The Meaning of Life

“Action without a name, a "who" attached to it, is meaningless.” ~Andrea Yerger

Abby looked on as her mother carefully sliced off each of the ends of the beef roast. The roast had been marinating most of the day and was now ready for the oven. Abby’s mother nestled the hefty piece of beef into a roasting pan. Plucking the two “ends” from the cutting board she carefully placed them, one on each side, of the roast. “Why do you do that?” Abigail asked. “Do what?” her mother responded, placing the lid on the roasting pan and popping the roaster into the oven.

“You always cut the ends off the roast and stick them on the sides. Why do you do that?” My mother, your Grandma, always did it that way?” she answered absent-mindedly.  “But why did she do it that way?” Abby persisted. “I don’t know,” her mother said finally. “Let’s ask her.”

Abby’s mother touched the screen of her Smartphone several times then placed it on the counter. The speaker magnified the sound of the ring; then a click sound. “Hello, Wilson residence.”

“Hi Mom,” Abby’s mother started to say, only to be drowned out by Abby, “HI GRANDMA!” she shouted. “Hi, honey,” replied the voice on the other end. “Grandma, we have a question. Why do you cut the ends off the roast?” There was a pause. “What do you mean, honey?” came the voice. “Mom, when you cooked a beef roast you always cut the ends off and put them on the sides before you put it in the oven… Why did you do that?”

Again there was a pause. “I don’t know exactly,” she replied finally. “My mother always did it that way.” “How can we find out?” asked Abby’s mother. “Well, we could drive up to the ‘home’ and ask Great Grandma Wilson. We’re overdue for a visit.” They all agreed to go that weekend. A departure time was arranged. Then Abby’s mother clicked off.

Sunday came and the three of them, Abby’s Mom behind the wheel, drove the 30 miles to a cozy sheltered living facility in the foothills of the Smokey Mountains. They parked in visitors’ parking and headed into the quaint main building.

They found Great Grandma Wilson seated in her wheel chair facing the expansive east window in the “green room.” The vista she looked out upon featured lush, wooded mountains, blue skies and puffy white clouds. She loved to sit in the sun, allowing the warmth to embrace her achy joints. Though physically bowed by age, her body wracked with arthritis, her mind was still clear as a bell.

Abby, was the first to reach her great grandma, with the other two women close behind. They all chattered their greetings almost simultaneously, asking and answering a variety of questions. Finally, they wheeled the old woman to a quiet corner. They seated themselves on a sofa, facing Great Grandma, in preparation for the question they had come to ask.

Abby’s mother leaned forward: “Grandmother,” she began. “We have a question.” “Well what is it?” replied Great Grandma. “At my age I don’t have many secrets left,” she chuckled.

“Grandmother,” she began again. “Do you remember, when you used to make your famous beef roast, how you cut the ends off?” “Of course I remember,” she answered. “And then you would take the ends and put them on the sides of the roast in the roaster?” “Yup, I remember,” she replied again, seemingly a little perplexed.

Abby’s mother leaned in even farther. “Why did you do that?” Abby, her mother and grandmother waited expectedly for Great Grandmother Wilson’s reply. “Why did I do that?” she echoed. “You drove all this way to ask why I cut the ends off the roast and put them on the sides of the roast in the pan?” The women nodded a response.

She mused for a moment. “OK, I’ll tell you,” Great Grandma replied thoughtfully. “But you have to promise not to tell anyone else.” They all nodded agreement. The old woman leaned forward and hushed her voice. “The reason I did that was a very good one.” They leaned closer as her voice got quieter. She looked around to make sure no one else could hear her. “The reason I did that was simple... The reason I did that,” (she paused for a very long time) “was because” (another long pause) “my roasting pan was too small.” A moment later they burst into laughter.

Activity without context is simply empty action. It is what some call “just going through the motions.” We automatically, sometimes robotically, go through our day – kissing our loved ones goodbye, greeting or thanking one another, performing various formalities and informalities without connecting those activities to something meaningful. 

