It seems like only yesterday that our girls lived in Mr. Rogers’ land of make believe, and now Tom Hanks is portraying the TV icon in a movie. Mr. Rogers was a hero in our household. I remember when our youngest was just two and her emotions exploded. She stomped upstairs, stood on the landing, and announced, “I hate everybody! I even hate Mr. Rogers!” She marched into her bedroom and slammed the door.  
      She quickly emerged with shame on her face and a whisper in her voice. “I didn’t mean what I said about Mr. Rogers.” She couldn’t hate the man who embodied good. Then she retreated to her bedroom to sort out what to do with all the mad she felt toward the rest of us.
     My daughters have blossomed into strong women. I like them just the way they are as they face life’s realities while keeping their rich imaginations. Mr. Rogers has left his land of make believe, passing into the perfect realm he always envisioned. He was disillusioned near the end of his life. Even with his powerful message of kindness, the world had grown worse. I think that’s because we need something more than good attitudes and good intentions. We need new hearts, what the historic Jesus described as being “born again.”
​     That’s because beautiful as it is, make believe isn’t enough.

     Why did we start to say “Oh my God” as an exclamation of shock or surprise, rather than invoking something like “Oh my Gordon” or “Oh my Gladys”? Is it because we don’t believe in him, so what does it matter? But if God doesn’t exist, why use his name as the most powerful word there is to express shock or surprise? And why say “MY God,” claiming God is yours if he doesn’t exist?       
     Here’s another oddity.   We say “God damn” to express anger. Are we asking God to condemn someone to eternal punishment in hell? Even if we don’t believe in God or hell, that’s a strong image. Do we really want to channel our rage to that depth?     
     I wonder if we use God’s name flippantly because there’s no sense of awe left in us. No reverence because nothing is sacred. We no longer view ourselves as souls, just minds and bodies.     
     That’s a tragedy because deep inside us, we know we are so much more. We’re not simply atoms and energy that eventually wear out. We are hopes and hurts, dreams and desires. We thirst for love. And here’s the incredible news - the God who created the universe is so enamored with us he stepped onto Earth as Jesus and still rings our doorbells and asks, “Wanna do lunch?         
     That’s a God whose name is worth being awestruck about.

     I hurt two people recently. Big time.     
     I didn’t mean to. I had good intentions, but sloppy words.     
     I asked their forgiveness, and they extended it, but they still hurt. And I hurt for them. Will they ever heal from this? It’s taken me years to recover from some slights from others. Will it take them that long?     
     I’m asking God to instigate his amazing Recycling Program, to somehow turn my stupidity into something good in their lives. That would be a miracle.     
     As for me, I’ve asked God to enroll me in his Forgiveness-for-Dummies Program: to remind me of his tenderness toward me; to help me understand any message he has for me from this; to give me a scar I can run my finger over to prompt me to walk more cautiously with others.      
     How we all need mercy - from God, from each other, and for each other.
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​     A song that expresses my aching heart is here. The image is a screenshot from the video.

     I’m helping dish up a picnic in the park to several hundred down-and-outers: a woman with a burn covering half her face; a man with all his possessions in a Sears shopping cart; a woman who was homeless for seven years before squeezing into a crowded apartment; bikers and their babes; a woman with one hand.     
     We serve a banquet on tablecloths with centerpieces that say “You Are Cherished.” We hand out four kinds of meat, corn on the cob, salads, chunks of watermelon, two kinds of beans, cake and more cake. “Yes, come back for seconds and thirds,” we say, “then take some with you to wherever you rest your bones tonight. Let your kids blow bubbles and run in the grass, and take a stuffed animal home to hug, whether you’re six or sixty.”     
     If I swallow my pride, I admit I’m one of them, scarred and broken by what life has done to me or what I’ve done to myself. And Jesus invites us to come for seconds and thirds and to party in the park of His life.     
     Who can turn down a banquet like that?         
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     More information about Mean Street Ministry that sponsored this picnic is here.

     Ever since I met artist Makoto Fujimura I’ve been longing for “rivers of gold" to fill the cracks in my life that formed when my six-year-old granddaughter Lydia died. She left us a year ago after a mysterious seizure, and I still ache as I recall her dimpled grin.
     Fujimura, a Japanese-American, showed me this Fifteenth Century bowl that was used during tea ceremonies. It was shattered, possibly from an earthquake, but family members held onto the fragments for centuries “to behold because they told the story of those who had used it,” the New York City artist explained.
     Then in the Nineteenth Century, a Kintsugi “master worker of mending,” pieced the shards together with veins of gold in what Fujimura calls “a redemptive restoration. It’s now worth more than it was before it was broken.” And more beautiful, I observed, because of its shimmering rivulets.     
     Fujimura likens this restoration to what happened in his family after 9/11 when they narrowly escaped death, were left homeless, and needed piecing together. Gradually, streams of gold flowed into their fractures, and they healed.     
     The artist says that no matter what earthquakes shatter us, we can mend. “Jesus is the Kintsugi master.” Through him, we “move into the future, and the wounds we can’t dismiss become priceless rivers of gold.”     
     Which encourages me that while Lydia skips along Heaven’s golden streets, my wounds can turn into priceless rivers of gold here as I move into the future. 

My granddaughter Lydia, and a closeup of the rivers of gold.