Remembering a Great Aunt

We buried my great aunt Dot on Saturday in Athens, Georgia. She was almost 97 years old and, for the past 33 years or so might as well have been my paternal grandmother. It seems strange to live in a world now that she does not inhabit. She has been a fixture in my life for 48 years--always just across the street from the Nash family farm in Athens. Always just across that street from the old home place--never anywhere else. Just always there. You could count on it as much as you could count on anything in life. A constant and unwavering presence--always ready to receive a hug and to walk with you into the living room where you could sit and talk about life and the weather and politics.

It was good to be family when it came to Aunt Dot. As my father said at the funeral, "If you were her friend, you were her friend for life; but if you were her enemy, woe be unto you." I was family--and so I didn't have to worry about whether or not I was her friend or her enemy. Family meant everything to her--so if you were blood kin, then you were in like flint. Everyone else was held at a distance until she could distinguish the friends from the foes.

She had a dry, biting wit that could somehow be sarcastic and loving all at the same time.

My father recalled the time that he and Mom accompanied Aunt Dot and Uncle Sid to the mall in Gainesville. Uncle Sid must have dressed in the dark because he had on one brown shoe and one black shoe. Aunt Dot was the first to notice (of course). "Sid," she said, "You got another pair of shoes like that at home?"

She and Uncle Sid had lived through the Great Depression and managed to survive. Like many of her generation, she saved 99 cents of every dollar that Sid brought home from the Athens hardware where he worked. I guess this was why she never understood why anyone would ever leave a tip at a restaurant that was more than 10 percent of the tab. Her reasoning--"The Good Lord only gets ten percent--and nobody in this world ought to get more than He gets."

It was hard to argue with Aunt Dot.

She demonstrated that careful blend of sarcasm and love in the final comment I ever heard her make. We went over to the hospital to see her this past Christmas. Our visits had become much less frequent over the last few years what with teenage children and work schedules. She waited until we were almost out the door before delivering the punch--"See you next Christmas," she muttered just loud enough for us to hear. I was almost to the elevator before I caught her drift!

My son calls her his favorite aunt (at least of the great-great aunt variety of which he has several). He says it's because you always knew where you stood with Dot. You didn't have to wonder--she let you know. And I count that as a real gift--in a world where lots of us wear masks and act lovingly toward each other when we really don't mean it down deep.

It's nice in life to bump into someone now and then who doesn't play the game.

I think we call that "integrity"--and I'm proud to have had an aunt who had it. She gave the rest of us in the family a marker to gauge ourselves by.

More Planeguage

I hate to keep picking on Delta--but I seem to be living on the airline these days, so I guess it's a bit like picking on family. My frequent flyer status has even started to earn me the coveted "upgrade" on occasion, especially on weekends when there are fewer business travelers. There's a bit of a trick to it, I'm learning. If you find yourself on the list of folks waiting on an upgrade, then make sure that you don't board the plane and take your economy seat until the very last minute just before the gate closes. Chances are that the other folks awaiting an upgrade will go ahead and board, and you'll get the seat with lots of legroom in the front!

Now--on to what is disturbing me about Delta! Last weekend I clambered aboard a flight to Dallas and was awarded a business class upgrade. I felt pretty good about it until I started overhearing the conversations around me and discovered that about seven Delta employees were sitting in business class. I was a bit astounded! Why would a company put its own employees in the best seats when there were lots of paying customers who were sitting in the cramped sections of economy class? I tried to imagine Walmart allowing its employees to park right in front of the store while its customers parked out in the boondocks!

It just didn't make good sense.

I decided to get a second opinion from the nice lady sitting beside me. We had become fast friends when I assisted her in placing her rather heavy carry-on in the overhead bin.

I leaned over toward her so that our conversation wouldn't be overheard.

"Is it just me?" I asked. "Or do you agree that it is a rather bad business practice for a company to move its employees to the front of the plane when paying customers are sitting in the back of the plane?"

Her eyes grew a bit wide.

"That's just a courtesy our company gives to those of us who work for Delta," she retorted.

Ooops!

Make that eight employees in the front of the plane.

And one of them didn't speak to me much at all for the rest of the flight.

