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This weekend we will be reminded often of the self-sacrifice of those Americans who died in military service.
From those who died of pneumonia at Valley Forge or from cannonfire at Gettysburg to those who drowned trying to reach the beaches of Normandy or were beaten lifeless in the “Hanoi Hilton,” many have given the ultimate human sacrifice.
Often considered on the same level are the occasional police officers, firefighters and other emergency responders killed in the midst of a rescue effort or an attempt to end a threat to public safety.
Most of us won’t have our lives taken in battle or die pulling a child from a flaming building, but in some measure self-sacrifice is our duty as well.
Occasionally, we mere mortals get to practice dramatic forms of self-sacrifice – the junior high boy who, armed only with a gift for sarcasm, risks the wrath of a bully to save his friend from harm; the college coed who works up the courage to tell her roommate’s parents that their daughter may be suicidal; the grandmother who opens her door to a scared child she’s never seen before.
More often, self-sacrifice comes in small but persistent doses.
And, of course, parenting is a series of sacrifices – accepting stretch marks and enduring labor, slogging through years of croup and poop, giving up Poker Night in favor of Daddy Date Night and trading in the convertible for a Mom-mobile. It can mean maternity leave from a promising career or giving up a promotion to keep the kids nearer their grandparents.
Self-sacrificial parenting is holding one’s breath when Junior takes his first bike ride and sometimes holding one’s tongue in the face of Sissy’s adolescent assertions. It can be years of Brownie Scout meetings and years of brown-bagging to save money for braces and books.
Thomas Merton, a Trappist monk who lived in Kentucky, noted the difficulty of the lifelong denial of self.
“Peace demands the most heroic labor and the most difficult sacrifice,” he wrote. “It demands greater heroism than war. It demands greater fidelity to the truth and a much more perfect purity of conscience.”
The Apostle Paul expressed a similar thought when he gave Christians these marching orders:
“I appeal to you therefore, brothers, by the mercies of God, to present your bodies as a living sacrifice, holy and acceptable to God, which is your spiritual worship. Do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewal of your mind, that by testing you may discern what is the will of God, what is good and acceptable and perfect” (Romans 12:1-2).
Such lives would honor not only our war dead but our living God.
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I carry around fond memories of the skating rink when I was a kid growing up in Huntsville, Ala.
Once the basic skills were mastered, skating was a guaranteed good time.
I liked to skate close to the carpeted wall, which reminded me of special effects from “Star Wars” and “Battlestar Galactica.” The blurring of the carpet fibers as I sped by suggested the blurring of stars out the window of a spaceship. We played “Wipeout,” where everyone fell to the floor at the DJ’s command. When it was over, he thanked us for cleaning the floor.
I developed my lifelong love for air hockey in the game room. It was tough to play with wheels on my feet, but those early challenges helped turn me into the air hockey master I am today.
At the snack bar, the go-to choices were pizza and “suicide,” a mixture of every sugary, carbonated beverage they had.
Calories burned quickly on the floor, where music boomed and lights flashed. Bright reflections off the disco ball enhanced my spaceship game.
This past weekend, I revisted that environment for my daughter’s 11th birthday. The main goal was for Olivia and her friends to have fun, and that mission was easily accomplished.
It wasn’t all bad for me, either. Another dad and I stayed in the party room and talked about this, that and the other.
Things didn’t turn horrible until I left the building to carry stuff to the car. Once outside, I noticed how peaceful everything had become, and realized I didn’t want to go back into the chaos of constant music, flashing lights and kids darting from all directions.
I did my fatherly duty and returned, but I was acutely aware of the effect the place had on me.
I thought about my Granny and the “nerve pills” she took all those many years ago, when events threatened to overwhelm her.
I don’t recall her ever visiting a skating rink, but if she’d gone without taking a preemptive nerve pill, you probably would’ve heard about it on the news: “A grandmother from Tennessee exploded today at an Alabama skating rink.”
Granny was very much on my mind when I was paroled from the party to pick up my son from another party. I turned the radio off and listened to road noises with the windows down.
