![]() Sitting by the window next to my desk is a framed 8 ½” x 11” certificate, given to us by some close friends. It reads: A tree has been planted in Israel at The Friends of Israel Grove for Baby Perry. This piece of paper is not unusual--many trees have been planted in Israel in honor of children and others. It’s a common tradition, especially in the Jewish community. But this certificate is special to us. I’ll never forget the morning my wife came to me with a smile on her face. In her hands was a pregnancy test, and the message on it made it clear that our lives were about to change: Pregnant. A day or two later, as I was sitting in a coffee shop across from the university, I took out my laptop and wrote a letter to my unborn child. I wrote of being elated and fearful, of the budding love I already had for him or her, of the great hopes I had of being a good father and for this child to grow and to learn and to walk with the Lord. I’ll also never forget the morning we realized my wife was miscarrying. We had only known about the baby for a short time--he or she had only been alive in their mother’s womb for 6 weeks--but the sense of loss was great. I’m reminded of that hurt when I read the entry in my journal from that day: We lost our baby… It hurts. It is an unselfish hurt in the truest sense. I hurt because a life was extinguished. We have experienced such wonderful lives ourselves, and we desired that for our baby, too. I don’t completely understand why the Lord allowed this child to die, but my knowledge of His goodness and faithfulness allows me to know this is no exception to His ways. Whenever I look at that certificate sitting to the side of my desk, I think of that little one and of the tears that streamed down my face that day, as I mourned the loss of life. On the other side of my desk is a crib, and in it, as I write, is a smiling, cooing, blue-eyed baby girl. Just two months ago, she was in her mother’s womb, and I could see her frequent movements. Sometimes, I think she even played with me, as I poked at her and she poked back. This little girl is, aside from my salvation and my wife, the best thing that has ever happened to me. I look at her lying there with wonder. It is not a questioning wonder about who she is and what she will grow up to be like, although I do think about those things. Rather, it’s an awestruck wonder at the fact that this little girl is a person and was a person when she was in her mother’s womb and will always be a person, from now to the moment she breathes in her first breath of Heavenly air. As I sit at my desk and consider the lives represented on both sides of me in this moment--one born, one unborn--my heart aches. Today is the anniversary of Roe v. Wade. Forty-six years ago, this Supreme Court decision was handed down, making abortion-on-demand legal in all 50 states. Since that time, an estimated 60,000,000 unborn children, many of them minorities, have had their lives taken from them while still in utero. Much has been written--and, sadly, shouted-- about the matter of abortion. My purpose is not to write about why abortion is wrong or to engage in cyber fencing matches. It’s true, my hope is that abortion will one day become as unthinkable in the American mind as slavery or Jim Crow laws are. Yes, I wish for my friends and neighbors to see Planned Parenthood for what it really is-- a lucrative and bloody industry of death, hiding behind legitimate medical services. But my purpose in writing is to point out that there is far more to being pro-life than voting for Republican candidates or slapping pithy bumper stickers on our vehicles. To be truly pro-life, we must value and uphold the dignity of life on both sides of the womb. Being pro-life means giving of our time and resources to pregnancy centers that help families not only reconsider their abortion inclinations, but also to assist them with parenting classes, adoption services, diapers, formula, or a shoulder to cry on. Being pro-life means helping widows and orphans in their distress, even if they look differently than we do, or don’t speak English, or vote for candidates we do not support. Being pro-life means prayerfully considering adoption and foster care, or supporting those who are. Being pro-life means being pro-man, pro-woman, pro-child, pro-family. Being pro-life means treating all human beings with dignity, from conception to death, because they have been fashioned by their creator in His image. We must avoid the political trap of being either for women or against women, for the unborn or against them. The truth is, the circumstances that lead women to consider abortion are not happy ones. Often, women are fearful--fearful of the circumstances their unborn child would be born into; fearful the announcement of their pregnancy would draw the ire of the men in their lives; and fearful of how their own lives will be upended by the introduction of this new one. As pro-life individuals, we must not compromise on our most foundational belief--abortion is wrong. But to be truly pro-life, we must value life on both sides of the womb, and we must help both the parents and the unborn children not only live, but thrive. Today, we mourn the fact that Roe v. Wade has not yet been cast onto the ash heap of history, and we do all in our power to see to it that it is one day. But we also rejoice that there are organizations, churches, and individuals who are dedicated to helping all parties facing unwanted or unplanned pregnancies, and upholding the dignity and sanctity of human life on both sides of the womb.
