Parable of the Ice Cream

As educators, we know that some days are more challenging than others and sometimes we need some inspiration just to get through the day. As Catholic educators, we are called to teach as Jesus taught, so I’d like to share a parable. Probably one you haven’t heard before. It’s the parable of the ice cream.

A few years ago, I set out to perform community service at St. Vincent’s Day Home. This historic pre-school had served disadvantaged families in Oakland for decades. However, it was pretty much the last thing I felt like doing that day. Behind in my work, I was looking forward to taking the day to catch up on the emails that had accumulated in my in-box. The Campus Ministry team explained that we all needed to model service to our students and that my presence would send an important message. I remember sighing at the driver as I climbed into the van that took us to the school.

I was placed in a classroom of four-year olds. A feeling of panic swept through my body as they escorted me into the room and closed the door behind me. I sort of forgot what four year olds were like as it had been years since I had spent much time with preschoolers. As soon as I sat down, I was peppered with questions with little opportunity for a response, “Hi, my name is Gerard, what’s yours? This is my teddy bear. I brought him for show and tell. Do you have kids? I have a cousin named George but he got in trouble the other day…” Gerald had a unique gift of combining separate sentences into one long question, without taking a breath between his thoughts. I smiled quietly and followed Gerald’s directions more so than the instructions from the adults. Gerald and I become fast friends as he introduced me to his classmates and showed me the ropes including proper cubby use, potty location, and the butterflies they painted the day before. It was a busy classroom and I longed for nap time after only an hour.

Soon, we lined up to move outside to the playground. As the designated ball monitor, I felt compelled to initiate a basketball game. I realized that I had overestimated the eye-hand coordination of my young classmates. Throw the ball…and they miss…throw the ball and they miss…throw the ball and they miss…pretend to throw the ball—place it in their hands – and everybody celebrates.

After our basketball game, Angela, a shy diminutive girl with a crooked smile and fluffy pink jacket, assertively took me by the hand and informed me that we were going to play house. She guided me away from the crowd and over to the corner of the yard. We sat on a low stone wall that looked like something out of a storybook illustration. She announced, “You’re the mom and I’m the little girl.” I said “OK.” Then she just stared at me and I stared back not quite sure where this game was going to take us. I smiled, she smiled. I scratched my head, she scratched hers. Then, I asked her if she wanted a bowl of ice cream. She skeptically peered into my eyes and answered with confidence, “sure.”

I positioned Angela in front of me and asked her to show me her bowl. Again, her eyes pierced mine as I helped form her hands in the shape of a pretend bowl. Her tiny hands cradled her bowl as she anticipated my next words. I asked if she wanted chocolate or vanilla ice cream and she answered, “Chocolate,” her voice rising at the end of the word as if she were asking a question. I flatly responded “OK” and then leaned over to scoop the pretend ice cream from the pretend carton. Angela watched intently as I dropped each scoop of ice cream into her bowl. I paused and then looked at her and inquired if she wanted chocolate syrup. She nodded and watched as I drizzled it dramatically into her bowl. I continued by asking if she wanted sprinkles…whipped cream… and a cherry. With each inquiry, the delightful little girl with the fluffy pink jacket nodded with a smile and analyzed each move. I scattered sprinkles, shot whipped cream in circles over her bowl, and topped the dessert with a cherry. I told her that I was going to give her an extra cherry since she had been so good. She snuggled closer to me, started eating her ice cream, and continued chatting with me as if we were dining together at an elegant creamery.

Gerald approached and asked Angela what she was eating. She responded, “ice cream,” her words jumbled as if her mouth was full. With his hands at his hips, Gerald watched as Angela continued chewing and he asked “where’d you get it?” Angela nudged me without looking up and said, “Lisa gave it to me!” Gerald moved his stare to me and asked if he could have some too.

So, I lined Gerald up in front of me and shaped his hand to form the bowl. I asked him what kind of ice cream he wanted, and he asked if he could have a scoop of each. I agreed and continued asking him for his order. I offered him syrup, sprinkles, whipped cream, and a cherry. With each topping he shifted his look from me to Angela as she dipped her spoon into her bowl and seemed to enjoy each bite more than the one before.

When Gerald’s order was finally complete, he took his bowl and his excitement and sat next to Angela on the stone wall. The two of them continued chatting as they consumed each bite and I smiled as I watched them in all innocence truly take pleasure in the moment.

Soon, my reverie was interrupted by another child asking if she could have some ice cream. Again, I helped her to form her bowl and offered the same options as the first two. As I continued with this routine, I looked up to see a line of four-year olds standing patiently waiting their turn for ice cream.

On about the sixth order, one of my previous customers tugged on my coat and sadly looked down at her bowl of ice cream. She informed me that I had forgotten to give her sprinkles and asked if she could have some. I apologized, scattered her sprinkles and gave her extra whipped cream for the inconvenience. The happy customer strolled back to her place on the wall.

