A True Story

The story you are about to hear begins with a house. (But this is not a story about a house, although the house is integral to the telling.)

Polly Slater, the fourth of seven children, grew up here and is the main character of our story. Polly, a house and a family. The beginnings.

Now let’s shift our attention for a moment to another location only a handful of blocks away. This house, the Theta house, is where the roots of friendship grew so very deep and became tightly entangled for a group of eight college buddies.

Here we find a group of friends who refused to be separated by geography or time. They first stayed connected through letters and later through gatherings. Mary, Chris, Kate, Caroline, Jill, Linda, Lynn, and Polly.

As our story grows you can see that love had firm footing in Polly’s life. Her smile was light. Her laughter spoke joy. She was full of life. 

And then we lost her from this world. Her story ended far too close to its beginning. Forty-eight years old. A daughter. Sister. Wife. Mother. Teacher. Friend.

But wait, this is not the end. The story continues.

Look again at Polly’s childhood home. Although her family moved on years ago, the rooms are once more filled with life and love. Now the voices and laughter belong to young women who may never have known this indescribable thing called family. Who maybe didn’t get to stay in one place long enough to grow the deep roots of friendship. Our culture labels them foster children and for many, once they age out of the system they are on their own.

Unknowingly, they have become part of Polly’s story. And Polly has become a part of theirs. To them, this house is a safe place to land before venturing into the world. A place to further develop the skills needed to be independent adults. 

It's easy to imagine Polly now standing beside us, shoulder to shoulder, our faces pressed against the window. See the smile on her face, the tears in her eyes, as she watches her house once again become a home?

So now do you understand? The house is important to this story. But it is really about family and friendships. And now it has become an even bigger story.

The alchemy of love and hope contained within the architecture of a house. It is once again a home.

 

You are invited to become part of this story. The nonprofit organization “Anchored Hope House” is providing a transitional living program for young adults who have aged out of foster care. It just happens to be in Polly’s childhood home. For more information go to anchoredhopehouse.org.

To donate in remembrance of Polly, use the “Donate” button on the website and in the Comment section write “Polly Slater Wilson Memorial Fund.”

Donations will be used to support the programs and operations associated with this transitional living house for young women (18-24 years of age) exiting foster care.

Cardboard Sign

The edge of my hand
is smeared with colors from the markers

used to craft a message on a piece of cardboard,

using the back of an old desk calendar.

I look at the finished sign,

well aware that this is no work of art.

That the message is not clever and powerful, 

but rather, timid. Perhaps kind?

A child-like attempt at 

participating in an adult-world

that I have trouble understanding.

An effort to be for something

rather than always against.

Knowing that once finished, 

this sign would

be held with hesitancy,

by a person who rarely holds 

confident opinions (let alone protest signs).

A person who flees conflict.

Who does not like partisan labels.

Someone who is feeling confused

and often hopeless in today's world.

So why put myself out there?

I wrestled with the question, 

nearly talking myself out of going. 

Trying so hard to figure out the why.

The value. The point.

Really, what difference can a handful of people,

standing on the side of the road

in pretty much the middle of nowhere,

possibly make in the big scheme of things?

Is this only adding to the anger

and division?

It was only afterwards,

glimpsing the sign in the backseat of my car

that it came to me.

So quietly I almost missed it.

Ripples.

That's all.

That's the why.

Ripples.

Emanating from a stone

after it hits the water.

A stone, chosen carefully.

For me, small and smooth. 

(Not a stone you

would pick up if you were intending 

to cause pain.)

The kerplunk it makes 

is tiny. 

You have to listen carefully

to even hear it.

But then, almost immediately,

it becomes the center of an outward expansion.

Rapidly multiplying and growing before my eyes.

Telling me over and over, 

as the waves move from the center,

the why.

(Do you also see it?

Yes, yes, it might look different for you,

but it's there.)

I still don't know how to convey that message 

in words scrawled on a cardboard sign.

But now I'm glad I at least tried.

The weeping tree

An older gentleman,

seated in a well-used wheelchair,

sits under the scattered shade of the

blossom-covered canopy

of an old and gnarled tree.

Above him, a young boy

with a colorful backpack,

sits where the tree's massive branches

head off in opposing directions.

Both are watching

all the people 

carrying signs of protest.

Perhaps the man, who has lived long

and has already seen so much,

is looking for hope in the next generation

as he takes in the words they

choose to carry on home-made

cardboard signs.

Thinking that perhaps they will

do a better job of taking care of

each other and the earth.

Hoping that is so.

Maybe the young boy's dreams

are different -

maybe his biggest concern is simply

how he will manage to get back down.

Not how today's decisions 

might impact tomorrow's choices.

Over there, the little 

curly-headed girl, or maybe boy,

(isn't it funny how it doesn't matter?)

standing between her mother 

and grandmother,

or maybe two moms,

(isn't it funny how it doesn't matter?)

clapping wildly every time the crowd 

erupts in applause.

You can't help but grin

while watching her.

She probably won't remember

this moment in her life,

or know the hope she gave to those

who watched her joy.

Seeing love.

Some carry signs that make

their hidden struggles 

so very visible.

The man dressed in black

holding a sign that reveals his

battle with cancer.

Angry words profess

how frightened he is of funding cuts

for cancer research 

and access to healthcare.

The older couple, 

supporting each other 

as they navigate the crowd,

holding a sign for the protection of 

Social Security and Medicare.

The veterans,

some in Vietnam era coats,

asking us to take care of those

who risked so much,

impacted in ways we cannot 

really understand, 

challenging cuts to the VA.

Then there's the many people who

don't fall into accepted 

gender categories,

carrying signs that use every

color of the rainbow.

Who thought they had 

found a place in our society,

but now are frightened of

their future. 