Flying Over Suffering

I flew over suffering and death on Wednesday . . . literally. My Los Angeles to Atlanta "redeye" flight just happened to be in the air at just the time that dozens of tornadoes were setting down in Arkansas, Tennessee, Alabama and a number of other states. The pilot announced that there was a bit of weather off to our southeast and that we shouldn't be too concerned. He advised us to return to our seats and fasten our seat belts. It was a bit of inconvenience--but most of us complied.

I didn't pay much attention until I noticed lightning flashes outside the window. This got my attention. As I peered out, I saw a beautiful dark sky with twinkling stars above and a thick white cloud blanket below. The lightning splayed across the cloud blanket, bursting here and there all over the place. Occasionally a burst of lightning would rise above the blanket and create a brilliant flash. Generally though, the lightning was below the cover and the clouds would light up like some weird sort of neon cotton candy.

It was one of the most beautiful, awe-inspiring sights I have ever seen. The plane sailed peacefully on without a single bump while nature put on a dramatic show. We were somehow above it all--experiencing absolutely no effects--separated from the trauma below and at an altitude where we could simply watch and wonder.

Underneath, people were dying. I discovered this much later in the day after the flight had landed and I had started home. I tried to tell my wife about the beauty of it--and she began to share with me the horror of lives destroyed, of homes absolutely devastated, of communities in terrible pain and suffering.

It occurred to me that this is how it often is with suffering. Some of us endure the pain while others sail over it without even realizing that it exists at all. Our cocoons may not be metal tubes with windows--but they are cocoons nevertheless--shielding us from what life is really like for our brothers and sisters. The media tells us what we want to hear. Materialism is its own sort of cocoon, lulling us to sleep with full stomachs and lots of gadgets to keep us busy.

And the suffering passes underneath us virtually unnoticed, not so much because we don't care, but primarily because the stars in the sky and the cloud cover keep us from knowing all that is happening on the ground.

It occurs to me that it is so much easier to sail over suffering than to enter into it.

And it makes me deeply appreciate a God who decided to do just the opposite.

On Mountains and Valleys in Thailand

This past Saturday I found myself in a deceptively beautiful place right on the border of Thailand and Burma. The sight of gorgeous limestone mountains rising out of a green valley absoluted captivated my attention, and I quickly discovered that I was ignoring the realities of the fenced Karen refugee camp at Mae La that stretches five kilometers along the road. We had driven down from Chiang Mai, Thailand to listen to the stories of the Karen people who, over many years, have fled into Thailand to avoid persecution in Burma. Our hope was to gain a better sense of the challenges that they face and to consider ways to partner together with them in their struggle for justice.

Our guides were Duane and Marcia Binkley, two field personnel with whom I work, who have been busy over the last year or so assisting Karen refugees with resettlement in the United States. Also along on the trip were Greg Pope, pastor of Crescent Hill Baptist Church in Louisville, Kentucky and Doug Dickens, a professor of pastoral care at Gardner-Webb Divinity School in North Carolina. Crescent Hill is one among a growing number of congregations in the United States who have welcomed the Karen as Christian brothers and sisters and who are assisting in the relocation effort. Greg came bearing packages from some of his Karen church members for their relatives who still remain in the camp.

We paused along the way to the camp to visit with leaders of the Karen Refugee Committee, Pastor Robert Htway and Saw Tay Tay, who serve as representatives and intermediaries for the camp with the Thai government. Saw Tay Tay shared with us the story of the struggle of the Karen people for a homeland, pointing particularly to their oppression over the last 60 years. During World War II, the Karen allied with the British against the Burmese and the Japanese. As a result, they have suffered the wrath of the Burmese government, experiencing repeated attacks and brutality. Many have fled to Thailand. Others remain in the jungles of Burma, barely ekeing out a living. We met orphans whose parents had been murdered by soldiers in Burma and we walked through a special dormitory for people who had been blinded or maimed by land mines.

The plight of the Karen is not that different from many people around the world who live from hand to mouth, except that the Karen are displaced persons, unable to leave the camp without special permission. Resettlement is a relatively new possibility, and many Karen are struggling with the choice of leaving their own "place" and heading off to a new life in one of about nine countries that are willing to receive them. Families are often separated as some family members decide to resettle and others elect to remain in the camps (there are several along the Thai-Burma border that contain some 150,000 persons).

We spent the better part of the day at a Bible school on the edge of the camp and were privileged to hear from Saw Simon, the current director of the school, who captivated us with the prophecies of the Karen people and the stories of the camp and school. The school has been around for decades and has provided pastoral leadership to the many Karen churches in the camp and beyond.

