Tuesday, April 28, 2015

The Children's Crusade by Ann Packer

   In A Children's Crusade, we have not entered the Holy Land. We have simply embarked upon a disastrous journey. We have misjudged and been misguided.

   I fear I lack the heart needed to endure the Blair family drama, especially one that doesn't redeem itself in the end, at least in any gratifying way. 

   I'm missing the purpose of an ending that says, "sell the house, do your own thing, and do what most preserves your personal interests." Yes, we are nation of adolescent novelists, forever seeking novelty.

   Or maybe, I missed the arrival of modern day man, who so neatly arranges for his own redemption. So far, I've not yet met anyone who can redeem himself. 

   Packer dismisses faith from the fabric of the Blair family life. Faith is nothing to the Blair family, yet most of our planet claims a faith. How can the reviews claim Packer's spoken to us? 
 
   No matter the scores of positive reviews, A Children's Crusade is neither gratifying, nor edifying, nor eloquent. Packer kept me up to read something that only filled me with angst: not peace, not wisdom, not joy, not sorrow, just angst and aggravation. I rarely get worked up about books I dislike; I simply set them down. I rarely engage in negative reviews, and I don't write Amazon reviews, but I will not be conned into believing that trashy talk is necessary to develop Packer's characters, nor indeed, that she's developed them, at least into people of any depth. They are simply good actors.

   In some novels, the trash and trash talk may be necessary, and possibly impress upon us the pain, but A Children's Crusade lacks the shimmer of a mosaic that makes broken beautiful.

   The great artists keeps us from frozenness, from smugness, from thinking the truth is in us, rather than in Christ our Lord. ~ Madeleine L'Engle

Saturday, April 25, 2015

Noticing Spring

Spring Soccer
Her soccer status quo.
Before
During
After @ Rogue Ales
New chicks
When no one is watching, she gives it a go.
Yep, spring is here.

Saturday, April 18, 2015

The Book Stacks

    Beauty is not a luxury, but a strategy for survival. ~ Terry Tempest Williams

   Spring is verifiably here. Yard work calls in spades. I'm wrapping up some winter book readings, and thought I'd share what is sitting on the stacks and what has been blessing.
   Life behind the brownstone front, two flights up and beyond, was delightfully higgledy-piggledy as to System; and Duty and Discipline had become pale, thin creatures that no longer cast shadows except on Saturdays - from four o'clock on. Saturday was dedicated to Aunt Emily and sewing. Lucinda buttoned up her fortitude and her best manners....She believed the devil must have invented the needle.

    There were her books, too, to put on their shelf; and there was the new diary that her mother had bought her and that she had promised to write in often. The books she handled and put in their places with loving care. They filled a large portion of her inner world - a sanctuary built securely to keep out Aunt Emily's and French governesses.
   I absolutely adored "orphaned" Lucinda in Roller Skates by Ruth Sawyer. As a result, I picked up The Way of the Storyteller; I'm really looking forward to Ruth's tutelage. She has left a wide and generous path for storytellers to follow. 
   
   She wrote The Way of the Storyteller in 1942 wishing, "there might be a guild for storytellers today where master and apprentices might work together for the upholding of their art." She clearly felt the hunger of blazing trails in a word wilderness. Had she lived today she would have found some excellent guilds. Our hope is to be utilizing the aforementioned guild in the fall.

Also perusing, reading, tackling, pondering...
London by AN Wilson (research)

   We can no longer say, "Let nature take care of itself." Our press on the planet is heavy and relentless. A species in peril will most likely survive now only if we allow it to, if our imaginations can enter into the soul of the animal and we pull back on our own needs and desires to accommodate theirs. What other species now require of us is our attention. Otherwise, we are entering a narrative of disappearing intelligences.

   
If you do violence to me, you do violence to yourself because we are all human beings.

    This morning at breakfast, I ask Lily when compromise is appropriate. After a moment of silence, she says, "Compromise is fine on anything that is not essential, but you cannot compromise your principles. You cannot compromise the dream or the dream dies, and you suffer spiritually."

   Terry Tempest Williams pulls us together in our brokenness. She makes beauty out of ashes, pain, and dust, reminding us, we too must create beauty out of brokenness. She weaves a beautiful mosaic.

Exploring the world, albeit slowly.
Because this year is the 800th anniversary of the, The Magna Charta

    As we listen to Farmer Boy, I'm suffering serious guilt over our lack of children chores around here. Yet, the arrival of spring is helping rectify the situation! 

