Go out into the sea of imagination. Bring God along as your co-captain, your spirit and soul as the passengers. How enlightened you will be at the end of your journey!
~Marie T. Morrison~
Friday, November 25, 2011
Thursday, November 24, 2011
THE CHILD WHO RAN AWAY
BLOG-The Child Who Ran Away
It was a cold winter morning the day I was assigned playground duty. The dirt playground was now a mixture of slush, mud puddles and gooey mud. Children love days like this, to get out there and run off the built up energy in the brisk air after sitting all morning. Teachers are thinking of sipping a warm cup of tea and how squishing through a muddy schoolyard was not part of the curriculum in their college education, much less of putting up with a classroom filled with dirt and mud at the end of each recess.
My small class of eight boys, ages eight through twelve, have bundled up in parkas, hats, mittens, scarves and boots, ready to burst out the portable classroom door to hit the blast of cold air. I follow, wearing my warm gear, a gray wool coat past my knees, a rose-colored knit scarf wrapped three times around my neck and most of my face, a matching knit hat I’ve shoved down to cover the forehead, cozy gloves and boots up past my knees, thick wool socks underneath. I know those cold temperatures chill me to the bone as I wander the yard, waving to fellow teachers in their assigned areas.
Snuggled in my warmth, watching and hearing joyous children at play, I felt a little nudging on my elbow. Standing there was a little girl about the age of eight. She reminded me of a waif, so slight she was. I did not remember seeing her before, thinking she must be a new student at the school. She was wearing lime green thin cotton pants, not even reaching her ankles, threadbare. On her feet were rubber galoshes, a dirty shade of orange. She had on a coat that would hardly be warm on a late summer evening. There was no hat covering her red-orange hair, cut unevenly and barely combed. She pointed down to her clothes, where I saw she was drenched, mud splatters everywhere, even reaching her jacket, soaking through. As my eyes grew wide, expressing shock and sorrow, she said a group of kids had come over to where she was standing, jumping in the puddles nearby. They were laughing as they did this to her.
Just then, the recess bell ring to go back to class. I took this timid child with me into my classroom, a portable building at the edge of the playground. In my closet, I had an abundance of spare clothes I was often handing out to my own students. I did have clothes her size, a warm white turtleneck and a pair of blue jeans that would fit her well. Handing them to her, I told her she could change in the restroom, getting nice and warm in something new. Her precious eyes looked at me longingly, her not saying a word. Looking back at them and her freckled cheeks, I asked her if she wanted me to help her change her clothes; she nodded a yes to me.
I turned to my class of boys, to whom I taught long ago to always respect everyone and everything, my number one rule of the classroom. They had not uttered a word as they watched this transaction, not making a move in their desks, forgetting their happy banter which usually followed every recess break. It was as if they knew something was not right for this sweet child. I gently asked them to put ‘their foreheads on their forearms,’ not looking up until I said it was okay to do so. I almost wanted to cry at how good they were. Forgotten were the rough boy moments. Not once did they look up as I took the wet clothes off of this simple soul of God’s, nor did they make a sound, not even a shuffle.
I pulled off her too big galoshes only to find out she had on no socks. Pulling off the wet trousers, I saw she had on no underwear. Neither one of us shared a word, working in silence. Though I had socks, I had never thought of keeping undergarments in my cupboard. My heart was breaking, though my face held a warm and loving smile, as she took in the moment of having something warm to wear. Quietly, I told her that after lunch, I would have some special underclothes for her too, that I would call her out of class. She gave me one last smile and said a quiet ‘okay.’ I watched her go, walking across the playground in her dirty orange galoshes, back to her class, a tiny piece of innocence out there in a large world not always filled with love and compassion.
As my students looked up, they did not ask one question about what just happened. I was proud of them, saying a silent prayer to God for these rich gifts right in front of me. What wealth, to have a classroom full of God’s glory, eight sets of bright, dark brown eyes, looking out at me, ready to learn their next lesson. We all knew the silent lesson they had just been part of was a powerful one, no words needed to be expressed.
Running to the store during my lunch break, I picked up this fragile little one from her classroom so she could add the one needed item to her new wardrobe. As I helped her dress, I asked her if she had any brothers or sisters at the school. She said she did, telling me the ages of the three other siblings. We continued to visit, me learning that they just started this new school the day before. It being a Friday afternoon, I told her that by Monday, I would have all kinds of new clothes for her family. Having generous neighbors, I knew I would have several bags to give her parents, as well as some stuffed animals, school supplies and a game or two.
