So, when do the meek inherit the earth?

With no moral authority, no ethics and no sense of decency, who gets to rule?

I've been doing a lot of soul searching lately to help me understand how we got to this point in America.  The division is wide and the arguments are loud. We've picked our teams and we believe we picked the one that is right or the one that is winning...leaving the other team in the dirt to fend for themselves.

I was flabbergasted to read about an evangelist's plea on social media for his followers to help provide the means for him to purchase a jet. Another jet. Another multi-million dollar jet so that he could spread the word nation-wide. And then right under that post was another one about homeless veterans. And I started to wonder 'how did we get here?'  How do we justify the begging for a jet against the begging for food ?

It reminded me of the outrage that was played out on social media during Hurricane Harvey when evangelist Joel Olsteen would not or could not open  his mega church for those in need. And thus the argument about his inability to open the church because of flooding issues escalated. So, I wondered again 'how did we get here?'  How do we justify the begging to support a mega church against the begging for shelter?

We are clearly lopsided. 'Men of God' are living in luxury while their flocks are living in the streets. Men of God are flying jets while their flocks struggle to pay rent. This is certainly not meant to pigeon hole all those who preach the word of God.  There are some who understand what the title  means and the responsibility that comes with it.  Judgment on that is certainly not mine. But I can't help but wonder what the true intent is for those who have lined their pockets, purchased their multi-million dollar jets and live comfortably in their multi-million dollar mansions while the homeless in our country escalate and families struggle to feed their children. And they continue to beg for more.

And our lawmakers are no better.

So, I ask again. With no moral authority, no ethics and no sense of decency, who gets to rule?
Greed is all I could come up with.  And when greed rules, we all lose.

So, then who are the meek who get to inherit the Earth? I am guessing it will be the tribes who understand that their lives are intertwined. Those who understand that their dependence on each other sustains them. It's the indigenous tribes that come to mind. They are not wrapped in fortunes or the pursuit of wealth. They are not raping Mother Earth for she sustains them. God bless them.

Maybe there is hope for mankind.

Searching for My heart's Desire

Searching for heart's desire while feeding my soul.....That journey has led me down many roads. If you've read any of my other blogs,  you are familiar with some of those experiences.

There's one experience I haven't written about and it's probably the one that had the most profound affect on me.  It seems easier for some people to recognize "Christians" these days as the ones who attend church regularly.  And some quickly decide that if a person does not attend church, they must not be a Christians or that they do not believe in God.

I stopped going to church a long time ago. We are so private with our lives that maybe most people didn't notice. But everyone now and then, and probably more often then usual, I would get the most often asked question. "What church do you go to?"  I would answer that I was a member of First Methodist and that would satisfy them.  And that was true.  I was a member of First Methodist. Just not a good member.

Several years ago I was fortunate enough to be asked by the First Methodist Church to assist with a special summer camp for kids. Under the direction of the church's Minister of Music, I would assist with the artistic part of this camp. Offering up art lessons to campers centered around the selected Christian musical theme, I became part of a team of teachers hired to instruct the children.  The camps were quite successful. And I brought my love of the arts and my love of teaching to children, whom I also loved.

In the Methodist circuit, ministers are often moved around from church to church. In the years that I taught the summer art camps at First Methodist, there were several ministers who would open the summer art camp with prayer and invitation.  After several summers as the art instructor for their annual summer art camps, the minister, whom I had become quite close to and quite fond of, recognized by surprise that I was a member of his church. While he never made me feel guilty of being an absentee member, he also never approached me about why I didn't attend church anymore.

It was at the end of one of productions that he offered up his usual prayer and public offering for anyone to join the church for their Sunday services. I had heard that offering on many occasions but this particular one stuck with me.

I felt guilty.

I waited until he was alone in his office and asked him if I could speak with him privately. And of course, like always, he was so gracious and loving and made me feel like he was there just for me. When I sat down on the other side of his desk, I noticed on the wall behind him was a collection of abstract art that he had created. I had come to know that he, too, was an artist. Alongside his beautiful collection of painted canvases was a framed black and white photograph of the Beatles. I guess just seeing the art and the black and white photograph of the Beatles, I immediately felt  'at home.'

Now time to confess.

As I shared with him how much I loved what I was doing for the church during the camp, I had to confess that I was not a church goer. And I didn't want him to think that my lack of participation in the Sunday worship services was any indication of how I felt about him or God

.  I was surprised how quickly he interjected that I should not feel guilty. And it would be the next statement that he made to me that put my spirit at ease and filled my heart.

I will paraphrase what he said because his exact words were much more beautiful and eloquent than I could recount. But I got the message.

'There are many people who come to church because they need to feed their spirits. And some people have learned to feed their own.  And you are one of those.   So, don't you feel guilty. You are blessed. But please know that you are welcomed here at any time as the NEED arises.'  

