There is so much going on here in just 1:39, I could hardly begin to tell you. But I will. Begin, at least.
Beauty, simplicity, friendship, innocence, room for everyone to play, exploring new things, and love. Lots of love.
Sunday, February 26, 2012
Sunday, February 19, 2012
"This is Real"
Her life thus far, taken in the context of the all the possible kinds of lives of teenage girls, had been an easy one.
She had grown up in an affluent suburb of Southern California, gone to the finest private parochial schools, and had seldom touched real pain or loss. Her parents were basically good people; her father a corporate attorney, and her mother an accountant turned community volunteer. For her high school years, she had gone to a private, Catholic all girls high school on a mountain top, overlooking the green exclusive and private hillsides of her growing-up years. Her grades were good, she had a nice group of friends, and had been admitted at several highly ranked colleges. She even attended mass. Occasionally. Everything was going along fine.
But suddenly, in the final months of her senior year, a weekend came that would change her more than all the combined blessing of her charmed youth. And it would happen in a place both expected, and, at the same time, entirely unanticipated.
Each year of high school, the girls would take a long weekend for a spiritual retreat, a time away from the busy rush of school, sports, and social life back home. A two hour car ride away was a retreat center that offered a kind of separation from the rush of modern teenage life. For many, if not most girls, this was not something particularly looked forward to; it was more of an obligation than an anticipation. Some even counted the hours until it was over; bored by the lack of wireless connections, and the need for a "religious event". Silence. What could possibly happen of worth in a place that was known for its silence?
For many girls, these retreats were not given much thought. A time away from the annoyances of family and studies, perhaps. For others, this was merely a time to be with friends. If the intent and setting was intended to be focused on faith, that was at best, tolerable.
And yet, in her senior year, even in the midst of this routine of routine religious practice, something happened to this girl that was surprising, transformational, and filled with joy. Unexpected joy. Over the course of several days, in the midst of a structure of reading, conversation with friends and leaders, from solitude and reflection, in the most unexpected ways for this girl, God became known, Jesus became present. To even this high school senior girl with a "good life" and no apparent needs.
As the retreat weekend came to a close, this senior girl pondered the larger questions of her future away from home and off to college, and this new presence in her life. What did this all mean? She approached a retreat leader with these words:
"This is real. All this conversation about God that I have heard, for all these years, that I never really thought much about. If you take the time to think, and pray, and ask God.....it turns out, it's real!"Real. Over the past 32 years, since my senior year in college, this has been my experience as well. Perhaps that is the reason my eyes filled with tears and my heart swelled when I heard this story. And the same thing happens every time I hear a similar story of redemption and transformation. The kind of business God is about on a daily basis.
This girl's story also made me think of the words of G. K. Chesterton in his book "Orthodoxy":
The vault above us is not deaf because the universe is an idiot; the silence is not the heartless silence of an endless and aimless world. Rather the silence around us is a small and pitiful stillness like the prompt stillness in a sick-room. We are perhaps permitted tragedy as a sort of merciful comedy: because the frantic energy of divine things would knock us down like a drunken farce. We can take our own tears more lightly than we could take the tremendous levities of the angels. So we sit perhaps in a starry chamber of silence, while the laughter of the heavens is too loud for us to hear.
Its real, my friends. Real.
"The Message that points to Christ on the Cross seems like sheer silliness to those hellbent on destruction, but for those on the way of salvation it makes perfect sense. This is the way God works, and most powerfully as it turns out. It's written, I'll turn conventional wisdom on its head, I'll expose so-called experts as crackpots." - 1 Corinthians 1:17-18
Friday, January 06, 2012
Turkey, Ham, Family Dysfunction, and A Baby
He was despised, and
rejected of men; a man of sorrows, and acquainted with grief: and as one
from whom men hide their face he was despised; and we esteemed him not. 4 Surely he hath borne our griefs, and carried our sorrows; yet we did esteem him stricken, smitten of God, and afflicted. Isaiah 53
Lets just all agree that, more times than not, Christmas is not anything like the Hallmark channel or a Rockwell painting.
