Archive for Month: December, 2009
Who Dat?
“Who Dat”
—1937
Who dat up there who’s dat down there
Who dat up there who dat well down there
Who’s dat up there, sayin’ who’s dat down there
When I see you up there well who’s dat down there
Who dat inside who’s dat outside
Who’s dat inside who dat well outside
Who’s dat inside, singin’ who’s dat outside
When I see up there well who’s dat out there
Button up your lip there big boy
Stop answerin’ back
Give you a tip there big boy
Announce yourself jack
Who dat up there who’s dat down there
Who dat up there who dat, well down there
Who’s dat up there, singin’ who’s dat down there
When I see you up there you bum
Well who’s dat down there
Who dat
Weekly Winners {The “My blog has been waiting for this moment its whole life” Edition}
My blog has been waiting for me to return to New Orleans. She’s been ever-so patient, too.
Back when Katrina hit, I blogged extensively about my feelings for what happened and what people were going through. It’s ironic that I’m in New Orleans this weekend, on a sponsored trip, one that is essentially a hope mission.
There are still people feeling the affects of Katrina. And there are always people whose stories should be told. There’s always hope to give and receive. I look forward to being able to share stories and images—from this weekend—that has already been filled with Loads of Hope.
For now, though.. Here’s a bit of The French Quarter, through my lens:
See more on Flickr
We Have Nothing But Everything to Give
{I am part of a special holiday Blog Carnival hosted on Blog Nosh Magazine. This post was sponsored by Tide Loads of Hope*.}
A long time ago, before I was pregnant with Benjamin, when I was the new mother of two babies (my Irish Twins, if you will), we fell on hard days. We were living, in Buffalo, in my parents’ garage apartment. They fed us, they housed us, they helped us, and we were ever grateful. We were a young family and times were tough. Accepting help was necessary if not debilitating. When you are at a low, in a deep, dark valley, you think you’ll never soar again.
That’s where faith comes in.
One blustery day in December I was home alone with Mikey and Livey. I was just getting them down for nap, when the doorbell rang. Who dare ring my doorbell just as my babies’ heavy eyes were about to buy me an hour or two of quiet? I stomped down the stairs with a vengeance. Whomever stood outside my door should have been standing there fearful of their life. But, no one was there. Only a box. A big huge box addressed to: Mishi Lane
I muscled the massive package up the stairs and into the kitchen. Curiosity triumphed and instead of going back to the work at hand–getting those babies to sleep–I grabbed a knife and cut my way into it. I began to pull out various gifts for both of the children. Then at the bottom was the big gift, the Tonka Truck, with the card attached. As I read the card, I felt the lump in my throat grow as tears welled up in my eyes.
That’s where faith lifts you up.
The big, huge box with the big, huge, metal Tonka Truck was from an online friend. Someone who cared enough to send gifts to my small children for the upcoming holiday, even if they wouldn’t remember or know (I would, though.) Someone who showed me that the act of giving is actually the gift of receiving, because–ultimately–her act of kindness allowed her to receive something within her heart—something that transcended the physical act of giving.
I have been a recipient of these acts of kindness many times. More so, I have been witness to much greater acts of kindness. I’ve known wives who lost their husbands, children who lost their fathers, daughters and sons who were taken too soon, babies that struggled to live (some of whom made it through and others who became full-fledged angels), families that lost everything they had in fires or disasters, people that have suffered immensely, and the list goes on and on. The kindness that I speak of, though? It’s the kindness of man that presents itself so readily when tragedy strikes.
That’s where faith resides.
When I got online in 1994 I had no idea the impact it would have on my life. I met my soul-mate online. I shared pregnancies online. I lived through highs and lows with my friends online. I have made life long, meaningful relationships online. And it keeps getting better. I flip open my laptop and know that there are people that I can turn to. For support. For comfort. For friendship. For laughter. For community. For understanding.
The line has been so blurred that I feel strange saying that they are solely online friendships. They are more than that. And they are just as meaningful and fulfilling as any other relationship I have forged in my thirty-five years.
That’s where faith grows.
Last week, we were sitting around the kitchen table, having a family discussion. Mikey felt that Benny was rude in wanting to accept a neighbor friend’s offering of dry cereal and left-over Halloween candy (their army-guy “dry rations”). Mikey conveyed that whenever he has offered his friend something, anything, he refuses to accept it, and says in so many words, “I can’t take that from you.”