I continued scooping up ice cream until every customer was served. The amazing sense of patience among these small children impressed me. The line was long, but each child waited quietly with anticipation of their special dessert and each taking their place on the storybook wall to share in the ice cream experience.

When I had finished scooping, I again sat next to Angela on the wall and she simply looked up at me and smiled as if she knew all along where our game of house was leading. I glanced down the wall of children, swinging their legs, chatting with friends, and engaging in a joyful experience that would give pause to the most serious of adults.

In my reflection, I longed for those days of innocence and simplicity. I appreciated the challenges that these children would face in their lifetimes, and wished that ice cream could fill those days with hope.

I thought about the wonder of imagination and the all too often absence of that magic in our adult world. At that moment, my preschool classmates had taught me the lesson of a lifetime – It takes a leap of faith to appreciate the vision.

During the times when I doubt myself, I think back on that day on the storybook wall serving ice cream and watching a line of four-year olds taking a leap of faith – and I smile.

Obstacles to God’s Friendship

I stared at the box sitting in the front passenger seat. I wondered if I needed to fasten the seat belt around it. Then I simply shook my head – as if in disbelief of the situation I was facing. In slow motion, I gently leaned in and rested my forehead against the steering wheel. It had been a long five days. As I squeezed my eyes shut, the scenes that would change my life - quickly flipped through my mind.

The Davis Volleyball tournament had started. I laughed when I arrived with the team to spend the long weekend. The dorms where we were staying looked exactly like the ones I lived in when I was in college – so after getting the girls settled - I called my old college roommate and we giggled about where I was staying and about the good times living in the dorms. I knew it was going to be a great weekend. After the first day, the team had won two out of the three matches and I was responsible for helping get the girls to dinner and to bed on time so they would be ready for the early wave of play the next day. The coach gave her pep talk, and then we all puff painted the ribbons they were going to wear in their hair – I smiled as the girls talked about how these ribbons would intimidate the other teams. I remember thinking that this is what childhood should be about – competitive hair ribbons and good 8th grade volleyball. Life was just about perfect and I was pretty lucky.

We were scheduled to leave for the gym at 7:00 am so I got up about 5:00 to shower and get everything ready for a long day in a hot gym. I was packing up bottles of water in the ice chest when the coach stepped into my room and told me I had a phone call down in the main office. I looked down and realized that I hadn’t plugged in my cell phone. I knew that my husband would want to know how the girls played the day before and I had forgotten to call him. I thought to myself – for God’s sake – did he really have to call so early to get the news from yesterday? As I walked down the stairs to the dorm office – I was thinking about how I would best frame the fact that I had failed to call – “We were really busy” I thought to myself – and come on – he had no idea about how much time that ribbon project took last night.

I picked up the phone and the student at the desk stepped away to give me some privacy. Mark’s voice sounded tired. He said he had bad news and I could hear him take a deep breath. He told me Jim died last night. I leaned against the wall and said “Oh no. Was he killed in a car accident – I always worried about him making a long drive for work sometimes.” Mark said he would tell me about it when I got on the road.

Jim was one of my best friends. I have a lot of friends – mostly women – but Jim was one of my only real guy friends. He talked me into coaching soccer after I was ranting that there were no female coaches – of course I had never played soccer or really even seen a game before – so he was my “assistant coach.” I blew the whistle and he coached and taught me to love the game. The week before he died – we were standing in church together – our kids were altar serving so it was just the two of us in the pew. He leaned over and asked…”Do you notice something about the drape on the altar?” He pointed to the long drape that was beautifully arranged around the crucifix and flashed me his mischievous smile. I glared at him because I knew he was going to say something that would make me laugh and … we were in church. I looked up at him and he said “check it out – it looks JUST like the MTV logo – get it – the cross is the T.”

I called Mark when I was on the road back home and asked him what happened – Mark knows me too well – I was not going to wait to hear the story of my friend. He said that Jim had not been killed in a car accident. “Lisa – I’m going to tell you this so you will be prepared when you drive up to the house. I need you to listen – but drive carefully. Jim took a rope and hanged himself. I’ll fill you in on the details when you get back – it’s been a long night and the family needs you. Please just concentrate on driving now and I’ll see you soon.” With that – I hung up and started thinking random thoughts. It’s funny how when tragedy hits – your mind wanders in so many directions. My first thought was – there was some mistake. My second thought however was – “How could God have let this happen?” That sort of became my refrain as I drove home.

