Tuesday, December 17, 2013

300

Wow! Three hundred posts! Of course it took me 5 years, I could have written several books in that time. But man has this been a ride. Almost an entirely new set of grandkids (to go along with the blue chip ones I already had) One new son-in-law, to go along with the blue chip in-law kids I already had. 5 more years with my life-long love, my beautiful bride. Lots of ups and downs, hopefully some laughs, a few tears, some grumbling, and little griping. A wonderful journey, the pack is an old friend and a welcome companion.

But we are born to move forward. It jolts me each time I read on FB or on posts, or in snail mail that someone my age is turning it in. They are going to "retire". I have to count up in my head how old I am  and wonder where the years went. But I also admit with a certain belligerence that I am not ready to retire, I am not ready to "settle down." There is something in my nature that makes me want to move forward and not necessarily towards any certain goal line, but because that is what I do. We start out looking to the next phase in our lives, from toddlers to preteens, to teenage years, to young adult, to middle-age, to....now. I don't want to stop and smell the roses, they have thorns. I want to cinch up the pack and see what is around the next bend, see the next vista, drink in the new opportunities.

It is part of my nature to wonder what is next. As my bride will tell you with a certain exasperation that I like new ideas, new thoughts, new directions. Adventure is just ahead and ready to be grappled with and once subdued allowed to get up and start the match over again.

But I have learned a few things on the journey thus far.
It is more important who you live/work/deal with than the number of digits on the check or in the checkbook.
Your greater regrets are about things you didn't do, than what you did do.
No one got to the end of their lives and wished they had worked more.
The traits that drive you crazy in other people are probably the traits that drive others crazy dealing with you.
As this blog has always stated: Your greatest strength is also your greatest weakness.
There is a great uncounting, we are driven towards it whether we want to be or not. How we spend that great uncounting is determined here where it is all counted.
Your "firsts" are more memorable than your "lasts". Your "lasts" are more haunting.
And last, but not least, He Knows My Name.

Godspeed. Here's to the next 300, may they be done in a shorter length of time.
Don

Saturday, November 30, 2013

The Future is Open

On our mantle is a picture of my clan, taken last April or so. The setting is a beautiful park in Waxahachie Texas, not far from Red Oak where my bride and I raised these kids. There are 14 of us currently, from 18 month olds to..well 60ish. Settled into the middle of this picture is my bride of 38 years and yours truly. As usual my bride is stunning and radiant, while I look like I am trying to figure out a calculus formula with sixth grade math. While the journey for us has been bumpy, as it is for everyone, it has been a journey well worth traveling. The exciting thing is that there is more to come. From here, I can't see the journey's end.

I think it is easy to look at the crowd around you and pick out the faults and odd behavior. There are times when all of us drive the other to "their last nerve." In my clan, if you are not a little thick-skinned and fairly good at expressing yourself (what my sweet, introverted daughter-in-law has classified as competitive visiting) you will be drawn/quartered/ and eaten. As far as I know we have eliminated all the conflict avoiders.

Brad is a focused executive with a tender spot for his young family, he is learning that the real formulation years with his son are just now beginning. But he holds firm to his faith and family. Jordan has had to endure a lot in her young life. I wish I could have shielded her in some way, but prayers and tears can only provide shelter, not protection. Because she has had so little control over some circumstances she works hard to control all others. It is a funny saying in our clan, "Ask Jordan"  But she quilts and sews and bakes for others well beyond what most of the rest of us would do.

Ben is our artist, always has been. He is sincere and completely incapable of deception. In this way he is most like my dad, it has always been my deepest disappointment that I could not completely master this simple virtue. His sweet wife has brought so much humor and joy and understated compassion. She has added terminology that has become part of our language. She was our missing link between my two girls. I'm glad we picked her (an inside joke)

Shane is our youngest add on. He may be the most industrious young man I have ever met. He makes me tired just watching him. He has projects and ideas and plans and works on them all the time. Yet, he is always free to wrestle with Lincoln or Lola, free to help my daughter. The only real issue is the love of cinnamon rolls with chili, it is just an odd mix, but we all adapt. Carrie, my youngest is our family coordinator. She sets up and insists that we all get together. Time and distance and inconvenience are not going to be tolerated as excuses. She is the only one allowed to call me " Old Man"

But here is what I know about my clan. They represent every virtue that I hold dear. All if my children (and for purposes of this blog and my life that includes my in-law kids) are mature, resourceful, industrious, compassionate, kind, faithful, and honest. As I look around my little crowd going all the way down to the little ones, it occurs to me that all I hold dear are woven through this clan. Here is the rundown: Eli is strong-willed, but gentle with his younger cousins and a hero to Lincoln and Isaac. Phoebe is our songstress and full of life and drama. Lincoln is our little comedian and worker, Isaac is sweet and gentle and funny, Lola loves us all, Abby will be a force and even at her little age makes me laugh with her unexpected humor. Each carries with them the traits that I adore; love, humor, kindness, willing to help, generous, and fun. These acorns have not dropped far from their parent trees, nor from the grove started all those years ago.

So I look at my mantle and realize that the future depicted in movies as bleak and sinister will not be the future if my clan has any impact at all. It is open and it is bright. It is my hope that from my perch in the great uncounting I will be able to witness and cheer and ultimately bring them home so we can all enjoy the fruits of this life well lived.

Godspeed to you all who have been blessed with a clan such as this. I am hoping it is far more common than we realize.
Don

Tuesday, October 29, 2013

Sweden and NYC

There is a routine that I have developed over the past several years when traveling. It usually involves getting up early and working out, then a shower and change, then find a Starbucks or Panera. For some reason having a routine sort gives me a sense of orderliness in the midst of my travel which usually is a mildly controlled chaos. It is a comfort to me that I know what I am doing next when I first get up when on the road.

This morning I had set my alarm for my usual 5:30 intending to hit the fitness center. At 5:25 I realize there is a pretty monotonous pounding that I can't get out of my head. The longer I listened the more it sounded like someone hitting a pretty good pace on the treadmill. Inspired by someone else's discipline (and afraid the fitness center would be full) I pulled on my workout stuff, stretched the old muscles in legs and back, and headed out to find the fitness center. It didn't take me long, it was directly under my room, thus the pounding. There was a young man on the treadmill apparently trying to run a record marathon. I chose the elliptical as far away from him as possible. I had set my nice 3.5 mile pace on the machine when all of sudden the place filled up with dad, 2 pre-teen daughters, and 1 teenage son. It was all I could do to stay on track and pace because they all sounded like the Swedish Chef, one of my all time favorites (perhaps only eclipsed by Dr. Bunsen Honeydue and Beaker) Only in NYC can you get this kind of language soup. The more they talked the more I got tickled about how they sounded. I know it is a bit ironic that someone with my West Texas twang gets to laugh at anyone else, but I have never valued consistency. Then the longer I listened I realized the Mr. Chef was doing most of  the talking. Apparently the little Chefs were well into the teen, sullen years and it was only 6AM. By the way, Mrs. Chef was nowhere to be seen. I guess Mr. Chef knows who he can coerce into the fitness center at 6:30AM and who he can't.

