Psalm 144

I wanted to take a little time to day to reflect on the person who wrote Psalm 144.  It is said to be written by David--not all the psalms are, of course, and it speaks to me in ways that other psalms do not.

Praise be to the Lord my Rock,
    who trains my hands for war,
    my fingers for battle.
² He is my loving God and my fortress,
    my stronghold and my deliverer,
my shield, in whom I take refuge,
    who subdues peoples^[a] under me.

David the poet--those fingers that strummed a lyre and fashioned poetry for his God also slew those that were against him.  He was equally secure praising his God in song and complaining about his slowness to come and deliver him.  He was aware of God's goodness and strength, and he was equally aware that God had equipped him, too, to be a power in His name.

³ Lord, what are human beings that you care for them,
    mere mortals that you think of them?
⁴ They are like a breath;
    their days are like a fleeting shadow.

What beautiful words.  This psalm is made by a true poet.  He goes from glorifying God for subduing people under him to musing about the nature of man.  They are like a breath--their days are like a fleeting shadow.  How true--David himself is now a song.  His legacy to us is his love of God and his honesty before the Lord.

⁵ Part your heavens, Lord, and come down;
    touch the mountains, so that they smoke.
⁶ Send forth lightning and scatter the enemy;
    shoot your arrows and rout them.
⁷ Reach down your hand from on high;
    deliver me and rescue me
from the mighty waters,
    from the hands of foreigners
⁸ whose mouths are full of lies,
    whose right hands are deceitful.

From observation to reflection to petition.  And what a petition!  Smite those that persecute me!  Who among us would have the brazenness to pray like this?  Those people who threatened him--they had families and cattle and land, too.  But they were full of deceit and lies, and therefore David felt justified in asking for their extermination.

⁹ I will sing a new song to you, my God;
    on the ten-stringed lyre I will make music to you,
¹⁰ to the One who gives victory to kings,
    who delivers his servant David.

Is this a bribe?  If you rescue me, I will give you more music?  I don't think so.  Instead, I think that David is asserting that his victory is a foregone conclusion.  If he is a man after God's own heart, how could anyone stand against him?

I especially like the last two lines--the one who gives victory to kings/who delivers his servant David.  Even as a king, David acknowledges his servanthood.

From the deadly sword ¹¹ deliver me;
    rescue me from the hands of foreigners
whose mouths are full of lies,
    whose right hands are deceitful

Is he all alone in this?  Who is with him to fight?  He seems self-absorbed, and yet, really, isn't that how we should all be?  God tells us to come to him with all our hurts and our needs, and this is exactly what David is doing.

12. Then our sons in their youth

 will be like well-nurtured plants,

and our daughters will be like pillars

carved to adorn a palace.

13. Our barns will be filled

 with every kind of provision.

Our sheep will increase by thousands,

by tens of thousands in our fields;

14. our oxen will draw heavy loads.^[b]

There will be no breaching of walls,

no going into captivity,

 no cry of distress in our streets.

Their sons and daughters (now we have the our) are dependent on David in a very real way.  Kingdoms fell or grew strong in the strength of their king.  He knew exactly what he was talking about.  Victors had confidence, peace, freedom--and food.

15. Blessed is the people of whom this is true;

blessed is the people whose God is the Lord.

David leads the sons of Israel into battle.  He leads the Chosen, the people that God pulled out of Egypt, led to the Promised Land, and saved from danger again and again and again.  And all we who believe are adopted into this same wonderful family.  Blessed is the people whose God is the Lord!  Maranatha, Lord Jesus! Come and take your people home! Amen!

on being happy: Mr. Kanamori

How was your home room?  Did you spend your days hearing announcements and then sleeping on your desk?  Did you dread the start to your day?  Did you even sleep in so that you could miss it?

Mr. Kanamori's class would never do such a thing.  They are a 4th-grade homeroom in Japan, and Mr. Kanamori has helped them set a goal for themselves:  to be happy.

