In the time of COVID-19: Community compassion ultimately is a personal, not governmental act

Watching what is becoming the daily White House briefing on COVID-19 (a.k.a. the Corona Virus), I am impressed with the all-out assault on slowing and defeating the spread of this 21st century pestilence.

Nearly a trillion dollars committed today, overall. More to the point personally, people over age 60, like me, are strongly advised to just stay home, and if outside, avoid close contact.

I joked with my cousin, who lives in the United Kingdom (where even more stringent self-isolation has been ordered) that pretty soon we old folks will be required to ring hand bells and shout, if not "unclean!" like lepers of old, then perhaps, "Hey, seniors here, steer clear! (followed by a muttered, "Some people's kids . . . ")

We need a slogan, a catchy jingle. Imagine, gray-haired grandparent types with canes, doing a "Puttin' On the Ritz" type dance while singing:

"If you're gray and you don't know where to go to

Make sure to not go where youngsters sit,

When you cough or spit

Different types of wear all kinds of masks

Some just paper, some rags and some with filters fit

For when you cough or spit

Dressed head-to-toe like limpin' hazmat troopers

Trying not to look like a feverish Gary Cooper

Super-duper . . . ."

Now I know, this is serious stuff. We need to take care, for ourselves -- and on behalf of others as well. Then again, it's NOT the Black Plague (up to 200 million dead in the 14th century, roughly a third to half the population of Europe included). 

It's also not the Spanish Flu (20-50 million dead worldwide in 1918-19, 675,000 Americans), Swine Flu (1 million dead globally in the late 1960s, 70,000 in the U.S.), SARS (some 775 deaths from 2002-2003, about 10 percent of those who were infected), or even more recent Ebola (an estimated 1,200 worldwide 2014-2015, but very few here). 

In the U.S., so far, about 5,000 people have tested positive for COVID-19, and about 90 have died; globally about 170,000 have been infected and more than 6,600 have died. The mortality rate is about 2-3 percent, and most of those victims are elderly people, many of them with pre-existing immune or cardiopulmonary weaknesses.

What makes COVID-19 unique is that is seems to spread much quicker and more easily than its more deadly SARS  viral cousin. That's why it is a pandemic, and that also is why it is not the End of Days ( i.e. the Pale Horse of pestilence running amok).

Still, this is certainly a time, a noted above, for a wartime footing, as it were, to fight the pandemic. But ultimately, it will come down to how we react as communities, and individuals, with compassion for each other. That can take the form of calling a self-quarantined neighbor offering to shop for groceries, or to share what we ourselves have stocked up; staying in contact with loved ones from afar; and personally, taking these suddenly empty hours as opportunities to read, reflect, contemplate and appreciate the good times, and pray for their return -- along with a deeper gratitude and determination to never take them, or our friends and loved ones, for granted.

For me -- my heart "upgraded" in the past decade with first an artificial aortic valve and then a pacemaker, as well as two previous bouts of pneumonia -- this crisis has meant reluctant compliance with the various COVID-19 restrictions. So, that's "social distancing" while out talking daily walks, entirely avoiding markets and theaters and gyms, etc.

The worst part for me? Suspending attendance at Sunday services at my beloved Sts. Peter & Paul Orthodox Church.

Instead, late last week, I attended Communion Thursday morning with less than a dozen others. It's the sort of "off-off Broadway" approach for Orthodoxy, I suppose; early weekday services are lightly attended (compared to the hundreds on Sundays). It was eerie, standing so far apart from other parishioners, but the liturgy and Eucharist were spiritual anchors in a troubling time.

It will be interesting to see, once this pandemic eases, to see how hungry believers are for gathering for the prayers, chants and communion we have so taken for granted in the past.

Wouldn't it be great if that time of reunion, and perhaps renewed Lenten devotion, comes by Pascha (Easter?)

Faith-based fostering: Pastor remembers harsh upbringing, works to help today's lost kids

Here is my last feature article for AGNews, (just click on the previous link) ending a wonderful 12-year association. 
All good things come to an end, and with my recent changes in personal faith (to Orthodoxy) it seemed the right thing to do. May Our Lord bless and enlighten all who call on His name.

Faith-based Fostering 

Ask Pastor Rick L. Smith where his compassion for foster and parentless children comes from, and he’ll tell a century-old story, one that began with his grandfather’s painful orphanage odyssey in the wake of 1918’s deadly influenza pandemic.

