Chris Loehmer Kincaid's Blog, page 168

So, what can we do?

All they asked was that we should continue to remember the poor, the very thing I had been eager to do all along. Galatians 2:10 New International Version
When I signed up for that fateful mission trip to Kenya in 2006, this verse popped up somewhere along the line. It surely stuck with me, even as I wondered at times if I was really helping the poor at all. Was I even helping my team mates? Or myself?
I witnessed so much sorrow, so much poverty in Africa. It seemed so overwhelming and what we did seemed like so little. Yet sometimes that’s what counts. A hand held. A smile shared. Just to know that someone cares.
Sometimes the only thing we can do for those living in poverty is to remember them. To pray for them. To ask that God’s will be done in their lives.   Kari and her Compassion child at the Compassion center in Nairobi.   Jen and her Compassion child planting an avocado tree to commemorate our visit, at the Compassion center at Ewuaso Kdong.  Michelle's Compassion child inside his home. Michelle receives a gift from her Compassion child's father. 

I really don't want to whine.

Today, upon a bus, I saw a girl with golden hair.I envied her, she seemed so gay, and wished I was as fair.When suddenly she rose to leave, I saw her hobbled down the aisle.She had one leg and wore a crutch. And as she passed... a smile.
Oh God, forgive me when I whine.I have two legs, the world is mine
I stopped to buy some candy. The lad who sold it had such charm.I talked with him, he seemed so glad. If I were late, it'd do no harm.And as I left, he said to me, "I thank you, you've been so kind.It's nice to talk with folks like you. You see," he said, "I'm blind."
Oh God, forgive me when I whine.I have two eyes, the world is mine.
Later while walking down the street,I saw a child with eyes of blue.He stood and watched the others play.He did not know what to do.I stopped a moment and then I said,"Why don't you join the others, dear?"He looked ahead without a word. And then I knew,he couldn't hear.
Oh God, forgive me when I whine.I have two ears, the world is mine.With feet to take me where I'd go.With eyes to see the sunset's glow.With ears to hear what I'd know.
Oh God, forgive me when I whine.I've been blessed indeed, the world is mine........
I’ve had this poem, handwritten on a piece of yellow paper, for as long as I can remember. An internet search came up with some controversy as to who wrote it. Most sources said that the author is unknown, but several sites credited Red Foley, a country singer from the forties and fifties. I would like to give proper credit, but all I can tell you for sure is that this poem is pretty old, I’ll bet even older than me.
The last week or so, I’ve fallen into the state of “feeling sorry for myself”. I know that we have all been there. I hate that feeling. Working in the medical field, not a single day doesn’t go by that I don’t look at a patient and think to myself, “I am so glad that I’m not you.” I wish I could tell you their stories, but basically, it doesn’t take much to look around and see someone who is having a worse day than I am. So why is it still so easy to whine when things in my own life aren’t going the way I wanted? Lord, please forgive me. 

The Chicago Years

(Last week, in honor of my dad's birthday this month, I started sharing some of his life story. Click here to see what you missed in the first installment.)
When my dad’s family emigrated from Germany to the United States in the 1920s, they settled in a suburb of Chicago, Illinois.
My dad started selling newspapers on street corners, for three cents apiece, keeping one cent from each paper he sold. It would have seemed like a small fortune. He dropped out of school, after graduating from eighth grade; it was more important at that time to work. It didn’t mean however that it was the end of his education. My dad read everything he could get his hands on and never quit learning.
When the Great Depression descended on America, my dad’s family managed just fine. They had lived through bad times in Germany.
My dad and both of his brothers got jobs at a golf course. With some families having no members employed at all, the brothers didn’t want everyone to know they were all from one family. Frank, being the youngest, started going by his stepfather’s last name. I don’t know how that officially happened at the time, but that became his permanent name, the legal name of his kids and grandkids.
In June of 1934, my dad’s older brother married and moved to the area known as Lincoln Park, Illinois. On the hot evening of July 24, John Dillenger, public enemy number one at the time, was coming out of the Biograph Theatre on Lincoln Avenue in the Lincoln Park neighborhood. He had been set up by a prostitute, and agents of the Division of Investigation, the precursor to the FBI, were waiting for him. Five shots were fired, three of them hitting Dillenger.
People from all around the neighborhood hurried to the scene, and even after the body had been removed, taken to the Alexian Brothers Hospital, gawkers continued to arrive. It was reported that some even dipped their clothing in the puddle of blood on the sidewalk as a souvenir of the famous criminal. My father, nineteen years old at the time, was one of the visitors to the scene, running to the Biograph Theatre as soon as word got out of what had happened. There was no report, though, that he took any souvenir.
Quite the claim to fame, huh? 


(This is the oldest picture I have of my dad. It is July 1945 and he is 30 years old, on his wedding day. I cut my mom out of the picture because she would kill me if I put it on the internet, even though she was a beautiful bride.)

Where does your help come from?

 1 I lift up my eyes to the mountains—    where does my help come from? 2 My help comes from the LORD, Flying over the Andes Mountains in Peru.    the Maker of heaven and earth.
 3 He will not let your foot slip—    he who watches over you will not slumber; 4 indeed, he who watches over Israel    will neither slumber nor sleep.
 5 The LORD watches over you—    the LORD is your shade at your right hand; 6 the sun will not harm you by day,    nor the moon by night.
 7 The LORD will keep you from all harm—    he will watch over your life; 8 the LORD will watch over your coming and going    both now and forevermore. Psalm 121 (NIV)
I took this picture out of the plane window as I was flying from Lima, Peru, into Ayacucho where I volunteered for a week back in 2009. Just like my trip to Africa three years before, there were many times when God had my back on this trip as well. It's a good thing that He always has my back. I surely do need Someone watching over me, keeping me from harm 24/7. 

