Widows ... and orphans

Even I think of "widows and orphans" in a context of a Word document.  Widows and orphans are a typographical no-no.  How dare we leave words alone on one line on the bottom or top of a page??  Horrors.  And yet ... I'm left all alone tonight.  Most nights.  Almost every night.  On my own line.  In my own space.  In my own company.  In my own home.  Alone.   "A widow is a word or line of text that is forced to go on alone and start its own column or page."  FORCED to go on alone.  Yep.  That's me.  Excuse me ... That is I ... who is forced to go on alone ... you get it.

My kids aren't truly orphans.  They're not "single words at the bottom of a paragraph that get left behind."  They have me.  They have each other.  However, they are fatherless and that means something altogether different -- and altogether poignant. 

or·phan [noun]  1) a child who has lost both parents through death, or, less commonly, one parent. 2) a young animal that has been deserted by or has lost its mother. 3) a person or thing that is without protective affiliation, sponsorship.

But wait!   ... "less commonly, ONE parent."  Maybe they are, to a certain degree.  Goodness knows they don't enjoy the same benefits as their peers with two healthy, working, successful parents.  I don't want to remove any special consideration from my kids, but, hey ... I'm still alive.  And I love them fiercely and they know it.  They have plenty of protective affiliation.  They have that unconditional love thing that comes from the momma.  That's me.

That is I.

They are getting along in age.  One is now 20 ... and the other is closing in on 22.  What, then, is the natural progression of things?  Do the tables begin to turn ... to slowly rotate ... to swing the "protective affiliation" thing?  Does the momma naturally evolve into the position of the person or thing who falls under the "protective affiliation?"  Hmmm.  Probably in the not-so-near future, but ultimately, maybe ...  Especially because I'm a widow.  Dang.  Poor kids.  They're supposed to have a father taking care of such stuff.  I'm supposed to have a husband living beside me.  "Supposed to ..."  What a crock.

The first year after David died I did experience the blessing of special consideration ... "protective affirmation ... sponsorship" -- from my neighbors and from my church family.  I was and continue to be wholly thankful for that loving blanket of care.  However, the emergence of my situation has faded, I know.  My seemingly courageous and healthy "survival" has allowed my neighbors and friends believe that I'm ok.  And I am ... for the most part ... but I am alone -- "forced to go on alone."  I can count on one hand the number of beloved who understand that and who consistently check in with me -- care for me -- be with me.  Two of them are fellow widows.  Go figure.

Do family, friends, church owe me special attention?  Hmmm.  Good question.  I'm not really one to whine or to expect such stuff, but Scripture has something to say about it.  The Psalms say plenty about "defending" and "pleading the case of" the widow, as well as God "not pitying the widow."  That's confusing.  But the Lord said to "do no wrong or violence" to the widow and that the "widows can depend on me."  That presents a reader with conflicting information ... but the over-riding message is:  Widow-dom = bad.  Nobody wants to be a widow.  Yeh.  Me neither.  And yet, at times, widows were honored -- like at the raising of Dorcas. 

 

Acts 9:36 In Joppa there was a disciple named Tabitha (in Greek her name is Dorcas); she was always doing good and helping the poor. 37 About that time she became sick and died, and her body was washed and placed in an upstairs room. ³⁸ Lydda was near Joppa; so when the disciples heard that Peter was in Lydda, they sent two men to him and urged him, “Please come at once!”  ³⁹ Peter went with them, and when he arrived he was taken upstairs to the room. All the widows stood around him, crying and showing him the robes and other clothing that Dorcas had made while she was still with them.  ⁴⁰ Peter sent them all out of the room; then he got down on his knees and prayed. Turning toward the dead woman, he said, “Tabitha, get up.” She opened her eyes, and seeing Peter she sat up. ⁴¹ He took her by the hand and helped her to her feet. Then he called for the believers, especially the widows, and presented her to them alive.

"Especially the widows."

Timothy wasn't such a good friend of widows.  Ultimately, through the centuries, his word has been distorted and has not been such a good friend of women in general.  That's another blog ...

But James made it pretty clear:  James 1:26 Those who consider themselves religious and yet do not keep a tight rein on their tongues deceive themselves, and their religion is worthless. 27 Religion that God our Father accepts as pure and faultless is this: to look after orphans and widows in their distress and to keep oneself from being polluted by the world.

 

So to those of you who have taken good care of the widows (and orphans) in your midst -- and I've heard so much about your good works through grace -- THANK YOU.  You are blessed.  You are holy.  To those of you who have taken good care of me -- consistently cared about me, checked on me, called me, written to me, loved me ... THANK YOU.  Matthew 5:⁷ Blessed are the merciful, for they will be shown mercy.

So on this Friday night, having gone to the movie theater alone, spent the day alone, spent the evening alone and now going on to bed alone ... I bid you all great peace.  During Lent when we are called to remember the love of Jesus and the joy of our salvation, I leave you with these ponderings from Henri Nouwen (look him up).

The Honesty Of Compassion

Do not judge, and you will not be judged; do not condemn, and you will not be condemned.  Luke 6:37

 

Compassion means to become close to the one who suffers, but we can come close to another person only when we are willing to become vulnerable ourselves.  A compassionate person says:  "I am your brother; I am your sister; I am human, fragile, and mortal, just like you.  I am not scandalized by your tears, nor afraid of your pain.  I too have wept.  I too have felt pain."  We can be with the other only when the other ceases to be "other" and becomes like us.

This, perhaps, is the main reason that we sometimes find it easier to show pity than compassion.  The suffering person calls us to become aware of our own suffering.  How can I respond to someone's loneliness unless I am in touch with my own experience of loneliness?  How can I be close to handicapped people when I refuse to acknowledge my own handicaps?  How can I be with the poor when I am unwilling to confess my own poverty?

I must do some things to fulfill my duties.  But isn't it time I examined my routines and cut out the things I do just to stay busy?  Lord, help me this Lent to begin to focus my attention on the important things. 

[RENEWED FOR LIFE:  Daily Lenten Meditations from the works of Henri J. M. Nouwen, Mark Neilson, editor]

And that means me, too.  Daily I struggle to discern what I'm supposed to be doing!  How am I called to glorify my God?  To be wholly in the "presence of Jesus?"

Maybe there is a widow to whom I should be attending ... or some orphans.  Yeh.  I can do that, too.