APPLAUD?

By Carolyn R. Scheidies

Applaud the mother

            destroying

                        her unborn baby.

Applaud the parents

            who permit the death

                        of their handicapped newborn.

Applaud the children

            who demand life sustaining nourishment & liquids

                        be withheld from elderly parents.

Applaud the murder, the abortionist, the death advocate

            doing but a service for society?

                        For themselves?

Applaud the quality of life ethic,

            What price the worth of a human soul?

                        What value placed on me, on you!

Will you, too, applaud when,

            You become a burden to family,

                        to society.

Have you inherent worth,

            Endowed by a loving creator.

                        Applaud?

WHAT ARE YOU WORTH?

By Carolyn R. Scheidies

            What type of society do we have when we applaud individuals and groups that take or advocate the taking of the lives of those unable to defend themselves?

            What type of culture applauds the woman who chooses to destroy her preborn child; applauds parents who choose death for their disabled infant or severely disabled child? What kind of people have we become to stand by while relatives and guardians of severely injured or elderly patients get court approval to withdraw from their "loved ones" the basic elements of nutrition and water, relegating these helpless individuals to slow, painful deaths by starvation and deprivation?

            As we stand apathetically by while the innocent and helpless are systematically terminated, we herald the belief that not only are some lives worth more than others, but also that the worth of each individual is not inherent. The value of human life depends, then, on the valuation placed on us by a fickle society. Is the cost to keep one alive more than an arbitrary valuation placed upon that person by society? Is the cost of keeping them alive and comfortable more than they are worth?

            If society places the valuation, what about you and I? Do we contribute enough to pay our dues to society? For how long? Are economic criteria the best, the only, deciding factor in the decision whether or not to allow a person to live?

            As the innocent are sacrificed on the altar of selfishness and the greed of materialism and personal lifestyle, where is the loving, self-sacrifice of accommodating to changing circumstances of birth or illness? Where is love, compassion, the joy of giving? Where is growth through adversity? Where is the inherent worth of a soul?

            This is not the time for apathy, but for action. It is the time to cry out against crimes against the most vulnerable among us through letters, votes, action and prayer.

VALENTINE'S DAY--TRACING THE TRADITION

Tomorrow is St. Valentine's Day,

All in the morning betime,

And I a maid at your window,

To be your Valentine.

(Ophelia in Hamlet IV, 50)

It may come as a surprise that as far back as Shakespeare's day (1564-1616) Valentine's Day was a popular holiday.

One English custom was derived from an old Roman rite of choosing a partner. Young women had their names written on pieces of paper and placed in a box. Reaching into the box, the young men each pulled out the name of a young woman to whom they would pay special attention for the next year.

Though no one has been able to pin point a single beginning to the holiday we celebrate today as St. Valentine's Day, the holiday has roots in ancient Rome. On February 15th, Romans celebrated a pagan festival to their goat-man god Lupercus called Lupercalia. Both the date and the focus on fertility may have influenced the celebration of St. Valentine's Day as a day for lovers.

However, St. Valentine was an actual person. He was a courageous priest who cared more about following the laws of God than about serving the sometimes capricious laws of men. Not only did Valentine give aid and comfort to the persecuted Christians, but also, when the Roman Emperor Claudius II abolished marriage, (believing single men made better soldiers), married couples in secret.

Eventually he was caught, imprisoned, and finally executed in AD 269...February 14th. Two hundred years later in 496, Pope Gelasius declared February 14th as "St. Valentine's Day."

Miracles (such as restoring the sight of the jailer's daughter to whom he wrote a farewell note signed, "From your valentine") were attributed to Valentine along with stories that spoke of his care and concern for others.

John Lydgate, an English poet who died in 1450, wrote about the custom of Saint Valentine as a "religioun."

In a tradition much like that of our Ground Hog Day, the British believed that birds chose their mates on February 14th. (On the Julian calendar this date came later in the Spring than it did after the change of calendars in 1582 to the Gregorian calendar we now use.)

Charles, Duke of Orleans, is credited for beginning the trend of sending verses. After capturing the French Duke at the Battle of Agincourt, the English imprisoned him in the Tower of London. On St. Valentine's Day in 1415, he sent his wife a love letter written in verse.