I was still laughing about the Chef's when I decided to trek down 49th St to a Starbucks and realized along the way that there are a lot of people in the City who have dogs. A couple of them sort of snarled at each other (dogs not the people) and the Korean/Chinese/Thai owner of one of the dogs really lit into her dog. All this made me wonder if dogs learn the language of their owners. Does an English sheepdog have trouble learning Chinese? Can an Irish setter ever feel at home with a Somalian family? Do you think when the Irish setter finally finds a home with the McNeils he breathes a sigh of relief? Do you think a Chihuahua pup will look at his Swedish owners and say to himself, "What the ...?"

I finally get to the Starbucks, get my yogurt, my Grande, and my pastry (yes, I earned a pastry with the workout with the marathoner) and sat looking out the window at all the New Yorkers hurrying to work and realized while I was sitting there that I heard at least 4 different languages in the space of 30 minutes. It made me realize that the one of the reasons people seem to love NYC is the very diversity that makes others uncomfortable. It makes me wish I had a better feel for languages (beyond Texan.) Their lives are different, their language is different, their worldview is probably different. But at the core we all desire family and belonging, a place in the world, a purpose, whether these are expressed in English or Chinese or Swedish, or Urdu. We want our spot to be unique and fitting.

Godspeed to the Chef family, you made me laugh and long for home.
Don

Sunday, October 20, 2013

Troublesome News

There are rest stops on this journey where we can pause and look around and assess what has happened and what to anticipate. It seems to me that these rest stops can be in our late teen years, mid-twenties, etc. And along with these stops there is a scale at work, where we load up the good news with the bad news see how balanced the news happens to be at that particular stop. If the scale tilts towards the "good" news side, then we sling our packs onto our backs with a smile that anticipates the future and a soft whistle on our lips.

Somewhere around 50 we begin to see the scale tilt a little towards the "sad" news. Generally the news when we are in our teens/20/30/40s is almost always good. Graduation announcements, wedding invitations, baby due dates, first jobs, better jobs, new homes, new friends and all the other "blessings" seem to flow, rippling through our lives in an almost endless stream. It is the preponderance of good and exciting news that lulls us into believing that this wellspring of good news will last forever.

Then as we enter the second half the aquifer of good news seems to drop. The wellspring we have counted on all these years seems to lower a bit and the flow seems a bit slower. At this point in our lives we realize that phone calls from old friends are much more likely to carry news that they couldn't hold it together any longer, that they are shredding decades of marriage and moving on. Or the news that the doctor's visit took an ominous turn, the little lumps and bumps are suddenly the big C.
And there is always the news that the surviving parent is not remembering things from everyday life. They can't remember where they put things, or what exit to take, or people's names. Of course the diagnosis is bad, diabetes, or heart stints, or, or, or.

All of this trumped by the phone call that unexpectedly the sand ran out. We are left trying to grasp the impact of loss. Why didn't I call a few weeks ago like I was going to? Why didn't I get in the car and go visit? Why?Why?Why? We are left examining our own thoughtlessness (not neglect, but the fact we hadn't THOUGHT of them in quite some time) The news continues to flow in, but now instead of joy and gratitude, it brings sadness and guilt and dimming of the future. The phone now becomes our necessary evil. We must know, but we hate the knowledge.

So at this new rest stop do we handle the news? First of all I think we rejoice when we do get a sip of the cool, fresh "good" news left in the spring. Even though grand kid announcements and such are not our news, they fill our days with hope.We embrace the news from the generations trailing along behind us and pull from our packs the old (almost forgotten) shouts of joy we experienced all those years ago when the news was good and belonged to us. We do not begrudge the younger folks their news or their joy.
Secondly, we revel in the memories of our own joys. There is nothing wrong with pulling out an old memory and turning this way and that and letting the warmth sneak through us. Finally, we live moving forward. The journey continues up the trail. When faced with unbidden news we set our faces forward and continue on, wrapping our arms around those most affected by the news. The finish to the journey is drawing into sight. This is the news that faces all of us. So we continue to move forward. For those of us with a cosmic view, the last bit of news is this. The welcome party really doesn't start until we get there.

Godspeed, perhaps the news scale will balance in the entirety of the journey. I don't know. But the scale in my life is still leaning towards the good. For that I am thankful.
Don

Tuesday, September 24, 2013

DAISY


The daily challenge in my line of work is to constantly bring a sense of professionalism, of integrity in both deed and word to the process of building a for-profit company.  If you know me, it is a daunting task to merely keep myself grounded, much less my little corner of a large and diverse company culture. But my disciplines prompt me to attempt the challenge even with meager resources.  This past week turned out to be a role reversal. I spent the week with a charming and dedicated couple who taught me a great deal about being thankful.

Their story began in Amarillo, Texas in 1999 where their son and daughter-in-law had just delivered the greatest gift, a first grandchild, a granddaughter. They stayed and beamed with pride as only we grandparents can do, cuddled their new love, then with regret made their way home to Sonoma California. A few short days later their son called with news that he was ill and hospitalized. So they rushed back to Amarillo where an 8 week illness grew progressively worse. They care-flighted their son to Seattle for a bone marrow transplant that never happened. He died those few weeks later at the age of 33 with an infant  daughter and wife and now grieving parents.

For most of us the story would end there. We would spend the intervening years adjusting to our new reality ;adjusting to a world that had lost a lot of the brightness and joy that we had anticipated. After a time we would have attempted to stow the burden of regret into the closet we never open and never clean out and never use again. For my part it might have made me quieter and more cynical about the world and those in it.

But while still in the deepest throes of their grief, the parents and the daughter-in-law sat down and determined that there had to be a better way. What resulted in those anguished moments was a foundation designed to simply say, ‘Thank you’ to the women and men in the nurse’s uniforms who made the final weeks of their son’s and the family’s lives bearable. Their goal was to communicate this thankfulness to as many as possible. In their minds if they could create a moment for 100 nurses to realize they help everyday they put the uniform on, then they would consider it a success. In this moment the DAISY Foundation was born.

They tell the story much better than I. Their composure in the telling of the story only highlights the profound gratitude that they communicate to these nurses. It is a simple story and simple mission, say ‘Thank you’ to as many as they can, in person if possible. It was humbling to me to sit and listen and be treated like royalty when I had nothing to do with their story or their mission. But it also caused me to reflect on my life and the instances where my response could have been more gracious and had greater impact.