To be happy?  Seems like a useless goal, doesn't it?  But this incredible teacher has thought of a way to bring meaning and understanding to this goal.  To be happy, they must share with others.  Only in revealing themselves can they help others understand that they are not alone.  Once they understand that they are not alone, the children let go of barriers that have stood for years, and the entire class grows in understanding, empathy, and love.

In the video that I saw, Mr. Kanamori's class writes notebook journals.  These journals are designed to be read tot the class.  In it, the students tell their stories, and the other students then write responses.  The responses pave the way for empathy, as well as give other students the ability to tell their own stories, bringing about the ability to heal.

One boy had been gone for several days.  His grandmother had died, and he wrote the class about the experience.  He wrote about it all, from the grandmother lying in bed upstairs to the family going on a bus to the crematorium to witness the grandmother's cremation.  Afterwards, many other students shared their sympathy; some also shared their own stories.  The children were not afraid to cry about their own experiences, and they also shed tears for the experiences of others.  One little boy had lost his grandfather recently; the tears were still fresh.

Then a little girl stood up.  She had lost her father when she was three, and she had never discussed his death with anyone.  She was afraid that she was the only one to have gone through this and thought that nobody would understand.  When her classmates shared their experiences, she realized for the first time that she was not alone and that it was safe to express her grief.  

A few days later, this same little girl brought a well-loved drawing to class. It had hung in her room since she was a tiny girl.  It was a drawing that her father, an engineer, had made of a machine that was going to be in a parade.  He died before it was completed, and even though the machine appeared, her mother was too afraid to see it.  For the first time, the little girl shared her treasure with her friends and smiled as she spoke of her father.  She was happy.

Happiness is a choice.  It is something that is given away.  It comes with sharing, and it usually comes when two or more are together.  I think that it's hard to be happy without sharing.  

Val, the older I get, the more I understand your wish.  I hope you are happy now--I'm pretty sure you are, since you're surrounded with God and his saints.  I know you made us happy.  I'm going to do my best to make others happy, too.

For a link to the video, press here:  .http://www.wimp.com/homeroomteacher/

The church--a cautionary tale

Once upon a time there was a tiny little church. It was old and had obviously seen better days, as had the neighborhood. Not many people could get in at once-surely no more than 20 or so.  The pastor was poor but honest, and his flock loved him.  They were a motley assortment at best, but they all loved him.

Dwayne was one of the sheep, and he was the most vocal.  He was old, loud, dirty, and proud of his evil past.  He had come to the church years ago, and the pastor's easy manner and friendly disposition had persuaded him that it might be worth staying here.  He found that the church was inviting--it didn't make fun of him or laugh at him.  It didn't turn up its nose when he walked past--figuratively or literally.  He was treated as a cherished brother, and Dwayne liked that.  In fact, he started listening to the pastor's sermons (more homilies than sermons, really), and he found himself wanting to be a friend of the man that Pastor talked about.

Beauty was Dwayne's wife.  She had been a streetwalker--she preferred that to tramp--but Dwayne had found her after he found the church.  He took her to service, and she found welcome and acceptance there, just as Dwayne had.  She wasn't made to feel ashamed, but she came to desire escape from her former life.  Dwayne helped her leave the life, and the two of them had been helping others leave ever since.  They didn't all care about the church or its God, but they were all grateful for the freedom that they had found, and they all were free to accept prayers--and even to ask for them.  Dwayne and Beauty (whose real name, Betsy, was not nearly as pretty, in her opinion) felt sure that one day they would come to love the church, its pastor, and their God every bit as much as they did.