   Life is rapidly becoming school, yard chores, and writing, the latter as there is time. Yet, we've upped the ante on writing projects round here. 

   Sister is busy finishing out her IEW year; I'll post another of her papers soon. I'm beginning to wonder if I should quit writing and simply focus on becoming her agent. She recently wrote a letter from Dolly Madison to her mother that takes the cake. Thankfully, she's constraining the drama to her writing!

   Brother has been very busy writing at school and this week he'll also write a bill to prepare for his one day class at Teen Pact. The chosen topic of his proposed bill? Reading in bathrooms should not be allowed. (This is a bit of a personal agenda for him round our house. We won't say who frequently attempts to disappear with a book in the bathroom.) 

  And I've committed myself to a more aggressive pace of writing this year with a few members of my monthly critique group. We have agreed to turn in writing on the 1st and 3rd weeks of the month for perusal and feedback vs. only once a month.

 If you want to change the world, pick up your pen and write. ~ Martin Luther

Tuesday, April 7, 2015

Easter Weekend Birthday Boy

  Very thankful for an auntie and uncle who hosted a gaggle of us over Easter weekend,  letting us crash their place for birthday celebrations, hiking, food, fishing, and a lot of fun.

Friday, April 3, 2015

Story by Guest: Miss Conolly et Abagail McMuffilin

   For children who dream while they write, and write while they dream. Follow your heart and your pen. Seek, and find far off lands. 
The Pet Goldfinch by Henriette Browne
   Being enterprising and interesting, Abagail McMuffilin, who is a marine biologist and symbiosis expert, has always held extremely interesting jobs. Scottish born, Abagail's parents and siblings live in the hills of Scotland. When she was working on her schooling there, Abagail's future was undecided, but she now has a plan for the rest of her life, and it does not involve retiring from her constant projects and activities. Obviously energetic, Abagail McMuffilin still has her moments of quiet, and it was during one of these moments that her mind drifted back to the time when she was a child in Scotland...

    Science competition today,” the teacher had briskly announced. Groans came from every corner of the classroom except one. Abagail sat in her desk chair and stared out the window, daydreaming about her science fair project. Unsurprisingly, school did not interest her at all. Apart from science, Abagail, who understood every single concept, was bored. Educated science, now that was something. New discoveries were being made! New concepts being taught! New inventions! Science was always changing! Science even changed Abagail's life! Without science, would she ever have met Hailey Clark, the famous professor of life sciences? No. Without science, would she ever had gotten her marine biology degree? No. Without science, would her life have turned out the way it did? No. No, no, and no! Nothing would be the same for Abagail if it wasn't for science! 
 
    It was only art and science that kept Abagail interested in school. They were like bread and water to her. Abagail longed to go on to college science classes, but she never imagined just how she'd do it. When Abagail, or Miss McMuffilin, as she preferred to be called, went off to college, she was just fifteen. Although sure that she wanted to get her degree in Marine Biology and Biologistic Chemistry, Miss McMuffilin was not sure which school she wanted to go to, and she was nervous. Finally, she decided to go to the Scotland School of Science. During her first term, Abagail made a special friend in a young teacher named Hailey Clark. Miss McMuffilin, who didn't know how helpful Ms. Clark would be to her, procured an internship with a prominent research company off the coast of Florida. Though she would be a long way from her family, Miss McMuffilin took the job, which involved her absolutely favorite subjects of painting and science.

    “'What if I don't know how to do whatever they want me to do? What if...' That was all I could think about as I was nervously getting ready to board the research vessel I was to intern upon.” Abagail, when asked about whether she was nervous or not when getting ready to start her internship, answered. “Besides, even though I knew I'd probably have plenty of fascinating jobs in my lifetime, I still wasn't sure what to expect. I guess I thought the boat wouldn't be so big. Besides, so much equipment was on board, and I was afraid I'd break something important.” Abagail, who knows now that her first job wasn't really that amazing, says, “When its your first time doing something that you have always wanted to do, everything is really cool.” Abagail McMuffilin's first ever job was full of somewhat interesting things like catching fish, eating tuna melts, and getting seasick. Although Abagail finds that her first job on a research ship prepared her for some of the projects that involve boats on the open ocean, she still occasionally gets seasick. Excited, Abagail McMuffilin was soon to learn that this faraway job for a college summer was the first of a lifetime of exciting, sometimes strange, jobs.

