In another, it is exam day. The problem? The class never made it to my schedule, so I didn’t even know that I was registered for it. Now I have to take an exam on material I’ve never seen.

In my favorite recurring dream, though, people from all over the world, “children from every nation,” come together in peace. They sing. They laugh. They hold hands. Lifelong friendships form instantly. Differences are dealt with civilly. The world is at peace. It’s a great dream—one that leaves me with a wakeful longing for unity.

But this week, my 16 year old daughter is actually living my dream. She is in Nairobi, Kenya attending PassportKenya. At this camp, kids from the US and Kenyan kids, experience true cultural exchange. (Trellace’s roomie is a Kenya native.) All the kids—American & African—are followers of Jesus Christ. This is not an evangelism trip on which middle class suburbanites go into the wild to save the savage tribesmen. It is not a mission trip in the traditional sense; that is, the Westerners did not rush off to a foreign land to offer aid. This is a mission immersion trip: a time for Christians from this country to develop friendships with Christians from that country. They have worshipped together; they have ministered together; they have sung songs together—some in Swahili, some in English.

And in so many of the pictures I’ve seen, they are holding hands—white hands and brown, black hands and tan. Peace. Right here on earth. It’s like a dream come true.

After this I looked, and there was a great multitude that no one could count, from every nation, from all tribes and peoples and languages, standing before the throne and before the Lamb, robed in white, with palm branches in their hands.
Revelation 7.9

And every time I see that sign three faces rush to my mind: faces that are forever never-changing. Paxten, always 3 years and 7 months old—even after his younger sister turns four and then five. Matthew, staying 12 while his twin rushes into high school. Caleb, forever 11: his younger brothers eventually matriculating to grades he never got to start. And I just wonder: How can you face forever when your boy is gone?

How can you imagine a future without your child, your parents, your beloved? I gotta tell you, I wouldn’t want to face tomorrow without my beagle, much less my people, and I’m not kidding, not even a little bit. Death is forever. And it hurts. It hurts on the big days (the ones you know will be hard): the anniversaries, the birthdays, the holidays. But it hurts on the little days too: when the family gathers and one is forever absent, when you go to the restaurant that will forever be her restaurant or his, when you go to the ball field, the bookstore, the band concert. Everywhere. Always. Forever.

I hurt so much for my loved ones who’ve lost; my heart screams about fairness and longing. Yet if I hurt for them this much what must it be like for the childless mother, the lonely widow, the grieving child. I can’t bear it. And that’s because, well, it can’t be borne—not by human hearts anyway.

At that thought, my soul stretches out, finding hope within reach. Because for me, on account of my faith, while I know death is forever, I also know life is eternal. I can rest in that assurance. So, I slip my hand into the nail-scarred hand and fall deep into Christ’s embrace. There, I feel the tears of Jesus mixing with my own. There I am reminded that even when I walk through valleys that are permanently shadowed by death, I do not walk alone. And somehow, because Jesus lives, I really can face tomorrow. Forever.

A year ago this Wednesday, July 21, 2010, Caleb Spady slipped into eternity. He will forever be missed.

In front of me, a man had been snoozing on and off throughout the journey. I’d watched him, amazed by his commitment to rest despite the chaos that surrounded him. A devoted sleeper myself, I was impressed. But as we took off this time, he sat up, eyeing the older woman who stood holding the pole in front of him. He watched her until she met his gaze.

“Here,” he said, gesturing to his seat and starting to rise.

She shook her head smiling unspoken thanks, “Next stop,” she said, pointing to the door.

The man nodded, pulled his cap back down over his eyes, and went back to sleep. When the train stopped again, the woman exited and went on her way.

And that was that. No big deal. No one called the police. No one staged a riot.

An African American man offered his seat on the train to an elderly Caucasian woman. They had a polite exchange, and life went on as if nothing had happened—as if what I had just witnessed was not, in fact, a little miracle.

That exchange illustrated for me what the students in the Mississippi Freedom School knew back in 1964 when they penned their “Declaration of Independence from the State of Mississippi” in which they listed their grievances against Mississippi’s government. They enumerated injustices common in the Jim Crow South and then they closed with a remarkable statement. They said, “That no man is free until all men are free.” (MLK said it too. So did many others over the years.)

See, the man on the subway could offer his seat (or not) because he was free. And the woman, well because he was free to offer it, she was free to refuse. Sixty years ago, they would not have been on the same train at all. Fifty years ago, they might have been on the same train, but few would have questioned it if the woman had awakened the sleeping man and demanded his seat. Forty years ago, tensions ran so high between the two groups, that no one knew what to do. And we still don’t know. We still have so, so far to go.

