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| Dear friends and fellow bloggers, I am switching my main blog site to: http://gayle-solitarymoments.blogspot.com/. I hope to become a more faithful blogger in 2010. No promises, but here's hoping. Please stop by and say hi as often as you can. I do love hearing from you. Till we meet again, hugs to you all. | | |
|  A few miles from where I live is a major intersection where panhandlers hang out 24/7. Quite frankly, I hate the place. Avoiding it altogether would be a dream come true, but, alas, that isn’t always an option. The best I can do is pray for a green light so I can barrel past.
That might sound cold-hearted to some, but most panhandlers aren’t as helpless as they seem. According to Michael S. Scott, director of the Center for Problem-Oriented Policing, the typical panhandler is an unmarried man, 30-50 years of age, with few family ties, substance abuse problems, a high school education and basic labor skills. Most aren’t homeless, and only a small percentage suffer from mental illness of any kind. The majority of a panhandler’s takings is spent on alcohol, drugs and tobacco. His unwillingness to pursue regular employment is due to his substance abuse problems, not his inability to work. When my daughter was a toddler, she questioned my reasons for passing panhandlers by without offering a dime. I understood her emotional response, but I explained that, in essence, panhandlers want something for nothing. They want booze. They want drugs. They want cigarettes. They even want food on occasion, but they don’t want to work. If I give them money for not working, I am facilitating their something-for-nothing existence, ensuring that their lives will never improve. Call me mean, if you please, but I refuse to do that. Twenty years later, my resolve hasn’t wavered. Naturally, there are those who disagree with my way of thinking. Some are quick to quote scriptures about compassion and ask the age-old question: What would Jesus do? How would Jesus respond to panhandlers if he were walking the streets of our cities today? As a Christian, I don’t take those questions lightly. I am well aware that Jesus helped the poor and needy of his time. However, Jesus didn’t just give the needy a temporary fix—like tossing them a coin and saying, “I’ll see you next time I’m in the area.” He changed their very existence. He got them off the streets, you might say. And more times than not, he required effort on their part before rendering any help at all: “Rise, and be healed.” “Stretch forth your hand.” “Go dip seven times.” “Take up thy bed and walk.” Perhaps his message to the panhandlers would be, “Get a job and be fed.” I really don’t know. But regardless, for those of you who quote scriptures about “compassion” where panhandlers are concerned, let me quote you a few about laziness. Proverbs 20:4: “The sluggard will not plow by reason of the cold; therefore shall he beg in harvest, and have nothing.“ Proverbs 19:15: “Slothfulness casteth into a deep sleep; and an idle soul shall suffer hunger.” Proverbs 6:6: "Go to the ant, thou sluggard; consider her ways, and be wise." Without question, the Bible offers little sympathy toward those who won’t work. Sure, there are people with genuine needs, and I give regularly to charitable institutions where such individuals can find relief. However, the panhandlers at the intersection of which I speak aren’t needy people. They are lazy people who refuse real help, intent on continuing their self-destructive ways. Day in, and day out, it is the same bleary-eyed, scraggly bunch, trotting around, waving their signs, asking for a handout from those of us who work for a living. If you want to donate a portion of your hard-earned money toward deepening their abyss of hopelessness and despair, you go right ahead. But I won’t be following suit. As always has been the case with me, my dimes are staying put, and I am praying for a green light so I can barrel past.
_______________ This article originally appeared in the Houston Chronicle, May 2006.
© GAC | | |
|  As one year ends and a new year unfolds, my resolutions are as follows:
1. I will not be rushed. Blame it on capitalism, I suppose, but it seems that, more and more, consumers are rushed from one season to the next. Before Santa returns to the North Pole, Cupid is stocking shelves with candy hearts and red lingerie. Christmas was good, but there isn’t time for basking in the warmth of chestnuts roasting on an open fire. We must turn our attention to some future event on some future day. Well, not me. Not this year. I won’t allow thoughts of tomorrow to rob me of today. This could be my last day to live. I will not leave it empty, should death arrive without warning. 2. I will not fear. As a child, I was deathly afraid of dogs. Big dogs Little dogs. Unconscious dogs. No matter how many times I heard, “He won’t hurt you,” I wasn’t convinced. My fear was bigger than my faith. As an adult, fear still rears its ugly head from time to time, but my faith has grown considerably, and I will not let fear dictate my behavior. In the words of Harry Emerson Fosdick, “”Fear imprisons, faith liberates; fear paralyzes, faith empowers; fear disheartens, faith encourages; fear sickens, faith heals; fear makes useless, faith makes serviceable—and, most of all, fear puts hopelessness at the heart of life, while faith rejoices in its God.” No matter how dark the night, or how deep my valley, the word “hopelessness” won’t be found in my dictionary. Not now, and not ever. I will fear no evil. 3. I will become more childlike. Have you ever noticed how children find joy in the simplest of things? They can spend hours singing about itsy, bitsy spiders and John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt. They don’t need fancy clothes or expensive cars to have fun. They just need beating