The foyer in the Bethlehem Baptist Church opens up grandly to a large, auditorium-style sanctuary on the left and a wide hallway to the right. My heart pounding, like a kind of maternal witching wand, led me right. Kids in tow, we walk until our Minnesota caseworker meets us and motions towards an open door.

It is one thing to hold your son in your dreams–those that wash over you in sleep and in daylight moments of reverie–but it quite another to hold him in your arms, to touch each fold in his baby skin, to take in his scent. As I walk through the door, my fingers salivate. There, before me, is Phoebe, our Georgia caseworker, with my son.

Behold Quinn. Splendid in green velveteen and candy cane booties, too lovely for words.

Try as I might, I simply cannot remember the transfer from caretaker to mother-in-waiting. But Phoebe surely placed Quinn in my arms, for I have photos to prove this. Smitten is such a funny-sounding word, and yet beneath its consonants lie vowels of something much more profound. I am smitten. Utterly, totally, helplessly smitten with a baby who would change my world.

The room is large enough to hold church banquets. Today, however, tables are stacked and pushed against the walls, leaving yards of vacancy filled with a few plastic chairs which have been clustered in the middle of the room. As we sit, Phoebe gifts us with those first moments of wonder as we pass Quinn from mother to father, father to daughter to daughter to daughter. Obligingly, he looks deeply into each face and does not cry. The axis of our world tilts decisively towards this moment. We push our chairs closer together, we circle the wagons of our new family, and I pull a bottle from the diaper bag, shake it with a practiced hand, and begin to feed Quinn.

Then Phoebe begins to do her job, fleshing out the details of the final adoptive process. This is the homestretch, she says, and soon you will be on the road back to southern Iowa as a new family of six. After I receive word that the parental release forms have been received in Des Moines, that is. Just this last detail, she says and smiles reassuringly. I’ll call right now and verify this, and then you can take off. 

Moments after the second burp, Phoebe returns from the office where she had made the call to Des Moines. She smiles, but the corners of her mouth don’t turn up as they had before. All set? Paul asks. He is a man on a mission. Always. She hesitates–just for a moment–but she clearly hesitates. As I gaze into my sleeping son’s face, however, this hesitation doesn’t register with me, for I cannot imagine anywhere I would rather be than right here, right now.

Not yet, she says. There are blizzard-like conditions in Des Moines, and with Christmas only two days away, the FedEx drivers are struggling to keep up with their normal schedules and routes. I’m sure they will deliver the paperwork soon. You can just hang out here, and I’ll call again in 30 minutes, o.k.? 

And so we do. After hours pent up in the van, the girls run the expanse of the big room, racing from one end to the other. Our Minnesota caseworker does her best at small talk, and Paul walks the hallway to the foyer and back. I hold Quinn snuggly on my chest, his dark curls in the hollow of my shoulder, and his arms-once balled beneath his torso-relax now and dangle by his sides.

Thirty minutes go by, and then another thirty minutes. Now lunch time, both caseworkers excuse themselves and meet in the hall outside of earshot. They return with a plan: Because we do not really know when the paperwork will arrive in Des Moines, and the church is getting ready for a big funeral, we have arranged for us to stay at a parishioner’s house nearby. This couple has adopted children, too, and invited us to stay with them until we receive official word from Iowa. Will this be o.k. with you?

Paul looks at me, waiting for my response. I’m sorry, what did you say? As Phoebe repeats the “plan,” I can only nod and say, sure. And then I am stuffing an empty bottle into the diaper bag, pulling out a yellow snow suit, laying it out like an empty snow angel on the floor, and maneuvering my sleeping son into its fleece. Paul is stuffing the girls into their winter coats, zipping and hatting them as we walk down the hall. The caseworkers lead the way, ushering us around the funeral crowd that has convened in the foyer outside the sanctuary. In a profound juxtaposition that is impossible to deny, we leave with one new life as others mourn the loss of another. In the darkness of Bethlehem, love and life light the way forward.

The Sanctuary of Bethlehem often depends upon the hospitality of strangers. Innkeepers, families from other states who, too, have adopted children, and all those who witness the miracle of love incarnate and divine. It is this dependency that imbalances and humbles us in strange new ways. Grace floods the landscapes of our lives. We are but sparrows that sit on strangers’ hands, eating the seeds of their generosity and the fruits of their labor. Even if we persevered, even if we tried very hard, we cannot do for ourselves what others can do for us. And so, we accept their gifts.

After 15 minutes in the van, we arrive at a white two-story home in a well-kept neighborhood. The door has a gold knocker and an evergreen wreath with a large red bow. It flings open, and a mother greets us warmly, takes the girls’ coats and hats, and motions to the living room where beautifully wrapped presents spill out from beneath an 8 foot Christmas tree. This is the place of grace where we will wait for word that we can take our son home.