You know; those images of all the family huddled around the newly arrived nephew, or joyfully belting out Christmas carols; happy, laughing, and content in neat lives that radiate success and contentment.
But I cannot shake the thought that somehow something with Christmas is not right, and that it shouldn't be that way. I am guessing that I am not the only person who thinks this way, not the only one who won't let go of expectations. Each year, I find myself feeling perhaps like you; perpetually mildly disappointed as Christmas recedes in the rear view mirror.
A Turkey, Ham.....
As I look back at my life of 53 years, and all the Christmas Family dinners I have been through, I am beginning to finally be grown up enough to notice some general themes. In the midst of all those rooms full of holiday revelers, I am guessing that you have seen some of these same people, or know of similar stories as well. All of us have a story to tell, and all of us have lives that, in varying ways, reflect the suffering and joy of the human condition.
Every year, we seem to be involved in one or more large, noisy, extended family Christmas celebration. These are invariably held with far too many people in a house slightly too small for the crowd. And every year, there will be people there you have either know for years, or hardly know. Both the ones you look forward to seeing, and the one that, well, you could do without. We all come with our contributions to the festivities, a salad here, an apple pie there. I come bringing my roasted turkey, still wrapped in beach blankets, keeping warm right out of the oven. Those who are cooking challenged come bearing their Honey Baked Hams and salads from the designer grocery chain. We all do our part.
Lets take a look around the room.
.....and Family Dysfunction
Bustling around in the center of the kitchen, the focal point of this holiday bacchanalia, is the not-so-middle-aged mom of the host family. She has been the driving force of this Christmas gathering for more than a decade now, organizing, decorating, now hugging new comers upon entry, and making sure the punch bowl is full and the conversation is lively and cheerful. But within her, life has not all been easy and cheerful. There has been the death of parents, the worry over children, and her own health struggles that have carved lines into her smile. Lines that speak of life, and loving, and worry. She has a story to tell of her life that is rich, and full, with some parts not easy to hear and other parts enough to make you cry with laughter. But that story will have to wait, dinner must be served.
Over there, by the salted nut bowl, there is the loud and crazy uncle, the one who is on his 4th marriage, (is it 4th or 5th, we never can seem to remember?) who has the omniscient knowledge of all things both political and moral. He can speak for hours on any subject, but is nearly incapable of asking anyone how they are doing. Whenever the Christmas carols begin, he is the one who starts to sing his own song, separate and apart and far louder that whatever the chosen carol is. He has always been that way. His whole life. It drives you batty.
Sitting by the onion dip bowl over there is the divorcee in the family, who is attempting to make herself look all put together, her hair is just so, and the outfit that is charmingly Christmasy. In reality, her last two years have been full of enough emotion, pain, and distance from her family to the extent that it hurts to think about it. Its not really entirely her fault. She has mastered the art of the happy holiday smile and greeting, but you get the sense of a hollow ring to her greeting. You wish you had something to say that could offer hope, but words fail you. And so, you return the greeting with the best warm hug you can offer, and a few minutes of idle chatter about the kids and the weather.
Seated in the kitchen almost like a centerpiece in the midst of the bustle, looking almost regal, is the family matron of 83 years. In one way or another, all of us here have been touched by her warmth, her engaging way of conversation, and the apparently real love she has for each person in the room. She has a life story to tell that is remarkable; of teen years saving various household items for the effort of World War II, and of the meeting and marriage of her young soldier sweetheart, with whom she was married for 48 years, until his death several years ago. She is quite alert for her age, and so full of grace, you want to sit next to her and listen for the rest of the night. But, there are others in the room you need to catch up with.