There were others, too.  Sid was a drugged-out teen who had come to the church one night begging for a handout.  Instead, he had been given a ride to a drive-in, a warm meal, and a place to sleep in the church's basement.  Sid was offered help to kick his habit, and even though the help hadn't worked (yet), the sheep had high hopes.  Deep in his heart, so did Sid.  And like many others, Sid was attracted to the church and its God, if not yet convinced.  Marianne and her partner Lianne were lesbians who came when Lianne found out that her mother had terminal cancer.  Even though her parents refused to acknowledge their lifestyle, Lianne was worried and hurting. The church took both of them to its heart, and Lianne and Marianne were soon part of a prayer group.  Some people were comfortable with the thought of gay people at church, others were confused, and still others were sure that the lifestyle was wrong, but none of them felt that dealing with that was as important as praying for a mother who was dying.  They finally came to the conclusion that "Judge not lest you also be judged" was in the Bible for a reason.  Others were just normal folk, mostly poor--like the neighborhood--but good people who loved God, loved the pastor, and loved the church.

One day a real estate developer came to town.  He had been looking over the neighborhood, and he'd decided that the houses were too old and unsightly to be of any use to him.  Some people rented--the landlords were happy to be rid of the nuisance.  Others were happy to have a few dollars in their pocket and another house in a different part of town.  They sold right away, at a profit.  Some members of the church were in this crowd--they felt that God was blessing the neighborhood by bringing in new blood and giving others a chance to leave.  The pastor wasn't so sure.

Soon, the neighborhood was quite different.  The old houses were destroyed and new and fashionable condominiums took their place.  The old neighbors were unable to afford to buy the sweet condos and soon left.  The neighbors that stayed were happy, at least for a time.  New neighbors came, too.  They were different than the old ones, much different.  They came into the little church and had a talk with the pastor.  "We don't feel that the church paints the proper picture for this new community," they said. "We are willing to pay for an upgrade.  You will have the most beautiful church in the city!"  Once again, the pastor wasn't sure it was a good idea, but he didn't really have a voice in the decision. The vestry voted 12-0 to gratefully accept the new neighbor's building contribution, and the most wealthy and influential neighbor, Solomon, was voted into the vestry immediately.  Nobody seemed to care that the number became 13.

Well, the little old church was torn down and a beautiful new building took its place.  It drew the new neighbors to it like flies to garbage.  The new neighbors were very aware of their social standing.  They looked around at the original parishioners and did not like what they saw.  They soon decided to take steps.

The first sacrificial lamb was Beauty.  Edith, an accountant with a businessman husband and a high opinion of her life, came to her and hinted that she was a little--well--loud.  Beauty, at first, took it in stride.  She giggled and said, "I guess so.  I'm not the mani-pedi and salon dye type.  But at our church, you take us as we are.  But the problem was that there were not that many original church members left.  Edith and her friends made it a point to ignore Edith and her friends and keep her out of the loop.  The pastor spoke to her about her attitude, but Edith pointedly mentioned that a pastor's salary is maintained by his parishioners, and he might want to keep his mouth shut.  The pastor wasn't intimidated, but he was at a loss.  He went to the chapel and began to devote time to prayer, seeking an answer to this question.

The answer came almost immediately.  Solomon informed the pastor that he was not a good fit for the new church and its new congregation.  They preferred "congregation" to "sheep".  He was given a month's severance pay and told to find another church.

Soon after, Ed, a buff retired fireman who enjoyed positions of power, took both Dwayne and Sid in hand.  Dwayne was told that the church would no longer support his going out and finding "those women".  Dwayne got belligerent and profane, which Ed had secretly hoped would happen.  He said that the vestry had assured him that they would not tolerate people who took the Lord's name in vain (let alone some of the other things he had said).  He was kicked out of church on the spot.  Sid was even easier.  He came to church one day looking for the pastor.  He had fallen off the wagon and needed help.  He hadn't been around for awhile and knew nothing about the recent changes.  Ed greeted him at the door with a big smile and hearty handshake.  He then called 911 and told the police that there was a person in possession of illegal drugs at the church.  The police soon showed up and escorted Sid off the premises.  The poor kid was over 18, so he was given jail time.  He blamed the whole thing on God, not Ed, and vowed never to set foot in another church.

Lianne and Marianne were next.  The vestry invited them to their next meeting.  They told them that the church had decided that it would not condone homosexuality inside its walls.  The two were told that they must publicly acknowledge that they were deep in sin and promise never to practice homosexuality ever again.  The alternative was to leave the church at once.  Lianne asked, "Will you still at least keep my mother in your prayers?"  "She isn't gay, too, is she?" Edith said with a sneer.  The two women turned away without another word.

