Lent 2016: February 11 - Day 2 (Luke 4:16-44)

Jesus – knowing precisely who He is – grabs the people’s attention by holding up the promises of God in one hand while smashing their expectations with the other. Hungry for true food, the crowds keep asking, “Who are you?” but Jesus, knowing their hearts, will only (somewhat playfully at first) respond by saying, “Who do you think I am?”

As He continues His journey to the cross, Jesus will ask that question with increasing exasperation and frustration. But the people are so wrapped up in their traditions, rituals and rules that they cannot see, hear or abide the truth. When Jesus warns them that their failure to recognize, acknowledge and accept the truth will eventually lead to the gift being bestowed elsewhere, the people explode. They want it for themselves, and if they can’t have it, no one will.

This, more than anything, demonstrates that they had abdicated their future identity and designated role as priests of God to the Gentiles. They had completely lost touch – physical, spiritual and emotional – with the true nature and character of God. And yet, they were completely convinced of their own righteousness. They didn’t understand that being “good” or being “right” on their own terms – having a perfect morality of their own devising – had nothing whatsoever to do with the righteousness of God.

Jesus never blamed the people for this disconnect. He blamed the priests, the Pharisees, Sadducees and scribes – men who knew better; men who were charged by God to teach the people and keep them safe. Men who were leaders, who led the mad scramble for the best seats, sat down and proceeded to do very little that fit within their job description.

In the beginning, God moved across the face of the waters of a pool far more glorious than any of Olympus. On one end, the water was deep and blue and cool, and the prophets would amaze the crowds with their acrobatics off the deep end. “Look here!” they called. “Look at how great and wide and deep our God is!” and then they would take a leap of faith into the air, tumbling and spinning in breathtaking arabesque until they struck the surface of the water with explosive force and energy and – with eyes wide open – slammed into God without so much as a splash.

The people, meanwhile, would watch as they waded in the shallow end, enjoying how the cool waters of God eased tired feet and lifted their spirits. Some just sat down, fully content to stay put. Others were scared of the water so they fled the pool. But a select few became enamored of the beauty and power of the high platforms, the rushing plunge deep into the truth and the simple, sweet pleasure of floating on one’s back, safe in His arms with the universe spinning and unfolding up above. 

At first, the priests – lifeguards, instructors and strong swimmers themselves – taught the people how to swim, how to dive and float. They explained that the platforms, pool and water (the everlasting mikveh) all were God together – that the experience of wading, paddling, swimming and diving were all a part of knowing God. One could dog paddle, breaststroke or backstroke. All were welcome. All were taught to study God and enjoy His rest by walking on and through His waters. God was and is and will be good, they said.

But over time, the people and their priests lost interest in being swimmers. Some became more interested in sunning themselves on the deck chairs around the pool. Others became judges of the high-diving prophets and refused to listen to them, scoring and scorning them in the process. One lonely day, the pool was closed and the people were sent away for 70 years.

When they came back – in trickles, then a torrent – they remembered stories about the pool, but they didn't remember exactly what it was for. With the best of intentions, they studied the pool and sought to understand it and relate to it in the proper manner. Above all, they saw it as dangerous – a child could drown! A man could lose his life! So they put up a fence around the pool and chained it shut. They closed off the deep end and tore down the platforms. They restricted everyone to wetting their toes at the shallowest end and drew up long lists of rules about water wings, inner tubes and shower caps. 

Meanwhile, no one truly cared about or for the pool. The people were not taught to respect the awesome pool for what it was – the lifeguards lied and said it was just a place to wash their filthy feet. Neglected, abused, the beautiful, deep blue waters of God turned muddy and green.

And then one day, Jesus came with a pair of bolt cutters and a handful of chlorine tabs and called – sincerely, enthusiastically and inclusively – “Let’s ALL go swimming!”

Lent 2016: February 10 - Day 1 (Luke 4:1-15)

It’s said that the baptism of Jesus marks the beginning of His ministry. Actually, His baptism marks the beginning of the end of His life. What a difficult and confusing time that must have been to feel so amazingly “right,” so connected to God, so completely aware of His identity as the Son and yet so equally aware of His purpose: to obey and, in obeying, to be a sacrifice for sin and so, be not. Hamlet had it easy, eh? 

Jesus knows who He is but does not have to testify about who He is because He has many witnesses who testify for Him, including Simeon, Anna, the shepherds, the Magi, John the Baptist and God. 

