We have been blindsided by the stories and images coming out of Haiti, after the devastating earthquake. A frequent question from parents, now and at past similar events, is how to support children to move from worry and fear, to compassion and care for others. This is a challenging parenting task, dealing with our own fears and grief while reflecting confidence to our children about faith, safety and humanity. You’d think we’d be good at this–for certainly no parent, throughout time, has been able to make it through the parenting years without a catastrophe in the family, town or world. And yet, this part of parenting doesn’t always come naturally.

Prepare and insulate. Commit to caring for children (and even teens) enough to set aside your hunger for news, to turn the TV, radio and screen media off. The motivation for network television is ratings, not conveying news in such a way that is appropriate for children. Even if you think your children are not paying attention, the tone of the news reporter’s voice and the emotional soundtrack, will draw children in. The images and shocking stories will make your conversations nearly impossible to move children from fear to empowered caring. This may mean avoiding waiting rooms with television or having a conversation with unaware grandparents, and it will take purpose and intention.

Don’t sugar coat. We all know sugar is bad for children–even when it’s used to cover up bad news. Present your child with the information they NEED to know in an age appropriate way. Preschool children have very few tools to deal with news like the ground shaking, and buildings falling on people. They do not have the skills of abstraction to know it is not imminent to them. Focus on tangible ways they can help–they can understand you saying, “I heard about some people that need shoes. Could we look in your closet to see if there is an extra pair of shoes to share?” Elementary children are likely to have heard about such a catastrophe from sources other than you. The facts could be tainted-but in the case of Haiti, the facts are scary enough. Even though they have the capacity to reason it happened far away, in a fault area, with bad building codes, their worry and emotions can easily get the best of them. Help them know that they are safe, but more importantly, let them know they are loved. Assure them that sometimes, even in our own lives, sad things happen, but you will always seek to protect them, be on their side and love them, no matter what. You are the closest thing to a Good Shepherd they will physically know. Teens seem so tough, but they may be the most vulnerable to such events because they may be more bombarded by sensational media and social networks. Their immense concern, can give way to despair and hopelessness if they feel like their help is just a drop in the ocean. Confront this directly by saying (and modeling) that they need to limit absorbing and worrying about the events, and try to find ways to help. Teens need to know the justice that comes from empowerment to affect change, instead of feeling hopeless and helpless at a seemingly overwhelming situation.

I hear Rachel crying for her children. Listen. Give way to your own sadness and grief, in ways that convey to your children empathy, but doesn’t scare them. Pull out the candles and dust off the prayers! And cry deeply in the shower. It is impossible to not see the images and hear the stories, without our own hearts breaking. Empathy is a wonderful human emotion. When we mark the sadness in tangible and hopeful ways we provide tools for our children to recognize the presence of the divine in others and themselves. Seek out ways, either in families or faith communities, for spiritual direction, such as storytelling, wondering and singing in community. Children at St. Martin’s are hearing in their Godly Play Sunday School the parables of the Good Shepherd, Good Samaritan, Great Pearl and Mustard Seed soon. These stories guide children to wonder about being cared for in a scary place or time, an inclusive kingdom, value, worth and a global neighborhood.

Don’t drag the wrath of God into this! Avoid language that would convey that God caused such suffering or is in some way punishing someone. Bad things happen, and have been happening for all of history. If we have faith in a merciful, loving God, we know that God is crying, too, when any children of the Earth are hurting. This is surely the most paramount teachable moment that comes from a disaster. When children know that God doesn’t take sides or toss lightening bolts at the wicked, they are empowered to love each other as God loves them. If that happens one by one, there WILL be peace on earth, even amid earthquakes, tornadoes and floods.

Share with each other. Children and youth model what they see in their family. Use tragedies such as this to become a family that donates time, energy and resources to others with no other motivation than to help your global neighbor.

An alien abduction is about the only explanation I can muster regarding our recent family trip to Chicago.