On the eve of Veteran’s Day, I sat beside my husband in our local movie theater, the movie having just ended and the transition from movie world to real world imminent. In those remaining moments before the lights came on, I heard the beginning of applause from the rows behind me. A few hands clapping and then many. Instinctively, I clapped and kept on clapping–vigorously, loudly as if the final curtain of La Boheme had just fallen and this was my first opera–until my husband grabbed my hand and pulled me to my feet to exit the theater.

We had just seen Mel Gibson’s latest film, Hacksaw Ridge, a profile of Private Desmond Doss’s heroic work in saving roughly 75 wounded soldiers during the allied invasion of Okinawa. Drafted into the army in April 1942, Doss, a ship joiner in the shipyard in Newport News, Virginia, refused the option of a deferment. Like many other young men at this time, he wanted to serve his country. Unlike most, however, Doss chose not to bear arms during his service. A Seventh Day Adventist, he held strong religious and personal convictions about using weapons and taking lives, even in battle. He explained:

My dad bought this Ten Commandments and Lord’s Prayer illustrated on a nice frame, and I had looked at that picture of the Sixth Commandment, ‘Thou shalt not kill.’ There’s a picture that had Cain and he killed his brother Abel, and I wonder how in the world could a brother do such a thing? I’ve pictured Christ for savin’ life, I wanna be like Christ go savin’ life instead of takin’ life and that’s the reason I take up medicine.

Because of his convictions, he chose to enter the army medical corps. In this way, he could serve and save, rather than take lives. The army tried to send Doss to a conscientious objectors’ camp, but he protested, stating that he believed the war was just but that killing was wrong. He identified himself as a “conscientious cooperator”–not “objector”–and explained that he genuinely wanted to cooperate with the army in his service as a medic. In the end, the army did classify him as a “conscientious objector,” a label that Doss felt did not fairly represent him.

His fellow soldiers misunderstood him, calling him names like “Holy Joe” and “Holy Jesus.” They mocked his prayers and his compulsion to carry a Bible in his pocket. In the Conscientious Objector Documentary, Doss recalls what one soldier threatened: “I swear to God Doss, you go into combat, I gonna shoot you.”

And yet, not only did none of Doss’s fellow soldiers shoot him in combat, they came to regard his convictions and his other-worldly courage as a type of sincere and unusual heroism. The battle at the Maeda Escarpment, or Hacksaw Ridge,  in April 1945 was a battle for such a hero. “Ridge” sounds like such an innocuous word. In reality, the “ridge” was a 400 cliff at the top of which were Japanese machine gun nests and deadly booby traps. Hacksaw Ridge was the key to taking Okinawa and, by anyone’s assessment, an impossible mission. Doss’s battalion was charged with this mission.

Being a medic put a target on Doss’s back, for medics were particularly targeted by the Japanese soldiers. This, coupled with the fact that he did not carry a weapon, made Doss a literal sitting duck. Still, he refused to leave  injured and dying soldiers behind, and each time he saved a life, he prayed aloud, “Lord, please help me get one more.” Time after time, life after life, Doss worked miracles as he maneuvered through Japanese booby traps, incoming gun and artillery fire, charging enemy soldiers who emerged from a network of tunnels and from behind piles of dead bodies. The medic without a gun did not take a single life and, after hours of applying tourniquets,  administering morphine, holding bloodied hands and praying for desperate souls, he ultimately saved an estimated 75 lives.

Doss’s only son, Desmond Jr. told People Magazine that countless Hollywood agents and screen writers visited their home, soliciting permission to use his father’s story in feature films. Although Desmond Sr. was again willing to cooperate, his son said that “The reason he declined is that none of them adhered to his one requirement: that it be accurate.” And so he held to his convictions until Mel Gibson agreed to “his one requirement.” Although his father did not live to see Hacksaw Ridge, his son revealed that it was “remarkable, the level of accuracy in adhering to the principal of the story in this movie.”

And so I sat in the darkened theater clapping for Desmond Doss, for all that he was and all that he did. Every muscle in my body ached for release, for I had been curled and pressed into my theater seat, one compact ball of tension. A few times, my arms burst from the ball to cover my face, but for a good portion of the movie,  I hugged my knees to my chest. I made myself as small as I could and barely breathed.

