This past Saturday morning was cold, by Florida standards. Friday night had been clear and the cold front that had passed through blew out the clouds and humidity that had been with us last week. We woke to temperatures in the low 30s and a light wind that made things feel a lot colder.
We woke in tents. More than two miles from the next house. Burrowing out of the toasty comfort of the sleeping bag seemed like lunacy. And yet, within fifteen minutes, I'd gotten dressed and was heating the coffee I'd made before on our Coleman stove.
Seven o'clock dawned earlier than anyone wanted and when I shook tents, a chorus of groans greeted me.
Our dining hall had no walls. It was a slab of concrete with a metal roof and picnic tables that may have been built by the Seminole Indians. The pancakes and sausage on a stick (like a corn dog, only with sausage wrapped by a pancake) was surprisingly good. The boys liked it.
They played football while we sipped coffee and waited for the flag ceremony. Then we went off to fish for mousetraps off the back of one of the camp buildings.
Such is life at the December Cub World. Because it falls two weeks before Christmas, there's always other work that should be done, but can't because we're camping. And it always seems to be the coldest weekend of the year.
And though I could be home sleeping on a bed in a heated house and getting things done, I'm always glad that we went.
The kids who went don't realize that a lot of kids never get to go camping, even if it's cold. They didn't complain about the cold. They just put on clothes and had fun. And they might have learned something along the way.
Nice way to spend a weekend, sleeping out in the cold.
Monday, December 11, 2006
Sunday, September 17, 2006
It's so simple
For all the intellectualism I like to think I bring to things, it is all really very simple. We have a choice. We can accept God's love and our limitations and stop beating ourselves for not being perfect. And then we can know peace and produce fruit--not as an extra effort, but as a result of what we've become.
Or, we can refuse forgiveness and keep blaming ourselves and others and focus on our hurts and flaws. And we will miss peace and we cannot produce fruit.
It gets all wrapped up in the details, when it's really all quite simple. In the quiet predawn when I wake and lie there so I don't have to get up quite yet, I know what is right. I know what I need to do so I can see and grab hold of that forgiveness. The rest is my own creation.
Or, we can refuse forgiveness and keep blaming ourselves and others and focus on our hurts and flaws. And we will miss peace and we cannot produce fruit.
It gets all wrapped up in the details, when it's really all quite simple. In the quiet predawn when I wake and lie there so I don't have to get up quite yet, I know what is right. I know what I need to do so I can see and grab hold of that forgiveness. The rest is my own creation.
Thursday, September 14, 2006
On the Nature of Bullcrap
It has been said by people far more eloquent than I that politics is the residue of human interaction. I think that bullcrap is the residue of human interaction. More correctly, certain people or situations lend themselves to the production of immense amounts of bullcrap.
Bullcrap, at least in my definition, is the art of making difficult what ought to be easy. I've produced more than my share of bullcrap in 42 years, so I'm not holding myself up as bullcrap-free. But I understand the nature of bullcrap and I try not to produce it. And when I do produce it, I try to at least be humble about it.
Bullcrap is getting to me right now. These things go in phases, I know. It's like your bullcrap biorhythm. Mine is low right now. Other times, it seems, I possess a Moses-like gift to part the sea of bullcrap (often so I can blunder around the desert for an awfully long time).
But bullcrap, like anything else, is subject to one's own power. One can allow it to get under one's skin, then one needs immense amounts of first-aid cream to deal with the infection.
I guess the point is, the bullcrap tide seems to be in right now. One can either build a bulwarks, hold one's breath, or get up and move back on the beach far enough that the tide won't come that far.
Bullcrap, at least in my definition, is the art of making difficult what ought to be easy. I've produced more than my share of bullcrap in 42 years, so I'm not holding myself up as bullcrap-free. But I understand the nature of bullcrap and I try not to produce it. And when I do produce it, I try to at least be humble about it.
Bullcrap is getting to me right now. These things go in phases, I know. It's like your bullcrap biorhythm. Mine is low right now. Other times, it seems, I possess a Moses-like gift to part the sea of bullcrap (often so I can blunder around the desert for an awfully long time).
But bullcrap, like anything else, is subject to one's own power. One can allow it to get under one's skin, then one needs immense amounts of first-aid cream to deal with the infection.
I guess the point is, the bullcrap tide seems to be in right now. One can either build a bulwarks, hold one's breath, or get up and move back on the beach far enough that the tide won't come that far.
Monday, September 04, 2006
Stewards of our own lives
Steve Irwin died this morning. He was 44. A lot of people are really sad about his death, and that's reasonable. He has an eight-year-old daughter who will never get to have Daddy dance with her again, or admire her prom dress, or walk her down the aisle. His son is two. He won't remember his dad, except on the reruns. And his wife will have a wound in her heart that will never fully heal.
And yet, in this case more than most, there is so much to celebrate. I truly believe that when we die and stand before God, we will be held accountable, but in a different way than most people think. Lust, envy, all of that's going to be part of the equation. But the bigger part is going to be an accounting of what we did with the tools and experiences He gave us. Were we good stewards of the gift of our lives. In his life, Steve Irwin was given a great deal. He was given a zeal for animals and the situation in which to use that zeal to fill his life's purpose.
I have no idea what kind of person Steve Irwin was. But based on the public part, and based on the fact that his wife seemed to love him and stayed with him, I think when he's asked if he took advantage of the gift of his life and produced something of value with it, he can truthfully answer that he did.
We're given passions for a reason. It's not a sign of virtue to purposely turn away from what makes us feel most alive. It's a sign of foolishness. It's a sign that we lack the faith that God knew what He was doing when He gave us those passions. In short, we are wired the way we are for a reason.
And at the end, if we look back and see that we didn't get it all our lives, I don't think that God will have to punish us. I think the awareness that we were given this fantastic gift and pissed it away will be more punishment than God needs to dish out.
Our lives--our own lives--are precious. If the mass of men live lives of quiet desparation, they they're missing it, and they'll know regret like no other when they die.
And yet, in this case more than most, there is so much to celebrate. I truly believe that when we die and stand before God, we will be held accountable, but in a different way than most people think. Lust, envy, all of that's going to be part of the equation. But the bigger part is going to be an accounting of what we did with the tools and experiences He gave us. Were we good stewards of the gift of our lives. In his life, Steve Irwin was given a great deal. He was given a zeal for animals and the situation in which to use that zeal to fill his life's purpose.
I have no idea what kind of person Steve Irwin was. But based on the public part, and based on the fact that his wife seemed to love him and stayed with him, I think when he's asked if he took advantage of the gift of his life and produced something of value with it, he can truthfully answer that he did.
We're given passions for a reason. It's not a sign of virtue to purposely turn away from what makes us feel most alive. It's a sign of foolishness. It's a sign that we lack the faith that God knew what He was doing when He gave us those passions. In short, we are wired the way we are for a reason.
And at the end, if we look back and see that we didn't get it all our lives, I don't think that God will have to punish us. I think the awareness that we were given this fantastic gift and pissed it away will be more punishment than God needs to dish out.
Our lives--our own lives--are precious. If the mass of men live lives of quiet desparation, they they're missing it, and they'll know regret like no other when they die.
Sunday, September 03, 2006
This and That
- I posted with passion about fasting for peace, and immediately forgot to do so that past two Fridays. It may make me complacent, but such is life. I've been praying a lot for peace, but I'm not perfect.
- I may be ripping off a guy named Steve Brown, but I've decided that I'm not going to get any better. I am where I am and what I am. I will die that way. Maybe by not concentrating on getting better, I will do better at the things I want to change. Sometimes with God, less is more.
- I'm pretty good where I am. I'm not saying that if I died today, I wouldn't have any regrets, but if I died today, I think God would be more or less pleased with where I am.
- I read in The Purpose-Driven Life that mature Christian prayer should not be centered on what I want, but on molding me and others to what God wants. I'm not sure I agree with that, but it gives me sometime to consider in my prayer ratio.
- God loves me and that makes all the difference. It is also the source of incredible freedom when I am in tune with that central fact.
Tuesday, August 22, 2006
Safety is Overrated
I've been home sick the last two days, which gives ample opportunity for watching daytime TV. One of the programs I watched was a Star Trek episode in which Captain Picard dies and meets a character named Q in the afterlife. Q is kind of an omnipotent pain in the butt, a member of a race that studies humanity and includes members more omnipotent than he.
Q talks to Picard about his life and regrets. Picard says that he does, indeed, regret his impetuousness as a youth and that if he had it to do over again, he'd do it differently. Q allows him the opportunity and Picard takes it. At the end of the exercise, Picard is whisked back to the present, only instead of being a Captain, self-confident and bold, he is a meek junior lieutenant, solid and steady and completely unremarkable.
When tells Q he wants it put back the other way, Q says Picard should be happy because he has set his past right and can now live in safety.
Safety. I'm a parent and a mortgage holder. I'm a Cubmaster and a mid-level functionary with a passionless job that pays the bills, all while I long for something more meaningful. I think I am capable of more, but I have never really put it all together to do more. Along the way, I've started to believe that maybe I can't do more. Results, after all, are results.
I've got responsibilities. I can't stop what I'm doing right now and start over in radio. But I can pursue the things that will bring me closer, and I can do the things I need to do in order to stand out.
In short, I can stop being afraid and yearning for safety.
We don't often think of boldness and courage in talking about being a good steward of what God has given. We think more of meekness and compassion, love and tolerance.
Jesus didn't die so we could be nice. He didn't die so we wouldn't upset people and worry about our every move.
I'm halfway through life. If there's one thing I've learned, it's that safety is overrated. If only I can remember what I've learned and have the wisdom to apply it.
Q talks to Picard about his life and regrets. Picard says that he does, indeed, regret his impetuousness as a youth and that if he had it to do over again, he'd do it differently. Q allows him the opportunity and Picard takes it. At the end of the exercise, Picard is whisked back to the present, only instead of being a Captain, self-confident and bold, he is a meek junior lieutenant, solid and steady and completely unremarkable.
When tells Q he wants it put back the other way, Q says Picard should be happy because he has set his past right and can now live in safety.
Safety. I'm a parent and a mortgage holder. I'm a Cubmaster and a mid-level functionary with a passionless job that pays the bills, all while I long for something more meaningful. I think I am capable of more, but I have never really put it all together to do more. Along the way, I've started to believe that maybe I can't do more. Results, after all, are results.
I've got responsibilities. I can't stop what I'm doing right now and start over in radio. But I can pursue the things that will bring me closer, and I can do the things I need to do in order to stand out.
In short, I can stop being afraid and yearning for safety.
We don't often think of boldness and courage in talking about being a good steward of what God has given. We think more of meekness and compassion, love and tolerance.
Jesus didn't die so we could be nice. He didn't die so we wouldn't upset people and worry about our every move.
I'm halfway through life. If there's one thing I've learned, it's that safety is overrated. If only I can remember what I've learned and have the wisdom to apply it.
Saturday, August 19, 2006
Fasting for Peace
Worrying about the way the world's going to be when your children grow up isn't new. Past generations have had legiitmate worries. Parents in the 1930s must have wondered if their children would ever know prosperity. Certainly, the parents of the 1940s had their own worries about whether their children would grow up in a Nazi world. From the 1950s to the late 80s, parents worried about whether there would be a world or just a nuclear wasteland.
And so here were are today. There's a man in Iran who may see nuclear weaponry as the key to the return of the hidden Imam. He has openly questioned the right of a nuclear country to exist. Weapons of mass destruction seem easier to get and disseminate every day. And Russia and China wait in the wings.
Odds are that we will navigate through all this. At least I think they are. Probably. Maybe.
My daughter is starting to think about colleges and her future. A growing part of me has joined the legion of parents through the ages who feel concern about what that future will be. I don't know what it was like to be a parent in the 30s, World War II, or the Cold War. But I know what it is to be a parent now. I see where we sit and wonder what things will be like in 15 years, and for the first time in my adult life, I see significant doubts.
I want my daughter's world to be at least what mine was, preferably more. Increasingly, I don't see that as being possible without some significant prayer.
I know this will sound stupid to some. I know it will sound like self-flagellation or alarmism or any number of other things, but I have felt a growing inclination to fast on Fridays for the world my daughter will inherit. So that's what I'm going to do. If you want to, please join me. If you don't, that's okay, too. There's nothing I can do to change what will happen in the Middle East, short of praying. So I might as well do that.
And so here were are today. There's a man in Iran who may see nuclear weaponry as the key to the return of the hidden Imam. He has openly questioned the right of a nuclear country to exist. Weapons of mass destruction seem easier to get and disseminate every day. And Russia and China wait in the wings.
Odds are that we will navigate through all this. At least I think they are. Probably. Maybe.
My daughter is starting to think about colleges and her future. A growing part of me has joined the legion of parents through the ages who feel concern about what that future will be. I don't know what it was like to be a parent in the 30s, World War II, or the Cold War. But I know what it is to be a parent now. I see where we sit and wonder what things will be like in 15 years, and for the first time in my adult life, I see significant doubts.
I want my daughter's world to be at least what mine was, preferably more. Increasingly, I don't see that as being possible without some significant prayer.
I know this will sound stupid to some. I know it will sound like self-flagellation or alarmism or any number of other things, but I have felt a growing inclination to fast on Fridays for the world my daughter will inherit. So that's what I'm going to do. If you want to, please join me. If you don't, that's okay, too. There's nothing I can do to change what will happen in the Middle East, short of praying. So I might as well do that.
Tuesday, August 01, 2006
Not peace, but a sword
"Do not think that I came to bring peace on the earth; I did not come to bring peace, but a sword. For I came to set a man against his father, and a daughter against her mother, and a daughter-in-law against her mother-in-law; and a man's enemies will be the members of his household." -- Matthew 10:34-36 (NASB)
I've always struggled with this passage. I mean, God is love, right? And Jesus was the embodiment of love here on earth. He loved us so much that He died for us. He gave His very existence for us that we might have a shot at eternal bliss. So how can someone so loving, so willing to give it all, bring a sword?
Have a discussion some day with a diverse group of Christians about faith and works. Look at the history of the Catholic Church, or to a smaller degree, any other church. Look at what we do to ourselves over what we believe the Bible to say.
When I was laid off, one Scripture verse stuck with me: the one about how a believer who doesn't provide for his family being worse than a non-believer. I hanged myself on that verse. I didn't want to be worse than a non-believer. Of course, I did provide, and even if I hadn't, I did the best I could. I forgot the part about being worth more than sparrows.
The point is, if people can't even stop themselves from being conflicted, from having their selfish part battle with the part that wants to serve God, why should we expect to be different in reference to others.
Jesus didn't say that he wields the sword. We're good enough at doing that for Him.
Measuring Up
As I think back over the things I've written, I sense a level of smugness. After all, I assume that what I write is worth reading by someone. I assume my words carry enough meaning or wisdom that they are worth someone's time and attention. Having someone read and appreciate what I've written is a great complement.
Sometimes I wonder, though, about my supposed wisdom. I stand before a God who knows as well as I do what I've messed up and really have no standing to lift my head to Him. It is not so much that I am useless, as He is great. But I have some pretty big flaws. Can wisdom be gained from someone as imperfect as I am?
Or maybe it's imperfect that builds wisdom. Maybe it's the process of trying and failing and then trying again. And then repeating the process when you fail again.
I don't know. I guess the beginning of wisdom is that even though I fall short of what God wants of me, He lets me come to Him and continues to bless me more than I could ever deserve, not out of obligation, but out of love.
That's pretty cool.
Sometimes I wonder, though, about my supposed wisdom. I stand before a God who knows as well as I do what I've messed up and really have no standing to lift my head to Him. It is not so much that I am useless, as He is great. But I have some pretty big flaws. Can wisdom be gained from someone as imperfect as I am?
Or maybe it's imperfect that builds wisdom. Maybe it's the process of trying and failing and then trying again. And then repeating the process when you fail again.
I don't know. I guess the beginning of wisdom is that even though I fall short of what God wants of me, He lets me come to Him and continues to bless me more than I could ever deserve, not out of obligation, but out of love.