When is it time to quit?

"If at first you don't succeed, try, try again. Then quit. There's no point in being a damn fool about it." W.C. Fields
Knowing the nature of Mr. Fields, he may have meant this saying exactly as it came out. I, however, would like to think it really means that if it doesn’t work the first couple of times, maybe you should do it differently, or maybe it just really can’t be done, by you or anyone else.
Sometimes it is ok to admit defeat. The important thing is to move on at that point.Or maybe it’s more like another saying. “Insanity: doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.” Albert Einstein

 Just like Cheshire. Maybe it is warm in the electric water bowl, but are you really comfortable crammed in there?

The Early Years

Ninety-eight years ago on the 20th of this month, my dad was born near Cologne, Germany. Thinking back on what his life must have been like, I deeply regret not gleaning more information from him. As it is, over the years, I have pieced together a few stories from that past.
He was the second youngest of six children born to Paul and Emma Loehmer. Hannah was the oldest and I have found absolutely no information on her. When the rest of the family moved to America in 1923 and 1924, she stayed behind. I know, I need to set up that Ancestry.com account and find her, huh?
The next oldest was Frederick, known as Fritz, born in 1908. The remaining siblings were Emmy, born in 1912; Klara, born in 1914; my dad and finally Franz, born in 1918.  
The only memory my dad shared with me about life in Germany was that he learned to swim when his father threw him into the river.  It was either sink or swim, so he picked up a noble dogpaddle and was able to get himself to the shore. 
I think he spoke very little about life in Germany because it had been so very hard. It’s one of those things they don’t talk about much in the history books. When Germany lost World War I, the victors imposed such stiff retributions on the country, that it seemed the country would never bounce back. Do you remember how well that worked? The poor and destitute population of Germany turned to an up and coming individual who promised to return the country to its former glory. It was so easy to be drawn into his promises, easy to be mesmerized by his oratory style. And just as this man - it doesn’t even seem right to call him a “man” he was so evil – began his rise to power, my dad and his family were packing up to come to America. How different my life would have been had they not left Germany when they did, or more likely I wouldn’t have been born.
(I just couldn't come up with a picture for tonight. There are very few pictures of my dad from back in these days, but this blog post willl shed more light on his early life.) 

Still not fighting

“Stop fighting a fight, it’s already been won.” From “I am redeemed” by Big Daddy Weave
On Thursday’s blog, I used this verse from a secular perspective. Now that it is Sunday, let me finish that thought.
As a Christian, the reason I don’t have to keep fighting, the reason the battle is over and has been won, is because Jesus has fought it for me. I can let go of my worries, my fears and most importantly my sins because I know that they are taken care of. He has paid my ransom, paid all my fines, cleared my balance. Oh sure there will be days, days that I struggle, days when people will do me wrong, days when I want to crawl back in bed and not deal with life. But all I have to do is remember that I can turn all these problems over to my Savior. He has taken care of it before it even happened.
“The Lord will fight for you and you shall hold your peace.” Exodus 14:14 NKJV

What are you fighting?

“Stop fighting a fight, it’s already been won.” From “I am redeemed” by Big Daddy Weave
I’ve heard this song on the Christian radio station hundreds of times, but never listened to the words. The other night, driving home from work, these words really caught my attention.
Whether you’re a Christian or not, don’t you ever feel like you are fighting something that really isn’t worth it, or it’s not even your battle, or it’s over and done with and you still are hanging onto it? Maybe someone unintentionally hurt your feelings years ago and you still remember it, you still hold a grudge against that person. Or maybe you didn’t get the job you felt you were so qualified for. Or maybe your spouse has been cheating on you and your heart just feels so filled with hatred that you can’t see straight.
There are a hundred different scenarios and we have each had one whittling away at us. And where has that gotten us?
Whatever you are keeping inside of you, whatever is eating at you, let it go. Stop fighting something that may or may not even be there.  The battle is over and done with.  

Who do you remember? And who do you miss?

Looking back, there have been so many people who have come and gone in my life. Starting with my grandpas who both died before I was born.  I was only two and a half when my mom’s mom died, so I don’t remember her either. The only pictures in my head of my mom’s parents are from the old home movies which Dad took at every holiday through the fifties and sixties.
Even though I was old enough that I should have some memory of her, I really don’t remember much of my dad’s mom. Again, I mostly see her in the grainy home movies, her hand to her face, trying to hide from the camera. She had been born in Germany in 1888 and had traveled to this country alone with her four youngest children. She buried her first husband in 1929 and her second one in 1934. It makes me very sad to think that there is no one alive who can tell me about either of these men. I haven’t gleaned much about them from the internet, but when I have time, I will hunt some more.  
Grandma had a hard life, there is no denying that. She was a tough old kraut though, and it sounds like she could be bullheaded and ornery. My mom still has her passport from when she immigrated to the United States in 1924. I gotta tell you, I resemble that picture an awful lot. I think I inherited more than just my looks from her.  Grandma in 1955.

Let's see your before and after.

                       
For the month of January, a blogger friend of mine is evaluating a different Pinterest idea each day. Her topics have ranged from doing crafts to cooking to how-to's. One of her posts was about the before and after pictures that you see of the stars in the tabloids. Do the stars really look that bad without their makeup on? And how do we - the nobodies - look with and without our makeup.

This is a tough one for me, but I accepted the challenge.




Personally, I don't think I know how to put on makeup. But in general, I think that the women in the before and after pictures (myself included) look older with their makeup on. What do you think and are you up to this challenge?

Thanks Michelle for the idea.