It has been seven years, and First Church of Suburbia is doing very well, thank you.  There are prayer services, women's brunches, children's camp, choir and praise team, and many other services and ministries available for the discerning church goer.  If you hadn't known the church before, you might not notice the spiritual emptiness hanging like cobwebs from every window and door.

You might ask, "What about the pastor and his sheep?"  Not all have returned.  Many neighbors moved and were lost to him, but some sought him out.  He found a space in a small gym and has services there on Sundays and is saving his pennies so that he can one day move to a real church.  He is thankful for every day, and sorry that his flock had to go through such trials.  He visits Sid in prison, and Sid has asked to be baptized.  Lianne and Marianne found the church as well, and so did Dwayne and his wife.  They are active and happy, if not as naive as they once were.  They believe that God is in control and that everything happens for a reason. They admit that they can't understand why this happened, but they aren't too worried.  They're too busy living for God and rejoicing in his name.

On the steps

Walking up the steps that the great man never climbed.
Stopping for a moment to look upward at the Greek temple--
Would he have been impressed
Or would he have guffawed at the thought
The boy from Illinois
The homespun hero
Enshrined like a king
Like a god
In a temple of white marble.

He sits sedately
Hair and suit ruffled.
Sitting, he seems less imposing somehow.
A benignly beaming god looking amiably down
At those who make history below him.

What does he think as he gazes across the open space--
Reflecting pool, Washington Monument, Capitol Building in the distance?
Does he remember the great moments?
Does he see Martin Luther King in memory?
Does he hear the throb of the crowd,
Cheering on the man of peace
Hoping for latter-day freedom?

Do you remember Mr. King, Sir?
Did you cheer him on in his cry for equality?
And did it surprise you
That even after 100 years,
It still had not come?

As I look into your eyes
The eyes that searched for freedom
It seems that you see something far away
Something longed for but not yet realized

We are still struggling, Sir.
Sometimes it feels that we are treading water
Just barely
Water as murky as the black reflecting pool.

But then, the pool is black
To better reflect.

So maybe today
In the darkness of political rivalry
and bitter feuds between the left and the right
and the disrespect that permeates our society
We can stop and look

See your reflection,

Remember your struggle

And maybe that can help us go a day further

So that we can continue in the cause.

For we share this cause,
Not only you,
But John and Martin and so many others
Known and unknown.

We reflect your hope
As we take up your cause
And we hope that we have it in us to say,
As you did

With malice toward none, with charity for all, with firmness in the right as God gives us to see the right,  let us strive on to finish the work we are in, to bind up the nation's wounds, to care for him who shall have borne the battle and for his widow and his orphan, to do all which may achieve and cherish a just and lasting peace among ourselves and with all nations.

4

on sharing grief

My sister lost her best friend today.  Her name was Esther Peterson.  I'm not sure when she and my sister got to know each other, but I'm sure that  they were friends when they were living on Pioneer Drive in Bakersfield, CA, as teens.  I know that they went to school together, and miraculously, they didn't lose touch when my sister moved with my family, first to another house in Bakersfield and then to Taft.  I imagine that they were in each others' weddings, though I'm not sure of that, either.  Esther married a great guy named Ken Coleman.  I don't know much about the years in between, but I know that they eventually moved to Glendale, CA, (I think) and bought a beautiful two-story house.

