He who has the most friends wins, sort of

Isn't technology wonderful? Two decades ago, the Internet was just catching on. A decade ago, we started thinking about connections through social media. And today, there are dozens of possibilities. Who knows what the next, best thing will be? I have to remember if my staff text, Facebook, Tweet, or just email.

Two decades ago, that first paragraph would have been unintelligible. And maybe two decades hence, it will be archaic.

So, my Facebook (FB) is a web that connects me and my 200 or so closest friends. Sort of. I'm pretty sure that only about half of those pay any attention to me at all. And probably only a handful connect daily. Today I received a new friend request from a name that I couldn't place. Before deleting the request, I opened the profile and found a long-lost distant cousin. Interesting. Nary a Christmas card, a phone call in 20 years. But today, we are connected through FB.

Facebook, to me, is a place I can be myself. So I post comments, pictures, thoughts, quotes and news that represents me. Not the me I was 30 years ago. So I was not surprised to see a relative take umbrage to my progressive Christian comments. Without saying it, it became obvious that he didn't like my positions. So, all of a sudden, he announces he's starting a "debate."

If he's baiting me, I'm not playing.

Most of my friends agree with my position.

Most of his friends don't.

Debating him on his FB page pits me against all of his like-minded Christian conservative friends. His FB is loaded with them. And why should I toss myself into that fray? If I win, lose or draw, I'm not changing my opinion. So I punted. I'm drained and I'm busy. I don't want to play. He can debate the wind.

Besides, I'd rather spend my energy in action. "Go, therefore." Not "Debate, therefore."

Good dog, Rowdy. You will be missed

We knew it would happen, sooner or later. It happens to the best of them. Saturday morning, it happened.

Our precious Rowdy died. We heard him bark about 6 a.m., and as is typical, if we don't get up to let him out right away, he usually settles back in for a while. Around 9, not hearing another peep, Mike went in to let him out.

"He's gone," he said. "Rowdy's dead." I came in to check, and he was not breathing. His body was still warm, but his eyes were fixed. The moment had come.

Rowdy was our son Michael's first dog. We told him as soon as we had our own house, he could have a dog. That day came a couple of months after he turned 8. We saw this cute black pup at Petsmart on a Saturday. But, alas, the pup, named Michael, was the last of a litter of strays and another couple had already claimed him -- was filling out his paperwork. Our search would have to continue.

For whatever reason people do things, we stopped into Petsmart again the following day, after church. And he was back. The couple had returned him. They had a husky, and the established dog tried to attack the puppy. It takes patience and knowledge to introduce dogs. They didn't have it. I had just one stipulation: I already had two Michaels in the house. The dog would have to have a new name. And that's how he arrived.

Quiet, shy, frightened. The puppy spent a first night whining. His boy went out to check on him, and within a few nights, the crate was moved to his room. Hoping he would grow into the name, we decided on "Rowdy." Rowdy Rockwell Kenny, getting his middle name from my parents' amazing Norwegian Elkhound. Rowdy's big paws and mixed lineage belied a big dog, so a friend gave us a crate large enough for a brute. And Rowdy grew -- a little. He ended up about as big as a cocker spaniel. A cocker's ears, the long body and fur of a long-haired dachshund, and the tail of a German shepherd. But Michael couldn't have loved him more.

He learned sit, speak and down. Even roll over. But fetching a ball was something he never did. He would run after the ball, then look at it and come trotting back. "Just pet me and cuddle me," he seemed to tell us. And we did. Through the addition of cats to our home. Through Michael's school years, graduation, college and work. Then a nasty bout of vestibular disease.

We thought he had endured a stroke. His eyes flashed. He wouldn't eat. And he walked in circles. Fortunately, our vet, Dr. Franks at PV Pet Clinic, knew exactly what it was. She gave him fluids. And predicted he would be over it in 2 or 3 days. And he was fine within the week. But later, with reduced hearing and vision, it would come back. No flashing eyes. But always circling. Then we noticed that he wasn't walking well. Slowly, Rowdy started his downhill progression. Michael moved out, but Rowdy always perked up and couldn't wait for his boy to return.

