"Who does not thank for little will not thank for much." - Estonian Proverb
When I noticed the neighbor’s house was unusually dark and their van was curiously missing from the driveway, I knew something wasn't right.
It’s not that we talk everyday or every week, for that matter. It’s just that I had come to count on their presence day in and day out like a wall of security.
Shook up, I asked around and learned that he fell and broke his hip. She doesn't drive, so their son was using the van to transport her back and forth to the hospital for dialysis and to visit her husband.
For nearly 35 years, I had taken these neighbors for granted without even realizing it. My gratitude for them suddenly became inestimable. Nervous over their health issues, I stopped what I was doing and rapped on their door.
That was in March. Since then, I remain startled by the feelings of loss this awakening provoked and find myself calling on the elderly couple more often.
But now that it is Thanksgiving, it's hard to focus on anything other than where to have dinner and who’s coming.
Although, underneath my plans for Turkey Day, a renewed consciousness elbows me to demonstrate more gratitude to my husband, my children and my neighbors. Sometimes it takes courage to outwardly express thanks.
Bonnie Ceban, author of "101 Ways to Say Thank You," offers advice on how to show gratitude.
What I love about Ceban’s instructions is that her ideas are simple; most of them cost nothing except time.
Of course, with my consumerism DNA, I naturally think I have to spend money to show appreciation. However, in reality, there are far more meaningful ways to say "thank you."
Besides the usual verbal affirmation, I am considering putting into practice several of the author's less obvious suggestions.
With a little practice and more courage, I’m going to show my appreciation by doing someone’s chores, paying more attention and smiling more.
Oh, yes, and I'm not going to wait until the lights go out and the car is gone to show how much I care.
[Thank you to my many readers. You are the reason I rise early and stay up late to listen for the soothing and sometimes pained voice of stories untold. For you, I am grateful.]
2009 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took three first-place awards. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.com and find her on Facebook.
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Stealth game brings out the Mission Impossible in us
Secret Santa starts this week at work. Just in case you've never participated in this holiday experience, let me explain.
Secret Santa, also known as Kris Kringle, is a five-week gift exchange game. Players’ names are drawn from a hat.You are a Secret Santa for the person whose name you draw, giving gifts anonymously until the very last one. Bestow as many gifts as you’d like, but the total value must not exceed $15.
Be sure to sign gift tags Secret Santa, S.S. for short or leave them blank. To ensure anonymity, some change their handwriting or ask someone else to sign for them. Finally, in the last week, reveal who you are by signing your name on the last gift or by hand-delivering it.
Part of the challenge is figuring out how to deliver gifts in an undercover operation without letting on it's you. If your place of employment is a large complex with multiple buildings, try sending gifts through interoffice mail.
Serious Secret Santas are an unusual breed of undercover givers who make "Mission Impossible" look like child’s play. They devise clandestine plans for gifts to suddenly appear on recipients’ desks without a trace or trail.
With a North Pole twinkle in their eyes, the people at my work are really into Secret Santa and look forward to it all year.
Last year during the fourth week of S.S., I realized the level of seriousness when I stopped by the office of my recipient, a Secret Santa die hard and organizer of the annual event. I wasn't conducting reconnaissance. I had a legitimate reason for being there.
On the windowsill behind her desk were all the gifts I had given her, displayed for everyone to see. With poorly disguised curiosity, I gawked and quickly passed judgment on my Secret Santa efforts. There on the ledge were a Dollar Store box of chocolates, a cheesy Christmas ornament, a blah pair of cotton winter gloves and a gaudy pair of earrings.
Because she was showcasing my Secret Santa acumen for all to see, I thought maybe I’d better step up my game, but quickly settled myself down with a little self-talk. It’s anonymous, silly. You old worrywart, nobody knows it’s you! Whew, I felt better.
This year, I am changing my strategy a bit. For some months now, I have been stockpiling clearance items that were marked down to under $5. I may even drop by my new recipient's office for casual surveillance. Plus, I'm thinking about how to cunningly deliver each gift under the radar just like Saint Nick himself.