One of the prophecies of the Karen insisted that one day a "white brother" would appear bringing a silver book. This brother is now understood to be Adoniram Judson, one of the first American Baptist missionaries, who carried the Christian faith to the Karen. The Karen national anthem alludes to this prophecy and to the belief that one day the Karen would take that same faith to the world. Saw Simon told us that this prophecy is now fulfilled in the resettlement, as Karen people (most of them Christian) now head off around the globe.

Resettlement is not as good as it sounds, though the Karen are certainly grateful for the opportunity to join hands with congregations in other parts of the world. As Saw Tay Tay said to us, "We now face the possibility of extinction." Such extinction is often the result of loss of "place." And when you factor in the orphans and the victims of land mines and the separation of families, well, it just becomes a bit much to consider.

I guess that is why my eyes were drawn to the limestone mountains as I entered Mae La Refugee Camp on the Thai-Burma border. It's just easier to see the beauty and to ignore the ugliness in the place. Before our eyes a people is held captive and a culture is threatened.

And sometimes all we want to do is look at the mountains.

Combatting Global Poverty

I wrote my US senator yesterday. I couldn't help it after hearing Kathleen O'Toole of Bread for the World talk about the Global Poverty Act that is moving through Congress. The Act requires the President of the United States to develop and implement a comprehensive strategy to further the US foreign policy objective of promoting the reduction of global poverty, the elimination of extreme global poverty, and the achievement of the Millennium Development Goal of reducing by one-half the proportion of people worldwide, between 1990 and 2015, who live on less than $1 per day.

You might say that the Global Poverty Act requires the United States to put its money where its mouth is. In the year 2000, some 189 heads of state gathered at the United Nations and put together the Millennium Declaration that said that the #1 threat to the world is poverty. The United States was among the signers of that Declaration. Some 8 goals were identified that have now become known as the Millennium Development Goals. These goals include:

1. Eradicate extreme poverty and hunger.
2. Achieve universal primary education.
3. Promote gender equality and empower women.
4. Reduce child mortality.
5. Improve maternal health.
6. Combat HIV/Aids, malaria and other diseases.
7. Ensure environmental sustainability.
8. Develop a global partnership for development.

The first seven focus on developing countries where these problems exist. But the 8th goal calls upon developed nations to do their part by improving the kinds and amount of aid that we offer to developing countries and by cancelling the huge debts that such countries owe. This is where the Global Poverty Act comes in. It compels the United States to work with developing nations to achieve the first goal.

It's not too difficult to grasp how the lives of people in developing countries can be transformed by more and better development assistance. We see it all the time in the global efforts of field personnel here at the Cooperative Baptist Fellowship and through the work of other entities like Bread for the World. One of my co-workers likes to say, "It's all about water!" He's right--a single well in Zambia provides for cleaning drinking water, thus helping to eliminate disease. It also enables women (who generally have to draw water far from home) to spend their time receiving an education instead of making a half-day trip to get water.

But much more remains to be done. Developing nations struggle to provide universal primary education because so much money goes toward debt payment. The forgiveness of the debt frees up funding so that free primary school education can be offered. Passage of the Global Poverty Act will make the elimination of poverty a consitutive element of US policy, thus legislating that we find solutions to the problem of global poverty.

I don't think its too much to ask of any of us. Pick up a pen and write your senator at US Senate, Washington, DC 20510. Say something like this (and I'm borrowing this example from Bread for the World):

Dear Senator:

I ask you to do whatever you can to provide more and better aid for the world's poorest countries. All nations agree--extreme poverty can be cut dramatically by 2015. Please do all in your power to increase poverty-focused development assistance by at least $5 billion in fiscal year 2009. And please work to ensure that Congress passes the Global Poverty Act.

Sincerely,

Your name

It's the least we can do. It means that we're backing up our desire to end poverty with action that can accomplish it. And we're demanding that our nation put its money to work so that it fulfills the promises it made when it put pen to paper and signed the Millennium Declaration.

Reflections on a King

This weekend's celebration of the life of Martin Luther King, Jr. is bringing back a memory for me that is at least ten years old. Sometime in the mid 1990s I found myself in Memphis, Tennessee. A church had asked me there to speak on some now long-forgotten topic. In an effort to be good hosts, church members inquired about what I'd like to do while I was in town.