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![]() May 15, 2010 was my last day of high school and the first day I began cultivating one of the most rewarding disciplines I know of: journaling. There was a time when keeping a journal or a diary was commonplace. They were kept by such luminaries as Lewis and Clark, Eleanor Roosevelt, Ralph Waldo Emerson, Winston Churchill, and most U.S. presidents. The daily entries of these greats have served both as historical records of major world events and as intimate glimpses into the lives of some of the world’s most interesting people. Journaling is not just for famous people, though. Chances are good that your grandparents or great-grandparents kept one. My great-grandmother did. I remember seeing her little dollar store diary with its metal clasp laying on her end table whenever I went to her home. It was only when she passed away that I learned her practice of keeping a daily diary extended well beyond her senior years--it began in 1937! At the end of each diary, Grandma wrote down highlights of that year and typed those entries out on her typewriter. When she passed away, each of her children’s families received a copy of those entries. It’s been so fun to read of her life from the 1930s and ‘40s, when she was raising her three boys, all the way up to her grandchildren and great-grandchildren. My name even appears in a few entries. As for me, I am now on my tenth journal. I’ve never paid much for one, and the one I’m currently using is probably the least expensive of them all--a Moleskine look-alike from Walmart. The pages of these journals, though, are invaluable. They record the days of my life, and the discipline of writing nearly every day has been a joy. You’ll notice that I refer to journaling as a discipline. I say that, because it is. Cultivating a discipline is to “train oneself to do something in a controlled and habitual way”. It takes work, because it takes time and requires a person to submit themselves to a new regimen. But you’ll also notice that I refer to journal-keeping as a joy. Here are a few of the joyful benefits of keeping a journal... 1.) It provides an outlet for thoughts, ideas, and emotions. There are certainly other good ways to do this, such as art, music, athletics, etc.; but I find that putting what is in my mind down on paper is a great way to sort things out, to determine what I really think about something, to express grief or happiness, or even just to record ideas before bed, so I don’t have to think about them all night. 2.) It’s a helpful reference. I have not written every day of the past 9 years, but I have more often than not. Doing so has helped greatly, on a practical level, because it enables me to go back and confirm when various events, such as births and deaths, meetings and phone calls took place. It can also be fun to pull an old journal off the shelf, look up today’s date, and see what I was doing that day a year, or years, before. Think of it as a more intimate version of Facebook’s “memories” feature. 3.) It’s a record of you. Keeping a journal, especially a daily journal, is essentially maintaining a record of yourself, especially when used to write about your spiritual life. On numerous occasions, as I have read entries from my past, I have been convicted by how close to the Lord I was at that time, or conversely, how much I had grown in my understanding and experience of Him since then. These records (plural, because you’ll fill several notebooks in your lifetime, if you do it right) are fun to read later on in life, despite the embarrassment they’ll occasionally bring, and they’ll certainly be a delight to your children and grandchildren one day. 4.) It’s a record of God’s faithfulness. Using your journal to record prayers is an excellent practice. On several occasions, I have written prayers, then moved on with my day, only to revisit what I wrote several days later and find that the Lord had answered my prayers in unexpected ways. We can become so engrossed in asking for things of the Lord that we forget to thank Him for how He has provided. A journal, when you read it some time later, is a good praise prompter. So here’s my challenge to you: today, go to the dollar store, Walmart, Barnes & Noble, wherever, and buy yourself a journal. Put it on your nightstand or by the recliner, and don’t go to bed tonight before you write a few lines of what the day was like, how the Lord is working in your life, or a combination of things, then put it down. Tomorrow, do the same thing. Sure, it’s a discipline that requires work (and remembering!); but before you know it, it will be a habit you can’t imagine not indulging. It’s astonishing how a dog can ingraft itself into a family. When they first arrive, they change the make-up and function of the entire home. Their puppy cries in the night change our sleep patterns. Their gnawing on furniture legs and messes on the carpet cause us to wonder whether adopting them was such a good idea. But before we know it, they are eating from our plates, playing with our kids, barking at our mailman, and worming their way into our hearts.
This morning, we said "goodbye" to Louie, our buddy of 12 years. We'll miss him, but we're thankful for the laughs and joy he brought to our lives. As James writes, "Every good gift and every perfect gift is from above..." He certainly was a gift to our family. We'll miss you, Lou. ![]() There’s something terribly unwelcoming about the penetrating chill that Michigan greets its guests with in the winter months. For Las Vegans, walking down the jet bridge after a day-long journey, the greeting is especially rude. We’re a delicate people, when it comes to cold. Give us 110-degree heat and scorching sun; but that frosty stuff, forget it. My wife and I recently made just such a trip back to Michigan, and the greeting, though more mild than it has been in previous trips, was no less inhospitable. As soon as we reached the baggage claim, we unzipped our bags and pulled out the winter coats that have hung in our closets since last year’s visit. We wrapped scarves around our necks, gloved our hands, and sunk our heads into our thick winter hats, then brace ourselves for the 6-yard-walk from the baggage claim doors to the waiting car. Life is hard. We’ve heard all the excuses there are for why we can’t handle the winter weather, and we’ve used many of them ourselves. “You’ve just acclimated to that desert heat.” “But this is a particularly cold winter.” And my favorite-- “Your blood’s just thinned”. The truth is, we’re wimps, plain and simple. For all the violent shivering and the use of Baptist epithets against the frigid breath of the Mitten state-- “Good grief!”