That's pretty cool.
Monday, July 31, 2006
Building Your Foundation
It's what we do when times are good that determines how we do when times are bad. Right now, things are good. My kids are healthy and wise and gaining a wealth of childhood experience that should serve them well when they grow older. My wife is as wonderful a partner and mate as I could expect. Work's a pain in the butt some days, but they keep sending money twice a month and it doesn't seem like they're going to stop any time soon.
But eventually, things will be less bright. Parents die. People get sick. Bad things happen from time to time. These things are as sure as the sun rising tomorrow. Life isn't life without them. So why am I thinking that maybe I'm not setting myself up well to weather the storm that will most certainly come some day?
The wise man built his house upon the Rock. It's more than a Bible verse or a song. It's Truth. I've recently watched Schindler's List and read Man's Search for Meaning by Viktor Frankl, a survivor of Auschwitz. I'm currently reading a book by Deitrich Bonnhoeffer, a brilliant theologian who was cut down in the prime of his life by Nazis.
Frankl could have escaped his rigorous journey through hell. He had a visa to the United States, but decided he couldn't leave his parents behind to face the monster alone. The Nazis murdered them. And his wife. His work, Man's Search for Meaning, describes how a person who sees a meaning in life, a worthy purpose, can weather almost anything. Those without a purpose gave up. It was actually a very clear progression, he wrong. One morning, the man didn't get up. No matter what, he refused to get up. Then, he decided to pull out the one hidden cigarette he had and smoke it, rather than save it or trade it. Within a few days, he was dead, a victim of the Nazi death machine, but of his own surrender to it, as well.
I don't know much about Bonnhoeffer, but it seems that he, too, could have escaped his fate, if only he'd played along. He didn't, and he died. But he died with dignity and a purpose.
Frankl's purpose, his determination to live, literally carried him through circumstances that should have killed him. Bonnhoeffer's cost him his life, but on his terms. In both cases, these men had built themselves an unshakeable foundation, and it weathered the storm.
My foundation is stonger than it was. But it should be stronger than it is. Instead of building it while times are good, I spend time on the frivolous and the suspect. I should be building for the storm that will most certainly come.
But eventually, things will be less bright. Parents die. People get sick. Bad things happen from time to time. These things are as sure as the sun rising tomorrow. Life isn't life without them. So why am I thinking that maybe I'm not setting myself up well to weather the storm that will most certainly come some day?
The wise man built his house upon the Rock. It's more than a Bible verse or a song. It's Truth. I've recently watched Schindler's List and read Man's Search for Meaning by Viktor Frankl, a survivor of Auschwitz. I'm currently reading a book by Deitrich Bonnhoeffer, a brilliant theologian who was cut down in the prime of his life by Nazis.
Frankl could have escaped his rigorous journey through hell. He had a visa to the United States, but decided he couldn't leave his parents behind to face the monster alone. The Nazis murdered them. And his wife. His work, Man's Search for Meaning, describes how a person who sees a meaning in life, a worthy purpose, can weather almost anything. Those without a purpose gave up. It was actually a very clear progression, he wrong. One morning, the man didn't get up. No matter what, he refused to get up. Then, he decided to pull out the one hidden cigarette he had and smoke it, rather than save it or trade it. Within a few days, he was dead, a victim of the Nazi death machine, but of his own surrender to it, as well.
I don't know much about Bonnhoeffer, but it seems that he, too, could have escaped his fate, if only he'd played along. He didn't, and he died. But he died with dignity and a purpose.
Frankl's purpose, his determination to live, literally carried him through circumstances that should have killed him. Bonnhoeffer's cost him his life, but on his terms. In both cases, these men had built themselves an unshakeable foundation, and it weathered the storm.
My foundation is stonger than it was. But it should be stronger than it is. Instead of building it while times are good, I spend time on the frivolous and the suspect. I should be building for the storm that will most certainly come.
Thursday, July 20, 2006
Never Again? A lie.
If it were to happen now, we would have a precedent that we could look out for, so it wouldn't happen again.
A woman, unnamed on the DVD, in the Voices of the List part of the Schindler's List DVD. If this were to happen now...
"Never again" has been said less and less my adult life. The people who lived through the Holocaust are nearly gone. And the people who they raised are dying. And soon, the Holocaust will be nothing more than something we covered once in Social Studies.
Imagine, if you will, being told that because of your religion or ethnicity, you have to wear a special tag so everyone will know where you are. Imagine that one day, by fiat, the government takes what you have the in the bank and your investments, then comes and rounds you up and takes you out of your house and herds you into rundown apartments, six to eight to a room. You can't go anywhere without permission. You can't buy or sell or own anything. People you know, friends and relatives, are herded into trucks to be forced to work at hard labor, then never returning.
Imagine the world turning upside down as if it were a nightmare and no one does anything. Imagine that there's no visible chance that it's going to end. Don't just read the words, but yourself in that position and feel it. Feel what it is to watch indiscriminate murder every single day and wondering when it's going to be your day.
In one of the extras on the DVD, they talk of the day they took the children from the camp and sent them to Auschwitz, never to return. Imagine watching as your children, your babies, are herded onto a truck and knowing that you will never see them again. Imagine being told to lie on the ground as you watch them leave or you will be killed.
One of the pictures was of a boy, eight or nine years old, with big ears and a crooked smile. In the picture, an old black-and-white, he looked happy and very pleased with himself. He was one of the children who never came back.
I can't imagine it. It's all bigger than I can think of.
But it happens. It still happens. Never again is a lie. Anti-Semitism is a on the rise in Europe, and we may turn into an anti-Muslim country. The murmurs are there. But they're faint and don't seem to be threatening. Maybe they didn't in the mid-1930s.
Never Again...As If That Were Likely
Apparently, I've had nothing to say lately. Part of that revolves around my new habit of waking up at 3 am (give or take) every morning. When you struggle just to stay awake, posting riveting, thought-provoking material on a website you don't get paid to maintain isn't a priority.
But, this morning, I actually slept until nearly five, though it took a long time to fall asleep last night.
You see, my daughter flies to visit a friend in Germany this week. As part of her time there, she will visit Dachau. So, to prepare her, we rented Schindler's List and watched the first half of it last night. I toddled off to bed around 10, but then wound up walking back out and hanging around until about twenty of eleven.
The last thing I watched was when Ralph Fiennes' character decided to pick off the Jews in his camp, randomly capping a couple from his balcony with a high-powered rifle, while his sex partner grew annoyed at him for boring her. Then, as they built a barracks, a Jewish woman engineer came to him and said that they needed to rebuild it because it would collapse. He had her executed and then had the barracks rebuilt.
I haven't seen Schindler's List since it came out in 1993. It's not the type of movie you watch to fritter away an afternoon. When I watched it the previous time, I remember being overwhelmed and sad. Last night, I was angry. I was angry at a movement that killed the beauty of a whole class of people simply because of their religious beliefs. Angry at a man who ended human life with less regard than most people give to swatting a fly. Angry at a human race that could become such a thing. And maybe a little angry at God for allowing it.
"Never again," was a refrain from survivors of the Holocaust, but it's happened again. It hasn't happened to European people as part of a World War, but in Rwanda, Serbia, and any number of any other places, it's happened.
And it will happen again. And maybe this time it will happen closer to home.
Happy Thursday.
But, this morning, I actually slept until nearly five, though it took a long time to fall asleep last night.
You see, my daughter flies to visit a friend in Germany this week. As part of her time there, she will visit Dachau. So, to prepare her, we rented Schindler's List and watched the first half of it last night. I toddled off to bed around 10, but then wound up walking back out and hanging around until about twenty of eleven.
The last thing I watched was when Ralph Fiennes' character decided to pick off the Jews in his camp, randomly capping a couple from his balcony with a high-powered rifle, while his sex partner grew annoyed at him for boring her. Then, as they built a barracks, a Jewish woman engineer came to him and said that they needed to rebuild it because it would collapse. He had her executed and then had the barracks rebuilt.
I haven't seen Schindler's List since it came out in 1993. It's not the type of movie you watch to fritter away an afternoon. When I watched it the previous time, I remember being overwhelmed and sad. Last night, I was angry. I was angry at a movement that killed the beauty of a whole class of people simply because of their religious beliefs. Angry at a man who ended human life with less regard than most people give to swatting a fly. Angry at a human race that could become such a thing. And maybe a little angry at God for allowing it.
"Never again," was a refrain from survivors of the Holocaust, but it's happened again. It hasn't happened to European people as part of a World War, but in Rwanda, Serbia, and any number of any other places, it's happened.
And it will happen again. And maybe this time it will happen closer to home.
Happy Thursday.
Tuesday, July 11, 2006
Rossy
My grandfather is probably still my favorite person ever. For whatever reason, we always called him Rossy. His name was Ross, but Rossy meant love.
He died when I was six or seven and there's still and empty spot in me where he used to live. I don't remember his voice any more. If it weren't for cameras, I'd have long since forgotten what he looked like.
But I'll never forget him. He probably wasn't a big man, but he seemed like it. His hands seemed big to me, too. They seemed big and strong. Maybe they weren't, but they seemed like it. God, I loved him. I think I loved him more than anyone I've ever known. He knew me and I was okay with him. He loved me and accepted me as I was and he was happy to be with me. The thing I remember most was how gentle he was.
When he died, the spot he occupied in my soul died with him. And I've never been gentle like he was.
Jesus, according to the Gospel of John, was gentle with the woman accused of adultery. He was gentle with the woman who touched his cloak and with the rich young man. He took away the boulder on their souls. It'd be interesting to know if they were able to resist taking it back.
You can't be gentle and have peace until you put down the things that you carry with you. To put them down, you have to acknowledge them and acknowledge that they are yours and what the results were. You can't put down what you don't acknowledge. And only after you acknowledge it, all of it, can you shed it and go to the throne as what you really are.
That's what my grandfather taught me, was his unreserved joy at being with me. But for me to share his joy, I had to be able to be unreservedly joyful with me. Until very recently, I haven't been able to do that.
I think I understand now. I understand what his presence was supposed to teach me.
I think he's happy that I get it.
He died when I was six or seven and there's still and empty spot in me where he used to live. I don't remember his voice any more. If it weren't for cameras, I'd have long since forgotten what he looked like.
But I'll never forget him. He probably wasn't a big man, but he seemed like it. His hands seemed big to me, too. They seemed big and strong. Maybe they weren't, but they seemed like it. God, I loved him. I think I loved him more than anyone I've ever known. He knew me and I was okay with him. He loved me and accepted me as I was and he was happy to be with me. The thing I remember most was how gentle he was.
When he died, the spot he occupied in my soul died with him. And I've never been gentle like he was.
Jesus, according to the Gospel of John, was gentle with the woman accused of adultery. He was gentle with the woman who touched his cloak and with the rich young man. He took away the boulder on their souls. It'd be interesting to know if they were able to resist taking it back.
You can't be gentle and have peace until you put down the things that you carry with you. To put them down, you have to acknowledge them and acknowledge that they are yours and what the results were. You can't put down what you don't acknowledge. And only after you acknowledge it, all of it, can you shed it and go to the throne as what you really are.
That's what my grandfather taught me, was his unreserved joy at being with me. But for me to share his joy, I had to be able to be unreservedly joyful with me. Until very recently, I haven't been able to do that.
I think I understand now. I understand what his presence was supposed to teach me.
I think he's happy that I get it.
Zero. Fun. Sir.
I've been posting on message boards or one type of another for nearly 15 years. I started on Prodigy, which was really cool when it first came out. If I remember correctly, the first thing I posted to was a thread about the relative merits of minor leaguers Eddie Zosky of the Blue Jays organization and Larry Jones of the Braves organization. You may have heard of Larry. He goes by the name Chipper and is the primary reason the Mets didn't make it to the World Series in 1999.
Most of the message boards I've belonged to haven't really been that diverse. They've had a core group of users that more or less define the board's collective stance on things. Or, on other boards, there are two groups of users, more or less equally divided, who live in a constant state of peaceful co-existence.
Either way, it's taken me 15 years to realize that what passes for discourse on the Internet is typically the same people saying the same things over and over again in different ways, then aligning the facts to suit their position. Including me.
It used to be fun.
Most of the message boards I've belonged to haven't really been that diverse. They've had a core group of users that more or less define the board's collective stance on things. Or, on other boards, there are two groups of users, more or less equally divided, who live in a constant state of peaceful co-existence.
Either way, it's taken me 15 years to realize that what passes for discourse on the Internet is typically the same people saying the same things over and over again in different ways, then aligning the facts to suit their position. Including me.
It used to be fun.
Sunday, July 09, 2006
I wouldn't want to be on this jury
In February 2005, nine-year-old Jessica Lunsford was abducted from her home and raped. After being tied up and put in a closet, she was wrapped in plastic bags and duct tape--her hands bound in front of her--and buried alive. She died sitting in the bottom of a four-foot deep grave, holding a stuffed pink dolphin and trying to scratch her way out of the plastic bag. Police found her body on March 19.
John Couey, her accused rapist and murderer, was apprehended several days later in Augusta, Georgia. During interrogation, Couey graphically described to FBI agent Terry Wetmore what he'd done to her. He said where to find her body, as well as exactly what police would find. However, in other interrogation the day before, he told two Citrus County (Florida) detectives eight times that he wanted to talk to a lawyer. His requests were ignored.
As a result, Florida Circuit Judge Richard A. Howard ruled that the taped confession Couey gave Wetmore was inadmissable. Because the confession was eliminated, prosecutors can't even tell jurors that Couey directed them to the body. Judge Howard also ruled that prosecutors can't mention a previous burglary in which Couey went into the room of a 12-year-old girl and put his hand over her mouth.
The jury in this case is being imported because the publicity made it impossible to give Couey a fair trial. Jurors will come from nearby Lake County.
What if the prosecution doesn't prove Couey's guilt beyond a reasonable doubt? According to the law of the land, the jury cannot convict. Police misconduct has already turned what ought to be a slam-dunk conviction into a more difficult case to prove.
If the prosecution doesn't prove the case, would you be comfortable finding this guy not guilty, even if you thought he did it? Would you be comfortable being identified as one of the people who let little Jessie's killer walk? If Couey's found not guilty, I've got five bucks that says public outrage won't be directed at the two detectives whose conduct got the confession thrown out of court. It will be directed at the jury who let him walk.
What would you do?
There's not enough money in the world to put me on that jury.
John Couey, her accused rapist and murderer, was apprehended several days later in Augusta, Georgia. During interrogation, Couey graphically described to FBI agent Terry Wetmore what he'd done to her. He said where to find her body, as well as exactly what police would find. However, in other interrogation the day before, he told two Citrus County (Florida) detectives eight times that he wanted to talk to a lawyer. His requests were ignored.
As a result, Florida Circuit Judge Richard A. Howard ruled that the taped confession Couey gave Wetmore was inadmissable. Because the confession was eliminated, prosecutors can't even tell jurors that Couey directed them to the body. Judge Howard also ruled that prosecutors can't mention a previous burglary in which Couey went into the room of a 12-year-old girl and put his hand over her mouth.
The jury in this case is being imported because the publicity made it impossible to give Couey a fair trial. Jurors will come from nearby Lake County.
What if the prosecution doesn't prove Couey's guilt beyond a reasonable doubt? According to the law of the land, the jury cannot convict. Police misconduct has already turned what ought to be a slam-dunk conviction into a more difficult case to prove.
If the prosecution doesn't prove the case, would you be comfortable finding this guy not guilty, even if you thought he did it? Would you be comfortable being identified as one of the people who let little Jessie's killer walk? If Couey's found not guilty, I've got five bucks that says public outrage won't be directed at the two detectives whose conduct got the confession thrown out of court. It will be directed at the jury who let him walk.
What would you do?
There's not enough money in the world to put me on that jury.
Thursday, July 06, 2006
A Sharp Tongue
A mild answer calms wrath, but a harsh word stirs up anger. -- Proverbs 15:1
I'm a witty guy. When I'm in the right mood, I can make anyone laugh. I'm articulate and though my tongue sometimes slips, the words are typically crisp and well-stated. My mind usually works pretty fast with the snappy retort.