We had it planned for awhile, but we didn’t fully work out the details until the last week or really when we got there. The purpose of our trip was to visit our friends, Carmen, Mike, Jesse and Elan, who have recently moved to Chicago from Austin, so Carmen could finish seminary. They live on Sesame Street. Not really, but they might as well. They only need a giant prehistoric furry elephant lumbering down the alley and a monster in the trashcan. The rest is the same. The stoop, the courtyard filled with people, the school just down the street with a US map on the concrete basketball court. It was really like falling into the Sesame Street set–and these kids from the wide-open Texas loved it.

The word “differences” was ringing in my ears. Sometimes a bit of a Godly Play story just hangs with me. Even if I’ve heard it before, I’ll latch onto to some new favorite part. This time it was from the “Falling Apart” lesson-recognizable to most as the Adam and Eve story. The lingering text is:

The differences also did something wonderful. Now Adam and Eve could take things apart and put them back together again. They could be creators, almost like God. They couldn’t make something out of nothing, but they could make something out of differences.

How liberating and beautiful it is to see differences as our raw material for our own creations. It was a wonderful thing to have ringing in my ears in Chicago–it embodies diversity AND it is one fertile, creative place.

We walked or took the train most everywhere-that was a huge difference, right off the bat from Austin. But, that was great because not only did we lighten our carbon footprint and exercise–but we could see people. As you passed, you’d look in their eyes and nod or say hello. You could appreciate the beautiful saxophone music under the bridge and notice how stylish comfortable shoes could be. I felt connected to be in the web of the city. We went to the most breathtaking monuments to creativity and differences: the Art Institute, the Field Museum and the Robie House–the details of which could be an entire post on its own. I’ve now added museums right there with nature as those contemplative places that you must be fully present in the now and might get a glimpse of God. We went to two worships, both the Blessing of the Animals, St. James Episcopal Cathedral and the Lutheran School of Theology at Chicago’s Monday chapel. A well-placed bark is always a blessed juxtaposition to liturgy.

I know you’re curious about the space aliens. I don’t really remember the actual aliens, but still I argue that is the only explanation. It happened on Friday night. You see, our friend Carmen, not known for her singing or musical ability (I didn’t say bad–just not known) has joined a Gospel Choir. At this point insert the image of a spaceship dropping me, Carmen and Duke in the middle of a South Chicago Church Revival. Oh yes, it was cool. Different–absolutely. Creative–totally. It was an old Lutheran church, and probably many of the old folks had been baptized there as babies. Just about every part of it was different from the worship I am accustom to, and that made the things that were the same stick out. The hymnal in the pews were the same, and I knew all the words by heart to one of the songs–although I’ve not ever sung it so soulfully. The old folks were at the front and the youth at the back. The chicken and bundt cake at the pot luck was made with the same care. The only difference between my grandmother’s hand and one of their’s was the shade of the skin. It was a happy abduction.

For me, this trip became how I played with the story ringing in my ears, and it was a wonderful place to play. Chicago (or I wonder if any place that is not our home) can highlight our differences as points of creativity and growth. I wonder if differences ARE the parts of humanity that connect the many ways we are created in God’s image? I wonder if we are more like God because of our differences, than because of our likenesses?

Today is one of those family anniversaries that go by with little fanfare. Yet we quietly remember this day as the day our understanding of HOPE changed. I wish all we needed to do to keep our children safe, was to hold them close. Parenting is as much (or more) about letting them go, then holding them tight.

The last time I was in New Orleans was also the last time the Evanagelical Lutheran Church in America youth gathered there. Seems like a weird place to send 50,000 high school youth. We have had a lot of water under the bridge since the River of Hope in July of 1997. It was before 911 and before Katrina. The River of Hope marked the very beginning of a chapter in my own life, too. As youth prepare to gather in New Orleans once again, I can’t help but feel a sense of joy and anticipation at what new hope will be found there in that city once again.

My husband, Duke and I were accompanying seventeen young people from our church, Trinity in Fort Worth. We had spent a lot of time with these people as their volunteer youth sponsors when they were in middle school. They were so different as high school youth—grown-up. We felt so lucky to get to be with them on this trip. We joked with our third chaperone, Cameron Brown, on the bus-ride south “We’re taking seventeen youth down there, we just need to bring seventeen back.” It was a joke, because we knew only good things were in store for us.