In the final weeks, Rowdy had trouble standing for any length of time, as a degenerative condition affected his back and hind legs. He had accidents or couldn't go when he was outside. We started talking about his pain, his quality of life. Michael came to visit and told him it was OK, if it was time, he was ready. But no one is really ready.

We called him and told him that it had happened. He was at work and would come over as soon as he could. We promised not to do anything until he had time to see him. He sobbed. This was his brother, the closest thing this only child had to a brother. How could he say goodbye? He touched his fur, held his ear. We removed his collar and tried to let go.

Rowdy will be cremated. Michael will keep some ashes. He wants a paw print tattoo. I snipped him a lock of fur. We have pictures and lots of memories.

We bring our pets into our homes for companionship. We follow our instructions in Genesis to have dominion over them, but compassionate, gentle dominion. We are their caretakers. But in the process, we love them. We become their pack; they become our family.

Getting my hands into service

"Can you help me?"

It's a call we get at my office numerous times a day. Someone has found himself or herself short of dollars or resources. They start calling the social service agencies they find online, in a resource guide, or in the phone book. Each one has a story. If we can help, we do. Sometimes it's just pointing him or her in the right direction.

Sometimes it's a situation that is out of our league. We don't have a shelter. We have little access to transportation. A stranded traveler who needs to get somewhere, we probably can't help. We might be able to help with a room or a tank of gas, but we can't drive someone to the Valley. We can't put them up indefinitely.

"It's my three children and my husband. We don't have any food."
Fortunately, providing food is something that's fairly easy. We have hot meals, sandwiches to go, pantry items, commodity boxes. We're open four days a week and today is one of them.

"My keys are locked in my SUV."

OK, now this has taken a little different turn. The woman needs help for her family, including her husband with health issues, but getting here is a problem. Another agency has put them up in a motel, 10 miles away. There's no buses from there. Her family is hungry and she's out of resources.

"Can you help me?"

Usually I work on administrative tasks for our agency. But several people are on vacation. And I have the ability not only to solve the immediate problem, but both of her needs. I arrange to deliver some food that is appropriate for their situation, and try to get a community member to help with the locked vehicle. Within 30 minutes, I have solutions. I will take the food out on my way home, the locksmith will do the work, gratis, within 24 hours.

Her children play outside in a back parking lot at the motel. We unpack the food and put some in her refrigerator. Among the food is applesauce, bananas, and macaroni and cheese -- her kids will be ecstatic. I wonder if they will remember this, and if so, as an adventure or a traumatic time? I ask her how long they will stay here, and what the future holds. Do they have other supportive services or people? A sister lives 90 minutes away. They may be able to go there and stay a while. At the moment, it seems like a good option. Time to regroup and get back to stability.

"Again Jesus said, "Simon son of John, do you truly love me?" He answered, "Yes, Lord, you know that I love you." Jesus said, "Take care of my sheep." John 21:16 (NIV)

A gardener, in the image of God

Genesis tells us that we were made in the image of God. Some days, I have a lot of trouble with that concept. I struggle with forgiveness, and He doesn't. I can't remember people's names, and He knows every sparrow, every hair on our heads.

But today, anyway, I'm OK with the idea that we have some connected lineage. We both like gardens. God was the original gardener: He created the soil, the rain, the sun. He made the first garden -- and set up one simple rule. But we're not very good at following His rules. Thank goodness for His forgiveness.

There's no apple trees in my plot at the Prescott Valley Community Garden. Typical Arizona garden: tomatoes, peppers, onions. Salsa, anyone? Then a few carrots, yellow and green beans, zucchini squash, and some lettuce and Brussels sprouts that may or may not take hold. A coleus and some orange nasturtiums for color.

It wouldn't be my garden without a few garden props. A cardinal that represents my mom, who taught me the value of a garden. A snail, one of the things my sister collected. It's a family garden, after all.

I love to watch plants burst through the soil. The moist warm earth signals them that it's OK to sprout. And they push their way upward, sometimes with cute little seed cover hats. I can't help but hum Peter, Paul and Mary's "Garden Song" as I watch the tomatoes and peppers blossom, and the rows of beans grow bushy.