During the 18th and 19th centuries, stores carried books of verses. Later, as the giving of cards became more and more popular, stores sold fancy ready-made blank cards. Often noted artists and engravers turned their hand to making valentines.

In the late 1800's Kate Greenaway, a British artist and poet, became known for her cards featuring rich garden scenes and blissful children.

In America, Esther A. Howland of Worcester, Massachusetts, decided in 1847 to create her own line of cards after seeing a Valentine card made in England. Howland was so innovative in her use of color, texture and style that she built up a business of over $100,000...and this was over one hundred years ago!

Though never made a legal American holiday, St. Valentine's Day is firmly entrenched in American tradition. Through the years, while the style, size and shape of cards may have changed, the sentiment remains primarily the same.

Valentine's Day is a day of hearts and flowers, candy and cards. It is a celebration of friendship, of happiness, and ... most of all ... of love.

Faith of a Father

A Father’s Day Tribute

* My father was someone I trusted and relied on.

* He led by example as well as words.

* He taught me lessons of life, faith and love.

* My father wasn’t all that tall, though he was strong—in so many ways. He taught me about faith, responsibility and unconditional love.

* father, dad, Father’s Day, family, love

http://www.fathers.com

http://www.fathersnetwork.org

http://www.poemsforfree.com/fathpo.html

When I was a toddler, I thought my father, Dad, was a giant in every way. Though I squealed when my father tossed me up in the air, I knew he’d always catch me. Dad would chuckle as he lifted me up in his strong arms, raise me over his head, and launch me into the air. I felt the air swish through my hair as I fell, straight into dad’s waiting arms. My father gained my trust.

I cannot count the times we snuggled together in a deep cushioned chair as my father read one book or another to me, though in those early years I insisted on Alice in Wonderland over and over and over. My father’s deep pastor’s voice brought the story alive for me. Not until I grew up did Dad confess how he came to hate that book. He never let on, never spoiled the magic for his young daughter—the daughter who already spun stories in her head. My father encouraged my imagination.

In his youth, Dad was a checker champion, yet when we played, he held back until I understood the game. As I got older, we played cutthroat games with no mercy given--the way I wanted it. My father helped me become confident in my own reasoning abilities and would show me how I could do better—next time.

Once, out of pure jealousy, I swung a blanket at the horse my sister rode, causing the horse to rear and Karin to fall--right into a cactus patch. Dad punished me. It wasn’t the first time. My father wasn’t afraid of giving me some well deserved swats on the behind if he thought it appropriate. (Dad wasn’t fooled by a book stuck down my pants, though he did have trouble keeping a straight face when he told me to remove it.)

After whatever punishment he meted out, my father would hold me close as he carried me up the stairs, tell me he loved me and how what I did caused harm to myself or others. Dad was fair and always made sure I understood why he disciplined me. Believe me, I was a real trial for a parent! My father taught me that love requires responsibility.

At thirteen, I contracted such a severe case of Juvenile Rheumatoid Arthritis, I became wheelchair bound within months. It was heartbreaking for my parents to watch me, their tomboy, never-ever-sick daughter, lose weight until my bones stuck out, my eyes protruded from shrunken sockets, and I appeared nothing more than skin and bones. Within months, my knees bent and refused to straighten; my hands drew up into claws. Worst of all, they watched the laughter fade from my eyes as day after day I screamed out in pain.

Mom and Dad prayed. Oh how they prayed, but they did so much more—caring for me, taking me from one doctor and medical facility to another seeking help. But most comforting was simply my father’s presence, a presence I felt most strongly in his study.

In a wheelchair I pushed forward with my feet, since I couldn’t use my hands, I’d inch up to his closed study door. Yes, I knew he was inside preparing his sermon for Sunday.

Tap. Tap. I doubted he heard my weak knock. “Dad.” As I waited, I shivered in the slight breeze wafting in from a half-open door. I was often cold those days.

Biting my lip, I called a little louder, “Dad. Dad, may I come in?”

His hesitation broke my heart, and I felt tears gather in my eyes. Since the onset of my disease, my emotions were all a kilter. Did I hear a long sigh? “Umm. Come on in, Carolyn.” I knew he wouldn’t say no.

With both hands, I twisted the knob and edged the door open with my foot. Slowly, I inched my wheelchair into the room. Sunlight shining into the room from the west window, drew me into its warmth. With pain filled movements, I turned the chair to face my father.