If you haven’t been a Secret Santa, you may want to consider tossing your name into the hat. It could be one the most magical holiday games you’ll ever play.
2009 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took three first-place awards. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.com and find her on Facebook.
Secret Santa, also known as Kris Kringle, is a five-week gift exchange game. Players’ names are drawn from a hat.You are a Secret Santa for the person whose name you draw, giving gifts anonymously until the very last one. Bestow as many gifts as you’d like, but the total value must not exceed $15.
Be sure to sign gift tags Secret Santa, S.S. for short or leave them blank. To ensure anonymity, some change their handwriting or ask someone else to sign for them. Finally, in the last week, reveal who you are by signing your name on the last gift or by hand-delivering it.
Part of the challenge is figuring out how to deliver gifts in an undercover operation without letting on it's you. If your place of employment is a large complex with multiple buildings, try sending gifts through interoffice mail.
Serious Secret Santas are an unusual breed of undercover givers who make "Mission Impossible" look like child’s play. They devise clandestine plans for gifts to suddenly appear on recipients’ desks without a trace or trail.
With a North Pole twinkle in their eyes, the people at my work are really into Secret Santa and look forward to it all year.
Last year during the fourth week of S.S., I realized the level of seriousness when I stopped by the office of my recipient, a Secret Santa die hard and organizer of the annual event. I wasn't conducting reconnaissance. I had a legitimate reason for being there.
On the windowsill behind her desk were all the gifts I had given her, displayed for everyone to see. With poorly disguised curiosity, I gawked and quickly passed judgment on my Secret Santa efforts. There on the ledge were a Dollar Store box of chocolates, a cheesy Christmas ornament, a blah pair of cotton winter gloves and a gaudy pair of earrings.
Because she was showcasing my Secret Santa acumen for all to see, I thought maybe I’d better step up my game, but quickly settled myself down with a little self-talk. It’s anonymous, silly. You old worrywart, nobody knows it’s you! Whew, I felt better.
This year, I am changing my strategy a bit. For some months now, I have been stockpiling clearance items that were marked down to under $5. I may even drop by my new recipient's office for casual surveillance. Plus, I'm thinking about how to cunningly deliver each gift under the radar just like Saint Nick himself.
If you haven’t been a Secret Santa, you may want to consider tossing your name into the hat. It could be one the most magical holiday games you’ll ever play.
2009 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took three first-place awards. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.com and find her on Facebook.
Lost my drive, what's his name hasn't helped me
When my drive turned up missing, I panicked and immediately searched every corner, every stack and every drawer. I even shook out my boots, thinking I might find it there.
My flash drive is a life source holding my columns, my book, my plays and the many stories of my life. It is like a best friend, a trusted confidant on good days and bad. It is my tireless laborer, lifting the heavy burdens of my thoughts, carrying them and me from one week to the next.
For more than a week now, I have tried to retrace every step I took, remember each place I touched and recall every move I made.
Out of desperation, I have invoked the aid of Saint Anthony, patron saint of lost things. Mind you, even though I have not officially practiced Catholicism for 37 years, part of me always will be Catholic.
My formative years were ceremoniously shaped by and around the Church. The sanctuary was my second home, the confessional, my safe haven, and the saints, my constant companions.
In my childhood home, Saint Christopher protected my family on road trips. We turned to Saint Jude when in hopeless situations and petitioned Saint Blaise whenever we had sore throats.
Saint Anthony of Padua is the saint Catholics turn to for lost keys, lost books, lost memory, lost people, lost anything and everything. And with the commotion of six kids in my childhood home, we were always losing something.
We even had prayer cards with his image on one side and a petition for finding what was lost on the other. Saint Anthony might as well have had a place at our table; we turned to him that much.
The notion of being able to enlist God's army of saints was and still is nothing less than spectacular. Although I must admit, Saint Anthony has yet to come through this time.
It has been 10 days since I last remember removing the drive from my computer. My faith is waning and I have concluded with crushing disappointment that my beloved memory stick is either hiding in some obscure place or it's in the landfill.