And look, in the kitchen. The gaggle of late teens and early twenties, the kids of several different families. They have surrounded a bowl of guacamole dip and chips, which will be history in five minutes or less. Our of the corner of your eye, you notice on the periphery of this group the moody college freshman who doesn't quite fit - who is not exactly socially graceful. She tends to put the other kids at slight unease, never really feeling comfortable in this crowd. These kids don't really understand where she comes from. Neither do the adults. Diagnosed with a mild learning disability and depression in her younger years, it feels to her like no one really understands her. Although her parents have tried just about everything, she will not see a therapist, nor will she consider taking any medication that might alleviate her moodiness. She doesn't like the dull ache she feels when on medication, perhaps she also revels in her shadowy personality. Its easier to think everyone else is a butt hole, rather than than face up to your own pain. We are all like that in some ways.
Unexpectedly, A Baby
Over there by the fireplace. A sight that is in simple stark contrast to the carnival of family issues filling the rest of the house. A dark-haired, younger mother is sitting quietly; the only person who seems entirely disconnected from all the noise, and bustle, all the preparation and masked pain. She has a baby boy of less than six months, wrapped in a blanket adorned with little tiny snowmen.
This sight nearly stops you in your tracks, and you feel your breath softly exhaling as you take in this sight. A baby. Sleeping soundly. You lean forward to watch that little face, softly twitching in slumber. What thoughts are filling that new little mind? Look how peaceful he is, not a care in the world. No issues, no confusion about life, no dysfunction. No having to act glued together and dressed up well.
Just how did we get here, at this Christmas party, carrying in the door our culinary contributions along with our pain, and sadness, our confusion and our fears? And how, in the midst of all this noise and food, abundance and insecurity, can there be a little soul sleeping so soundly, oblivious to all the struggle, heartache, and frustrations the rest of us feel?
Our Christmas feelings may not end up with everyone happy, with each person in the room fondly reflecting on a life well lived thus far. But at the deep, subtle, and shadowed center of all this Advent revelry, there is this; a baby. We cannot avoid him. For in a moment, more than two centuries ago, his screams of new life, brought forth in a crappy barn in the middle of nowhere, changed everything for all of us. Forever.
Merry Belated Christmas.
Lets just all agree that, more times than not, Christmas is not anything like the Hallmark channel or a Rockwell painting.
You know; those images of all the family huddled around the newly arrived nephew, or joyfully belting out Christmas carols; happy, laughing, and content in neat lives that radiate success and contentment.
But I cannot shake the thought that somehow something with Christmas is not right, and that it shouldn't be that way. I am guessing that I am not the only person who thinks this way, not the only one who won't let go of expectations. Each year, I find myself feeling perhaps like you; perpetually mildly disappointed as Christmas recedes in the rear view mirror.
A Turkey, Ham.....
As I look back at my life of 53 years, and all the Christmas Family dinners I have been through, I am beginning to finally be grown up enough to notice some general themes. In the midst of all those rooms full of holiday revelers, I am guessing that you have seen some of these same people, or know of similar stories as well. All of us have a story to tell, and all of us have lives that, in varying ways, reflect the suffering and joy of the human condition.
Every year, we seem to be involved in one or more large, noisy, extended family Christmas celebration. These are invariably held with far too many people in a house slightly too small for the crowd. And every year, there will be people there you have either know for years, or hardly know. Both the ones you look forward to seeing, and the one that, well, you could do without. We all come with our contributions to the festivities, a salad here, an apple pie there. I come bringing my roasted turkey, still wrapped in beach blankets, keeping warm right out of the oven. Those who are cooking challenged come bearing their Honey Baked Hams and salads from the designer grocery chain. We all do our part.
Lets take a look around the room.
.....and Family Dysfunction
Bustling around in the center of the kitchen, the focal point of this holiday bacchanalia, is the not-so-middle-aged mom of the host family. She has been the driving force of this Christmas gathering for more than a decade now, organizing, decorating, now hugging new comers upon entry, and making sure the punch bowl is full and the conversation is lively and cheerful. But within her, life has not all been easy and cheerful. There has been the death of parents, the worry over children, and her own health struggles that have carved lines into her smile. Lines that speak of life, and loving, and worry. She has a story to tell of her life that is rich, and full, with some parts not easy to hear and other parts enough to make you cry with laughter. But that story will have to wait, dinner must be served.
