Three Girls and a Snow Day

Three little girls are sitting on my sofa. They are lounging deep on the soft cushions, each in a pose for maximum comfort. The sisters anchor the cousin, a grown up girl of NINE!!!! The six year old watches every movement as if taking mental notes, trying to emulate her actions. The four year old is just happy so have someone else to play with, unaware of the half answers from the older girls who sometimes get deep in their own world.

This is one of the rare opportunities that make me appreciate my status as an "at-home" mom. My cousin called me this morning and asked if I wouldn't mind watching her daughter, a snow day leaving her stranded for care for the 4th grader. "Sure," was my gravelly-voice reply, my countenance not fully awake after just one latte. My house, now dubbed "Funny Farm II" will be filled to capacity with my girls, my little cousin, and my son. Thank you God that my husband made a snack run last night!

I assumed my position as the lunch-maker and fade-into-the-woodwork observer. The girls had a language all their own. The day lay before them like a blank page. Tori needed to get her bearings of what to expect with a full day with her cousins. My baby girl had just fallen asleep for a morning nap, the six-year-old was also watching the movement to determine what they would do for the day. My son was cocooned beneath a mound of blankets and only made slightly noticeable noise when I asked him if he was hungry.

After the baggage that all little girls carry with them for a day out was put away, I made sure everyone was settled, turned the TV to PBS Kids, and quietly left the room to leave them to navigate their relationship. I could hear their laughter and the click click of computer keys as they ventured to the Build-A-Bear Workshop site. They appropriately, and in unison, uttered the "ewwwwwww" when the cartoon did some gross boy move like green glob oozing out of noses or something equally disgusting to girls. I smiled, this was a perfect snow day, sans snow, just freezing rain that rendered the roads impassable.

The day started quietly until the teenage son woke up and realized he had fresh meat in the house. Almost instantly with his descent downstairs,the squeals and running commenced at lightening speed. There was a blur of purple, blue, and orange as the kids raced by me through the kitchen and up the stairs like a herd of elephants. A house full of kids on a snow day!

They are settled down now, semi-cuddling up on the sofa, again nestled under a warm blanket, thawing out from a few minutes on the icy balcony. They made a game of trying to form snowballs and throw them down on my son who emerged from the house to see if there was any other teenage life on this Friday afternoon with no school. He was the lone being on the street so after a few good pelts from the girls, he decided to come in...except they locked him out! He screamed and begged and promised not to chase them if they would only open the door. In desperation he finally called home and asked mom to intervene. I implored the girls to open the door which they obediently did after coming back inside from the balcony. They did take their time descending the stairs and rounding the corner to the back door. I could hear them squealing and laughing at the shivering and shaking teen. They let him in and took off like an Olympic runner out-of-the-starting block. They ran up the stairs and slammed the bedroom door, jumping in my bed and to safety. Moments later, my son came through the other door charging them with chilling him to the bone. Everyone was laughing and tussling. It was a fun moment.

Three little girls, nuzzled up on the sofa after a full day of play. Snow days are cool, especially when cousins are around for an unexpected play day, and when mom can stay home. Pretty nice.

Then Came a Moment

Moments. Today was a moment.

I came to the coffee shop to escape the remnants of an over-exuberant howl-out night. I couldn't face cleaning up the popcorn bowls and juice cups after the kids camped out in the family room so I gathered up my computer, my books, my favorite mug,and headed out to a little solitude. I settled into an early morning of reading, thinking, and just looking out the window.

Then came a moment.

I ran into a group of people, fate allowing our paths to cross in wake of the Kirkwood Tragedy. It was an ordained segment of time. We sat and shared and talked and possibility rang out. I felt as if the circumstances of my life were meant to affect the circumstances of their mission. Hope. It is the cry of the people, it is the cry of my chosen candidate, hope.

Then came a moment.

I shared with them my feelings and they shared with me their work in the area. There were light bulbs going off in this circle of four. We knew we hit on connections, a missing peg. Purpose met passion met people.

Then came a moment.

I sat there listening to all the things they were doing and time they had invested. I offered up my areas of expertise and my desire to help. We talked further and then a need was identified and a passion was ignited. I came to understand what I could do. The task no longer seemed so large and also no longer seemed like putting a bandaid on a deep gash. I could love.

