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Overview
Snapshots of Hope is a series of reflections on hope, a timely subject in today's world. Written by an excellent storyteller, this collection features stories of ordinary people trying to find hope in the midst of chaos, challenging times, and everyday living. A little girl, a crossing guard at school, gets a spot where no one ever needs help, so she turns her job into one of waving all at the cars and welcoming everyone as they come to school. An old man who stubbornly sits on a rocking chair in his driveway in the midst of a flooded town gives the rest of the town's residents the courage to come home and start cleaning up. Hope, it would seem, is everywhere, even in the most unlikely places.
Told in a simple and charming voice, Snapshots of Hope will provide inspiration–and a few giggles–for its readers.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9780819229724 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Morehouse Publishing |
| Publication date: | 09/01/2005 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 94 |
| File size: | 1 MB |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
SNAPSHOTS OF HOPE
Stories from Our Family Scrapbook
By RICHMOND WEBSTER
Church Publishing, Incorporated
Copyright © 2005 Richmond WebsterAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-8192-2206-0
CHAPTER 1
Gratitude and Hope
A snapshot of relationship
Then the Father said to him, "Son, you are always with me, and all that is mine is yours. But we had to celebrate and rejoice, because this brother of yours was dead and has come to life; he was lost and has been found."
Luke 15:31–32
Not too long ago, something happened out of the blue that I don't think I will ever forget. It was a Monday morning, and I was taking the church deposit to the bank downtown, when a voice from the parking lot stopped me short: "Pastor, will you come pray with me?"
Now before I go any further, I want to tell you that there definitely are pitfalls to wearing a clerical collar in the Bible Belt. I've seen it all—the concerned faces of restaurant patrons as I sit with my wife at lunch ("Will that be separate checks, Father?"); the hush as I enter a room and realize that I am either missing out on a really good story or scaring someone half to death. Just the other day, I was riding on a crowded elevator in the hospital when an orderly stepped in. He recognized a colleague standing next to me and said cheerfully, "Girlfriend, where have I seen you before?" His friend glanced sideways at me before saying, "I'll have to tell you later."
All this is to say that a minister's clerical collar can be a magnet for all sorts of adventures and mishaps. But sometimes being recognized as a minister on the street is pure grace. This was one of those times. We sat together on a low wall next to the front door while the man told me of his predicament. It was a story almost too sad to tell. He was an old black gentleman, the red dirt on his trousers and shirt suggesting he made his living on the land. He held a carefully folded bandanna that was soaked with his own tears, and he shook softly as he began: "Pastor, I got a bad cancer, and the doctor says I got months to live." We stayed there for a little while, talking about faith, family, and the promises of God. This man was clearly a Christian. He was afraid, to be sure, but he also knew the Lord and had no doubt that God was with him, even here in the valley of the shadow of death.
I took his hand, and offered a prayer. It wasn't much, just a little prayer for the journey. Episcopal clergy aren't known for their extemporaneous prayer skills, and this morning there wasn't a prayer book for miles. Still, we were clearly on Holy Ground, and I will never forget his soft refrain to my own prayer, "Yes Lord; thank you, Jesus; thank you."
It has been said that the world is hard on those who have to live in it, and that morning I realized nothing else I had planned for the day seemed all that important by comparison—not the bank deposit, or the post office, or the cares of the day. In some mysterious way, our time together had been a gift, a reminder to us both of what it means to be in relationship with the same God who made us, knows us, and calls us by name. After all, our journey with God is not about pious platitudes or fancy prayers, stained glass or Sunday ritual. The old man's refrain stands in my memory as witness to life lived in gratitude and hope—gratitude for the gifts of God, even when life doesn't work out like we had wished or planned, and the unfailing hope that God always keeps his promises.
This snapshot from the fifteenth chapter of Luke is one of the best-known and best-loved stories in all of scripture. Like the man in the parking lot, it, too, is a reminder of our need to be in relationship with God, though I wonder if it is a story we know so well that we hardly know it at all. Put another way, I wonder if we ever pause to consider that this is more than a story about a boy who sowed his wild oats before returning home. I wonder if we can we read it as a story about us and consider our own relationship with God—even when things haven't turned out quite like we wished or planned.