hearts. I resolve to be more like a child this year. More trusting, loving and forgiving. More apt to find joy in simple things and comfort in the voices of those I love. More apt to believe without questioning why. More optimistic and more free from sin. 4. I will not whine. When my daughter was in elementary school, she was an incessant whiner. One morning, she stumbled into the kitchen, plopped into her usual chair and bellowed, "I hate school! Who invented school anyway?" I wasn’t thrilled with such negative energy so early in the day. It was a dazzling fall morning, not a cloud in the sky, and I was feeling like the most blessed woman alive. Instead of responding to her pessimism, I said nothing and hoped she would get the message. She didn’t. "I’m so t-i-i-i-i-red, Mother, and it’s cold in here," she continued, briskly rubbing her bare arms. "Leslie," I said, measuring my tone. "It’s a beautiful day outside, and you have so much to be thankful for." "Like what?" she grumbled, an ugly frown plastered on her face. “Like a roof over your head. Like a bed to sleep on. Likes ears, and eyes, and arms, and legs. Like a father who works so that we can have the comforts of life. Like indoor toilets, for crying out loud. You’re blessed beyond measure." She considered my words, and her whining ceased. Edwin Percy Whipple once said, “God is glorified, not by our groans, but by our thanksgivings.” Indeed! And regardless of our circumstances, we all have much to be thankful for. Whining should be out of the question. As the old saying goes, “I complained about having no shoes, until I saw a man with no feet.” Even in the toughest of times, things could always be worse. And times are tough right now. Unemployment is high. Economic clouds linger. Only God knows what the year will bring. However, I am confident that if I take one day at a time, if I don’t allow fear to imprison me, if I find joy in simple things and if I refuse to whine, 2010 will be a good year for me. I trust that it is for you as well.
A version of this article appeared in The Dallas Morning News, January 2002. © GAC | | |
|  Embracing my singleness during the holiday season is hard for me to do. Something about this time of year turns me into a sappy, romantic being, and it doesn’t take much for the sap to ooze. Take last week for instance. Family Christmas in Branson.
On this particular night, it's my twin, her hubby, my niece, her hubby, and me—the ever lovely fifth-wheel—taking in dinner and a show at Dixie Stampede. Nothing terribly romantic about that, but the minute the lights dim, the music swells and the snow starts to fall, I’m sappier than a Georgia pine, wishing a significant other was beside me, seeing what I see, hearing what I hear and sharing all the wonder the evening will bring. But, alas, the only thing beside me is my black leather purse. How lucky can one woman be?. And, of course, the holidays aren’t over yet. Today is New Year’s Eve—that infamous day when lovers kiss at midnight and fireworks rapturously explode. If it's all the same to you, I think I'll skip the fireworks this year. Too much sappiness for me. Maybe I'll go shopping for a new purse. My black one is getting a bit worn. | | |
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Today, my daughter celebrates her 24th birthday. I can’t imagine where the years have gone. Seems like only yesterday I was humming lullabies, washing pacifiers and buttoning soft cotton dresses. The happiest day of my life was the day she was born. As the nurse placed her in my arms, tears sprang to my eyes, and I couldn’t speak. How anyone could remain an atheist or an agnostic in a delivery room was beyond me. What a marvelous creature she was. Ten little fingers. Ten little toes. So innocent, so perfect, so fresh from the Master’s hand. Gazing into her tiny face, all scrunched up and red, I saw the face of God. I heard the cry of God. I breathed in the very essence of God as my lips brushed against her silky, warm skin. Days turned into weeks, weeks turned into months, and my baby grew more precious with time. In her mind, the world was a grand place with good people and happy homes. She found magic in ordinary things—like sprouting apple seeds or tiny soap bubbles blowing in the wind. She imparted forgiveness that truly forgot. She trusted. She loved. She accepted people as they were and scolded me when I failed to do likewise. Her enthusiasm for life was unshakable. Every morning, at the crack of dawn, her little feet hit the floor, and she was ready for action. She laughed. She whistled. She sang. She had tea parties with her dolls. She clip-clopped across the kitchen floor in Mommy’s high-heels . With every breath she took, she chased away gloom. She kissed away heartache. She brightened the corner wherever she was. One of her preferred pastimes was wrestling with her father. The sound of his vehicle in the evening sent her scurrying toward the garage, or hiding inside the pantry, where she hoped he would find her and commence a rowdy game of hide-and-seek. About the only thing she hated in life was naps. In her own words, naps were a waste of time. She would much rather be skipping, swinging, eating Skittles, jumping rope, playing hopscotch, doing anything but taking a nap. Needless to say, much has changed since those carefree days of yore. Naps aren’t such a bad thing, after all, and she has her own high-heels for clip-clopping around. She's a beautiful young woman, making her own way and choosing her own paths. I can’t imagine life without her, and I hope I never have to. She’s brought more sunshine than she can ever know, and I'm grateful for every moment we share. Happy birthday, dear Leslie. Happy birthday to you. (And many more.)
A version of this article appeared in The Dallas Morning News, December, 1999. | | |
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