to prepare.
White table cloths are ironed. The Whitest white.
China and silver. Really? Yes, paper and plastic won’t do. We will have the shiniest silver.
Food has been cooking, good things have been baked and are cooling in the breeze. That beautiful breeze. Cold drinks have been plunged into icy bins.
Because family matters.
Family members deserve the very best.
Who found the flowers? (did you?) Beautiful, fragrant flowers are laid down the middle of every table. Their perfume is the final touch.
We take a moment to change out of our work clothes and put on something clean and colorful. We run brushes through our hair and our teeth. Ready to smile big smiles and hug big hugs.
Summertime is hot on the border of our country. We (you and I and the rest of us) have traveled far to get here. But we have shade over our tables and the breeze blows.
We are ready. We are so ready for the family reunion.
That’s why we are where we are: at the border. Where summertime is really hot. We had to come here.
As we finish preparations, we look around at all the doors. So many doors. Locked doors. We can’t get in. Those locked doors are why we are here. They must be unlocked.
Then… bolts slide back. Some of the doors open. You and I can see them.
They are the mothers. Hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of mothers. They blink into the bright sunlight. Through their bleary eyes and their teary eyes, the silver gleams, the china sparkles, the white tablecloths are so white…they are confused.
More bolts slide back. More doors open.
They are the fathers. Hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of fathers. Walking out of the dark. And through their bleary eyes and their teary eyes, they look beyond all that shines, for the one they came here with. The one they walked so far with. The one they hoped and dreamed of having a safe life with.
The reunion has begun.
We want to watch, but it’s so intimate to watch the immense pain these dear ones have suffered in this (our) country. Frantically they search and slowly find the other half of their heart.
More bolts slide.  More doors open.
Oh…oh…they are the children. The older ones carry the babies out of their prison. Out of their cages. Hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of children. And through their bleary eyes and their teary eyes they see a world sparkling. Whitest white. Shiny silver. Flower perfume fills small noses. They look, they see…
And then the shouts! And then the screams!
For what mother does not know her own baby?
For what father does not know his own child?
We are unable to move as we watch through bleary eyes and teary eyes, the miracle of reunion.
We stand in awe as broken apart families search and search, and then finally find the ones who make them whole. They cling to one another. Their tears puddle on the floor.
After a very long time of seeking and finding, we slip our arms through theirs. We take their life-worn hands in ours and we all sit at the tables.
The tables which are set for a family reunion. Nothing has been spared. A holy meal begins. We pass platters and platters food.
(“This is my body, broken for you,” Jesus says.) No more brokenness.
We pass thirst-quenching cold drinks.
(“This is my blood, shed for you,” Jesus says.)No more bloodshed.
Silver clinks on china. It sounds like angels laughing.
The Holy Spirit breeze continues to blow. It blows through our brushed hair. Through our bright clothes. It blows through our souls and connects us to one another.
We are sitting with our sisters and our brothers. With all the precious little ones (who have suffered far too much) who are the sweetest part of this big, noisy, crying, laughing, reunited family. For we are all made in the image of God. Each and every one of us.
And we (you and I) are called to alleviate suffering. We must.
Then one of us (is it you?) stands up and says to the ones from behind the bolted doors:
Welcome home.
The work begins. The healing begins. Hope flickers. Love will win.
 Because family matters.

Cages

Cages.
Children wailing. Children screaming for their mamas and papas.
Children in cages. Little ones.
Very. Little. Ones.
Parents in anguish. Why? Because they have lost their children. They were holding their babies when someone ripped them away and hid them in cages. They were holding the hands of their children when someone grabbed them and took them to...somewhere.
“Anguish” is not a big enough word.
Human rights violations. Oh, yes.
Crimes against humanity. Definitely.
Such corrupt governments who do this to children are far away. Lands with toxic leaders who leave people powerless and afraid.
They are places where dictators don’t care who suffers. They are places where law enforcement has gone bad. Really bad.
Oh. Wait. I know the land…
“My country ‘tis of thee, sweet land of liberty…”
Liberty.
Lady Liberty “…her name Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand glows worldwide welcome… ‘Keep, ancient lands, your stories pomp!’ cries she with silent lips. ‘Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, the wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, the tempest-tossed to me. I lift my lamp beside the golden door!’”
I thought I knew this land.
I do not know this land.
Wretchedness has been unleashed on the Least of These. What we do to them, we do to Jesus Christ.
So, if you are part of the crowd who loves our dictator and believes these very little ones should be in cages away from their mamas, you are the ones who spit in the face of Jesus Christ.
Go ahead. Love your dictator and live in hate.
Don’t be foolish enough to call yourselves pro-life, for destruction of life is being sown every second these very little ones are locked in cages away from their fathers.
Don’t be foolish enough to call yourselves Christians. You do not have the right to wear his name so casually.
Where is Jesus today?
Sitting in cages with the little ones. The. Very. Little. Ones.
Because when it is done to the Least of These, it is done to him.

Where are the Children?

May 27,  2018   For the 1,500 missing immigrant children. For all immigrant children.


Where are the children?
Somewhere. I don’t know where. The children are somewhere crying.
Where are the infants?
Somewhere. I don’t know where. 

Ripped from their mother’s arms. Ripped from their mother’s breast. Last Supper.
Who is the person who can grab a terrified child and drag her away as she pleads for her father’s strong hands to rescue her?
Who is the person who can tear apart a family, a family who has already been through hell, and drive them to a darker horror?
Who is the person who gives a command from far away to destroy lives? Children’s lives? Mother’s lives? Father’s lives?
Where is he? The one who spouts fake everything? The one who lives for destruction? The one who hears an infant’s wail and laughs?
Somewhere. I don’t know where.
A golf course? Yes, that’s it. He’s playing golf. While children cry. While parents go out of their minds.
He’s playing golf.
While parents in Santa Fe, Texas bury their children who will never cry again. They’re dead.
Where are children who came to our border in the embrace of their parents, tired, hungry, and weary beyond belief?
Somewhere. I don’t know where. The children are somewhere crying.
It’s happened before. A self-important country with a self-important leader, demanding trainloads of families to be brought to camps. Children ripped out of mother’s and father’s arms. Infants ripped from their mother’s breast. Last Supper.
Concentration camps where death reigned, and evil was victorious.
For everyone in this country who is cheering the horrible self-important leader who has brought this to be today, I have some questions:
Have you ever held a newborn baby? Have you felt the tiny hand grasp your finger? Have you watched their eyes close in blissful sleep? Babies are babies. Toddlers are toddlers. Young ones are, well, young. Vulnerable. Innocent. Precious.
Does any human infant or child deserve to be tortured? No. Not black or brown or white infants or children deserve to be tortured. To be taken from their parents is the first round of torture visited upon them by us. By the United States. Because, apparently, our leaders and some of our citizens believe that death should reign, and evil should be victorious.
So, on this weekend, as we gather with our families and watch car races on TV, and play in pools, and fire up that grill for a Memorial Day celebration, let’s not forget that on our American soil, within this ghost of a country, families have been wrenched apart.
And somewhere they are crying.