    “Why me? Why not someone more qualified for this? This is going to be one of the most exciting trips of my life! I wonder if I my family could visit me. Maybe I'll get to see the Eiffel Tower!” These and many other thoughts pushed their way into Abagail's mind on the plane trip to France. France was to be the new home of the Underwater Divers Research Associates, which was a group that worked with snorkelers and scuba divers to better understand oceanic symbiosis. Symbiosis, the relationship of two different species of animals, provides mutual benefits. Abagail had come to France to work under the current president of UDRA, in hopes of officially moving to France if given the position of president, that is, once the man who was the current president resigned or retired. Abagail was interested in France. It's culture, food, and now this research project were calling to Abagail. France, she felt, would be the ideal place for her to live. Of course, Abagail didn't know French, but that was no problem because she could learn it by hanging out in the open-air marketplace. But then there was the project. It was exciting! It was invigorating! It was amazing! Abagail would have to know some French for her new job, but she wasn't worried. The mere idea of this organization was enough to give her a thrill. She, Abagail, was going to work in one of the newest and most high-tech buildings on the coastline of France! Studying symbiosis, Abagail was sure this was the job for her.

    Ten years ago, Abagail, in France studying marine symbiosis, was working under one of the most famous marine biologists in the world. She never got a chance to be the president of the Underwater Divers Research Association. Just before UDRA's second year of research was over, the bank financing the organization crashed, which created difficulties in the way of maintaining the organization's several underwater remote control submersibles. Since she has moved from France and her position in the Underwater Divers Research Association, Abagail has been quietly residing with her family, creatively teaching science at a small school nestled in the rolling hills of Scotland. Some day Miss McMuffilin, who is quite happy with her life right now, is sure to find another interesting job, another small and innovative start-up company that needs her help. For now, though, Abagail is as content as possible to do what she does best: helping people through her love of science. After all, it doesn't take an expert on marine symbiosis to know when somebody needs a little help.

 *A tiny sample of Miss Conolly's writing. She definitely works within her 5 paragraph requirement, with nary a word more, but alas it's still a fun read, and look-see into her mind.

Tuesday, March 31, 2015

In the Shadow of Death Valley


   Does my soul reflect a desert, or does the desert reflect my soul? Am I parched and thirsty, or does life spring from crags and crevices within? If we are made of dust and ash, is not the desert our kin? The place my soul, thus knows how to roam?

   The desert is a margin place, a thin place. It tests patience. The desert tests perseverance. It is forever saying, "give me more." It will take all you have and then some. Yet, in the tiniest of crags and crevices life springs upward. In a parched and barren place, life springs eternal.

   Tempted, Jesus faced down his enemy in a barren desert. Indeed, both the enemy and the desert, were created of His accord and will. Deserts force us to bloom and blossom, yield and spread, or whither and die. Surely, the desert fathers and mothers knew there was life to be found on dry parched plains. We are not nearly so astute, nor monastic, but we do wander and wonder: What are we? What's out there? What might we encounter out of our comfort zone? When and where am I most rightly related to self, others, and God? 

   As is so often the case, I don't find the questions, or seek the answers, until I'm home and the adventure is asking questions of me. Surely, we ask questions while preparing for adventures, but it's not until adventures ask questions of us, that we often engage fully with a time, place, or space. 

   Oregon spring break, found us wandering to Death Valley. Indeed, we'd prepared and the goal was a good time with friends, amazing geology, and getting home safe. Of course, a Land Rover trip, by nature, no matter where you go, is always a chance to ask, "What are we made of?" Survival kits are always packed. However we, or at least me, hope to never really need them. Besides, you can't use a Life Straw, if there's no water to be found!

   While we were looking forward to Death Valley National Park, the week previous to our departure, I kept hearing Him say, “I go with you into the valley of the shadow of death.” Ah hem? Excuse me? Could you repeat that? He did, several times. It's hard to feel peace when those words are what you hear in your ear. Words like those, one simply embraces, holds close, and prays about. A lot. I might add that the examen was an important soul process to begin in March. 
   Thus, after a week of preparations, the morning of departure arrived. We awoke to a child with a 99.5 fever – not through the roof, but nothing to ignore either. I sent her back to bed, and we muddled about what to do. We cancelled our tickets to Scotty's Castle for the next day, a 16 hour drive away. Did I mention our time line was tight? To stay or go? To  commit or quit? A question, a dilemma, we all face every day. Yet, she awoke 3 hours later with no temperature. We loaded the cooler and pulled out of town because sometimes it's now or never.

