c…a…t…

d…o…g…

m…o…m…

d…a…d…

These are some of the first words I read. My mom wrote them down for me. Sometimes there was a long pause between letters because there was a green light. c…a……greenlight……………………….

Red light. Time to learn. t. “Cat!”. “Good, David.” d….o….. green light……. “g? dog?” “Yes, David, very good…you did it yourself! Now I have to merge….go back to your seat” “Mom? Is that a d or a b? It’s melting…” “Yes, that’s condensation on the windshield…”

My mom, the preschool teacher and bus driver, multi-tasking on the way to Vernon Oaks Country Day Care- writing letters on the windshield. I went there for three years, learning phonics (“AE, I O U a kiss”) and to introduce myself to bigger kids with a punch.

I unlearned the punching at some point; perhaps prayer and new cowboy outfit incentives helped.

My earliest memory was when I was three, in the kitchen on Tamarind Drive, staring at a light switch and saying to myself, “I’m three.” I was three when I rode the bus with my mom to preschool, reading my first words in the condensation on the windshield.

So I guess I cannot remember a time when my mom wasn’t teaching kids to read.

I have always loved words.

For a while, the lure of outdoor ball games trumped reading for me, but I came back to it, and I remain entranced by words. Some of the letters in my mind may still have ghostly memories of condensation trails chasing each other down the windshield.

I learned a lot about life in preschool.

Letters, words, punching, obeying, and not. ..spanking. I remember sitting in my cubby and thinking, I’m the only one around here getting spanked…. Nobody else’s mom was the teacher…

Maybe I caught the acting bug there. Did we do “The Three Little Pigs”, mom?

I don’t remember that, but I remember being inventive when trying to get out of painting during “easel time”. “What’s that, David?” An aide would ask of my mishmash of hastily brushed colors. “Um, a tornado?” I would offer. “You did a tornado yesterday.” “Um, a hurricane. Can I go play ball now?”

When I was 5, I set off for Kindergarten, and I rode the bus with my neighbor and true love, Julie Ransom.

Ask me one day about the tadpoles…but that’s another story…

In second grade, art bit me again when the 1970’s psychobabble reached into my classroom to wonder at my psyche when I hastily drew a “person”- a blob with two sticks, so I could go out and play ball now. The concerned teachers called my mom to ask about a possible lack of love in our home, whereupon my mom laughed and pulled out her “breast-feeder forever” membership card and explained my disinterest in drawing….

For much of my mom’s career, I lived far away, only visiting now and again to demonstrate soccer skills or read a story to the kids. But I heard the stories. Stories about gardening, cooking soup, making peanut butter, doing silhouettes and hand prints (still?), putting on The Play, and singing, always singing….

“You’re still doing all of that, mom, with the larger classes, fewer aides, over the top reading requirements and the onerous testing, testing, and more testing?”

Here’s a word for you: s…t…u….b…b….o….r….n…..

And another: c….a….r….i….n….g….

And: l….o….v….i….n….g….

and o yeah: w…o….r….k….a….h….o….l….i….c….

So mom what will you do now without your fix? What will you do daily from six to six?

What will all those kids do? Will the right half of their brains shrink or fail to connect the synapses we all need them to have in a left-brain culture?

Oh, sure, I hope the powers that be clean up your room and move forward- a few of your projects may be better left undone… or uncooked (meatsa pizza). But please, please, save her spirit of invention and discovery, of engaging every part of a child, enlivening every sense, coaxing every note.

Read, yes, but paint too, and play ball.

Test, yes, but get dirt under your nails, and huff and puff and blow the house down.

Meet goals, yes, but don’t forget to SING!

Sing while you cook, and while you read, and while you play;

Sing while you learn- greet each part of every day

With a song and a guitar.

Today is Monday, today is Monday, Monday school, Monday school, all you happy children, today is Monday….

I love you, Mom, and I am so proud of you. If they ever make a statue of you, you will be sitting with your guitar in a semi-circle of rapt children. What did they see in you? What word were you teaching them?

Some of us know. Some of us know the Word that starts all words. I think you help kids know who they are because you know who you are and to whom you belong.

G….o…..d.

Imagine

Imagine a single mom trying to get by in this economy, caring for her kids, putting food on the table, and becoming all that God has made her to to be, using the best of herself to serve others.

Imagine a family juggling education, kids’ activities and odd jobs, battling depression and poverty, dealing with mental illness, yet leading others to experience freedom and joy in Christ’s love.

Imagine a lonely sick man, getting older, sicker, and lonelier each year, battling bitterness and the crushing weight of decades of legalism, yet clinging to God’s word and awakening to his grace.

Imagine a couple finding freedom from drug addiction and homelessness, beginning to grow in grace as the gospel penetrates their hearts and moves them to serve God and others radically out of their poverty.

Imagine a young couple, highly educated and skilled, starting a family, burning the candle at both ends to follow God’s call to serve in the kind of neighborhood they have been taught to avoid.

Imagine a lost soul, living in the woods, dulling the pain of lost family and lost hope with alcohol, but finally finding a place where a human touch helps him begin to feel God’s grace in his bones.

Now imagine each of these families multiplied by a couple dozen, and a few dozen more people of many other types, sharing life together, deeply, against all odds, across all barriers, so much so that each of them has family and friends that are taken aback by some of the people with whom they spend time.

Imagine a couple hundred of these interesting people getting together in small groups during the week to pray, study the Bible, share food and life, spend themselves in selfless service with others, working for justice in their neighborhood and the world.

Imagine them inviting their friends to a weekly celebration they call worship, where they cry out in praise to their King with reckless abandon, gather around God’s word to receive and spread His gospel of grace and share how it shapes their life stories, and the whole event is prayerfully designed to best meet the felt and the deeper needs of diverse visitors who ordinarily would not feel welcomed or comfortable in a church.

Yes, you are imagining church. Our church. Bridge of Life.

Can you see it?

It may be difficult to see it when we start in singing with 10 tired voices.

It may be difficult to see when we have a few young kids craving excitement trapped in a sad beige dungeon and told to “ssshhhh!”

It may be difficult to see past the smell. You know, the smell…

It may be difficult to see when some of our leaders have never learned to answer messages or prioritize well.

It may be difficult to see with an A.D.D. pastor who can’t remember things and has been known to have trouble leading his way out of a paper bag.

It may be difficult to see, and we may have a ways to go, but I can see it!

Can you? Describe it. What do you see in the years to come?