Surrounded by bookshelves that went from floor to ceiling, Dad sat behind his desk watching me. He rifled a thin hand through even thinner dark hair and adjusted his glasses askew on his nose. My father no longer seemed like a giant to me, at least physically. In fact, he wasn’t all that tall, though he was strong—in so many ways.

I sensed my father wanted to help me, but kept himself seated to permit me to do as much as possible for myself. “I’m working, Carolyn, but what can I do for you?”

I surveyed the small office. The smell of books both old and new mingled with the tang of mimeograph ink. The books beckoned me. Though he could have been more concerned about keeping them pristine and neat, Dad put them all at my disposal.

Since I’d been ill, I’d read everything from fiction and biographies to deep theological treatises. Sometimes I pecked out stories or poems on his ancient typewriter. Dad encouraged my talents, forced me to think beyond the surface, and nurtured my dreams.

A north window overlooked the long drive to the road in rural Kansas and the wide expanse of yard. I sensed my father waiting, sensed a mixture of impatience and desire to please me. What could I say?

Finally, I raised my gaze to his solemn face. “You don’t need to do anything. I just want to sit and read in here. Okay?”

After a long glance in my direction, Dad nodded, a half smile tilting his lips. For a time, I watched my father read his well-marked Bible, take notes and pray. His faith was more than a Sunday affair. He lived it. But, my illness caused such changes in me, in my family.

My childlike faith took a beating, as did my belief that my father could solve all my problems. He couldn’t. Instead, I watched him break down and weep over my pain, over my struggle to do the simplest things.

But here, in his domain, I found a sanctuary. For while my faith wavered, Dad’s did not. My father put his faith in Someone higher and greater. Here in his office, I felt a certain peace. Maybe my faith in Dad wasn’t misplaced after all. Maybe it was time I took up the mantle of faith he carried and found that source for myself.

My struggle was far from over both physically, emotionally and spiritually, but my faith in my father launched me to heights I never could have imagined. His faith led to my faith, and gave me the assurance that I would walk again, I would write…and the firm belief that I did have something to offer.

Dad has been gone for many years now, but he lived to see his daughter walk, lived to unite her in marriage, and lived to see her start getting published. Most of all, he lived long enough to start instilling in his grandchildren his faith--the faith of my father.

The New Year’s Eve Myth

© Carolyn R. Scheidies

New Year's Eve we celebrate the passing of the old, and the beginning of a whole new year.

It also signals a fresh start to relationships, to making tomorrow better, and to life itself. It's why most of us make up a list of New Year resolutions that are broken almost as soon as they're spoken. Part of the reason we can't keep our resolutions is because they aren't really resolutions at all, but simply wishes.

We wish for world peace, but refuse to speak to our neighbor. We resolve to lose all that extra weight. But instead of simply eating healthy foods in proper amounts, we try out the latest fad diet and end up poorer, but not lighter.

We resolve to be less busy, spend more time with family, but refuse to take steps necessary to make it happen--steps like saying, “NO!”

We party just before midnight hoping for a new beginning, but let our habits start the New Year with despair and, often, hangovers.

It doesn’t need to be the same this year. We can make resolutions, and we can keep them. First, we need to realize change takes time, effort, and willingness on our part.

Second, we need to focus on those things we actually can change, and are really worth our time and effort. (Yes, this may include weight loss.)

Third, narrow the focus of the resolutions. Don’t talk about losing 100 pounds, think in terms of something more attainable—a pound a week, or two.

Instead of world peace, resolve to deal with conflict within your own family or with a friend. World peace begins at home, with you and me. How can we expect governments to get along when husbands and wives or neighbors constantly squabble?

Don’t just resolve to be less busy or to spend more time with family, resolve to say no to anymore volunteer activities, late nights at the office, and, YES, to starting a family night.

Fourth, realize all our best efforts, sometimes, aren’t enough…and allow for the possibility of failure. We’re human; it happens.

Fifth, don’t let failure stop you from trying again. It may mean refocusing, taking baby steps. It means being willing to work at a solution one step at a time.

Sixth, allow yourself to enjoy any progress you make.

Seventh, when you can’t do it alone, find someone to walk along side you. And don’t forget power from on high. God is only a prayer away.

So go ahead, make those resolutions and make the New Year a better place because you’re there.