I did attend church the next Sunday out of respect for this beloved minister.  And I am guessing it was my way of saying thank you.

I know that many people might not agree or understand his message to me. But I felt that he knew my heart and he spoke to my soul.

I still search for my heart's desire and
feed my soul daily in my own church,
on a hill in the woods.

Love lives there.
God lives there.
And I'm good with that.

A man named "Toothpick."

The day I met Toothpick, aka LaCharleston White was more than memorable.  Toothpick came to The Farm several years ago looking for a job.  I can remember him saying, “I can do anything you need me to do and all I need is $50 a week. I will work hard for you.”   

I wish I could remember how he got the nickname “Toothpick.”  I can only imagine he was a tall, skinny little kid growing up in Minden.

Well, I hired Toothpick and he did do anything I needed. Not that he knew how to do anything I needed but I came to learn that he would ‘try’ and try with all of his heart and being.  I came to love Toothpick. I loved his optimism.  Toothpick grew up in Minden and graduated from high school. Trapped in a city with few opportunities for young black males to succeed, I quickly saw how his life became one of simply trying to survive.

Toothpick was in and out of my life as I spent my days volunteering at the Farm in Minden.  The Farm is a four-acre tract of land located in a black neighborhood that was donated to a nonprofit I co- founded some 25 years ago. 

 The Moess Center for the Arts & City Farm was fondly known simply as 'The Farm.' The land was originally owned by the Camp family and was donated to Cultural Crossroads in 2000 by Zenobia West. 

This four-acre piece of heaven would become home to the parish’s largest arts festival for children.  It would also become the place for many summer events aimed at children. And Toothpick would often come even when not assigned to, just to help me out.

 Toothpick fell in love with the Farm just as I had. He spent many of his days there with me working side by side, planting and caring for the gardens. He spent many days on his own time picking up the trash along the highway that led up to the Farm. You could tell he found great pride in that.

One morning, early on in our work relationship, I arrived unexpectedly early to the Farm. I opened the gate and walked in to see Toothpick coming out of the public restrooms with a handful of quilts. I found it odd and asked what he was doing here this early and what was he doing with those quilts in the bathroom.  The discovery that he was homeless and that he was sleeping the men’s bathroom brought me to tears.  That shocking revelation embarrassed me. I should have recognized before now that he had no home to go to. He would walk to work every day and I just assumed he walked home. I quickly caught up to speed on his personal life and together we worked on finding him a place to live.  His encounters with the law had alienated him from most of his family. And maybe it should have alienated me. But I found something honest and real about him. And I think he found that in me, too. 

Toothpick did have a drug problem. And without judgement, I tried to talk to him about it only to discover that many of the encounters he had with the police were intentional. His life of living on the streets had brought him to a point of despair when the only relief was three meals a day and a cot…in jail. I never had to bail him out. He wouldn’t let me do that.  He would spend his time and a few months later and sometimes a year later, I would see him walk up to the Farm and offer his help to me once again.

In the more than a decade that I came to know and love this man, I saw him in and out of jail several times. I saw him struggle for a meal or a place to lay his head at night. And I saw him struggle for acceptance. I think he found it with me. And I think he realized that I loved him unconditionally and I believe he loved me.

Getting close to someone who struggles daily to make ends meet was difficult at times. Toothpick had been married and had children.  He had since been divorced, I think. I say that because I tried hard not to judge him nor to nosey in on his personal life too much. So much of what I learned about him came from observing him and those who were also a part of his life at any given time and would venture up to the Farm while we were both working.  His estranged wife would come back into his life later and he eventually ended up living with his ex-wife and their daughter.

The last time I saw Toothpick was at my retirement party this past December. The organization that I founded generously offered up a retirement party for me as I decided to step out of public life as a community organizer/volunteer/administrator for Cultural Crossroads. It would be the first big event that I had no part of except to simply walk in, sit down and enjoy. 

Toothpick was there. He had heard about the party and came to help. With garbage bag in hand, he stepped right in where he had left off and took the job of making sure that there was no trash on the grounds. I cried when I saw him. I couldn’t help but wonder what he was doing now.  How was he taking care of himself?   I asked him how he was doing, he answered, “great.”  He would always say ‘great,’ even when I knew it to be a lie.

I have so much respect for him. I admire his perseverance. I admire his optimism. I admire his willingness to do anything for you, no matter how small or insignificant…. because he didn’t see any of it as insignificant. I do love Toothpick.  And because I love him, I worry about him. I can still remember the day I told him that I loved him and I worried about him.   “Don’t worry about me, Miss Chris.  I will make it.”

And ya know…he’s right…he will make it. He has made it. He is a survivor. I just wish with all my heart that life had dealt him a better hand because he deserved it.

I saw his heart and it was good.