I am not ashamed to admit that I have been bouncing back and forth, ushering appeals not only to Saint Anthony, but to Mother Mary and Father God. Maybe with all three pulling for me my drive will miraculously appear.
After rechecking my desk drawers for the fifth time, my purses for the umpteenth time, my coat pockets a gazillion times, I am starting to question my faith, second-guess my absent-mindedness and worry about my dependence on that little stick of memory.
It is probably time to let go and begin to rebuild my repository of writing on a new flash drive. (No offense, Saint Anthony.)
This whole incident smacks of our pet salamander that turned up missing many years ago. He was in the aquarium one day and gone the next. Vanished. I put Saint Anthony to work on that one, too.
Fifteen years later, when rearranging furniture, I reached behind a heavy dresser to get what I thought was a cobweb. Instead, I grabbed a salamander’s skeletal remains while emoting a primal scream. Startled and then relieved, I uttered, "Thank you, Saint Anthony."
2009 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took three first-place awards. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.com and find her on Facebook.
My flash drive is a life source holding my columns, my book, my plays and the many stories of my life. It is like a best friend, a trusted confidant on good days and bad. It is my tireless laborer, lifting the heavy burdens of my thoughts, carrying them and me from one week to the next.
For more than a week now, I have tried to retrace every step I took, remember each place I touched and recall every move I made.
Out of desperation, I have invoked the aid of Saint Anthony, patron saint of lost things. Mind you, even though I have not officially practiced Catholicism for 37 years, part of me always will be Catholic.
My formative years were ceremoniously shaped by and around the Church. The sanctuary was my second home, the confessional, my safe haven, and the saints, my constant companions.
In my childhood home, Saint Christopher protected my family on road trips. We turned to Saint Jude when in hopeless situations and petitioned Saint Blaise whenever we had sore throats.
Saint Anthony of Padua is the saint Catholics turn to for lost keys, lost books, lost memory, lost people, lost anything and everything. And with the commotion of six kids in my childhood home, we were always losing something.
We even had prayer cards with his image on one side and a petition for finding what was lost on the other. Saint Anthony might as well have had a place at our table; we turned to him that much.
The notion of being able to enlist God's army of saints was and still is nothing less than spectacular. Although I must admit, Saint Anthony has yet to come through this time.
It has been 10 days since I last remember removing the drive from my computer. My faith is waning and I have concluded with crushing disappointment that my beloved memory stick is either hiding in some obscure place or it's in the landfill.
I am not ashamed to admit that I have been bouncing back and forth, ushering appeals not only to Saint Anthony, but to Mother Mary and Father God. Maybe with all three pulling for me my drive will miraculously appear.
After rechecking my desk drawers for the fifth time, my purses for the umpteenth time, my coat pockets a gazillion times, I am starting to question my faith, second-guess my absent-mindedness and worry about my dependence on that little stick of memory.
It is probably time to let go and begin to rebuild my repository of writing on a new flash drive. (No offense, Saint Anthony.)
This whole incident smacks of our pet salamander that turned up missing many years ago. He was in the aquarium one day and gone the next. Vanished. I put Saint Anthony to work on that one, too.
Fifteen years later, when rearranging furniture, I reached behind a heavy dresser to get what I thought was a cobweb. Instead, I grabbed a salamander’s skeletal remains while emoting a primal scream. Startled and then relieved, I uttered, "Thank you, Saint Anthony."
2009 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took three first-place awards. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.com and find her on Facebook.
Right side, left side, back or front?
Way back on the Epistle side of the sanctuary in the very last pew is where you'll find the Johnsons every Sunday. Since Don uses a walker, he sits near the exit with his wife, daughter and grandchildren at his side.
Up front on the Gospel side are the Andersons, behind them the Swansons. Travel straight back to the center of the church and you’ll find the Larsons, next to the Larsons are the Smiths.
Behind the Smiths, the Bensons and clear in the rear on the Gospel side are the Gibsons.
My attention was first drawn to the territorial nature of where people sit in church some years ago on Good Friday. My congregation was producing a play that I wrote entitled "Marys Crossing." We all hoped the edgy Passion drama, which is written from the female perspective, would bring in a crowd of newcomers, and it did just that.