The witness statements of God the Father (“You are my beloved Son”) and God the Spirit (“and the Holy Spirit descended on Him in bodily form, like a dove”) are bookended by the double witness statements of John the Baptist. When John was in the womb and Mary, already pregnant, came to visit John’s mother (her cousin, Elizabeth), he “leaped in the womb” when Elizabeth heard the sound of Mary’s voice. As an adult, John testified again that he “saw the Spirit descend from heaven like a dove, and it remained on Him.”

Fresh off these testimonials, full of the Spirit, Jesus – like the Israelites from Egypt – heads out to the wilderness. Not to wander, but to win what may have been the battle of His life. Left alone, hungry, thirsty and probably not a little loopy from lack of food and rest, He is dogged at every step of his pilgrimage by Satan.

Luke shares three temptations, but there were many, many more. The three are a distillation of all the others and give a hint as to what must have been a non-stop natter patter of negativity and almost-truth.

In the first, Satan tsks disdainfully at the dust on Jesus’ sandals, wets an ethereal handkerchief with a sizzling tongue and scrubs at a smudge on Jesus’ cheek. Then, taking both of Jesus’ hands in his, he looks Him in the eye, sighs, and says, “I just don’t understand why You – the Son of God – would want to throw that all away, just to suffer. No one is going to understand or appreciate what it is you're doing, so why should you choose to suffer? What’s up with that? You don't have to give anything up. You don’t have to be hungry. Eat! There’s nothing wrong with having a snack!”

Jesus, remembering how He never did like quail, responds with a scriptural standard: “Spiritual food is much more important than physical food.”

Satan, hardly daunted, neatly sidesteps, shakes his head in pity, pats His hand and asks, “But why should You, of all people (the very Son of God mind You) do without? Why don’t You let me help? Here, You can have all this. All You have to do is ask nicely – talk nice to me for a change, won’t You? – and I will be more than happy to help You out. I’m just that kind of guy.”

Jesus, remembering just what kind of guy Satan is (a knife collector), responds while standing atop a scriptural foundation stone: “Only God is God. Only He is worthy of – worthwhile to – worship.”

Satan, realizing his error, takes a different tack. “Let’s go out. Let’s get you cleaned up and hit the town – paint it red! (my favorite color) – and have a ball. Screw ‘em. Who cares? You’re the Son of God, baby! Take the day off – show everybody just how much they really need You and then they’ll really listen when You CRACK…THAT…WHIP!”

Jesus, remembering just how altruistic Satan really is when it comes to negotiating labor contracts, responds – as always – from a refuge of scripture: “God’s plan is bigger than Me. He wants to use Me, but He doesn’t need Me. I am not the plan. I am the man of the plan.”

Luke says Satan left until a more opportune time. “I’ll pencil you in for Thursday next,” he promised Jesus, but he never showed. He did, however, set a reminder for the end of Passover week in another three years’ time. He just didn’t realize Jesus was already fully booked.

A Mother's Day

I am a little bemused to discover recently that, despite all the stories I've written about those I love, I have yet to address the subject of my mother. Perhaps because I find it difficult to do so. Not because we had a strained relationship or unresolved issues. Quite the contrary. It might just be because I want to keep her to myself just a little while longer.

I'm also afraid of doing her a disservice. I don't want to diminish her in any way or in anyone's eyes. As a child, she was my world. As an adult...well, let's just say she is never far from me.

My mother was very private; she let few people into her daily life and fewer still into the small, delightful secrets she kept. These gentle acts of kindness and generosity still amaze me, yet she considered them to be private obligations that would diminish in value should they become public. Family members to this day pull me aside and tell me how she kept the wolf from many doors by paying off bills, buying food, lending money and more.  She was exceptionally kind to the younger women in our family and helped them transition from tomboys into beauty queens. She herself remains to this day as the single most beautiful woman I have ever seen.

She understood the power of forgiveness--having been forgiven herself--and always strove to extend and demonstrate that forgiveness to others by making and maintaining a personal commitment to each of us--a reflection of her personal relationship with God. Because He had accepted her with all her faults and flaws, she could do no less than to accept all of us just as we were.

My mother understood that life was about choices. She herself made choices by faith with the confidence of knowing that in all things--all things--God works for the good of those that love Him (Rom 8:28). One particular choice she made had a profound effect on my own life.

