Shame on you America: the only country where we have homeless without shelter, children going to bed without eating, elderly going without medical needs & mentally ill without treatment-yet we have a benefit for the people of Haiti on 12 stations. 99 percent of people wont have the guts to copy & repost this.

Let me rebut this point by point:

1.    America is NOT the only country with people who are homeless, hungry, and uninsured. This is so blatantly false it would be laughable, if it wasn’t so scary that anyone actually believed it. Yes, we have our societal ills, but the United States has one of the highest standards of living in the world. There are many, many, many worse off nations where legions of people have no food, shelter, or medical care, with governments unwilling or unable to provide for these basic needs.
Edit: A family member pointed out that what this may be saying isn’t that America is the only country with these societal problems, just the only such country that held a benefit like this. Even if that interpretation is correct, it’s still a false statement. There is NO country free of such social issues, yet America wasn’t alone in hosting a benefit. The rest of my argument stands.

2.    Homeless shelters and food kitchens abound in this country, and no one who shows up in an emergency room will be denied basic medical treatment just because they can’t pay for it. Yes, there is a tremendous need in our country, and we are doing far from a perfect job of addressing those needs. I heartily applaud those who recognize that. But the fact remains that resources are there for those who truly need them in a way that they simply aren’t in many less developed nations.

3.    Some who are expressing so much concern for the poor in America right now are the very same people who complain bitterly about using tax money to pay for programs to help the underprivileged. They accuse such people of being lazy and living off the hard work of honest people. They want nothing to do with paying for legitimate assistance programs to aid those in need, just because some freeloaders may take advantage of the system. In my very humble opinion, this smacks of hypocrisy.

4.    What’s wrong with having a benefit for the people of Haiti in the midst of a national disaster? Haiti is a country with less than nothing, one of the poorest countries on the planet. They’ll never recover without the generosity pouring in from other nations. Besides, no one can say we haven’t done the same for our own people. There were similar benefit concerts following 9-11 and Hurricane Katrina!

When, oh when, did Americans become such elitists? God didn’t command us to only love other Americans. And He didn’t create the artificial international borders that we now use to insulate and isolate ourselves from the rest of the world. We’ve been blessed with so much. Why shouldn’t we share it with those in the most need, in a time of crisis? Where’s our Christian compassion?

Shame on you, America. Indeed.

The King will reply, ‘I tell you the truth, whatever you did for one of
the least of these brothers of mine, you did for me.’

—Matthew 25:40

Merriam-Webster defines friend as “one attached to another by affection or esteem; acquaintance.” Not to quibble with the dictionary, but my definition is a little stricter than merely “acquaintance.” To me, friendship involves a lot more of the loyalty and caring exhibited by Jonathan and David. And it’s a lot more like the sentiment expressed in Proverbs 17:17—”A friend loves at all times.”

A friend, a genuine friend, cares through thick and thin, through both prosperity and adversity. A friend celebrates your accomplishments, mourns your setbacks, sticks up for you, provides encouragement, is willing to listen, forgives your mistakes, and laughs with you, never at you. True friends sincerely want the best for each other and invest time in nurturing that relationship. At least, this is the type of friend I aspire to be to those I care most about. Not always successfully, but it’s what I try for.

Only a limited few of my acquaintances meet this tough criteria, however. Which begs the question: Why is it so hard to find such friends? What it is that connects us in true friendship to a handful of people in our lives? Just what are those indefinable qualities that drive only some of our social acquaintances beyond the superficial into the type of deep and lifelong caring, loyalty, respect, and trust that most of us long for?

I have no answers, only questions. But I can venture some personal opinions on the subject. Ralph Waldo Emerson said, “the only way to have a friend is to be one.” I believe this is where we often miss the boat. Being a friend requires time and energy—two things not everyone is willing to give in equal proportion. I know people who are friendly enough when it’s convenient to their schedules, or when they need something in return. I’ve been guilty of it myself. I have acquaintances I never hear from until they need a favor, and others who talk on and on yet somehow never find time to show an interest in what’s important to me. These are people I am happy enough to socialize with when the opportunity arises, but they are not who I would depend on in a time of need. Perhaps they aren’t “wired” with these friendship characteristics. Or maybe they’ve simply reserved that depth of friendship for others in their lives with whom they share more in common.