It has been weeks now since I viewed this movie, but I cannot stop thinking about Desmond Doss, the “conscientious cooperator.” On my grown-up Christmas list, I’m making a big plea for more conscientious cooperators. Truthfully, our world could use them. Imagine a world peopled with individuals who, like Doss, hold fast to their convictions but also commit themselves and their lives to working within the system, conscientiously cooperating rather than objecting. Imagine these people from all walks of life, all political, social, and religious persuasions, all ages and races who submit to the prevailing legal, social, political, educational, and governmental systems even when they sincerely find these systems broken or simply wrong. Imagine them cooperating within these systems to the extent that they can (without abandoning their principles) to elicit real change. And finally, imagine these folks, unarmed, their backs and hearts bent to this task, pledging daily, “Lord, please help me get one more.”

In a world in which too many are armed with wicked words and ways, we can all benefit from a hefty dose of conscientious cooperation. Cliched as it sounds, it does start with me. Before I  look around for evidence of more Desmond Dosses to grace our world, I need to look to my own heart and head. Honestly, too often I find myself wallowing in murky pools of self-pity and futility. I am one ordinary midwestern woman, now retired. What can I really do? In the whole scheme of things, my presence and efforts seem puny, at best, and utterly futile, at worst. And then the voice of Desmond Doss chastens me: “Lord, help me get one more.” One became two, two became three, and then there were 75 living, breathing men who owed their lives to their medic.

Even a retired grandmother in rural Iowa can conscientiously cooperate within the systems around me to pull a Desmond Doss. I can reach one, help one, perhaps even save one. Most certainly if I can, anyone can. As we lament the current state our of country, our communities, and perhaps our lives, we can throw down whatever arms we have been using (or perhaps, dreaming of using) and, armed with conviction and cooperation, we can get to work. I’m pretty confident that Desmond Doss would expect no less.

This is the time of year when children whose parents have purchased an Elf on the Shelf (or several) anxiously await their arrival. And for veteran parents with returning Elves on the Shelves? This is the time of year when they privately cringe at the prospect of hiding their elves in ever more creative places and poses. For every parent who posts clever pix of their elves perched on toilet seats, pencils with fishing line attached to their hands as makeshift poles, and Goldfish crackers floating in the toilet bowl, there are–undoubtedly–thousands more who secretly mock the Pinterest posts and youtube videos made by over-zealous Elf Masters. For these parents, Elves on the Shelves are but one more duty in their pre-Christmas list of things-to-do.

As one who had a revolving bevy of interesting (o.k., weird) dolls in her classroom for years, I admit that I really like my grandchildren’s elves, Elfie and Spencer. Of course, I am the retired grandmother and not the working mother who must ensure that Elfie and Spencer do NOT, under any circumstances, remain in the same spot and position for two consecutive days. Because inquiring minds want to know why Elfie and Spencer did not move. Are they sick? Did they lose their magic? Are they–gasp–no longer living??? Inquiring minds want to know, and placating these inquiring minds generally takes more time and energy than just hiding the elves in the first place.

My granddaughter, Gracyn, is smitten with elves. All kinds, big and small, official Elves on the Shelves and unofficial others. She loves elves and the idea of elves. And I love that she does. Every Christmas season, she covets the special times when she is allowed to touch and play with her elves. To gain this privilege–because if you touch them, they lose their magic–she writes heartfelt notes requesting that, for one day, she might be allowed to touch Elfie and Spencer without harming their magic. Yesterday was just such a day, and her excitement was palpable as we drove home from her late afternoon dance class. When she got home–she explained during the drive–she could actually touch and hold her elves until it was bedtime. When she got home, her day would get much, much better.

At age 7, Gracyn believes in Santa, in the magic of her elves, and in the general magic of the Christmas season. She oohed and aahed as we passed a farm house with a modest display of holiday lights. If they gave holiday light awards for country houses, she said, this house would be a winner for sure. As I thought back to the magnificent, over-the-top light displays of seasons past, I could only smile and say a winner for sure.

Gracyn loves to make and to wrap presents, relishing each piece of tape she puts on each gift (and if one piece of tape is good, two, three, or maybe four pieces of tape are even better). And if we run out of gifts to wrap? Not to worry. Gracyn will find random toys or items to wrap. Wouldn’t it be funny if we wrapped up some cat food for Papa? she offers with glee. Or let’s wrap this Playdoh for my dad. He would never expect this! Talking and wrapping, her eyes bright with anticipation, she is more lovely than I can say. Oh, that these times would never end and that her eyes would ever shine with the promise and joy of the season.

Last night, when her brother in his three-year-old zeal and naivety removed Spencer’s hat (which was glued to his head), she burst into tears that only come from genuine heartbreak. Griffin, you tore Spencer’s hat right off his head! He’s ruined! Grandpa quickly retrieved Spencer and went to work on re-hatting the poor elf. Her mom promised to glue his hat back on and that he would be just like new, just like his old self. Between sobs, she could only nod as tears continued to drip from her chin.