I drove up to Jim’s house and there were several friends milling around the front yard. Everyone seemed to be in a daze. Mark looked like he had been hit by a train. The hug he gave me felt desperate. “I’m glad you’re here” he whispered in my ear. We walked away from the crowd and he started explaining what happened. “I got a call from Paulette around 2:00 am – she blurted out that she thought Jim had killed himself.” Mark went on to explain that Jim sent email messages to his wife Paulette, his dad, and a friend from college last night. It sounded like he was despondent and she worried that something had happened. She told Mark that Jim had gone to work and that she needed him to go to the office to see if he was OK. When Mark arrived - the street was filled with police cars and emergency vehicles. They couldn’t tell him what happened but that Jim had been taken to the hospital. When Mark and Paulette arrived, the doctor told them Jim was dead. The police filled in the story. Jim had called the police to report an intruder in the office – the officer explained that often happens when a person does not want family or friends to find the body. Jim was smart – he figured he had about 20 minutes before the police would find his office door --and his body -- so he rigged the rope and hanged himself before they arrived. Mark continued to let me know about the rest of the night – telling the kids, calling Jim’s parents, informing our friends, managing the gossip, and notifying the parish priest. He was right – it had been a long night. I was suddenly a long way from puff painting hair ribbons … and my lucky life.

Mark was spent - and I knew that it was my turn to move into crisis mode and help with all the details that come with death. Unfortunately, I had experience. My sister-in-law had died from cancer six months earlier and my grandmother had just passed away as well. I made the funeral arrangements and gave the eulogy for both services so I knew what the next few days were going to be like. But this was different. Jim had chosen to leave us and I didn’t know why.

I negotiated with the funeral director, picked up Jim’s personal belongings at the morgue, wrote the obituary, selected the readings and the songs for the memorial mass, pasted the collage of pictures together, and continued making phone calls to Jim’s friends and relatives – and I didn’t cry. I really didn’t have time – but the anger was growing inside – not at Jim – but at God. This really wasn’t fair and something was terribly wrong.

The day before the memorial, my friend told me about the song she was going to sing at Jim’s mass. She explained that the “Litany of the Saints” calls to all the saints to pray for us. She looked at me and softly said – it can be an emotional song. I thought to myself – OK – I’ll humor her and let her think that it’s emotional – when it’s really just a roll call of the saints. Sort of traditional – not really my style - but I figured I wasn’t going to argue with her and then we proofed the mass program and moved on with our discussion about arranging dinners for the family.

It turned out that the song was a pivotal moment for me. When she began to sing I realized that she was really calling on God to help us through this difficult situation. She called each saint by name and repeated the refrain “…pray for us… St. Peter and Paul…pray for us…St. Theresa and Mother Mary… pray for us…” The song seemed to last forever - and it was the first time I cried. I cried because I missed Jim and felt abandoned – but I also felt betrayed and abandoned by a God that I thought was there to protect me – and my friends. I saw a new face of God – and I changed.

So there I was…sitting in the car wondering if I needed to fasten the seat belt around the box that held Jim’s ashes. I’m a little embarrassed to admit that I yelled at him in the car that day. Staring at the box, I told him how disappointed I was and asked how he could do this to all of us. He didn’t answer. And then I felt sorry for him. For the hurt that he must have been feeling for a long time…for the pain he was in that we didn’t know about…for the sadness he must have felt in those last moments.

So it wasn’t his fault – the new face of God I saw was one that didn’t care to help him when he needed it most. I thought of the “Litany of the Saints” and how silly it seemed to call on them after Jim died – where were they when he needed them – in those final moments.

I started feeling like a jilted lover. One that put all my love into my relationship with God and he left me…left me cold and alone. God had broken my heart and it was a pain that couldn’t be soothed.

Over the next few months, I was in a difficult position. Sitting in church with my family - feeling like a total hypocrite - was probably the hardest thing for me. I had lost my faith in God – lost the friendship that I had enjoyed with God all my life. I was looking for answers everywhere and trying to explain. I wanted to be free from this religion that seemed so cruel. I felt a loss of innocence. Everything I thought I knew had changed…Life – and religion – was not as simple as I once believed.

My faith journey after Jim’s death was a long one. I slowly began to realize that God had not left me out in the cold alone. He was there listening and supporting me every day. I relied on prayer to bring me back to my lucky life.

Prayer is where I found peace – prayer is where I learned to forgive Jim. Yes, my faith had changed – I had changed.

Jim had been suffering for a long time – turning my anger to God was a way to ignore my guilt about not recognizing Jim’s pain before it was too late. God had not jilted me – God had guided me to a new freedom – a freedom to view my relationship with Him in a mature way.

I’ve come to realize that God isn’t managing us in everything we do all day –he gives us free choice – he allows us to make mistakes – some more painful than others – but the choice is important because it opens that path for us to explore a deeper and more meaningful relationship with our God - and - the opportunity to grow from our experiences.

So now I see the face of God and love – as a package deal…and I found the answer looking in the eyes of God.

…and…yes – I can tell you everything about living free.