The night of the performance, dozens upon dozens of unfamiliar faces filed into the church, flushing the Johnsons, the Andersons and others out of their galvanized positions. Even the balcony was filled for the first time in decades.
Bernie, whose spot was taken, was miffed. "Hey, someone took my seat," he whispered to me.
"Yes, isn't that grand," I said, ever so pleased with the turn out. "Looks like you'll have to find to a new place tonight."
As I watched Bernie begrudgingly shuffle his way into the sanctuary, I considered the fixed places we assign ourselves and wondered what would happen if we moved around now and then.
I once knew a woman who left her church all because of the seating chart nature of the place.
"When I saw Linda’s picture in the Obituaries, I felt sad and mad at the same time," she fumed. "Linda always sat on the left side and, of course, I always sat on the right. I knew her face, but I never learned her name, never once spoke to her," she continued with tears welling in a sideways glance, her lips pinching back grief.
"There's something wrong," she blurted mournfully. "We are silently segregating ourselves from one another and nothing is being done about it! That's not what church is supposed to be. It's just not the Christian thing to do, so I quit going."
I first experienced an antidote to such self-segregation at a Latino worship service.
During the "Sharing of the Peace," everyone got out of their seats and greeted each other in two processional circles that moved in opposite directions around the perimeter of the sanctuary.
Conscious of my own fixed place in church, I occasionally force myself to sit on the other side. It is a different experience for me. At first, I feel out of place and a little uncomfortable.
But there in the front corner on the Epistle side far from where I usually sit on Sunday morning, my circle widens. I shake hands with and speak to people for the first time. I hear new voices. I experience a new brand of fellowship without even leaving the building.
So I'm wondering, where do you sit in church?
2009 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took three first-place awards. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.com
Up front on the Gospel side are the Andersons, behind them the Swansons. Travel straight back to the center of the church and you’ll find the Larsons, next to the Larsons are the Smiths.
Behind the Smiths, the Bensons and clear in the rear on the Gospel side are the Gibsons.
My attention was first drawn to the territorial nature of where people sit in church some years ago on Good Friday. My congregation was producing a play that I wrote entitled "Marys Crossing." We all hoped the edgy Passion drama, which is written from the female perspective, would bring in a crowd of newcomers, and it did just that.
The night of the performance, dozens upon dozens of unfamiliar faces filed into the church, flushing the Johnsons, the Andersons and others out of their galvanized positions. Even the balcony was filled for the first time in decades.
Bernie, whose spot was taken, was miffed. "Hey, someone took my seat," he whispered to me.
"Yes, isn't that grand," I said, ever so pleased with the turn out. "Looks like you'll have to find to a new place tonight."
As I watched Bernie begrudgingly shuffle his way into the sanctuary, I considered the fixed places we assign ourselves and wondered what would happen if we moved around now and then.
I once knew a woman who left her church all because of the seating chart nature of the place.
"When I saw Linda’s picture in the Obituaries, I felt sad and mad at the same time," she fumed. "Linda always sat on the left side and, of course, I always sat on the right. I knew her face, but I never learned her name, never once spoke to her," she continued with tears welling in a sideways glance, her lips pinching back grief.
"There's something wrong," she blurted mournfully. "We are silently segregating ourselves from one another and nothing is being done about it! That's not what church is supposed to be. It's just not the Christian thing to do, so I quit going."
I first experienced an antidote to such self-segregation at a Latino worship service.
During the "Sharing of the Peace," everyone got out of their seats and greeted each other in two processional circles that moved in opposite directions around the perimeter of the sanctuary.
Conscious of my own fixed place in church, I occasionally force myself to sit on the other side. It is a different experience for me. At first, I feel out of place and a little uncomfortable.
But there in the front corner on the Epistle side far from where I usually sit on Sunday morning, my circle widens. I shake hands with and speak to people for the first time. I hear new voices. I experience a new brand of fellowship without even leaving the building.
So I'm wondering, where do you sit in church?
