generosity

A Prayer Between Thanksgiving and Advent

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Lord, we confess to you that in this season of abundance, we are still often slaves to our mentality of scarcity.

We thank you for the generosity of our Native brothers and sisters so many years ago, and continuing to this day. We confess that we and our fathers did not faithfully reciprocate this generosity, but have rather subjected this land and many different peoples to violence for our own gain. We have sowed the wind and reaped the whirlwind of hatred, division, and bloodshed.

We confess that we still often lack this generous spirit to the poor, the immigrant, and the minority. Our mentality of scarcity has tricked us into a false dichotomy that believes enough for me must mean less for you.

We ask that you touch our hearts anew with the story of Christ, who became poor that all might become rich, who became marginalized that all might be included, and who became an immigrant that all might find their true home.

Teach us to live in the abundance of your kingdom, that in humility we may find more than enough in you.

Amen.

mike-labrum-151765

And here we are.

/ jfunkhouser / 1 Comment

That afternoon, I read the news about Aleppo.

I couldn’t stop the tears from coming. There are unsung heroes all over the world, just as there are in Aleppo, rescuing children and standing up to danger and carrying on despite the near-impossible conditions. Their strength and bravery humble me, and their suffering breaks me.

Hours later and worlds away, I’m standing in the checkout line with a pumpkin pie and can of whipped cream. We drive to the apartment, hoping they understood and are expecting us. From outside, we can see the light shining out through the curtain, casting shadows like crosses on the street below.

The door swings open seconds after we knock. Continue reading →

A Tribute to My Grandfather

/ jfunkhouser / 2 Comments

Things I will always remember:
White Castle burgers
Louie L’amoure books
3pm cans of Pepsi.

A man of the earth,
you delighted in catching fish,
tapping maple trees,
watching birds,
planting tomatoes in hay bales.

They tell me you once longed to be
A farmer,
To work the ground and watch life grow
Each day.
But hay fever had no cure
So you signed up to be an engineer instead.

When you came to visit,
New growth sprung up in hand-built swing sets,
Backyard sheds,
Shelves or fences or sink repairs.
Every fall, like clockwork, the gold-tinged van pulled up
On Sandra Court.
You played football with us in the front yard,
Oversaw Halloween preparations,
sat in gymnasium bleachers for hours.

I loved hearing the stories:
When you met Grandma and her blond ponytail,
Or that summer internship when you bought
Hamburgers ten for a dollar.
We grew up playing in the houses you built together,
Where your love and hospitality transformed
Wood and brick into a home for so many.

In these later years, you shuffled more and talked less;
Ruthlessly guarded your “spot” on the couch
And still remembered to ask us if we’d “met someone” yet.
But it’s your excitement over the little things
I still remember the most:
Apple fritters on Tuesdays,
Cheese curds on Wednesdays,
Wheel of Fortune and Jeopardy each afternoon.
You never stopped trying new things:
New computers,
New tomatoes,
New maple syrup boiling techniques.

And through the most laborious act of love,
Typing,
You faithfully sent encouragement my way.
“Jenna, Hay Jenna what a great post.
I really liked this post, George M.”

“Hi Jenna,You always have very
interesting things [to] read about ‘’

“Hi Jenna, OK I get you.
I don’t understand but, I hear you.
Merry Christmas.”