But where did those weeds come from? I scattered good seeds in the fertilized and worked soil. Then, among the new plants, crabgrass and some ubiquitous vine that comes up everywhere start filling in the spaces between the rows. Truth be told, there's almost no difference between my garden plants and the weeds; the plants are the ones I like, and the weeds are the ones I dislike.

Maybe the Lord felt the same way about weeds. He spoke to the fisherman about the things they knew, and the gardeners about that which they knew. He knew about thistles, and probably crabgrass and vines and alfalfa. Gardens need tending. The good stuff doesn't grow well if it is choked out by weeds.

On the other hand, in the right place, those weeds are cattle fodder. The ranchers encourage the alfalfa and even buy alfalfa hay. I have no use for alfalfa, but in the right hands, this clover grass raises grass-fed cattle. A peaceful verdant pasture with purple flowers. Something I have no use for ends up as a useful tool in another's garden. Another lesson about the diverse gifts of others.

Today I will gauge the moisture in the soil that is benefiting from the monsoon rain's early arrival. I will carefully remove the grass and vines and look for the ripening fruit. I will share some of my first fruits with those who hunger in our community. And enjoy the rest that gardens provide.

In honor of our fallen 19 firefighters

My grandfather was a firefighter. My father was a firefighter. I can still picture them in their formal picture, the volunteer firefighters of a small Wisconsin town.

Tonight, it's another group of firefighters in a portrait. The Granite Mountain Hotshots. A much younger group in a less formal picture. They saw a lot more action than my dad and his dad. During fire season in Arizona, they were on the front lines for weeks at a time.

But I'm sure their wives and mothers felt the same way my grandmother did every time that siren went off. She would put on the scanner. We would run down to the station to listen to someone at the radio desk. Hopefully, it was someone burning off weeds that had let their fire get a little too large, rather than someone's home. But worry crossed her face, worry only relieved when they returned home.

Tonight, my husband and I went to a concert. My heart dropped when I saw the news on Facebook: 19 firefighters unaccounted for in Yarnell. Then, moments later, 19 firefighters dead. The news traveled quickly through our section. Then the man next to me got a message and left his seat. When he returned, he had tragic news of his own -- his sister's home was one of 250 structures lost in Yarnell.

Through 15 years on the newspaper staff, fire both frightened me and fascinated me. I had friends on the various fire departments. A big fire was a solid news story. I would listen on the scanner and try to be on scene before the fire departments knocked the flames down. Many times I would return to the office or my house smelling of fire.

My husband never worried. I wasn't in any danger. But we knew plenty of folks who lived it, every time that alarm sounded. With the job came a certain amount of worry for their families.

Tonight 19 families received word that their firefighter isn't coming home. The wind shifted and blew the fire back on top of them, and none of them survived. Other firefighters will come, and soon they will contain it. Condolences are already arriving from the governor, even the president. And as Prescott celebrates its World's Oldest Rodeo and Fourth of July, a sadness will overlay this week.

It will take a long time for Yarnell to recover. The memories of this Hotshot team's tragic end are burned into our community for life.

Not-for-profits carrying too much responsibility

Having worked in a not-for-profit environment for the past 11 years, I know that working there is never quite the same as working in a corporate or business entity. When something at a business breaks, you fix it or replace it. At a not-for-profit or community benefit organization, as my former agency preferred to call itself, there was hand-wringing.

• What will this mean for the budget?
• Can we get it donated instead?
• Would someone donate money to cover the cost of that item?
• Should we buy it now, or wait until the beginning of the month or the next quarter?
• How important is that item, anyway?

That was exactly the feeling I got Friday, when I found out a commercial freezer was out and needed a new compressor. See "Some days you win, some days you do plumbing." Replacing the entire unit was $7,000+ and the compressor was $2,000, so replacing the compressor made sense. However, how badly did we need the freezer? What were the alternatives? How is this going to impact the budget? And most importantly, what did we do with the items that were in the freezer?