   And really, there's never a good time to drive 16 hours (one way) and take an 8 day Land Rover trip. I've given up thinking that day will arrive - the day when it feels that all of life has meshed to make the slated rover trip possible. It is, and always will be, hard work to get out of dodge. We'll always be dodging something else in order to go, but relationships and riveting views also await and call. Thus we embrace life, get in the Rover, and go. 
   We headed east through Bend and Burns, before cutting south through the Malheur Wildlife Refuge, into Frenchglen, and then on to Fields, Oregon. We kept rolling, right into the dark, that first day. Miles and miles of empty dark pavement rolled past and under us while the sky overhead darkened, and then relit with stars. We pulled into Winnemucca, Nevada about 9:30 p.m. and laid down weary heads at a local motel. Clean, safe, local, drive to your door service. My kind of motel.

   Thankful: no more fevers.

   In the morning, we re-embarked upon open Nevada road, pulling through Lovelock where I roamed during the summer and winter breaks of my youth. So much mischief, many years ago. Then it was on to Fallon and Tonopah, and into vast stretches of open parched plain. We drove through lands of drought and often doubt. Miles of weapons depot and storage = heavy hearts and much discussion. Where do we invest as a nation, as a people? In Hawthorne, Nevada, the world's largest storage depot for weapons, bombs become flowers, because even there, we desire to turn what is broken into beautiful.
   We made it home in one piece, each of us - no small miracle.

   Near the north entrance to Death Valley, we prepare to turn left onto Scotty's Castle Road. There is a near miss with a semi-truck. I don't even like to think about it, much less write it. It still terrifies me, but for the grace of God. Did the trucker not see my turn signal? I gave him ample warning. (We would later find out, that it was possible the turn signal ground was no longer functioning.) 
   There but for the grace of God, 80,000 pounds of metal would have borne down upon us. 

    There but for the grace of God, when that semi-truck came barrelling down upon us, there might have been a car in the opposing lane of traffic, leaving him no where to go as he sought to avoid us, leaving no room for nothing good, a mess of metal and ashes on a hot highway.

   The grace of God, meant I saw him bearing down on us in the rear view mirror and decided not to make my left turn, but just try and keep going straight and hope he did not take us out from the rear. 

   The grace of God, enabled him to pass us at nearly 70 mph in the opposing lane of traffic, while I was probably going 20mph. He managed to avoid hitting us from behind, and I'm sure he was terrified when he realized we intended to make a left turn and were nearly stopped on the highway.

   The grace of God: We made it to Scotty's Castle and Mesquite Springs Campground. God must have more adventures for us, ones that don't include streets of gold right now, but rather dust lined byways.
Each of us, miracles.
   Then grace blushed the hills around us, and flushed them with life. There were mountain goats with graceful curved horns, coyotes romping on golf course lawns, endangered pup fish, magpies, bucked antelope, and doves. Grace kept the rattlers and scorpions away, either that, or the very noisy kids. They come in handy, they do.
   The pale blush of light also fell on the faces of gracious women who paved our path south with their prayers. They craft and carve meaningful moments into our lives, in my life, giving me lovely thoughts and words to chew upon, and even goodies for our sweet tooth. Indeed, notes, prayers, care packages, and goods arrived for the road, and followed us south.

   In Death Valley, I stumbled into a girl from childhood, now woman, sunning with her kids. She was kind then; she's still kind today.

   At a Death Valley dish washing sink, I ran into a home school mom from the past. Thick with suds, we shared God's provisions, and miracles of health and healing in 2014. We talked about how God met us in so many desert places. Their family had a diagnosis of blind for a teenage child. It came out of the blue, and threatened to turn all life black. We had a diagnosis of severe, chronic, and acute colitis, for life, for one child. Today, neither child is facing the diagnosis spoken over them, and both walk a path towards healing. Both kids were led by grace to doctors, in the midst of trial, to healing trials and trails of healing. We rejoiced, and watered the desert with a few tears of grace, all while washing dirty camp dishes.

   There is life in our deserts. There is life when it's blistering hot, and the air seems sucked out of your lungs, and all seems lost. When the very joy of life is sucked out of you, and your soul is parched beyond measure, and you are so thirsty you want the heat consume you, there is life. Yes, even there.
   And then there's our rover trail mates. Both are amazing. She's ever encouraging, listening, engaging, funny, and reliable. She's a gem. So very grateful for them and their friendship, mechanical wisdom, hilarity, and thoughtfulness.
   Death Valley is copper colored canyons, and canyons of pastel. Death Valley is the driest, lowest, and hottest. There were twists and turns and the threat of an engine that wouldn't ignite, but did, every time. Potential engine “mines” met mines made by men, and God got us back to camp and a cool swimming pool each night. 