It’s true that common interests bond us with certain people more than others. Common hobbies, similar beliefs, shared life experiences. I know I’ve spent the last few years growing friendships with people of faith as my own faith has become more important to me. And digging deeper into my past, I count among my closest friends those who knew me as I was emerging into the person I would become, in my childhood and college years and beyond.

Some of these people in my life advanced rapidly toward friendship, while others developed more slowly over time. Either way, these are not acquaintances that will come and go. They are friends for life. They have earned my loyalty, and I hope I have earned theirs. Their numbers may be relatively few, but fortunately, it’s not the quantity of our friends that is important, but the quality. I’d rather have a few deeply meaningful friendships than a few hundred superficial ones.

In this area, I’ve been richly blessed. For example, when Kent unexpectedly earned himself an ambulance ride and a night in the hospital last year with chest pains, a small handful of local friends immediately offered to assist with the kids if we needed it. Though it proved unnecessary, I have not forgotten the generous offers from friends willing to upend their own schedules with no notice. These are the friends I know I can count on. And I’d do the same for every single one of them. In a heartbeat.

In closing, I leave you all with this quote:

Do not save your loving speeches for your friends till they are dead; Do not write them on their tombstones, speak them rather now instead.

~ Anna Cummins

And so, to my friends whom I love dearly:

I’d like to be the sort of friend that you have been to me. I’d like to be the help that you’ve been always glad to be; I’d like to mean as much to you each minute of the day, as you have meant, old friend of mine, to me along the way.

~ Edgar A. Guest

_____________________________________

Fittingly, as I was in the middle of drafting this entry this afternoon, one of my best friends from college, whom I met on my first day there just over 20 years ago now, called for a lovely chat, just because. I can’t think of a better reason to be interrupted from writing on the topic of friendship than to talk with one of those friends. Hi, Jill!

In my case it is a label that was correctly bestowed on me during my senior year of high school, when I was voted “Most Shy.” Back then, that’s exactly what I was. Anyone who remembers me at all from my school years remembers me as quiet, sweet, nice. My yearbooks are littered with these words from my classmates. Perhaps the sentiments were sincere (I would, after all, like to believe that I am nice), but I’ve always secretly suspected they were code for “I don’t really know you well enough to write anything else.” Yet it was almost certainly my own social fright that stood in the way of making deeper connections and lasting memories with the very people I had grown up with.

20 years can change a lot about a person, however, and while I will always be an introvert at heart, people who know me now are frequently shocked to learn that I was ever considered shy. Last weekend at my 20-year reunion I finally had the opportunity to demonstrate that to my former classmates. While it probably wasn’t enough time to change my shy image, it felt good to be free of the awkwardness that used to plague me.

I’m glad I attended the reunion. There were many people I was delighted to see—some of whom I wish I could have spent more time catching up with, and others whom I quite possibly spoke to for the very first time, ever. Even though we may have had little in common back then, there is that shared connection of having grown up in the same place and attended the same schools and known the same people that bonds us all together permanently. And that, dear readers, is kind of cool. Even, maybe especially, for the shy girl.

First, there was the big executive promotion in January.

February saw most of the miraculous series of events that led to the improbable sale of our “in need of TLC” house and subsequent purchase of our dream home.

April was the month in which I decided to champion adult literacy as my cause. The tutoring is still going strong and, according to my student, making a difference.

In June I discovered that my dad had been named our local homeless clinic’s volunteer physician of the year, making me one very proud daughter.

July brought the news that a writing dream was about to come true. The best practices book to which I have contributed an article is still scheduled for publication this spring. Those who know me well claim to have never heard me so excited. Or so full of emotion.

A modified version of September’s rant about the state of admissions at my alma mater will soon be making the rounds at said university, as a letter to the editor in our quarterly alumni magazine. Maybe it won’t change the world, but the editor feels my pain and is giving me a forum in which to make my voice heard.