Smith’s grandfather, at the time still a toddler and one of five siblings, was placed in an Oklahoma foundlings home; he did not leave until 12 years later, when his just-married, but still teenaged older sister in Texas took custody. That arrangement didn’t last long.

“As you can imagine, it did not work well for a newlywed 18-year-old girl to try to parent her 14-year-old brother, so he left and began to live on his own at a very young age,” Smith explains.

Even in his later years, Smith’s grandfather, who died in 1999, was uncomfortable discussing specifics of that period of his younger life. His grandson suspects the orphanage stay included neglect and abuse.

Smith left behind more than a decade of pastoring Assemblies of God churches to found and direct Pathway Family Services in 2006. While pastoring, he saw the tremendous need for godly foster parents. After a season of prayer and fasting, he decided to fully engage in ministry to care for marginalized youth.

He, along with wife and ministry partner, Jane, plus hundreds of families from multiple, mostly evangelical, Christian churches have done just that over the past 14 years. An estimated 4,000 children, from infants to teenagers, found emergency shelter, short- and long-term foster care, and hundreds of adoptions into forever homes during that span. . . .

To read the story in its entirety, click on this link: https://news.ag.org/en/News/Faith-Based-Fostering

Prepping for the Poo-ocalypse: Folks, toilet paper won't wipe out the Coronavirus

Visiting Costco, I cannot get over the hordes of people stocking up on water and toilet paper.


The water, pushed on stacked carts by, in my observation at least, mostly Latino shoppers, I can sort of understand. I’ve noticed that even when the country isn’t in the grip of mostly media-hyped Coronavirus pandemic fear, Latinos shoppers seem to buy massive amounts of purified water in bottles and jugs. Despite assurances that our water here is safe, I suspect they where they come from it is not potable, etc.


That’s not meant to be an ethnic putdown at all. Indeed, given the numbers of spoiled white Americans who get sick drinking questionable water on trips down south, despite the abundant travelers' warnings and the ready example of water-caution exercised by our wiser Latino neighbors, who do you think has more smarts?


But(t) the TP obsession? I see a lot of Latinos recently stocking up on that, too (and there have been shortages in several central and southern American countries of late, so ...) , but nowhere near the scenes of Charmin junkies pushing crateloads of the stuff . . . in Utah, those folks seem often comprised of two or more women clad in gingham, ankle-length dresses; a slew of stairstep kids; and an older male leading the way to the checkout stands.


Meanwhile, paper towels seem untouched. Or paper napkins, boxes of tissues. Seemingly good second-choices for bum cleansing.


And has anyone asked for leftover corn cobs from Cracker Barrel’s dumpsters? Hmm? Or even bought out all the used socks at the D.I.?

And really, even if you run out of TP, there’s always that neighbor’s yippy, miniature wire-haired terrier. . .

Or in a dire emergency, a visit to the car wash in the dead of the night.


That particularly dark car wash bay, the one in the middle perhaps . . . and setting the wand on power wash and then rinse! One minute, all done.


No one thinks of alternatives, there’s just no innovation anymore.


That’s what made America great, you know. Corn cobs, Sears Catalogs, and outhouses.


Sheesh.

Lonesome Dove: Not the book, not the movie -- but a place for rural pastors, and troubled kids to heal

You've heard of Lonesome Dove. 

When I think of it, there come visions of dusty cattle drives from Texas to Montana, cowboys, gunslingers, outlaws, soiled doves, and Indians that were made iconic of Old West fiction by novelist Larry McMurtry, and the TV mini-series that followed.

But there really is a Lonesome Dove Ranch in Texas, and today it is devoted to two pan-denominational ministries. One of them focuses on worn out, struggling rural pastors and their families, those country ministers who often work fulltime at both "regular" jobs and behind the pulpit . . . and the second, to abused, endangered kids in need of short-term refuge and care.

If one of the last stories I will be doing for AGNews, capping 12 years freelancing for that online news outlet for the Assemblies of God fellowship, I was privileged to share some of the dream of community and pastoral outreach spearheaded by Dallas-area pastor Bryan Jarrett.

Here's a link to the article.  https://news.ag.org/en/News/Rural-Ministry-Matters

HVAC in Utah: Or fire and ice as blessings, or curses, relative to the seasons

It's the little things, sometimes, that make all the difference.

In the hottest, record-setting days of summer, it's air conditioning.