At the other party, the boys were in the back playing video games. I joined the adults in a quiet living room, where we watched an Elvis Presley movie. I was offered a Bud Light. Though not exactly a nerve pill, it was much appreciated. They say we’re supposed to gracefully surrender the trappings of youth, but I took a few moments to mourn the fact that something once so enjoyable had turned hostile.
What’s that you say? I’ll always have air hockey? But for how long, my friend? How long?
M. SCOTT MORRIS is a Daily Journal feature writer. Contact him at (662) 678-1589 or scott.morris@journalinc.com.
As schools close for the summer, youth ministers are utilizing kids to carry out some less-than-conventional fundraising for food pantries and summer mission trips. Though it is important to keep kids engaged while they are out of school, those working with them say it is important for the activities to have a bigger purpose.
FLAMINGOS
If you walk out to retrieve your morning paper and notice a flock of plastic flamingos staring at you, don’t worry, you aren’t going crazy.
You’ve been flocked.
For $20, anyone can call and order a “flocking” on the yard of a friend, family member, or neighbor through the First United Methodist Church’s youth group. Under the cover of night, the group will stealthily plant the pink birds of various sizes on the lawn, where they will stand one-legged for 24 hours when the group will return, gather them swiftly up, and transport to their next destination.
Youth group leader Corey Truett said he originally came across the idea at a church in Columbia, S.C. Despite the leg work, the fun the kids have makes it worth the effort.
“It actually works better in a town like Tupelo where everyone knows each other and neighborhoods aren’t as spread out,” he said.
The flock first visited the lawn of FUMC pastor, the Rev. Jim Curtis, last Sunday. Photos of the flocking quickly made it onto social media sites instagram and twitter, and soon the flocking schedule became quite full.
“We’ve done a dozen or so, and we’re not even halfway down the list,” Truett said.
Parents help by taking turns transporting the group each night. With 30 or so kids ranging in age from 13-18, they can easily flock a yard in under 20 minutes.
The group keeps the person who ordered the flocking anonymous, so victims can only speculate on whom to flock in retaliation. Or for $25, they can “return the favor” and exact pink-feathered revenge on the person who flocked them.
“It’s organized vandalism,” Truett said. “The kids love to sneak around, and we guarantee the one who ordered the flocking a picture of the finished job.”
Truett said the teens he ministers too enjoy the off-the-wall fundraiser. In the summer months, it is always a welcome challenge to keep kids engaged, but Truett insists there is a deeper point to the flamingos.
“I want them to be looking outward in their faith, to provide a quality place of refuge and spiritual nourishment where students can learn to exercise their faith on their own,” he said. “Otherwise, church becomes just another activity on the schedule, and things like the flamingos become just a gimmick.”
To date, the flamingos have brought in over $700, and will be flocking around Tupelo through August.
BUFFALO WING MINISTRY
The youth of Ingram Baptist Church in Baldwyn are also looking outward, partnering with sports restaurant Buffalo Wild Wings to raise money for a mission to Costa Rica in July.
“We’ve done this once before in January and had a huge turnout. The manager told us he couldn’t remember how long it had been since they had had a wait time on a Monday night,” he said. “It’s good for us and the restaurant, and it’s a chance to connect with the community.”
From 4 to 8 p.m. on June 3rd, the group of 12 or so young adults will hand out tickets at the restaurant notifying customers that 10 percent of their meal will go to fund their trip. In return, the group will help take orders and deliver food to tables.
In addition, they will offer face paintings and small games for tables.
Webb said he understood why some churches discourage fundraising outside the church or even at all.
“But Jesus was out among the masses all the time,” he said. “Who’s to say God’s plan doesn’t involve those people, too?”
The group is mostly made up of college-age students. Webb said the fundraiser is a great practice for them to carry out their faith in life, where things rarely go according to plan.
“I’m trying to make them aware that ministry doesn’t always happen on a schedule,” he said. “Lots of times opportunity to minister comes from unexpected, organic relationships with people.”