In 1961, when I was born, special needs children were not cherished and treasured as they are today. My birth had many complications which, in combination, led my mother's doctor to have a serious conversation with her. She, he explained in so many words, had been selfish to bring me into this world. Given the challenges I faced (club feet, misformed pelvis, kidney disease, jaundice, possible mental retardation), she ought to do the right thing and put me (away) in a place where others tasked with such problem children could take on the burden that would undoubtedly be me.

When she asked to see me for the first time (they didn't do natural childbirth in those days), they instead brought her a form to sign to have me committed. Undaunted, she insisted. "He may be damaged," she said, "but he's mine." Over 20 years later, when I graduated with honors from the University of Missouri, she sent that doctor an invitation to the ceremony.

That's not to say that my early years were easy for her. She searched out every doctor on her own, queried every special needs organization for resources and help. She found little assistance. All the therapy, all the rehabilitation, all the instruction came trial and error at her hands. My father, frustrated and devastated over his helplessness, turned his attention to the things he could control and supported her while she did the hard work of taking me to an endless procession of doctors while repairs were made.

I still remember Mom and Dad visiting me in the hospital in Los Angeles, Dad putting a tiny cap gun set in my crib so I'd have something to play with. I remember the leg braces, special boots and shoes, and my mother's hurt while she watched me miss out on things I could not physically do. But, she never regretted her choice that day to be my mother. She made that choice with prayer, confident that God would work in my life to His glory. And for that, I will always love her.

Happy Mother's Day, Mom.

I'll See You There

My beloved Uncle Dean is on my mind much of late. He turns 91 this Friday (though he insists he's 93 because, he says, he feels he's 93). He may look frail and paper thin in his hospice room up north, but he remains a giant of a man for the life he lives within.

Despite his fading days, he lifts his hands in praise. Despite his failing strength he lifts his voice in prayer. He points to heaven and shouts, "I'll see you there!" It is both a promise (for he knows where he is going) and a challenge, for he has a burden for the gospel and sharing it with others.

"The worst thing that can happen," he confides, "the worst that can happen is that you find the way is shut and you hear the Lord say, 'Get away. I never knew you.'"

It breaks my heart when he cries, "And so many good, good people I know, people I love will hear those words."

And there, I think, is the reason he is still here with us in that little room up north. He still has work to do, prayers to offer, praise to make. He still sees the work God has laid out for him to do and, despite his dwindling days, he takes it up with purpose and with joy. He remains, indeed, a giant of a man, within and without.

Happy Birthday, Uncle Dean.

Epilog - April 2, 2013

                       Safe in the arms of Jesus, Safe on His gentle breast;
                       There by His love o’ershaded, Sweetly my soul shall rest.
                       Hark! ’tis the voice of angels borne in a song to me,
                       Over the fields of glory, Over the jasper sea.
                                                                                     - Fanny Crosby

Dean Marquis Huffstutler entered his promised rest at the invitation of his Lord and Savior Jesus Christ this morning. His release is a powerful, positive answer to prayer, yet bittersweet in that he will be deeply missed if only for a little while. Because He lives, Dean lives. (John 14:19)

The Six Wives of Perry Green Marquis

Perry Green Marquis

Time for a little family history and a few tales of that most enigmatic ancestor, one Perry Green Marquis. Perry lived a very long and colorful life that is perhaps best told through the lives of his many wives. Get comfortable and settle in. It's a long story (he had a lot of wives).

Perry Green Marquis, affectionately known as “The Old Sire,” was born on Thursday, January 22, 1824 in Posey County, Indiana. Posey County is at the extreme southwestern tip of Indiana. It shares the Wabash River as its western border with Illinois and the Ohio River as its southern with Kentucky. It is still a largely rural county with a population fewer than 30,000. At the time Perry was born, it must have been a lonely place for its population was less than 5,000.

In 1840, when Perry was 15 years old, he moved in with his grandparents William A. and Mary Marcus while his father, James C. Marquis, moved to Wells County in northeast Indiana, presumably to farm a parcel of land he'd just bought. It's interesting to note that James and his brothers, Solomon and William, all owned land but in different parts of the state. Perry maintained a close relationship with his grandfather until the old man's death prior to 1860. James, for his part, left Perry out of his will when he died in prior to 1850.

In 1854, Perry took his young wife and two small boys across the Wabash River into White County, Illinois and set out for Hamilton County, just a few miles down the road.

Hamilton County records show Perry was granted 200 acres of land for farming. He received 160 acres on August 7, 1854 by the Department of the Interior, General Land Office. He received an additional 40 acres on March 28, 1855. The 1860 census lists Perry as a Farmer Landowner with $500 worth of land and $150 of personal property. Family legend, however, states that Perry was a heavy drinker and that he “drank away acres of timber.”