You might wonder why my story is so spotty.  I am 17 years younger than Charnell, so I know only what I was told.  Esther was so close that the story was just understood, for the most part.  I'm sure my brother was old enough to remember the gist, but not me.  I have my own memories, but they are much later.  Esther came into my life when my sister suggested that we live with them while we were with our son, Tommy, during his eleven days of life.  I will never forget their kindness to us.  I particularly remember Ken sitting reading his paper and talking to my husband, Val, about business.  I was so grateful that he spoke to Val man to man, not as a much older businessman talking to a blue-collar worker.  I know that it gave Val a lift to know that someone actually listened to him and cared about his ideas.  Esther was there, too, and was invaluable to both of us after we lost Tommy.  I remember coming back, numb with shock, and saying that I was glad that this was over.  Now we could get on with our lives.  She listened quietly and gently informed me that there would be days ahead that would be much more difficult.  Later, she and Ken allowed us to share their home before and after our trip to DC after my husband's death.  Still later, she allowed my friend Vicki and I to stay in her house when we were there for some trip or other.  But nothing that I can remember comes close to what my sister felt for her.

I can't imagine what it's like to have a friendship that lasts throughout your life.  I can't imagine what it is to go through life and love and gains and losses together.  The love that they had, I'm sure, was more like the love between sisters.  I'm sure that Charnell was as much a sister to Esther as she was to me, and the thought doesn't wound at all.  I'm thankful that my sister had a friend who was her own age and shared so much.  I love my sister and our relationship, but I know that as deep as our love is, it's very different.

Esther had cancer.  She had been diagnosed years ago, struggled with it and came through it.  I think she lived free of cancer for some years, and then it came back.  She was a fighter, though, and continued the fight to the very end.  Charnell told me that she went to a family gathering the day before, and she had a great time, She came home with her daughter and went to bed.  And that was it.  It was a blessing, I'm sure.  My sister is thankful that she'd had a chance to speak with her a few days before she died.

When someone you love loses someone they love, it is probably the most helpless feeling that you can have.  I have been worried about this future loss ever since the cancer came back, and I knew today when I saw my sister's call (voice message) that it had happened.  Hearing her voice on the phone ripped my heart out.  She was so absolutely in grief.  My sister--my whole family--has gone through so much loss.  I so didn't want her to have to go through any more.  But that's the way of the world.  As we get older, our loved ones die.  Sometimes they die out of season; sometimes they go in the fullness of time.  But if they are truly loved, they will be missed.  And mourned.

What can we do when we are walking with a loved one through grief?  Well, I know for sure some things I wish people wouldn't do.  Don't try to say things to make it better. "Well, they're out of pain now.  Well, they're with their family again.  They're with God."  Sure they are, and that's wonderful.  But if you loved them, their passing will hurt.  And that hurt is honest and good.  Let them go through it.

Don't try to put a time limit on grief.  Don't assume that it will get easier for them as time passes and they get older.  Losing your friend is losing your friend, no matter what age you are.  If you were close it will hurt.  And don't put a time limit on the grief.  Some people stop showing outward grief after a day, a week, a month, while others seem to "wallow" for months or years.  They're not wallowing.  They're grieving. If they show you their grief, assume it's because they trust you as a friend.  As much as you can, just be there for them.

Don't bring up God--or be very careful when you do.  If you know me, you know how spiritual I am.  But I can tell you that I am not comforted when I hear others say "God needed another angel."  "It was him time."  "He's home now." "God needed him, so he called him home."  Aside from the angel remark (angels are not dead people), it might be true, but it is not helpful.  We're not talking about our normal friend or loved one here. We're talking about someone who is hurting.  They don't need to feel guilty because they can't trust God (that's not even the question), and they certainly don't need to be told that God needed them in Heaven more than he wanted them on Earth with us.  What does that make God?  People who are grieving don't need to sort out theological issues.  They need comfort.

So how do you comfort someone in grief?  Listen.  Be there.  Keep the line open.  If they need to talk, tell them that you're available.  And then be available.  They might be angry, hurt, full of tears, talking and not making sense.  That's okay.  Be there.  My sister's daughter, Peggy, died when she was 20.  I didn't have a phone and got the message, "Miss Piggy died."  My mother-in-law misunderstood and thought that it was a family pet.  I understood immediately.  I don't remember much, but I remember my husband staying home with the kids while I drove with my friend Ann.  I remember screaming and crying, so angry and full of grief I could barely hold myself together.  I don't remember a single word that Ann said, and I know that she dealt with grief very differently that do I.  But she was there.  She understood my need, and she was there for me in a way that only a friend can be.  Thank God for her.

