Women, Sewing, and Re-Creating Shalom

I have watched these women for over two years now. My beloved is one of them. They do their work in a corner of a building affectionately called "The Ark" in two rooms they teasingly refer to as the "sweat shop" in part because it is always warm in there and it is in use much of the time.

These women, Linda, Aline, Charla, Judith, Betty, Nancy, Cynthia, Janet, and Doris are coming as close to re-creating shalom as any group of people I know. And, they are doing it quietly and profoundly, often with a few people and God watching, and perhaps their husbands, but those watching are growing exponentially.

We all know the garden story, pristine place, one man, one woman, one tempter, and then comes expulsion and curses to her and to him and resoundingly to all of us. Peace was broken, shalom was shattered. We moved into the space of "this was not the way it was planned." But this was the way it was and this is the way it shall be until the Lord returns and creates the new heaven and new earth.

Until then, we are charged with re-creating shalom. When we march for justice, that is what we are doing. When we encourage young parents to nurture their children, that is what we are doing. When we work to change laws that advantage the racial majority and disenfranchise the minority, that is what we are doing.  When we tell stories in the public sphere about injustices done to black farmers that reach all the way back beyond reconstruction to the shores of Africa, that is what we are doing.  When we bind the wounds of the broken and connect with the lonely, that is what we are doing.

Re-creating shalom is a big deal. A seriously big deal.

Discrimination and racism are violations of shalom. Poverty is a violation of shalom. Illness in all of its manifestations is a violation of shalom. Children who are cold in the bitter winds of the winter, that is a violation of shalom. Old age and Alzheimer's and dementia and eating alone at the dinner table and dropping food all over are violations of shalom. Children's diseases are a break of shalom. Any type of injustice is a break of shalom. Any break of shalom compels us to figure out how to recreate it, imperfectly though our efforts will be.

And so it is that my beloved and her friends are bringing shalom into the world of these circumstances and many others. They have a righteous cause that is bringing righteousness into the world. Where there are cracks in shalom, they re-institute righteousness. Where people are cold and feeble and frail and diseased, they re-institute righteousness and shalom.

And so, they do more than sew. They are reclaiming shalom and righteousness. Sewing is a beautiful means of bringing about shalom and righteousness.

They sew and sew and sew. Days for Girls (menstrual kits so girls can stay in school), hospital pillows, hospital totes, marble mazes, surgical caps, port pillows, nursing home bibs, baby items, treat bags, scarves and hats for cold kids in Alaska, and blankets for the police to take on their calls for kids who are cold. There is no way of knowing exactly how many pieces their fingers have touched.  A rough estimate is around 3,000 in some way or other since 2015.

My beloved is working on a blanket for the police to have available as we speak. A friend and I were joking at our home group last night as to how often he hears the whirring of the sewing machine at his house. "All the time" was his response.

They would deny that it's a big deal. I think they are wrong. I think this is a big deal, a very, very big deal.

As I commented in class yesterday morning as we wrapped up a class on James chapter one where he made the point that true religion is taking care of the widows and the orphans, "We cannot do everything, but we can do something. We cannot do everything, but we can do something."

Shalom and justice break through the efforts of these sewing warriors with every cap made for a cold kid in Alaska, when every blanket is given to a child or adult by the police on a house call, when a girl can go to school without shame during her monthly menstrual cycle, an elderly person can eat dinner with a bib on, a kid who struggles to pay attention can fiddle with the maze she has, a chemo patient or any other patient who needs a port pillow to protect the port from the weight of the seat belt, and when a kid going into surgery has a cool, playful cap to wear.

So, here on Martin Luther King, Jr. Day, I salute these justice warriors and their noble efforts.

Prayer, Persistence, and Change

Sometimes things intersect. In reality, or just in my mind. Today that happened. The text of Luke 18 and the parable of the persistent widow is one.  A friend from Trinity High School is another. The Jim Crow south and separate but equal another.

No one was taking care of the widow. She appeared frequently before a judge who was powerful and fearless before God, one who disregarded people. Her persistence amounted to wearing him down or beating him up. She had no bribe money, or that would have made things easier. The setting for the story is most likely a typical small village through which Jesus would walk. Four times in this text a unique word is used. Transliterated in various forms it is ekdikesin, or vengeance, or justice. “Grant me justice against my adversary,” verse 3; “I will see that she gets justice,” verse 5; “will not God bring about justice,” verse 7; and “he will see that they get justice,” verse 8.

For some time now, I have been pondering a task.  Call me foolish or call me a dreamer, or call me a whatever. My wish would be to find an African American male student at Westside High School from Trinity, Texas who graduated in 1968. Perhaps he and I could discuss our paths to and from school and life in Trinity, Texas. I graduated from Trinity High School that same year. THS was a mere five or so blocks from WHS, but they were worlds apart. The white school was on the main highway that ran north and south through town. The black school was off to the west by several blocks.  I seldom saw black students, as I recall, anywhere around Trinity, except for that one time on a Saturday night I heard, along with a lot of other whites of the community, the football game on the THS field played by the Westside team. We got up on top of the animal barns and watched part of the game. Cheering was different. The teams were different. The band played different music. I was enthralled, but not enough to ask questions. This team, so history bears out, was one of the best in the state of Texas. Those students were invisible to me in my narrowmindedness. Was I invisible to them? The racial divide was there even in a town with a population of 1,776. For that, I repent.

I suppose that Black citizens prayed persistently like the woman did in Luke 18. Surely they persisted in prayer against the injustices of Jim Crow south and the egregious separate but equal system that only served to make the distinctions even more distinct. During my senior year in high school, Phenita Dennis, 10^th grade; Priscilla Dennis, 9^th grade; Tom Whorton, 8^th grade; Dwight Dennis, Artie Mae Mayse, and Cynthia Wheeler, 7^th grades; and Carolyn Thomas, 6^th grade, had integrated the white senior high and junior high. How much courage did they and their families possess? How persistent were their prayers? How persistent were their actions?

I have met via social media, a gentleman who was in the last graduating class of the 8^th grade from Westside Junior High. He grieves that there is nothing there at WHS to signify that a school was ever actually there.  No monument, no marker, no buildings. I grieve with him. He mattered. His school mattered. It apparently does not matter enough for someone to erect a historical marker there. I am encouraged by Otis Walker, THS class of ‘72 and his pursuit of righteousness.

My world then was small, very, very small.  So small it was and for probably good reasons.  I was more focused on survival, or so it seems.  I did not have much of a social consciousness other than that part of me revealed when the black church minister and some of his members attended the white church of Christ gospel meeting, or when my dad’s three friends included one white guy, one black guy, and one Hispanic guy.

So, did anyone pray the prayer of the persistent widow for justice against their adversaries, and did the unjust judge ever grant their wishes or they’d wear him out with their persistence.  I hope so. Separate but equal is dismantled. Jim Crow is dismantled, at least in the laws. It remains on in the hearts of people and is intensified during this time of political strife.

Did they pray for justice? Were their prayers answered? Did Jesus’ words ‘always pray and never give up’ mean something to them?

These things just make me wonder. What makes you wonder?