2009 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took three first-place awards. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.com
Monday, December 28, 2009
How to W.R.A.K. up random acts of kindness
When I first learned about the W.R.A.K. Coffee Club, I whined a bit. You see, W.R.A.K., A.K.A.Weekly Random Acts of Kindness, is a ministry of the First Evangelical Lutheran Church that meets weekly at a Nebraska City coffee shop. This made it almost impossible for me to participate in person.
So the innovator of the group, Vanessa Bremer, Director of Youth and Family Ministry at the church, created a Facebook page, so anyone, anywhere can join.
"W.R.A.K.," Bremer explains, "is a flower that sprouted from two church outreach programs: ARK Almighty and Pay It Forward."
She started W.R.A.K. this past fall to provide opportunities to practice kindness, develop faith and create Christian fellowship and community.
Each week, local participants meet at the coffee shop to pick up a new challenge and share their W.R.A.K. stories. Those of us who are at a distance get the challenges on Facebook or by email.
Each new challenge and correlating Bible verse is increasingly more involved, both spiritually and personally. Participants are not required to finish a challenge before delving into the next one.
"Some are easier to complete than others," Bremer admits.
One challenge was based on Proverbs 11:25 "A generous man will prosper; he who refreshes others will himself be refreshed." We were to make an effort to allow others go first through the door, in conversation, while waiting in line and so on.
Another was to treat others when we treating ourselves. We were to buy an extra coffee, candy bar, apple or soda and offer it to someone. else This one was rooted in Hebrews 13:16, which states "And do not forget to do good and to share with others...."
What surprised me the most about W.R.A.K. is that the weekly tasks are becoming more natural and routine in my daily life.
W.R.A.K. now has more than 75 participants from across the U.S. and continues to grow each week.
If you want to "W.R.A.K." up some random acts of kindness, become a friend on Facebook or email Bremer at vanessafelcyouth@yahoo.com to start receiving the weekly challenges by email.
For more information, contact Vanessa Bremer 402.873.5424.
2009 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took three first-place awards. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.com and find her on Facebook.
So the innovator of the group, Vanessa Bremer, Director of Youth and Family Ministry at the church, created a Facebook page, so anyone, anywhere can join.
"W.R.A.K.," Bremer explains, "is a flower that sprouted from two church outreach programs: ARK Almighty and Pay It Forward."
She started W.R.A.K. this past fall to provide opportunities to practice kindness, develop faith and create Christian fellowship and community.
Each week, local participants meet at the coffee shop to pick up a new challenge and share their W.R.A.K. stories. Those of us who are at a distance get the challenges on Facebook or by email.
Each new challenge and correlating Bible verse is increasingly more involved, both spiritually and personally. Participants are not required to finish a challenge before delving into the next one.
"Some are easier to complete than others," Bremer admits.
One challenge was based on Proverbs 11:25 "A generous man will prosper; he who refreshes others will himself be refreshed." We were to make an effort to allow others go first through the door, in conversation, while waiting in line and so on.
Another was to treat others when we treating ourselves. We were to buy an extra coffee, candy bar, apple or soda and offer it to someone. else This one was rooted in Hebrews 13:16, which states "And do not forget to do good and to share with others...."
What surprised me the most about W.R.A.K. is that the weekly tasks are becoming more natural and routine in my daily life.
W.R.A.K. now has more than 75 participants from across the U.S. and continues to grow each week.
If you want to "W.R.A.K." up some random acts of kindness, become a friend on Facebook or email Bremer at vanessafelcyouth@yahoo.com to start receiving the weekly challenges by email.
For more information, contact Vanessa Bremer 402.873.5424.
2009 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took three first-place awards. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.com and find her on Facebook.
Friday, December 11, 2009
If there's no room at the inn, where shall they go?
Before I embarked on my first-ever mission experience last weekend, I envisioned homeless adults, not homeless babies. I was on short-term mission trip called Urban Plunge to the gang-ridden, low-income part of Omaha, Nebraska, commonly referred to as North O. There are homeless babies in North Omaha.