In the coldest, subfreezing nights of winter, it's a working furnace.

We've had to deal with failure of both of these past several months. It took several weeks in late July and early August, when temperatures soared well above 100 degrees (F) and stayed in the 80s overnight, to get our AC system finally fixed.

And so, until it was fixed, we baked. Our "home warranty" insurance covered very little. Oh, so worth the monthly payments, right? Truly, though, the couple grand we had to spend seemed little enough when those first whiffs of cool air flowed from the vents in our condo.

Perspective. Important quality, that . . . whether it concerns a sweaty, sticky neck, or numb, icy toes.

Then in late December and through January, we noticed the temperature in the condo -- regardless of the thermometer setting being nudged upward -- struggled to reach upper-50s or low-60s. Tough on Barbara, my wife, especially. Extra blankets and our two tiny pups helped, but it was still chilly.

At the coldest, I mused, and shivered in the dark of night, imagining the visceral joy our forebearers must have felt huddle around a fire in some dark cave. (Thus the image above, in case you wondered).

So, today, the furnace is back!  Two weeks this time, with different sets of perplexed technicians visiting. Nice fellows, but they couldn't figure it out. Finally, today, they did . . . and we have heat again, along with a chunk of missing drywall over the wall unit where the previous AC-related upgrade installers had managed, somehow, to cut off the flow of hot water that warms our home -- when working properly.

Our HVAC system incorporates the AC unit, outside, when feeds into the condo, and also connects to our hot water heater and furnace. It's supposed to be one efficient, happy holistic system to maintain comfortable temperatures year-round.

So, while the first time the HVAC folks did their thing inside we got stuck with the cost of the drywall patching after the cutting away part was done, this time -- God bless 'em -- the company, taking responsibility for the previous errors, is covering it all . . . the furnace repair, the drywall patching, everything.

I just about to the point of rethinking my cynicism about business ethics in America.

Well, in this case, anyway.
😉

Kyrie Elesion: More than a plea for 'don't beat me,' but for healing of the soul

Any Protestant, especially Evangelicals and Pentecostals, is probably stunned the first time they enter an Orthodox Christian liturgical service by at least two things: veneration of the icons, especially Mary, and the frequent prayer, "Lord have mercy." 

Three years ago, that was me. Doesn't the prayer work the first, tenth or hundredth time, I asked Fr. Justin Havens. 

Soon after, I became a catechumen, was baptized, and learned more about Mary (the Theotokos, or bearer of incarnate Son of God), and what was deeper behind the "Lord have mercy" bit. 

It was not, as I thought, just a groveling version of "don't hit me, I'll be good!" 

I learned that, "Lord Have Mercy" is a rather abrupt and incomplete English translation of "Kyrie Elesion," a Greek expression in which the root from the latter word is "eleos," Greek for olive oil -- used anciently for and associated with healing, as a soothing agent for bruises and minor wounds. (Remember the story of the Good Samaritan? He treated the wounded man with oil, etc.)

And wait, there's more! The Hebrew word also translated as eleos and mercy is "hesed," i.e. "steadfast love."
So really, praying "Kyrie Eleision," or "Lord have mercy" conveys a prayer to God for soothing, comforting, and alleviating our pain, and in so doing, showing us His steadfast love.

That's what I've learned, which puts me at perhaps kindergarten level for understanding the theology of the ancient church. 

At 66, I know I may not make it to "big boy" school in understanding the Faith; thank God, there's Eternity.

A year later, a candle, incense, an ancient prayer of mourning -- and hope

So, it's been a year since I received that call from the Cheney (Wash.) Care Center telling me my father, Robert Sr., had passed away.

On Friday, I woke up, showered, dressed and went to my icon corner. Lit candles, set incense aflame, and recited the morning prayers of the Orthodox Christian. Then, placing a portrait of Dad on the ledge under an icon of the Theotokos, I opened a booklet containing the Akathist for the Departed and began to repeat the ancient words.

For the 40 days following Dad's death on Jan. 17, 2019, this is the prayer I offered for his "repose." Though he was not Orthodox (Dad was a retired Pentecostal Evangelical pastor), I had the blessing of my parish priest to do this;  and I found in the prayer's ancient prose and, to me truth, comfort as the tears flowed then.

It was the same on Friday.

The emotions were sweeter, a year later. Oh, still grief, but with less emotional guilt baggage. Time does not heal all wounds, you see -- that's a well-intentioned lie we tell each other. But Time does lessen the pain of the scars of loss. . . and memories can flow of loving moments shared.