This parable is special to me, since I had my own little adventure in learning its meaning. As a seminary student, I was struggling to write a sermon based on this story when a very wise teacher sent me on a little field trip. She told me to go to the National Gallery, across the river in Washington, DC, and find a painting by the seventeenth-century Spaniard Bartolomé Murillo titled Return of the Prodigal. If you have ever seen it, I'm sure you will agree that it is breathtaking. To begin with, the painting is huge, more than six feet tall, and it is full of rich detail. The composition centers on a benevolent father embracing an emaciated son. They are accompanied by a servant bearing a ring on a pillow, while another leads in a fatted calf. A little dog was even added to the composition, leaping and barking as the ultimate welcome home.
I wrote down everything I saw and called my teacher. After I finished with my description, she asked, "Now read the parable again, and tell me what you didn't see in the painting." Her point was crystal clear. For all his detail, Murillo had left out the older brother. He only told half the story. "There was a man who had two sons," the story begins, but all too often we stop with the boy who returned home.
Who could blame Murillo? The story of the older brother is almost too sad to tell. He was in the field working when his brother finally returned, so he didn't even know what had happened until he heard music coming from the house. It was a servant who finally broke the news that his brother was safe at home again and his father had thrown the boy a party. But he couldn't join them. He couldn't go in. He just couldn't imagine how things had turned out for his little brother. As far as he was concerned, finding his brother dead was always a possibility; crawling back on his hands and knees was yet another. But he just couldn't fathom his father giving a party for someone who had squandered the family fortune and brought shame to the family name.
Of course, there was another reason he couldn't join the party, a deeper reason. He simply didn't have a relationship with his father, or anyone else, for that matter. True, he worked like a slave for the family business, but his father didn't want him to be a slave. He wanted his son to be a child. The older brother never broke a rule and he never left home, but his heart was far from home—farther than his little brother dared to go. He was so lost, he couldn't see the gifts his father gave him every day; he couldn't trust the hand of grace that would be extended to him as well. In short, he lived a life without gratitude and hope.
In the spring of 2004, my family moved from Decatur, Alabama, to the city of Birmingham. I actually moved ahead of my wife and children some months before, and though many people have stories of separation more trying than ours, I'm very glad it's over. There were times when the pain of separation was most acute—a missed choral performance, a good report card, and an injured pet all reminded me that our little family unit was broken. But I also think we can look back on that difficult time and see little gifts along the way. In fact, there were moments when we truly discovered the meaning of family.
One of these moments happened on Ellen's birthday. Anyone who knows my wife also knows that birthdays are a big deal with her. No one can stretch out a birthday like Ellen Webster. It works like this: Toward the end of April, Ellen will announce to the family that we all have to be nice to her because it is her "birthday week." She tried to stretch all this out into a month once, but we wouldn't let her get away with it. The best part of this little game is that everyone else gets the royal birthday treatment as well. On the night before each person's big day, after everyone has gone to bed, Ellen becomes the "birthday fairy," decorating the honoree's breakfast chair like a throne, complete with crepe paper, balloons, and a hat to announce the beginning of a very special day.
Now it is usually my job as a secondary or "fill-in" birthday fairy to pick up the job of decorating for Ellen's big day. But with Daddy gone, I figured we would have to suspend the tradition for that year. Ellen never complained a bit, but I also knew that she would be sad as she sat in an unadorned breakfast chair. What I hadn't counted on was the fact that our ten-year-old daughter, Betsy, had been thinking the same thing. The morning of my wife's birthday, I got a call from Ellen first. It was about 6:30 in the morning, and she had just returned from taking my son to early-morning football practice. "You aren't going to believe this," she said. "The birthday fairy came to see me." It was true. While Ellen was out running errands, Betsy got out of bed early and strung miles of crepe paper all over her mother's breakfast chair, set out a homemade card, and placed her own favorite stuffed animal as a gift in the center of the table. It was beautiful, and in the end, Betsy gave her mother something better than her favorite toy—Betsy became the birthday fairy. In fact, I don't think either parent will ever forget the day our little girl loved us enough to keep the family traditions going. Can you see it now? This is the vision of life God holds out for us. A life lived in community, a life lived in mutual understanding, a life lived in love.