Elizabeth Martin
Perry married Elizabeth Martin on March 5, 1849 in Vanderburgh County, Indiana. Perry was 25 and Elizabeth was 18.

Elizabeth Martin was born in 1830 in Vanderburgh County, Indiana near what is now the Evansville area. The Martin family, it seems, was both sizable and wealthy. In January 1869, one Lucy Martin brought suit against the late Elizabeth Marquis’ children. Also named in this document is William Martin, Minerva Martin (probably husband and wife), Charles Martin, and Nancy A. Martin (also probably husband and wife). In a pleading document dated September 1871, William Martin states that he and the defendants are joint tenants of fifty-six and one-half acres in Vanderburgh County, Indiana. It appears that this legal action was to get total property rights of what would have been part of an inheritance from Elizabeth Martin’s parents. A cursory check of land grants in Posey and Vanderburgh counties shows that the Martin family collectively owned about 2,000 acres.

Elizabeth's gravestone

Perry and Elizabeth Martin had four children:
    •    William B. Marquis, born 1850
    •    James T. Marquis, born 1852
    •    Sarah F. Marquis. born 1856
    •    Joseph P. Marquis, born 1858

Eight months after giving birth to her son Joseph, Elizabeth died on Friday, November 5, 1858 in Hamilton County, Illinois. She was buried in Antioch Cemetery.

Margaret Freeman
Two months after Elizabeth’s death, Perry and Margaret Freeman were married on Sunday, January 16, 1859 in Hamilton County by Z.B. Reed, Justice of the Peace. He was 34, she was 16. While the short courtship might give one pause, one must consider that Perry found himself alone, raising four children (ages 8, 6, 2, and 10 months) while also trying to keep his farm going.

Margaret Freeman was born on Sunday, March 14, 1842 in Illinois. She died on Saturday, January 18 1862 in Hamilton County and was buried in the old section of Antioch Cemetery. Her gravestone is worn and barely legible. She was laid to rest next to Perry’s first wife, Elizabeth (Martin) Marquis.

Perry and Margaret Freeman had one child, Mariah Elizabeth Marquis. Named after Perry’s sister, Mariah (and his first wife), she was born December 18, 1860.

Amanda's sister, Clarinda Cowen

Amanda Elizabeth Cowen
Four months after Margaret died, Perry and Amanda Elizabeth Cowen were married on Thursday, April 3, 1862 in McLeansboro, Hamilton County, Illinois by Z.B. Reed, Justice of the Peace. This was Perry’s third marriage and the only marriage for Amanda Elizabeth. Perry was 38 and Amanda was 23 years old. Given the short amount of time between Perry’s marriages, one may assume he did not like living alone – at least not without a wife to care for his growing family.

On August 13, 1862, four months into the marriage (and 16 months after the war began), Perry joined the Union Army at Knights Prairie as a Private, Company B, 110th Illinois Infantry. The “Muster and Descriptive Roll of the Regiment of Illinois Volunteers” lists Perry as 38 years old; 5 feet, 10 inches tall; black hair; blue eyes; fair complexion.

It is unclear how much actual battle Perry saw. There is no specific mention of Private Perry Marquis’s exploits. His unit, however, is documented to have fought in a number of battles, including two seminal events: the Battle of Chickamauga, where the Union Army suffered one of its greatest defeats in the War; and Sherman’s March to the Sea.

If Perry fought at Chickamauga and elsewhere in Tennessee, it helps explain the brevity of his marriage to Amanda Elizabeth Cowen. According to Della Marquis Gruthoff, “Amanda came (to Illinois) from Tennessee in a covered wagon. Her family, who still lived in Tennessee, fought with the Southern Army, but those who came to southern Illinois served with the North.”

The basic experience of war also served as a contributing factor. According to Helen Huffstutler Ferreira, “Perry went away to serve and came back such a hard and changed man that the marriage could not last.”

Company B was mustered out on Thursday, June 8, 1865 in Washington, DC. After returning to Hamilton County, Perry joined the Grand Army of the Republic Post 469 at Macedonia.

Perry and Amanda divorced in 1866. Child custody was an immediate point of contention. According to Helen Huffstutler Ferreira, “My mother Kate indicated that whenever ‘Old Perry’ moved on, he would insist that his offspring should go with him. When he confronted Amanda Elizabeth with this demand, she met him with, ‘Over my dead body!’ He did not take Katherine and Alexander.”