There were more tears of the former kind, than the latter. 

In six months, I'll be turning again to the Akathist prayer for Mom, who died six months after Dad, also at Cheney Care Center. Alzheimer's had robbed her of speech, memory and mobility long before she passed away. But there are also precious memories left to me of her better days, her loving moments.

Does it sound delusional to say I felt Dad's presence during Friday's prayers? OK, but I did, and he was like a sweet perfume born on the cloud of Light warming my heart. I glowed within as I breathed the words of devotion and petition repeated from the lips of millions of mourners, by ancestors in faith, over the past two millennia, in languages both current and lost.

I anticipate that comfort, and mystical assurance of faith, when I pray again for Mom's soul, and our future reunion.

"At Thy breath flowers come to life, the river Nile is resurrected and a multitude

 of tiny creatures awakens. 

"Thy glance is brighter than the spring sky; and Thy love, O Jesus, 

is warmer than the rays of the sun. 

Thou didst raise our mortal human flesh

 from the dust of the earth unto the blossoming of the eternal spring

 of incorruptible life.

 Do Thou then illumine also Thy servant Robert Sr. with the light of Thy mercy."

Do-it-yourself home deadbolt lock installation, St. Doofolupoulis help us

Note to self. (And any other acolyte's of the little known, heterodox very minor *Saint Doofolupoulis).

When installing that new dead bolt lock with more secure 2 3/8 inch screws where half-inch ones were previously, it is a good idea to drill the hole deeper and not just try to muscle it in, ending up with it two-thirds of longer screw the way in, tight as granite, and the screw head rounded off.

So, while I stand guard over the open door, wifey is off to Lowe's for (a) a new screw, (b) a vice-grip to get the ruined screw out, and (c) a hand drill to do it right.

Dumb, dumb-dumb-dumb, DUMB!

Update: Vice-grip wrench set, electric hand drill, check; oops, put in the deadbolt bolt backwards, start over, yay!

Tis done, and it only took three plus hours, and scatological epithets (confession fodder, Dagnabit! Sorry Fr. Justin), and a pulled lower back muscle!
Lord have mercy. 🤬😳🤫

*There is no Saint Doofolupoulis. You knew that, right?

Being alone is one thing; finding purpose in solitude of the soul, is everything

Being alone, is one thing. Finding purpose in those inevitable moments of solitude of the soul, is another. 

Finding how best to live that purpose, once revealed, can seem impossible.

Yet that is, I suspect, a universal, and most particularly intense American experience. 

We are so material in our orientation, so selfish.

Asked what motivates acts of charity, of perceived "selflessness" -- our proffered tokens of time, wealth, and feelings toward another human being or cause -- and many, if honest, admit: "It makes me feel better about myself."

If that is it, then fine; who am I to judge? Been there, done that. Such benevolent actions, donations, and affection given do, at least, show another suffering human that someone or something "cares" for their plight, and perhaps even them personally.

Still, does the purpose revealed still essentially come down to a sort of self-affirmation that we are "good?" We deigned to stoop, to sacrifice a tithe of our lives and resources to someone in need, after all.

Or, maybe they are not in need, but a professional cardboard sign holder at an intersection. "Homeless, hungry, anything helps, God bless," they declare -- yet an enterprising reporter may spot them later exiting a middle class home, their rags exchanged for cleaner, newer garb as they pop into a late-model SUV for a night out.

You see it happen regularly on TV news. Confronted, there is no shame. "I've done nothing illegal. People want to give. It makes them feel better. So, I give them the chance," they say and drive off.

Certainly, there is no 100 percent effective way to know the difference between the fraud and real need. And to many, it ultimately doesn't matter. 

We want to do good, however marginal the effort may be, and welcome an easy way to do so. Roll down a window, hand a buck or two to the cardboard sign set, get a "God bless" and you can smile and feel good all the way to the next intersection.

Even if you suspect you've just been conned, it's easy to suppress that feeling. We are very good at that, we Americans.

We embrace black-and-white logical fallacies all the time, if you think about it: Trump/Pelosi are either evil or righteous, completely, with no shadows of gray; war is absolutely wrong -- but killing life in the womb is undeniably justified as the end means of a reproductive "right"; morality itself can be individually defined as we wish, and if you believe there are indeed things and actions that are inherently good or evil by nature if not whim, you are a bigot or (choose your flavor)-phobic.