You see, the real mission is to keep their son’s legacy alive. By telling the story of his death, they create a moment of joy and thus bringing to life his memory. My response might be to say, ‘How much joy could this little moment bring? After all the price was our son, the price was too high.’ Then I remember that over 40,000 nurses have been honored in the years since. These gatherings in the hospitals are a big event; the nurses have stories told of their dedication, their compassion, their strength. Tears are flowing in humbleness over being honored in this way. There have also been 300,000 nominees who shared this moment of joy. Since its inception over 1500 hospitals have signed up to participate. Can you calculate the growing ocean of joy? Was the loss of the son worth it? I don’t know, but the memory of the son is worthwhile.

This week taught me the spiritual truth that the greatest moments, the worthwhile moments emerge from the greatest tragedies. The teaching was to take my deepest moments of loss and determine to create smaller moments of joy. This is not simply a grieving couple finding a way to cope. This is an inspiring story of turning tragedy into joy and joy into further dedication. And it is a story that reminded me that we each have opportunities to turn tragedy into joy. As the current spiritual hymn says, this is how we overcome.

 

Godspeed to my newest heroes, Mark and Bonnie Barnes. All I can think to say is what you have taught me, ‘Thank you.’

Don

Saturday, September 7, 2013

True North

When I was just a kid on the farm in west Texas, we did not get a lot of candy or treats from the store. So when we got a chance I always chose Cracker Jacks. The popcorn covered in that caramel with the peanuts made for a great treat with my NeHi Grape. Then there was always the "surprise". What a great gimmick. A 2 cent incentive for average sweets (I have gotten much more sophisticated in my old age with Peanut M&Ms) would swing me over all the time. Specifically I remember the little compass that came in one of the boxes. I was fascinated. Not sure why, I lived on a farm where I knew every bump and hole and briar patch like the back of my hand. There was never any doubt about where North, or South, or East, or West, or any combination of directions were in relation to my current position. But it was cool to sync up what I knew with what the little compass was telling me. Over time the little compass would stick or wiggle as if trying to make up its mind, then with a little gentle tapping and later a significant amount of banging with my fist, it would settle on true north. I'm sure the mud and perspiration and dust from a little boy's adventures was taking it toll. But it would with prompting try to get to true north.

It seems to me that the same can be said for my own moral compass. Over the years from the dirt and grime of living, the perspiration of battles fought, grievances held and inflicted, personal desires over desires for others, the little compass has struggled to find true north. So occasionally I have to tap, then shake, then bang on the compass to get it show me true north. The older I get the more I know when true north is not indicating, but the temptation to ignore it has become easier to justify. My disciplines and the advice of my bride and the gentle correction of my little community of faith are all the instruments of rattling my little compass back to true north.

Now I jump to the global stage (big leap, but follow me here) My first reaction to the current Syrian event is that we should just leave them alone, let the dust settle, then deal with the survivor. Then it seemed that rational discourse might be the best avenue, but there is little to indicate that either side brings much rational thought to the entire deal anyway. Of course now we have to consider and debate the idea of military action. And finally the humanitarian groups would kick in and try to supply basic supplies into a situation that was likely to overwhelm their puny resources.

I guess the thing that stumps me the most is our (North American, judeo-christian, capitalistic) arrogance that we have any of these solutions. It seems to me that someone has removed all the magnetics that formally powered our compass. We have a dear friend, whom I love like my own sister, who claims when we travel with them that whatever direction she is facing is "north". We love her to death, but we don't let her navigate. It seems now that our national compass merely indicates north, while the reality is that it could be any direction. To believe that violence will resolve the situation is to believe that the needle is pointed north while facing Mexico from Dallas. To lob missiles over the fence and believe that this is a rational solution is national arrogance gone wildly off course. I have little faith that anyone in charge has a clue where true north lies. Think about it, they only have a 1 in 360 chance of being right.

So like my little compass on the farm, or my moral compass in my own life, it takes thoughtful, rational reflection to get me and us back on course. As a functional skeptic I hold little hope that our current climate will employ that type of discipline. But I hold great hope that I can find true north for myself and those in my immediate world.

But what can we leave our progeny? I have 6 little ones that I proudly refer to as my "six pack" What do I leave them? The only answer I can come up with is that I leave them with the moral compass still pointing to true north. The circumstances in their lives will be far different than mine, or my folks, or their folks. This world keeps spinning, we cannot allow our fears to override our dedication to what we know is true. If all I leave them is a compass that never sticks, or wriggles, or points falsely, then I have left them with the best gift of all. True North.

Godspeed to those who desire to know true north and struggle with the implicaitons of misreading or misapplying the direction. We must point our lives to true north, then those around us, then those that follow.
Don

Friday, August 16, 2013

Role Reversal

So this week I flew to Baltimore. The rep and I called on a couple of accounts, spent 3 nights on the road in three different hotels (by the way, found a new favorite..A-Loft, problem is they are pretty rare) Then flew home on Thursday looking forward to some time at home with my bride.

Landed in Dallas and texted my bride who informed me she was in a training session preparing for the upcoming school year. Ok, so I have some time to get some work done. But wait, she is not coming home because she is spending the night with her cousin and then a trip to see an aging aunt and uncle in Dublin, TX.

Well this is new, me at home and her on the road. So what to do?

I decided to cook dinner, not go out. One of the primary dislikes I have in my job is eating out alone. My daughters and my bride have all asked why I don't order room service. Several reasons: 1. most of the hotels I stay in don't have room service. They all have "take-out" menus from local pizza places, or Chinese food, but nothing cooked on site. 2. The only thing I hate more than eating out alone is eating in alone. I find it depressing. I like good conversation at dinner, not mediocre TV. 3. It stinks up the room.
And while I don't like eating out alone, it is the lesser of two evils.

Tilapia pan seared, fruit salad (my bride always has fruit around) and a guacamole that may have been the best I have fixed in years. It was quiet and yes, the TV was on, but it was in my own house with my stuff and the stuff of my bride. It was not sad or lonely. 90% of the stuff in our house is my bride's stuff, but as I sat there and ate I could look around the room and be reminded that even though she was not there, she was around, her stuff reminded me that I was not alone.

But all this made me think those thought strings that seem to be my way of adjusting. So this is how it is for her when I am not home? Does she find the same comfort when she goes in the closet and my clothes are hanging there with hers? Does she glance at my bookshelves and see some of what has made me think the way I do?

Then it occurred to me that perhaps if we could spend a moment in the context of those around us, we might be a bit more forgiving. It made me examine the core of my perception as it relates to those I have a problem with. Some of their actions may have no more than a defensive effort.

But then the expansion of the thought to nation/state status. How would we feel if a foreign sovereignty invaded our shores because of the way we treat immigrants, or minorities, or gays, or children? What if they felt completely justified in dismantling our government in the name of socialism or whatever? All of a sudden it occurs to me that when we look at our actions in recent history I have little wonder that most of the world simply does not care for us very much. Our sense of entitlement wreaks havoc on our public image.