And sometimes I get angry and judgemental. And my words, though clever, vivid, and sometimes funny, are often harsh. In those times, my ability to choose the right words amplifies my anger and redoubles my rage.
It's pretty clear that's not how it's supposed to be. I'm supposed to do better. And though God will forgive my slipping and backsliding, He'd prefer less complacency about it.
Today is the day I do better to melt away the anger. And failing that, tomorrow is the day. It will, however, be done, so that I can be in better fellowship with those around me.
Tuesday, July 04, 2006
My Fourth
We gathered about an hour before the parade started, in slot number 30. I'd hoped for more boys, but Josh showed up, and Logan and Zach and Austin and Phil. Another boy, Chris, showed up, even though he was in another pack, and marched with us.
The parade route was about a mile and a half long, and we exhausted the beads we had about three-quarters of the way through. I'd tried to put them on the first kid I gave them to, a little girl who didn't have any. Her father got irritated and took them from me and said "thank you" with a little more attitude than necessary. The rest of the parents were happy when their kids got beads.
I'm new at CubMaster and I had to throw this together in a week (most of which I wasn't around for) because no one else did. Next year, the communication will be better and we'll have budget for more beads and hopefully more kids.
It was hot--it's July in Florida; that's the rules. I have salt rings in the shirt I wore under my scout uniform shirt and it's still damp. As I walked back, I met up with Chris's mom. He was in day camp, too, and was a lot of fun to have around. I told her that, and she seemed very happy to hear it. Unfortunately, this was probably his last event in Scouting. He's a great kid.
I'm not an enthusiastic person. I don't get excited about stuff. I'm excited about these kids. They're good kids. Really good kids. Every time I'm with them, I come away happier than when I started.
I came away happier again today. The last item in the Beatitudes for Leaders says "Blessed is the leader who considers leadership an opportunity for service." I hope that I see it that way. And I hope that I honor the opportunity for service I've been given with these kids.
The parade route was about a mile and a half long, and we exhausted the beads we had about three-quarters of the way through. I'd tried to put them on the first kid I gave them to, a little girl who didn't have any. Her father got irritated and took them from me and said "thank you" with a little more attitude than necessary. The rest of the parents were happy when their kids got beads.
I'm new at CubMaster and I had to throw this together in a week (most of which I wasn't around for) because no one else did. Next year, the communication will be better and we'll have budget for more beads and hopefully more kids.
It was hot--it's July in Florida; that's the rules. I have salt rings in the shirt I wore under my scout uniform shirt and it's still damp. As I walked back, I met up with Chris's mom. He was in day camp, too, and was a lot of fun to have around. I told her that, and she seemed very happy to hear it. Unfortunately, this was probably his last event in Scouting. He's a great kid.
I'm not an enthusiastic person. I don't get excited about stuff. I'm excited about these kids. They're good kids. Really good kids. Every time I'm with them, I come away happier than when I started.
I came away happier again today. The last item in the Beatitudes for Leaders says "Blessed is the leader who considers leadership an opportunity for service." I hope that I see it that way. And I hope that I honor the opportunity for service I've been given with these kids.
My Church: My Other Family
Church is like a family. Sometimes you love the people; sometimes you hate them. Sometimes you wish you were alone and think you're better off. If you'd asked me two years ago about my church, I'd have told you that it was, at best, a necessary evil. At worst, I thought it was collect of self-important petty tyrants serving God even if it meant hurting people.
But as I look back, I've gotten far more out of my church than I've put into it. And this, in spite of being involved in at least seven different ministries at one time or another.
For me, at least, church is like family. You love them; you hate them; at times, they can carry you when it's hard to carry yourself.
To be sure, my church is far from perfect. It tends to be run by the more well-to-do parishioners, and the reasoning behind what's officially supported and what's not sometimes seems arbitrary and capricious.
But each week, I can go there even when the rest of it is bad and approach my Father with other people who are like me. At its best, it's the place I can go where everything else is going wrong.
I have a group of guys I've met with on Saturday mornings for almost eight years. Outside my blood relatives, I would trust these guys more than any other group of people I know. They know more about me than anyone other the maybe my wife.
You may not have the same group of people I have, but church, like family, pays you back based on what you put into it. I've put a lot of Saturday mornings into this. I'd love to stay in bed until I feel like getting up, but this is more important.
If you aren't getting anything out of church, it might be worth asking what you've put into it.
But as I look back, I've gotten far more out of my church than I've put into it. And this, in spite of being involved in at least seven different ministries at one time or another.
For me, at least, church is like family. You love them; you hate them; at times, they can carry you when it's hard to carry yourself.
To be sure, my church is far from perfect. It tends to be run by the more well-to-do parishioners, and the reasoning behind what's officially supported and what's not sometimes seems arbitrary and capricious.
But each week, I can go there even when the rest of it is bad and approach my Father with other people who are like me. At its best, it's the place I can go where everything else is going wrong.
I have a group of guys I've met with on Saturday mornings for almost eight years. Outside my blood relatives, I would trust these guys more than any other group of people I know. They know more about me than anyone other the maybe my wife.
You may not have the same group of people I have, but church, like family, pays you back based on what you put into it. I've put a lot of Saturday mornings into this. I'd love to stay in bed until I feel like getting up, but this is more important.
If you aren't getting anything out of church, it might be worth asking what you've put into it.
Monday, July 03, 2006
P. O. W.
The men thought they'd endured the worst after their capture and the harsh march to this place, wherever this place was. The fence looked almost ricketty, made up of rough-hewn logs, squared off by forced labor. Those who were able to think of such things knew the rickety appearance was mirage, for though the wall appeared to have been put up quickly, the logs were easily a foot thick and were guarded by men on what looked like pigeon roosts every hundred feet or so.
The smell was the first thing they noticed, easily half a day ago. As they neared what would be their new home, they started to hear a din of voices and movement, even over the 20-foot wall.
The man commanding the transport party told them to stop. Then, the giant doors opened, revealing a log portico, a buffer zone between the hellish mirage that they'd known and the true hell into which they would soon be cast.
Their metal cuffs were removed and the door swung shut behind them. Only then did the doors in front of them open, casting them into the sea of humanity that would serve as the place they stayed--but never a home--until they either died or somehow release came.
Camp Sumter, they called it, though it was anything but a camp. At its peak, the 26.5 acre stockage housed more than 30,000 men. who were forced to scavenge for what they could to provide shelter. The only source of water was the stockade branch. On paper, it was a stroke of genius, the prisoners could get their water where the stream entered the stockade, and relieve themselves where the stream left the stockade. In reality, the plan didn't work. The logs cut the water entering the stockade to a trickle. The water leaving the stockade was also backed up, creating a toxic marsh that men would sink to their hips in just to get fetid water.
Over its life, about a year, more than 45,000 men were housed at Andersonville. About 13,000 of them died.
The experience of being a prisoner of war must be among the most humbling. Sent out to fight for your country, you are taken and then must rely for your subsistence on whatever your captors allow. Typically, the captors allow near-starvation diets, torture, hard labor, solitude, and psychological manipulation.
The Prisoner of War Museum at Andersonville paints a vivid picture of the POW experience and the hell endured by both the POWs and their families. Two testimonials stick in my mind.
A pretty blonde woman about my age told how she would feel when other childrens' fathers were released from Vietnam and how she longed for the same experience they had, in meeting their fathers when they returned. Only her father never returned. He died as a POW.
In another story, a man taken prisoner in either Korea or WWII (I don't know which) held on to the vision of coming home to his wife. While he was in captivity, though (for several years), his wife re-married. Although the first instinct is to condemn the woman for not staying true, the stories of the other families make her decision understandable. The families, too, are prisoners of war.
The stories at the museum end with the release of those who survived and touch on the coming home. It's not the time of euphoria you'd think. It's a time of fear and trepidation. What about this man--or woman--coming home? Is this the same person who left? Will this person be changed, ruined, by what happened? Will I live with the shell of my loved one and what will I do if he or she isn't the same?
Will they accept me back? Will they even know me any more? Am I damaged beyond repair by this experience? Can I be a good spouse, parent, child, and friend again?
We do some horrible things to each other. Makes me want to re-examine what we're doing at Guantanamo.
The smell was the first thing they noticed, easily half a day ago. As they neared what would be their new home, they started to hear a din of voices and movement, even over the 20-foot wall.
The man commanding the transport party told them to stop. Then, the giant doors opened, revealing a log portico, a buffer zone between the hellish mirage that they'd known and the true hell into which they would soon be cast.
Their metal cuffs were removed and the door swung shut behind them. Only then did the doors in front of them open, casting them into the sea of humanity that would serve as the place they stayed--but never a home--until they either died or somehow release came.
Camp Sumter, they called it, though it was anything but a camp. At its peak, the 26.5 acre stockage housed more than 30,000 men. who were forced to scavenge for what they could to provide shelter. The only source of water was the stockade branch. On paper, it was a stroke of genius, the prisoners could get their water where the stream entered the stockade, and relieve themselves where the stream left the stockade. In reality, the plan didn't work. The logs cut the water entering the stockade to a trickle. The water leaving the stockade was also backed up, creating a toxic marsh that men would sink to their hips in just to get fetid water.
Over its life, about a year, more than 45,000 men were housed at Andersonville. About 13,000 of them died.
The experience of being a prisoner of war must be among the most humbling. Sent out to fight for your country, you are taken and then must rely for your subsistence on whatever your captors allow. Typically, the captors allow near-starvation diets, torture, hard labor, solitude, and psychological manipulation.
The Prisoner of War Museum at Andersonville paints a vivid picture of the POW experience and the hell endured by both the POWs and their families. Two testimonials stick in my mind.
A pretty blonde woman about my age told how she would feel when other childrens' fathers were released from Vietnam and how she longed for the same experience they had, in meeting their fathers when they returned. Only her father never returned. He died as a POW.
In another story, a man taken prisoner in either Korea or WWII (I don't know which) held on to the vision of coming home to his wife. While he was in captivity, though (for several years), his wife re-married. Although the first instinct is to condemn the woman for not staying true, the stories of the other families make her decision understandable. The families, too, are prisoners of war.
The stories at the museum end with the release of those who survived and touch on the coming home. It's not the time of euphoria you'd think. It's a time of fear and trepidation. What about this man--or woman--coming home? Is this the same person who left? Will this person be changed, ruined, by what happened? Will I live with the shell of my loved one and what will I do if he or she isn't the same?
Will they accept me back? Will they even know me any more? Am I damaged beyond repair by this experience? Can I be a good spouse, parent, child, and friend again?
We do some horrible things to each other. Makes me want to re-examine what we're doing at Guantanamo.
Wednesday, June 28, 2006
The Unclean Woman
The woman sat along the side of the road, alone in the crowd. No one recognized her. She might as well not be there. She was a woman of means, or had been once. Lauded for her works and her personality. The center of the social scene.
Now, money gone, she was reduced to this. She didn't care about the money or the attention. She just wanted some slice of what she'd had before. When Jonathan had died, he'd left her a good deal. She would never want for anything, and as a result, instead of moving in with her son, as was custom, she stayed on her own. Her son lived three days' walk away. Leaving would cut her off from everyone she knew and loved. The synagogue--this synagogue--was her life, even if she wasn't really a full member as the men were.
She laughed as she remembered. They'd been able to help so many, yet when she became...inflicted...when she became inflicted, the nature of her affliction cut her off from the same type of help she'd given so many others.
She was unclean. It wasn't that she could do anything about it. She couldn't. Neither could anyone else. All of Jonathan's money had gone to people who'd tried and failed. And, by Law, she wasn't allowed to be part of anything. She could live, though she's increasingly had to beg for food. She just couldn't be part of anything. Her life, once so rich because of her ability to be part of something, was barren.
Though she was cast out as unclean, she's still dared talk to G-d, approach Him and beg him for restitution. She didn't care about the money or the opulence. She missed the people. Elizabeth and Hannah and Ruth and Deborah, all of them. She could see their faces with her eyes open, even. Hear their voices. Feel their embrace, though not one had dared touch her in more than a year. Hannah had at first, which made her unclean, too. After a couple weeks, Levi had demanded she stop. He'd been spoken to about propriety and having an unclean wife, even if she were helping someone.
This morning, when she'd gotten up, she'd thought once again about ending it. She could walk out into the desert more than a day out, and wait for the end. Of swim out in the sea. With her luck, someone would stop and save her, bring her back, then understand what she was and cast her out again.
But as soon as those thoughts had faded, and they usually did, new thoughts replaced them. When she'd said her morning prayers, she'd first noticed the impulse. As she continued, it had grown stronger, until she was almost propelled to this spot where the throng had gathered. As she sat and waited, she became curiously peaceful. When she needed to do something, she'd know. She wasn't quite sure how she'd know, but she'd know.
Meanwhile, she sat. She supposed that if this didn't work, it could be the last thing. She could walk into the desert and disappear. Move away from the main roads and wait for final peace. She'd always found solace in those thoughts before, but this morning, something within her rebelled against them, almost violently, to the point where she stood up rather abruptly without even realizing it.
The crowd had changed now. Instead of milling around, the people were directed at something. At someone. When she following the focus of attention, she found herself watching a man walk away. He wasn't much of a man. In a fight, he'd be worthless. He was sinewy and small, but for a second her eyes met his and something happened within her.
Without realizing it, she followed him. She was drawn to that man, to his eyes. There was something about him. She followed him as if propelled at first, almost as if she were driven. She tried to fight it at first. After all, what could this simple little man have to offer her, the filthy, unclean widow? The embarrassment to herself and God that everyone avoid.
She didn't have to push anyone. Somehow they just moved to allow her to get closer. Before she knew it, she was within a man's height of him, then within arm's length. She saw her arm reach out to his cloak and though she thought it might be good to pull it back, so this stranger would not be unclean like she was, it touched him. Actually, she only got his shawl.
Whatever spell had driven her to him, and it must have be insanity borne of loneliness, it broke when she touched it.
What have I done? She thought. She slid away through the crowd, unaware that they had stopped because the man had stopped.
"Who touched me?" she heard the voice say. It wasn't much of a voice and he hadn't spoken loudly, though somehow she heard it above the din.
"What?" another man asked. She turned to face them. The other man was much bigger and had a dark tan and calloused hands. He looked rough. "Master, there are so many people here, how could you ask who touched you?"
"I felt the power go out of me," the slight man said. "Someone touched me."
The crowd now understood that something had changed and how now stopped and started looking around. She swallowed. This would be it, she thought. This would be the final humiliation before she allowed death to claim her. He would curse her for making him unclean and then she could die.
She looked at him, met his eyes again, and suddenly, she felt naked and vulnerable, as if all her secrets were known to him. She felt little, worse than she'd felt since the discharges had started.
"Who touched me?" he said softly, looking at her with those piercing eyes that knew everything.
"I did," she said, her voice so soft she could barely hear it. She trembled now and felt her own frailty more fully than ever before. The crowd parted before her and she approached the man. She felt like crying, like laying everything out to him and asking him for comfort. Instead, she fell at his feet. She knew her place and it wasn't speaking as an equal to this man. Although she'd tried to live a good life, G-d had obviously cursed her for something.
"I've had a discharge for a year. I'm unclean and nothing can stop it. I'm sorry to have made you unclean, too, sir. Please let me go so I can die in peace."
She could see the grains of sand before her eyes as she wished for the end of her now-pathetic life.
Then, she felt his hand on her back. This man knew she was unclean and yet he was touching her. The soft and gentle touch, almost a caress reminded her of Jonathan and she closed her eyes and pushed back tears.
"Get up," he said to her gently. She sat back so she was kneeling in front of him and he put his hand out. She extended hers to him and he lifted her from her kneeling position.
"Thank you," he said. His voice soothed her, like a thousand harps. Slowly she raised her head so that she looked him in the eyes again. She felt a jolt of fear. Somehow she knew this man knew all about her. But the fear quickly subsided.