Still, he must have borne her some lingering affection since he named his next daughter, Amanda.

Amanda Elizabeth Cowen was born in March 1839 in Tennessee. Judging from her sister Clarinda’s photo and family lore, Amanda was “of sturdy stock,” a large woman who was known for her outer and inner strength. During the War, while Perry was away, Amanda worked the fields with Perry’s sons, ages 12 and 10, plowing with a team of oxen. She was pregnant, alone and raising her husband’s five children, ages 12, 10, 6, 4 and 2.

She died on Sunday, August 11, 1907 in Flannigan Township, Hamilton County, Illinois, less than a month after Perry’s death. Her obituary in the McLeansboro paper, The Leader, read, “An old lady died here at the home of her son Alex. Buried at Cartwright Chapel Cemetery.”

Perry and Amanda Elizabeth Cowen had two children:
    •    Katherine Marquis, born 1863
    •    Alexander Rhodes Marquis, born 1865

According to Della Marquis Gruthoff, “Grandmother raised Alex and Katie. Katie died when 12 years and is buried at Cartwright Cemetery beside Grandmother.”

Blind musician G.W. Marquis

Margaret Perry
Perry and Margaret Perry were married on Thursday, March 1, 1866 by O.P. Kelly, Justice of the Peace. Perry was 42 and Margaret was 33 years old.

Margaret Perry was born about 1833 in Indiana. Perry and Margaret Perry had two children:
    •    George Washington Marquis, born 1867
    •    Amanda Marquis, born 1870

Perry divorced Margaret Perry in 1873.

Sarah Matilda Clanton
Perry married Sarah Matilda Clanton on Monday, September 15, 1873 in Hamilton County, Illinois. This was Perry’s fifth marriage. He was 49, Sarah was 15.

Sarah Matilda Clanton was born in 1858 in Missouri. Perry and Sarah Matilda Clanton had three children:
    •    Mary Etta Marquis, born 1875
    •    Ellen (Martha E.) Marquis, born 1879
    •    Infant Marquis, born 1883

Perry and Sarah were divorced, year unknown. Sarah died November 29, 1923 in Pinckneyville, Perry County, Illinois.

Susan Angeline Gibbs
Perry and Susan Angeline Gibbs were married on Monday, July 27, 1891 by R.M. Harrelson, Justice of the Peace at the Gibbs home in Hamilton County, Illinois. This was Perry’s sixth marriage and Susan Angeline’s first. Perry was 62 and Susan Angeline was 48.

Susan Angeline Gibbs was born on Sunday, November 13, 1842 in Knox County, Tennessee. She united early in life with M.E. Church in Tennessee and lived a devoted Christian life until death. She died on Saturday, June 4 1921 in Knights Prairie, Hamilton County, Illinois and was buried in Antioch Cemetery.

Perry was saved and committed his life to the Lord in 1885 in Hamilton County, Illinois. According to his obituary in The Leader, “He professed faith in Christ in 1885 at an arbor meeting held on his own place and held out faithful till the last. He talked of joining the Baptist church at Antioch but thought himself too feeble for baptism; while he did not belong to any church he was a liberal giver in helping build and keep up churches.”

Kate at Perry's grave, McLeansboro.

Perry died on Thursday, July 18, 1907 in Knights Prairie, Hamilton County, Illinois at the age of 83. He was buried in Antioch Cemetery amongst all of his wives. His gravestone reads:

----------------
MARQUIS
----------------
Perry G. Marquis
Jan. 22, 1824
July 18, 1907
Co. B 110th Reg. ILL Volume. Inft.
---------------
AT REST


Note: all of these details (and more) are due to the diligent research of my cousin Dan Robbins. For more stories, see his wonderful Marquis Family genealogy site at http://www.forestcastle.net/family/marquis/marquis.htm

The Little Boy Who Wouldn't Say His Prayers

Della with Susan Leona and Robert Kim Huffstutler.

Once,” Della said (and rather ominously at that). “Once there was a little boy (and here, always, always, she looked at me with cold, dark eyes) who wouldn’t say his prayers.” 

You could hear the horror of that thought in her voice as she moaned. Her face, in shadowed profile, tilted up away from the light and we watched, oddly fascinated, as the loose skin of her neck quivered. Right on cue, her wicker rocker let out a “screeeeeeeeeetch” that made us all jump a foot in the deep dark of the front porch.

