Wake Up and Do Something Good.

Home is the place where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in.

Robert Frost

I don’t sing much at church anymore. One—I’m old and my voice is undependable; two—I don’t hear well so sometimes I completely loose track of the pitch (highly annoying to my seatmates!); and three—my breathing is often sub-optimal. On the other hand, I notice I am actually paying more attention to the lyrics of the music with which I’ve been familiar my whole life. This week, for me, an old hymn sang a new message. The congregation was belting out Have I Done Any Good in the World Today? In my head I heard, “then wake up and do something good.” Though a simple admonition, implementation requires a very special kind of heart. Because my parents taught me as a young child to spend a few minutes each day counting my blessings, I know I’ve long been the recipient of those for whom “doing something good” is simply a way of life.

Years ago I got an email from Son #4’s Mission President notifying us that he was coming home from Argentina the day before Thanksgiving. I was a teacher. School district policy clearly stated that employees could not apply for a “personal day” off on the day previous to a state or national holiday. I’ve always been something of a rule-follower, but I this case I took a deep breath and went downstairs to talk to my principal. He was sympathetic, but he reminded me of district policy by reading it aloud to me. Then he read it again, silently.

“Hmm,” he said thoughtfully. “It appears there’s an exception here,” he paused, choosing his next words very carefully. “Policy is void should a religious observance precede the designated holiday.” He looked straight at me. “Sounds like your son coming home from his mission fills that requirement.” And he signed the exception paperwork for me. Reason: Religious Observance. For one.

Some years later, my husband called me one afternoon when I was visiting a niece across town. I could barely understand what he was saying, but it was something like “Emergency.  Come home now.” He gave up trying to explain when the noise of wind and thunder in the background overpowered his words. Fearing the worst, I dropped the phone, kissed my niece on the cheek, and exceeded the speed limit. By the time I pulled of I-15, I could see ferocious clouds swirling above the west side of the valley, the sky black with rain. Once I reached my driveway, I  spotted our forty year-old Russian olive tree laying across the fence in our backyard. The force of the wind had pulled out it of the ground by its roots.

My husband was on the back stairs to our basement desperately trying to build a dike against the flood which poured off the higher ground around us and was already a couple of inches deep . This section of the downstairs was just storage, but it wasn’t long before the water would saturate walls and carpet farther in.

I called our adult kids for help and starting bailing. A few minutes later, I did a double take when I realized someone, also dripping wet, was standing beside me scooping up water. In fact, several someones. I later learned a microburst had exploded above our neighborhood; seventeen houses had been flooded. A gang of local teenagers–20 or more young people–(with help from unflooded homeowners) raced down our stairs, bringing buckets and water vacs, then going from house to house for hours until every house had carpet pulled, furniture and boxes moved to safety, and mud shoveled out. After they finished, without waiting for reward or even thanks, they headed back to their houses and picked up their video games or finished their homework.

On the horrific day when Son #2 died unexpectedly, my family, neighbors, and friends were beyond generous with their kindness and concern. But as all those who grieve know, it doesn’t just go away because time passes. Late one afternoon some months after his death, I was sitting at my desk when I was overwhelmed by the depth of my loss. One of the school custodians glanced in my room as he passed by. He was near retirement and years of dealing with teenagers had made him a bit of a curmudgeon. But he saw my face washed with tears, and he came in, pulling up a chair next to my desk. “Can I help?” he said. For almost an hour he listened as my sorrow poured out. He told me about his own brother who had passed away some time before. Then he grabbed a couple of extra boxes of Kleenex off his cart and set them in my closet. I knew the time he spent with me meant he’d have to spend an extra hour finishing his rounds before he could go home. He never checked his watch. Not once.

Now on days when I am exhausted and discouraged by a long list of problems for which I have no solutions, I find solace in the memory of so many people in my life who choose to “wake up and do something good”. They fend off the sleepless nights and give me courage to begin again tomorrow.