Fear no more.

When I was in my early twenties, I suffered from nightmares. The dreams were very vivid, very graphic and very specific. I would often have the same dreams.  The one that I seem to remember the most was about Jesus. I dreamed that I was the caretaker of his hands and feet. Severed hands and feet at that. I had carefully buried them in my backyard so that I would know where they were and no one else.

My nightmare started out with me walking to the back yard and gazing down at the big, black empty hole where I thought they were in safe keeping. I started crying and running around the neighborhood screaming, "Who took Jesus' feet and hands?"  "Where are they?"  "Who has them?" I would spend the rest of my dream crying and searching for his severed limbs believing that the devil had taken them.

 I knew there was much symbolism in that dream. I spent many days, weeks and months thinking about the true meaning of it and what it was that my subconscious was trying to tell me.  The horror of the dream and the fear ran deep.  This was one of many dreams where I felt great evil was at the center. And I was in constant fear. (Having watched "The Exorcist" didn't help any.)

It was my deep fear of the devil and the power that I thought he had over me or the power that I thought he wanted that haunted me the most.  I struggled with the meaning of it all until one day I woke up and made the revelation that he couldn't harm me, hurt me or control me if I didn't believe in him. If he didn't exist, he had no power over me.  As simple as that statement was, it was effective. The realization that I was giving him power through my beliefs changed everything for me at that point. I have had fellow Christians argue the point that I could not believe in one without believing in the other....a judgment I have never felt was theirs to make.

I don't live in fear and that liberation has made me more open, more loving and more accepting of people. 

I figure where there is love, there is God. And I'm good with that.

Bring back to America her heart

The end of a year and the beginning of a new one brings hope and inspiration for me. I usually spend the days after Christmas cleaning out drawers and closets. Well, maybe not every year but it is usually spent going through tall stacks of papers and magazines in an effort to start the new year with somewhat of a clean slate.

Today I am cleaning out one of my drawers that had not been sorted through for years. I carefully went through every scrap of paper and re read every old Christmas card, birthday card, keepsake notes and the like. I enjoyed finding some of the old cards and laughed while sorting through the written memories.

I found old newspaper clippings of mine, Rick's and Ben's. I found old poems, old drawings and old notes of ideas I had long forgot. I also found an old newspaper with a letter to the editor by Sister Helen PreJean. "What's become of compassion for the poor?" was the title. As I began to read the first few paragraphs, it seemed obvious to me that this had to be current. So much of what I read certainly reflected today's view of current conditions.

As I read the article, I realized that it followed Sister Prejean's observations of the Republican Convention held in New Orleans. Not that I remembered when that was, but it did become apparent that this was not as current as I thought. Then I became curious as to the date on the publication. I had to unfold the paper to see that it had been published in The Shreveport Journal in August of 1988. I gasped. It was hard for me to believe that the thoughts and concerns of this New Orleans activist stated nearly twenty five years ago still ring true today.

Sister Prejean writes: "Perhaps now that more of us in the middle class are feeling the crunch of economic policies that have not served us well (job lay-offs, two wage earners per family "to make ends meet",) we can feel more compassion for the poor and forge a new political will for social change in this country.

Somehow, in the swirl and rhetoric of the '80s we bought the package that the poor were to blame for our economic ills, that the so-called poor, most of them, were not poor at all but lazy, shiftless, crime-prone..."

It was Sister Prejeans next statement that rang true with me and it was then that I understood why I held on to this piece of paper.

"After working and living close to poor blacks these past seven years, I believe the heart of the problem of anger at the poor is that we Americans live isolated from each other. We cluster in our still highly segregated neighborhoods, churches and clubs with others who are 'one of us.' This isolation breeds stereotypes, flaming prejudices and fears. The direction for life and healing as a nation lies, I believe, down roads that helps us cross our own brand of Berlin walls, Gaza strips and black townships."

In 1988, when I tore this page from The Shreveport Journal and tucked it away, I had not yet started my own advocacy. The Children's Center was just a couple of years old and it's continued existence was in question mainly because I had made the decision that I wanted to be one of the first integrated programs in town. I would become one of the founders of Cultural Crossroads in 1992 and in 1999 I would accept the challenge of creating a cultural arts center in a black neighborhood.