I paused him.
Maybe his parents told him not to accept anything because Papa’s not working?
He agreed.
Then I went on to say to that often times the ones who have the least are willing to give the most. That we should be giving. For the act of giving is just as meaningful–if not more–than the act of receiving. When you give you open your heart up. A friend taught me that.
Just then, I looked out the window and spotted the ten year old Tonka truck underneath our trampoline.
We share our food with friends. We give ten dollars in hopes that someone we barely know might not lose their home. We buy a tee-shirt to support a fallen friend. We display buttons to show support. We talk about important causes to our friends and family. We tell stories. We take pictures. We do all we can. We give. We receive.
That’s faith, hope, and love.
————————————————————————————-
*Loads of Hope for the Holidays
{How do the holidays fill you with loads of hope?}
Please join us at Blog Nosh Magazine as we share stories of hope this holiday season in support of the Tide Loads of Hope program, a mobile laundromat offering laundry services to families affected by disasters.
Share your own stories of hope, along with Blog Nosh Magazine, Velveteen Mind, and a gathering of inspiring bloggers, and enter your own post link in the blog carnival below. Visit Blog Nosh Magazine to explore featured bloggers as well as three featured posts selected from carnival participants listed in the linky (that could be you!).
Lend your voices now, then participate live during a two day event in New Orleans, Sunday and Monday, December 13 and 14, as we tweet stories of resilience from laundry recipients and volunteers on the ground. Follow along on twitter via #loadsofhope and be sure to follow @TideLoadsofHope.
So, that being said, this weekend I will be in my most favorite city in the whole United States of America, New Orleans, with Tide Loads of Hope. I’m joining Megan of Velveteen Mind and Deb of Deb on the Rocks as we spread some hope to those that are still feeling the affects of Hurricane Katrina. Giving the simple gift of clean clothes and receiving fulfillment that I suspect will last a lifetime.
Learn more about how you can extend hope to families affected by disasters by visiting http://tideloadsofhope.com
Numbers
They are just numbers
Marking life, One through Forty
Fifteen spent with me
Oh, but there are those
We say, that will always be
Love you—One-Four-Three
Happy Birthday, Baby!
The Bell Ringer
“Merry Christmas, Merry Christmas!” I exclaim with a ring, ring, ring of the simple, yellow bell in my red gloved hand.
“God bless you, God be with you, Merry Christmas,” I go on as people shuffle by.
Then the little girl, with the handful of pennies, apologizes for not having more to give. Her blue eyes shine so brightly in the early winter sunshine. Her mother watches as every penny dings the walls of my red, metal bucket.
Pride.
“Merry Christmas, Merry Christmas!” I continue with a ring, ring, ring of my unmistakable, yellow bell.
People grumble past me into the store. Most do not even make eye contact. I watch as children are scolded, as men sigh knowing they will be tortured upon entry, as babies cry in their carriers, as old men snort—all the while I continue to ring my precious, yellow bell.
“God bless you, God be with you, Merry Christmas,” I carry on.
Then the old lady, with crumpled dollar bills in her frail hand, approaches. Her eyes shine just as brightly as the little girl before, but with a depth that was a result of a lifetime of memories captured. As she puts the dollars in she smiles warmly at me.
“My daughter always made sure that we put something in the bucket. She was a special child, that one. Even when she had nothing, she would search the car, my purse, her coat for something, anything,” she conveyed with an apparent heavy heart.
“I’m sorry, ma’am, I’m so sorry for your loss,” I offer as if I know the story.
A thank you escapes her wrinkled lips as she carries her old, tired body into the store. Before she is swept into the sea of chaotic shoppers, though, she turns and smiles; her eyes bright and cheerful.
Gratitude.
“Merry Christmas, Merry Christmas one and all, young and old, happy and sad, Merry Christmas to you! Merry Christmas,” I say as I let my voice become a sing-song out into the crowd that bustles by.
I see them all. Some cannot be bothered. Some don’t want to hear me. Some apologize. Some wish me a Happy Hanukkah, which I am more than alright with. Some say nothing while they stare down at the ground. Yet I continue to bless them with the ring, ring, ring of my humble, little bell.
Love.
——————————————————————————————-
This piece was written as part of this week’s prompt from the awesome group of bloggers who have come together to practice the craft of writing well. {W}rite of Passage is the brainchild of Leslie “Mrs Flinger“.
Recent Comments