Victims, Change Agents and Babies

There are, of course, many more than two kinds of people in the world, but it can be fun and sometimes educational to think of people as if they all fall into one of two groups. So, bear with me for a bit and let’s think of people as being either a victim or a change agent. This thought occurred to me the other day as I was thinking about our newest descendant’s future.

I am thinking mostly in terms of how people see themselves. Just listening to people talk, a lot of them seem to see themselves as victims of whatever comes along. They tend to look for the ways in which they are personally negatively affected by whatever happens. It is a “Woe is Me” lens through which to view the world. Not to mention how it affects people around them, it must be a miserable way to live. Though some of them do seem to enjoy it.

On the other side are those who see themselves as change agents. I suppose you could further divide the change agents into subgroups. For example, bullies might see themselves that way, but I like to think about the change agents who use positive means – those, influenced by Jesus, who approach the world and all its troubles looking for where they might make a positive difference. Using gentleness, kindness, forgiveness and patience as their tools, they approach each situation looking for ways to make it better. My prayer for little Ginny is that she will be a change agent and not a victim. 

[She is, of course much cuter than this clip art.]

Alex

The Quilt #5 - Alex

Alex has always been a delight to us. Our first grandbaby. And I guess we will always think of him that way no matter how much he grows up. 

He had a tiny little time-out chair in the hallway of our big old house on Robert Street and he loved it. Sometimes he would just stop by there and sit down for a visit. He never minded time outs. He would just turn loose his amazing imagination and let it soar. 

We have a picture on the wall here of him sitting in the kitchen window with the sheer window curtains pulled across him, just staring off into space. I have often wondered what is out there that he could see, and we could not.

He and his Granny snuck off to the attic one day to make me this t-shirt. Those are his handprints. On the back it said “World’s Best Grandpa” all spelled out in Granny’s handwriting.

I could write a whole book about Alex, and now that I think of it, I may do that someday. One of my favorite times with him was when the two of us took a road trip to Boone, North Carolina. On Robert Street, when he was about two, he fell in love with an audio tape I picked up in a specialty store in downtown St. Paul. It was Ladysmith Black Mambazo, still in the earliest days of their popularity.  

Several years later I learned that they were going to perform at Appalachian State University in Boone. It was 748 miles away, an eleven-hour drive, but we took off. He must have been about nine years old. It was a great concert and a delightful time. His arm was in a sling at the time. He had broken it in Minnesota before he came down to visit us for the summer. His last words before it broke were “Hey, watch this.”

On the way home we stopped by the Kennedy Space Center to watch them launch a manned satellite.

Alex is still a delight. His relatively new wife, Abigail, and his brand new daughter Ginny are his driving forces now and it suits him well. Dream on, Alex.