And this analysis can go on and on. Mission trips all of a sudden come under scrutiny. Would I appreciate someone from another place coming in and "helping" me with my home or my children or my church? What if I like my circumstances? Are you coming here for me or for you? How do we share resources  without undermining the foundational human dignity that we are all born with? Can I extend a helping hand or receive a helping hand with no qualifications? with no stipulations? I tithe every paycheck. I do not give to organized religion, be it church or institutions. I give to people. Most of my tithes do me no good at tax time. But they are given with a certain amount of prayer and Spirit input. There are no stipulations on it. One young man I gave the money to gave it away to others. He called to apologize in case I felt it was frivolous on his part. I told him when I give it I turn it loose. It is not up to me to follow up. I see it as a way to pour a cup of water into the ocean of benevolence, it adds to it, but gets assimilated with all the other good in the world. Be it my version of good or not. It is my way of getting out of my way.

So I try to see the world from others eyes. Immigrants struggle with certain challenges, minorities understand a certain handicap in the world, gays understand the isolation and loss of civil advantages, my bride understands the aloneness due to the nature of my job. It is when I see those things that I can be a bit more understanding. I can come a little closer to getting it.

Godspeed to us all. My bride has said often that she and I do not have the same marriage. I would agree. I got a small glimpse of hers last night. It was good for me to see. I love the words to the hymn, "open the eyes of my heart, Lord" Illumination is always a good thing.
Don

Wednesday, July 24, 2013

Out of Place

A couple of times a year it seems that I am required to spend a few days in Vegas. It is the least favorite thing I am asked to do. It is an assault on my ears and eyes and spirit. I can't hear well because of all the noise, I can't breath well because of all the smoke, and I can't think well because of the lifestyle exhibited here. Vegas stands for all the things that I do not. Yet, there is a certain fascination with this place. It is like a little boy peering in the window of a candy store at all the pretty, fake candies. They lure him in, yet if he eats them, because they are fake they will make him desperately ill. So Vegas is for the adult boys and girls. We peer in the windows, knowing the lights and fun are fake, knowing the participation will coarsen the soul and make us desperately ill. Yet we are tempted.

So when I come here my disciplines get better. While on the road I try to spend a portion of every morning in Word, prayer, and thought. But sometimes I miss, I slack or am too tired or bored or lazy. But it is not the same missing the disciplines in Albany, GA or Syracuse NY or Tampa FL, these places are not specifically designed to trip me up. Vegas was created for the sole purpose of extracting money and morals from the military personnel to or from billets in the service. It has grown to ensnare all of us.

This morning I was simply looking for a moment of guidance. The city, the sales meeting, the temptations will be relentless over the next few days. Here is what the Spirit offered up:

Lord, who may dwell in your sanctuary?
  Who may live on your holy hill?
He whose walk is blameless and who does what is righteous,
   who speaks the truth from his heart
   and has no slander on his tongue,
   who does his neighbor no wrong and casts no slur on his fellowman,
   who despises a vile man
   but honors those who fear the Lord,
   who keeps his oath even when it hurts,
   who lends money without usury and does not accept a bribe against the innocent.
He who does these things will never be shaken.
Psalm 15

"who speaks the truth from his heart" This tells me that the Lord would prefer we speak to people truthfully in love. This city is not built on this standard. I cannot adopt the ways of this city without sacrificing or mortgaging my place in the "sanctuary". It is too easy to speak the truth and intentionally harm by doing so. It is also easy to forgo the truth and turn our lives from God. It requires both.
"who keeps his oath even when it hurts" This life has become a series of "deals" that are easily broken. Who may live in God's presence? The one who tells the truth in love and who stands by what he says.

This moment in the Word has given me a point for the day. While I may be tempted by the fake candy, I know that there is a better and more satisfying way to live. So in the midst of all that is not God, He whispers a quiet truth, "You are still mine."

Godspeed to us all, though tempted, return to the sanctuary.
Don

Sunday, July 14, 2013

Night Wonderings...or Wanderings

Occasionally my mind wakes me up to work on  a few things. Sometimes it is working out a thought or idea, to follow the thought strings and see where they go. On some occasions the night thoughts turn to projects that need to be completed and have stumped me for a time. But in some moments, though rare, my mind wakes me up to dwell on past mistakes. This is the least favorite wake up call.

This morning was one of those moments. The reflections were of past mistakes, errors in judgment, lapses in emotional honesty, moral breakdowns. I am not sure why this is a part of my nature. Maybe it is simply a part of the human condition. My mind would skitter and jump from one mistake to another, then dwell on a single incident for a time, bubbling up the regret, the angst, the embarrassment, the shame all over again.

And the moments used the entire library of my life for resource. Stupid stunts as a kid, when I embarrassed my parents. Hard headed teenage decisions that could have changed the shape and scope of my future (and probably did at some level). And adult mistakes that harmed not only me, but those around me, those closest to me. These thoughts were not time sequential, just lined up one after another in random order to bring their special form of pain.

We all have the knack for blaming others for these mistakes.
     He started it
     I didn't know...
    No one was looking..
    It is not my fault..
But in these night wonderings, in the still of the house, it comes back to me. No matter how I turn the little object in my hand it is a small mirror showing only my face. It is a moment of emotional clarity. These reflected memories were all on me. They were my fault.

So other than lose sleep, and spend a lot of anxiety about events I can't change, what do I do with them? Even the ones that are recent I can't alter. The events occurred, I failed, the world keeps spinning. So now what?

Then when it seems that the conclusion in my own head is that I am, in general, a failure. I reach to my right and touch someone who has seen most of these mistakes, taken the brunt of most of them...and stayed with me. My bride still sends me texts telling me she loves me. Snapshots start floating by of three kids who also saw most of these failures and call me often and tell me they love me, even the add-on kids-in-law tell me they love me and invite me to dinner and on trips and into their homes. Then there is my six-pack, Eli and Phoebe, Isaac and Abby, Lincoln and Lola, who all laugh and climb on me. They don't know all the mistakes, but I think they are responding to someone they know loves them, will do anything for them. Somewhere this crowd of 13 have decided that there is something of value in this flawed, stupid, egotistical, brain numb knucklehead. The mistakes become secondary.

Here is my big conclusion. Whatever knowledge, or insight, or wisdom I have has come, not from my training or mental intellect, or innate ability, but from my mistakes. The mistakes are woven into the very fabric of who I am. The greatest crime I can commit is to see the brown eyes of my bride well up with tears of hurt or shame or disappointment. The same trickles all the down to the littlest ones. I cannot bear to bring them sorryow through my actions. But past mistakes slow the making of new mistakes.

