God at the margins

I confess, I always put off going because I know it's not a quick drop off or visit. But Wednesday morning for some reason, Spirit let me know to go.

Ostensibly, I was dropping off donated clothes (thanks to a wonderful and thoughtful friend), but needed to speak to Jasmine. Her partner answered the door, grateful for the sporty clothing with tangling tags. "What would we do without you, Miss Cathy?" he said. "Hey, they're not from me; I'm just delivering them."

"Jasmine's awake if you want to see her." I did. He hustled off to get her an iced mocha from McDonald's, her favorite

Curled in her bed, as I often find her, her spirit brightened and lightened the more we talked. Her eyes beamed, her skin glistened, her hair shone and her once-limp arms wildly gestured. This is Jasmine's refuge I have come to learn. At the foot of her bed, at one point, I felt shivers up and down my body, signaling sacred Truth in what she was telling me.

On the surface she looks the farthest place from sacred you could imagine: a mother of five who's battled leukemia since she was 8, had plates installed in her head, was violently attacked at 15, never worked and lives on minimal assistance. She's easy to write off.

Probably the reason I didn't was because I met her kids first. The oldest is a sweetheart, gentle, well-mannered and a straight-A student. Next in line is a dashing, also smart, clone of his father packaged with some learning issues. Third down is a charmer. Next, the only girl, rightly a bit spoiled, and, lastly, the most sensitive, according to Jasmine. Beautiful, intelligent kids whom their mother loves fiercely. Their dad works hard as chief caregiver and acknowledged he has no familial role models, which caused him to leave home at 15.

The first time I met Jasmine was because her oldest was enrolled in Artsy Fartsy Saturdays, the non-profit arts exploration for at-risk local kids I founded in my neighborhood. I was getting something signed and we had our first long talk. I saw that same streak that gave me a shiver this week. As if God were speaking directly through her. She was saying her kids really needed a computer. It took me a year, but with substantial help from my faith community and neighbors, we got them one and all of the accouterments.

She reminds me of where wise theologian and writer Henri Nouwen says he found God: at the margins.

Jasmine is grieving at the death of two sisters to cancer this summer. She reached over and grabbed the lockbox she keeps by her bed, opened it with her extraordinary lanyard of multiple keys and handed me the two obituaries. "I really wanted you to be there. I sent my kids down a few times, but they couldn't get anyone to answer." How could I tell her we were enjoying Europe for two weeks?

I would have gone in a heartbeat had I been home. Feeling as if I missed an important opportunity with her, I managed to deliver news of the real reason I'd stopped by: that a plethora of generous Facebook friends was sending checks to cover another year of Internet.

"I tell you, you really are my angel," she responded. How could I be her angel, I thought, I wasn't even here when her sisters died.

"My grandma knows that you are," she confessed, then told me how psychic her almost 100-year old grandmother is. "I have those abilities, too," she said. "I am very open to things." That's when I got the chills because I recognized it as fact.

"You're not open to everything are you?" I asked. "Oh no, not to evil or dark things. Though I have sure felt some of that in this house."

"Have you ever done a blessing or cleansing?" I wondered. "Yes with oils my grandmother recommended." Clearly this women knows what she is doing.

Many people don't agree. She takes countless drugs for her illnesses, with is primarily why she keeps a locked box. "Don't want my kids getting into them," she says in a very motherly tone.

Many would discount her statement that one of her sister hasn't crossed over yet because she's guarding the very-premature granddaughter born just after her visitation, which sent the mother into very early labor. Somehow I know that she knows.

She rolls up her pants leg and exposes the neat line of a long cut on her shin. "Got another when I fell in the bathtub," Jasmine confesses. "Maybe you should't take that walk I recommended earlier for clearing your head." We both laugh. I wonder aloud if some of her meds cause muscle weakness. "No, I was just born a klutz," she says.

I am profoundly grateful that this visit she doesn't tell me how ignorant she is. Instead and, much to my delight, she delves back into her metal sanctum and produces a paper with her psychiatrist's signature. "He thinks I am ready to take care of my own financial affairs."

Throughout our hour visit, I run through all of the things that I can't do for her. It overwhelms me, an inkling of how she must feel. Then I recognize I am doing exactly as Spirit wishes. Listening to Jasmine and Spirit.