Abby asked the right question: “Why do you do that?”

David, one of my Jewish friends, greets me by kissing me on the cheek. I once asked him why he did that. “I shake the hand of many I do not know or care about, even some I might consider enemies, but only a good friend would I kiss on the cheek,” was his response. 

(Note to self: as a practicing Catholic I make a lot of gestures in church – kneeling, bowing, crossing myself. Why do I do that? If I know why, should I not make those gestures as if I knew why?)

If it were the last time, would you say goodbye to your loved ones differently? It might be the last! If it were your last cup of coffee, would you thank the barista differently? It might be your last cup of coffee! When you greet your friends, if they really are your friends, and it were the last time, like David, would you greet them differently? It might be the last time!

Being good stewards of our time, it is important that we fill our lives with meaningful activity. This does not mean we should discontinue our current activities. In some cases, the roasting pan is too small and the ends of the roast do need to be cut off! What it does mean, is we need to discover for ourselves why we do the things we do and in turn behave as if we know why.

If I truly love someone, should I not behave as such when I greet them or when I say goodbye to them? By doing so, we will approach our lives with a new sincerity, realizing that our gestures need not, should not, be empty. If we fill our daily activities with meaning, the corresponding responses will no doubt surprise us.

Dear God: Remind me I am responsible for giving meaning to what I do.

“So many people walk around with a meaningless life. They seem half-asleep, even when they’re busy doing things they think are important… The way you get meaning into your life is to devote yourself to loving others…” ~Morrie Schwartz (Sociology professor and author, subject of the book Tuesday’s with Morrie (1916-1995)

© 2011 James E. Carper.  All rights reserved.

 “90 Second Stewardship” is a reflection on being a Christian Steward in a secular and sometimes harsh world. This reflection is written by James E. Carper, Director of Development for Southeast Ventura County YMCA.  All rights are reserved.  You are welcome and encouraged to forward this e-mail to family and friends provided the”© 2011 James E. Carper.  All rights reserved.” is included along with this message.  Organizations, whether for or non profit, are required to receive written approval before reproducing these reflections.  If written approval is given the ”© 2011 James E. Carper.  All rights reserved.” must be included along with this message. 

First Response

“The Brooklyn Wall of Remembrance stands as a graceful and beautiful tribute to those who made the ultimate sacrifice on September 11, 2001. Comprised of three 30x12 foot granite walls, the Coney Island memorial contains the laser-engraved images of 346 Firefighters, 37 Port Authority Officers, 23 NYC Police Officers, 3 NYS Officers, 1 Fire Patrol, and 1 K-9 Rescue dog named Sirius. Touched by the magnitude of their sacrifice, Brooklyn-born and raised Sol Moglen conceived of the idea for a memorial. On the Wall, their portraits form a powerful, unforgettable testament, eloquently spoken, reminding us these are real people behind the names and numbers of September 11...Families come for comfort, not for grief. To hear the sound of children laughing, feel the sun’s warmth and listen to the quiet voice of the ocean. It is fitting New York City’s first memorial to 9/11 would be in Brooklyn. Fully a third of the responders, who died on 9/11, either lived or worked in the Borough. Since its inception, the Wall of Remembrance has become recognized for its beautiful and meaningful tribute to these men and women. Remembering is our responsibility and learning from them is their honor.”  ~ Introduction to thebrooklynwall.org

The barista, a young woman in an apron and baseball cap, placed the two travel packs of coffee on the counter followed by a large cup of cream and a large cup of coffee in a carrier. Finally, the barista set out a bag containing stir sticks and paper packs of sugar and sweetener.

“Will there be anything else?” she said with a smile. The black woman on the other side of the counter sighed. “No, that should be everything I need,” she said, eying the two, bulky, brown, boxes of coffee. Shifting her bag to her shoulder, the woman started to arrange the items in an effort to make a single trip to the car.

A 50-ish middle-aged man, seated with his wife, had watched the barista deliver the coffee supplies to the counter. Almost immediately he realized the woman was going to attempt to carry everything out the door all at once…by herself. Without hesitation, he excused himself from the table and walked briskly to the counter.