Over there, by the salted nut bowl, there is the loud and crazy uncle, the one who is on his 4th marriage, (is it 4th or 5th, we never can seem to remember?) who has the omniscient knowledge of all things both political and moral. He can speak for hours on any subject, but is nearly incapable of asking anyone how they are doing. Whenever the Christmas carols begin, he is the one who starts to sing his own song, separate and apart and far louder that whatever the chosen carol is. He has always been that way. His whole life. It drives you batty.
Sitting by the onion dip bowl over there is the divorcee in the family, who is attempting to make herself look all put together, her hair is just so, and the outfit that is charmingly Christmasy. In reality, her last two years have been full of enough emotion, pain, and distance from her family to the extent that it hurts to think about it. Its not really entirely her fault. She has mastered the art of the happy holiday smile and greeting, but you get the sense of a hollow ring to her greeting. You wish you had something to say that could offer hope, but words fail you. And so, you return the greeting with the best warm hug you can offer, and a few minutes of idle chatter about the kids and the weather.
Seated in the kitchen almost like a centerpiece in the midst of the bustle, looking almost regal, is the family matron of 83 years. In one way or another, all of us here have been touched by her warmth, her engaging way of conversation, and the apparently real love she has for each person in the room. She has a life story to tell that is remarkable; of teen years saving various household items for the effort of World War II, and of the meeting and marriage of her young soldier sweetheart, with whom she was married for 48 years, until his death several years ago. She is quite alert for her age, and so full of grace, you want to sit next to her and listen for the rest of the night. But, there are others in the room you need to catch up with.
And look, in the kitchen. The gaggle of late teens and early twenties, the kids of several different families. They have surrounded a bowl of guacamole dip and chips, which will be history in five minutes or less. Our of the corner of your eye, you notice on the periphery of this group the moody college freshman who doesn't quite fit - who is not exactly socially graceful. She tends to put the other kids at slight unease, never really feeling comfortable in this crowd. These kids don't really understand where she comes from. Neither do the adults. Diagnosed with a mild learning disability and depression in her younger years, it feels to her like no one really understands her. Although her parents have tried just about everything, she will not see a therapist, nor will she consider taking any medication that might alleviate her moodiness. She doesn't like the dull ache she feels when on medication, perhaps she also revels in her shadowy personality. Its easier to think everyone else is a butt hole, rather than than face up to your own pain. We are all like that in some ways.
Unexpectedly, A Baby
Over there by the fireplace. A sight that is in simple stark contrast to the carnival of family issues filling the rest of the house. A dark-haired, younger mother is sitting quietly; the only person who seems entirely disconnected from all the noise, and bustle, all the preparation and masked pain. She has a baby boy of less than six months, wrapped in a blanket adorned with little tiny snowmen.
This sight nearly stops you in your tracks, and you feel your breath softly exhaling as you take in this sight. A baby. Sleeping soundly. You lean forward to watch that little face, softly twitching in slumber. What thoughts are filling that new little mind? Look how peaceful he is, not a care in the world. No issues, no confusion about life, no dysfunction. No having to act glued together and dressed up well.
Just how did we get here, at this Christmas party, carrying in the door our culinary contributions along with our pain, and sadness, our confusion and our fears? And how, in the midst of all this noise and food, abundance and insecurity, can there be a little soul sleeping so soundly, oblivious to all the struggle, heartache, and frustrations the rest of us feel?
Our Christmas feelings may not end up with everyone happy, with each person in the room fondly reflecting on a life well lived thus far. But at the deep, subtle, and shadowed center of all this Advent revelry, there is this; a baby. We cannot avoid him. For in a moment, more than two centuries ago, his screams of new life, brought forth in a crappy barn in the middle of nowhere, changed everything for all of us. Forever.
Merry Belated Christmas.
Monday, January 02, 2012
From This Valley - Civil Wars
Oh, the desert dreams of a river
that will run down to the sea
like my heart longs for an ocean
to wash down over me.