But last week, two people passed each other courteously, respectfully, and peaceably. And in their faces, I think I saw the face of Christ.

“Theater, I think, with a minor in photography.”

I recalled the last five years or more when she and Trellace (her twin cousin) spent hours taking pictures with their new digi-cams. I thought back to her elementary and preschool years when her carefree hours were filled with playing dress-up and gathering audiences for her impromptu shows.

“Perfect!” I told her, “Everyone should major in something they love.” I spent more than a decade in college admissions and career counseling. I can hardly stop myself from offering unsolicited advice.

“The way you find out what that special something is,” I went on, “is to think back to what you did for fun when you were a child. Major in something that parallels that activity. That’s what you’ve done by choosing theater and photography.”

Rachel nodded, understanding. She said she had recently talked to a radio announcer who told of his childhood.

“He used to talk into a cassette recorder, listen to his voice, erase it, and then do it again. He did that over and over again as a kid and now, as an adult, he is in radio.”

“That’s what I’m talking about,” I said, “Like my sister, she’s a teacher, and when she was little, she loved playing school.”

Rachel and her mom nodded as I continued.

“Your Uncle Jay loved his microscope, plants, anything that had to do with science, and today he is a scientist. I loved books and played library when I was a little girl. Today, I write and I’m in a field that requires a lot of reading.”

Laughter spurted from Trellace, who had been silent throughout the conversation.

“What?” I asked, “Did I say something funny? Embarrassing?”

“No, it’s nothing,” she managed, still sputtering from her laughter, “I was just remembering that when I was little, Hollyn* and I always played ‘Queen.’”

*Hollyn lived across the street from us from the time she and Trellace were 4 until they were 9.

Guy Sayles says those words each time a new believer rises from the baptismal waters. Those of us who attend First Baptist Church of Asheville have heard these phrases many times, but never did they ring truer than they did that day.

Cameron is older than his brother Collin by several years. Yet Collin learns at a higher level, and moves with greater ease than his big bro. He’s what the world would call academically and intellectually gifted. Collin is a delightful child, interacting as easily with kids his age as with the adult friends of his parents. He’s a great kid.

And so is Cameron. But Cameron’s words are sometimes hard even for adults to understand; kids his age too often fail to communicate with him at all. His steps are slow, particularly when stairs are involved. Cameron is what the politically correct of the world would call “special.” And they would be right. They would be right in ways they can’t even imagine.

Cameron’s smile brightens the world around him. His laugh brings joy to all who hear. His ready hugs can lift the lowest of spirits. Cameron understands love. He knows his family loves him, particularly that precocious little brother who does double duty as Cameron’s best friend. He knows that everyone at his church loves him, especially the little girls in his Bible study class who rush to sit beside him and to hold his hand as he goes up and down steps. And, in a way others will never understand, Cameron knows that Jesus loves him. So Cameron, being Cameron, just loves Jesus right back.

Because he is being raised in the Baptist church, part of Cameron’s upbringing has included conversations about making his profession of faith in Jesus Christ. His parents have talked to him about what it means to join the church and have entertained his questions, helping him to understand baptism. Brother Collin had already made his profession of faith privately, but found baptism itself intimidating and therefore hesitated to make his decision public. Not Cameron. Once his mind was made up, it wasn’t long before he stepped right out into that chapel aisle and walked straight to his pastor, letting him and everyone else know that he had chosen to follow Jesus. What’s more, he wanted to confirm his decision by believer’s baptism.

Whoa. This would be complicated. Collin had not even been baptized yet and he is not even scared of water like Cameron is. In fact, just getting Cameron into the baptismal pool and back out again posed enough obstacles to discourage the whole idea.

But Cameron was determined and his courage inspired Collin who decided he was ready for baptism if Cameron was. “This is something the brothers should do together,” Collin told his mother.

Collin went first. Dripping from his dunking, he stepped out of the baptistry. It was Cameron’s turn. The pastor turned to take his hand but Cameron hesitated. (Negotiating stairs is hard enough without water underneath your feet, for goodness sake.) Slowly, he made his way toward Dr. Guy. Within reach, Cameron grasped for his pastor who lifted him into place. Now, most people who are baptized, turn to look at the congregation or gaze toward the pool’s exit. Not Cameron. He turned to face Guy, waiting.

