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“Our notion of sacrifice is the wringing out of us something we don’t want to give up, full of pain and agony and distress. The Bible idea of sacrifice is that I give as a love-gift the very best thing that I have.”
“Pride, disdain for people you talk to, will shut your mouth quicker than anything. When you speak, see that behind your voice is the life of God.”
How many times has the Lover of My Soul stood waiting to speak, but I failed to hear Him because I was too consumed by who I should be, what I should be doing, and where I am failing?
“Martha, Martha,” the Lord answered, “you are worried and upset about many things, but only one thing is needed. Mary has chosen what is better, and it will not be taken away from her.” Luke 10:41-42
The sun has risen but the rest of the house is still sleeping, so I softly make my way to the front porch with a cup of tea. The fog has drifted far from the river this morning, admonishing all creation to tread quietly, but the birds will not be silenced as they sing their songs of praise to the Creator. A bright Cardinal flutters near; his less showy mate follows closely behind, and all is so still that I can hear the sound of their small wings beating the air.
Stony St. Francis stands at the foot of the steps, his bowl filled with water, not seed. He waits quietly, but no birds come. They are hungry, not thirsty, this cool morning. A gleaming drop of water clings to the point of his beard, and another to each hand, and tips of both sleeves.
Just above the good saint’s head, thousands of crystal beads trace every tiny branch of the still bare Japanese Maple, standing like soldiers waiting for battle, or birds on a wire huddled against the cold.
No one stirs in the house. No one walks their dog along the street, or shuffles sleepily to the end of the drive to retrieve the morning paper. Peace and the presence of The Almighty hang heavily in the air. This morning, this hour, the world all around is a sanctuary, and that is good…
Because I need to hear the voice of God.
I need to be reminded that He spoke a word and all I see came to be. I need to remember that he feeds the birds of the air, and knows when even the smallest one falls from its nest. I need to hear again that He loves me and that I am safe in the palm of His hand.
“When I consider your heavens, the work of your fingers, the moon and the stars, which you have ordained, what is man that your are mindful of him, and the son of man that you visit him?” Psalm 8:3 – 4
The sun is setting rapidly, and dinner is late, but I am too tired to take another step; so I sink down into the front porch swing with a cup of tea.
The tulip magnolia behind me is getting ahead of itself. Here and there velvety pods are swollen, and threatening to unfurl into magenta and cream colored blossoms. “Slow down!” I whisper to it, because I know that frigid days and nights will return.
Not tonight, though.
The cloudless sky is beautiful. The first star of the evening is a white hot point against deep blue that fades to white, and then orange at the horizon. The large oak, and pecan trees stretch their still bare limbs to heaven - sharp, black sillhouettes against the brilliance behind them.
For the thousandth time, I thank God for planting us in this beautiful, nurturing, peaceful place.
Suddenly, the stillness is broken by my girls. I watch them race along the sidewalk toward me, and then through the yard, legs pumping, braids streaming out behind them. Skin paled by the long winter, reflects the half light.
“Not for long…” I think.
Soon, the first long hot day will come, and they will burst inside sweaty and breathless from their play to reveal deep mocha hues-three shades darker in one afternoon.
I watch them run.
So strong. So beautiful.
From somewhere in the back yard is the sound of a bat making contact with a ball as Little Man hones his skills. He has talked his oldest sister into practicing with him. Patiently, she tosses the ball to him over and again, playing a sport she cares nothing about for a little brother she adores.
Inside the house, my oldest son, so quickly becoming a man, is absorbed in a poetry project for school. The sculpting and molding of words has captivated him, and he loses himself infinitely in the search for the perfect illustration for each author’s work of art.
The girls race by again. The sun sinks lower. I swirl the last sip of tea in my cup.
Life is sweet.
“The blessing of the Lord makes one rich, and He adds no sorrow with it.” Proverbs 10:22
This is one of the new articles I have written for the Metropolitan Nashville Homeless Commission. Some of you may remember that the Commission has given me the wonderful opportunity of interviewing some of the homeless to tell their stories.
LaShell is homeless, and although her descent into homelessness began several years ago, her circumstances reflect the crisis so many Americans are facing today – layoffs, consumer debt; and eviction and foreclosure.
Americans are finding it harder and harder to relegate the homeless to a character sketch that feels comfortable. We are finding as a nation that not all homeless are mentally ill, or addicted.
Some of them, like LaShell, look an awful lot like us.
The Face of the Homeless: LaShell Walks
LaShell hobbles through the streets of Nashville trying to find her way back to the life she lost. She leans heavily on her crutches in an attempt to ease the pain in her knee. All that remains of her once full life fits easily into the shopping bag on her back.
LaShell walks on as best she can, and as she walks, she prays. “I can’t take too much more of this, God. I’m tired. I’m hurting…”
There are so many steps before and behind as she moves like a shadow between businessmen wearing expensive suits and women tapping text messages into their cell phones with perfectly manicured nails. No one notices her. No one wants to hear what she has to say, but if they did, she knows just what she would tell them.
“Never overlook someone else, because you could be up today and down tomorrow. Never take what you have for granted. Be grateful for life, regardless of how hard it is.”
So far to go. So much time to think, remember, regret…
She doesn’t understand just how it could have happened. How could so much have changed in three short years? She had always, always worked. She had an apartment, a car, enough to eat, family, and friends. Then, a layoff slip and a few bad decisions, and bit by bit she fell so far that the way out seemed impossibly out of reach. First, she lost her apartment, and then her car. It did not take much longer to lose everything else.
Some nights, she sleeps at her daughter’s home; other nights she stays with one of her sisters, but she is a burden, it seems, to everyone she loves. So, most nights she lowers her weary body into a bed at the Women’s Mission.
But during the day, LaShell walks.
She shuffles through the streets of Nashville, trying to find her way back home.
By Sherri Gragg