She told me she would be gone by then. Her mom, brothers and sister were running away from her dad. She was staying at the shelter for battered women across the street, her dad finding out where they were. He had called the school, saying he was driving to our town now, planning to kill the family. They were leaving at midnight, before he reached where she was; they could reach the next shelter by the time there would be an open beds. A hotline at the present shelter told them where they could go next.
Speaking to me in an even and polite tone, I could see this was the only life she has ever known. She literally ran away from where she had been with the clothes on her back, before her angry dad hurt her and anyone in the family. This was a life I knew nothing about. There was an unmarked building housing battered women across the street, but that was the extent of my knowledge. That building now had a personality to it, as behind it walls were people with fears and anxiety, but also hope.
How blessed and thankful I am, for my clothes, my shoes, even my undergarments. Growing up, I had the same home and bed at the end of the day, never wondering if my parent is going to harm me after he finds me, or who will bully me at my next new school because of how I looked. There was no needed hotline to follow, saying where I could possibly be safe.
This being Thanksgiving, it is truly a time to show gratitude for everything we have been given in life. It is a time to praise God for the blessings we have received. It is a time for us to do as God has asked us, to love one another. We need to reach out and feed the hungry, clothe the poor and provide them with shelter. We need to make time to do something for others. Thanksgiving is the start of a whole new season where we can reach into our pockets to give to the homeless shelters, tutor someone in math, read the paper to those with poor eye sight at a nursing room or begin a jigsaw puzzle with them, as they tell you a story of their past. Realize how Bible Scripture is there to show us how we are to go out and serve others, verse after verse, story after story.
It is a time to share our faith, hope and love through these actions we take. We must constantly pray for our brethren, never stopping at giving charity that will bring them the hope to know God is always there, even in those scary and devastating moments. It is a time to remember we are all brought into one body by baptism in the One Spirit, and that one Holy Spirit was poured out for all of us to drink.
It was a cold winter morning the day I was assigned playground duty. The dirt playground was now a mixture of slush, mud puddles and gooey mud. Children love days like this, to get out there and run off the built up energy in the brisk air after sitting all morning. Teachers are thinking of sipping a warm cup of tea and how squishing through a muddy schoolyard was not part of the curriculum in their college education, much less of putting up with a classroom filled with dirt and mud at the end of each recess.
My small class of eight boys, ages eight through twelve, have bundled up in parkas, hats, mittens, scarves and boots, ready to burst out the portable classroom door to hit the blast of cold air. I follow, wearing my warm gear, a gray wool coat past my knees, a rose-colored knit scarf wrapped three times around my neck and most of my face, a matching knit hat I’ve shoved down to cover the forehead, cozy gloves and boots up past my knees, thick wool socks underneath. I know those cold temperatures chill me to the bone as I wander the yard, waving to fellow teachers in their assigned areas.
Snuggled in my warmth, watching and hearing joyous children at play, I felt a little nudging on my elbow. Standing there was a little girl about the age of eight. She reminded me of a waif, so slight she was. I did not remember seeing her before, thinking she must be a new student at the school. She was wearing lime green thin cotton pants, not even reaching her ankles, threadbare. On her feet were rubber galoshes, a dirty shade of orange. She had on a coat that would hardly be warm on a late summer evening. There was no hat covering her red-orange hair, cut unevenly and barely combed. She pointed down to her clothes, where I saw she was drenched, mud splatters everywhere, even reaching her jacket, soaking through. As my eyes grew wide, expressing shock and sorrow, she said a group of kids had come over to where she was standing, jumping in the puddles nearby. They were laughing as they did this to her.
Just then, the recess bell ring to go back to class. I took this timid child with me into my classroom, a portable building at the edge of the playground. In my closet, I had an abundance of spare clothes I was often handing out to my own students. I did have clothes her size, a warm white turtleneck and a pair of blue jeans that would fit her well. Handing them to her, I told her she could change in the restroom, getting nice and warm in something new. Her precious eyes looked at me longingly, her not saying a word. Looking back at them and her freckled cheeks, I asked her if she wanted me to help her change her clothes; she nodded a yes to me.
I turned to my class of boys, to whom I taught long ago to always respect everyone and everything, my number one rule of the classroom. They had not uttered a word as they watched this transaction, not making a move in their desks, forgetting their happy banter which usually followed every recess break. It was as if they knew something was not right for this sweet child. I gently asked them to put ‘their foreheads on their forearms,’ not looking up until I said it was okay to do so. I almost wanted to cry at how good they were. Forgotten were the rough boy moments. Not once did they look up as I took the wet clothes off of this simple soul of God’s, nor did they make a sound, not even a shuffle.
