I found the following piece helpful in how one goes about to find a career path. "If our will and sympathy and our capacity exists regarding a certain vocation, it will take a very slight stimulus to guide us into the proper channel. But unless the career is in harmony with our natural aptitude, it will prove neither prosperous nor tranquil. Dryden tells us that -- "What the child admired, The youth endeavored, and the man acquired."

Milton's thoughts are along the same theme;

"The childhood shows the man, as morning shows the day." And therefore it is of vital importance that in childhood we should be surrounded by everything that can assist in elevating, purifying, strengthening --- everything that will cherish our good impulses and master our inclinations to evil --- everything that will cultivate all that is true and honest, simple and generous in our nature." W.H. Davenport Adams.

 

The following poem talks about our desires to be more, and how we almost achieve it, but then in the busyness of life we fail. 

 "Have we not all, amid life's petty strife,

a pure ideal of a noble life

that once seemed possible? 

Did we not hear the flutter of its wings

and feel it near, 

and just within our reach? 

It was.  And yet

we lost it in this daily jar and fret." 

Adelaide A. Procter

The girl on the left is Rosina. She is a 14-year-old sex worker in Bangladesh.

When Jesus began His ministry he read from Isaiah to explain why He came, what He will do, and what the kingdom of God is --

"The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because he hath anointed me to preach the gospel to the poor;

he hath sent me to heal the brokenhearted,

to preach deliverance to the captives,

and recovering of sight to the blind,

to set at liberty them that are bruised,

To preach the acceptable year of the Lord."

His mission, and ours, is demanding, and it requires sacrifice, compassion and deep commitment to love our neighbor, even as we love ourselves.

The Pharisees would rather debate the scriptures, teach the scriptures and study the scriptures; but Jesus wanted them, and us, to live the scriptures. To walk as He walked, to love as He loved and to be known by that.

The Pharisees wanted a religion that kept them from the world; Jesus wanted His disciples to be in the world, working with the lost, the least, and the last.

"This is my commandment, that you love one another, just as I have loved you." John 15:12

Editorial Photo: GMB Akash

 Trigger warning - suicide

Suicide - some answers..

 I'm no expert on suicide but in my extended family there have been 3 suicides, so I've pondered it a lot. 

There are dark seasons we all go through at one point or another, and needless to say, if one takes their life it is the darkest season they've ever faced. 

Some struggle with depression for years for various reasons, and child abuse, in all its hideous forms, are top of the list. 

But even someone whose life has been great, but suddenly a single tragedy strikes, like the loss of a sibling, a child, or even a loved friend, can cause such shock, and feelings so intense, and they've never felt anything like this before, it can seem overwhelming. 

Of course some medications have suicide risks, and then there are horrid mistakes we've made in the heat of the moment and when a cooler head returns, we feel we can't live with or forgive ourselves for. 

I'm sure there are other causes as well, but I'm convinced of this, a person's life and value is not to be judged by their lowest point, and I believe God does not judge us at our worst, nor should we. 

 The hardest part for those left behind is the haunting questions, "Why" and "What could I have done." And of course they are never answered.... 

Lastly I'll share this piece, I think it is so well said ----- 

"The so-called 'psychotically depressed' person who tries to kill herself doesn’t do so because death seems suddenly appealing. 

The person in whom Its invisible agony reaches a certain unendurable level will kill herself the same way a trapped person will eventually jump from the window of a burning high-rise. 

Make no mistake about people who leap from burning windows. Their terror of falling from a great height is still just as great as it would be for you or me standing speculatively at the same window just checking out the view; i.e., the fear of falling remains a constant. 

The variable here is the other terror, the fire’s flames: when the flames get close enough, falling to death becomes the slightly less terrible of two terrors.

It’s not desiring the fall; it’s terror of the flames. 

And yet nobody down on the sidewalk, looking up and yelling ‘Don’t!’ and ‘Hang on!’, can understand the jump. Not really. 

You’d have to have personally been trapped and felt flames to really understand a terror way beyond falling."

 

"And Jesus will not judge by what His eyes see, Nor make a decision by what His ears hear" Is.11:3 

 When I read this it jumped off the page! I realized how many shallow judgments I make based on appearance or rhetoric I've heard. Jesus always saw through the outside appearance into the heart. 

He was like Job who, "investigated the case which he did not know."29:16 

 I am often like the Pharisee who said, "“If this man were a prophet, he would know who is touching him and what kind of woman she is—that she is a sinner.”  

Truly, the 'deep things of God' are to understand each person has a story, and when we know it, we can better judge how to help them.

The passage in Isaiah is a prophetic passage about Jesus.

 This story was shared with me by Ann Stewart Porter, one of God's mentors for me; with her permission. 

"I’m in Downtown Denver, Colorado.

A place I rarely visit for any reason.

It is 4:00 in the morning. A.M.

It’s summer, but not hot.

I’ve had to get up by 2:30 a.m. to get

here before daylight, since I’m a good ways from Denver, but there’s little traffic this time of morning. I’m grateful.

I’m not a morning person.

We park at an old rundown apartment complex, in a place that reminds me why I hate the city.

But I’m here for my Nursing training.

Shirley jumped out in her white uniform and coat, and we walk cautiously through the naked bulbs on the top of the crusty outside.

I am sure we will be robbed, raped

or murdered, but we are not.

It’s cold. It’s dark. It’s scary.

“I’ve got the key, so we’ll just knock and go on in.” She remarks and I can tell she’s done this a dozen times.

“Althea?” She speaks loud enough, but not thundering.

