A quick glance at the October calendar shows that Halloween is fast approaching. As the warm days of late fall scoot past us, fading into cooler days that require a jacket or heavy sweater, leaves are turning an array of colors….winds are more at play in the air than not….rain teases with hints of snowflakes that will soon become winter’s regular source of joy or disdain depending on perspective. But, before we can build snowmen, or drag out dusty shovels, there is Halloween.

I got to reminiscing of my childhood memories that surround this day of the year tagged as absolutely acceptable to dress up in a cute or outlandish costume…yell at people to come to their doors…and fill your bucket or bag with candy. Lots of candy depending on your neighbors’ generosity or how many houses you’d “hit”….a common form of communicating success back in the late 50s and 60s during my Trick or Treating career. “Hey, how many houses did you ‘hit’”? “How many blocks did your parents let you go?” “Did you get lots of good stuff? Any crummy apples or popcorn balls? Ya, there were always those few people that gave out shiny red apples or homemade popcorn balls. Who wanted those? Not me, as I recall.

My first store bought costume was that of a witch. My outfit consisted of a skirt, cape, hat and mask. I wore that simple costume for at least two or three years…until one year I “went as a hobo”…. No fancy bag or bucket for me. Most of us kids used a pillowcase to carry our candy from house to house, twisting it round and round so our treasures were kept safe as we made our way up and down streets illuminated only by porch lights and the big street lights on corners. We always traveled in small groups–most parents stayed home to hand out candy…very few teenagers joined us because the general rule was by the time you reached junior high age, trick or treating ended for you. The evening was dedicated to the “little kids”…

Our neighborhood had a big number of kids so the age range was wide…there were always enough little kids to entertain every year…and as the boys in our neighborhood got too old, they came up with other ways to enjoy a dark night…

I remember one year that some of the boys–one of my brothers included–came up with a coffin and put Donny in it, dressed in a scary costume. Donny was smaller than the other guys so he was the logical choice for them to carry around….allowing him to pop up every once in a while and yell BOO! They were quite effective….we fed their desire to be scary…running away  screaming in terror…even though we knew it was Donny. There’s something eerie about a dark sky, a neighborhood slowly losing light as porch lights turned off….the boys finding trees or bushes to hide the coffin until a group of us walked by their hiding spots. 

Celebrating Halloween has changed over the years. What usually took about a week to purchase a costume has become big business now, with stores dedicated to this lone holiday. Yard decorations that are lifesize now accompany or replace one lonely jack-o-lantern that sits on a porch waiting for children to arrive. More elaborate costumes hang from clothing racks…taking away any need to make a homemade costume I guess. Are the days of going through family clothes to become a hobo…or cutting up an old sheet to become a mummy or ghost behind us? 

To be honest, Halloween gives me mixed emotions. I miss the simplicity of the event. I miss homemade costumes. I miss staring at the skyline and clock, waiting for complete darkness to swallow the last rays of daylight, signaling it was time to “hit” the sidewalks.  I miss my mom going through my candy, taking the candy bars as though it was some form of payment…I miss the innocence of not worrying about my candy being tampered or tainted…I miss jack-o-lanterns glowing on the corner of porches….I don’t miss getting shiny red apples or homemade popcorn balls…somethings never change in that respect I guess.

Labels

Tanisha. Julie. Stephanie. Gloria. Lisa. Lyndsey. Wendy. Frank. Tom. Branden. Barbara. Jay. Logan. Denise. Jaden. Melissa. Ashley. Tammy. Jason. Cheryl. Dan. Jerrid. 

Everyone named above is either a family member or a friend. Each is unique. Some of them have brown skin…some have white skin…one has red hair….one is a Type I diabetic.. Two of them are in recovery from addictions…one is a doctor and one a teacher….one is a very good friend with graying curly hair…one is adopted…one is Chinese…one has passed away…two are pastors (one female, one male)…one is a single mom…two are “gluten free”….one is very blond…one is a widow….one is a young married mother of two…one is married and has three boys and a daughter…..one is Korean AND adopted….one is gay…

If I were to introduce you to either of these dear people I would say “please meet Tanisha”. If I were talking about her in a conversation with you I would refer to her as Tanisha, one of my very best friends.  I could tell you what a wonderful job she is doing parenting a child all by herself; she is a single mom. Does her skin color matter? No.