I pulled off her too big galoshes only to find out she had on no socks. Pulling off the wet trousers, I saw she had on no underwear. Neither one of us shared a word, working in silence. Though I had socks, I had never thought of keeping undergarments in my cupboard. My heart was breaking, though my face held a warm and loving smile, as she took in the moment of having something warm to wear. Quietly, I told her that after lunch, I would have some special underclothes for her too, that I would call her out of class. She gave me one last smile and said a quiet ‘okay.’ I watched her go, walking across the playground in her dirty orange galoshes, back to her class, a tiny piece of innocence out there in a large world not always filled with love and compassion.
As my students looked up, they did not ask one question about what just happened. I was proud of them, saying a silent prayer to God for these rich gifts right in front of me. What wealth, to have a classroom full of God’s glory, eight sets of bright, dark brown eyes, looking out at me, ready to learn their next lesson. We all knew the silent lesson they had just been part of was a powerful one, no words needed to be expressed.
Running to the store during my lunch break, I picked up this fragile little one from her classroom so she could add the one needed item to her new wardrobe. As I helped her dress, I asked her if she had any brothers or sisters at the school. She said she did, telling me the ages of the three other siblings. We continued to visit, me learning that they just started this new school the day before. It being a Friday afternoon, I told her that by Monday, I would have all kinds of new clothes for her family. Having generous neighbors, I knew I would have several bags to give her parents, as well as some stuffed animals, school supplies and a game or two.
She told me she would be gone by then. Her mom, brothers and sister were running away from her dad. She was staying at the shelter for battered women across the street, her dad finding out where they were. He had called the school, saying he was driving to our town now, planning to kill the family. They were leaving at midnight, before he reached where she was; they could reach the next shelter by the time there would be an open beds. A hotline at the present shelter told them where they could go next.
Speaking to me in an even and polite tone, I could see this was the only life she has ever known. She literally ran away from where she had been with the clothes on her back, before her angry dad hurt her and anyone in the family. This was a life I knew nothing about. There was an unmarked building housing battered women across the street, but that was the extent of my knowledge. That building now had a personality to it, as behind it walls were people with fears and anxiety, but also hope.
How blessed and thankful I am, for my clothes, my shoes, even my undergarments. Growing up, I had the same home and bed at the end of the day, never wondering if my parent is going to harm me after he finds me, or who will bully me at my next new school because of how I looked. There was no needed hotline to follow, saying where I could possibly be safe.
This being Thanksgiving, it is truly a time to show gratitude for everything we have been given in life. It is a time to praise God for the blessings we have received. It is a time for us to do as God has asked us, to love one another. We need to reach out and feed the hungry, clothe the poor and provide them with shelter. We need to make time to do something for others. Thanksgiving is the start of a whole new season where we can reach into our pockets to give to the homeless shelters, tutor someone in math, read the paper to those with poor eye sight at a nursing room or begin a jigsaw puzzle with them, as they tell you a story of their past. Realize how Bible Scripture is there to show us how we are to go out and serve others, verse after verse, story after story.
It is a time to share our faith, hope and love through these actions we take. We must constantly pray for our brethren, never stopping at giving charity that will bring them the hope to know God is always there, even in those scary and devastating moments. It is a time to remember we are all brought into one body by baptism in the One Spirit, and that one Holy Spirit was poured out for all of us to drink.
Wednesday, November 23, 2011
A HELPING HAND
Strong-willed minds are hard to change. With prayer, love, understanding, kindness and compassion, it can happen, all done with a pleasant smile. God will be there to offer a helping hand!
~Marie T. Morrison~
~Marie T. Morrison~
Monday, November 21, 2011
THE BREEZE OF AN ANGEL
Sudden breezes in the air are the wings of angels belonging to loved ones, passing by to share an intimate hello. Reaching home, they rest their wings, displaying magnificent artworks of white in the sky, until they come to leave a cherished touch once again.
~Marie T. Morrison~
~Marie T. Morrison~
Sunday, November 20, 2011
HOPE II
H elp is given, wanting to reach your heart.
O mnipresent is the Holy Spirit, filling your soul with love and care.
P erpetual prayers are said by our brethren, keeping you safe from the storm.
E ncouragement comes from God's hands, as He holds you tight.
~Marie T. Morrison~
~~We can never give up on hope!~~
O mnipresent is the Holy Spirit, filling your soul with love and care.
P erpetual prayers are said by our brethren, keeping you safe from the storm.
E ncouragement comes from God's hands, as He holds you tight.
~Marie T. Morrison~
~~We can never give up on hope!~~
THE SOLITUDE AND THE GLORY
Left in solitude, I am given the time to contemplate on the Glory of God!
~Marie T. Morrison
~Marie T. Morrison
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