"I'd love to go to the Lorraine Motel," I responded.

An absolute, stunned silence filled the church office. I suppose they expected me to say something like "Eat some ribs" or "Go to Graceland."

"Why in thunderation would you want to go there?" someone finally asked.

I remember being a bit shaken at the realization that I must have violated some sort of social norm with my request, though I did have the presence of mind to stand my ground and say that I really admired Dr. King for his courage and that I understood that the motel was now a memorial to his life and to the struggle for Civil Rights for African-Americans.

I was assured that such a visit was out of the question.

Then, later in the afternoon, one of the ministers pulled me aside.

"I'll be glad to take you to the motel," he said. "But please don't tell anyone that we went."

The next morning he picked me up and we made our way over. I don't remember much about the exhibits. But I do remember the fact that they had been set up in such a way that visitors ended up in the room that Dr. King occupied on the very last day of his life. It was made to look exactly as it must have looked just moments after he was assassinated in 1968.

I looked out across the parking lot to where his assassin pulled the trigger.

As I recall, the song, "Precious Lord, Take My Hand" was piped into the room. I listened to the powerful words--"Precious Lord, take my hand, lead me on, let me stand. I am tired. I am weak. I am worn. Through the storm, through the night, lead me on to the light. Take my hand, precious Lord, lead me home."

My eyes filled with tears--at what had been gained and what had been lost. And at the fact that thirty years after his death, a church would wonder why I wanted to celebrate the life of such a man. As I looked at my minister friend beside me, I noticed that he was also crying.

"That was really powerful," he said as we walked back to the car.

I nodded my head--and I let the words of the song lift up over me into the clouds--"Through the storm, through the night, lead us on to the light."

Take our hands, precious Lord. Lead us home.

Planeguage

I learned a new word the other day thanks to Delta Airlines. The word is "planeguage" (pronouced like "language"). And customers are introduced to it via various cute little cartoons that are woven through the movies, news and video that play over the entertainment system. The cartoons mock the lack of legroom, trauma of sitting in the middle seat, and other challenges that often cause airline customers to leap out of the emergency exit doors at 30,000 feet.

For example, one cartoon depicts a man in the middle seat trapped between two screaming children. Obviously, he's had enough and he screams loudly and puts his elbows squarely on the armrests in a move that absolutely traumatizes the children. The words "middle" and "man" drop from the top of the TV screen and then come together at the bottom---"middleman."

I'm sure that it is hilarious to watch--when you are far removed from the horrific realities of air travel. But I must confess that the humor is lost upon you when you are actually sitting in the middle seat or don't have enough leg room and have paid about $2000 to endure the indignities.

This was exactly my experience about 24 hours ago when I found myself on an international flight on Delta Airlines. In an effort to get from Temuco, Chile to Tucson, Arizona, I flew Lan Chile from Temuco to Santiago, Delta from Santiago to Atlanta, and American from Atlanta to DFW and from DFW to Tucson.

I must say that this was my worst experience ever on an airplane--and I have logged about 1.5 million miles in the air (since my first 10,000 mile journey at the age of 9). For some reason, over the last few months, Delta elected to squeeze another row of seats onto this particular airplane, a move which resulted in my absolute inability to put my feet under the seat in front of me.

This wouldn't have been so bad if the gentleman next to me hadn't been of such size that his prominent right cheek precluded any possibility that said cheek could fit under the armrest between us. And then Delta had the gall to put a cartoon called "planeguage" on the TV screens to mock me as I endured the indignities of the experience. "Ha, ha, ha," Delta seemed to be saying. "Isn't air travel a pain? Look at all the words we can invent to make fun of you as you sit back, relax and enjoy the flight!"

I walked back to the rear of the plane on at least two dozen occasions--and, at one point, a Delta flight attendant decided to say something about my frequent trips.

"Having a problem with leg room?" he asked.

"Oh, no," I responded. "There's no leg room to have problems with. I think there used to be something called 'legroom' but it seems to have disappeared."

"Well," he said (and if I'm lying, I'm dying--he actually said what I am about to say)--"You know, we all get larger as we get older and that makes us think the legroom is disappearing."

I guess that is what we call "planeguage." Planeguage is nothing more or less than plain language when it comes to air travel.

I've got some "planeguage" for Delta.

How about "United" or "American?"