   There was a resort staffer who turned Furnace Creek Resort upside down to find a pair of goggles for my kid to borrow. Because kids today must have goggles to swim - they know no other way. God bless that woman's soul. He leads me beside quiet waters. 

   And if I cough all night in the dry windy dusty desert, and listen to her cough all night, and we keep our motorhome neighbors awake, with their windows wide open, yes, even then, He restores my soul.

   We leave Death Valley, and on our way out, we collect national park patches in the shape of thermometers and Jr. Ranger badges, and are grateful to be on the road. Our last stop at Mosaic Canyon, the engine sputters, but comes to life.  

   Please let there be no broken in this beautiful canyon.
   We drive up and out on windy dry roads through the Pantamints, and then they are to our east and the Sierra Nevada range graces our west. Yet, the dry follows us all the way to Oregon.

   I can't get over the drought. Spring, eighty degrees in CA, fields barely green with grass, and yet no bud break, no leaves, on so many trees. California is dry like a bone. I saw one farm sprinkler running in agricultural valleys covering over 600 miles. Reservoirs, lakes, and irrigation channels dry. Driving by the Sierra Nevada's, we ponder the Donner party, and hope that one day there will be no "dry" Donner party.
   In Independence, CA, we arrive at no independence: Manzanar. I knew the Land Rover might not start again, but I also knew we had to see Manzanar. It was now or never. It would never again be easier to come to this place. It was completely necessary we see, discuss, and attempt to learn the lessons of such desolation, isolation, and deluded thinking.
   I will think about Manzanar for a long time, as well as Tule Lake, which we also passed on our drive home. Let us learn from our deserts.
   Pushing towards home, we made it to Carson City and still coughed our way through the night. Disappointed, we cancelled time with family in Reno due to continued sickness and Land Rover mechanical worries. 

   We shared America's Best Hotel with a former lawyer and law professor, now a permanent resident of the hotel. He smiled a toothless smile, and warmly told us his story. He also told us of the Siberian Husky who'd died at the hotel during the night in his owner's arms. We sympathized awkwardly, faced with this story of loss, and in the valley of the shadow of death, we bid adieu. Like travellers in the night, we slipped past, wanting to leave the sadness behind, find our way home, and choose life, not death. The valley of the shadow of death is everywhere; but I fear no evil, for thou art with me.
    The drizzle began around Eugene. The fields were thick with calf high grass, as new calves lolled about. The clouds layered themselves, and a single vertical shaft of brilliant rainbow placed itself upon the grassy slopes of a far off hill. Welcome home. Have hope. And we did, those of us who saw the rainbow anyway. One child was busy having a reading marathon, while the other, had finally fallen asleep holding onto the dish washing bucket, fearful of being road sick.

   Home, he diagnoses a sick Land Rover, and with 272,000 miles on her, she's allowed a few hiccups. I might even trust her to a road trip again. We book hair cuts and eye appointments. We plan Easter and birthday moments. We deal with swimmers ear, and begin taking Bragg's vinegar, some of us, in attempt to finally kick the cough. We bake cookies. We unpack, and unpack more. The laundry consumes, but oh the loads of wet moisture, and hot showers. We are thankful for the woman who left food for our return home, and emailed of hilltop adventures while we were away.

   The maples have burst and the cherries too. The bees hum and hive. We lay our heads down to sleep and pull out the examen. We sleep with bread and ask, “what was the most desolate moment of your day and the moment of most consolation?” We ask, “What are we embracing, and what are we learning?” We don't have the answers yet, but we seek to listen and learn what parched valleys may teach us, in order to find the hidden springs, all in the valley of the shadow of life. 
   And I know that I owe the hummingbird food. He zings by me on the porch. He's telling me something, and I need to listen. He, like me, needs sweet nectar to live upon.

Psalm 23 (MSG)
 God, my shepherd!
    I don’t need a thing.
You have bedded me down in lush meadows,
    you find me quiet pools to drink from.
True to your word,
    you let me catch my breath
    and send me in the right direction.
Even when the way goes through
    Death Valley,
I’m not afraid
    when you walk at my side.

Your trusty shepherd’s crook
    makes me feel secure.

You serve me a six-course dinner
    right in front of my enemies.
You revive my drooping head;
    my cup brims with blessing.

