Earth Day - Thank You Email to God

I enjoy the outdoors. One of my favorite Wisconsin stores specializes in canoes, kayaks and all the related gear. They send regular emails about new products and special offers that I find to be very helpful.

This week the store's email focused on Earth Day. Here' what they had to say,

"On the 50th anniversary of Earth Day, we wanted to send out a big THANK YOU to our one and only planet. We are so grateful for her not only today, but every day. For the air we breathe, for the ground we walk on, for the water that connects us and is our life blood, for all the plants, animals, fungi, bacteria, and protozoa that make up life as we know it."

What struck me about their message was how specifically they thanked the Earth. Right down to the bacteria and protozoa that "make up life as we know it."

My first thought was the obvious one, "How about sending out a big THANK YOU to God, who made the Earth?"

Those bacteria and protozoan didn't appear out of nowhere. Science has proven just how complex those tiny factories are. Once you start delving into cellular structure, proteins and amino acids, it's become clear that Mother Earth had some help that goes way beyond the limited reach of macroevolution.

Depending on your spiritual side, that help most likely came from the Father Intelligent Designer.


Here's what I wrote back,


"Thank you for today's email!

And in turn, our family is grateful for the Creator, the Lord God who is the author of the intelligent design that enables our shared joy of the earth...for the air we breathe, for the ground we walk on, for the water that connects us and is our life blood, for all the plants, animals, fungi, bacteria, and protozoa that make up life as we know it.

Thanks be to God."

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And to his credit, the store owner replied back that same day:

"Ingratitude is the worst thing we can show to the Creator. Thanks for being grateful."

Owner and chief paddling evangelist

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Fair enough. I'll be interested to see next year's Earth Day email. Perhaps a reference to the Creator? We'll see.

Colossians Chapter 1: 15-17

"The Son is the image of the invisible God, the firstborn over all creation. For in him all things were created: things in heaven and on earth, visible and invisible, whether thrones or powers or rulers or authorities; all things have been created through him and for him. He is before all things, and in him all things hold together."

What do you believe?

Margo and the COVID Bully

It was the spring of 1967.  There was a brief knock at the classroom door and Miss Wilson, the principal's secretary, ushered in a shy looking girl name Margo. Our 5th grade teacher, Miss Daley, led Margo over to the empty desk in front of me and introduced her to our class with a friendly smile. "Meet Margo Smith."    [I've changed Margo's name]

From one foot away, I couldn't help examining Margo's appearance.  The poor dear's mousy brown hair raced round in a rollicking tangle of disorder. Her flimsy glasses looked two sizes two small, like she'd borrowed them from a department store doll. There were holes in Margo's frayed canvas shoes, barely covered by a scratchy looking wool jumper with a too-large belt and a shabby, thin sweater that she clutched closer as Miss Daley left her at the desk. Mind you, none of Margo's classmates were from wealthy families, including me. We hailed from modest, blue collar neighborhoods. But we usually had enough sets and combinations of "good" school clothes to be kept separate from rough and tumble "play" clothes. I wondered what the new girl's play clothes might look like.

"Can I borrow a brush?" Margo stage whispered across the aisle to Annette, my classmate. I was shocked at her boldness, having only just sat down and Miss Daley right there at the front of the classroom within earshot. But Annette, bless her heart, perhaps discomforted by Margo's wild tangles, reached into her desk and wordlessly handed over a brush. That set the whirlwind tone of what came to be a very brief, and most unlikely friendship.

For the moment, all was forgotten when I arrived home to find a small brown package left by the postman. For me! This was decades before Amazon would rob of us this unexpected thrill and simple pleasure. I had scrupulously saved six cereal box labels and sent away for a very nifty spy belt with pretend plastic camera and an extendable mirror to peek around corners. I was just hooking on the camera when our front door bell rang. This meant the visitor was not among our friends and family. They would naturally come to the "back" door of our home. You just didn't track wet or muddy shoes through someone's "front room."  Salesman? Political candidate?

I flipped on the porch light, wrestled the rarely used door across our carpeted threshold and there stood Margo. The new girl.  Her eyes darted toward me and I saw the flicker of recognition. By then my mother had walked in from the kitchen and seen me awkwardly holding the door. "Are you the mother?"  Margo quickly asked.  She had a furtive sense of purpose. I suddenly felt silly, standing there with a pretend spy camera mounted on my belt. My mom gave me a nudge and said, "Open the door, let her come in!" It was a cold breezy night and I did as I was told, still quite confused as to why my new classmate was suddenly standing in our living room.

"We just moved here," Margo continued, her words sounding practiced. "Do you have any pie tins? And maybe some wax paper?" She looked my mom dead in the eye. No quaver in her voice, like she'd done this a hundred times. Like she had a schedule to keep. "Of course," my mother answered kindly. I could tell she was bemused by this young girl's pluck. And my mom was street wise enough from her own upbringing to appreciate the implications of worn canvas shoes and nothing but a shabby thin sweater on a chilly evening. "Let's see what else we can find for you in the kitchen. What are you planning to make?"