"Why did you touch me?"
"I-I don't know," she said.
He smiled at her and she swallowed. His gaze was unflinching, uncompromising, but she was coming to realize that it wasn't threatening.
"Why did you touch me?"
"Oh my Lord," she heard her voice say. "I just want so much to be clean again."
She burst into tears, unable to stop them, magnifying this, her final, most public humiliation. He reached up with his other hand and touched her cheek, raising her face to his.
"Shhhh," he said. "My daughter, your faith has saved you. Go now, in peace, offer the appropriate sacrifice to God who loves you, and be cured of your affliction."
"What?"
"I promise you," he said.
"Ye-Yes, my lord," she said. He smiled at her again and squeezed her hand, then turned from her. She was homeless now, and there weren't many places a woman could find privacy, but she finally found one and looked and the discharge was gone. The stains in her clothes were gone. It was like it had never happened. She felt to her knees and wept again as the realization of her new circumstance saturated her. Then she felt a hand on her shoulder and looked up again.
"Hannah," she said.
Hannah smiled at her and took both her hands and helped her to her feet.
"Welcome home," Hannah said.
Now, money gone, she was reduced to this. She didn't care about the money or the attention. She just wanted some slice of what she'd had before. When Jonathan had died, he'd left her a good deal. She would never want for anything, and as a result, instead of moving in with her son, as was custom, she stayed on her own. Her son lived three days' walk away. Leaving would cut her off from everyone she knew and loved. The synagogue--this synagogue--was her life, even if she wasn't really a full member as the men were.
She laughed as she remembered. They'd been able to help so many, yet when she became...inflicted...when she became inflicted, the nature of her affliction cut her off from the same type of help she'd given so many others.
She was unclean. It wasn't that she could do anything about it. She couldn't. Neither could anyone else. All of Jonathan's money had gone to people who'd tried and failed. And, by Law, she wasn't allowed to be part of anything. She could live, though she's increasingly had to beg for food. She just couldn't be part of anything. Her life, once so rich because of her ability to be part of something, was barren.
Though she was cast out as unclean, she's still dared talk to G-d, approach Him and beg him for restitution. She didn't care about the money or the opulence. She missed the people. Elizabeth and Hannah and Ruth and Deborah, all of them. She could see their faces with her eyes open, even. Hear their voices. Feel their embrace, though not one had dared touch her in more than a year. Hannah had at first, which made her unclean, too. After a couple weeks, Levi had demanded she stop. He'd been spoken to about propriety and having an unclean wife, even if she were helping someone.
This morning, when she'd gotten up, she'd thought once again about ending it. She could walk out into the desert more than a day out, and wait for the end. Of swim out in the sea. With her luck, someone would stop and save her, bring her back, then understand what she was and cast her out again.
But as soon as those thoughts had faded, and they usually did, new thoughts replaced them. When she'd said her morning prayers, she'd first noticed the impulse. As she continued, it had grown stronger, until she was almost propelled to this spot where the throng had gathered. As she sat and waited, she became curiously peaceful. When she needed to do something, she'd know. She wasn't quite sure how she'd know, but she'd know.
Meanwhile, she sat. She supposed that if this didn't work, it could be the last thing. She could walk into the desert and disappear. Move away from the main roads and wait for final peace. She'd always found solace in those thoughts before, but this morning, something within her rebelled against them, almost violently, to the point where she stood up rather abruptly without even realizing it.
The crowd had changed now. Instead of milling around, the people were directed at something. At someone. When she following the focus of attention, she found herself watching a man walk away. He wasn't much of a man. In a fight, he'd be worthless. He was sinewy and small, but for a second her eyes met his and something happened within her.
Without realizing it, she followed him. She was drawn to that man, to his eyes. There was something about him. She followed him as if propelled at first, almost as if she were driven. She tried to fight it at first. After all, what could this simple little man have to offer her, the filthy, unclean widow? The embarrassment to herself and God that everyone avoid.
She didn't have to push anyone. Somehow they just moved to allow her to get closer. Before she knew it, she was within a man's height of him, then within arm's length. She saw her arm reach out to his cloak and though she thought it might be good to pull it back, so this stranger would not be unclean like she was, it touched him. Actually, she only got his shawl.
Whatever spell had driven her to him, and it must have be insanity borne of loneliness, it broke when she touched it.
What have I done? She thought. She slid away through the crowd, unaware that they had stopped because the man had stopped.
"Who touched me?" she heard the voice say. It wasn't much of a voice and he hadn't spoken loudly, though somehow she heard it above the din.
"What?" another man asked. She turned to face them. The other man was much bigger and had a dark tan and calloused hands. He looked rough. "Master, there are so many people here, how could you ask who touched you?"
"I felt the power go out of me," the slight man said. "Someone touched me."
The crowd now understood that something had changed and how now stopped and started looking around. She swallowed. This would be it, she thought. This would be the final humiliation before she allowed death to claim her. He would curse her for making him unclean and then she could die.
She looked at him, met his eyes again, and suddenly, she felt naked and vulnerable, as if all her secrets were known to him. She felt little, worse than she'd felt since the discharges had started.
"Who touched me?" he said softly, looking at her with those piercing eyes that knew everything.
"I did," she said, her voice so soft she could barely hear it. She trembled now and felt her own frailty more fully than ever before. The crowd parted before her and she approached the man. She felt like crying, like laying everything out to him and asking him for comfort. Instead, she fell at his feet. She knew her place and it wasn't speaking as an equal to this man. Although she'd tried to live a good life, G-d had obviously cursed her for something.
"I've had a discharge for a year. I'm unclean and nothing can stop it. I'm sorry to have made you unclean, too, sir. Please let me go so I can die in peace."
She could see the grains of sand before her eyes as she wished for the end of her now-pathetic life.
Then, she felt his hand on her back. This man knew she was unclean and yet he was touching her. The soft and gentle touch, almost a caress reminded her of Jonathan and she closed her eyes and pushed back tears.
"Get up," he said to her gently. She sat back so she was kneeling in front of him and he put his hand out. She extended hers to him and he lifted her from her kneeling position.
"Thank you," he said. His voice soothed her, like a thousand harps. Slowly she raised her head so that she looked him in the eyes again. She felt a jolt of fear. Somehow she knew this man knew all about her. But the fear quickly subsided.
"Why did you touch me?"
"I-I don't know," she said.
He smiled at her and she swallowed. His gaze was unflinching, uncompromising, but she was coming to realize that it wasn't threatening.
"Why did you touch me?"
"Oh my Lord," she heard her voice say. "I just want so much to be clean again."
She burst into tears, unable to stop them, magnifying this, her final, most public humiliation. He reached up with his other hand and touched her cheek, raising her face to his.
"Shhhh," he said. "My daughter, your faith has saved you. Go now, in peace, offer the appropriate sacrifice to God who loves you, and be cured of your affliction."
"What?"
"I promise you," he said.
"Ye-Yes, my lord," she said. He smiled at her again and squeezed her hand, then turned from her. She was homeless now, and there weren't many places a woman could find privacy, but she finally found one and looked and the discharge was gone. The stains in her clothes were gone. It was like it had never happened. She felt to her knees and wept again as the realization of her new circumstance saturated her. Then she felt a hand on her shoulder and looked up again.
"Hannah," she said.
Hannah smiled at her and took both her hands and helped her to her feet.
"Welcome home," Hannah said.
Monday, June 26, 2006
Alone again...not really
When I got laid off, I felt like I was alone.
As much as work in a pain in the butt, it's a social interaction, one where you can commisserate with those who are more or less in the same boat. After all, if a person or process is a pain to one person in the department, everyone else is likely in the same position.
When you're laid off, you lose that support structure. At the risk of being sexist, when you're a man, it's worse. After all, from childhood, you're brought up to be responsible, to be "the man" who brings home the bacon and makes the problems go away. You're supposed to be the unflinching, stoic rock who solves problems and makes things right, dispensing wisdom and making sure the bills get paid. For the kids of my generation, you're supposed to be Mike Brady.
When I got laid off, I felt a lot of pressure to make sure the bills got paid, but also to not add to the stress and the problems. And that's one of the places I have ample room for improvement if I'm ever laid off again. I tried to handle it all myself and encapsulate the stress and worry, and in doing do, I just added more stress, first to myself, and inevitably to the entire house.
To be sure, I had a wonderful support structure. My wife never even hinted, as hard as things got, at leaving. And I'm sure I made things much more difficult for her than they could have been.
I also have a group of guys I've met with on Saturday mornings since 1998. Without them and their support, I'm not sure what would have happened.
That's the great illusion of life. Though we're brought up, especially as men, to be rugged individualists, we are really part of a web of people. At times, we need that web to help support us, and that's okay because at times, we form the part of the web that helps support others.
In that way, our hands become, for lack of a better phrase, the hands of God, with support both freely given and freely accepted when we need it.
No matter how bad things are, the simple fact of the matter is, you are most likely not alone. The trick is to recognize that and accept the support.
As much as work in a pain in the butt, it's a social interaction, one where you can commisserate with those who are more or less in the same boat. After all, if a person or process is a pain to one person in the department, everyone else is likely in the same position.
When you're laid off, you lose that support structure. At the risk of being sexist, when you're a man, it's worse. After all, from childhood, you're brought up to be responsible, to be "the man" who brings home the bacon and makes the problems go away. You're supposed to be the unflinching, stoic rock who solves problems and makes things right, dispensing wisdom and making sure the bills get paid. For the kids of my generation, you're supposed to be Mike Brady.
When I got laid off, I felt a lot of pressure to make sure the bills got paid, but also to not add to the stress and the problems. And that's one of the places I have ample room for improvement if I'm ever laid off again. I tried to handle it all myself and encapsulate the stress and worry, and in doing do, I just added more stress, first to myself, and inevitably to the entire house.
To be sure, I had a wonderful support structure. My wife never even hinted, as hard as things got, at leaving. And I'm sure I made things much more difficult for her than they could have been.
I also have a group of guys I've met with on Saturday mornings since 1998. Without them and their support, I'm not sure what would have happened.
That's the great illusion of life. Though we're brought up, especially as men, to be rugged individualists, we are really part of a web of people. At times, we need that web to help support us, and that's okay because at times, we form the part of the web that helps support others.
In that way, our hands become, for lack of a better phrase, the hands of God, with support both freely given and freely accepted when we need it.
No matter how bad things are, the simple fact of the matter is, you are most likely not alone. The trick is to recognize that and accept the support.
Sunday, June 25, 2006
When I Got Laid Off
On May 25, 2001, I got laid off. Tampa is a very small town when it comes to the IT industry, and when the industry goes through a major correction, as it did from late 2000 until early 2003, everyone suffers. A company that was located two floors down from my former company started work one day with 120 based at that location and ended the day with six. When the ax dropped on me, the severence pay was a pittance, but then again, to give us more, they'd have to lay off more people.
To be coarse about it, the experience sucked. It's a coarse word, but the experience isn't easy. After all, we're socialized in this country that a man is the provider for his family and the Bible even says that someone who doesn't provide for his family is worse than a non-believer.
To make a long story short, I was out of work for almost two years. We scraped by with whatever came my way in terms of work. I was paid a total of eight weeks of unemployment. We never defaulted on a bill. We still live in the house we had when I got laid off. When we exhausted COBRA, my wife took a job at Walgreen's for the health benefits. Although there are financial repercussions we still feel today, we made it through intact (and if you get laid off and keep your head, so will you).
But the experience was life-changing. As I feel like writing about it, I'll tell you how it changed my life. I can't say life is better because I got laid off, but I can say that I have a greater understanding about life.
The first misconception shattered by getting laid off was the idea that I'm in control. I've never been in control of much--and deep down, I always knew that. But the experience of being laid off laid waste to any fantasies of control I had. There's only one thing I can control, and that's how I react. I did a number of things wrong when I was laid off, but one thing I didn't do was give up. I controlled how hard I looked for work and the job I did when I found it. Within a month, I had temporary work. And I went from job to job until the time I was hired by my current employer in March 2003.
When I got the jobs, I worked hard at them. Because my continued employment was based on day-to-day productivity and quality, my work was never better than when I could go away at any time. I provided value to the people I worked for, and every contract I started got extended. I was a disaster in a lot of other areas, but that's an area in which I excelled. I had to. I had people counting on me. As the cliche goes, failure was not an option. And failure did not happen.
I controlled how hard I worked and how creative I was in finding and taking advantage of opportunities. I failed miserably at understanding the boundary of what I controlled and didn't.
More on that another time.
To be coarse about it, the experience sucked. It's a coarse word, but the experience isn't easy. After all, we're socialized in this country that a man is the provider for his family and the Bible even says that someone who doesn't provide for his family is worse than a non-believer.
To make a long story short, I was out of work for almost two years. We scraped by with whatever came my way in terms of work. I was paid a total of eight weeks of unemployment. We never defaulted on a bill. We still live in the house we had when I got laid off. When we exhausted COBRA, my wife took a job at Walgreen's for the health benefits. Although there are financial repercussions we still feel today, we made it through intact (and if you get laid off and keep your head, so will you).
But the experience was life-changing. As I feel like writing about it, I'll tell you how it changed my life. I can't say life is better because I got laid off, but I can say that I have a greater understanding about life.
The first misconception shattered by getting laid off was the idea that I'm in control. I've never been in control of much--and deep down, I always knew that. But the experience of being laid off laid waste to any fantasies of control I had. There's only one thing I can control, and that's how I react. I did a number of things wrong when I was laid off, but one thing I didn't do was give up. I controlled how hard I looked for work and the job I did when I found it. Within a month, I had temporary work. And I went from job to job until the time I was hired by my current employer in March 2003.
When I got the jobs, I worked hard at them. Because my continued employment was based on day-to-day productivity and quality, my work was never better than when I could go away at any time. I provided value to the people I worked for, and every contract I started got extended. I was a disaster in a lot of other areas, but that's an area in which I excelled. I had to. I had people counting on me. As the cliche goes, failure was not an option. And failure did not happen.
I controlled how hard I worked and how creative I was in finding and taking advantage of opportunities. I failed miserably at understanding the boundary of what I controlled and didn't.
More on that another time.
Saturday, June 24, 2006
When God tests us
In The Purpose-Driven Life, Rick Warren writes:
But sometimes, the problems just happen. When I got laid off, it was because I worked in an industry that had gone insane and needed a correction. The nature of life is such that bad things are sometimes going to happen.
It is also the nature of life that sometimes, God will feel distant. It could be that we're not where we're supposed to be. But it could also be that life gets busy and sometimes it takes everything just to keep up. Either way, God doesn't teach to be dependent on Him by withdrawing from us. If that teaches us anything, it's how to become more self-reliant. Sometimes things just happen.
There's a great danger in these conversations of falling into a black-and-white construct in which everything good comes from God and everything bad comes from us. Just as sometimes bad things are our fault and sometimes they aren't; sometimes good things come from God and sometimes they're the result of our own creativeness and hard work.
God is the one who provided talents and a situation in which we can and should use them. But when we use them and do the right thing, we can feel a certain satisfaction of accomplishment.
In short, God is not a puppetmaster, and neither has He created a circumstance where we can only fail. Finally, He doesn't test us just to see how much we measure up. He is our loving father and is always as close by as our asking.
I don't believe that. I don't believe that God goes out of His way to make bad things happen to us so that we'll pull closer to Him. A lot of the bad things are self-inflicted. I don't take care of my body and then I have medical problems. I don't put out at work and I get laid off. These are things that we do, and the bad things that follow them aren't from God. They are the natural consequences of our actions.To mature your friendship, God will test it with periods of seeming separation--times when it feels as if He has abandoned or forgotten you....[T]his feeling of abandonment or estrangement from God has nothing to do with sin. It is a test of faith.
But sometimes, the problems just happen. When I got laid off, it was because I worked in an industry that had gone insane and needed a correction. The nature of life is such that bad things are sometimes going to happen.