New Orleans is hot and humid in July. The easiest way to get around was to walk–close to 50,000 of us—walking. We walked from our hotel, near the water, up to the Super Dome and back again, morning and evening. We always walked behind and in front of someone wearing a River of Hope t-shirt—always hope, always walking. In the middle of the day, we walked around New Orleans, going on service treks or devo’s especially designed to let us see sights or serve the city. We ate great food.

Did I mention I was seven months pregnant? We were expecting our second daughter soon. We felt a little buoyant and invincible, at least that is how we felt when we signed up to go. But, even in July in New Orleans, I felt pretty buoyant. There is something wonderful about the second baby—we KNEW the immeasurable joy in store for us.

The only dilemma weighing on our mind in New Orleans was what to name this new baby. We picked a very unique name for our first daughter, Navy. The problem with such a perfectly wonderful and unique name for the first baby, is WHAT could we possibly name the second daughter? Somehow the Gathering highlighted this problem. 50,000 names out there, surely we would like one.

We had some rules, like we couldn’t pick a name from our own youth group—that would look like favoritism. It couldn’t start with “B.” (Duke could make up new rules on the fly.) It also seemed like the importance of names were constantly pointed out—many youth were baptized there in the Super Dome—claiming their new name, “child of God.” Walter Wangerin, Jr. was the preacher the last night. It was a story of Jesus on the cross calling out our name. 50,000 people yelled out their name and then silence. 50,000 youth silent. But no new name rang in our ears.

We kept walking beside, behind and ahead of all these youth, with River of Hope emblazoned on their backs. We wanted her to grow-up like them, all 50,000. They were invincible and brave, like youth should be, yet kind. Taxi cab drivers were amazed by them. Old blues-musicians in Preservation Hall had tears in their eyes as the 50,000 begged for multiple encores of “When the Saints Come Marching In.” They danced and sang to Lost and Found’s music. Why couldn’t we name her after them? All of them. And with the songs ringing in our ears, it all made sense. Her name was Hope.

We brought seventeen youth safely back to Fort Worth. Our seventeen went on to go into the Coast Guard, go to college, become Miss Texas, get married, become a pastor and many other wonderfully hopeful paths.

Hope was an easy baby. While still in the hospital, a nurse said “There is that baby with gold in her hair.” She was baptized on the first Sunday in Advent. She loved animals and Sunday School. She had a smile that could melt the coldest heart. She exuded Hope.

On Maundy Thursday, in the year 2000, Hope was sick. We skipped an out-of-town Easter trip. Finally, on Tuesday we took her in to the doctor, and (of course) she appeared well in his office. The doctor was old and wise, and did a CBC “just to be on the safe side.” He came back in the room and said, “I would get down on my knees and pray for this to not be true, but Hope has leukemia.”

Those words were like a hurricane bearing down on the coast, blowing sheet metal and nails. So our understanding of what it meant to hope, shifted.

The book Crazy Talk defines “Hope” as “the promise of a future worth the trouble it takes to get out of bed in the morning.” We knew Hope’s future—it was to grow up to be one of the 50,000. It was what got us up in the morning. It was what made us rewire our brain to understand pediatric oncology. It was what let us receive help, instead of give it.

One week before Thanksgiving, I woke up to hear my name yelled from a cross, or hell, or some terrible place. It was my husband yelling my name from Hope’s bedside. She died during the night. We woke up without Hope.

I think they came to the memorial service and sent cards–the seventeen we brought back from New Orleans. When I looked at them, somehow I could still recognize a thing called hope, even when it seemed the gravity that held Hope to the earth had failed.

Our world kept spinning. The cold of shock, thaws to the pain of grief. It is hard to salvage much from that time, except the air God created continued to fill our lungs. Then our shared world changed. The whole country was brought to its knees and shared grief that had become our “new normal” on September 11, 2001. Four days later our family welcomed a new daughter, Summer Grace.

As the storm surge of a hurricane flooded New Orleans, I cried. The Super Dome had been a sacred place for the 50,000, how could the hope have left even that place, too? They had scattered everywhere around the country, the 50,000. Could they not re-claim that holy ground and reach out to that broken community? Does the call for justice and kindness in youth, fade in adulthood?