And thank God for you if you walk beside a friend in grief. You are there to help them, and God will walk with the two of you.  Just listen for his voice.

on disrespect

This blog is the most unsure blog I've written. I'm more airing my views than stating facts, and if you have anything to add, I'd appreciate it.  My premise is a familiar one--the disrespect that we are living with in our younger generation today has been fostered by the television we watch and the music that we listen to.

I graduated in 1975.  I was born in 1957.  My sister was born in 1939 and graduated in 1957.  My brother was born in 1952 and graduated in 1968.  So as you can see, we went through puberty in very different times.  My sister was in the time of Pat Boone, The Mousketeers, Elvis, and the birth of rock.  My brother was around for the Beatles, Rolling Stones, The Mousketeers, The Animals, and the hippie movement.  I was around for Earth, Wind and Fire, Chicago, Queen…and reruns of the Mousketeers.
Our viewing choices were very different, too.  I don't know how much my sister watched as a teen, but I remember Bonanza, Gunsmoke, Father Knows Best, Make Room For Daddy, and I Love Lucy.  I remember my brother watching Laugh In, Flip Wilson, Sonny and Cher, All in the Family, and Maude.  My generation watched Dark Shadows, Carpenters, Donny and Marie, Nanny and the Professor, and later--Roseanne and Married with Children and the Simpsons.

I don't remember my sister's choices much.  She left home when I was two, so I don't remember her music or tv programs at all.  Nor do I remember her attitude in the house.  My brother was home, but I remember Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass, the Beatles, and a classical radio station that played nonstop.  I was the only one that I remember being totally into modern music, and it was mostly bubblegum, John Denver-y stuff, and show tunes.  My mother and father were both older, and they expected respect.  What they expected was normally given.  They also controlled the TV, at least until my brother was in high school.  When he was in hs and college, I remember watching what they wanted to watch until they went to bed, at which time it became Gaylen's turn.

Today, kids are into all sorts of things, from Frank Sinatra to Queen to Eminem to Key$ha. They don't listen to records, they listen to I-phone.  They can watch pretty much anything they want to at any time of the day on one of many devices.  Nothing is out of bounds unless parents step in.  With many parents divorced or working 2 jobs, the television is often the babysitter.

What does all this have to do with disrespect?  Everything, in my opinion.  When my parents (and my sister) were young, families were much different.  Children were expected to behave--they were also expected to be children.  It would have been unheard of for a child to wear revealing clothing or high heels; teens were expected to wear dresses, skirts and blouses, or slacks and shirts to school.  Respect was also expected in school, and children would be punished if they didn't display the proper attitude.  It was not uncommon to have a "board of education" hanging on the principal's wall, and the principal would definitely use it.  Spanking was an expected part of life, and the expectation of a good whipping was enough to keep you from doing that misdeed some--if not all--of the time.

In the late 50's through the 60's, though, things started changing.  Pants got tighter, women started wearing shorts and pants in public on a regular basis, hairstyles became more adult, and teens started listening to different music.  It was often a rebellious act to bring the music in against the parents' wishes.  Up through the early-mid 50s, music was innocuous enough, although I'm sure that parents disagreed with this or that artist.  Pat Boone singing April Love 

seems so innocent by today's standards.  Patty Page is another example:  the music she sings is very similar to that of the parents.

However, in the late 50s, new faces appeared.  The music also changed with the advent of Rock and Roll.  Parents were immediately concerned--this was not the music they were used to, and it seemed linked to teen misbehavior.  Authorities spoke out against it, and many teens rebelled.  It was fun to dance to, and it was definitely NOT their parents music.
Elvis, Big Bopper, Ritchie Valens, it started getting more and more its own style, and many parents were concerned.  However, if you ask my sister, she will tell you that respect was still expected and given.  The model for it abounded in television, also.  I Love Lucy, Father Knows Best, etc all showed families who were dripping with respect for one another.  Yes, they might have their moments, but respect would win the day.  