Seven out of 10 residents there are considered poor, and this area has one of the highest number of children living in poverty in the U.S. Urban Plunge is an inner city immersion experience in which teams of people volunteer at shelters and missions to feed the hungry, pray for the needy, break bread with the homeless and serve the poor. I encountered homeless men and women who are not really that different from you and me, who have life stories, goals and families of their own.
I discovered numerous ministries operating day and night to make a difference, such as Angels on Wheels, a large team of individuals from a dozen churches, who minister to the physical and spiritual needs of the homeless. Angels on Wheels vans transport people from shelters and darkened streets to a warm welcoming center, where they eat home-cooked food, watch movies, interact with volunteers, receive job training and take GED prep classes.
The Hope Center, a defender of children from neglect and gang violence, serves as a home-away-from-home for inner city youth, ages seven to19. This is an after-school program providing hot meals, recreation, mentoring and help with school work in a safe, nurturing environment. Hope Center volunteers act as surrogate parents, who are involved in children’s lives. They even attend school programs and go to parent-teacher conferences for children whose parents are absent or unavailable. The high school graduation rate in the North Omaha Public School District is approximately 48 percent, while Hope Center youth attending the same schools have a 93 percent high school graduation rate.
Deep within one impoverished neighborhood, where gang signs abound and the sound of gunfire can be heard, is the Mission for All Nations, another faith-based charitable organization. This program exists for the sole purpose of preventing homelessness and hunger. It represents the largest food pantry in Nebraska, feeding some 22,500 individuals nearly 500,000 meals annually. At this mission, there’s free food, clothing and shelter for people of all ethnic backgrounds who are on the fringes of poverty. Here, Urban Plungers prepared food boxes, sorted used clothing and processed applicants for pantry items. We also contributed blankets and hundreds of personal hygiene necessities donated by our churches.
On the way to Omaha’s Eppley Airfield is the Open Door Mission, a Gospel Rescue Mission that meets the basic needs of the homeless and provides life-changing programs 24 hours a day, seven days a week, 365 days a year. This place never closes, as it serves more than 300 people daily with emergency temporary housing, long-term rehabilitation, recovery programs and transitional housing. At Open Door Mission, we sorted used clothes, stocked a free thrift store and ate lunch with homeless women and children.
We also went to Release Ministries, which resides inside the Douglas County Youth Jail, behind towering fences topped with coiled barbed wire and razorblades. This is where Chaplain Ron reaches out to incarcerated high-risk youth who are in the Juvenile Justice System. Through prayer, Bible study and mentoring, Chaplain Ron, a former inmate himself, ministers to young men and women with the goal of turning their lives around. Before I went on my first-ever mission trip last weekend, I envisioned homeless adults, but not homeless babies. There are homeless babies in North Omaha. I held them, fed them, talked to them, played with them, strolled them and danced with them. I even sang to them....
If you or your church group would like to learn more about Urban Plunge, please call 402-592-8332 or visit www.urbanplunge.net.
2009 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took three first-place awards. To contact Paula, email
pauladamon@iw.net and find her on Facebook.
Seven out of 10 residents there are considered poor, and this area has one of the highest number of children living in poverty in the U.S. Urban Plunge is an inner city immersion experience in which teams of people volunteer at shelters and missions to feed the hungry, pray for the needy, break bread with the homeless and serve the poor. I encountered homeless men and women who are not really that different from you and me, who have life stories, goals and families of their own.
I discovered numerous ministries operating day and night to make a difference, such as Angels on Wheels, a large team of individuals from a dozen churches, who minister to the physical and spiritual needs of the homeless. Angels on Wheels vans transport people from shelters and darkened streets to a warm welcoming center, where they eat home-cooked food, watch movies, interact with volunteers, receive job training and take GED prep classes.
The Hope Center, a defender of children from neglect and gang violence, serves as a home-away-from-home for inner city youth, ages seven to19. This is an after-school program providing hot meals, recreation, mentoring and help with school work in a safe, nurturing environment. Hope Center volunteers act as surrogate parents, who are involved in children’s lives. They even attend school programs and go to parent-teacher conferences for children whose parents are absent or unavailable. The high school graduation rate in the North Omaha Public School District is approximately 48 percent, while Hope Center youth attending the same schools have a 93 percent high school graduation rate.