I attended a conference some years ago where the speaker portrayed some of our popular images of God. He used props and hats, and it was pretty effective. First, the speaker donned a cowboy hat and brandished a toy six-gun. He was God the Divine Lawman. "Hey, you down there!" he barked. "You broke one of my commandments! Pow! You get the flu!" Next, he put on an apron and became God the Celestial Waiter, pathetically doing all he could to please in order to prove his existence. Finally, he sat in a rocking hair and became God the Old Man, continually dozing and forgetting his own name.
His performance was both hilarious and revealing. These popular notions of God—from sheriff to cosmic vending machine to grandfather—all had one thing in common: They all reveal a fundamental lack of relationship, and we might do well to ask ourselves if we, too, have strayed far from home. Remember, God doesn't want slaves; God wants children. God wants our hearts, not our best behavior, and he wants us together. In short, God wants to journey with us as a family—through ups and downs, through celebrations and disappointments, through triumph and tragedy. God is very near, if we only allow him to be a part of our lives. God is as close as a prayer, as close as a neighbor, as close as a wish, a dream, even a tear.
Come home and rest. Let your heavenly Father welcome you with open arms. Discover a life filled with gratitude and hope. The party is waiting. Thank you, Jesus; thank you.
CHAPTER 2The Crossing Guard
A snapshot of extravagant living
Truly I tell you, this poor widow has put in more than all those who were contributing to the treasury. For all of them have contributed out of their abundance; but she out of her poverty has put in everything she had, all she had to live on.
Mark 12:43–44
From late August until May in the city of Decatur, Alabama, a select group of fifth graders serve as crossing guards in front of their elementary schools. Rain or shine, these children keep watch as little ones pour out of their parents' cars, cross busy streets and parking lots, or wobble on their bikes in the midst of morning traffic. And while those who don the orange vests must arrive a little early for school each day, it is a job that carries with it a certain prestige. In fact, the children usually vie for the privilege.
As with most schools in most towns, each place has its own traditions, its own requirements when it comes to parking etiquette and expectations. Within a week of the new school year, all the parents know whether they may turn left (or not) in the parking lot. They know where to stop and where to let Junior out of the car. They know these things because even a minor infraction will bring the immediate attention of a ten-year-old carrying a flag and wearing the badge of authority. But there is another kind of crossing guard tradition unique to Decatur, an event I used to enjoy every morning along the street behind Eastwood Elementary School.
As best as I can tell, it all began when a little girl named Anna Laura was told to stand beside the crosswalk on Eastwood Drive. She was a brand-new crossing guard, and this was not really the place for her. To begin with, Anna Laura is the kind of happy, vivacious girl who greets the world with a smile every day. But this particular post was not the place for a girl with her gifts. This crosswalk was on the backside of the playground, the farthest from all the other children. At this crosswalk, there would be precious few children to greet and help across the road. At this crosswalk, there would be no car doors to open for little ones loaded down with backpacks and science fair projects. At this crosswalk, there would be nothing for her to do except stand at attention with her vest and her flag, watching the world hurry by on its way to school.
Incidentally, I'm somewhat of an expert on the subject of crosswalks, as I happen to be the parent of a former crossing guard. I also am sensitive to the injustice of Anna Laura's assignment, since my son was assigned to one of the busy (important) crosswalks, and he didn't even smile for the entire school year. Friends called him "Mr. Sunshine." Perhaps it was the weight of his responsibility. I'll have to ask. But day after day, it was always the same: Copeland simply stood on his corner, the silent lawman, impassive as a guard outside of 10 Downing Street.