In the 60's, things started to change.  Rock music was now firmly established, and it definitely had found its own voice.  Things changed even more with the advent of the Viet Nam war and the Hippie movement.  Suddenly, respect was not automatic.  In fact, respect was only given if it was earned, and if you weren't trusted, you weren't respected.  I remember a short story I read in this period.  I was only about 10, but it has never left me.  It was a society where it was understood that once you turned 30, you were turned out of society.  The woman who was the narrator was faced with this and was frantically seeking help.  She looked at a boy riding a bike.  She thought about asking him and then decided that it would be pointless. She would get no respect from him--he was too old.  He was at least nine!  And that's how it seemed to be.  Parents, teachers, government officials, the military--nobody was deserving of respect because nobody understood the importance of "making love not war".

I really think that's where our problem with disrespect started.  Once the ball was set in motion, it became harder and harder to stop it.  It shows up in television and music most clearly.  In music we go from Puppy Love to Lucy in the Sky With Diamonds to Fat Bottomed Girls to--well, pretty much any rap you want to mention that refers to women as whores.  TV went from Leave it to Beaver to All in the Family to The Simpsons to Modern Dad.  Disrespect is seen practiced--without any mention of it being wrong--practically everywhere you go in TVLand.  

My feeling is that if you already have disrespect (as well as loose morals, bad manners, no ethics, etc) in music and on television, it's practically impossible to stop it in school.  Teachers today complain of children who don't listen, don't care, and don't give them the respect they deserve.  I really do believe that what you're exposed to is what you do.  It's little wonder that children treat others with disrespect if that is what they're exposed to on their I-pod and their tv.

So how do you get respect back?  I am not holding out much hope here.  Yes, you can.  It's actually pretty easy, in my opinion.  Simply turn off the tv, put away the music, and talk to your kids.  Expect their respect and model it, and they should respect you.  But how many of us are willing to do that?  Another option is to speak out about the music and television shows that are currently available.  But no amount of speaking out is going to matter if you still watch the shows and (more importantly) buy the products that they advertise.

So how can we get our kids to show respect?  I don't know, but I think that we definitely should model it ourselves.  Listen to yourself when you talk to your child.  Remember that the voice they pay the most attention to is yours.

Good luck.

on isolation and its cure

I am alone.
Totally alone.
There are others around, 
But I am totally alone.

As are they.

I see a woman crying,
And I don't barge in.
I don't know her, 
So who am I to intrude on her pain.

I see a couple laughing,
And I don't intrude.
Who knows but that they're lovers,
And they're laughing over something precious to them.

And so I continue alone.

Until one day I hear a voice at church,
"I wish I knew someone who could play cards.
I need a fourth for bridge next week."
And I know how to play.

So I take my courage in my hands,
Come forward,
And confess that I overheard
And that I play.

The relief on her face--
This stranger--
Is palpable to see.

I am the solution to her problem
and she is the answer to mine.

I go to her house the next week,
Women together playing cards,
And I meet another woman.
And she loves to read mysteries.

As do I
As does my friend
And now we are three.

Weeks go by, and we meet together
To play bridge,
To read mysteries and discuss them together, 
And to enjoy each other's company.

As we come together,
The silence grows every week less,
And every week
I am more willing to open myself to others,

As they are to me.

We live alone together,
Strangers become friends,
And our lives intersect from time to time,
Bringing joy and peace.

It is not good for man to live alone--
But sometimes we must.

Thank God for friends,
Who bring a welcome light
To the dark shadows of our solitude,
Making it not only livable,
But profitable.

We live in isolation,
But we get together 
From time to time
And revel in our unity.

And one day
I see a woman crying
And I know her as my bridge-playing partner,
My mystery-loving friend.

I come to her,
Take her hand,
And say nothing.

We know each other
And we understand silence.

I know that if she needs to talk,
She knows I'm there.

Until then, we sit together
In silence

Alone

Together.