In October we rolled out the red carpet for the most glamorous birthday party ever, creating what I hope will always be a vivid childhood memory for Maia.

November and December passed by in a mostly undocumented blur, but the highlights include time spent with family and the best of friends.

Readers, I have often maintained that I have a charmed life. It seems true, does it not? Yet I know others who deserve good fortune so much more. God surely has His reasons for bestowing unearned blessings on some while burdening others with equally unearned trials. And I just as surely don’t understand them. I’m not meant to, but that’s never stopped this rambling, accidental thinker from pondering life’s seeming inequities—admittedly with all the insight of mud.

Today, I don’t think I’d stand a snowball’s chance of getting accepted into this school. I don’t have a plan to change the world, and I don’t have a plan to spurn it. I’m not the smartest or the funniest or the most politically savvy. I’m not a world or national or state champion in anything. Not field hockey or tennis or female wrestling or spelling or chess or the Irish tin whistle. I’ve never lived in a solar greenhouse in the Rockies or on a sheep ranch in Turkey or at a missionary in Kenya. I don’t speak four languages and I don’t hold any patents and my idols are not female oceanographers. My parents are not Nobel Laureates or famous chefs or CEOs of Fortune 100 companies or foreign ambassadors or in prison. I’ve never turned a piece of classic literature into a rap song or built a catapult to hurl pumpkins 700 feet. I’ve never ridden my bike 22 miles to reduce my carbon footprint. I was never a class president or a valedictorian or a captain of a varsity sports team or an editor-in-chief of my school newspaper. I’ve never been a llama handler or a beekeeper. My favorite book is not the Communist Manifesto. I do not think that the color of my nail polish is a metaphor for the impossibility of perfection. I’m not a left-leaning Buddhist from a conservative Catholic family. I’ve never wanted to be a god in the eyes of my followers. I’m not in search of self-identity. I mostly just want to give an honest day’s work for an honest day’s wage, and to be there for my family and friends. Judging by the class of 2011, this makes me far too ordinary to pass muster with the admissions committee these days.

Don’t get me wrong—I LOVE the eclectic diversity of this class, and some of the stories are truly impressive and inspiring. Some of these students have overcome incredible obstacles to get where they are and they are absolutely worthy of praise. It’s just that, amidst all this standing out and specialness, where are the ordinary people like me? The ones who play the piano and belong to the Spanish club and get voted “Most Shy”? Where are the late bloomers who haven’t known since birth what they wanted to do with their lives? And reading about accomplishment after accomplishment and how everyone is so busy being different and unique, I couldn’t help but notice that what seemed missing was heart and soul. These kids purport to care about the world, but I wonder if they’ll be so engrossed in getting ahead and pursuing global altruism and being “individual” that they’ll forget to care about each other. I just can’t help but wonder.

I don’t really know why this analysis of the class of 2011 struck me the way it did. I suppose it’s partly because I have a hard time recognizing my own 17-year-old self in it. And partly because some of the essay snippets that were shared in the letter seemed so self-aware that it almost defies credibility. And partly because I think accomplishments are sometimes overrated at the expense of happiness and personal contentment as a measure of success.

Some of the happiest people I know might consider themselves ordinary. And that makes them extraordinary. Whether my alma mater agrees or not.

While there, I befriended another American in the program who was living with a host family. After I had spent some time in their company, the host mother made a perceptive observation about a crucial difference between the friend, whose name I no longer remember, and myself. She noted that the friend spoke Spanish frequently, but often imperfectly, while I was quite the opposite—not daring to practice my Spanish unless I was certain the words emitting from my mouth would be flawless in execution.

The wise host mother went on to advise that for all my friend’s inaccuracies, in the end she would end up the more fluent conversationalist because she was not afraid to make mistakes and be corrected, while I was hesitant to speak at all until I had worked out and perfected every detail of vocabulary, grammar, and pronunciation in my mind. With my friend’s way of trial and error, she opened up endless opportunities to learn from those around her. With my self-conscious reluctance to attempt anything less than perfection, I had little hope of expanding beyond what I already knew. In short, the host mother’s point was that I shouldn’t worry quite so much about getting it exactly right.

