Icons and Saints

I was listening to a podcast of Frederica Matthewes-Green contemplating the Dormition (the death of Mary) as she cared for her own aging mother.
Until now, I did not know that there was an icon depicting the death of the Theotokos (God-bearer) and I think that is sad. I think I am a better person, and a better Christian, for being made aware of the tradition of John caring for Mary until her death, and for seeing it depicted in an icon.
I am sad for all that we as Protestants have lost in casting aside icons and saints. With the tradition of patron saints comes a knowledge that all of life can be brought into service of God. Patrick’s experiences as a slave are redeemed when he brings the gospel to Ireland, the land that had held him captive. St. Martin of Tours, the patron saint of beggars and soldiers, was approached by a beggar, and having nothing to give but the clothes on his back, he cut his own cloak in half and gave it to the beggar.
Women, neglected and abused in countless religions, both ancient and modern, find a place in the Christian tradition equal to that of men. They stand as saints beside their brothers in Christ, and so St. Brigid is respected as a patron saint of Ireland beside St. Patrick. St. Nina took the gospel to Georgia (the country, not the state) and St. Clare ministered alongside St. Francis.
Mothers, fathers, doctors, carpenters, teachers – they all find a kindred spirit in the lives of the saints. They are told, “What you do has worth” when they see icons of their patron saints. We are reminded that the saints of God are ordinary people, like us, and at the same time, role models, living the lives that we want to live, examples of the transformative power of the Holy Spirit.
I am sorry that we as Protestants have lost, in losing icons, depictions of the people who have gone before us, and the scenes, both dramatic and humble, that made their lives so captivating. How much easier to teach a congregation of the importance of caring for their elderly parents, to believe even the pain in our lives is touched with divine grace and meaning, when you can point to the image of Mary in her bed, surrounded by the disciples and say, “See? Even the very Mother of God grew old and needed care. Even the great Apostle John knew the bittersweet pain of caring for an elderly parent. And even the Apostles gathered around her and mourned her death.”

225

I have a friend who works in the public school system in our county, and this week, he had a conversation with a social worker and learned that there are 225 homeless children registered in the school system of our small, rural county. 225 children. And that's just the children who are registered in school. That doesn't count the children who aren't even registered in school (and thus getting at least 2 meals a day and a few hours out of the cold).

A cold spell is sweeping much of the country right now. When I was driving home tonight, the temperature on my car was 15 degrees. Many of the homeless shelters in the area are asking for extra blankets because of the cold. I can't imagine not having a home, even in the best of times, but in this bitter cold and snow, it's painful to think about.

Granted, this doesn't mean that 225 of these children are sleeping in the cold tonight. But it does mean that these 225 children aren't tracking snow through their own front door. They aren't cuddling with their mom and dad in their own bed, in their own room, reading a bedtime story.

Life's hard, but one think that I think of on a hard day, on a cold day, when my feet are wet and my ears are cold and my lips are chapped, is going home. I look forward to walking in my door, being greeted by the cat and swapping my wet shoes for my favorite fuzzy socks. I can't imagine not thinking of that. Wherever else you may go, whatever else you may do, it won't be home.

I can't imagine not being able to provide that for my child. Sleeping in a shelter, staying at a friend's house, crashing with family - it's not your home. It's not your child's bed. Maybe you've been able to hang on to a beloved stuffed animal, but fuzzy socks?

I don't know what to do about 225 children without homes. But I'm desperately concerned that we as a church, as the body of Christ, be aware of this and other problems and be prayerfully considering what we can do.

I'm slowly warming up in my warm apartment, with my fuzzy socks and my cat. But I can't stop thinking about 225 children who went through their day today without the thought of their own home to return to at the end of the day.

All We Need is Love

My paternal grandfather is not in very good shape here at the beginning of 2010. He's old, and well.... well anyway, I got to thinking today about my other grandparents, my maternal grandparents, who have both passed on now.

I was never very close to any of my grandparents. Why isn't really important, just th at we weren't really close. My maternal grandmother passed away a few years ago, and I went home to Georgia for the funeral. I remember distinctly walking into the living room of her house, and seeing my grandfather sitting in his chair, shoes in one hand, socks in the other, staring at them.

"Hi Pop," I said softly. "Can I help you with something?"

"I can't see to put my shoes on," he said sadly. Pop had macular degeneration and was nearly blind by this point. "Marie used to help me with these things."

Pop had these long, skinny pale feet that completely freaked me out through most of my childhood. He had thick, twisted yellow toenails and I avoided even looking at his bare feet.

Before this day, I would have told you that I loved my grandfather. I would have told you that we weren't close, and it bugged me that he told jokes about me weight or my hair, but I would have said that I loved him, because, well, because he was my grandfather.

I sat on the floor and put Pop's feet in my lap. I slowly worked the dress socks over his mangled toes and his long feet. I rubbed my warm hands over his cold, aching diabetic feet and gently put his shoes on.

And I loved him.

In that act, I learned more about love than at any other time in the years before of since. In that moment, I felt that I new what love was. That moment changed the way I saw my grandfather, even when he grew confused and difficult. I always saw us together in the living room, me working the socks over those toenails that so disgusted me, him missing the woman who had helped him put his shoes on, probably without him ever asking.

When Jesus washed the feet of his disciples, he loved them. He didn't just demonstrate service or give an example - he loved - action verb - by washing their feet.

I'm certainly not Jesus. But I see the value in that menial action - the action is, in itself, love. Not just an act of love, but love itself.