• Where have I found God in the margins?

• What have these experiences been like?

• What persons struggling inspire me?

• How am I inspired to action?

• How do I obey Spirit?

tucked into fetal

position

I was afraid

of disturbing her

truthful, more so that

she would disturb me

with her illnesses,

struggles and BIG

problems that

overwhelm me

I can't possibly

fix them all

then I get a

flash

that's not my

job

why do I

feel I have to

play God?

all God asks

is that I listen

when I do,

I see a very bright

spirit uncurl from

her bed and she

teaches me

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The beat of oneness

Last week and, again, today, I felt as if I were transported somewhere exotic as I finished up my morning laps. Conversations in Cantonese revved up just as I was winding down.

I had heard a lot of loud talk in another tongue as I was showering, but a later summer schedule makes me personally privy to the two Chinese couples catching up as they warm up. I love the international flavor the pool unexpectedly brings.

Thursday, I had an extended conversation with Lisa as we shared a lane. She’s been in this country over 30 years. Her daughters, all in medical fields, live together in Columbus, where they graduated from Ohio State. I think she said one is a family practitioner, one a nurse and the other a physical therapist. She beamed as she spoke of Holly, Joyce and Helen with VERY American names. Lisa confided that she had trouble finding a job when she first arrived. Sewing was all she qualified for. Eventually she went to work in a local Chinese restaurant and advised her daughters to get an education so they were employable.

I told her about my Russian friend, Svetlana, an economist (and fellow swimmer) who lost her job during Perestroika, immigrated and could only dip ice cream at Graeter’s. Both of these women are intelligent, yet I believe Americans can’t often hear past the accent to understand they are speaking fine English. All it takes is a little patient listening.

I was annoyed several years ago when some white Caucasian at the gym suggested “they, these Asians, don’t know our swimming etiquette here.” Have you ever even smiled or greeted them, I wondered

Lisa mentioned another woman swimming in the outside lane was her neighbor, though they’ve never conversed at the gym. It’s no wonder the conversations between the two Asian couples seem so lively. No one else talks to them.

I don’t even really remember how Lisa and I got acquainted. I think I told her I’d be happy to share a lane with her once and we gradually began to greet one another. She welcomes me like an old friend. I’m a little more shy with her husband, although, when Lisa was absent several weeks, I enquired about her. His placid face lit up as he excitedly said she was in Hong Know visiting family.

I believe diversity is the spice of life and I embrace it in my lily white suburb. A year or so ago, I saw what appeared to be an Indian family walking down the street. I wanted to chase them down, welcome them and ask where they lived. I was afraid I’d scare them off.

I learned the diversity lesson well as part of Neighbor To Neighbor, a local group that formed in response to the 2001 Cincinnati riots. I was distraught and sitting home with an infant when the Enquirer encouraged residents to organize and host a conversation. That, I can do, I thought. Little did I know 12 years later the group would still be meeting. I bowed out after a few years, but treasure the lessons and friendships that grew there. Frank taught me that racism can be transformed one heart at a time. He’s so very right. Any hatred can be conquered that way. Curly insisted that bigotry is rampant, just undergound these days. They and others patiently and, sometimes, angrily shared their stories. As they did, I began to see my complicity and legacy of silent, white privilege. The experience really opened my heart. I believe it planted the stirring for Artsy Fartsy, the arts exploration I host for kids in Milford’s only family subsidized housing. Last night someone mentioned I could make money if offered it to families who could and would pay dearly for these sessions. Not interested … it’s just not where my heart calls me.

I prefer to hang at the edges, meeting folks marginalized and welcoming them into a kinder, gentler world as well as my heart. I think that’s would Jesus would do.

• How do I greet people some consider foreigners?

• What makes someone a stranger and another a friend or neighbor?

• When have I been the Good Samaritan?

• How does my heart call me to the marginalized?

• How do I respond to Jesus, the Inner Teacher?

setting my own

pace, gliding

through the

warm liquid

giving up

that autonomy

when another

needs a space

together, we

refind our

rhythm,

not an easy

task

but, as

we merge,

our hearts

discover

the beat

of oneness

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