Margo followed her in and I quickly shed the new spy belt. When Margo returned with her bag of supplies I caught her glancing down to see if I still had it on. She bit back a smile and headed back out into the chilly night. There was nothing the least bit awkward in her demeanor.  "You know her?" my mom asked as she peeked out the window to watch Margo cross our lawn. I explained her arrival in Miss Daley's class. "Smith is her last name? Well, keep an eye out for her. She's going to need a friend or two. It's not easy being the new girl."

The next morning our class spilled onto the playground for recess with all the other kids.  I spotted one of the bigger boys (a sixth grader!) fiercely towering over Margo, who seemed to be shielding a smaller boy huddled on the ground behind her. Margo, fists planted defiantly on her hips, stared up at the troublemaker with a little less surety than she'd shown my mother. "He didn't know this was the sixth grader's area. We're new here, just leave him alone." Suddenly I found myself standing beside Margo, unsure how I'd been transported there. And on her other side stood Annette, who'd also wordlessly appeared. Quiet, unassuming Annette whom I'd never even talked to outside of class. An unplanned alliance of unspoken means. 

The confrontation evaporated, the older boy went looking for others to torment and Margo turned to lift her little brother off the damp playground. Jimmy was in the second grade, his clothing every bit as drab and worn as Margo's. The four of us drifted over to the "younger" end of the playground and that was that. Over the course of the next few weeks we spent each recess and lunch hour together. Playing on the swings, tossing a ball. I can remember how it pleased me to see Margo laugh or smile as we played. They were glimpses of an 11 year old girl hidden behind the much older and troubled eyes of her circumstance. 

Then one night I came to the dinner table to find my mom and dad looking intently at the daily newspaper. My dad expected it delivered to our back porch by 4:30 each day and he alone was allowed to have reading material at the evening meal. There on the front page of the Journal was the grainy photo of a man in a silly pointed hat and hood that cascaded down over his shoulders. The caption read,  Daniel Smith, Grand Dragon of the national Klu Klux Klan. It was the 60's and I knew our family had nothing but disdain for the KKK and its beliefs. Still, for the times, this wasn't an unusual article.

My mom gave me a curious look. "Do you know who that is?" she asked. Of course I didn't, but I could tell that she did. "It's your little friend Margo's father," she said with what could have been disappointment or sadness. Or both. "He's been arrested."  In the 1960's, newspapers would include the home address in news stories of anyone local to the area.  To our shared surprise, Margo's family lived only a block away, in the unpainted and dilapidated old farmhouse that sat right next to the neighborhood tavern. "I thought it was abandoned," my dad said. So did I.

After supper I hopped on my bike and slowly rode along the litter strewn sidewalk past Margo's soon to be vacated home. There were already a few packing boxes stacked on the sagging front porch. I saw little Jimmy Smith peek into a box and then run back in through the swinging screen door, shouting something I couldn't quite make out. Maybe he'd forgotten something. There was a lot of commotion behind the windows, people in a hurry to leave. I took one last look over my shoulder, hoping to see Margo. Then I rode away.

Margo didn't return to school. Our teacher Miss Daley acknowledged that their family had indeed moved. She was about to get on with class but she hesitated. Her voice was a little choked up, which bewildered me. "You know," she said quietly, "there were only two people in our class who showed Margo any kindness this whole time she was here. And that's Annette and Tom." She looked like she was going to say more, but either thought better of it or couldn't. It had never occurred to me that we had showed Margo any particular kindness. I could see across the aisle that Annette didn't have any more of an idea than I.  Sometimes you just discover yourself standing next to someone because they're facing a bully. To other people that looks like kindness.  That was the last anyone spoke of Margo Smith. 

It's funny what you remember and how your mind connects the dots. I wasn't drawn to this memory last week because of Margo. It was because of the way little Jimmy had huddled on the ground behind his big sister. It's how I've felt many times in the presence of a bully over the years. "I hope they just leave me alone." or in my lesser moments, "I hope they don't see me and just bother somebody else."   That's how I've wrestled and vacillated with my inner thoughts during the recent COVID crisis. This unseen, unreasoning, fiercely towering bully that relentlessly shows up every day. I hope it doesn't see me or my family and friends as we hunker down under cover of our faith and hope. And as we pray the same for anyone staring it down with fists on hips. 

A few months after Margo and her family left, Milwaukee unleashed a rampage of bullies in all colors, shapes, sizes, metaphors, analogies and political persuasions. The Summer of 1967 riots. I'll never know just how sharp that irony was. Annette and I deflecting a playground bully from the children of a KKK bully who heartlessly and relentlessly tormented countless innocent children of God. 



We came out on the other side of that summer. Many things changed. Not perfect. Not unscarred. Not without some bad memories. But still with the faith and hope and Grace that God provides.



Deuteronomy 31:6

"Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid or terrified because of them, for the Lord your God goes with you; he will never leave you nor forsake you. He has promised, no matter the situation, he will never leave us"

What do you believe?