Oh, won't you take me from this valley
to that mountain high above?
I will pray, pray, pray
until I see your smiling face.
I will pray, pray, pray
to the one I love.
Oh, the outcast dreams of acceptance,
just to find pure love's embrace
like an orphan longs for his mother.
May you hold me in your grace.
Won't you take me from this valley
to that mountain high above?
I will pray, pray, pray
until I see your smiling face.
I will pray, pray, pray
to the one I love.
Oh, the caged bird dreams of a strong wind
that will flow 'neath her wings.
Like a voice longs for a melody,
oh, Jesus carry me.
Won't you take me from this valley
to that mountain high above?
I will pray, pray, pray
until I see your smiling face.
I will pray, pray, pray
to the one I love.
I will pray, pray, pray
until I see your smiling face.
I will pray, pray, pray
to the one I love.
Friday, December 16, 2011
Norris Christmas Letter 2011
Across the miles,
and memories, and dear friendships, from our home to yours, greetings of Advent
Peace from the Norris Family! As 2011
comes to a close, we can all say this sure has been an interesting year. Read on, for a brief overview of what we have
been up to in the past 12 months.
A Junior and a Senior
As if life was not
rushing headlong faster than any of us could imagine, Kelly is now a Junior at
DePaul University in Chicago, and Heather is a Senior at Flintridge Sacred
Heart Academy. Kelly is looking forward
to her last 18 months of college instruction (after spending the past three
months with us here, as she finished some general ed classes in Southern
California), and to being fully certified as an elementary level teacher upon
graduation. From there, only God knows
what comes next, but the current plan is teaching someplace overseas for a few
years. She is quite used to world
travel, having almost spent last Christmas in London, close to being snowed in
on her way home from Livingstone, Zambia.
Heathrow in disarray, stranded in London, without luggage, and wearing
only sweats and Tom’s shoes, she spent the next 72 hours improvising a new wardrobe,
planning travel home, but also enjoying the snowy sights of London at
Christmastide! She made it home, via
Houston to Los Angeles, on the 21st; it was the best Christmas present of the
year for our family. Her smile on our doorstep will not quickly be forgotten.
Meanwhile, Heather’s
life is never a dull moment, with present plans for 15 (yes, count them)
separate college applications. Thus far
two acceptances, 13 more to go. We are
all so proud of Heather’s hard work, and Dad is just overjoyed he did not have
to write an application check to USC.
Stayed tuned for more news. The
fall presented a surprise, as Heather’s grace and poise (characteristics having
nothing at all to do with her Dad) propelled her to the final 30 young ladies to
be considered for the Tournament of Roses Royal Court. Alas, royalty was not to be, but Heather is
quite happy with her life as a commoner, and another year on Varsity softball. We love this girl.
Intramucosal Carcinoma of the Colon
Just a few words,
but the gravity they contain can be life changing. With those medical reference words, our lives
together as a family took a summer detour we did not expect. We don’t have a story of how our majestic and
exemplary faith made this experience entirely free of questions or worry. We learned deep lessons of love, commitment
and friendship from so many during this time.
Surgery was required, and the result: no evidence of ongoing serious cancer. In fact, what had previously looked likely
cancerous was in fact, benign. One more
related surgery is scheduled for later this month; a purely preventative
procedure. Nancy is back to full and
complete health, and we are all deeply and profoundly thankful. Words simply will not do. A word of prayer for one more short hospital
visit for Nancy would be a gift to us. The
doctors want to keep a close eye on her in the years to come, but for now, the
way ahead is clear. Suffice it to say,
we have a different understanding of the concept of the gift of each new day. And in thanks, and as a celebration, we will
be giving a financial gift this year in your names to the City of Hope (www.cityofhope.org), where Nancy received truly
remarkable and compassionate care. This
was a summer we will never forget.