Fortunately, none of the food went to waste. But not repairing the freezer immediately was not an option. Our service company knows we run on a shoestring, so we'll get the best deal possible.

Last year, the Coalition for Compassion and Justice's Open Door had over 34,000 individual visits for food and other assistance. We feed people, provide them with clothing, various types of emergency assistance, provide them with a bathroom, a shower, and emergency shelter on the winter's coldest nights. We provide meals and pantry items with donated food, and sometimes buy more food when the shelves get bare. And we debate what else we should do, whether it is our mission, and whether it is critical enough to do if no one else will do it.

We have 15 staff members, including a couple that come to us from Americorps VISTA and AARP on poverty-level wages themselves. And we put lots of volunteers into service -- our count is about 180 at any given moment.

Our goal is to work ourselves out of business: end poverty in this community. But it doesn't look like we'll be out of business anytime soon. Even as the economy begins to recover, our guest count doesn't appear to be tapering off.

Through the past few presidencies, there is a greater emphasis on allowing charities to do this kind of work. Oh, and faith-based initiatives. Just a kind way of saying "The government isn't interested in helping. Find a charity or church to feed the poor and shelter the homeless, care for the mentally ill and provide hope to those in prison (or recently released from prison -- pretty much one in the same. Probationers and parolees don't stand much of a chance of turning their lives around without companies willing to hire them, so they turn to charity or crime).

As soon as one suggests that government should swing the pendulum back in the other direction, you may as well have suggested America becoming a Socialist state. But that isn't true. America came out of the Great Depression on some serious government programs included in the New Deal. Social Security and the Tennessee Valley Authority are still around. Most of them faded before World War I.

It's time for the government to turn that corner and beef up services and programs that give people a fair shot at economic security. It shouldn't completely rest on nonprofit programs to assure that our communities are fed, housed, treated with health care and mental health services, and gainfully employed. Nonprofits should be filling in the gaps, rather than being the only place for people in crisis to turn.

Jesus Christ is Risen Today

Funny what can flash through your mind while the organist plays a verse of "Jesus Christ is Risen Today," as a warm up. Standing in the middle of a pile of Lutherans, I'm sure there were some family members, some guests among us who didn't know it...but not many. About 40 years of singing that hymn, in so many places.

I remember the first years I sang that song -- always the same opening song at St. Mark's in Jefferson. I know there were other Easter hymns in the red book, the green book and now another red book, but I can't imagine that church ever finding another opening hymn. I remember dressing the altar at Sunrise Service, and breakfasts in the church basement. An unforgettable Sunday with a handful of us high school brass players, playing "Jesus Christ Is Risen Today." I put myself back there, in the pew on the left side, just across from the entrance with family, as I first understood "Jesus is Risen."

Then there were those sweet Sundays in Sedona, when Pastor Knutzen encouraged us to ring bells, to jingle keys, whatever joyful noises we could make on the "Alleluias." Mostly sunny Easter Sundays, but a few with light dustings of snow on the red rocks. Michael's first Easters there with a handful of other little boys and girls, and so many adopted elder relatives. Yes, He is Risen!

And then the Easters at the Cottonwood-Clarkdale Lutheran Mission, soon to become Spirit of Joy. Where did all of the people come from on those Easter mornings? Folding chairs and portable everything in that gym, a couple of lilies, but people came to celebrate. Today they are worshipping in their own courtyard for the first time for Easter Sunrise, and a part of me pauses there. Alleluia! Christ is Risen Indeed!

Years of Easter services, choirs, special Easter music from Jim and Eileen at American Lutheran. Struggling to find a place in even that large sanctuary. The Easter breakfasts from the youth. Apparently, there is a different tune to "Jesus Christ is Risen Today" that I had never heard (by the way -- that version is not even IN the new hymnal!). And something inside me fights to forget the divisions and remember Christ Risen instead.

And now, the final chords of the organ's intro end, and I'm back at Emmanuel. Home. A church full of Lutherans and recently adopted Lutherans. A place where all are welcome at the table, and all can call home. Jesus Christ is Risen Indeed.