 

“Would you like me to help you?” he asked. The woman turned to face him. “Well,” she replied glancing back at the items on the counter. “Yes, that would be great,” she said, breaking into a smile.

 

The man picked up the two carriers then stepped back, motioning for the woman to go ahead of him. Holding the door with her hip they exited the coffee store together heading for the woman’s car.

Placing the carrier with the cream and coffee on the roof of her car she fumbled for the keys in her bag. “Take your time,” the man said with a smile. “I don’t have to be anywhere soon.” She returned his smile as she extracted the keys from her bag and unlocked the car.

 

She loaded the cream and the bag of supplies; then took the coffee carriers from the man, one at a time and loaded them into her car as well. Then she closed the car door with a sense of finality. “I wish I could take you along to the hospital,” she said turning to the man again. “We nurses love our coffee.”

 

“So do I, maybe next time,” he replied with a chuckle. Then he turned and headed back to the store to finish his coffee.

 
Ten years later, we still remember and honor the first responders to the 9/11 tragedy. It didn’t matter if they were a burly fireman, a lady cop, a Catholic chaplain or a rescue dog; we remember their unselfish acts performed in the interest of helping others.
 

We too are called to be “first responders,” to be the Good Samaritans of our day. Being a first responder does not necessarily mean we must put ourselves in harm’s way by running into a collapsing high-rise. What it does mean is to be willing to help others without hesitation and without consideration for the inconvenience or discomfort it might cause us.

 

These first responses are often simple things: holding a door open, picking up a dropped item or items for someone, helping a senior to the car, allowing someone go ahead of you (in line or on the road), thanking someone, or even just smiling, saying hello, or remembering someone’s name. Being a first responder means doing those thousand little kindnesses, that when we don’t do them, we say to ourselves, “I wish I had done that.” And, when we do respond spontaneously, we realize how good it feels afterward.

We can never adequately repay the first responders of 9/11/2001, but we can honor them. We honor them every time we are the first responder to the needs of another.

Dear God: Help me today to respond without hesitation.

 

“You been training for this moment your entire life. The universe has been conspiring, if you think about it, to put you right here, right now. Off you go, we're all waitin' on ya.” ~Jonas Blane, Character from ‘The Unit’ (TV Show 2006, Episode Title: ‘First Response’)

© 2011 James E. Carper.  All rights reserved.

 “90 Second Stewardship” is a reflection on being a Christian Steward in a secular and sometimes harsh world. This reflection is written by James E. Carper, Director of Development for Southeast Ventura County YMCA.  All rights are reserved.  You are welcome and encouraged to forward this e-mail to family and friends provided the”© 2011 James E. Carper.  All rights reserved.” is included along with this message.  Organizations, whether for or non profit, are required to receive written approval before reproducing these reflections.  If written approval is given the ”© 2011 James E. Carper.  All rights reserved.” must be included along with this message

Fresh Eyes

“The ego puts its own interest first and twists every argument, word, even fact to suit that interest.” ~Paul Brunton, British philosopher, traveler, mystic and guru (1898-1981)

Emily awoke to find someone yelling at her, or at least it seemed like they were yelling; she wasn’t sure. What were they saying? As best as she could tell, she was being told to get up. Sitting up in her small bed, Emily looked around wondering what was happening. The woman in the blue uniform was taking her from her bed and putting her in what appeared to be a wheelchair. Why a wheelchair? She could walk. Safely seated, the foot rests in place, off they went, but to where…she wasn’t sure.

Marilee had worked on Emily’s wing for nearly a year. She didn’t need a doctor’s diagnosis to know Emily belonged in the dementia wing of the facility; she exhibited most of the classic symptoms.

Constantly irritable and mean spirited, the woman seemed to be in a constant state of confusion and disorientation. Just this morning she couldn’t even understand it was time to get out of bed. The staff doctor had made the determination Emily needed to remain wheelchair-bound. The dementia had affected her equilibrium and she often lost her balance and fell for no apparent reason.  The wheelchair would assure her safety.