What about Frank? Frank is a great guy we met this past summer when he came to our church to speak about global missions work within our denomination. He spent a Saturday night in our home. When I tell you about Frank and the work he’s doing for our Lord, is it important that you know his ethnicity? Not to me it doesn’t.

When I brag about Melissa or introduce her to you….do you NEED to know she’s a Type I diabetic? No, not really, not unless you’re close enough in our circle to watch for warning signs if her numbers go wonky. Then it matters….

If I’m talking about my two good guy friends who are part of my Celebrate Recovery Forever Family do I need to tell you one is tall, one is shorter in stature? Or divulge to you their addictions? No.

Branden is a cousin. Is he brown or white? You can guess. Jaden is a great niece. Is she the doctor in our family or the adopted gal? Does it matter when I’m bragging about them? Only if their achievements and how they came into our family is part of the story.

Labels. I don’t care how our society has been quick to “label” people. White, Brown. Black. Skinny, Fat. Tall. Short. Homophobic. Xenophobic. Radical. Liberal. Conservative. Leftist. Deplorable. Dem. MAGA. Republican. Gay. Bi. Straight. Trans. Fluid. Furrie. 

I’m finding myself in a place of self reflection today, asking myself how our culture got to this place? It seems that suddenly some labels offend us while others do not. I guess a simple way for me to justify the need for a label is those found on our food products. For some people, it’s crucial to their health to know if something contains gluten or too much sugar. 

When it comes to skin color, I guess it’s important to differentiate skin color, hair style, color of eyes, height, etc.only  if we’re describing someone to a police officer. In everyday conversations…um, I don’t think it’s necessary. Merely my humble opinion and my personal decision to regard my family and friends as fellow human beings, living in communities…much like crayons sharing the space in their box. 

For me, the most used word lately in any news story is the term “racist”. I hold a lot of disdain for this word. Aren’t we ONE human race? Did I miss something in science back in junior high school or Sunday School? Didn’t God create ONE mankind and from the stroke of His creative artbrush make us all  different shades of skin tone? Some light…some dark….some very dark…and some brown…some who sunburn easily and others who take on beautiful tans during summer months. 

I always chuckle when I’m filling out a form that asks gender. We’ve gone from two to several choices now. Then there’s the boxes to check if you are caucasion, hispanic, black, or other.  So, under “Other” I have begun checking that box and writing in Child of God.Call me radical if you want. If society wants everyone to be labeled,  I’m choosing  what is MY truth. I guess doing so may cause me to earn another “label”–rebellious one or radical.  It’s okay…I’m sticking with Child of God. I like the sound of that much better than anything other people might throw on me in the hope that it sticks.

Water Troughs & Baptism

What does a shiny animal water trough and baptism have in common? To the average person, nothing. To the one going under the water, everything.

This past weekend our 7 year old granddaughter was baptized. She was the only youngster to go under the water Sunday morning. A second person, much older than she, followed suit. Both went under the water…washing away the “old” person and coming up “new”. It’s exciting when any one makes the decision to be baptized in a public setting…it’s another whole new level of joy when it’s your own child! Seeing her smile…witnessing her enthusiasm…hearing people hoot and holler words of love as hands clapped in a fury of happiness for this dear little soul is a moment I will never forget.

Following Macklynn’s baptism…coming out of the water….she jumped into her daddy’s arms and snuggled in as he carried her off the platform, warm towel around her little wet body. I was able to capture the moment…a usual pose for father and daughter. She loves being held by her dad, wrapping her small arms around his neck where it is very evident she feels protected, safe, cared for no matter what comes her way…that’s what a good daddy does for his children.

I think the two of them–caught in this familiar pose–show a perfect example of how each one of us who belong to God can be assured of His perfect and unconditional love, too. Though she is a mere seven, Macklynn knows this truth. She was dedicated to the Lord when an infant and has been in church almost every weekend…she has learned to pray…at mealtime…before bed….for loved ones who need healing…she’s been an active participant in godly conversations with family and friends. She knows her Father.