Needless to say, Anna Laura was very disappointed with her assignment. But she hung in there, and in time, we all began to notice that something special was happening behind the playground on Eastwood Drive. In short, Anna Laura was merely content to stand around holding her flag. True, she couldn't open any car doors back there, or even help many children cross the road. But she could wave, and it was here that she perfected the art. She waved to everyone, and it wasn't just some little wave, some mere acknowledgment that she knew you from the neighborhood or that she happened to catch your eye. Rather, she really waved, and smiled, and leaned, and shouted greetings to anyone driving by. I remember my wife telling me about her first: "You have just got to ride down Eastwood Drive and see that cute girl waving to everybody." In time, Anna Laura became a goodwill ambassador of sorts, whether she knew it or not. Any visitor to southeast Decatur would have to conclude that Eastwood School was the friendliest place in town. I even changed my morning route to work just to see her wave and start my day with a smile.
I'll say this again: Something special was happening behind the playground on Eastwood Drive, and I believe it was something deeper than a little girl's greeting the world with a smile, or even making the best of a bad situation. Rather, Anna Laura became a daily reminder of what it means to live extravagantly—to never hold back, to have hope and deep joy, even when things don't work out as we might wish or plan. As far as I'm concerned, Anna Laura fits squarely in this snapshot from the twelfth chapter of Mark.
Jesus was teaching in the Temple in Jerusalem, and as he looked all around, he saw that the practice of their religion had fallen far short of God's plan. Temple dignitaries, and others of great wealth and importance, had turned this house of God into a mere showcase of money and power. As Jesus saw it, religion in this place had become, at best, a mere pretext for social advancement, and at worst, a rip-off scheme to oppress the poor and powerless. But all was not lost in the Temple that day, as Jesus noticed a woman enter the room. She was a poor widow, invisible in their culture, and far removed from the lives of the rich and powerful. We don't know anything more about her, but it is no stretch to imagine that her life hadn't worked out as she had ever wished or planned. But she came with a gift, and Jesus saw that something special was happening here. True, it was only a little gift—two small coins worth only a penny—yet Jesus knew something deeper was at work than the mere generosity of a woman with precious little to give.
A few years ago, I ran across a remarkable essay tided "Beneath the Surface," in which a minister, David Hansen, recalls some of the lessons he learned while working in the Alzheimer's unit of a nursing home. One morning, his group began with a project in which patients were given small bags to fill with candy for an upcoming party. The minister was paired with a woman who struggled to tie ribbons around the bags of cellophane. He noticed her frustration as she tried to remember how to tie a bow. So he asked her, "How about if you hold the ribbon, and I'll tie the bow?" The woman smiled, and Hansen learned his first lesson for the day: The point of their time together had little to do with getting things done efficiently, and everything to do with enjoying each other's company.
Still, there were other lessons for the minister to learn that day. After filling the party bags, it was now time for the morning devotion. He got out his King James Bible and began slowly reading the twenty-third Psalm: "The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not ..." He stopped before the last word. "Want!" said a few. "Good job," he said. Then he continued: "He maketh me to lie down in green ..." "Pastures!" they replied. Everyone was into the game by now. "He leadeth me beside ..." "Still waters!" After a while, the game began to falter a bit, so the minister decided to try something else. He began to sing verses from old hymns, and suddenly a woman called out, "I can play the piano!"
(Continues...)
Excerpted from SNAPSHOTS OF HOPE by RICHMOND WEBSTER. Copyright © 2005 Richmond Webster. Excerpted by permission of Church Publishing, Incorporated.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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Table of Contents
Contents
Foreword,Introduction,
1 Gratitude and Hope,
2 The Crossing Guard,
3 What Are We Looking For in the First Place?,
4 Clarity,
5 When God Speaks,
6 In the Family,
7 Love One Another,
8 Life Is Good,
9 A Town Where Magic Happened,
10 Salvation,
11 Lost and Found,
12 You Are Beautiful,