Webb recalled their January event with Buffalo Wild Wings. One of the youth gave a man a ticket and a “God Bless You” in the parking lot. The student was taken aback when the man angrily replied that he did not want to hear any preaching. The student apologized and the man went inside, but later donated $100 to the group.
“For starters, his wife probably fussed at him, but the fact is, some people have broken relationships with the church,” he said. “When we have things like this, it’s also a chance to help restore a good relationship.”
riley.manning@journalinc.com
There was this glorious routine. My Mississippi Coast visits in the 1980s were frequent, full and never varied.
Every nice weekend, three or four of us newspaper buddies would pool our resources, fill up the Mustang with cheap gas and drive down from Jackson to catch the first ferry to Ship Island. That was the main event.
After a hard day of sunning and swimming, we’d always eat the gargantuan seafood platter at Fisherman’s Wharf.
Sated by saltwater, sun and baby flounder, we’d spend the night at a little mom-and-pop motel called the Worth.
Before heading home the next day, we’d make a stop at Shearwater Pottery in Ocean Springs. For Curtis. He had to make a $10 or $20 payment on his Walter Anderson watercolor. How we teased him.
“Fine art on layaway,” someone would say. “Let’s go visit Curtis’ painting.”
Curtis had the last laugh.
It took him a long while to pay off the $250 or $300 bill for the painting on typing paper stored in a filing cabinet at the pottery showroom.
I remember how happy he was when he finally got to bring the art home.
He’s probably a lot happier now, since Walter Anderson watercolors have increased dramatically in value. If only we’d followed Curtis’ example.
For me, it was the art that got away.
I think about those halcyon days whenever I visit Shearwater or the Walter Anderson Museum of Art.
We young reporters weren’t the first to appreciate Anderson’s art, but we probably could have qualified for something like frequent flyer points. How we loved the story.
Van Gogh had nothing on Walter Anderson.
His insularity and eccentricities and, yes, mental illness made him the small-town character who was either ridiculed or avoided.
But there is a redemption element, as the artist’s reputation and fame finally soared.
This oddball who lashed himself to pine trees to study the light during a hurricane, who rode his old bicycle while the rest of the world sped by in fine automobiles – he was the genius, the rest of us distressingly ordinary.
That his rise to artistic prominence happened posthumously doesn’t much matter.
I don’t see Walter Anderson attending gallery openings or enjoying fame. If anyone ever kept his own counsel, it was Walter.
“One single beautiful image is practically inexhaustible – man is a wasteful fool,” Anderson wrote.
This was a man who could study a crab for hours, or sketch a dead bird from six different angles. He didn’t waste those natural images that surround us all.
I don’t have an original Walter Anderson, but I keep that feeling of intense, jaw-dropping appreciation whenever I see the work that is now out of filing cabinets and on museum walls. There is a primal urge to sit and stare.
I can pretend I am Curtis, “visiting” my painting until I pay up and carry it home. It is fine art on layaway, for whenever I want to enjoy it.
RHETA GRIMSLEY JOHNSON is a syndicated columnist who lives near Iuka. Contact her at Iuka, MS 38852. To find out more about Rheta Grimsley Johnson and her books, visit www.rhetagrimsleyjohnsonbooks.com.
OUR OPINION: Called to self-sacrifice
May 25, 2013 | 144 views | 0 
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M. SCOTT MORRIS: Good times don’t last at skating rink
May 25, 2013 | 85 views | 0 | 1 | |
| 1 | | Members of the First United Methodist Church youth group adorn an unexpecting neighbor’s yard with 100 plastic flamingos Wednesday
night. (Thomas Wells)
Youth groups think outside the box to raise money
May 25, 2013 | 281 views | 0 | 1 | |
| 1 | | Members of the First United Methodist Church youth group adorn an unexpecting neighbor’s yard with 100 plastic flamingos Wednesday
night. (Thomas Wells)
RHETA GRIMSLEY JOHNSON: Fine art on layaway
May 25, 2013 | 139 views | 0 | 1 | |
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