I often recall this advice whenever I find myself tongue-tied in any conversational situation, and not just when it comes to Spanish. It’s a problem I still struggle with, that fear of revealing what I don’t know. Along with its cousin, the fear of appearing inarticulate when the words and ideas in my head refuse to form themselves eloquently on my tongue. I’m a perfectionist, but remembering this particular story goes far in reminding me that sometimes it’s okay to take a chance on looking stupid, as long as I’m willing to learn from it.

I accepted the compliment graciously, because I was too chicken to tell her the truth of just how much of my kids’ lives I have already missed. I didn’t tell her that I missed Maia’s school award ceremony a few weeks ago (she received the Leadership award), because I was traveling, or that I missed a recent ceremony celebrating the publication of a book jointly written by her class, because I was catching up at work after having been traveling. I didn’t tell her that I was not there last December for Maia’s third surgical round of ear tubes, because I was, you guessed it, traveling, or that Maia left a message on my cell phone which brought me to tears, telling me it was okay that I had to miss her surgery because she didn’t want me to get fired from my job. I didn’t tell my friend that I have never been on one of Maia’s school field trips or volunteered in her classroom. I didn’t tell her that at Noah’s daycare, the director commented recently about how long it had been since she had seen me. And I didn’t tell her I’m entirely convinced that our pediatrician was recently shocked to discover that my kids actually have a mother.

This is not to say that I don’t get plenty of really excellent quality time with my offspring, however. I am there far more than I am not. I’ve never missed a dance recital or a school performance, and we have so many silly family moments that I treasure. Just tonight, I tricked Noah into giving me 100 kisses, and boy did he deliver! I gave him the option to call it quits after the first 50 sticky ice cream-faced kisses, but no, he kept going and even threw in an extra 10 for good measure. It’s moments like that when I know I wouldn’t trade my life for anything. Somehow, everything always ends up just right.

What I did tell this friend was that there is no possible way I could manage the juggling act without the world’s best husband and father who takes on far more than his fair share of household responsibilities and never complains, or the grandparents who always pitch in to help Kent when I’m away. And Maia wouldn’t get nearly the number of extracurricular activities without the friend who has taken her to dance lessons every Wednesday night for the last two years, and who for the third summer in a row is sharing carpooling duties with me for Maia’s and her own daughter’s busy summer schedule.

The reality is that Supermom is a big, fat myth. It’s more like super friends and family.

Over a year ago, the answer came in the form of a job candidate who volunteers for our local Adult Literacy League. This candidate did not get the job (a tough call between two very qualified people), but her cause struck an instant chord. Why had I never thought of this before? Helping others learn to read and write—skills that mean so much to me, lifelong skills that will unlock potential and open doors and can never be unlearned? This is something I can wholeheartedly embrace. I have always been an avid and passionate reader and general lover of the written word. My career centers on the field of training, specifically in the development and writing of training materials. I am thoroughly schooled in adult learning principles. Back in my college days, I even served as an academic tutor. Could there be any more perfect match for merging my interests, experience, and abilities? I think not. So the notion of becoming a literacy volunteer gained a foothold in my consciousness, where it has lingered persistently, refusing to release its grip.

Until now, however, I have encountered one roadblock after another—some admittedly of my own making. Tutor training sessions only take place every couple of months—always when I was traveling, as bad timing would have it. Then as the unprecedented travel schedule finally wound down, we went into warp speed moving mode after selling our house far earlier than we ever expected to. And a generally hectic work and family life have afforded easy excuses for why now is never quite a convenient time to commit a mere couple of hours once or twice a week.

But despite family and personal commitments, it’s time follow my own advice of making time instead of waiting to find it. It’s time to get off my duff, quit dawdling and making excuses, and set an example for my kids. I want them to see that service is about more than just writing a check. So today, I finally registered with the Adult Literacy League. The next training is not until June, and I won’t get a student assignment until sometime after that, but at least I am finally doing something instead of just thinking about it. That’s progress. And I am very much looking forward to helping others learn such a practical life skill, one personal connection at a time.