Our world (mine and yours) has changed since the last time I was in New Orleans. But it is not a world of despair. To quote Johann von Staupitz speaking to Martin Luther, “Don’t you know that God commands you to hope?”

A new 50,000 (give or take) will gather in New Orleans in July 2009, and the new stories of hope will abound. New Orleans is a little step of independance–the kind of which leads young people beyond their status quo understanding and small home towns. They will change the city, help rebuild, bring tears to the eyes of tired, old men, sing, dance and walk. People will look to them and see hope.

October 19–Have you ever seen the stars? I mean really seen the them, like Abraham saw the them? Last night and the night before last I laid down in the middle of the road at 9 o’clock at night with many other friends on a church camping trip to Big Bend National Park. You cannot believe the stars. Jupiter was as bright as a candle. We could both see the Milky Way as a fuzzy band across the sky, but we are also a part of the Milky Way galaxy. We could see our neighboring Andromeda galaxy through binoculars. (That really changes the question, “Who is my neighbor?”) We couldn’t even begin to count the stars, or answer the children questioning, “How many are there?” It changes God’s promise to Abraham to truly see the stars.

Tonight I’m home from the wilderness of Big Bend, and I have visited my backyard. The sky here is boring: a few determined stars and some airplanes. If this was the only sky I knew to understand God’s promises, how much would I miss? Please, take your children to the wilderness and look up!

October 5, 2008–Today’s Gospel text was Matthew 21:33-46. To set the stage, Jesus is in Jerusalem the last week of his life. He is preaching in the Temple and is continuing a series of parables with a strong theme of rejection. People have been given something wonderful, and they waste it, don’t recognize it or somehow mess up the situation. The theme is fairly consistent that the people appearing to not be the rightful receipients of the gift are the ones that welcome it with joy.

This series of parables ends with Jesus recalling the Psalms118:22-23 text: The stone that the builders rejected has become the cornerstone; this was the Lord’s doing and it is amazing in our eyes.”While I’m not a Greek scholar, my NRSV says he goes on to describe this “cornerstone” as something that could be tripped over or something that would fall on you.

In Michael Yardley’s Architecture History class in the early 1990’s, he mentioned something as he described one of the most influential architectural leaps of ancient architecture: the Roman keystone. The ancient word for keystone was used interchangebly with cornerstone. The Roman keystone, or capstone, was the perfectly hewed stone that carried the load, by compression, for the arch and the load above it. This innovation allowed for spans to increase, allowed for aquaducts, great gates and walls to spread across the land with the Roman army and culture. It gained common use increasingly in the time of Jesus and the technology exploded with spinning the arch on it’s axis to form a dome as early as the first century AD.

The description of the cornerstone in the Psalms text was most surely our traditional (to lay a straight course) understanding of it, for the keystone technology would not be familiar at that time. But in the time of Jesus, the keystone would be as innovative and talked about as the Eiffel Tower, Falling Water, Bird Nest or Water Cube–but it was Roman. It symbolized the pop-power culture of the time. So I wonder if Jesus was speaking of this “cornerstone” as not just one low down, to be tripped on, but maybe as one that is both carrying and distributing the load? What would that really mean then?

I wonder if God can be both the creative spirit in the very foundational structures of the universe and still somehow be working, holding things together? Or maybe it is not that gradiose. Maybe this was a social statement, to not be so enamored with the newest technology, culture and innovation, so as to forget our core principles of humanity: love God, love God’s creation. Or maybe this was truly a carpenter’s commentary on building materials or a foretelling of the Temple’s pending fall. What do you think?

Today, some children (Sanctuary class) and I played with this story. We built a Roman arch with some beautiful blocks designed just for this purpose. The slate floor didn’t make a very even surface, but we got it together. When we removed the scaffolding, and the arch held, there was a gasp. They believed it would work, but I don’t know if they really knew it would work. Somehow all the “what-ifs” just didn’t matter. The wonder didn’t come when it all came tumbling down–the wonder was that it held up.