It saddens me to think that we haven't moved any closer as a nation to understanding each other. Sister Prejean goes on to explain a program she was involved with called "Bridges." It allowed for young participants to live with the poor, to hear their stories, eat their food, play with their children, and attend their church. They came away humbled she said and shocked by the insanity and complexity of the human beings they had met. And the poor black residents also expressed shock that 'those young white folks care about us.'

Sister Prejean ended her long letter to the editor with a statement that I too believe.  "This cross-pollination of rich and poor, black and white, is the magic stuff written about in our civic books. It is, I believe, part of the magic that can bring back to America her heart."

I am definitely interested in cultivating a more compassionate community. I had always been taught 'when we elevate others, we elevate ourselves.'  As we all usher in the New Year, it is my hope and my prayer that we can be more compassionate and understanding, less judgmental and more eager to extend a helping hand to those in need. And in Prejean's words...' be a part of the magic that will bring back to America her heart!'

Happy New Year.

I ALMOST MET SANTA.

It was Christmas Eve. We were living in Okinawa at the time. I had just celebrated my fifth birthday a few days earlier.   My sister, Pam, was a year younger than me. My brother, Bill, was just a toddler and my baby sister, Terry, was just a few months old. 

My Dad had us all in the bedroom reading a story to us. I guess trying to get us into bed was a real challenge.  I heard my Mom yell from the living room, “Chris…Pam…hurry…it’s Santa Claus!”  We scrambled from the bedroom and ran out to the living room. My Mom was at the backdoor holding the screen door open while motioning for us to hurry.  My sister Pam had lost her sock and stopped to pick it up. I waited for her while hollering, “hurry Pam. Hurry.” 

We got to the other end of the living room where the Christmas tree was all lite up. I didn’t notice the presents. I was on a mission to see Santa Claus in person.   My Mom called for us to come to the back door.  “Santa was leaving,” she said.   We ran to the back door and looked up, searching the starlit sky for Santa’s sleigh and reindeer. “Oh, honey, I’m sorry. You just missed him,” she said  with great disappointment.  All I could think  about was If I hadn’t stopped to help my sister with her stupid sock, I would have seen Santa Claus.

We came back inside to see that Santa had left us so many presents under the tree.   Mom and Dad guided us back to bed with instructions that we could open them in the morning after a good night’s sleep. Well, who could sleep after that?  All I could think about was next time Santa came, I was leaving Pam behind.  She wasn’t going to slow me down every again.  I was going to see that big fat man in the red suit without her.  

My Christmases after that didn’t compare to that one. I always remembered the time that I almost got to see Santa in person.   It was an incredible memory and I carried the excitement of that close encounter with Santa with me for years after that.  

The Christmas Tree

Finding the ultimate Christmas tree was of particular interest to me one Christmas. I had decided that I would put my creative juices to work and create the ultimate Christmas tree experience.  Ben was probably 10 or so, if I remember right.

We live in the middle of the woods, so finding a tree wasn't going to be hard. I decided that I didn't want just any old tree. So, I cut down a small sweet gum tree.   I spray painted it white and strung white lights all over it. I wrapped it in white tool and carefully placed white snowflakes all over it. I set it up without any guidance or direction from anyone because I wanted to surprise Rick and Ben with this new and lovely white Christmas tree creation.

I had it all set up and lights turned on and ready for that 'ah ha'  moment when we would all gasp at it's loveliness.

Ben entered the room first and just looked at it and didn't say a word.  Rick entered the room and didn't notice it at all. And if you know anything about Rick, you know this was not uncommon.  So, I had to bring it to his attention.  "So, what do you think about our tree?" There was a long pause as Rick studied it. And then he said, "What the hell is that?"

My ego was deflated. "It's our Christmas tree. What do you think it is?" I said.

I can't write what he said at this point but needless to say, he didn't think much of it. I thought I had created a masterpiece and he thought it was the tackiest thing he had ever seen.

It was too close to Christmas to start over. So, we lived with our tacky Christmas tree and around the end of December, we added it to our outdoor fire pit. ....never to be seen or enjoyed again. 

We have laughed about that tree. While Rick and Ben may not have enjoyed the 'true beauty' of it, we have enjoyed the memory of it and our individual memories of it's beauty or lack thereof.

I guess it's true that beauty is in the eye of the beholder.  And I say I am the artist and what do they know! Ha! Ha! Ha!

Merry Christmas.