Then on a deeper level, I realize that the Creator has given me the chance to use my mistakes, not bear the burden of them. He knew what he was creating when He formed me. And He formed me flawed for a reason. The reason is that He knew that whatever help I could lend to my little community would be out of the wisdom and pain of my mistakes. I do not understand this wisdom He possesses, but I trust it.

Godspeed to the night wanderers. The journey comes with both stumbles and insight, usually at the same time.
Don


Wednesday, July 10, 2013

Vacation for Two

It has been a while since my bride and I have taken some days, went somewhere and just enjoyed the trip. No one to visit, no agenda, no plan. Just a 4 day trip using some of my airline miles, some of my hotel points, and renting a car for about $10/day. We targeted Tamps/St. Pete, packed our swimsuits and headed out early on a Friday morning.

A few discoveries were found along the way for me. Apparently I have a hard time ratcheting down from business travel to vacation travel. When traveling on business I am quick through the security at airports, I make my way as quickly as possible to the gate, I run at a different RPM. My bride is not on this pace.

So for the first day I had to slow down, take deep breath, and enjoy the ride.
Also on the first day I was bombarded with emails from work. So I am covertly trying to answer the questions, put out the fires, conduct business. This dual life was making me grumpy. It manifested in our trip as mild, constant bickering. Couples who have logged as many years as we have rarely have the towering infernos of fights that marked our younger years. No, it is more of a constant little skirmish that can go on days and if not checked can become a lifestyle. In the midst of one of our little back and forths I realized this was all my fault for not putting the silly phone away and pay attention to our trip. I texted the kids and told them to use my personal cell number or their mother's number that I was signing off on the business phone. I shut it down, plugged it in to recharge, and had a very pleasant remainder of the weekend.

On landing in Tampa we got our car, checked into our suite at the Doubletree, changed into shorts and tees (I always travel with long sleeves and long pants, airplanes can be brutally cold) and headed out to explore Clearwater and surrounding areas. I drove, my bride navigated. This is where technology has changed our relationship. In the old days my bride's sense of direction was suspect. Now she reads the instructions and passes them along to me. We have found our destination every time. She is a wizard with the I-phone apps, so she gets to guide us from one spot to the next.

We headed back and had dinner in Ybor city at a Spanish restaurant, left before dark (if you know the area you know why), not a great area. Saturday morning was a trip to the beach in St. Pete, where the sand was primarily prickly little seashell parts which prompted a trip to Target for beach shoes. Dinner in Hyde Park in Tampa at the Green Lemon which was a good choice. If you ever find yourself in Tampa for dinner go to Hyde Park, a great little area for dining.

Sunday morning found us on Venice Beach, black grainy sand mixed with white sand gave it a more "gray" look, but fewer folks and a lot more families. Then lunch at a great Italian place in downtown Venice and a meandering trip back to the hotel where we swam in the pool and dodged late afternoon thunderstorms.

Then back to Clearwater on Monday and lunch and finally back to airport for my bride to fly home while I worked in Tampa for a few days.

That hotel suite was one lonely, quiet place after she left, so I broke out the workout clothes and spent an hour working off all the good food and the morose attitude.

It was one of those trips where I struggled to remember our stops along the way as I wrote this, but I remembered certain snapshots of our trip. Little jokes that cracked us up that no one else would get. Observations that we shared, observations that we didn't agree on, but could laugh about while discussing. The little texts that we shared after she was home that seemed to continue the trip a little longer.

There is not anyone else in the world that I can share this type of trip with. We have the shared scars of what the world has tried to do to us. We have the scars of what we have done to each other. But there is no one else who understands the relationship like we do. We have been through all the battles and come out the other side, still committed to each other, still in love, still willing to take up arms against a world that does everything in its power to split us up. There is just something about this chick that makes me tick.

Godspeed to all the lifetime lovers, sometimes the journey is level and straight and lovely to see.
Don

Wednesday, July 3, 2013

Cousin's Camp

Apparently my daughters and my daughter-in-law, plus a lot of encouragement from my bride have instituted a new tradition. It is called "Cousin's Camp" and it been an annual event for 3 years or so. The idea is quite simple. All the ladies bring their kids to our house for part or all of a week of swimming, movies, shopping, and just general fun. The age span this year was 10 down to a year old. We use about 6 gallons of sunscreen, a landfill worth of diapers, and the dishwasher runs non-stop for a week. It is a good time had by all.

Our ten-year-old grandson is the ringleader for the three boys. The 3+-year-old and the just turned 3-year-old adore him and follow him around like puppies. One night Lincoln, our 3+ spent the night and apparently tried to talk his way to sunlight. Eli, the 10 year old asked his Nena for some help getting Lincoln to hush long enough for all to sleep. I think it worked, both seemed pretty well rested the next day.

I have a sore muscle in my neck from trying to watch 2 little girls who can not swim step off the side of the pool with no regard to water depth, to Isaac, our newly minted 3-yr-old who while wearing floaties still makes me nervous, and Lincoln, who just took swim lessons has more confidence than expertise. My head was on a swivel the entire time. I will say at one point I was watching most of them and realized my bride, and both my daughters had taken up sun-bathing, leaving me with the kids in the pool. I called time out and herded the entire troupe to their mothers. Sun-bathing time was over.

One of the joys for me in all this is the cooking. We had everything from shrimp/pasta in foil to grilled chicken to a dish my daughter calls "pretzel chicken". We are terrible at judging food quantities, so the last night we had left overs and cleared out a surprising number of containers. But the cooking and the grocery shopping and the sharing of cooking ideas with my eldest daughter is joy that I hold close.

It was a week of laughter, meltdowns, sniffling noses, dirty diapers, damp towels and warm memories. I think we value the bond of family when we see them only occasionally. It reminds us that friends are great, but family is eternal. For a week a year, I get to talk to Eli about his life. I get to sing and act surprised by the princess called Phoebe. I get to enjoy the mischievous humor of sturdy little Lincoln. I get to be startled and delighted by the wit and song of Isaac. I get to experience the growing relationship with wide-eyed Lola. I get to begin the games of life with serious little Abby. And of course I get to bask again in the contentment and the pride of my girls, Jordan, Carrie, and Sarah.

And there was one moment last night when my bride and I hugged in the middle of the living room. We sort of leaned against each other in contented fatigue, but I held the woman who has made all this reward possible for me. She may be the best part of cousin's camp. Then she said, "BREAK!" The moments were not over.

Godspeed to those who have the chance to gather the group, the original recipe and all the great flavors added in. It is a dish that tastes better as the years slip by.
Don

Sunday, June 16, 2013

Hero

There have been a lot of men over the years whom I have admired, who mentored me in various ways, who counseled me in the ways of work and church and life. These guys come and go, they make mistakes, they show up for a time, then settle away from me. But there is only one guy that I view simply as a hero..my hero. My dad embodies all the things I wish I were.