Because I am a grandmother and an active elf fan myself, I bought Elfie a new Christmas dress. Delighted, Gracyn wrapped it a plain piece of computer paper on which she wrote: Here is a new dress for you. Hope you are wearing it tomorrow! The next morning, Elfie hung from the top branches of the Christmas tree sporting her brand new Christmas attire. She looked marvelous, we all agreed. Hanging from another branch, Spencer was dressed to impress in a leather bomber jacket and aviator goggles. And standing at the base of the tree was Gracyn, her head tilted back, her eyes fixed on the elf pair, and a smile that grandly announced: Christmas really is the most wonderful time of the year. 

In the Sanctuary of Elves, anything is possible, and everything is probable: the magic of snow flurries, the magic of the first seasonal mug of hot chocolate with as many marshmallows as you want, the magic of singing Christmas carols in the car with your mom, the magic of turning the lights off and letting the glow of your Christmas tree flood the room, the magic of setting up your family’s nativity scene, in carefully tucking the baby Jesus into his manger, and the magic of special visitors–elves, reindeer, Santa, friends and family.

I admit that when I was working, I desperately needed daily doses of magic during the Christmas season. As I listened to colleagues boast of having finished their shopping and wrapping before Thanksgiving, I feigned appreciation. Often I broke out into a cold sweat when someone exclaimed only ___ days until Christmas! And when friends and colleagues showed up with plates of exquisitely frosted and decorated homemade sugar cookies, I wanted to admit holiday defeat (after I’d eaten a dozen for supper, that is). On these days, I needed to look through my children’s and now grandchildren’s eyes at the world around me. In short, I needed magic.

Tomorrow night, Gracyn will come over to help us decorate our tree. We will have hot chocolate and play Christmas music. I will let her choose the ornaments and place them wherever she wishes (many apologies to my own children who never let me forget that I often redecorated the tree after they had gone to bed!) Magic will abound in our ordinary home with our ordinary tree and our menagerie of ornaments, old and older.

If I had to describe loveliness, I would say that it is the flush in Gracyn’s cheeks and her sweet hands as she cradles her elves for those few precious moments when she’s been granted this gift. And if Spencer and Elfie are the bearers of such magic and loveliness, I say bring on the elves! 

 John 11: 21-25

 “Lord,” Martha said to Jesus, “if you had been here, my brother would not have died.  But I know that even now God will give you whatever you ask.”

 Jesus said to her, “Your brother will rise again.”

 Martha answered, “I know he will rise again in the resurrection at the last day.”

 Jesus said to her, “I am the resurrection and the life. The one who believes in me will live, even though they die; and whoever lives by believing in me will never die. Do you believe this?”

Then Jesus said, “Did I not tell you that if you believe, you will see the glory of God?”

John 11:41-44

So they took away the stone. Then Jesus looked up and said, “Father, I thank you that you have heard me. I knew that you always hear me, but I said this for the benefit of the people standing here, that they may believe that you sent me.”

When he had said this, Jesus called in a loud voice, “Lazarus, come out!” The dead man came out, his hands and feet wrapped with strips of linen, and a cloth around his face.

Jesus said to them, “Take off the grave clothes and let him go.”

Dear Shannon:

Do you remember Lazarus? Can you feel the grief of his sisters, their brother sealed in the darkness of death? As you grieve today–for whatever or whomever–will you not take off your grave clothes? Will you not go into the world with my promise of resurrected life, resurrected hope, and everlasting mercy? Will you not follow Me, for I am the resurrection and the life.

And will you not remember your own words, the story of a boy named Lazarus born in another continent, in another time, and resurrected into new life? There are resurrections all around you, Shannon, if you will have but eyes to see. Remember this and live the life I have promised you. Abundantly, surely, freely.

With love,

Jesus

Lazarus
The day you were born,

your mother labored for hours before

your father returned from the fields

at dusk.

In the near dark,

he was met by two goats,

a flock of guinea hens,

and an old woman from the village.

Tucked in the crook of her arm:

a brown bundle.

“A boy,” she announced,

and your father unwrapped the rice sackcloth that covered you

to find two fists, like sleeping snails,

pressed against your face

and a mouth, sucking air.

As he moved to enter the hut, though,

the old woman blocked the door,

tried to press you into his arms and said,

“She’s gone.”

But your father did not take you.

Instead, he left the way he came,

losing himself in the maize at twilight.

Seeing this,

the old woman closed the door to your hut

and began the slow walk up the mountain.