The sun continues its descent and the landscape lighting flickers on, spotlighting the neatly shaped shrubbery and surrounding vegetation—a grouping of small but impeccably manicured palm trees, the leaves and blossoms of a fruit-bearing lemon tree, and the tropical bird of paradise plants that will be strikingly beautiful when in full bloom. The illuminated reflection in the flawless, unbroken surface of the still pool as the evening grows darker is stunning. Nearby, a vine overtakes a wrought iron trellis and trails casually across an exterior window. The dimmed tiki lights and street lantern add a gentle glow to the scene. Now the crickets begin their chirping song. Soon, the hot tub will erupt in steamy jet action, inviting this blogger to sink into its swirling, soothing waters.

Wait, we live here? This can’t be! Somebody pinch me. I must be dreaming.

Yes, I was one of those privileged youth. Raised in a family that enjoyed a relatively high standard of living within the small town we lived in. I think, I hope, that I didn’t let it go to my head. The truth is, although we lived in a nice house, I didn’t have any more than my classmates in terms of flashy clothes or faddish trinkets or spendable cash. At school, the only obvious sign of my socioeconomic status was that car, and a prized possession it was, though I was careful not to show off too much. I didn’t want to be known as the spoiled rich kid. But the car spoke for itself and attracted new friends who were more than happy to hang with me as long as I would drive—in the way cool convertible, of course.

So the Mustang and I spent much quality time together with friends and, later, boyfriends, zooming all around town and beyond, top always down, with wind rippling through our hair. And all was blissful in Mo-land.

But as time wore on, I began to sense that some of my new “friends” cared more about being seen in the convertible than about being seen with me, while others resented my good fortune and really did see me as spoiled. Me, Most Shy, the girl who just wanted to get along. Still, a good-natured joke here, and a snide comment there, and before long it was clear that the cool car didn’t really make me any cooler. Or more popular. Though for the most part the teasing was harmless, and I took it as it was intended—in good fun.

Except it wasn’t always good fun.

I was sometimes teased by peers for not having to work. The implication was clear. I had the easy life, with everything—especially the fancy car—handed to me on a silver platter. The truth was, my parents placed much more emphasis on an education that would lead to a self-sustaining career than on a part-time job that would land me enough cash for the movies or the latest designer jeans. As far as they were concerned, unless I was making straight A’s, my time was better spent studying. Smart parents. Their push for long-term academic excellence in lieu of short-term “gotta have it” gain paid off.

Later, when I finally landed that longed-for first summer job as a waitress, eager to demonstrate a work ethic and establish an employment history, a catty co-worker, who also happened to be a classmate, informed me that my posh car was out of place in the employee parking lot. She then went on to say the thing that humiliated one sensitive and circumspect teen. She bluntly accused me of taking a job away from someone who “really” needed it. Typical, isn’t it, that the coveted dream car fed into an unjust stereotype and resulted in spiteful barbs?

Don’t get me wrong. I loved that car, which holds many fond memories, and I have long since forgiven the cutting remark, having attributed the scene to adolescent inexperience. But I still remember it clearly nearly 20 years later, word for word, because it taught an important life lesson that has stayed with me to this day. It taught me to appreciate the things I am fortunate enough to have, but not to bank my happiness or social acceptance on them. At the end of the day it’s just “stuff,” and only temporary stuff, at that.

Now, these many years later, my family and I find ourselves on the verge of buying a new home. It’s natural to want the best our budget will allow—the most space, the nicest accoutrements, a desirable neighborhood, a swimming pool for the kids. The suburban family version of “stuff.” Yet I find myself remembering the days of the Mustang, and reminding myself that our lifestyle is not about bragging rights or “keeping up.” It’s not about impressing our neighbors and friends or finding fulfillment in our accumulated possessions. It’s about wise choices tempered with modesty and respect, and remembering not to let the things we own define who we are.

And no, my kids will not be getting brand new convertibles when they turn 16. Pity them deeply, because their first cars will be big and ugly and safe. But they will still be the coolest kids in school, because their parents will have taught them it’s who they are on the inside that makes them stand out, not what they have or don’t have.

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