More Modest and Thankfully Dull Adventures
As for me, the
balding guy who is the oldest around here, this has certainly been a year. From emails to and from Zambia, sitting in the
City of Hope hospital waiting room wondering about the future, to awaiting a
Rose Court announcement; it never, ever, got boring. This included a business trip to Alaska last
year just before Christmas (spotted several moose on major streets in
Anchorage, high temperature +15 degrees), a conference in Washington DC in
November, with a day to enjoy the nation’s capital. The year was filled with some wonderful musical
interludes with good friends, the Watkins Family hour at the Coronet, Alison
Kraus and Union Station under the stars at the Greek, The Civil Wars at the
Wiltern, and fall evenings at Disney Hall with good friends. A week at the beach at the close of summer,
complete with rooftop sunset dinners full of the kids and their friends and
much laughter. Summer evening barbeque
dinners on the back deck with friends old and new. Bruin games at Pauley with friends new. Life is rich and full, each day. Thankfulness abounds.
And so, in this past
year, as Kelly traveled to Livingstone, via London and Los Angeles, I wondered about
what seems to be the only event that can unite the people of these distant and
disparate cities. An event that occurred in obscurity more than two hundred
centuries ago, in a dusty village in the middle of, well, nowhere.
At the point of a single birth, everything changed. Time was carved in two. For everyone, forever. For countless thousands alone, with their thoughts on Los Angeles freeways, for the masses riding the London tube, and for the dusty streets of Livingstone. And even for you too, standing in your kitchen reading this Christmas letter. All these places, all us people, given a chance again. Given hope. Christmas hope. Christmas love. Across continents, and time zones, and time itself. This is what Christmas is all about.
Merry
Christmas from Steve, Nancy, Kelly, and Heather
Sunday, November 13, 2011
Thursday, October 27, 2011
Here and Heaven - Chris Thile and Aoife O'Donovan
This song is from the brand new album Goat Rodeo Sessions. I cannot believe how good this is.
With a hammer and nails and a fear of failure we are building a shed
Between here and heaven between the wait and the wedding
For as long as we both shall be dead to the world
Beyond the boys and the girls trying to keep us calm
We can practice our lines ‘till we’re deaf and blind to
Ourselves to each other and it’s
Fall not winter spring not summer cool not cold
And it’s warm not hot have we all forgotten that we’re getting old
With an arrow and bow and some seeds left to sow we are staking our claim
On ground so fertile we forget who we’ve hurt along the way
And reach out for a strange hand to hold
Someone strong but not bold enough to tear down the wall
Cause we ain’t lost enough to find the stars aren’t crossed
Why lie and why fall hard not soft into
Fall not winter spring not summer cool not cold
And it’s warm not hot have we all forgotten that we’re getting old
With a hammer and nails and a fear of failure we are building a shed
Between here and heaven between the wait and the wedding
For as long as we both shall be dead to the world
Beyond the boys and the girls trying to keep us calm
We can practice our lines ‘till we’re deaf and blind to
Ourselves to each other and it’s
Fall not winter spring not summer cool not cold
And it’s warm not hot have we all forgotten that we’re getting old
With an arrow and bow and some seeds left to sow we are staking our claim
On ground so fertile we forget who we’ve hurt along the way
And reach out for a strange hand to hold
Someone strong but not bold enough to tear down the wall
Cause we ain’t lost enough to find the stars aren’t crossed
Why lie and why fall hard not soft into
Fall not winter spring not summer cool not cold
And it’s warm not hot have we all forgotten that we’re getting old
Monday, October 24, 2011
Of Princesses and Commoners
Sometimes it might be the better thing to not be among the chosen.
You would think that at my age, I might have a better grip on this rather fundamental concept; that I might have the basic priorities of life sorted out. But, due to a somewhat narrow minded perspective on life, and my decidedly clay-like feet, it seems I still have much learning to do. Over in the past couple of weeks, I have again learned something I should have known very well all along. And my daughter has taught me this lesson.