Margaret, the supervisor of the dementia and Alzheimer’s wing, didn’t have time to babysit the new staff doctor, but Dr. Doug had insisted that he make a preliminary assessment of every resident. She already missed old Dr. Winehart. He knew when to involve himself and when to stay out of the way.

They arrived at Emily’s room. She had just been returned from breakfast and was sitting in her wheelchair alone. Her hands were folded on her lap and she was staring out the window. “Emily Johnson?” Dr. Doug said, requesting the file. “We can skip her,” Margaret said impatiently. “Hers is a clear case of dementia. No other health problems to speak of.” “I would still like to do a ‘prelim’ on her,” the Doctor replied with a patient smile. Margaret shrugged and sighed reluctant agreement.

“Good morning,” Dr. Doug said cheerily as he stepped into the room. Emily didn’t respond. “Hi, Emily,” he said, coming closer. Still no response. “Emily,” he repeated, touching her arm. Emily jumped. Turning to face the Doctor, shrinking into her chair, she cringed in fear, lifting her arms, preparing to defend herself. Dr. Doug smiled patiently. “I’m Dr. Doug. I’m just here to give you a little check up.”

Whatever the reason, Emily seemed to calm down almost immediately. Dr. Doug proceeded with his exam, while Margaret stood in the doorway, her arms crossed, glancing at her watch.  First he checked all of Emily’s ‘vitals’: BP, pulse, reflexes, and respiration. “Her temperature is slightly high,” he commented. “That’s not unusual around here,” Margaret remarked, again glancing at her watch.

Dr. Doug took an otoscope out of his coat pocket and slipped on a sterile paper cap. At first, he glanced in each of Emily’s ears. He paused for a moment, as if contemplating something. Then, he reexamined the outer ear canals again, this time more slowly.

“How long has Emily had this ear infection?” he asked, looking up at Margaret from where he knelt next to the wheelchair. “Ear infection?” was the only response. “Yes, she has massive infections in both ears.” “It explains the low grade fever and why she didn’t hear me when I spoke to her.” Margaret stared at the doctor. “Ear infection? Are you sure?” “Absolutely, I don’t think I’ve seen one this bad before.” Emily must have been suffering with it for quite some time.” Again, Margaret made no response.

“It’s so bad,” Dr. Doug continued, “it’s probably affecting her equilibrium.” He glanced at the chair. “Why is she in a wheelchair?” He asked. “She was, ah, falling down a lot,” Margaret responded quietly, glancing away from the doctor’s stare.  “Surely she’s been exhibiting some kind of distress, like crankiness or irritability?” he persisted.

This time, not waiting for a response, Dr. Doug turned back to Emily. He spoke slowly and a little louder than normal: “Emily, you have a massive ear infection. We’re going to get you started on a regimen of medicine to make you well. I’m also going to recommend some therapy to build up the strength in your legs. Then we’ll see if we can move you to another wing. Do you understand?” Emily smiled and nodded.

Dr. Doug got to his feet and started to turn. “Thank you Doctor,” Emily said quietly.

Dr. Doug smiled and patted her shoulder. He turned again and headed out the door. “If you have lunch plans, you might want to think about cancelling them” he said to Margaret, brushing by her on his way out the door.

Though efforts continue to eliminate them, discrimination and bias still exist in our country. Racial tolerance needs to give way to racial acceptance and ultimately cultural appreciation. We rant against “racial profiling”, but what about “age profiling”? How often do we assume the young are not sufficiently wise to understand or the old not sufficiently lucid to comprehend?

In our efforts to get more done in our daily lives, we often take shortcuts. A more efficient route to work or an express line in the grocery store is a good idea, but there are no shortcuts when it comes to relationships.

Shortcuts lead to assumptions and assumptions lead to bias. One of those biases is that our elders become objects to be maintained rather human beings with whom we need to foster relationships. When we view them as objects, it is all too easy to determine they serve no purpose and are therefore unimportant.