I'm sure you have sketches in your head about dads and what they ought to look like; perhaps strong, or smart, or clever, or earth-shakers. My dad is some of these, but not all. My best description would be that he is a simple, unassuming, accommodating, funny, caring, active guy. But the basis for my hero worship lies in a few of the things that this world does not value much anymore.

In my years in business and church and neighborhood I have never met a man with more integrity. I have never known him to lie, or cheat , or speak ill of anyone, even when the circumstances would have warranted it. My sister disappeared for over 5 years with her kids, there was a feud between her and her in-laws. The in-laws were in the same town as my dad, attended the same church, knew all the same people. For five years my dad listened to the gossip and the constant questions, and the speculation about all the terrible things his daughter had done. I experienced a small fraction of that inspection and speculation and was annoyed. My dad heard all the rumors, was constantly bombarded with questions and probing speculation, was called names, and he said not one word. Not one word about my sister, not one word about her in-laws, not one word about the situation. His integrity would not allow him to enter the fray. He took all the blows about his only daughter with grace and perseverance. He would not be drawn down to the level of those around him. I learned a great deal about not moving to someone else's level during those five years. He is my hero.

1982 was the year my mother died. I remember in the last days in the pain that had overwhelmed her, Dad bending over her to comfort her in the hospital bed and knowing the end was only moments or days away deeply wishing there was another answer. But the family meeting with my siblings and my dad and the doctors explaining all the choices was a pivotal moment. And I remember my dad cutting them short and telling them that we were not going to make this pain last longer than what God intended. There would be no heroic measures. To see the courage and love there to make the right decision, to let mom go on, to know the end would reshape his world and ours was a lesson I will never forget. Courage in the face of personal loss is true courage. He is my hero.

In the 1970's Dad started one of the first bus ministries in our town. He did all the recruiting, he raised the money, he went to the bus auctions, he canvassed the low income neighborhoods looking for kids who needed a moment in church. He did not make announcements from the pulpit, he did not go to the elders asking their support or help. He just did it. And he did it with great humor and fun. Every Saturday morning we would go to these neighborhoods and ask the parents if they could ride and to look for the big, blue bus. So for years this ministry picked up kids no one else wanted, brought them to church, and fed them along the way, and saved a few from a pointless future. One of the kids went on the manage the ACU bookstore, others went into ministry. At one point the church had several services and a tight timeline. One of the "bus kids" wanted to be baptized, but the leadership decided to do it after the last service because it would disrupt the timing of the assemblies. My dad cornered two of the decision-makers and told them they would not have made the same decision if the child in question had been one of theirs. They apologized the next Sunday..publicly. Dad took no joy in the confrontation and no satisfaction in the apology. He simply stood up for one who could not. He is my hero.

These are only a few of the stories I can recall where he approached life from a perspective of intergrity, compassion, and honesty. The list goes on. He is 91, and can't hear very well, his hip is bothering him on his 10 block walk everyday, and he can't remember all the grandkids names, certainly can't the great-grandkids. But I call 2-3 times a week and he is always the same funny guy.He is always interested in my travels and always makes me feel that the call meant everything to him. He is my hero.

Godspeed, Dad, I love you, You are my HERO.
Don

Friday, June 14, 2013

June Convergence

It just occurred to me that the first half of June is the perfect alignment of three birthdays. My dad was born June 12, my son on June 4, and my eldest grandson on June 10. Each of these guys have created enormous reservoirs of memories, attitudes, and perceptions.

This past weekend we trekked to Amarillo for my eldest grandson's birthday. He was the magical age of ten. It is a world of baseball, soft-air guns, fart jokes, and a need to be recognized. We were able to watch 2 baseball games (of the seven he played, we didn't go out until Sunday), participate in a birthday party where every game my daughter tried to implement became a game of dodge ball, and watch Enchanted with the entire McCall tribe and Eli curled up next to me on the love seat. We split time between the movie and figuring out how to get the scope on his air-soft rifle. Princess and accuracy, this is the stuff of a ten-year-old's world. It is a magical time. Old enough to do most things for himself, no girls yet to unsettle the universe, and a single thin thread back to the little boy world that he is leaving at light speed. He is growing up. There will be some years in the near future where being with Grandaddy will be a drag, but right now he enjoys it and I crave it. So on this June 10, it was a great moment.

On June 4, I was traveling from one spot to another, in and out of airports, juggling appointments and people. But I woke up thinking about my son born 33 years ago. I knew I  wouldn't see him for another week or so, but I wanted him to know that I was thinking about him. So I sent him a text. Short, but heartfelt. He has surpassed what I spent years praying about. So what do you say? I told him I was proud of him. I know that his mother did the heavy lifting. I know he brought a sensitive intelligence into this world with him. I know he was formed and shaped by a God that loves us all. But at some level he is still a product of my influence. We are not alike in personality or looks. He is quiet, an introvert. I am, well..not. He is long and slender. I am, again..not. But we share some traits. He loves his wife and will do anything for her. My bride occupies the center of my world. He works hard and will work in a job he may not be thrilled with, but will grind through it because he cares deeply for those it allows provision. I have spent some long years working in jobs I did not care for because it was more important to provide than to be content. He loves God and asks hard questions and refuses to accept easy answers. I am convinced this is a good thing and it mirrors my life. So in this age of technology I sent a short text that I hoped conveyed all the years of love and pride. This is a new age.

On June 12 I could have sent a text to my dad, but it would still be sitting there unread. It could be because he doesn't know how to answer the text, or it could be because he lost his cell phone again. Either way, it just seemed easier to call him. There is a blog waiting for publication two days from now and I will go more into his life at that moment. But to sum it, there is not another man in THIS world that I would rather be like than him. I will fill that out more later.

80 years of life, from Dad to me to Ben to Eli. I find great comfort in that line up. Godly men, who care for those around them, who will fight when need be, who do not back down. Not a bad heritage. I love each of them in a very special way.

Godspeed to those who find themselves in the wonderful moment of getting to live and love all the generations. It is a moment in time and gone in a flash. But it is a great moment. And I am thankful.
Don

Tuesday, May 21, 2013

Depends on Where You Stand

For the past day or so I have watched the events unfold in Moore, OK. This story has gripped the headlines, the newscasts, and the casual conversations. I watched my bride late yesterday afternoon make those worried, concern sounds as she watched the pictures of the elementary in ruin. She was saddened and afraid for those little ones that she did not know, but knew of their precious value. We watch now in morbid fascination the death toll tick ever upward and wish we could tear ourselves away from this unfolding event. Wherewill  the damage stop? How will the parents and grandparents, the uncles and aunts, the brothers and sisters, the neighbors, how will they adjust? The shape of their worlds and their hearts have changed forever. The rheostat has been dimmed  and the future is dark and terrifying. This storm will wreak havoc for years. People have lost all possessions, jobs, and hope. My prediction is that there will be divorces in the years to come that this storm played as a catalyst to bring about. Depression will become a constant companion. It is almost certain that lives and futures, hopes and dreams have been crushed in this moment.