The (Seemingly) Important Thing - Becoming a Princess
In late September, Younger Daughter decided that she, like almost all of her Senior class at school, would try out for the Tournament of Roses Royal Court. It seems almost all (only about 120) of the girls try out for what is known locally as "The Royal Court" (note the capitalization) mostly for the fun of it. The Court consists of 7 young ladies from throughout the San Gabriel Valley, who are chosen to represent the Tournament of Roses each year, and to "officiate" over the Rose Parade on January 1st. The field of applicants starts out with roughly 1,000, and is narrowed down over several weeks and interviews to a final field of 34, prior to the big announcement of the Royal Court, comprised of seven young ladies.
As fate, seemingly random selection, and (biased Dad portion here) poise and warmth would have it, over the several weeks of Rose Court tryouts, Younger Daughter ended up in the final field of 34, who would stand up before the press and local dignitaries to hear the announcement of the Princesses of the Royal Court. The Chosen Ones. The girls in the final cut spent an afternoon at the famous Tournament House, being photographed and meeting with the press. My daughter, meeting the press. Has a strange sound to it. In local social circles this is considered something elite, classy, and certainly the ideal compliment to a young lady. Selection for the Royal Court means you have "made it" socially, that have been "chosen" by society; and that, in a way, you might even be, in some ways, royal.
And so, on a sunny Monday morning, parents, families, friends, and the press all gathered on the Tournament House lawn, to learn who would be selected for the Royal Court. Long story short, the finalist who lives in our house got to return home later that same morning as a commoner. She was happy for the journey, slightly disappointed, but fine with the life she leads. I do love that girl.
The Common Thing
At about the same time all of this social fomenting was going on, something else happened in the life of Younger Daughter. Something more mundane, not glamorous. Just a school assembly on an otherwise unremarkable Thursday morning, for a cause that doesn't get much press at all. Little limelight, and not something for social climbers. A common thing. To be more honest, this sort of assembly was about a subject many of us don't really do well with. This assembly involves those in our society who are often not noticed, those who will be certainly never be chosen for any Royal Court having anything to do with the Rose Parade.
This was an assembly about helping families with children who have Down Syndrome.
Club21 is a learning, support, and resource center for those with Down Syndrome. It was started by our dear friend, just four years ago, in the living room of her home. Our family is blessed beyond measure to be a part of this effort. For 14 years now, we have known Molly, our friends' daughter who has Down Syndrome. As a result of this friendship, Younger Daughter has, on her own, taken this cause to heart. For some time now, she has been planning to lead this assembly, as she felt her classmates, all 400+ of them at her school, needed to learn about families and kids with Downs, and how they might help.
And so, on that Thursday morning, the gymnasium at Flintridge Sacred Heart Academy filled with noisy high school girls, and with families of children with Down Syndrome. An unlikely combination, two people groups who otherwise would not meet. Girls who have everything, and special needs kids who need, well, a lot. And they will continue to need a lot. For a lifetime. These are not kids you can afford to believe in for a just month, or a year.
One by one, families of Down Syndrome children got up and shared their stories. Stories of disappointment, confusion, frustration, challenges, sadness, and joy. Lots of joy. After just a few moments, that raucous gym quieted to the point where you could hear a pin drop. The assembly went on for almost an hour. I have never seen more focused attention from so many high school girls in my life. The girls were encouraged to take part in a charity walk that will benefit the families and kids of Club21. This will not make the social pages of the paper, but it will make a difference in terms none of us have the ability to measure.
And so, in the end, although Younger Daughter will always be a Princess in my eyes, its the commoner in her that I really love. And, often its better to be among the unchosen.
You would think that at my age, I might have a better grip on this rather fundamental concept; that I might have the basic priorities of life sorted out. But, due to a somewhat narrow minded perspective on life, and my decidedly clay-like feet, it seems I still have much learning to do. Over in the past couple of weeks, I have again learned something I should have known very well all along. And my daughter has taught me this lesson.