Your beauty and love chase after me
    every day of my life.
I’m back home in the house of God
    for the rest of my life.

Friday, March 20, 2015

   On what is the eve of the opening of the Owens Valley Reception Center, i.e., Manzanar, my heart is heavy thinking about our nation's internment of Japanese Americans and the impact upon them, and us, as a result of their internment.
Photo from Wikipedia by Dorothea Lange
   Indeed, a lot has been weighing on me this month. In addition to our own messy moments, there's been our study of Sudan in our middle school book group. We read and discussed A Long Walk to Water trying to understand the crisis that has taken place in Sudan, even as it continues to put millions in a state of conflict. And I dare say, it's humbling to talk to eleven and twelve year old girls about a crisis that began when you were an eleven year old girl and you are just now really checking in about it. No words for that.

   And realizing that your boy child could just as easily have been a Lost Boy should he have been born on another continent is saddening and sickening. No child should have to endure war, the loss of their families, villages, and communities.

   On the eve of Japanese internment camp round ups, and the orders that created such places as Manzanar, there are still white lies that surround and control us.

    Touring the Pearl District of Portland recently was both enthralling and a bit unsettling. I couldn't put my finger on what seemed to be rattling my soul. But there's been a lot of noise lately about the gentrification of Portland, and signs are pointing to the fact that there's more than one way to push diversity out of your city, and push people out: Be a gentleman, and simply raise the rent.

    The Pearl now, is an area we never would have ventured into then. When I was a child, the area east of Burnside was a land you didn't wander into. The Pearl now is home to million dollar airy apartments, gentlemen, and persons who kid themselves that they know and understand the concept of diversity. To know, foster, and understand diversity you must first be diverse. The Pearl is many things, but it's not diverse, Eloise. Ironically, the Pearl has gone from being not accessible to accessible to not accessible once more, and it's just one area of Portland.

   I cannot, and will not, attempt to write deeply about issues I'm still coming to understand. I'm not trying to preach here, but sit up, learn, and hear what my soul is saying. We seek to know and understand these stains on the history of our world and the peoples of our world for the sake of all children. Their future is at stake.

These issues rattle me. They make noise in my life.

In 1859, Oregon did not want African Americans.

We can change that, and we must.

     We cannot and we must not seek to make America an exclusively white nation.  Make no other gods before me. An exclusively white America is a dangerous America.  It's an America where violence makes right because fear calls everyone who doesn't look like us wrong. Remember. Manzanar.

   How about we talk immigration for a second?  Do we know what it's like anymore to welcome the foreigner? Let go of our preconceived notions? McFarland. See it. Even Paddington is trying to tell us something about welcoming the foreigner. See it.

Immigrants. People. Families. Workers.


We are they. 
They are us. 
We are them.

Remember! 

Manzanar, Gila River, Granada, Heart Mountain, Jerome, Minidoka, Poston, Rohwer, Topaz, and Tule Lake!
These camps are the legacy of our shame and little white lies.


    Before 1942, Japanese farmers owned 1/5th the arable land in the three west coast states. It was taken. It was confiscated. If they owned it today, the farming practices of the Pacific Coast might be, could be, and would be vastly different. Vastly more sustainable. Diverse.

If America is exclusively white,
when we look at the enemy,
we are looking at us.

   If you really change your ways and your actions and deal with each other justly,  if you do not oppress the foreigner, the fatherless or the widow and do not shed innocent blood in this place, and if you do not follow other gods to your own harm,  then I will let you live in this place, in the land I gave your ancestors for ever and ever. ~ Jeremiah 7:5-7

   Let us recognize we reside here by grace. We were born here by grace not to be great, but to be gracious. We are commanded, instructed, and told. It's made crystal clear: Don't oppress a sojourner. Don't oppress the foreigner. Welcome the immigrant, for you too, were once a stranger. Let us embrace diversity when all the world is aflame. One day a new king and kingdom will be ushered in. God's kingdom is diverse. Remember, "red, yellow, black, and white, they are precious in His sight?"  We also know the first shall be last, and the last shall be first. This is not easy for me, for us, to swallow, but who am I to begrudge God's generosity?  I need it every day. Indeed, I hope for God's generosity every day.

   Therefore, I'd best get to work fostering His kind of community now, that I might join it then.

 Even those I will bring to My holy mountain 
And make them joyful in My house of prayer. 
Their burnt offerings and their sacrifices will be acceptable on My altar;
 For My house will be called a house of prayer for all the peoples. 
~ Isaiah 56:7