It is also the nature of life that sometimes, God will feel distant. It could be that we're not where we're supposed to be. But it could also be that life gets busy and sometimes it takes everything just to keep up. Either way, God doesn't teach to be dependent on Him by withdrawing from us. If that teaches us anything, it's how to become more self-reliant. Sometimes things just happen.
There's a great danger in these conversations of falling into a black-and-white construct in which everything good comes from God and everything bad comes from us. Just as sometimes bad things are our fault and sometimes they aren't; sometimes good things come from God and sometimes they're the result of our own creativeness and hard work.
God is the one who provided talents and a situation in which we can and should use them. But when we use them and do the right thing, we can feel a certain satisfaction of accomplishment.
In short, God is not a puppetmaster, and neither has He created a circumstance where we can only fail. Finally, He doesn't test us just to see how much we measure up. He is our loving father and is always as close by as our asking.
Thursday, June 22, 2006
Hitting with My Son
My right arm and shoulder hurt tonight. I should probably take some Motrin.
My son played baseball for the first time last year. He improved over the fall season and again in the spring season, but if he didn't practice and get some time in getting comfortable with the bat, glove, and ball, there's only so much he'll be able to do come fall. So we've been going out a couple times a week working on hitting, throwing, and fielding.
We started with 20 baseballs in the ball bag and someplace picked up three more. I cycle through the bag five times, so he sees 100 balls twice a week. Now that he's hitting better, I can field some of the balls that come back to me and I just turn around and pitch them again. So tonight, he probably got someplace around 130 pitches. Some of them were almost as hard as I could throw, and while he wasn't scorching the ball, he was making contact with almost every pitch. And that's why my arm hurts tonight.
It feels good.
I'm hoping that when he gets older, whether he ever goes anyplace with baseball or not, he remembers that he worked at something and got better, and that it was worth the effort.
More than that, I hope he remembers that someone gave a damn.
My son played baseball for the first time last year. He improved over the fall season and again in the spring season, but if he didn't practice and get some time in getting comfortable with the bat, glove, and ball, there's only so much he'll be able to do come fall. So we've been going out a couple times a week working on hitting, throwing, and fielding.
We started with 20 baseballs in the ball bag and someplace picked up three more. I cycle through the bag five times, so he sees 100 balls twice a week. Now that he's hitting better, I can field some of the balls that come back to me and I just turn around and pitch them again. So tonight, he probably got someplace around 130 pitches. Some of them were almost as hard as I could throw, and while he wasn't scorching the ball, he was making contact with almost every pitch. And that's why my arm hurts tonight.
It feels good.
I'm hoping that when he gets older, whether he ever goes anyplace with baseball or not, he remembers that he worked at something and got better, and that it was worth the effort.
More than that, I hope he remembers that someone gave a damn.
Wednesday, June 21, 2006
My Daughter
Thirteen years ago, my daughter was born. I am a different and better person because of her and I admire her greatly. If I had heroes, she would be one of them.
No good deed...
Jesus said to his disciples: “Take care not to perform righteous deeds in order that people may see them; otherwise, you will have no recompense from your heavenly Father. When you give alms, do not blow a trumpet before you, as the hypocrites do in the synagogues and in the streets to win the praise of others. Amen, I say to you, they have received their reward. But when you give alms, do not let your left hand know what your right is doing, so that your almsgiving may be secret. And your Father who sees in secret will repay you.
“When you pray, do not be like the hypocrites, who love to stand and pray in the synagogues and on street corners so that others may see them. Amen, I say to you, they have received their reward. But when you pray, go to your inner room, close the door, and pray to your Father in secret. And your Father who sees in secret will repay you. Matthew 6:1-6 (NAB)
We've all been through it. You go out of your way to do something for someone, to make a real difference, and your efforts are met with a mix of indifference, hostility, and entitlement. After all, no good deed goes unpunished. And if you've done it for someone once, well, you own it, and it expected from now on.
In some cases, your attempts to serve someone--to be a decent human being and try to make things easier--sow seeds of contempt. After all, if you're my servant, I'm entitled to the service and get to it!
So why bother? Why go the extra mile? If I'm going to get hostility in return for my efforts, why make the effort?
When I read this passage of Gospel, it turned the entire scenario around. Prayer isn't just what you do on your knees in your room with the door shut, or before meals, or at church on Sunday. Prayer is the active use of what you have to serve God and those around you, as well. And if you pray, you do it for others, but for Him, too. And if you do the nice things for people and they thank you and notice, then you have gotten a reward, which is always nice. But if you do something nice and you are met with indifference or hostility, it's still noticed. Your heavenly Father sees and appreciates that, and will reward it.
So it's not a pointless exercise. On the contrary, it's a very important exercise. For when God came to earth in human form, He received no less, and look at the results of that. Doing good is as valuable a thing as there is, even when it's met with hostility.
Tuesday, June 20, 2006
Why bother?
Sometimes it seems as if it doesn't matter what you do? The outcome seems like a forgone conclusion. The winners will win; the losers will lose. Live goes on today the same way it did yesterday and the day before that. For all the times we say that change is the only constant in life, that's really not true. Things evolve over time, but revolution is rare.
So you sit and plug away at what God's supposed purpose is for your life and it's the same today as it was yesterday, which is the same as the day before. Others may excel or crash and burn, but life isn't like college football, where you get eleven chances and that's it. It's like baseball, where you get up every day and go at it. Sometimes the winners stink it up and the losers do everything right, but more often than not, at the end, it works as expected.
God doesn't predestine us for victory or defeat, but we sure do it to ourselves and each other. Once you project the aura of a winner, you're seen that way. And once you project the aura of a loser, it doesn't much matter what you do.
It is worth the effort to work extra-hard to change the perception? Maybe.
So you sit and plug away at what God's supposed purpose is for your life and it's the same today as it was yesterday, which is the same as the day before. Others may excel or crash and burn, but life isn't like college football, where you get eleven chances and that's it. It's like baseball, where you get up every day and go at it. Sometimes the winners stink it up and the losers do everything right, but more often than not, at the end, it works as expected.
God doesn't predestine us for victory or defeat, but we sure do it to ourselves and each other. Once you project the aura of a winner, you're seen that way. And once you project the aura of a loser, it doesn't much matter what you do.
It is worth the effort to work extra-hard to change the perception? Maybe.
Monday, June 19, 2006
Why can't this time be sometime?
The last time I made a good decision getting a car, it was 1989 and I bought a lovely blue Honda Civic 3-door hatch. The losing streak continued with the last car, a 1999 Kia Sportage that wouldn't start when we got a little more than three-quarters of the way to Huntington, West Virginia.
But, with little hiccups here and there, that car wasn't too bad--until it his 60,000 miles. Then it started stalling and not starting. After $1,500 of this, that, and the other thing, it stopped stalling--mostly--but continued to be a crapshoot in starting.
The worst, the time when I just couldn't deal with it any more, was about a month ago when I took my son and his friend to a ballgame in St. Pete. We got there fine. Got back fine. But we stopped at Kane's furniture on the way home for pizza certificates because the Rays' starting pitcher had struck out more than ten. It took nearly 15 minutes for the car to start. Never, I though, would I get another car. Well, functionally never. In the meantime, I'd baby the Sportage until it just died.
Now, a month later, I have a new car, which is something I didn't think we could afford. After dropping more than two grand on the sick cat, it's going to be a little tighter than we want it to be, but that's how it goes.
Sometimes when you think everything is cast in stone and nothing can change, it all does. Why can't this time be sometime?
But, with little hiccups here and there, that car wasn't too bad--until it his 60,000 miles. Then it started stalling and not starting. After $1,500 of this, that, and the other thing, it stopped stalling--mostly--but continued to be a crapshoot in starting.
The worst, the time when I just couldn't deal with it any more, was about a month ago when I took my son and his friend to a ballgame in St. Pete. We got there fine. Got back fine. But we stopped at Kane's furniture on the way home for pizza certificates because the Rays' starting pitcher had struck out more than ten. It took nearly 15 minutes for the car to start. Never, I though, would I get another car. Well, functionally never. In the meantime, I'd baby the Sportage until it just died.
Now, a month later, I have a new car, which is something I didn't think we could afford. After dropping more than two grand on the sick cat, it's going to be a little tighter than we want it to be, but that's how it goes.
Sometimes when you think everything is cast in stone and nothing can change, it all does. Why can't this time be sometime?
Someplace to go
Still, you insist on sincerity of heart; in my inmost being teach me wisdom. Cleanse me with hyssop, that I may be pure; wash me, make me whiter than snow. Let me hear sounds of joy and gladness; let the bones you have crushed rejoice. Turn away your face from my sins; blot out all my guilt. A clean heart create for me, God; renew in me a steadfast spirit. Do not drive me from your presence, nor take from me your holy spirit. Restore my joy in your salvation; sustain in me a willing spirit. -- Psalm 51:8-14
Jesus is the one, at the end of the day, when you've tried your best and failed anyway, He's the one who takes you back. When the day is nothing but a series of egregious errors and stupid mistakes and frustration and anger, when you sit in the dark just before sleep and you need someone to not turn their back on you, Jesus is the one.
Paul has talked about groans that exceed human comprehension in prayer. In a way, it reminds me of the cries of Westley in The Princess Bride, when he has lost his true love. His heart is breaking and he has no place to go. We have someplace to go.
And so, having that someplace to go, we also try to be someplace for someone else whose groans transcend language.
Sunday, June 18, 2006
What I've Gotten for Father's Day
It was Father's Day today. I got two seasons worth of Magnum, P. I. on DVD, a pair of shorts, and a Synchro DAD t-shirt, the last, specifically from my daughter, who spent the weekend helping the coaches at a Synchronized Swimming meet.
My daughter turns 13 this week. We only have her for a few more years before she starts on her own life. My son isn't far behind.
The gifts I got for Father's Day today were nice, but they weren't meaningful. The little girl laughed for the first time at the Pooh ornament in Reston, VA in 1993. The pre-teen telling me that I'm the best dad in the whole world, though I doubted it at the time. The sweet, smart, wonderful girl who hugs me and kisses me and tells me that she loves me before she goes to bed at night. The one who still screeches like a five-year-old when I tickle her.
The little boy whose first diaper change at home came just a little too late to avoid dirty sheets. The one who climbed the boxes in the living room before he was one when we'd moved to Florida in 1998. The little kid who took about a year to run the bases at Devil Rays fan fest. The one who told me at Cub Scout day camp that the B on my Red Sox cap stood for BOO!
I remember the morning both my kids were born. Laura was gestational diabetic, so we had induced labor. I remember seeing Jane McDonald in her minivan as we drove down the Dulles Toll Road the morning of June 21, 1993. And I remember dropping Jenny off at her friend's house before dawn the morning of October 10, 1997.
I remember cutting Jenny's umbilical cord and having Dan's footprint stamped on my arm. I remember Jenny being angry that she got a little brother instead of a sister...until she went to the hospital and held him.
These things and a million more memories are worth far more than the money we'd have if we didn't have any kids. They are the best Father's Day present ever.
My daughter turns 13 this week. We only have her for a few more years before she starts on her own life. My son isn't far behind.
The gifts I got for Father's Day today were nice, but they weren't meaningful. The little girl laughed for the first time at the Pooh ornament in Reston, VA in 1993. The pre-teen telling me that I'm the best dad in the whole world, though I doubted it at the time. The sweet, smart, wonderful girl who hugs me and kisses me and tells me that she loves me before she goes to bed at night. The one who still screeches like a five-year-old when I tickle her.
The little boy whose first diaper change at home came just a little too late to avoid dirty sheets. The one who climbed the boxes in the living room before he was one when we'd moved to Florida in 1998. The little kid who took about a year to run the bases at Devil Rays fan fest. The one who told me at Cub Scout day camp that the B on my Red Sox cap stood for BOO!
I remember the morning both my kids were born. Laura was gestational diabetic, so we had induced labor. I remember seeing Jane McDonald in her minivan as we drove down the Dulles Toll Road the morning of June 21, 1993. And I remember dropping Jenny off at her friend's house before dawn the morning of October 10, 1997.
I remember cutting Jenny's umbilical cord and having Dan's footprint stamped on my arm. I remember Jenny being angry that she got a little brother instead of a sister...until she went to the hospital and held him.
These things and a million more memories are worth far more than the money we'd have if we didn't have any kids. They are the best Father's Day present ever.
The Peace that Transcends all Understanding
So the darkness is hovering off in the distance, far enough away to not be enveloping, close enough to know that it's there. There's a number of things I should be. I should be better at dealing with garbage, the minor inconveniences that pile up periodically in life. I should be able to better handle demands that I can't necessarily meet for one reason or another. I should not feel as if I should have the answer to every problem that presents itself regardless of its origin or my culpability.
But part of the problem is I should. Winners find a way. Losers don't. But too often I don't find a way. Guess what? Neither do most other people. It's an often-quoted statistic that the best hitters in baseball fail 70% of the time. Thomas Edison failed thousands of times, it's said, before creating the lightbulb. Lincoln never won an election until he was elected president. God failed with billions of women before He created my wife. (Okay, that was a little gratuitous, but she might read this some time, and I'm not above a little bit of brown-nosing.)
Phillipians 4:4-4:9 says a great deal about this:
Then, and this is an area where I am out-and-out horrible. I concentrate on the crap that's going on. How this one did that or the cat got sick and cost two grand (and hasn't brought in a stinking penny since we got her.) If I concentrate on good things--truth, honor, justice, purity, loveliness, and all that--peace is mine.
It seems so easy--until you try to do it.
But part of the problem is I should. Winners find a way. Losers don't. But too often I don't find a way. Guess what? Neither do most other people. It's an often-quoted statistic that the best hitters in baseball fail 70% of the time. Thomas Edison failed thousands of times, it's said, before creating the lightbulb. Lincoln never won an election until he was elected president. God failed with billions of women before He created my wife. (Okay, that was a little gratuitous, but she might read this some time, and I'm not above a little bit of brown-nosing.)
Phillipians 4:4-4:9 says a great deal about this:
Rejoice in the Lord always. I shall say it again: rejoice! Your kindness should be known to all. The Lord is near. Have no anxiety at all, but in everything, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, make your requests known to God. Then the peace of God that surpasses all understanding will guard your hearts and minds in Christ Jesus. Finally, brothers, whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is gracious, if there is any excellence and if there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things. Keep on doing what you have learned and received and heard and seen in me. Then the God of peace will be with you. (NAB)Look at the progression. I am to rejoice, a command so nice, Paul said it twice. My kindness should be known to all, for the Lord is near. I'm not in charge of making all good things happen and preventing all bad, to assume such a responsibility is foolish. If, by prayer, I make my requests known to God, petitioning Him, then--if I do what I am able to do--that is enough. Knowing limitations and trusting in God to work through those limitations is the key to peace.
Then, and this is an area where I am out-and-out horrible. I concentrate on the crap that's going on. How this one did that or the cat got sick and cost two grand (and hasn't brought in a stinking penny since we got her.) If I concentrate on good things--truth, honor, justice, purity, loveliness, and all that--peace is mine.
It seems so easy--until you try to do it.
Friday, June 16, 2006
A Trite Little Message
There was a Friday--it was May 15, 1992. I'd planned to work half a day, but that didn't happen. You see, we had guests coming from out of town, starting at noon that day. I picked up my friends Dan and Jenn and we had a pleasant lunch at Ruby Tuesday in Fair Oaks Mall. That night, we had a very nice dinner at a place called Clyde's in Tyson's Corner.
It was a rare weekend in which I could put aside all the problems of the world and enjoy time with family and friends. And it came off without a hitch. Well, except for actually getting hitched, which I did the next day, May 16, 1992.
But really the next day was a blur. One of the enduring memories of the weekend was of that morning, of the feeling of freedom and anticipation, the feeling of being completely unburdened by the cares of the day.
I'll probably pass someone on the way to work this morning who feels that way, someone for whom the burderns of everyday life had been cut free for a brief time. And I'll probably pass someone on the way to the worst day of their lives.
I've been both of those people. And probably will be again.
All of which is a convoluted way of saying that, no matter what it is, this, too, shall pass. Treasure the blessings and weather the storms for all of them are temporary.