And as believers, how do we respond? The platitudes that we utter to each other seem futile and banal. We hold to a worldview that God is loving and kind, compassionate and sacrificial. Just this morning I sent an email to one of my reps telling him he was in my prayers and thoughts, Yet, even as I wrote it, I knew the pain was his alone to bear. I will go through my day fully functional and unscarred by my rep's loss and the loss north of the Red River. What do we say?

You see, there are at least three different sets of folks in Oklahoma. Each suffered the same event, but with different results. Yet, we have a single God and a singular worldview. What do we say?

The first group is the one we want to deal with because they are the easiest to help. I am speaking of the folks who lost only stuff. We can go in and help them rebuild. We can dig around in our closets and garages and find more than enough surplus stuff to outfit them and dozens  of others. They will respond with a brave smile and heart of gratitude, both to us and God. They were spared, prayers were answered. Life will be a chore, but it will go on and the skies will turn blue again. God is indeed a kind and benevolent God.

And the second group is almost as gratifying to interact with. They lost stuff, but suffered some sort of permanent damage. This damage could be physical, or emotional, or financial. Their realty has changed and their world is now one of becoming used to the new normal. It will never be restored, but the damage was not eternal. They might walk with a limp, or not walk at all. They may need counseling for the remainder of their days. Or they may simply have to live life on a smaller scale than they had anticipated. But God spared them their lives and while they are grateful for that, they wonder why He chose to let this happen to them. What could they have possibly done to incur His wrath in this manner? God is good, but they now wonder about his benevolence.

Then there is the group that we can't find the words for. They are standing hunched across the street from the elementary school where they took their little boy or girl, hoping against hope that they first responders will proudly march out of the rubble with their little one clutched close, alive and well. But they are crouched down in their fear, well deserved when they look at the rubble that was once the school, fearing beyond all fears that the "finding" will bring certain devastation to their lives. Or they have already received the news that the bright little boy with the winning smile and the innocent face is gone forever, snatched from them before they could say good-bye or hug one last time or kiss good night. Perhaps it is a husband looking for his teacher-wife and finding that she did what he always knew she would do, sheltered the little ones with her own life. He wanted so badly to tell her, "Don't be  a hero" knowing full well she would ignore his request and save all she could. What a desolate and lonely feeling that must be. There are no words of comfort, there is no advice, there is only silence of the soul. What do we tell these people? Where was God when this happened? I suspect there is less a feeling about the goodness of God and more about the presence of God.

It depends on where you stand. The old book gives us a good model on how to deal with the tragedies of life. Jesus wept, then he acted. We should use this model. It has been a great comfort in my life when the storms were fierce that believers simply put their arms around me and wept with me. No words, no advice, no encouragement, just tears mingling with mine. They do not feel the same pain, but they feel some of my pain enough to share in it.

On another level, as to the absence of God, I see a man on a cross asking the same question. When I need you the most, where are you? But it is the essence of faith that the severest test is when the source of the faith is completely unseen. Our worldview needs to be revised. It is not a world of have and have-nots, ins or outs, good or bad. It is a world that says it will happen to you. God never promised us security and safety in this realm, he promised us simply a way to deal with it. But the "dealing" with it is painful. But not without hope.

So we weep, then we help. We embrace those we can. We keep our mouths shut and our hearts open.

Godspeed to those in Moore, OK. I pray that the journey is not too steep. I will cry a special prayer for those who lost ones who will never be replaced.
Don

Wednesday, May 1, 2013

Do Not Be Afraid

Several years ago my brother, Randy Jolly, published a book of the same title. I contributed  a chapter as well as my oldest daughter, along with other friends and acquaintances. It is a book with each chapter telling a story of pain and fear and loss of innocence. But the point of the book was the constant exhortation by the creator in the old book to not be afraid. Life throws us into the storm daily and we must find a way to hang on and live and enjoy the journey, even while the storm rages around us.

This past weekend my bride and I made our way north to OK City for the Memorial Run. It is the run to remember those killed in the federal building bombing 18 years ago. This year it comes on the heals of the Boston Marathon bombing which added another emotional level to the event. We arrived to join my oldest daughter and her family. They were all participating in the 5K, as was my bride and myself.

The marathoners go out first, then the 1/2 marathoner, then the 20,000+ 5kers. We were smack in the middle of the mob getting ready to run. As we stood in the middle of the street, packed in like sardines, in  the chilled morning air, it was hard not to think of the devastation a similar bombing could have on a crowd packed this tightly. But the race announcer asked for 168 seconds of silence and remembrance for those lost just a few short years ago. I wrote about the impact of that memorial in my blog last year (May 1, 2012, Emotional Journeys)  and the impact is with me still. As I stood in silence in the early morning dark on that Oklahoma street, with only the thup-thup-thup of the police helicopters overhead making the only sound, it occurred to me that winning over fear has little to do with whether I won the race, or even finished the race. But it had a great deal to do with me standing there, bunched in tightly with my bride, my eldest daughter, grandson number 1, granddaughter number 1 and son-in-law number 1. I had a great deal to lose if someone with evil intent chose that moment to mete out that particular form of hatred. And this only a block or so from where it had occurred before. Personal loss for me is not my life, but the lives of those around me who  cherish so much. Fear for them was the greater emotion.

So how do we conquer fear? I'm not sure. I think it has to do with not allowing it to control what we do or what we avoid. I ran the race with this precious boy,

 
 
 

And he ran with me almost every step of the way, chattering a one-sided conversation to my huffing and puffing. I had not trained for this due to some minor surgery, but I would not trade the moment for all the pain that occurred during the run. But the real purpose of the moment for me was the old truth and the new realization that I can't let fear decide what eternal moments I will receive and what I will miss. On the last turn, when the big, green finish line sign showed up, I turned him loose to sprint to the end. There was no gas left in my tank, and I realized with deep emotional pride that the boy ran with me because he wanted to, not because our pace matched. It is these moments when I refuse to let the demon known as Fear decide what joy I will receive in this life.
 
The journey or race we run is decided by what we do, not what we don't do. The creator allowed me this moment and it was good.
 
Godspeed to those who choose to run, and choose to beat Fear at its own game.
Don

Tuesday, April 16, 2013

Non Go-Alongs

There are certain things in life that go together. Chocolate and peanut butter, Reese's has built a brand on this combination. Sunscreen and beaches, steak and potatoes, Eagles and road trips, wine and anything, these are combos so entrenched they are almost cliches.

But there are some things that do not go together. Does anyone out there like the weird, pucker-up-your-face combo of donuts and orange juice? They just don't mix. Until I worked in a machine shop in college I would have said oil and water, but they have figured out a way to blend them to produce a cooling and lubrication solution. There is now another entry into my list of things that do not mix.

