One Dollar Coin

Daily writing prompt

Write about a time when you didn’t take action but wish you had. What would you do differently?

When I was about 11, the music director at the church had put together a children’s choir for Easter. There weren’t many of us, to be sure; it was a small church. We rehearsed in the choir loft on Wednesdays.

On Easter, my friend Kay, who was in the choir, was set in charge of her cousin Denise. Denise was older than us, but she had developmental disabilities and the maturity of a six-year-old. Therefore, she ended up in the choir loft with us. The choir director, Mrs. Rose, said it was okay as long as Kay didn’t let Denise sing because Denise would “ruin the music”.

Denise was crushed. One of her favorite things to do was to sing. As I stood singing, I felt a creeping sense of remorse. This was God’s house, and we were denying Denise an opportunity to worship the one way she knew how. We had decided Denise wasn’t worthy to be heard. This didn’t sound like the God we learned about in Catechism. It didn’t matter to me that Denise would ruin our rehearsed music. I felt the music would be perfect if all our voices were heard.

At the end, Mrs. Rose gave each of us a dollar coin. In those days, a dollar coin was an impressive size and was considered special. I took mine, ashamed of myself for having been one that had rejected Denise. This was my fifty pieces of silver. Soon, I left the choir, and it didn’t last for long after that because there weren’t enough of us.

I tell this story, and most people don’t understand what the big deal was. After all, we had rehearsed for the opportunity, we had a specific sound that Mrs. Rose wanted to capture, and Denise would have ruined it. But I believed that God loved everyone, and that everyone was welcome at God’s table.

Later, much later, I became a Quaker because everyone is welcome at their table. And, if liturgy had been part of their services, they would have let Denise sing.

Day 46 Reflection: Faith

I struggle with faith. This doesn’t mean that I don’t believe in a higher power or that I’m shopping for religion. It simply means that I question my notions of God.

For much of my life, I believed in God as a celestial Santa Claus. I would pray for something I wanted or needed, hoping God would grant me that. Nothing selfish, like a dollhouse or a bike, but things like praying for my mother not to have cancer or praying to win the spelling bee or, on a few really bad days, praying that I didn’t exist. God obviously didn’t grant all my wishes — I didn’t win the spelling bee and I still exist.

Some people told me that God knew what I needed better than I did. This logic worked when a bad relationship broke up and I only found out its fatal flaws in retrospect. I couldn’t accept that, however, when I reflected on the abuse I suffered in childhood. Did God want that to happen? Why didn’t He stop it when I prayed?

My friend Mariellen, a Quaker like me, opened my eyes to a healthier faith in God. She said that every night, she prayed for God to remove her burdens, and every morning she woke up with the same burdens, but with more strength to deal with them.

It makes sense. If people have a personal relationship with deity, then the way that deity acts in their lives will be personal. God doesn’t meddle; the potential of humankind can’t be realized with a meddling God. But I believe God lends strength and courage so we can be our most authentic, most powerful selves in the face of adversities large and small.

I can live with that God.

Re: Poland Scammer Attack

Dear Polish person trying to involve me in what’s obviously a turnkey Ponzi scheme:

Don’t come back. Never show your face here again.

Dear rest of Polish people who may or may not visit my Blogger site:

Let me know who you are and restore my faith in your country.

Clawing My Way Out

A friend of mine, upon reading my missives of the past few days, declared, “It’s worse than I thought.”

He’s right. I stepped into a maelstrom of selling myself, and it drowned me. And I’m practically dead, washed up on shore, and I’m the only one there to resuscitate me.

Ok, the first thing is to claw my way back up the beach before the next wave takes me back out. One dragging crawl at a time.

Once I’m far enough from the waves, I flop on my back and think: What do I want out of writing?

I want to write well and improve.

I want to be read by more than just my husband.

I want people to enjoy my work.

I don’t want to be big; I just want to be read and enjoyed.

I don’t know how to do this, which is why I waded into what ended up being the SEO maelstrom, the belief that selling one’s work is more important than writing and that quality is defined by how many page hits one gets.

There was a saying once upon a time: “Do what you love and the rest will follow.” I don’t know if I believe this; it assumes that there is a force in the universe that will promote my project over someone else’s. I don’t want a God who will prioritize my dreams over Flint’s water problem or Puerto Rico’s ravaged infrastructure. I’ll do what I love, but I don’t have faith that the rest will follow. Which is why, I suspect, I walked into the shrieking maelstrom in the first place.