Dr. Doug’s gift to Emily was two-fold. His talents as doctor and diagnostician were important in healing her. But there were others with similar gifts who had been there before him, had been given the same opportunity, but had done nothing with it. His real gift to her was the gift of time. Dr. Doug took the time to try to understand her situation.

Each time we meet a person, we are called, like Dr. Doug, to experience them anew. Each person brings to an encounter their own set of circumstances: the grumpy senior may be suffering with a painful, chronic disease; the fellow employee who seemed to ignore our greeting may have had a rough morning with a challenging child; the unfriendly store clerk may have just lost a parent or been advised of an upcoming layoff.

As Christian Stewards, our gift of time to others takes the form of building relationships, nurturing others, and, each time we meet another, looking at them with new eyes and an open heart.

Dear God: Help me see each person I meet today with fresh eyes and an open heart.

“(Bias) is the worst disease from which the society of our nation suffers.”

~Albert Einstein, German born American Physicist, Nobel Prize for Physics 1921 (1879-1955)

© 2011 James E. Carper.  All rights reserved.

“90 Second Stewardship” is a reflection on being a Christian Steward in a secular and sometimes harsh world. This reflection is written by James E. Carper, Director of Development for Southeast Ventura County YMCA.  All rights are reserved.  You are welcome and encouraged to forward this e-mail to family and friends provided the”© 2011 James E. Carper.  All rights reserved.” is included along with this message.  Organizations, whether for or non profit, are required to receive written approval before reproducing these reflections.  If written approval is given the ”© 2011 James E. Carper.  All rights reserved.” must be included along with this message. 

Soul Polishing

“Prayer is not an old woman’s idle amusement. Properly understood and applied, it is the most potent instrument of action.” ~Mahatma Gandhi, Indian philosopher, advocate of nonviolent protest (1869-1948)

“Jimmy!” My grandmother called from the stoop outside the breezeway door. The anthill I was kicking had my full attention. “Jimmy!” she called again. Dirt, sand and ants exploded into the air as my brown lace-up shoes impacted the small mound with gusto.

“James the less?” When Grandma referred to me as “James the less,” I knew I was in trouble. After one last forceful kick, I turned and headed in the direction of Grandma’s voice. Around the side of the well house and across the gravel driveway I went. There stood Grandma on the breezeway stoop. She was a diminutive woman of German heritage. Wearing a housedress and apron, her hands were fisted on her hips.

“You know you’re supposed to come when you’re called,” she scolded. “Where were you?” “Out back,” I responded looking at my shoes. Her eyes followed my look down to my shoes. Disapprovingly, she stared at my dirty, scuffed shoes. “And what were you doing out back?” she asked. “Nothin’,” I replied slowly. “Nothin’ doesn’t do that to your shoes,” she observed pointing at the shoes.

“Come inside and get cleaned up.” Into the house we went, the screen door slamming behind us.

First, I was required to ‘wash up’ (wash my face and hands). Having passed inspection, Grandma led me to the back bedroom. She reached into the closet and pulled out a blonde wooden box with brass hinges and a brass closure device to hold the lid shut. Sliding a brass button to the left, a spring-loaded clasp popped up. Grandma opened the box.

Inside were a variety of brushes and small, flat, round, metal canisters in shades of black and brown. “You need to polish your shoes,” Grandma said simply. She carefully laid out newspaper to protect the carpet. “Don’t come out till you’re done.” With that she turned and left, closing the door behind her.

For the next twenty to thirty minutes I did my best to fulfill my Grandmother’s wishes. There were a lot of the basics of shoe shining I didn’t understand. For instance, I didn’t realize the color of the canister was an indicator of the color of the polish or even that polish came in a variety of colors. I was particularly fascinated by something called ‘oxblood.’ Nor did I comprehend that the little brushes were for applying the polish and the big brushes for removing dirt and buffing.