“It’s me. And I’ve got a friend this morning.”

We enter a dull pink plastered bedroom, with a hospital bed and a swing to the side. It’s a Hoyle lift.

They exchange morning conversation. Althea has slept okay. But what if she had not?

Althea is a little bigger than our Rachel, but has her mind intact.

It’s her body that has betrayed her, and I determine I will not cry.

We do everything from get her out of bed, to the bathroom, shower her, get her dressed, feed her the breakfast I cooked, and leave an hour later, having sit her in her black wheelchair. She’s waiting on a bus to take her to her job at a local college.

She has no one else.

If Shirley did not come each morning, Althea would eventually

die in that old plastered pink room.

Alone. The world never knowing.

And I try not to cry as I think of it.

Shirley whisks me off in the sunrise to an elderly man, in a fancier ornate cherry wood bed, in a house he’s lived in for years, even after his wife died. It’s after 6 in the morning and his bowels aren’t working. Shirley does unspeakable things, that most of us would never do in dark or daylight. Her hand is covered in feces as she hands a bag and directions to me. I nearly vomit.

I don’t do mornings well.

And while I have had to do the same things with my own daughter, I always cried and Dan would finish it.

But it has to be done.

By 7 in the morning breakthrough, we are bathing and feeding a young, funny AIDS patient. He doesn’t have long, so he sleeps on his couch.

There is no friend.

Only Shirley and me.

We laugh with him and listen to his jokes and he insists a scrambled egg would be the best.

My heart hurts for him. I smile.

You could not help but love him.

But I do not cry.

Finally, Shirley looks at the next person on her list, and gives me directions. He is a cranky old hoarder she says, so watch my step.

We have a few minutes so I ask how she does this…every….day?

I tell her I don’t know if I can, though I’ve been “doing” for my own child over 15 years.

It’s still different to me.

She says at first it’s hard. It’s ugly.

It’s scary. It’s disgusting. And then she

falls in love with the people, and now

she just loves what she does.

For $8 an hour.

And then….I cry.

I tell her she’s my hero.

I ask God to bless her in every way He can think of to bless her.

She says she’s nothing but ordinary.

God and I know different.

Now you do too.

Find a person to serve this season.

Find somebody you wouldn’t ordinarily see, or serve. Let your compassion make a difference.

Love is an incredibly heroic

thing to do".

~AnnStewartPorter

 I read about a different way to teach children to read, by Anna Letitia Barbauld in a biography about her. She was a teacher, and she wrote poetry and children’s poetry, among many other things including mentoring women in the Lord. I sent this to one of my granddaughters with young children.

I’ll try and explain this simple, creative method.

She wrote her very young children her own reading lessons for them.

She would write lessons that Charles, her son, would like because they would be about him and her, and about people and animals and household things and garden creatures he met with every day.

She would write each “lesson” on a single page. Bold letters with wide margins.

One lesson would be about Charles through his day: waking up, eating breakfast, playing with Papa and Mamma, exploring the garden, taking dinner and tea, and, at the end of the lesson, going to bed.

These lessons in Charles’ life are occasions for introducing vocabulary and ideas related to them.

Interspersed are lessons about animals and their behavior, the parts of the body, social etiquette, counting and money. They too are presented as moments in life of mother and son.

For example, Counting is introduced by Mamma summoning Charles to give her “Three kisses. One, two three.”

When I read this, it set my imagination on fire, and I began considering what fun it would be and how it would hold the interest of a child, if the story is about them and the life they know.

I could imagine a story for little Annie that was about her birthday party when she was obsessed with purple dragons! So the story would be about the purple dragon party, the colors of the cupcakes and body parts of dragons, favorite presents etc.

Teaching to count as the children progress could be done by counting guests and how many pieces a cake should be cut into so everyone gets a piece. How many balloons? How many days until the party etc. The days of the week can be attached to events they are looking forward to.

One lesson could be about visiting Grandma and Grandpa’s house” it would, of course, include Luna the dog they all love, as well as the chickens, rabbits and stories that have been read to them.

The warmth of the fireplace, the deep snow and the tools needed to clear it. Oh, the list is endless!

I even envisioned the older siblings helping to write the story, adding themes and ideas. Drawings or photos could be included.

Here is one of her lessons for her son when he was three –

“Anna went into Mrs. Robleys Garden

yesterday and gathered primroses

And saw gold fishes in the pond

And there was a pretty little dog in the parlor and

Anna was a little afraid of him at first, but when she

saw he was very quiet and good natured she came

and pet his ears.”

 I read this online today, it shows you never know what a simple act of kindness will do. 

 "Today I went to Dunkin' Donuts and saw a clearly homeless guy sitting on the side of the road and picking up change. Eventually I saw him stroll into Dunkin, as he was counting his change to buy something I began to get super annoying and talked to him over and over again even when he didn't really want to talk. Since he had maybe $1 in change I bought him a coffee and bagel and asked him to sit down with me. He told me a lot about how people are usually very mean to him because he's homeless, how drugs turned him into the person he hated, he lost his mom to cancer, he never knew his dad and he just wants to be someone his mom would be proud of (along with another hours worth of conversation.)

This lovely mans name was Chris and Chris was one of the most honest & sincere people I've ever met. After realizing I really need to get back to class Chris asked me to wait so he can write something down for me. Handing me a crumpled up receipt he apologized for having shaky hand writing, smiled, and left. I opened his note and this was it. 'I wanted to kill myself today, because of u I now do not. Thank u, beautiful person.' "