When she could only see shadows and shapes in the dark—

wild baboons or spirits—

she found the clearing.

There, according to tribal custom,

she placed you on a ridge of flat, gray stone:

an ancient altar of sacrifice.

Before she left,

she spoke your name into the night

then disappeared into the village of evening fires and voices

below.

Your eyes drank in the dark,

and you were not afraid.

Moments later, the missionary who had followed,

keeping a safe distance behind,

crept from the iroko trees,

took you in her arms,

and ran.

No one knows how far or how long she ran.

But she ran.

Until somewhere at sometime,

she stopped

and found her way back to Jalingo,

to husband and home.

And there, in the corner of her sleeping room,

in the cradle she slept in as a baby,

she covered you with hope

and spoke your name into life:

Lazarus.

***This story is based on a true account that I heard while I was in Africa. The missionary, a quiet, faithful                    Nigerian woman, was our guide and host for our time there. Her son flourishes in a loving home. 

Dear Shannon and Fellow Believers:

Do you remember the woman caught in adultery? The woman whom the teachers of the law and the Pharisees brought to me? The woman who stood in the midst of her judges and executioners, her life and her heart in her hands. The woman whose sins had become public, naming her shame and reducing her to yet another case to be tried by the Law. That woman.

And do you remember that in the midst of those self-righteous men, I knelt and began to write in the sand? Still, these angry men persisted, clenching stones in their trembling fists, their eyes without light. It was then that I stopped writing, stood, and said, Let any one of you who is without sin be the first to throw a stone at her.

I knelt again, tracing words in the sand, waiting. One by one, these men left, leaving only the woman in my presence. And do you remember my words to her? Has no one condemned you? Then neither do I condemn you. Go now and leave your life of sin.

I want you to remember my words today as you elect a new leader for your country. There have been many who have condemned these candidates, and there will be just as many who will continue their condemnation regardless of the outcome. If either candidate was brought before me, my words would be the same today as they were that day when I knelt in the sand.

Let any one of you who is without sin be the first to throw a stone at her or him. Has no one condemned you? Then neither do I condemn you. Go now and leave your life of sin. 

You know that condemnation is quick and easy. It has filled your airwaves, your mailboxes, and your conversations. Today, and in the days to come, I ask you to examine your own hearts before you pick up a stone. Today, and the days to come, I will not condemn this man or woman, but I will charge them with sinning no more. As leaders and those who claim to believe in Me, I will convict them to live and lead justly and mercifully, as I would, as I have commanded.

And you? I charge you with lovingly, but consciously, holding them accountable for their promises and–more importantly–for following Me. (And just in case I need to spell this out, holding leaders accountable does not include rioting, speaking in hatred, threatening, or giving ultimatums. If you need help in this regard, look to my servant, Martin Luther King Jr. He knew how to hold to righteous convictions without resorting to violence. He got it right.)

Continue to pray for your leaders and your country. Pray for your own mercy and discernment. And hold fast, always, to my promise: In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world.

In love,

Jesus

J. D. Vance, like many–including me–see a culture in crisis. Towards the end of Hillbilly Elegy, he cites a study from The Pew Economic Mobility Project in which they examined how Americans evaluated their economic futures and prospects. He writes:

There is no group of Americans more pessimistic than working-class whites. Well over half of blacks, Latinos, and college-educated whites expect that their children will fare better economically than they have. Among working-class whites, only 44 percent share that expectation. Even more surprising, 42 percent of working-class whites—by far the highest number in the survey—report that their lives are less economically successful than those of their parents’.

No group of Americans more pessimistic than working-class whites? Contrary to what most Americans undoubtedly believe, the pessimism, the malaise, and the sense of futility that pervades the working-class whites are even more significant than that of other groups. In the past decade of my teaching career, I have witnessed many Latino parents (mother and father) faithfully attend parent teacher conferences. Even when language barriers prevented us from communicating with more than a few words, their hope for their children’s future and their steadfast belief that this future would be better than theirs was palpably evident.

I wish I could say the same about most of the white working-class poor students and their parents. If a parent or guardian attended conferences, it was generally just one. A mother, usually–sometimes a father or grandparent. I recall a conference with a mother of one of my male students in which I had to tell her that her son was failing because he simply couldn’t stay awake in class. He slept daily, his hood pulled over his head, which rested squarely on the flat of his desk. He drooled and sometimes snored. His mother grinned and said, “You know, I can’t keep him awake at home either. He likes to play video games late into the night.” What was I to say to a woman who refused to parent her own son, to set reasonable limits on computer use, or–if all else failed–to literally pull the plug? When I asked what her son’s plans after high school graduation were, again she grinned, shrugged her shoulders, and said, “I don’t know.” I’m sure that she didn’t, and I’m sure that her son hadn’t thought much beyond purchasing his next video game or beating the next level on his current game.