Frustrated, I took tissues from my Grandmother’s night stand and applied the oxblood “stuff” to my dusty, scuffed shoes. Then, using one of the little brushes, because I had little shoes, I tried to bring up the shine. The results were less than desirable.
Rather than bearing a nice sheen, my shoes had been so dirty and scuffed they looked like I had smeared polish on a pair of suede shoes.

Frustrated, I pulled them on, laced them up, set the box back in the closet, and rolled up the newspaper. Taking one last look in the oval full-length mirror, I sighed deeply. Carrying the rolled newspapers with me I opened the bedroom door and headed out into the hall.

Grandma greeted me in the front room. “Let me see your shoes,” she said. I lay the papers aside. Grasping my dungarees at the knees I pulled them up, fully displaying my shoes. Grandma stared for a moment in disbelief, and then covered her mouth with her hand. “I did the best I could,” I offered. “I know you did, Jimmy,” Grandma replied with what seemed like a chuckle. “Sit up to the table.”

A moment later she returned from the kitchen with a glass of goat’s milk and two of her famous vanilla cookies. “Next time I’ll show you how to shine your shoes,” she said placing the milk and cookies in front of me.

To this day I find it difficult to polish my shoes with any regularity. When I changed jobs a few weeks ago, I discovered I had some extra time in the morning. Like my grandparents, I have a shoe shining supply box (except now it’s Tupperware instead of wood). So, every evening, I place my shoes by the box and every morning I quickly dab a little polish on each shoe, then buff them out with a brush. Not only are my shoes always polished, I have noticed the shine is deepening, giving the shoes a richer appearance.

Most of us, at one time or another have used the “when in trouble, break glass” approach to our faith. In other words, our prayer and worship activities increase in proportion to our problems. But in fact, our faith is as much about daily maintenance as it is about intermittent salvage operations.

As a boy, I learned how difficult it was to try to restore my dirty, scuffed shoes in one step. Like putting lipstick on a pig, simply covering the dirt and deep scuff marks with some polish didn’t work very well. As an adult, I’ve learned daily maintenance is easier and more effective.

As a steward, I have learned my relationship with my Creator is much the same. It requires consistent involvement. My soul gets scuffed and dirty at times. Maintenance of my relationship with God deserves my constant attention. Those things we do occasionally or irregularly we usually are not very good at. Daily prayer and worship is important and necessary. There is a reason we call it “practicing our faith.”

When I do call on God for help, he should not be a stranger. It is important that I stay close to him through regular prayer. Like polishing my shoes each morning, giving daily attention to my prayers adds depth and richness to my life. Like my shoeshine box, God will always be there for me. When I need him, I don’t need to go looking for him, he is right there next to me.

Dear God: Stay close… I might need you today.

“Many people pray as if God were a big aspirin pill; they come only when they hurt.” ~ B. Graham Dienert

© 2011 James E. Carper. All rights reserved.

“90 Second Stewardship” is a reflection on being a Christian Steward in a secular and sometimes harsh world. This reflection is written by James E. Carper, Director of Development for Southeast Ventura County YMCA. All rights are reserved. You are welcome and encouraged to forward this e-mail to family and friends provided the”© 2011 James E. Carper. All rights reserved.” is included along with this message. Organizations, whether for or non profit, are required to receive written approval before reproducing these reflections. If written approval is given the ”© 2011 James E. Carper. All rights reserved.” must be included along with this message.

Untitled

“It is not titles that honor men, but men that honor titles.” ~Niccolo Machiavelli, Italian historian, philosopher, humanist and writer (1469-1527)

Teresa stared intently at the self-stick paper name badge. It had taken a few moments for her to fully grasp the reality of the words printed on it. Because of the venue she had purposely worn her dressiest black suit and her best off-white silk blouse. Now, it seemed curiously appropriate.

Finally she beckoned me over. Holding the name badge out to me, she pointed with her right index finger and spoke only a single word: “Look.” Slipping my glasses from the breast pocket of my dress coat, I put them on and peered carefully at the badge. There, on a crème white background, in precise Garamond script were three words, each on its own line: “Sister Teresa Carper.”