“Cameron, upon your profession of faith in Jesus Christ,” Guy said looking into Cameron’s eager face. Cameron wrapped his arms around his pastor. “I baptize you,” Guy scooped up a handful of water and poured it over Cameron, “in the name of the Father,” another scoop, “and of the Son,” one last handful of water, “and of the Holy Spirit.”

“Cameron, you are a child of God and God takes great delight in you. God is giving you everything you need to be all that God is calling you to be.”

Cameron leaned into Guy’s embrace, and after a moment or two, Guy lifted Cameron out of the baptistry, to walk in newness of life.

It’s the Saturday before the Saturday before–

Everything’s almost done.

Easter dresses, matching: hemmed and hanging.

Eggs, two dozen, waiting to dye.

Basket treats purchased and hidden away.

It’s the Saturday before–

our guests are all here.

Neighbors, church folks, family and strangers

Eggs, freshly hued, tucked low in tall grass.

A prize egg too, stuffed with secret delights.

“Go find them” “I see one!” “All done!” “Oh! Let’s see!”

It’s the Sunday we planned for

And it’s all just right.

Baskets with bunnies and chocolate and more.

New dresses, new shoes, and purses to match.

Lunch nearly made before breakfast is done.

A long-eared cake with smile on its face.

There’s the camera, take the pictures, hurry up, let’s get going

Church starts soon; we cannot be late.

(“Daddy needs us there in time for his sermon, you know.”)

“She’s a stay -at-home mom,” some would say of my mother.
“Doesn’t work, unemployed, has no job in the world.”
Say what you will, and I’ll tell you what’s true:
Mother gave us Easter every day of the year.

Back then, I had just moved back to NC from OK. My husband and I thought we were coming back to good ole’ Dixieland where ever’body loved ever’body and good manners were mandated by state law. But when we arrived in Raleigh, NC we were met not with the hospitality we expected, but with angry drivers hunkered down behind their steering wheels. These Southern belles and their blueblood beaus were more than a little ticked off. Pretty soon, we knew why: there’s just not enough room for everybody, what with all the orange cones & “Lane Closed Ahead” signs. No kidding, when we moved back to North Carolina in 1992, it seemed like every single road in the state was under construction.

And good manners? Fahgetaboutit! If a motorist had the right of way, you could bet your sweet ice tea they weren’t giving up their spot just to let you over—particularly if you were sporting an Oklahoma license plate. Heck, there wadn’t enough room for the locals, much less a bunch of foreigners . . . .

Back in Oklahoma, there was plenty of room. I commuted to Chickasha from Oklahoma City. I travelled mostly on a turnpike and on many mornings it was me and the wide open road. After paying my toll, I rarely saw another human being until the city limits of Chickasha 40 miles away (yet so very many dead aardvarks along the way—go figure). By then, I was as happy to see another car as the other driver was. We’d wave at each other as if we were headed to the family reunion.

In Oklahoma, there’s elbow room a plenty. Okies can twirl their two-steppin’ skirts and kick up their cowboy boots without ever touching anybody. They can stand on the edge of Oklahoma City facing west and point to Yukon 20 miles away. In Oklahoma, folk got space. Lots and lots of space.

I think that’s one of the reasons Okies are so warm and friendly: ‘cause they can breathe. Sometimes, I feel like I’m being strangled by all my doing, thinking and being. I feel like my schedule is caving in on itself and that I’m at risk of being trapped in the rubble. No doubt about it, I need a little space: space to inhale and then exhale; space to relax; space to realize how much love there is in the world and how little everything else matters.

So I think I’ll take a moment right now. I’ll breathe in and breathe out. I’ll pay attention, but not too much. I’ll breathe again. Ahhh. Space. It can sure smell sweet.

Practice baptism? Shoot, I’ve been doing that all my life. No, I’m not an ordained pastor. In fact, I’ve only been in a baptismal pool once, for my own baptism 38 years ago. But, I’m a Baptist preacher’s kid and I’ve been baptizing folk ever since I started swimming, maybe even before then.

“I get to be the preacher first!” My sister, the oldest, raced me into the water. Whether we were vacationing at White Lake, NC, or playing in the local swimming pool, we spent much of our summers immersed. We could get pretty creative with water games and since our lives revolved around the church, it was to be expected that our experiences there would be reproduced in playtime. (Some kids play cowboys, firefighters, cops and robbers. We played Baptist.)

“Fine,” I told her, “But you only get to baptize me once. Then it’s my turn.”

Assuming a solemn expression and a preacher voice (which my Daddy never had but we’d heard our share) my sister placed one hand on my back and raised the other skyward. “Aileen? Why have you come?”