Deep within one impoverished neighborhood, where gang signs abound and the sound of gunfire can be heard, is the Mission for All Nations, another faith-based charitable organization. This program exists for the sole purpose of preventing homelessness and hunger. It represents the largest food pantry in Nebraska, feeding some 22,500 individuals nearly 500,000 meals annually. At this mission, there’s free food, clothing and shelter for people of all ethnic backgrounds who are on the fringes of poverty. Here, Urban Plungers prepared food boxes, sorted used clothing and processed applicants for pantry items. We also contributed blankets and hundreds of personal hygiene necessities donated by our churches.
On the way to Omaha’s Eppley Airfield is the Open Door Mission, a Gospel Rescue Mission that meets the basic needs of the homeless and provides life-changing programs 24 hours a day, seven days a week, 365 days a year. This place never closes, as it serves more than 300 people daily with emergency temporary housing, long-term rehabilitation, recovery programs and transitional housing. At Open Door Mission, we sorted used clothes, stocked a free thrift store and ate lunch with homeless women and children.
We also went to Release Ministries, which resides inside the Douglas County Youth Jail, behind towering fences topped with coiled barbed wire and razorblades. This is where Chaplain Ron reaches out to incarcerated high-risk youth who are in the Juvenile Justice System. Through prayer, Bible study and mentoring, Chaplain Ron, a former inmate himself, ministers to young men and women with the goal of turning their lives around. Before I went on my first-ever mission trip last weekend, I envisioned homeless adults, but not homeless babies. There are homeless babies in North Omaha. I held them, fed them, talked to them, played with them, strolled them and danced with them. I even sang to them....
If you or your church group would like to learn more about Urban Plunge, please call 402-592-8332 or visit www.urbanplunge.net.
2009 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took three first-place awards. To contact Paula, email
pauladamon@iw.net and find her on Facebook.
Saturday, October 31, 2009
I'm giving it all away – the rest of the story
The week after I signed up to be an organ donor, a letter came in the mail from the Department of Public Safety.
Fingering the thick envelope, I thought it must be a big thank you with some sort of certificate of appreciation.
Eager to open it, I wondered aloud, "Hm-mm, maybe I am the one-hundredth donor this month and I've won the grand prize."
Since I decided to give away all my organs, I had been floating on a cloud of satisfaction, knowing that I could help as many as 60 people.
When my number is up, maybe, just maybe, one of the 16 who die every day waiting for an organ transplant will live.
Wow, did donating my organs make me a wonderful person or what?
I’m no Mother Theresa, but definitely a qualifier for one of the lesser saints. I could see it in lights: "The deceased Paula Bosco Damon enters candidacy for sainthood." Talk about helping others. It doesn’t get any better than this.
In my usual fashion of exuberance over getting real mail in a real envelope that's glued shut, I ripped that baby open. As I quickly read the header "Department of Public Safety, 118 W. Capitol, Pierre, South Dakota 57501-2000," I totally expected praise for my selfless act of generosity.
The letter reads...
Dear Ms. Damon:
Thank you for sending your Organ and Tissue Donor Registry Form. In checking it, I noticed that you had put your doctor’s name in the "Donor's Name" field.
Therefore, I am returning the Form to you, along with a new Form so that you may enter the correct information and return it to me.
Thank you! If you have any questions, please contact me.
Sincerely,
Geneva Barkley
In disbelief, I flipped to the next page and quickly scanned my completed Form. At the bottom, Geneva marked with a yellow highlighter exactly where I had screwed up. The Form reads "Donor's Name," not "Doctor's Name"!
I could not believe it! I had donated my doctors organs, every last one of them, along with all of his tissue without even knowing it!
I donated his heart and heart valves, his lungs and liver, his kidneys and pancreas, his intestines and corneas, even his skin and bones, and I didn’t even ask him.
As every ounce of pride drained out of me, I felt dejected, deflated and disappointed by my silly mistake. I tried to laugh it off –ha, ha, ha. I laughed some more, ha, ha, ha, but I felt so embarrassed. Way to go, Paula.