Growing up, this was Halloween. With a pinch of salt thrown over one shoulder, we whistled past the graveyard hoping to escape the notice of the powers of the air. Halloween was frowned upon in that house, tolerated for the sake of us children who merely saw it for the entertainment that it was. Fifty years ago, it was an entertainment – a harmless bit of fun tempered with a little vandalism, a spot of tooth decay and a dash of outright illegal behavior.

Today, Halloween seems to be a quite different thing. When we were kids, boys dressed up as super heroes. We only had two: Batman and Superman. Or we dressed as cowboys or Indians, astronauts or hobos. Girls dressed as princesses, Indian and otherwise, and Raggedy Anne or (shudder) Barbie. Back then, Halloween was a sort of dress rehearsal for our future ambitions. 

Today, I think Halloween has undergone a warped reformation. It's stripped away the fun and the playfulness and embraced death with open, vacant, decaying arms. Halloween has returned to its roots of demons and devils, blood and gore. Since when is death fun? Some still see no harm because it “isn’t real.” They don’t believe in monsters. As for me, I see monsters every time I watch the news or read a paper. I believe in monsters. I have met monsters. The evidence is everywhere – especially in my Bible.

Perhaps I’m naïve. Or perhaps I was a little too fully taught about the consequences of foregoing prayer and a respectful relationship with the Lord above. For, as Della warned us…

Once there was a little boy who wouldn't say his prayers,
and then one night he went away upstairs,
his mammy heard him holler, his daddy heard him call,
but when they pulled the covers back he wasn't there at all!
They searched him in the attic room, the cubbyhole and press
and even up the chimney flue and everywhere, I guess.
But all they ever found of him was pants and roundabouts
because the goblins will get you if you don't watch out!

Uncle Charlie's Farm

My beautiful sisters Donna and Susan.

I have been blessed all of my life with two sisters who quietly and pleasantly fill in the gaps of my life. From hardship to spiritual lack to memory lapse, they have gently corrected my mistakes, set me back on my feet and even pressed a few dollars into my hand before sending me back out into the world--all of which speaks to their superior character.

Many times when I have spun my yarns I'll get a phone call or an email gently pointing out the factual errors in my recollections. "No, that was Della" or "that was five years ago" or "Colostomy?? No! He had a tracheotomy--wrong end!"

Therefore it is my distinct pleasure to offer the following recollection which, I'm sure, will generously provide those in the know with ample opportunity to engage, direct and confide.

Uncle Charlie he had a farm, he had lots of chickens.
Uncle Charlie he loved them all, they were his friends.

The girls--Becky, Susan, Colleen and Donna--used to sing that song quite often. Or rather, Grandmere, Sarlita, Carlita and Jarlita did. At one point in our youth we gave ourselves Mexican-style names although mine, perhaps, was more Spanish Colonial as I was called Don Diego. It doesn't speak well of our parents that someone felt that, since we were emulating immigrants, we belonged in the fields. That's how we came to visit Uncle Charlie's farm: we were recruited to de-tassle corn.

First, let me say what a lousy job that is and allow me to apologize to anyone I have ever unintentionally maligned for having to do any kind of agricultural work. I might add that our parents knew what they were doing when they loaded us onto that flatbed truck and sent us out into what appeared to be endless rows of feed corn. It was dirty, boring, hard work and, after we had finished, we found our wages (hot dogs, potato salad and tall, cold glasses of lemonade) to be, however sating, wholly inadequate to the task. Right away we learned that work is hard and that, because it is hard, one should be humbly grateful for and respectful of those things which were given to us through the fruits of our parents' own hard labor.

Sometimes I know for a fact that youth is wasted on the young. I will warn you, however, that a wise youth is a formidable force of nature. Think of all the things you know now--not just the factual reality of those things but the whys and wherefores as well. Now, imagine what you could have accomplished if you had possessed all of that knowledge and wisdom when you were 18.

It's only over the past ten years or so that much of what I learned 30 and even 40 years ago has started to make perfect sense. It may be because my perspective has finally shifted, thanks to time and age, to a point where it is aligned with that of my teachers. Because I now see the world from the same angle and manner in which they did I am more able to share in their viewpoint and benefit from their experience.

If that's so, then I need to remind myself to be appropriate and deliberate in my discussions with the younger generations of my family. If I truly want to help them, I need to offer advice and guidance while looking at their world through their eyes. I need to gently and lovingly offer kind assistance in much the same way as my beautiful sisters offer it to me.