“Because I have accepted Jesus as my personal savior and I want to be baptized.” My voice sounded funny. I was holding my nose prematurely as my sister had been known to splash me under before it was time.

“Then,” she said, pitching her own voice down to sound more like Daddy’s, “Upon your profession in him, I baptize you my [giggle, giggle] little sister, in the name of the father, the son and in . . . the hole you go!” Before she got the last word out, I was under.

“Okay! My turn!” I said, wiping my dripping hair out of my face and taking my place behind her.

Now that I think about it, I suppose our little game was a bit disrespectful, maybe even borderline sacrilegious. (I won’t even tell you about our Eucharist tea parties.) But mainly, looking back at those days, I’m grateful. I’m grateful that my faith traditions were so familiar to me that they became a very literal part of my everyday life. As a child, that meant I baptized playmates. As an adult, it means that I continue to follow Christ. And I’m not even playing.

I have baptized you with water; but he will baptize you with the Holy Spirit. Mark 1:8 NRSV

“Charlie licks the floor constantly,” I said, “And it’s not just the floor either. He licks the carpet, his bed, everything. It’s . . . well. . . it’s gross.”

She got my point. “Any other symptoms?” she asked, holding out her hand to Charlie, enticing him to come close. She scratched his ears, cooing, “That’s a good boy, Charlie. Aren’t you a sweet boy?” He leaned into her so she could do a better job.

I told her what was going on with him, trying not to leave anything out.

“It sounds to me like he has some tummy trouble,” she said. “When dogs experience stomach pain, they try to find a way to get rid of that pain. So, they lick, trying to consume something that will make them throw up.”

“Eww.”

“Yeah, I know. But when they can get rid of the contents of their stomach, they feel better. At least for awhile.”

Fascinating. What she was saying was that it is my beagle’s instinct, when his tummy hurts, to consume something even worse for him to make the pain go away. Even after Charlie and I left the vet that day, I kept thinking about this canine tendency. I thought about how many times I do this. How many times do I self-medicate, using a drug that’s far worse for me than the problem itself? My drug of choice is food. Yours might be sleep, anger, work, cigarettes. Whatever: we just keep licking the floor, trying to find something to make us feel better.

“And the problem is,” the vet said, “that the licking itself can become a habit. If an animal has had long-term chronic stomach pain, even if it is treated and the problem is resolved, sometimes he will keep licking out of habit.”

(Like self-medicating just because we can?)

“Then we have a psychological problem.”

(No kidding.)

“So what we try to do is treat the stomach ache early, before the licking has become a compulsive behavior all its own.”

(Now there’s an idea.)

She prescribed—yes it’s true—Pepcid®. In a few days Charlie was feeling much better and licking a lot less. Amazing. We treated the real problem, and the destructive behavior went away.

Wonder if that would work in humans?

“Where are you?” my GWU friend asked.

“On the way. What’s up?”

“Uhhh, nothin’, just wanted to see if you wanted to meet us for coffee.”

“You’re out of class?” It was only 8:30 and they had Dr. Cal Robertson. Doc Cal never ends class early. Never.

“Well, yeah.”

“I thought you had Robertson.”

“We do. . . we just . . . well . . . we’re at the coffee shop.”

There was something she wasn’t telling me.

“Is something wrong with Robertson? Is he sick?”

“Robertson’s fine.”

“Robertson is NOT fine if he let you out of class early.”

“No, really. Robertson is fine.”

“Okay, if you’re sure. I’ll be there in a little bit.” I’m slow on the uptake at 8:30 in the morning. I didn’t hear the shock in her voice, the utter disbelief.

When I got to GWU, my friends met me, not at the coffee shop, but in the yard outside the divinity school. (It’s a long drive from Asheville to GWU.)

“Aileen. Dr. Goodman died this morning,” Donna told me.

“What?”

“It’s true Aileen,” Gary said, “He collapsed in the shower. We don’t know any more details right now.”

“Dr. Goodman?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure?” (We ask stupid questions like that when we are in shock.)

“Yes. It’s true,” Karen nodded, confirming it.

“Gary?” I looked up at my preacher-man friend who I refer to as my “little brother.” He nodded, reaching his arm around me to steady me.

“We’re having chapel today, but they changed the planned service. Now the focus will be Dr. Goodman.”

In a few hours, we all went to church. Here’s what I wrote about that service.

http://www.aileenonline.com/b2/?p=19

Lifting up the Goodman family today. Remembering. . .