Redheads

Redheads

I got a lot from the house of worship I was raised in.  A sense of community.  A sense of legacy.  A love of Christmas, based at least a little on more than just getting presents and eating too much.  If the goal was to get me thinking about something other than making a fortune to squander on worldly interests, my first church did the trick.

In time, I saw some of its limits, and, while it’s a little trivial, one of them was New Year’s Day.  I get it; what better day for people to ask the Almighty for a way out of the over-indulgences they’d overindulged in the night before?  Still, the general tone of the January 1 service was, shall we say, subdued.  If the goal was to be celebratory, something like Thanksgiving would be a better day for a “suggested” time to come to church—yet, it wasn’t on the list.

That wasn’t the reason I jumped to a different church, but once I joined, the metaphor of Thanksgiving seemed clearer.  The harvest came in, and we’re grateful for that.  We can’t can or preserve everything, and we’ve got a lot.  Let’s invite friends to help us work through the extra, catch up from those days we were bringing in the harvest, and look forward to the days we go back to bed after milking and feeding the animals, since the fields will be covered in snow.

That was the outlook my new church embraced, in every service.  Yes, this world is a mixed bag, but there are some clues out there for looking at all that to keep us moving in the right direction.  Since that message was available to everyone, members of the church took turns leading our services.  I once had the privilege of doing the reading, and when Thanksgiving came along, I was really looking forward to completing my task.

The church was one big, pretty long, room, with one row of seats holding about 12 or 13.  There, in the midst of a loosely filled room (yes, even that church had its holiday congregants), there was one row completely filled with three generations of various redheads, led by the grandparents who were members of our church.

Norman Rockwell had nothing on this vision.  The shock of red worn by a seven-year-old boy that flowed differently on his slightly older sister.  The still-, but less pungent, red worn by the father who was trying to get them to mind.  The hints of red amidst the gray the grandmother adorned, whose loving, fixed gaze was enough to inspire any heathen to reconsider their philosophy. I took a long look at this amazing sight when I started reading, and after I finished.  Had I looked at them in the middle of the service, I would have been overcome by its beauty, power, and statement.

Bill Clinton’s Thanksgiving proclamation was among the first to call on Americans to gather, not just in places of worship, but wherever they wished, to express gratitude for the gifts of this life.  That likely raised some eyebrows, but it also pointed out the wonders of this planet to give us a sense of family in many places, with many people.  I revel in that vision nearly every day, and on this day, a row of redheads reminded me of the utter grace of the family of man, the commonality of personkind, and the beauty that awaits us all each day, as we gather together wherever we are to realize more of the right direction.

Bowed Heads

The politician
About to say
“I just called my worthy opponent…”
The cornerback
Who just got beat.
The guy in the less damaged Subaru
Who knows it was their fault.

It’s easy to see it as
Weakness
Concession
Giving up.
But leaving room for more
Isn’t concession
It’s humility.
And isn’t this world needy
For openness
To more?

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