It was a rare weekend in which I could put aside all the problems of the world and enjoy time with family and friends. And it came off without a hitch. Well, except for actually getting hitched, which I did the next day, May 16, 1992.
But really the next day was a blur. One of the enduring memories of the weekend was of that morning, of the feeling of freedom and anticipation, the feeling of being completely unburdened by the cares of the day.
I'll probably pass someone on the way to work this morning who feels that way, someone for whom the burderns of everyday life had been cut free for a brief time. And I'll probably pass someone on the way to the worst day of their lives.
I've been both of those people. And probably will be again.
All of which is a convoluted way of saying that, no matter what it is, this, too, shall pass. Treasure the blessings and weather the storms for all of them are temporary.
Tuesday, June 13, 2006
My new favorite picture
This is me and the kids from Cub Scout day camp last week. I love this picture. I love that I am on one knee talking to them at their level. That epitomizes so much of what's important.I love that I wore a Red Sox hat that day specifically because a lot of them are Yankees fans and it created some really good razzing back and forth.
Look at them. In five years, they will be 14 teenagers. In fifteen years, they'll be young men, starting their lives. In 20 years, many of them will be fathers.
What a wonderful and important thing to be able to help them along in the process of becoming men.
Sunday, June 11, 2006
Coming Down from the Mountain
I haven't gotten up and gone to work in the morning since June 2. It has been an outstanding vacation, probably one of the best. I loved what I did that last ten days, but you can't spend life on a mountaintop. The blessing of a mountaintop experience is that it happens. Unfortunately, it also ends.
I would much rather being spending the day in the sweltering heat, getting after a mess of 8-10 year-old boys about proper hydration than do what I do to get paid. It's more fulfilling, more rewarding, and, frankly, a lot more fun. There was a time when you spent the day every day with your family, out on the farm. It was hard work, but you got to see your loved ones a lot more. Farming for me is mowing the lawn and I try not to do that when I don't have to. But I think those people were blessed in a way.
I got to spend all day every day last week with my son. My wife and daughter were around, too. And that added to the mountaintop experience.
Tomorrow, I go back to the valley. The valley has advanatages, too. For one, they pay me to go there, which helps keep my son, wife, and daughter in inconsequential things, like food, clothing, and shelter. Also, I've come to truly value the people I work with, and I've missed them. One of my co-workers is also deeply involved with Cub Scouts and I can't wait to talk to her about what we did at camp last week.
But still, I can't help but be wistful about the passage of this nearly perfect week. And I can't help but thank God for the blessing of putting it in my life.
I think that last week was a taste of heaven.
I would much rather being spending the day in the sweltering heat, getting after a mess of 8-10 year-old boys about proper hydration than do what I do to get paid. It's more fulfilling, more rewarding, and, frankly, a lot more fun. There was a time when you spent the day every day with your family, out on the farm. It was hard work, but you got to see your loved ones a lot more. Farming for me is mowing the lawn and I try not to do that when I don't have to. But I think those people were blessed in a way.
I got to spend all day every day last week with my son. My wife and daughter were around, too. And that added to the mountaintop experience.
Tomorrow, I go back to the valley. The valley has advanatages, too. For one, they pay me to go there, which helps keep my son, wife, and daughter in inconsequential things, like food, clothing, and shelter. Also, I've come to truly value the people I work with, and I've missed them. One of my co-workers is also deeply involved with Cub Scouts and I can't wait to talk to her about what we did at camp last week.
But still, I can't help but be wistful about the passage of this nearly perfect week. And I can't help but thank God for the blessing of putting it in my life.
I think that last week was a taste of heaven.
Saturday, June 10, 2006
A Lovely Gift
My wife and I just got done doing Cub Scout Day Camp all week. As five-day leaders, we received a gift, which I wanted to share. It's a thing called Beatitudes for Leaders, and I think it's cool.
I'm not certain of the copyrights attached, so I'll link to it, rather than potentially violating them. I framed it and put it on the wall in front of my desk. I'm pretty good at this with the kids, now I need to do some of it with adults.
I'm not certain of the copyrights attached, so I'll link to it, rather than potentially violating them. I framed it and put it on the wall in front of my desk. I'm pretty good at this with the kids, now I need to do some of it with adults.
Wednesday, June 07, 2006
Use Words If Necessary
Tradition says that St. Francis said, "Go out and spread the Gospel. Use words if necessary."
That's a good goal. I'm not saying I'm good at it, but you'll win more converts with actions than with words.
That's a good goal. I'm not saying I'm good at it, but you'll win more converts with actions than with words.
Monday, June 05, 2006
Time is Short...Well, Shorter than it was.
I figure I'm going to live to be somewhere between 60 and 85. If that's the case, my life is between half and two-thirds over. Time, which seemed infinite not so long ago, now seems much less so. It's not an unconfortable tightness--not yet anyway--but for the first time in my life, I notice my own finite nature.
The clock is ticking and if I'm going to accomplish things, I need to start doing it. When I first got to that point in life, it bothered me. Just the idea of one's own mortality can be distracting. But now that the novelty of the realization has worn off, the time for screwing around is over. It's now time to figure out what's important and either do it or be it.
And that is a blessing. It's made me uncomfortable and forced changed. In the past, I'd have decided not to spend vacation on Cub Scout day camp this week. This year, I'm doing it. With the exception of two blueberry scones I've had at Barnes and Noble in the past two weeks--because I was hungry and those were the least objectionable things--I've steered clear of crap.
And I don't have time to let my own self-inflicted internal strife stop me from doing the most important things any more. I want to write, and I have, including this blog. And I want what I do to matter. I hope the sentiments offered here are useful to someone, and I know the work I'm doing with the kids is.
Mid-life, such as it is, is not a crisis; it's a wake-up call, a time to realize that you need to do the important things and get to them. And in getting to them, you can enrich your own life by enriching others'.
The clock is ticking and if I'm going to accomplish things, I need to start doing it. When I first got to that point in life, it bothered me. Just the idea of one's own mortality can be distracting. But now that the novelty of the realization has worn off, the time for screwing around is over. It's now time to figure out what's important and either do it or be it.
And that is a blessing. It's made me uncomfortable and forced changed. In the past, I'd have decided not to spend vacation on Cub Scout day camp this week. This year, I'm doing it. With the exception of two blueberry scones I've had at Barnes and Noble in the past two weeks--because I was hungry and those were the least objectionable things--I've steered clear of crap.
And I don't have time to let my own self-inflicted internal strife stop me from doing the most important things any more. I want to write, and I have, including this blog. And I want what I do to matter. I hope the sentiments offered here are useful to someone, and I know the work I'm doing with the kids is.
Mid-life, such as it is, is not a crisis; it's a wake-up call, a time to realize that you need to do the important things and get to them. And in getting to them, you can enrich your own life by enriching others'.
Sunday, June 04, 2006
The End Times
There's a guy named Bob Lassiter who used to do radio in the Tampa area. I got here toward the end of his reign. By the time I listened to him, I think he had soured of the business and the direction in which he saw it headed. In December 1999, he figured he was done. He was less than two weeks from the end of his contract and no one had spoken to him about extending it. His last day on the air seemed like a huge meltdown at the time. In retrospect, it wasn't that harsh.
Bob Lassiter is dying. His kidneys are failing. And his blog is a daily play-by-play of his life as he sinks into the hole that will eventually cause his death. I don't know how or when I'm going to die. As a result, I get to think about things like our next vacation and how the Cub Scout meetings are going to fall from August until May of next year. But for the first time in my life, I can see the end line someplace on the horizon. My lifetime isn't the eternity it once was.
In sharing his thoughts and feelings as his life ebbs away, Bob Lassiter is providing a wonderful gift of show how precious life really is, and how hard death can really be. And he's showing that even when it's hard, it can be met with dignity.
Bob Lassiter is dying. His kidneys are failing. And his blog is a daily play-by-play of his life as he sinks into the hole that will eventually cause his death. I don't know how or when I'm going to die. As a result, I get to think about things like our next vacation and how the Cub Scout meetings are going to fall from August until May of next year. But for the first time in my life, I can see the end line someplace on the horizon. My lifetime isn't the eternity it once was.
In sharing his thoughts and feelings as his life ebbs away, Bob Lassiter is providing a wonderful gift of show how precious life really is, and how hard death can really be. And he's showing that even when it's hard, it can be met with dignity.
It's about Them
It's not about you.
Those are the first four words in The Purpose-Driven Life, a book with wonderful and horrible points, all made with the certainly of "The Bible says..." And like much of the material in the book, that statement is right and true, even if the methods used in supporting it are questionable. The author, Rick Warren, starts off by saying that it's not about you, it's about God.
I'd amend that statement. It's not about you, it's about them. The unsaved. The great unwashed. Pagans, sinners, whatever you want to call them. It's about them.
The Christian religion talks a lot about being saved. If you're washed in the blood of the Lamb of God (Jesus), you are saved. When you die, you're going someplace nice where you can revel in God's presence. And if you aren't saved, then you're not.
God is God, contant and unchanging. It's about Him, but He is what He is and we don't have the power to do anything about it. And if you believe in salvation and if you truly turn to God and accept His salvation, then you're set. Basically, you've made your decision and as long as you don't unmake it, you're off the gameboard, too.
That leaves everyone else. It's not about me; I'm taken care of. It's now about them. In my opinion, this is where a lot of Christians fall down. Tradition has it that Saint Francis said "Preach the Gospel at all time; if necessary, use words." Words are necessary. This blog and most communication is based on words. But words aren't the most effective way to communicate.
Actions are the most effective way to communicate.
And our actions, almost by definition, don't match our words. I know mine don't. I can be selfish and boorish and self-involved to the point of making people gag. But I can also be gentle and loving and touching. And God has given me the ability to move people to tears with my use of words. My children have opened up a pathway to both humanity and divinity that I never even imagined. In short, I'm human. I screw up just like you do. And I excel, too.
So my words will ring hollow. There are things about me that I will never tell you because I'm not proud of them. I fall short of what my words profess. But that's okay, because the ideas behind the words represent goals and ideals, without which, nothing progresses. And I'm trying to live up to those words.
So it's with my actions that I need to do my most effective speaking. It's with a hug to my children when I get after them too much for whatever they've done or haven't done. It's with the all-too-frequent, but heartfelt "I'm sorry" to my wife after go get angry about something stupid that I won't remember in three days.
Jesus has made a tremendous difference in my life. It's taken a long time (more than 13 years since I got serious about it), but I'm starting to become the gentle, patient person that I want to be. And the key to what I want to be is how I can touch others. Increasingly, after a maddening parade of missteps, that's starting to happen.
It's my job to make the effort; it's God's job to produce the fruit.
Those are the first four words in The Purpose-Driven Life, a book with wonderful and horrible points, all made with the certainly of "The Bible says..." And like much of the material in the book, that statement is right and true, even if the methods used in supporting it are questionable. The author, Rick Warren, starts off by saying that it's not about you, it's about God.
I'd amend that statement. It's not about you, it's about them. The unsaved. The great unwashed. Pagans, sinners, whatever you want to call them. It's about them.
The Christian religion talks a lot about being saved. If you're washed in the blood of the Lamb of God (Jesus), you are saved. When you die, you're going someplace nice where you can revel in God's presence. And if you aren't saved, then you're not.
God is God, contant and unchanging. It's about Him, but He is what He is and we don't have the power to do anything about it. And if you believe in salvation and if you truly turn to God and accept His salvation, then you're set. Basically, you've made your decision and as long as you don't unmake it, you're off the gameboard, too.
That leaves everyone else. It's not about me; I'm taken care of. It's now about them. In my opinion, this is where a lot of Christians fall down. Tradition has it that Saint Francis said "Preach the Gospel at all time; if necessary, use words." Words are necessary. This blog and most communication is based on words. But words aren't the most effective way to communicate.
Actions are the most effective way to communicate.
And our actions, almost by definition, don't match our words. I know mine don't. I can be selfish and boorish and self-involved to the point of making people gag. But I can also be gentle and loving and touching. And God has given me the ability to move people to tears with my use of words. My children have opened up a pathway to both humanity and divinity that I never even imagined. In short, I'm human. I screw up just like you do. And I excel, too.
So my words will ring hollow. There are things about me that I will never tell you because I'm not proud of them. I fall short of what my words profess. But that's okay, because the ideas behind the words represent goals and ideals, without which, nothing progresses. And I'm trying to live up to those words.
So it's with my actions that I need to do my most effective speaking. It's with a hug to my children when I get after them too much for whatever they've done or haven't done. It's with the all-too-frequent, but heartfelt "I'm sorry" to my wife after go get angry about something stupid that I won't remember in three days.
Jesus has made a tremendous difference in my life. It's taken a long time (more than 13 years since I got serious about it), but I'm starting to become the gentle, patient person that I want to be. And the key to what I want to be is how I can touch others. Increasingly, after a maddening parade of missteps, that's starting to happen.
It's my job to make the effort; it's God's job to produce the fruit.
Saturday, June 03, 2006
To be or not to be; to do or not to do
I'm a good Christian. And that means that I should do something for Jesus. In fact, I should constantly be doing something for Jesus. After all, time is short and there's lots to do. So I'd better get doing, because there's a lot of work to be done.
The parable of the talents would seem to give credence to that approach. After all, the guy who had five talents worked really hard and got another five. And God was happy with him. And the guy who had three talents worked really hard and got another three. And God was happy with him. But the guy who had one went off and buried his talent. And God was angry with him. So the moral of the story is that God expects you to produce. You need to produce fruit, the Bible says. And we'll be judged on whether we produce fruit. So if we're trees producing fruit, we'd better get onto producing lest we wind up kindling in the fires of Gehenna, right?
Actually, I don't think so.
The more I think about it, the more I think that God isn't as concerned with what we do as he is concerned with what we are. I think we, particularly as Americans, have been socialized that we're expected to produce. I mean, when you're in the job, you're there to produce. And we're rewarded based on how we produce. So we'd better get producing or we're going to do poorly on our performance appraisals.
Except I don't think God is our boss. I think God is our father. For my kids, I care what they do. If I see clothes on the bathroom floor, I get irritated. After all, they have two legs and two arms and two eyes, so they should see the clothes on the floor and use their arms to pick them up and use their legs to put them in the hamper.
But more than that, I care what they are. I get after them about the clothes because I want them to understand that they have to pull their weight. Because the lesson of picking up their own clothes has a lot of parallels in adult life. Because it will help shape what they are.
There's a certain passiveness in being a good Christian. Mother Theresa called herself an instrument in the hands of the Lord. An instrument by itself is entirely passive. It does what its user intends. Now, Mother Theresa didn't live a passive life, but she did act passively in the face of God, allowing herself to be used as He saw fit.
A better example is an apple tree. An apple tree doesn't strain to produce fruit. It produces fruit by virtue of the fact that it's an apple tree. Just the same, if we concentrate on being, the doing will come on its own.
So what does it mean to concentrate on being? It means that you need to figure out what you are and then try to be that. Figure out what you stand for, then live according to that. For me--and I would presume to say, for all Christians--what we want to be is His. And if we concentrate on being His, then when it's time to do and when it's time to make decisions, we'll know what to do.
The secret is that we're not here to try to produce fruit, we're here to be His. And if we can be what we're supposed to be, the fruit will be a natural outgrowth of what we are.
The parable of the talents would seem to give credence to that approach. After all, the guy who had five talents worked really hard and got another five. And God was happy with him. And the guy who had three talents worked really hard and got another three. And God was happy with him. But the guy who had one went off and buried his talent. And God was angry with him. So the moral of the story is that God expects you to produce. You need to produce fruit, the Bible says. And we'll be judged on whether we produce fruit. So if we're trees producing fruit, we'd better get onto producing lest we wind up kindling in the fires of Gehenna, right?
Actually, I don't think so.
The more I think about it, the more I think that God isn't as concerned with what we do as he is concerned with what we are. I think we, particularly as Americans, have been socialized that we're expected to produce. I mean, when you're in the job, you're there to produce. And we're rewarded based on how we produce. So we'd better get producing or we're going to do poorly on our performance appraisals.