As a second semester junior with a single parent on a limited income, my student had real opportunities for post-secondary education: scholarships for those with legitimate need, assistance securing and completing his financial aid forms, academic counseling and scheduling of classes, grants–not loans–and continued financial and academic support in the college he would attend. And yet, he would essentially thumb his nose at all of these, choosing instead to remain with his mother, sleep during the day, and play video games at night. Neither he nor his mother believed that he would live a life that was more economically successful than his parent’s. In truth, neither gave much thought to the future at all.

Vance laments the futility and instability present in many working-class poor homes. He describes the extent of this instability in his book:

By almost any measure, American working-class families experience a level of instability unseen elsewhere in the world. Consider, for instance, Mom’s revolving door of father figures. No other country experiences anything like this. In France, the percentage of children exposed to three or more maternal partners is 0.5 percent—about one in two hundred. The second highest share is 2.6 percent, in Sweden, or about one in forty. In the United States, the figure is a shocking 8.2 percent—about one in twelve—and the figure is even higher in the working class.

Ultimately, he claims that  “Chaos begets chaos. Instability begets instability. Welcome to family life for the American hillbilly.” And, as a natural consequence, welcome to life in many communities, businesses, health and social service agencies, schools, etc.

This chaos, Vance explains, is often the cause of what psychologists currently call ACEs, “adverse childhood experiences.” These are traumatic childhood events, physical, psychological and/or emotional, whose effects last long into adulthood. Vance identifies some of the most common ACEs:

• Being sworn at, insulted, or humiliated by parents
• Being pushed, grabbed, or having something thrown at you
• Feeling that your family didn’t support each other
• Having parents who were separated or divorced
• Living with an alcoholic or a drug user
• Living with someone who was depressed or attempted suicide
• Watching a loved one be physically abused

You don’t have to be a psychologist or expert to recognize the pervasive presence of ACEs in lives all around you. Nor do you have to be a pediatrician or medical specialist to see the consequences of such childhood trauma on cognitive and emotional development. Vance explains that he and his sister were casualties of many ACEs, which resulted in a “fight or flight” response to any type of conflict. When I think of the countless students I’ve had over the course of my career, there were far too many that, like Vance, either fought their way out of conflict or simply ran away. In either case, it goes without saying that it was difficult–if not impossible–to teach such students. And most days, I’m ashamed to say, it was difficult to like and care for them.

To conclude his book, Vance writes:

People sometimes ask whether I think there’s anything we can do to “solve” the problems of my community. I know what they’re looking for: a magical public policy solution or an innovation government program. But these problems of family, faith, and culture aren’t like a Rubik’s Cube, and I don’t think that solutions (as most understand the term) really exist. A good friend, who worked for a time in the White House and cares deeply about the plight of the working class, once told me, “The best way to look at this might be to recognize that you probably can’t fix these things. They’ll always be around. But maybe you can put your thumb on the scale a little for the people at the margins.”

In his own life, Vance admits that “there were many thumbs put on my scale”: his Mamaw and Papaw, his Aunt Wee and her family, his sister, Lindsay, his mother (in spite of her drug addiction, she instilled the value of education in him), the men in his mother’s lives (who came and went but were generally kind), and countless teachers, friends, and community members. Vance credits these individuals with helping him defy the hillbilly odds: graduation from Yale Law School, marriage, and meaningful, stable employment.

After talking with his former high school teachers, Vance writes: “So I think that any successful policy program would recognize what my old high school’s teachers see every day: that the real problem for so many of these kids is what happens (or doesn’t happen) at home.”

And there it is: the proverbial elephant in the room. While many have turned to teachers, social workers, government agents and agencies as whipping boys for the crisis in our culture, there are far too few who have been willing to look to the dissolution of the family as the most significant cause of the chaos, instability, and futility that threatens the very culture in which many of us have flourished. The very culture that, for all its warts, is still the legacy that most of us hope to leave our children and their children.

Ultimately, Vance claims that “we hillbillies are the toughest goddamned people on this earth.” And then he asks if hillbilllies are tough enough to care for their own, those who are often left without love or support, if they are tough enough to “build a church that forces kids like me to engage with the world rather than withdraw from it,”and if they are tough enough to “look ourselves in the mirror and admit that our conduct harms our children.”