We looked at each other then again at the badge and began to chuckle. The young lady behind the reception table appeared at first confused, then concerned. “Is there a problem?” she asked. “Teresa is my wife,” I replied with a smile. “It would be difficult for her to be a nun under those circumstances.”

“Oh my,” she exclaimed, I thought she was your sister.” “Then why doesn’t my name badge say ‘Brother Jim Carper’?” I responded with a smirk. My lame joke fell flat.

“I’ll fix it” she said simply, reaching for the badge. “No, leave it,” Teresa answered, with a twinkle in her eye. Off we went to Evening Prayer in the chapel.

The Annual Distinguished Alumni Dinner at St. John’s Seminary is a wonderful event and we truly enjoyed Evening Prayer, a tour of the chapel, the reception, and ultimately dinner. Teresa and I became separated during the reception, but we caught up to one another at our assigned table.

Teresa bore the warm welcoming smile I have come to know well, but there was a glimmer of something else behind it I thought. We sat with the wonderful friends who had invited us and one of our favorite people, Sister Mary Elizabeth.

Afterwards, heading home on old Route 118 through Camarillo, Teresa spoke up. “I think I’m going to enter a religious order,” she said suddenly. “Really?” I answered with interest. “And how did you arrive at that conclusion?”

“I don’t know if it was the black suit or the name tag or a combination of both, but while I was at the reception, the hosts went out of their way to be helpful. They brought me a glass of wine and offered to bring me a plate of hors d'oeuvres. They couldn’t seem to do enough for me. As Sister Teresa, I got treated much better than when I’m with you,” she paused with a sideways glance.

“Several people asked me what religious order I belonged to,” she continued. “What did you tell them?” I asked. “I had to tell them I wasn’t a nun.” “And?” I asked. “They seemed confused or disappointed somehow.” She paused again.

“I showed Sister Mary Elizabeth my name tag at dinner and told her I needed to find an Order to join.” “What did she say?” I asked carefully. “She said hers was a good one! And they are recruiting.” We laughed the rest of the way home…

Life teaches us to respect titles. As children we are instructed to address adults as Mr. Mrs. or Miss. We are taught to “respect our elders.” If a member of the law enforcement community tells us to do something, we do it without questioning, often responding “Yes, officer”.

Respect for titles, and their corresponding positions, is often appropriate and sometimes necessary. In modern society, this has gone beyond honoring our elders and respecting community leaders, however. Today we often revere power, wealth, position, success – and even that precious “15 minutes of fame.” This reverence can affect how we relate with and treat one another.

Those who dedicate their lives to serving God and the world, like Sister Mary Elizabeth, deserve our respect; but one has to consider why the addition of six letters to a name badge would make a difference in the way someone is treated.

Our treatment at the hands of another should not be conditioned by our station in life or the title which accompanies our name. Honoring commitment, wisdom and longevity is one thing; but power, prestige and position are quite another.

As Christian Stewards, we are called to love and respect all people simply because, like us, they are unique creations of a loving God. From the homeless person on the street to the leader of a global power, God loves us all the same – equally. We too are called to respect and love one another fully – equally.

This love and respect comes more easily when we remember that we all bear the same significant title: “Child of God.” And we all deserve the respect that title confers.

Dear God: Remind me, that the name of each person I meet today ends with: “a Child of God.”

“I hope I shall possess firmness and virtue enough to maintain what I consider the most enviable of all titles, the character of an honest man.” ~George Washington, first President of the United States of America (1732-1799)

© 2011 James E. Carper. All rights reserved.
“90 Second Stewardship” All rights are reserved. You are welcome and encouraged to forward this e-mail to family and friends provided the”© 2011 James E. Carper. All rights reserved.” is included along with this message. Organizations, whether for or non profit, are required to receive written approval before reproducing these reflections. If written approval is given the ”© 2011 James E. Carper. All rights reserved.” must be included along with this message.