Then came a moment.

I listened as they shared with me the mission of their work and then came a "Hey, can you..?." The conversation turned to specific needs and what I could open up and do. "Absolutely!" I felt a tugging in my heart for connection here in my new home town with girls, with kids who needed my hug. I will meet them tomorrow night, I can't wait. I am invested because God put love and compassion in me and because pain hit home. What can I do? I have found one thing, I am a mom. Moms love and nurture and give, that is what I will do.

It happened in a moment.

One Week Later

Search for peace, and work to maintain it. Psalms 34:14b

In the aftermath of the mass killings in Kirkwood MO, on the last day of the memorials and the funerals, in the wake of the pain, I pray for peace.

Tonight marks one week when this normally benign community was shaken to the core of its beliefs. Tonight marks one week when the news cameras and helicopters descended on the nine square miles of quiet suburba and exposed it to the nation. Tonight marks one week when one man, simply one man, make a fatal choice that would rock our lives forever. One week, seven days, and a town turned upside down.

Now, let the healing begin. How? Recognize our joint humanity. We really all the same. Let's put aside race, class, location, gender, ethnicity, what side of the tracks, put it aside. Search for peace, and WORK to maintain it.

And a Community Prayerd

This evening there was a prayer meeting in Meacham Park, a candlelight vigil, a moment for a community to mourn.

The small church just off Milwaukee Avenue, Douglass Church of God in Christ was packed. It was standing room only, men rising to give their seats to ladies that were standing. All seeking to collectively mourn, to pray, to raise a voice to God.

"If the people can't call on the church in time of need, who can they call on?" One of the pastors asked this rhetorical question in response to why ministers of different denominations, even a Muslim minister, came together to say to a comunity, "we acknowledge your pain, your frustration, your sorrow. We are here to pray with you, to lift our voices to God."

Over and over were scriptures and messages that something good would come out of this. There were reminders that the history of Meacham Park was that it was settled by the children of former slaves, by those who worked for nothing to enrich people of a different color. There were reminders about the strength it took to carve out a little piece of home and society in a patch of pasture in St. Louis County. There were generations represented in the room, some who went away to school, like Cookie Thornton, but came back to devote their life to their community.

I sat there among the people drawn from many neighbors, a few white faces seated in the crowd, and felt hopeful. I applauded the brother who drove 20 hours from Brooklyn New York with a message of love and hope. Meacham Park will move past this. The brother acknowledged that his brother was killed at a city council meeting, he felt compelled to share a message of hope. His speech came after one by one acknowledgement of sympathy and sorrow rang out for each of the victims.

Healing will come. There were expressions of sorrow for the slain police officers, one of whom was acknowledged as having tried to bridge a gap between the two communities. Expressions and prayer for recovery for the mayor and the reporter rang out. Kind comments and remembrances about the lone female victim, Meacham Park grieved for the Kirkwood city officials. It was poignant in a way.

The night wore on with ministers admonishing them to be careful how you treat each other because you never know what is behind the smile. "The pretty woman at the post office whose husband beat her that mornng could just snap our rudeness," was an example by one of the ministers. It made the room pause to think about the bank clerk, the cashier, the waitress, people that may be dismissed by society. There was a call to walk in love even with a community that didn't want to love a small section of itself except for its land. Yet, there was still hope that they could bring people together, that they could "build-create-grow."

Finally, there were comments about Cookie Thornton. He was remembered for reaching in his pocket to give money to people, black or white. He was remembered for his goodness, his laughter, his commitment to better the lives of his neighborhood. He only went to city council meetings 4 times in the year, not the many times the media claimed. Just over 10% of the time he went and was only given 3 minutes to defend his business, his land. The city tried to take his home, the city was guilty of defrauding many Meacham Park residents of the true value of their homes. I sat next to a women whose entire extended family was displaced. I was shocked that the Sonic on the corner of Big Bend and Lindberg/Kirkwood Road was her aunt and uncle's home. They were only given about $3000 for their memories, the city claimed it wasn't commercial property, then turned around and zoned it commercial, making millions. There is understandable distrust and disappointment about the discrimination that has occurred over the years. Yet, for this night, a community came together and prayed. They prayed for the people who lost their lives, they prayed for the families left behind, they prayed for the community.