I had to quickly blame my mistake on something. My eyestrain! That’s it! My job as a writer and editor made me donate my doctor’s organs. Plus, who in the world could read that teeny-weeny 10-point-size font on the Form.
I couldn’t find one of my gazillion pairs of reading glasses and filled it out in a blur. I was so distracted by CNN that it’s a wonder I didn’t donate Wolf Blitzer’s organs.
Prior to receiving this piece of news, I had been strutting around with an interior glow, and outwardly, I was clipping along with gleeful lilt in my step.
Similar to being baptized, confirmed and married, by agreeing to devote my organs had changed me in an indefinable way.
I have learned in life, and in golf, that a do-over can be healthy for your game. So I put on my reading glasses, got out my 4-inch diameter, 3-X power magnifying glass, filled out the Form and mailed it, again. Now, I thought, this time I hope it's official.
(For more information about organ donation, please call 1-888-5-DONATE or 1-888-5-366-2833, or visit www.organdonor.gov.)
2009 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took three first-place awards. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.com
Fingering the thick envelope, I thought it must be a big thank you with some sort of certificate of appreciation.
Eager to open it, I wondered aloud, "Hm-mm, maybe I am the one-hundredth donor this month and I've won the grand prize."
Since I decided to give away all my organs, I had been floating on a cloud of satisfaction, knowing that I could help as many as 60 people.
When my number is up, maybe, just maybe, one of the 16 who die every day waiting for an organ transplant will live.
Wow, did donating my organs make me a wonderful person or what?
I’m no Mother Theresa, but definitely a qualifier for one of the lesser saints. I could see it in lights: "The deceased Paula Bosco Damon enters candidacy for sainthood." Talk about helping others. It doesn’t get any better than this.
In my usual fashion of exuberance over getting real mail in a real envelope that's glued shut, I ripped that baby open. As I quickly read the header "Department of Public Safety, 118 W. Capitol, Pierre, South Dakota 57501-2000," I totally expected praise for my selfless act of generosity.
The letter reads...
Dear Ms. Damon:
Thank you for sending your Organ and Tissue Donor Registry Form. In checking it, I noticed that you had put your doctor’s name in the "Donor's Name" field.
Therefore, I am returning the Form to you, along with a new Form so that you may enter the correct information and return it to me.
Thank you! If you have any questions, please contact me.
Sincerely,
Geneva Barkley
In disbelief, I flipped to the next page and quickly scanned my completed Form. At the bottom, Geneva marked with a yellow highlighter exactly where I had screwed up. The Form reads "Donor's Name," not "Doctor's Name"!
I could not believe it! I had donated my doctors organs, every last one of them, along with all of his tissue without even knowing it!
I donated his heart and heart valves, his lungs and liver, his kidneys and pancreas, his intestines and corneas, even his skin and bones, and I didn’t even ask him.
As every ounce of pride drained out of me, I felt dejected, deflated and disappointed by my silly mistake. I tried to laugh it off –ha, ha, ha. I laughed some more, ha, ha, ha, but I felt so embarrassed. Way to go, Paula.
I had to quickly blame my mistake on something. My eyestrain! That’s it! My job as a writer and editor made me donate my doctor’s organs. Plus, who in the world could read that teeny-weeny 10-point-size font on the Form.
I couldn’t find one of my gazillion pairs of reading glasses and filled it out in a blur. I was so distracted by CNN that it’s a wonder I didn’t donate Wolf Blitzer’s organs.
Prior to receiving this piece of news, I had been strutting around with an interior glow, and outwardly, I was clipping along with gleeful lilt in my step.
Similar to being baptized, confirmed and married, by agreeing to devote my organs had changed me in an indefinable way.
I have learned in life, and in golf, that a do-over can be healthy for your game. So I put on my reading glasses, got out my 4-inch diameter, 3-X power magnifying glass, filled out the Form and mailed it, again. Now, I thought, this time I hope it's official.
(For more information about organ donation, please call 1-888-5-DONATE or 1-888-5-366-2833, or visit www.organdonor.gov.)
2009 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took three first-place awards. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.com
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