The pleas for protection 

of so many things -

things we have perhaps been 

taking for granted -

national parks and forests, 

immigrants, education, 

scientific research, 

civil rights, freedom of speech, 

democracy, public health, 

environmental protection,

books, libraries, museums,

how our history

is written and remembered ...

Circling back to the tree -

it is not a weeping willow,

but it is weeping.

And yet today it speaks of hope.

The Good Is Still There

May I ask you something?

Do you find, 

that in this time

it is so very difficult 

to keep the divisiveness 

of "we" and "they"

out of our sentences?

But do you also 

believe that we must try?

Deep within ourselves

we know that  love 

and compassion 

need to be given 

the space to rise up.

But how do we stand up 

for what we believe

while leaving anger and hate 

(seemingly) unresolved?

It sounds impossible, but really, 

it is the only answer, isn't it?

How can we allow anything

to erase all the good 

we once saw in each other?

To give divisiveness 

such power is a tragedy 

I don't think we can survive.

As individuals, families, 

communities, as a country.

The good is still there.

Tomorrow, or the next day, 

or maybe years from now,

perhaps I will read 

these words and wonder

how could I have been 

so naive.

(In fact you might be

wondering that about me

now as you read this.

That's fair.)

But today I choose to name it hope.

And I will hang on 

as tightly as I can,

looking for the good in each other 

that we know is still there.

Falling back on 

the gentle powerful strength 

of humility and integrity 

as guides forward.

Praying that others 

might also make the effort

to find some good in me

as I make the small choices 

each day that add up to

a life.

Whether or not

we totally agree with each other

on all things.

A Prayer for the New Year

Here it is, the new year.

I have seen so many of these.

But really, this is just the day after yesterday

and the day before tomorrow, 

like any other.

We've done this before.

The creation of a calendar which follows

the earth's revolution around the sun

made this day significant.

Pretty cool, actually.

The spinning through space part.

But still, it is an opportunity 

to pause and reflect

on the past year and to be intentional

about the year to come.

For me, in this season of my life,

what does it mean to use this

bookend on the passing of time

to be intentional?

Let me try.

This is a time to count our many blessings 

and figure out how we can share these 

with others.

A time to remember 

that God's hope for the world

has nothing at all to do with the 

social and political constructs

we have carefully and stubbornly built.

Take a glimpse at the universe

as a reminder of how small 

our perspective really is. 

How little we really

truly understand.

And so I pray.

I pray (seriously) for world peace.

I pray (intentionally) for love, 

the kind that doesn't judge.

I pray (hopefully) for compassion

and generosity.

I pray (humbly) for 

mercy and forgiveness.

I pray (earnestly) for 

enough for everyone.

These are not just words, 

defined and sometimes

tarnished by religion.

They are actions

founded in love.

And while I have breath,

I should be doing what I can.

And so I pray.

Feeling overwhelmed 

because the task is so big

and I am so little.

Ah, there. I feel your hand in mine.

Yes, yes we can do this together.

(Even when our beliefs don't 

line up exactly

or look the same.)

We can do this together.

We have work to do.

 

Underestimating Faith

She doesn't like the questions, 

because to her and her mother before her,

faith is something private, personal,

experienced in actions 

not explained in words.

Still, she allows the questions

because, maybe, she wishes she had 

asked more of her own mother.

And so she answers the best she knows how.

Which is perfect.

She helps us imagine her

as a young girl. long hair in braids, 

sitting with her mother Sunday after Sunday, 

in a church that did little to nourish her soul.

(But perhaps it taught her 

that showing up is the first step.)

The sermons, as she remembers,

did not even begin to unlock 

the mysteries of the Divine for her.

But she discovered them later.

God does that. 

Small beginnings, one after another -

a year at a Christian college, 

then a class at the University of Iowa, 

that looked at the Bible as literature.

God's word disguised 

as a Humanities credit.

God does that too.

Married in her husband's childhood church, 

they moved around too much in the early

years of life together

to join a congregation of their own.

She tells us of visiting St. Andrews the first time.

remembering the cold metal folding chairs 

in the fellowship hall

(there was no sanctuary at that time).

She recalls the screaming kids

the chaos of that first visit.

She did not plan to go back.

Funny thing is, that's where they ended up.

And it was then that her faith deepened 

with Bible studies, women's retreats, 

singing in the choir, 

teaching Sunday school, 

getting involved in the church leadership,

putting together dramatic performances,

seamlessly linking her beliefs with 

her passions.

The small tributaries - 

her father's church,

her mother's church, 

her husband's family's church,

and finally her own church - 

all fed into something larger, 

unexpected, always changing.

A sacred place with gentle twists and turns.

God works that way.

Now at 90 years old

she gets up from her pew and walks

the familiar path up to the altar 

to receive the sacraments,

like she has, so many times before.

Perhaps when you 

grab the corners of your faith

and hold it next to someone else’s

it doesn't seem to measure up.

But to those who know her,

her faith is easy to see.

The questions make her uncomfortable.

They always have.

Still, she seems glad we asked.

The Gospel as Told By a Woman

They weren't present at the Passover meal,

but they might have been the hands that prepared it.

(You can always find them in the story

but you often have to look past the main characters.)

They gathered at the foot of the cross

paralyzed by heartbreak and grief

as the light of the world was snuffed out

and the world became dark.

They headed for the tomb

at daybreak as the Sabbath ended

driven by the need to care for their Lord's body

and became the first witnesses 

of the resurrection,

delivering unbelievable news to the disciples

and really, the world.

What I would give

to hear the story of God's love through Jesus,

told by these woman.

The women who loved deeply enough

to be there, in the midst of the suffering and hate.

Bearing witness as it turned into

the Greatest Love.

Come, listen.