People were proud to say they came from Meacham Park, that is was not the "bad" side of town as Kirkwood tried to claim pride in Jeremy Maclin the MU football star and product of Meacham Park. The Thornton family, nine siblings, all educated, all raised by a mother who instilled in them a love for the Lord, a love for family, a love for community. The community wants to heal and to survive and to fend off the greed of point-of-sale commercial development that covets the land that is their heritage. Yet tonight, a people came together and prayed.

God is watching. The world is watching. The children are watching. And the people are ready. There is power and healing in prayer according to 2Chronicles 7:14. "If my people, who are called by name, will humble themselves and pray, and seek my face, and turn from their wicked ways, then I will hear from heaven, and forgive their sins and heal their land." Tonight a community turned their face toward God and prayed.

Today I Walked on History

Today I walked on history

I had to run to Target this afternoon in preparation for an evening at the St. Louis Symphony.

I am a fairly new resident to Kirkwood, MO so it is quite convenient for me to just run over to Kirkwood Commons and have my choice between Wal*Mart, Target, and TJMaxx when I need something for the girls. My husband has frequent public appearances or performances that entail bringing six and four-year-old girls. Today was no exception with the added surprise of the weather.

My quick trip was different today. The parking lot was crowded. Many people rushed in and out, there were lines. I saw black faces and white faces. Then something struck me, I was standing on history, on legacy, on dashed hopes and dreams, on tragedy.

I learned more about the history of Meacham Park and Kirkwood's racial divide since the tragic events of Thursday, February 8th. Being inquisitive and curious, I decided to investigate further. The Kirkwood City website has a glowing report of the history of Meacham Park but no mention of gentrification or how this community has been cut off from the core of town.

Kirkwood pretty much is between Manchester and Big Bend with Kirkwood (Lindberg) going down the center. I had to Google and Mapquest my way to Meacham Park in search of the YWCA a week or so ago. It was curious to me how this little neighborhood was so far removed and was actualy closer to Crestwood. Why didn't Crestwood annex it in 1991?

My investigations later turned up the fact that Kirkwood wanted the prime real estate, 55 acres sold to a private developer on what is now Wal*Mart, Target, and TJMaxx as big anchor stores. It stuck me that this prime area bordered by Kirkwood Road, just off I-44, easy access to I-270, and near Big Bend Blvd was real estate gold. There was later reports of how that area once held thriving black-owned businesses.

Then it all was an ah-ha moment when I, along with others, have tried to make sense of Cookie Thornton's actions. No one condones what he did. As Christians, we all cringe at the judgment awaiting him at the seat of God, the only one who can ultimately punish sin. We are just as dumbfounded, but there is a collective sense of a deeper injustice that has happened.

Common sense would say he should've just paid the fine, but was the fine just? Was it harrasment by elected city officials? Then I thought about the faces plastered online, in the paper, and on the news of those shot, they were all white,mostly white men. One man in particular stared back from eterniy and I wondered why he made it a personal point to make Cookie Thornton's life, business, and neighborhood miserable.

It all bothers me. I am new to Kirkwood and have driven through neighborhoods with construction trucks parked in driveways, blocking streets. I live right down the street (Thomas and Angenette and Rosehill area) where a man was having his house renovated. There were construction trucks and big commercial dump trucks in his drive way. I didn't see city officials ticketing him into the hundreds of thousands. There are more such construction sites around the city as people are updating old homes and the greater Kirkwood fight to prevent infill houses.

Why does greed prevail at the cost of humanity? That is what happened to the citizens of Meacham Park. There isn't a library, a bookstore, a community center, a quaint coffee shop, or even a restaurant in Meacham Park. The little neighborhood is so far removed from Kirkwood proper that it is generous to say it is part of the city.

I read a blog earlier and there were racist comments to infinity and beyond. Once again, a small community has been demonized because of the actions of one man. There were some sensitive comments about the back story that goes back almost to 1893. It was more than just a few citations or parking tickets.