Except I don't think God is our boss. I think God is our father. For my kids, I care what they do. If I see clothes on the bathroom floor, I get irritated. After all, they have two legs and two arms and two eyes, so they should see the clothes on the floor and use their arms to pick them up and use their legs to put them in the hamper.
But more than that, I care what they are. I get after them about the clothes because I want them to understand that they have to pull their weight. Because the lesson of picking up their own clothes has a lot of parallels in adult life. Because it will help shape what they are.
There's a certain passiveness in being a good Christian. Mother Theresa called herself an instrument in the hands of the Lord. An instrument by itself is entirely passive. It does what its user intends. Now, Mother Theresa didn't live a passive life, but she did act passively in the face of God, allowing herself to be used as He saw fit.
A better example is an apple tree. An apple tree doesn't strain to produce fruit. It produces fruit by virtue of the fact that it's an apple tree. Just the same, if we concentrate on being, the doing will come on its own.
So what does it mean to concentrate on being? It means that you need to figure out what you are and then try to be that. Figure out what you stand for, then live according to that. For me--and I would presume to say, for all Christians--what we want to be is His. And if we concentrate on being His, then when it's time to do and when it's time to make decisions, we'll know what to do.
The secret is that we're not here to try to produce fruit, we're here to be His. And if we can be what we're supposed to be, the fruit will be a natural outgrowth of what we are.
Thursday, June 01, 2006
Unhappiness isn't Necessarily Godly
Today's entry in The Purpose-Driven Life talks about the fact that life is a temporary assignment. We are here for a short time, relative to the eternity that we will spend with God and we should set our eyes on the eternal things and not be concerned with the things of this world. In fact, because our real citizenship is in heaven, we are supposed to remain somewhat unhappy and unfulfilled here.
I understand what Rick Warren is saying, but I have some problems with it, as well. This kind of thinking has been used to justify all kinds of horrible things. Yes, you're a slave in this world, but it's okay. You'll be with God in the next, so to out and harvest my stuff, you worthless serf!
In fairness, Rick Warren isn't justifying slavery, but I can cherry pick scripture just as easy has Warren does. Paul said in Philipians that he had learned to be content in any situation. Psalm 118 says that this is the day the Lord has made and that we should rejoice and be glad in it. That's not the same as saying that we're supposed to be happy and unfulfilled. One of the best things that you can wish someone is peace, an internal peace that transcends all understanding.
Now, for this guy to come and cherry pick Scripture and say that we're supposed to be at least somewhat unhappy is very harmful. If nothing else, it allows people whose unhappiness is self-inflicted a rationalization that's not easily countered. I'm unhappy because God wants me to be, because I'm getting ready for heaven.
Bunk. You're unhappy because of your own reactions. Or because you're in a situation that makes you unhappy and you've chosen not remedy that situation. Sometimes good reasons exist for that, but often it's a result of fear, complacency, or just plain laziness, none of which is noble. There's a huge difference between saying "Life is hard and you need to accept that fact" and saying "Life is hard and you're supposed to be at least a little unhappy or you aren't focusing on God wants."
The key to life isn't happiness. And the key to happiness isn't a single-minded pursuit of it. The key to both is to figure out what you stand for, and then standing for it.
I understand what Rick Warren is saying, but I have some problems with it, as well. This kind of thinking has been used to justify all kinds of horrible things. Yes, you're a slave in this world, but it's okay. You'll be with God in the next, so to out and harvest my stuff, you worthless serf!
In fairness, Rick Warren isn't justifying slavery, but I can cherry pick scripture just as easy has Warren does. Paul said in Philipians that he had learned to be content in any situation. Psalm 118 says that this is the day the Lord has made and that we should rejoice and be glad in it. That's not the same as saying that we're supposed to be happy and unfulfilled. One of the best things that you can wish someone is peace, an internal peace that transcends all understanding.
Now, for this guy to come and cherry pick Scripture and say that we're supposed to be at least somewhat unhappy is very harmful. If nothing else, it allows people whose unhappiness is self-inflicted a rationalization that's not easily countered. I'm unhappy because God wants me to be, because I'm getting ready for heaven.
Bunk. You're unhappy because of your own reactions. Or because you're in a situation that makes you unhappy and you've chosen not remedy that situation. Sometimes good reasons exist for that, but often it's a result of fear, complacency, or just plain laziness, none of which is noble. There's a huge difference between saying "Life is hard and you need to accept that fact" and saying "Life is hard and you're supposed to be at least a little unhappy or you aren't focusing on God wants."
The key to life isn't happiness. And the key to happiness isn't a single-minded pursuit of it. The key to both is to figure out what you stand for, and then standing for it.
Wednesday, May 31, 2006
Going to Dad's for Dinner...with my Family
I'm Catholic. There are many misconceptions about the Mass, both from outside and inside the Catholic Church. Sure, there are the sexy arguments about praying to saints and stuff like that, but that conversation is short. People who pray to saints are committing idolatry. The Catholic Church doesn't sanction idolatry.
But that's boring. I'd rather talk about the nature of Mass (or services, if you aren't Catholic). For many, the Mass is a chance for a personal encounter with God. They go to Mass and start praying and maybe sing and encounter God and hop in the car and go home. And except for wishing a few people peace, they may not say another word to anyone.
I would submit that all that stuff is homework. You ought to do that before you come. The Mass is based on the Last Supper, which wasn't a bunch of people coming together to have individual uncounters with Jesus. It was a bunch of guys having dinner together and honoring God. And when we go to Mass--my family goes on Saturday night--we're going over to our Father's house for dinner. When you do that, you aren't there for a personal encounter with your dad. You're there to be with the entire family.
In the same way, at Mass, you're there not only to be with God, but to be with your fellow family members. It's a communal experience.
But that's boring. I'd rather talk about the nature of Mass (or services, if you aren't Catholic). For many, the Mass is a chance for a personal encounter with God. They go to Mass and start praying and maybe sing and encounter God and hop in the car and go home. And except for wishing a few people peace, they may not say another word to anyone.
I would submit that all that stuff is homework. You ought to do that before you come. The Mass is based on the Last Supper, which wasn't a bunch of people coming together to have individual uncounters with Jesus. It was a bunch of guys having dinner together and honoring God. And when we go to Mass--my family goes on Saturday night--we're going over to our Father's house for dinner. When you do that, you aren't there for a personal encounter with your dad. You're there to be with the entire family.
In the same way, at Mass, you're there not only to be with God, but to be with your fellow family members. It's a communal experience.
Howdy. I'm tired. How are you?
Sometimes when the Darkness comes, it comes in the form of stifling exhaustion. Just a mental weariness that drains all your energy and creativeness. Life, of course, goes on, and responsibilities don't wait for you to get over it. So you press on, ill-equipped to do anything, the exhaustion warping your perspective so you can't trust what you see and feel. Everything is skewed just enough to cause you to question your reactions to everything. As a result, you treat a request as an attack, then you're too tentative to respond to an attack that's real.
At the end of the day, the process, and your missteps along the way, leave you more drained than when you started. I'm convinced that dreams play a part in this. I think that when you enter this frame of mind, whatever you dream at night carries forward and amplifies the thought process, so the downward spiral is more pronounced at the beginning of the day than it was the night before. I've no proof of this, just a gut feeling based on my own experiences. I don't remember my dreams, but when the darkness is here, I often wake with feelings of dread.
In this case, the news isn't all bad. I need a vacation to shake things up and I think that will reset me. All I need to do is make it until about noon on Friday, then I'm good. I get a week off and the time will allow the regeneration that's required. But right now, the 54 hours between now and then seems like 54 years. I'm not certain I can do it, and the doubts feed the cycle.
Finally, this is awfully close to whining. Life is hard. It's part of the rules. You're going to have periods that aren't good and they will pass, like everything else. You just need to tough it out until that happens, and usually, it happens without you realizing. But when you get stuck in a rut and you start pressing just to make it through without messing it up any worse, everything seems huge.
At the end of the day, the process, and your missteps along the way, leave you more drained than when you started. I'm convinced that dreams play a part in this. I think that when you enter this frame of mind, whatever you dream at night carries forward and amplifies the thought process, so the downward spiral is more pronounced at the beginning of the day than it was the night before. I've no proof of this, just a gut feeling based on my own experiences. I don't remember my dreams, but when the darkness is here, I often wake with feelings of dread.
In this case, the news isn't all bad. I need a vacation to shake things up and I think that will reset me. All I need to do is make it until about noon on Friday, then I'm good. I get a week off and the time will allow the regeneration that's required. But right now, the 54 hours between now and then seems like 54 years. I'm not certain I can do it, and the doubts feed the cycle.
Finally, this is awfully close to whining. Life is hard. It's part of the rules. You're going to have periods that aren't good and they will pass, like everything else. You just need to tough it out until that happens, and usually, it happens without you realizing. But when you get stuck in a rut and you start pressing just to make it through without messing it up any worse, everything seems huge.
Tuesday, May 30, 2006
A day of extremes
Allow me to depart from my high-falutin philosophical spew to discuss personal issues.
Today was a bad day. The cat's sick, you see, and the vet can't give us odds on anything, or a signficant prognosis. All he can say is that there's a walnut-sized growth in her abdomen that may be cancer or may be something she ate or may be something else. It's calcified, and as a result, she's not eating or drinking and her kidneys are screwed up and she needs detoxification.
If that works, she will need exploratory surgery. If that looks good, they will remove the lump. If that works, they will send the lump to the lab. And after all that, the lab may still come back and say she's terminal. All of this will cost between $1,000 and $1,500. Which is money we probably don't have, so we'll have to scramble.
Work sucked, too. My position is largely a public relations position, which means that when something goes wrong with the system that I've become the face of, people throw it at me. Sometimes they throw it hard. And sometimes it's not a system problem, really, but they demand that I solve it anyway. I'm pretty tired of it.
So her I am, feeling tired and beaten down, and oh yeah, I bought a car tonight. It's a 2006 Kia Spectra. I like it. It's nice. I feel good about the purchase. Never buy a 1999 Sportage. It's bad juju.
I should feel good about buying the car. At the very least, it should take the edge off. Instead, I feel like I've been through the wringer.
Sometimes I fly like an eagle and sometimes I'm deep in despair. And some days it's both.
Today was a bad day. The cat's sick, you see, and the vet can't give us odds on anything, or a signficant prognosis. All he can say is that there's a walnut-sized growth in her abdomen that may be cancer or may be something she ate or may be something else. It's calcified, and as a result, she's not eating or drinking and her kidneys are screwed up and she needs detoxification.
If that works, she will need exploratory surgery. If that looks good, they will remove the lump. If that works, they will send the lump to the lab. And after all that, the lab may still come back and say she's terminal. All of this will cost between $1,000 and $1,500. Which is money we probably don't have, so we'll have to scramble.
Work sucked, too. My position is largely a public relations position, which means that when something goes wrong with the system that I've become the face of, people throw it at me. Sometimes they throw it hard. And sometimes it's not a system problem, really, but they demand that I solve it anyway. I'm pretty tired of it.
So her I am, feeling tired and beaten down, and oh yeah, I bought a car tonight. It's a 2006 Kia Spectra. I like it. It's nice. I feel good about the purchase. Never buy a 1999 Sportage. It's bad juju.
I should feel good about buying the car. At the very least, it should take the edge off. Instead, I feel like I've been through the wringer.
Sometimes I fly like an eagle and sometimes I'm deep in despair. And some days it's both.
A Small Blessing
My daughter is going into eighth grade. One of the great pleasures in life is watching her turn from a sweet little girl into a wonderful young woman. She drips with potential and has the drive to turn it into an awful lot. She's smart and accomplished, and yet gentle and almost completely free of attitude.
She attends an academically demanding school and it's not uncommon for her to be doing school work until after my bed time.
School's out here in Florida and yesterday she had a friend over. Most of her friends are scattered throughout the county, so she doesn't get to see them as often as she would if they lived down the street. Last night, I saw her the way I rarely see her, chumming around with a buddy, being silly, doing frivolous things.
This is me smiling.
She attends an academically demanding school and it's not uncommon for her to be doing school work until after my bed time.
School's out here in Florida and yesterday she had a friend over. Most of her friends are scattered throughout the county, so she doesn't get to see them as often as she would if they lived down the street. Last night, I saw her the way I rarely see her, chumming around with a buddy, being silly, doing frivolous things.
This is me smiling.
Monday, May 29, 2006
The Purpose
It's kind of ironic that this blog has gone where it has, because in my Saturday morning men's group, we're starting The Purpose-Driven Life by Rick Warren. This book (and it's 8 billion ancillary items, all available at your local bookstore) has two premises:
- You need to figure out your purpose in life and live according to it. If you do that, you add meaning to your life and decision making becomes much easier.
- God has a purpose for you and it's all part of a big plan--His plan.
The first premise is very attractive. It's the core of strategic decision-making. If you don't have an overriding purpose in life, then you make a series of reactive, tactical decisions that might keep you afloat, but will never advance you toward your goal, except by accident. If you determine your purpose, then you have a litmus test for everything you do. Will it advance my purpose? If the answer is no, you don't do it.
In a Christian context, I suppose if the answer is no, you might be about to sin. And while it's not okay to sin, we all do it, and we need to make room to allow people to be redeemed, but that's another topic.
By having a purpose, you can play to win, rather than playing not to lose. In all honesty, I've spent a good deal of my life playing not to lose.
I suppose now that life seems more finite to me, there's more urgency for me to figure out my purpose and advance it. Personally, I think I've started that, but I still have more to do. My purpose is to be a good father and husband first. It makes decisions about advancement pretty easy, but I also strain against it more than I should.
As for the second bullet, I believe that God probably has a purpose for each of our lives, but it's a very loose-fitting purpose. I think we exist to get to know Him and love Him so we can go home to Him later on. And what a joyful thing that will be! I think He gave us a spirit of boldness to use the gifts and abilities we have to their best. That's what the parable of the talents is all about. We have a light and should not hide it under a barrel.
But I don't believe that we are part of a giant divine chess game. I don't think God's purpose for me was to work in the New York State Legislature, then go to programming school, then work on DOD contracts, then do training... I think the purpose is at a higher level than that.
To deal with reality, as it occurs, with open eyes and a bold spirit; to love others, even when it's hard; and to find my way to Him.
Sunday, May 28, 2006
The Plan, Part 2
"God has a plan"
How many times have you heard that? Usually--almost always--you hear it when something bad has happened. If you hear it and nod knowingly, chances are something bad has happened to someone else. If you hear it and want to take a tire iron to the person who said it, chances are something bad has happened to you.
And yet, if the suffering is part of something bigger, then it's easier. If God has a plan, there's maybe nobility in suffering. In your suffering, you're furthering God's causes here on Earth. Why me? now has an answer.
I submit that while God probably has at least one plan--probably more than that--your suffering may not be part of the plan. If God has a plan that includes your suffering, that means suffering is not the norm. It's a special circumstance that God has set forth that profoundly advances His cause. And yet, if you believe in the Bible, God clearly indicates in Genesis 3 that life is supposed to be hard. The statement in Genesis is agricultural in its literal meaning. It's no less true of non-agricultural work and interpersonal relationships. If you own a Kia Sportage with more than 60,000 miles on it, it's true of just getting your stupid car started.
In other words, the problems you're having are part of life. If you breathe, you suffer. God is probably not playing a chess game and giving you problems in order to advance your salvation. As the great Dread Pirate Westley once said, "Life is pain. Anyone who says different is selling something."
God's plan, if He has one, is born of our response to what happens, whether good or bad. God's plan is as much forwarded by how you use the big bonus you got as it is by how you react to the terminal illness that someone else might have. Or you might have.
It's with the suffering that we are to pray as if everything depended on God and work as if everything depended on us. Until it's time to stop working. In other words, sometimes the answer to the prayer about removing suffering is "No." Jesus begged God to not go through the crucifixion. And yet it happened. Paul asked three times for God to remove the thorn in his side. God didn't.