And yet, down deep, there is that desire to do . . . something, something we know is right, however confused our conception of "rightness" is.

C.S. Lewis opined that the very fact that this primordial moral sense exists -- something he called "Tao" in his book, "The Abolition of Man" -- is a worthy starting point for arguing for eternal and objective Truth, natural law, and yes, Nature's God.

So, when our former "purpose," in my case a career as a writer, editor, and journalist, comes to an end, then what? 

We are, painfully and mercifully both, left to finally embrace that which we for so long avoided, that Truth we may have partially acknowledged but still held, through delusion and token practice, at arm's length.

That Truth is that our "purpose" has never really been ours; rather, we find true meaning, the kind that transcends, in seeing ourselves as part of the Purpose. Finally, we surrender to what we knew all along, deep down. . . that we were created for this, and not for that.

As atheist-turned-believer Lewis wrote: 

"An open mind, in questions that are not ultimate, is useful. But an open mind about the ultimate foundations either of Theoretical or of Practical Reason is idiocy. If a man's mind is open on these things, let his mouth at least be shut. He can say nothing to the purpose. Outside the Tao there is no ground for criticizing either the Tao or anything else."

2019: What I've learned from a year of pain, triumph, grief, hope

When I was a young(er) father, dealing with the outrage of our single-digit year old son and daughter about how this or that was not fair, I suspected trying to explain theologically, philosophically, metaphysically how this could possibly be so true in a universal -- yet not, ultimately, eternal -- sense, would simply confuse the heck out of their precious, beloved minds.

And on a recent trip to visit my grandchildren in Maryland, I saw the same learning curve on the Question of Fairness in play. Wheel do go 'round in circles, still.


It certainly had that effect on me. So, I simply repeated -- after each mean-spirited slight of another child toward them, or when one of them was convinced the other had more ice cream (as measured by teaspoons, I suspect), or the miscarriage of justice in both of them having to go to bed at the same time (despite the eons of difference between being 5 and 7!) -- that, "Life is not fair. It just is (life)."

OK, certainly not as profound as God declaring to the curious Moses that His Name was, "I AM that I AM."  Although, within the Mims household of the kids' youngest years, the debate certainly was as intense, if things are relative. (But of course, we know relativity, applied to questions of fairness, justice, and all the rest is also a plunge down the rabbit hole that lurks at the base of our finite minds; that's another conversation, though).

But no matter how "mature" we get, we always will have moments where our inner child flops on the ground, disconsolate, and cries, "This just isn't fair!"

When your 96-year-old father -- once a talented musician, bright of intellect, and example of Christian faith lived as much as he preached -- lives his final year in arthritic pain, stroke-induced dementia, and deafness that has you shouting "I love you in his ear," is that "fair?"  

Or, your 91-year-old mother -- once sharp-minded, funny, fiercely loving, and able to play the piano as if she were bleeding her vibrance into its keys -- lives her final years having lost cognition, memories, or even the ability to care for her most basic bodily functions? Again, not "fair."

I promise, this will not become a litany of "unfair" events or situations I've seen in 2019, or in my span of 66 years. Honestly, they pale compared to those endured by millions of others on this planet we call home. And truly, what makes any one of us immune to the sufferings, too-often self-imposed, that are common to human kind?

Life changes, every day, in ways dramatic and miniscule alike. We love, we lose; we delight, we suffer; we comfort, and we are comforted.

On Earth, we have what we have . . . measures of joy and mourning, triumph and disappointment, years of health and decline, opportunities to serve, heal and embrace, and to learn humility, by being served, being healed, being embraced.

Those things I have learned, either in 2019 itself, or through life-long experience and what illumination faith has provided to clarify, and expand in the past trip around Old Sol. Most important to me, as a believer, is that God is with those who call upon Him. Mostly, He sees us through the pain, disappointments, challenges, but does not deliver us from them.

Babies don't learn to crawl unless you put them down and beckon them. Toddlers don't walk successfully until they are released to step, fall, and get up again. And in the scope of Eternity, we have all just begun to crawl.

Even at 66 years old.

As you can, walking in the eternal, uncreated light, Love, unconditionally. Give, generously. Live each breath, each heartbeat, each second, minute, hour and year you have left in forgiveness, and gratitude.

May God bless your New Year with His Presence, in and through all things.