-- there is one thing that warms the body and the heart against it all: the sight of home. As our car rounds the M-81 bend, there is Katie Jackson’s house, welcoming visitors and those returning home to Cass City. Although Katie is now gone, as are the candles in every window that added so much to the sensation of “homing”, the house will forever be “Katie’s” and will always signal to the Cass City native, wherever they are coming from, that the trip home is complete. Into town we drive, the broad Main Street (99-feet-wide, to be precise) lined with two-story brick buildings, the faces of many of which have looked down onto the same parades, families, and even some businesses for well over a century, stand at attention. Some have been refreshed with 21st-century facades and signage; others’ peeling paint and empty windows speak of better days. But all of them are familiar faces that seem to smile back a “welcome home”. Down through town, past the theatre, the corner drugstore, the village clock that is always 5 to 10 minutes slow, up the hill past the large homes built by the town’s former luminaries, and into my parents’ neighborhood. If I’m to be honest, and I will be, the trip to my parents’ home does not require a drive down Main Street; it’s out of the way, in fact; but it’s part of my routine, part of the Ritual of returning to the Thumb of Michigan. I spent the first 23 years of my life in this area, the sixth generation of my family to call it home. Every building, every street, contains memories, mine and those I’ve adopted from others. The Ritual I follow whenever I return to the area, done almost without thought, exhumes these recollections, and brings with them a melancholic smile to my face. The Ritual changes little from visit to visit--that’s what makes it a ritual. But there is one deviation. When visiting in the summer months, my first stop is my grandparents’ home. (They spend their winters down south, so I’m out of luck at Christmastime; hence the deviation). Most often, Grandpa can be found in his garage behind the house, where he is working his craft, bringing new life to aged autos. His shop smells of work, of body filler, lacquer thinner, and metal dust. I purposely scuff my feet on the concrete floor as I walk through the garage door. I don’t want to startle him. He’s deep in thought as he examines his work and plots out the next movement of his hands. Bending. Sanding. Painting. We talk about his latest project, and he asks me about my travels; where I’ve been, where I’m going. After awhile, I ask him where Grandma is. (I always know the answer, but it’s part of the Ritual). “She’s in the house,” he says. “Go on in and see her.” “See ya later,” I say. “So long,” he says. Inside, Grandma stands in the kitchen, where she’s busy washing dishes. “Hellooo,” she says to me. I’m expected. It’s part of the Ritual. We sit at the table and talk about my trip, the latest local happenings, family developments, and such. If she’s been to Turner’s Blueberry Farm, she gets a bowl for me, and pulls a half gallon of milk out of the fridge and the sugar bowl from the cupboard. I eat the sun-warmed blueberries, as we talk. Before long, it’s time to go. Then to the library--if Grandpa & Grandma aren’t home, it’s the first stop. As the doors open, I smell the unsurprising, but still-pleasing, aroma of books. In many towns and cities, the library is a receptacle of knowledge; a place where anyone, no matter their race, religion, creed, or social standing, has equal access to information. That’s good. What’s great is Rawson Library. Here, the community gathers under the pretense of acquiring books, and that we do; but we gather there, also, to connect with neighbors, to organize ourselves, to exchange news--both that which is true and that which we heard is true. The library is all those things for me and more. My visits always include conversations with the library staff, my former co-workers. We update one another on family and community news. We ask each other for more details on status updates we read on social media. We talk about books we’ve recently read. And we do this because...it’s what you do when you’re at the library. The Ritual includes other places, too. There’s the cemetery, where I visit the graves of loved ones departed. I don’t talk to them--they aren’t there; but it’s a good practice to remember them, to think about the ways in which our lives intertwined, and to consider the brevity of my own life. As one gravestone there reads: Where you are now, I once was. Where I am now, you will be. Prepare, in time, for eternity. I am prepared; but a visit to the cemetery is good for a soul nevertheless. There’s the antique shop in a neighboring town, where I peruse the latest finds by local consigners. Sometimes I purchase small things; but usually not. It’s just part of the Ritual. I drive down River Road and look down into the Cass, lazy in the summer, frozen solid in the winter. I drive by my boyhood home on Shabbona Road; Lightning Hill, we called it. My corner bedroom looks so much smaller than it did when I was 5. Could it be the same place? At least one morning of each visit, I have breakfast at “Nick’s”, the local restaurant. The menu there changes little, if any, from visit to visit; but that’s part of the charm. A bowl of oatmeal or a couple slices of toast hits the spot. I always come prepared to pay, but often, I find that someone else--sometimes an anonymous someone else--picks up the tab. I now live in a city of 2 million. We have every form of entertainment you can imagine and enough dining options to make your head spin. There are well over 30 movie theaters in the city, many of them open exceptionally late. We have an Amazon fulfillment center close to us, meaning if we can’t find it in the store, we can get it delivered to our doorstep very quickly. It’s great. I enjoy it. There is, however, no house at the curve to tell me I’m almost home; no grandparents to hug and talk with; no buildings smiling at me as I come into town; no talks with friends at the library; no roots and no memories. For those things, I have to go home. I have to go back to the Ritual. And I’m glad it’s there. |
AuthorTy Perry is a writer and blogger living in metro Detroit. Archives
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