Sometimes, the only answer is acceptance. If you've discerned that the problem is God's will, the best way to deal with it is to accept it. When Jesus prayed in the garden to remove this cup from Him, the last phrase was "yet not my will, but your will be done." Paul accepted the answer that the thorn wouldn't be removed. Battling against something that's intractable is counterproductive and only leads to strife and bitterness.
As long as I'm reaching to Lost for the meaning of life, I'll also reach to it for the meaning of acceptance and maybe even death. One of the characters, Bernard, is 57 years old and has never found true love. And yet he finds it in a woman named Rose. For him, she is like drinking from a cool spring after wandering all his life in the desert. And then she lets him know that she's dying. But even if he only gets to drink from the cool spring for a few months more, it's better than walking away from it, so he says he doesn't care and he wants to marry her.
In the story, this is not Rose's first battle with whatever it is that's killing her. But she seems to be tired of the battle. Bernard, of course, isn't. He takes her to a faith healer in Australia. On their honeymoon. When she finds out, she's furious with him.
"I didn't want this," she screams at him in a Jeep in the middle of the outback. She's made her peace with it. She knows that she's going to die and she's chosen to face it head on. She's tired of the battle and wants to live out her remaining days at peace. Bernard's desparate need to do something is robbing her of that peace.
Sometimes, it's time to stop fighting and accept. Life is hard. It's promised to us. Sometimes it's worth the fight, and sometimes the path to peace is acceptance. That's the real plan. The deeper meaning isn't in the suffering. It's not in the strained marriage or the car that won't start or the seemingly endless struggle to find a job. Or in watching someone you live die slowly from within.
It's in the response. It's the discerning what's appropriate and in fighting what can be fought, and accepting what cannot. And though that may be God's plan, we have to figure it out and execute it. And the figuring out is an ongoing, humbling experience that will sap your energy and drive you to your knees.
Because life will be hard; He said so. The living comes when you decide what to do after accepting that premise. In what you do after acceptance, is God's plan played out.
How many times have you heard that? Usually--almost always--you hear it when something bad has happened. If you hear it and nod knowingly, chances are something bad has happened to someone else. If you hear it and want to take a tire iron to the person who said it, chances are something bad has happened to you.
And yet, if the suffering is part of something bigger, then it's easier. If God has a plan, there's maybe nobility in suffering. In your suffering, you're furthering God's causes here on Earth. Why me? now has an answer.
I submit that while God probably has at least one plan--probably more than that--your suffering may not be part of the plan. If God has a plan that includes your suffering, that means suffering is not the norm. It's a special circumstance that God has set forth that profoundly advances His cause. And yet, if you believe in the Bible, God clearly indicates in Genesis 3 that life is supposed to be hard. The statement in Genesis is agricultural in its literal meaning. It's no less true of non-agricultural work and interpersonal relationships. If you own a Kia Sportage with more than 60,000 miles on it, it's true of just getting your stupid car started.
In other words, the problems you're having are part of life. If you breathe, you suffer. God is probably not playing a chess game and giving you problems in order to advance your salvation. As the great Dread Pirate Westley once said, "Life is pain. Anyone who says different is selling something."
God's plan, if He has one, is born of our response to what happens, whether good or bad. God's plan is as much forwarded by how you use the big bonus you got as it is by how you react to the terminal illness that someone else might have. Or you might have.
It's with the suffering that we are to pray as if everything depended on God and work as if everything depended on us. Until it's time to stop working. In other words, sometimes the answer to the prayer about removing suffering is "No." Jesus begged God to not go through the crucifixion. And yet it happened. Paul asked three times for God to remove the thorn in his side. God didn't.
Sometimes, the only answer is acceptance. If you've discerned that the problem is God's will, the best way to deal with it is to accept it. When Jesus prayed in the garden to remove this cup from Him, the last phrase was "yet not my will, but your will be done." Paul accepted the answer that the thorn wouldn't be removed. Battling against something that's intractable is counterproductive and only leads to strife and bitterness.
As long as I'm reaching to Lost for the meaning of life, I'll also reach to it for the meaning of acceptance and maybe even death. One of the characters, Bernard, is 57 years old and has never found true love. And yet he finds it in a woman named Rose. For him, she is like drinking from a cool spring after wandering all his life in the desert. And then she lets him know that she's dying. But even if he only gets to drink from the cool spring for a few months more, it's better than walking away from it, so he says he doesn't care and he wants to marry her.
In the story, this is not Rose's first battle with whatever it is that's killing her. But she seems to be tired of the battle. Bernard, of course, isn't. He takes her to a faith healer in Australia. On their honeymoon. When she finds out, she's furious with him.
"I didn't want this," she screams at him in a Jeep in the middle of the outback. She's made her peace with it. She knows that she's going to die and she's chosen to face it head on. She's tired of the battle and wants to live out her remaining days at peace. Bernard's desparate need to do something is robbing her of that peace.
Sometimes, it's time to stop fighting and accept. Life is hard. It's promised to us. Sometimes it's worth the fight, and sometimes the path to peace is acceptance. That's the real plan. The deeper meaning isn't in the suffering. It's not in the strained marriage or the car that won't start or the seemingly endless struggle to find a job. Or in watching someone you live die slowly from within.
It's in the response. It's the discerning what's appropriate and in fighting what can be fought, and accepting what cannot. And though that may be God's plan, we have to figure it out and execute it. And the figuring out is an ongoing, humbling experience that will sap your energy and drive you to your knees.
Because life will be hard; He said so. The living comes when you decide what to do after accepting that premise. In what you do after acceptance, is God's plan played out.
Saturday, May 27, 2006
The Plan, Part I
Cursed be the ground because of you! In toil shall you eat its yield all the days of your life. Thorns and thistles shall it bring forth to you, as you eat of the plants of the field. By the sweat of your face shall you get bread to eat, Until you return to the ground, from which you were taken; For you are dirt, and to dirt you shall return. -- Genesis 3:17b-19
Do not mistake coincidence for fate. -- Mr. Eko, Lost
Thursday, May 25, 2006
The Realization that Frees You
See, here's the thing. I know it's messed up, the way I'm thinking. I suppose that's good. And I know the place I need to get to so I don't think that way. And I suppose that's good. But I'm not sure of how to get there.
There's a guy named Steven Hayes, who has a new approach to all this. He calls his approach acceptance and commitment therapy (ACT). ACT emphasizes that you should accept who and what you are and work from there, rather than trying to unlock some deep, dark secrets and change yourself. Here's a quote from Hayes:
Parts of life are going to be horrible. In order to be successful, you need to accept this as fact. Just as much as a certain parts of your life will be horrible, the cycle will repeat and other parts will be wonderful. Unless life ends, the cycle continues. So, if nothing else, if you wait it out, you will eventually find a wonderful cycle. And that's the worst case.
If parts of life will be horrible, you don't have to focus on how horrible it is for you. For me, at least, this extreme self-centeredness...this emphasis on how bad things are for me is a warning that I'm not where I want to be.
The key is how to get back. I'm still working that out.
There's a guy named Steven Hayes, who has a new approach to all this. He calls his approach acceptance and commitment therapy (ACT). ACT emphasizes that you should accept who and what you are and work from there, rather than trying to unlock some deep, dark secrets and change yourself. Here's a quote from Hayes:
Based on what I know about this theory, I think it's the right one. To that extent, I've accepted that this is a part of me, and I think I can live with it. And then the hard work is getting out of it.ACT is based on the idea that psychological suffering is usually caused by running away from difficult private experiences, by becoming entangled in your own thoughts, and as a result of all of that failing to get your feet moving in accord with your chosen core values.
Parts of life are going to be horrible. In order to be successful, you need to accept this as fact. Just as much as a certain parts of your life will be horrible, the cycle will repeat and other parts will be wonderful. Unless life ends, the cycle continues. So, if nothing else, if you wait it out, you will eventually find a wonderful cycle. And that's the worst case.
If parts of life will be horrible, you don't have to focus on how horrible it is for you. For me, at least, this extreme self-centeredness...this emphasis on how bad things are for me is a warning that I'm not where I want to be.
The key is how to get back. I'm still working that out.
Wednesday, May 24, 2006
The Darkness, Part I
Okay, now that I've taken care of some administrative things, let me continue on the topic of the darkness. From what I've read, everyone has a name for it. I call it the darkness. There's a writer named Tracy Thompson who wrote a book about it called The Beast. For me, it's the darkness.
I don't remember the day the darkness came, but I remember the circumstance. It was a few months after my mom's mother died. Ever since both my grandfathers died around 1970, I've struggled with death and it's hit me harder than it should. This was no different. It would have been late 1999, probably close to Christmas.
I'd been sleeping horribly, averaging a little more than three hours of sleep per night. When I got to work in the morning, I just sat in the car. Sometimes I sat for as long as five or ten minutes before I got out. Just getting out of the car seemed a Herculean effort. And the effort to navigate the mine field at work was nearly as large.
At the time, I managed a group of five technical writers, one of whom did no work and was actively trying to get fired and the rest of whom more or less despised me. (Much of the blame for this is mine.) One of them was a guy in his fifties, and just the slightest request often escalated into a brawl. Not all of that problem was mine, as I found out when we crossed paths later, when I'd found equilibrium.
One Thursday afternoon, we'd gotten into it over something, only at the point where we normally went for each other's throats, we both stepped back. It was progress. It was also the last straw. The fight happened late in the day, and when I started to drive home, the last safety net of sanity broke.
The darkness was like a dark, incredibly cold presence within me and for the first time, it dominated me. All through the drive home, I had to physically restrain myself from driving my car into a tree as fast as I could. Some Christians consider hell a dark, cold place where the presence of God is completely removed. If that's the case, I felt a sliver of hell that afternoon.
The compulsion for self-destruction faded substantially that afternoon, and though it has been back since, it's never been nearly as strong.
Aside from the typical symptoms, the lack of drive or desire to do anything, the sleep changes, and the loss of interest, depression--for that's what the darkness is--robs you of the very tools you need to combat it. It robs you of perspective.
Imagine trying to maneuver through a maze, only this maze is filled with deep dark pits. And as you start out through the maze, you lose your depth perception. That's what depression is like. It fills you with self-doubt and you lose the ability to gauge how you're doing. The ability to determine whether you've been reasonable is stripped from you. What's more, your perception of what other people are thinking is taken, as well. So you wind up worrying that you're not doing the right things, but unable to tell use other peoples' reactions as a guide, as you are pretty much assured that you'll misinterpret them, too.
My ability to maneuver the maze was completely removed. Fortunately, that was the bottom. It got better from there. It got better with Celexa (more on that another time) and Zoloft, and with some minimal therapy. The darkness was controlled, but it never went away.
I don't remember the day the darkness came, but I remember the circumstance. It was a few months after my mom's mother died. Ever since both my grandfathers died around 1970, I've struggled with death and it's hit me harder than it should. This was no different. It would have been late 1999, probably close to Christmas.
I'd been sleeping horribly, averaging a little more than three hours of sleep per night. When I got to work in the morning, I just sat in the car. Sometimes I sat for as long as five or ten minutes before I got out. Just getting out of the car seemed a Herculean effort. And the effort to navigate the mine field at work was nearly as large.
At the time, I managed a group of five technical writers, one of whom did no work and was actively trying to get fired and the rest of whom more or less despised me. (Much of the blame for this is mine.) One of them was a guy in his fifties, and just the slightest request often escalated into a brawl. Not all of that problem was mine, as I found out when we crossed paths later, when I'd found equilibrium.
One Thursday afternoon, we'd gotten into it over something, only at the point where we normally went for each other's throats, we both stepped back. It was progress. It was also the last straw. The fight happened late in the day, and when I started to drive home, the last safety net of sanity broke.
The darkness was like a dark, incredibly cold presence within me and for the first time, it dominated me. All through the drive home, I had to physically restrain myself from driving my car into a tree as fast as I could. Some Christians consider hell a dark, cold place where the presence of God is completely removed. If that's the case, I felt a sliver of hell that afternoon.
The compulsion for self-destruction faded substantially that afternoon, and though it has been back since, it's never been nearly as strong.
Aside from the typical symptoms, the lack of drive or desire to do anything, the sleep changes, and the loss of interest, depression--for that's what the darkness is--robs you of the very tools you need to combat it. It robs you of perspective.
Imagine trying to maneuver through a maze, only this maze is filled with deep dark pits. And as you start out through the maze, you lose your depth perception. That's what depression is like. It fills you with self-doubt and you lose the ability to gauge how you're doing. The ability to determine whether you've been reasonable is stripped from you. What's more, your perception of what other people are thinking is taken, as well. So you wind up worrying that you're not doing the right things, but unable to tell use other peoples' reactions as a guide, as you are pretty much assured that you'll misinterpret them, too.
My ability to maneuver the maze was completely removed. Fortunately, that was the bottom. It got better from there. It got better with Celexa (more on that another time) and Zoloft, and with some minimal therapy. The darkness was controlled, but it never went away.
Periods of Darkness
In my life, I enter into these periods of darkness, when my alignment changes and everything seems less hopeful and a few shades darker than it might normally seem. During these times, rather than being something that has to be dealt with for a finite period of time, the struggles seem to be as immoveable and permanent as mountains.
The car I have now, the one that still rarely starts the first time after $1,500 of parts and labor, will be mine forever. The chaos at work will go on indefinitely and I will continue to be the face of everything that's wrong with the system I support. You get the picture. It's like a slump in baseball. The harder you try to break the slump, the deeper it seems to become.
This is my Achillies Heel. I can go from well adjusted to down in the dumps without ever really trying very hard or even realizing that it's happening. I don't know why, and the harder I seem to push back against it, the deeper the hole seems to get. You see, if I recognize that this is something wrong with me, that it's somehow something that makes me abnormal and it's a flaw, then it's proof that my original thesis--that this is all self-inflicted--is true. And, in its uniquely absurd way, it deepens the hole even more.
This is not a rational thought process. And I guess the fact that I see it for what it is, is progress. Mornings are worse than the rest of the day. I have a theory about that, but it's another topic for another time. So I know that if I wait long enough, the day will get better. I know that there will be people around me at work today, and many of those people seriously care about me. And I know that if I can make it until sometime between 4:30 and 5:30, I won't have to worry about it again until tomorrow.
I know these things. But sometimes I forget them.
Anyway, if someone who might want to hire me sees this, my name is Steve, I live in Mount Airy, NC, and my phone number is 336-867-5309. Ask for Jenny.
The car I have now, the one that still rarely starts the first time after $1,500 of parts and labor, will be mine forever. The chaos at work will go on indefinitely and I will continue to be the face of everything that's wrong with the system I support. You get the picture. It's like a slump in baseball. The harder you try to break the slump, the deeper it seems to become.
This is my Achillies Heel. I can go from well adjusted to down in the dumps without ever really trying very hard or even realizing that it's happening. I don't know why, and the harder I seem to push back against it, the deeper the hole seems to get. You see, if I recognize that this is something wrong with me, that it's somehow something that makes me abnormal and it's a flaw, then it's proof that my original thesis--that this is all self-inflicted--is true. And, in its uniquely absurd way, it deepens the hole even more.
This is not a rational thought process. And I guess the fact that I see it for what it is, is progress. Mornings are worse than the rest of the day. I have a theory about that, but it's another topic for another time. So I know that if I wait long enough, the day will get better. I know that there will be people around me at work today, and many of those people seriously care about me. And I know that if I can make it until sometime between 4:30 and 5:30, I won't have to worry about it again until tomorrow.
I know these things. But sometimes I forget them.
Anyway, if someone who might want to hire me sees this, my name is Steve, I live in Mount Airy, NC, and my phone number is 336-867-5309. Ask for Jenny.
Monday, May 22, 2006
Loving is not the same as liking
This I command you: love one another. -- John 15:17 Some days the closest I can come to loving someone is to not throttle them when they deserve it. Sometimes those days run in packs. Some days, it is a supreme effort to not enter throttling mode.
I think that God values the effort.
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