We all would do well to ask ourselves these same questions, for it will take tough individuals to save a culture in crisis. I admire and respect J. D. Vance more than I can say. In the fallen world in which we live, he recognizes the fallibility of human nature, the sin of learned helplessness, addictions, indulgences, and blame. He understands the power and necessity of human agency, for if individuals cannot see themselves as agents of change–in their own lives and their culture–we are essentially throwing in the towel and calling our culture dead. Time of death: imminent.

Vance argues that “public policy can help, but there is no government that can fix these problems for us.” He proposes that hillbillies need to “stop blaming Obama or Bush or faceless companies and ask ourselves what we can do to make things better.”  Finally, he asks that as hillbillies look inwardly to help themselves, others look outwardly, beyond themselves and their situations, to genuinely understand the real challenges that face hillbillies like him. And then to act with compassion and urgency.

Regardless of who becomes our next president, this cultural battle will ultimately be won or lost by individuals like me. Like you. Because we are in the trenches daily. And, like it or not, we have been called to fight. At the very least, we have been called to put our thumb[s] on the scale a little for the people at the margins.

Obviously, the idea that there aren’t structural barriers facing both the white and black poor is ridiculous.  Mamaw recognized that our lives were harder than rich white people, but she always tempered her recognition of the barriers with a hard-noses willfulness: “never be like those a–holes who think the deck is stacked against them.”  In hindsight, she was this incredibly perceptive woman.  She recognized the message my environment had for me, and she actively fought against it.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                             J.D. Vance in an interview with Rod Dreher, The American Conservative, July 22, 2016

The dedication at the front of J.D. Vance’s Hillbilly Elegy: A Memoir of a Family and a Culture in Crisis reads: For Mamaw and Papaw, my very own hillbilly terminators

Now a former Marine and Yale Law School graduate, Vance recognizes the need for hillbilly terminators like his Mamaw and Papaw in a culture that nutures, accepts, and–tragically–promotes victimhood. “Never be like those a-holes who think the deck is stacked against them,” his Mamaw admonished him. With the presidential election only days away, if it were possible–and Vance’s Mamaw were still living–I would run her campaign for President of the United States. Now she would be a remarkable first female president. Preach it, Mamaw, preach it.

Vance’s grandmother understood, all too well, the challenges facing her family. And yet, as matriach, she provided a faithful foundation for her family, grounding their love with fierce love and loyalty. She refused to see herself or her family as victims of a deck that was stacked against them. Through the years of what Vance called a “revolving door of father figures,” Mamaw was always there, opening her door and her heart to Vance, his sister, and others.

Still, in his memoir, Vance laments that he “hated the disruption,” “hated how often these boyfriends would walk out of my life just as I’d begun to like them.” As a result, he reports that he and his sister never learned how men should treat women. He writes that his sister once confided “men will disappear at the drop of a hat. They don’t care about their kids; they don’t provide; they just disappear, and its not that hard to make them go.”

As I read through Vance’s mother’s history of husbands and boyfriends who came and went, I could not help see the faces of countless students I have had over the course of my career. In one of the my senior high school classes, one of my students told me that he was dreading his graduation ceremony. When I asked why, he said, “If it rains, and we have to hold graduation in the gym, they will issue each student six tickets. Then, my mom and my dad–who are divorced–will fight over who gets the tickets. It will be an awful mess, and I just don’t want to deal with it.”

Like Vance, many of my students live in environments in which constant fighting, criticizing, screaming, and threatening are standard fare. Like Vance, these students split their time, their possessions, and their hearts between a mother and a father who may not even speak to each other. They leave their math book in their father’s car and report that they will not be able to get it for two weeks; they fail to finish their essay because they were left to cook, bathe, and watch over their siblings while their mother goes out with friends. This is their life, such that it is.

In Hillbilly Elegy, Vance writes, “We don’t study as children, and we don’t make our kids study when we’re parents. Our kids perform poorly in school. We might get angry with them, but we never give them the tools—like peace and quiet at home—to succeed.” When he returned to his Ohio hometown, he talked with one of his high school teachers who admitted that “They want us to be shepherds to these kids. But no one wants to talk about the fact that many of them are raised by wolves.”

I can personally testify to teachers who have spent their careers trying to shepherd students who have been “raised by wolves.” There is no instructional strategy, no educational incentive, no amount of time or effort that can effectively erase the damage done by wolves. Don’t misunderstand me: I have endorsed and promoted strategies, incentives, and relationships in hopes of making a real difference in students’ lives. Undoubtedly, there is work to be done to improve our schools. What I truly appreciate about Vance’s memoir, however, is that he refuses to blame teachers and schools for the failure of many students to graduate, to pursue lives, educational opportunities, and careers beyond their communities and beyond the expectations of their working class poor families.