On one particular Saturday morning, when Macky was about 3 years old, she came into the bedroom where I have my prayer chair in a corner. I had gotten up earlier than she (she had spent the night) and by the time I had finished reading a portion of scripture and began writing my prayers in my journal, she entered the room. Of course, she asked what I was doing and as I explained I also told her that if she made the decision to stay with me, she needed to be quiet. She agreed. Before long, the quiet was interrupted with her asking if she could write her prayers too. I gave her a piece of paper, pencil and she sat down on the floor by my feet. “Gramma, I don’t know how to write the “numbers” (her toddlerish word for letters).

“It’s ok, Macky. God can read what you write.”

Very carefully she drew 3 wavy lines across her page.

“Imitate God, therefore, in everything you do, because you are his dear children. Live a life filled with love, following the example of Christ. He loved us and offered himself as a sacrifice for us, a pleasing aroma to God”. Ephesians 5: 1-2

Well, scripture says to “imitate God” but I’m pretty sure He doesn’t mind that she desired to copy gramma that Saturday morning with her prayers being written out to Him…that precious morning is a treasured memory now….she’s growing up very nicely, currently attending second grade in school, learning how to read and write her “numbers” and “letters”.  Prayers are taking on a bit more maturity…snuggles with her daddy are ongoing…being under the wings of her heavenly Father continues to be her rightful place, too…arms around His neck…as He guides each step on the path He has lovingly laid before her.

Identifying Character Flaws

What does a cute black dress adorned with red apples have to do with character flaws? In my case, plenty.

Today, I’m taking you back to my childhood to a day when I was probably 7 or 8. Most likely I was in the second grade at that age. My birthday falls in early November and although I’m not sure if I received a really cute skirt as a gift or if my mother had purchased it for me, this newly acquired piece of apparel became the focal point of an intense argument between me and my mom. At age 68 I can still see the skirt. It was a black and white pattern and along the hem were big red apples. Small for my age, when I tried on the skirt, where it should have fallen just below my knees, this one came down to about my ankles. I was so excited to wear the new skirt and had it on, ready to go to school when mom interrupted my plan.

“Susan, you can’t wear your new skirt yet”.

“Why? I like it”

“I know you like it, but it needs to be hemmed first. It’s too long”

“No, it’s not. I want to wear it”.

This is when the fight started… fueled by the back and forth of our tongue lashings for one another. The room got heated…both of us grew more exasperated as we refused to give in until mom said “All right, go ahead–wear it if you want to, but don’t come to me complaining that the kids laughed at you.” Her decision to “let go and let me” was the weapon that sucked the air out of my stubborn-need to be right-I’m gonna do things my way balloon. Suddenly, mom made sense. I certainly didn’t want to be laughed at by my friends. . 

Sixty some years later, I can still see the skirt, my bedroom, mom’s defiant face, my own angry face, and admittedly, probably some fist clenching and feet stomping. I can hear her words “go ahead then….” Looking back on that memory is an ability–while swallowing a lot of pride–to admit that that argument was the beginning of my character flaw “a need to be right”. 

I won’t bore you–or more honestly–expose the numerous times in my 68 years that I’ve fallen into the trap of having to be right. I’m not proud of the flaw, rather I’m pleased that I have recognized it, have a window to see where it began, and have begun the work of learning how to overcome my tendency to do the wrong thing…. replace it with listening, yielding, taking inventory of my emotions in the moment….setting aside pride for humility.

It’s funny. Although I can vividly remember my cute apple skirt, the argument, I cannot recall if I actually got to wear it after that morning’s argument. Maybe the part I do have embedded in my mind is there to help teach a lesson that God wants me to learn as I work daily on my character flaws. So, this morning, in my journal, as I revisited this unfortunate argument with my mom, I listed where I was wrong…defiance, disrespect, anger, control…the “need to be right”. Then, I asked God to forgive me for my bad behavior towards my mother…after all, I realize now she wasn’t trying to “control” me…she was actually loving me enough to protect me from possible humiliation from my peers. Isn’t that what a mom is supposed to do?

Identifying character flaws can be painful. But, trust me. The habit of continuing living in them, compared to the freedom when self evaluation produces positive change, is worth a bushel of apples. Big, red ones, I might add.