In the end, people lost lives and whenever that happens there is always the search for answers. There are no answers on this Saturday evening, just saddness. Sadness reigns for the lost lives of the five victims and the lost hopes of a wife, daughter, mother, neighorhood, and siblings of a man who simply wanted to live a dream.

A Collective Grief

Today there is a collective grief that has covered this small Missouri town like a gray cloud.

Yesterday, I sat like the rest of my community in utter shock when the normal Thursday night television was interrupted with a special report. There was a disturbance at City Hall and a mass shooting in an otherwise boring meeting. It turned out we quasi knew the shooter, he an older alum of my husband's alma mater. He was a fellow church member with my cousin. I remember his gracious greeting to me when we first moved to Kirkwood and encountered him at church. He was affiable, approachable, and always smiling.

I sat in utter disbelief as the events of the evening were rattled off and then the unbelievable utterance of a name we knew. We wondered if it was the same Cookie Thornton and it was then confirmed when a fellow Kirkwoodian called us and told me it was the same man I met at church. My husband and I were just dumbfounded. Then the media displayed his picture and it was confirmed. We sat there and listened alternately to the media reports and the looming helicopters, our neighborhood in the vicinity of downtown.

Today I woke up and couldn't shake what happened. I didn't live in the same neighborhood and he hadn't been in our home, but I was shaken because of the grieving people left behind. I am appalled at his shooting and killing so many people, I grieve for those families and share in the collective shock of my new community. Yet today, I was grieving for his family who was having their lives plastered all over the media and race thrown into to make the news reports more titalitating. So I made a decision.

I went to the Meacham Park Emergency Meeting called by the community organizers. I only moved to Kirkwood in August so before some previous negative reports, knew nothing of this quaint, historic, African American community. I felt compelled to share in the collective grief. I had just driven through the neighborhood a week before in search of the YWCA. I found well kept homes, manicured lawns, quiet streets, not the demonized area portrayed in the local media.

The room in the historic school house was filled with clergy, citizens, and media, black and white, young and old, all trying to make sense of something that was without sense. There was outrage at the racial spin being put on it. Understandably there was outrage at the history of division in Kirkwood and Meacham Park and the unfair treatment of the neigborhood's children. I felt the pain. I felt the mistreatment that they felt that went back for generations. I felt the anger at the cheating of black businesses of property that was unfairly annexed to make way for Target, Wal*Mart, and Lowes. I felt the disenfranchisement and disconnect with the other side of the tracks that was the final straw for Cookie. I felt the collective pain and it compelled me to be there with my daughters.

Finally, the collective grief is compelling me to attend the community prayer vigil tonight. The people at the emergency meeting will also be there to join together in unison to raise one voice of sympathy to all that lost lives. We never understand what drives someone to do this, but we all understand that we are all human, let us now embrace each other as humans...and heal.

There is Still Hope

In the midst of this presidential election, sinking economy, housing crisis, debilitating unemployment, rising food costs, soaring gas prices, and increasing woe, there is still hope.

I sat down the other day and watched my four-year-old daughter engage in play. We had just returned from our afternoon ritual of taking her six-year-old sister to kindergarten. The time of day was perfect for quiet activity. I was on the sofa reading a book, she was on the playroom rug holding a doll.

She looked so beautiful with her still-chubby cheeks and preschool innocence. Her entry into the fours barely two months ago, she still finding her way in the realm of the almost-schooled. I eavesdropped on her conversations with the dolls. They talked of the recent snow day and how much fun it was to play in the snow. She alternated her voice between dolls as she dressed them and bounced them on the rug. Her world was so loving and complete there on the floor.

My daughter has a distinctive husky, deep, yet squeeky voice. I couldn't help but to capture a mental picture of the moment. It held me in rapt attention, she was obvlious of my stare. In my heart I knew these moments were precious. She would one day grow up and might not be content to sit for hours with a toy bin full of dolls. I silently prayed a prayer of gratefulness for that precious girl, my last child.

There is hope for the future. She is not the only little four-year-old who has captured her mother's rapt attention. I have the audacity to belive in a better future for her. Her world, as she sat on that floor, didnt' contain the constant media dronning of the economic crisis, the unending war, the high cost of living, the impending recession, none of it entered the little cocoon of her playtime. It was a time for which I am grateful, a time for hope, a simple moment.