Honestly, I wish more politicians, educational “experts”, reporters, and citizens would take an honest look at the baggage that many kids bring with them to school. And then I wish they would spend a week, a month–better yet an entire semester–trying their hand at removing this baggage and turning these kids’ lives around. These individuals are those who have criticized teachers, have told them how to fix these students’ educational and personal problems, so I’d like to watch them at work. Walk a mile in teachers’ shoes. Walk a mile in social workers’ shoes. Even better, walk a mile in the shoes of the poor. Take up the mantle of their lives. Live within their barriers.

Vance writes:

If you believe that hard work pays off, then you work hard; if you think it’s hard to get ahead even when you try, then why try at all? Similarly, when people do fail, this mind-set allows them to look outward. I once ran into an old acquaintance at a Middletown bar who told me that he had recently quit his job because he was sick of waking up early. I later saw him complaining on Facebook about the “Obama economy” and how it had affected his life. I don’t doubt that the Obama economy has affected many, but this man is assuredly not among them. His status in life is directly attributable to the choices he’s made, and his life will improve only through better decisions. But for him to make better choices, he needs to live in an environment that forces him to ask tough questions about himself. There is a cultural movement in the white working class to blame problems on society or the government, and that movement gains adherents by the day.

 A cultural movement in the white working class to blame problems on society or the government? A movement that gains adherents by the day? Oh yeah. If the society, the government, the schools, the police, the employers are to blame, then how easy it becomes to claim victim status. How easy to turn outward when you might first turn inward. How convenient to quit because you are sick of waking up early, of being asked to put your cell phone away, of actually having to work.

Again, I am aware of the real limitations facing many of the working class poor, the hillbillies and rednecks. Over the years, however, I have questioned whether or not our entitlements are truly helping. Vance’s words ring true for me, for I have had countless students look me squarely in the face and refuse to work, refuse to even try. Even when they are physically in class, they are neither mentally nor emotionally there. And yet they expect to pass, to graduate with their peers, to essentially get something for nothing. Because, as they glibly remind us, we owe them. A lot.

Many of these students have never experienced the genuine joy and authentic sense of purpose found in meaningful work. My fear is that most never will. They are being entitled to depend on others, most of whom are middle class individuals who will work hard for their own children and for others’ children. They are learning and embracing helplessness. And they are becoming particularly good at this.

In Hillbilly Elegy, Vance elaborates on this helplessness:

Psychologists call it “learned helplessness” when a person believes, as I did during my youth, that the choices I made had no effect on the outcomes in my life. From Middletown’s world of small expectations to the constant chaos of our home, life had taught me that I had no control. Mamaw and Papaw had saved me from succumbing entirely to that notion, and the Marine Corps broke new ground. If I had learned helplessness at home, the Marines were teaching learned willfulness.

Learned willfulness. I like that. Imagine a society in which we committed our time and resources to promoting and teaching learned willfulness. I can imagine it, although I am painfully aware that many in our current culture would find such work discriminatory and altogether unfair. It is interesting that Vance identifies the mores of his grandparents, clearly members of the working poor, but members who held different values than other working class poor. He writes:

Not all of the white working class struggles. I knew even as a child that there were two separate sets of mores and social pressures. My grandparents embodied one type: old-fashioned, quietly faithful, self-reliant, hardworking. My mother and, increasingly, the entire neighborhood embodied another: consumerist, isolated, angry, distrustful.

Depression era stories are peopled with individuals like Vance’s Mamaw and Papaw. My great grandparents, grandparents, and parents began their lives as working class poor. They were, as Vance writes, quietly faithful, self-reliant, hardworking. Certainly, there are individuals like this today. We just don’t hear much about them, for the stories of the consumerist, isolated, angry, and distrustful abound. They dominate the news and drive political, social, and educational policy.

In his interview with Rod Dreher, Vance said:

The refusal to talk about individual agency is in some ways a consequence of a very detached elite, one too afraid to judge and consequently too handicapped to really understand. At the same time, poor people don’t like to be judged, and a little bit of recognition that life has been unfair to them goes a long way. […] But there’s this weird refusal to deal with the poor as moral agents in their own right.

Perhaps we would all do well to compassionately and conscientiously find ways to deal with the poor as moral agents in their own right rather than romanticizing and stereotyping them. It goes without saying that this would be much more difficult–emotionally, socially, educationally, and politically. It would be messier and more personal. And above all, it would require people of faith to seriously examine the “help” they provide and fail to provide.

In the Part 3 of The Sanctuary of Hillbilly, I will share J. D. Vance’s suggestions for “helping” the working class poor.

Vance, J. D. (2016). Hillbilly Elegy: A Memoir of a Family and Culture in Crisis. HarperCollins.