The (Seemingly) Important Thing - Becoming a Princess
In late September, Younger Daughter decided that she, like almost all of her Senior class at school, would try out for the Tournament of Roses Royal Court. It seems almost all (only about 120) of the girls try out for what is known locally as "The Royal Court" (note the capitalization) mostly for the fun of it. The Court consists of 7 young ladies from throughout the San Gabriel Valley, who are chosen to represent the Tournament of Roses each year, and to "officiate" over the Rose Parade on January 1st. The field of applicants starts out with roughly 1,000, and is narrowed down over several weeks and interviews to a final field of 34, prior to the big announcement of the Royal Court, comprised of seven young ladies.
As fate, seemingly random selection, and (biased Dad portion here) poise and warmth would have it, over the several weeks of Rose Court tryouts, Younger Daughter ended up in the final field of 34, who would stand up before the press and local dignitaries to hear the announcement of the Princesses of the Royal Court. The Chosen Ones. The girls in the final cut spent an afternoon at the famous Tournament House, being photographed and meeting with the press. My daughter, meeting the press. Has a strange sound to it. In local social circles this is considered something elite, classy, and certainly the ideal compliment to a young lady. Selection for the Royal Court means you have "made it" socially, that have been "chosen" by society; and that, in a way, you might even be, in some ways, royal.
And so, on a sunny Monday morning, parents, families, friends, and the press all gathered on the Tournament House lawn, to learn who would be selected for the Royal Court. Long story short, the finalist who lives in our house got to return home later that same morning as a commoner. She was happy for the journey, slightly disappointed, but fine with the life she leads. I do love that girl.
The Common Thing
At about the same time all of this social fomenting was going on, something else happened in the life of Younger Daughter. Something more mundane, not glamorous. Just a school assembly on an otherwise unremarkable Thursday morning, for a cause that doesn't get much press at all. Little limelight, and not something for social climbers. A common thing. To be more honest, this sort of assembly was about a subject many of us don't really do well with. This assembly involves those in our society who are often not noticed, those who will be certainly never be chosen for any Royal Court having anything to do with the Rose Parade.
This was an assembly about helping families with children who have Down Syndrome.
Club21 is a learning, support, and resource center for those with Down Syndrome. It was started by our dear friend, just four years ago, in the living room of her home. Our family is blessed beyond measure to be a part of this effort. For 14 years now, we have known Molly, our friends' daughter who has Down Syndrome. As a result of this friendship, Younger Daughter has, on her own, taken this cause to heart. For some time now, she has been planning to lead this assembly, as she felt her classmates, all 400+ of them at her school, needed to learn about families and kids with Downs, and how they might help.
And so, on that Thursday morning, the gymnasium at Flintridge Sacred Heart Academy filled with noisy high school girls, and with families of children with Down Syndrome. An unlikely combination, two people groups who otherwise would not meet. Girls who have everything, and special needs kids who need, well, a lot. And they will continue to need a lot. For a lifetime. These are not kids you can afford to believe in for a just month, or a year.
One by one, families of Down Syndrome children got up and shared their stories. Stories of disappointment, confusion, frustration, challenges, sadness, and joy. Lots of joy. After just a few moments, that raucous gym quieted to the point where you could hear a pin drop. The assembly went on for almost an hour. I have never seen more focused attention from so many high school girls in my life. The girls were encouraged to take part in a charity walk that will benefit the families and kids of Club21. This will not make the social pages of the paper, but it will make a difference in terms none of us have the ability to measure.
And so, in the end, although Younger Daughter will always be a Princess in my eyes, its the commoner in her that I really love. And, often its better to be among the unchosen.
Monday, October 17, 2011
Making a Difference in LA
Look below for real stories, of real people, who believed that God had designed something special for them.
One person can make a difference, just look at the opportunities.
Deidox Films - The Story Pi Chui "because I know God, I am happy, I am at peace"
Unsung Heroes of Los Angeles - opportunities to become involved and serve the City, through the California Community Foundation; including the remarkable story of Andrew Bogan, who believed in girls that society otherwise gave up on.
Serving the Homeless of Hollywood through the Lord's Lighthouse
Understanding injustice in the world, and doing something to help, via International Justice Mission.
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