Kidney's are a wonderful little organ that filters all the minerals and salts out of your system then stages these impurities for transport out of the body. It is pretty cool process and very necessary for us homo sapiens.
Stones are equally cool. They were the first tools for humanoids. When refined they can grind grain into flour, crush grapes, mill all sorts of things. They can even be smoothed and rounded and can be very durable wheels .

However, I discovered that kidneys and stones are not good companions. Easter Sunday I woke up at 4:30AM with a brutal back ache. Generally I do not have back aches. My bride convinced me a couple of years ago to spend a bit of time in yoga. The stretching really helped keep my back pain-free, the calming sessions at the end garnered me some really good naps. So it was with a bit of surprise that I woke up to this gripping back ache. The back ache quickly escalated (and I am talking mere minutes) to a full-fledged, pouring sweat, nauseated self diagnosis of "kidney stone"!!!!When my bride asked me what she needed to do I told her (man, I hope I didn't yell at her) to get dressed. I needed a ride to the ER.

As I have pointed out on this blog, when you go to the ER and have a distinguished head of grey hair, they rush you right in. The only catch is that it has to be "chest pains". Apparently, if it is not chest pains they dawdle and fill out paperwork, ask all sorts of inane questions, and generally drag their feet.
"Is there any place I can lie down?"
"No, there will be a nurse here in a minute."
I'm looking at the floor and wondered what sort of settlement my bride would get if I just collapsed on the floor and died of some sort of staff infection.
20 minutes later I'm ushered into a small cubicle so a disinterested male nurse could take my vitals. Couldn't get a temp, tried three times, changed thermometer twice. "STOP WITH THE STUPID TEMP! I DO NOT HAVE A FEVER!" I may have over-reacted.
Finally they showed me to my room. By the way, all the this moving around was under my own power, hunched over, trying not to gag when the pain cycled upwards. I crawled onto the bed, drew my knees up and prepared to meet my Maker. I was done, this was the end. Then they introduced my savior, the name is morphine, it is my friend. Oh, and warm blankets. We have GOT to get us the machine that keeps the blankets warm.

Gradually I began to feel well enough to ask the pretty, young nurse about the scrubs she wears, Koi with a Peaches warm-up. She was bright and efficient and probably smart. My comment to my bride was that I found it sad that the bright nurse was wearing a competitor's brand while "numbnuts" the disinterested male nurse was wearing the brand I sell. Irony is not your friend at 5:30AM in the ER.

The on-call Doc came in and said I had a kidney stone...no kidding, Sherlock. They were going to do a CT scan. Which revealed the stone still in the kidney and too large to pass. So another procedure and another trip to the hospital is in store. I'm sure that story will come out in another blog. But I am here to tell you that after my visit with the urologist there is no one I want handling my junk like that anymore. They handed me a printout of what will happen while I am asleep.. I haven't read it.  But we are going to separate the stone and kidney, the stone is being forceably removed, evicted, kicked out. It annoys my kidney and I love my kidney more than the stone.

Godspeed on this journey. Some days are diamonds, some are stones. I'm getting rid of the stone days.
Don

Thursday, March 28, 2013

A Love Story

The following is  a story of love and sacrifice, dealing with a new normal, grace in the face of adversity, and unrelenting change.

There was a couple that loved each other a great deal. They had common interests and wanted more than anything to simply live out their lives, working their jobs, and enjoying life. These are not uncommon desires. They are what we all share. It is the commonality that gives us the empathy to deal with whatever life can throw at us. Some of us, however, get hard balls thrown at the head which are impossible to duck. This was true of this couple.

He was driving home from work one day and suffered a massive stroke. Years of smoking, diet not best suited to low cholesterol and genetics caught up with him in one moment of calamity. The stroke was unexpected, no warning signs, no anticipation. It was a life-altering and life-threatening event. It changed forever the scope and hope of his life.

It also changed forever the life and dreams of his wife. She would now be called upon to bath, dress, and feed her husband. The responsibility of earning enough for them to live on would fall on her shoulders. Would she have enough strength? Would she have enough determination? Would her love be strong enough to endure the indignities that she would be called on by this new "normal"?

A lot of couples would have fallen apart. She could have said, "I didn't sign up for this. I'm out." But she didn't. In the following years she would graciously endure the criticism of her husband's family about his care and therapy. Through the years she made sure her husband could attend the holidays and family reunions, even though travel was extraordinarily difficult. Air travel in particular created almost insurmountable obstacles. But she quietly and diligently made sure that her husband would have full benefit of his extended family.

Life at home was a new challenge. Conversation had to be adapted to questions that could be answered with a simple "yes" or "no". Long talks, and banter, and even arguments were now only memories from another life and another time. Care and feeding of an infant is difficult at best, but the care and feeding of a 50-yr-old is mind-numbing and constant and hard. Doubts and fears and self-pity are constant companions. Life threw a Nolan Ryan hardball and derailed the life that they never would have imagined. It has been years since the fateful ride home from work.

This is a real couple. I know them well. They are a part of my bride's family. And they are gay. They are not "married" but committed "life partners". All the references above to the husband is my bride's sister. The "wife" is her partner. I look at them and I wonder how I can criticize their life's choices. Would I be able to handle the struggles with the same grace and quietness that they have? Would I instead rage at the world and the creator who would allow this tragedy? Would I be able to handle the partner's family with the same patience and grace and maturity that the family failed to exhibit? I would like to answer yes, but I know my heart well enough to know that I would not be as calm and gracious and compassionate were I wearing their shoes.

A few years ago through spiritual disciplines and a lot of self incriminating examination I changed my view of God. I was raised in religious tribe that had little patience with differing views, even amongst themselves. We took what we thought was God's Word and hammered whoever disagreed with us. As a fellow told me one time while reflecting on what he had heard while listening to sermons as a child, "Jesus loves you, you are going to Hell". We assumed we were mirroring the nature of God.This shaped our doctrinal approaches to virtually every cultural event.But when I changed my view of God, I changed my view of others.

Now, I lean against the mindset. The best analogy I can come up with is a judge sitting on the bench and the next case is called and he looks down and realizes that the defendant is his own son. And he is guilty. I think the judge would start looking for ways to waive the guilty sentence. I think he would look for any nuance in the judgement, he would scour the law books looking for any slim loophole that would set his son free. He would ignore the massive momentum of evidence and look for one small spark of remorse, one little glance of appeal. And he would find a way to commute the sentence, to step down from the bench, fling his judge robe aside and embrace his son, taking him home, free and forgiven.

I hope this is the scene when I stand before the Creator because I suspect I have far more to answer for than those I wrote about above. If they are judged on the pureness of their hearts as evidenced by their lives described above, then they have far less to worry about with their sexual orientation than I do with my judgemental attitude. I believe that God will look into their hearts and see sacrifice and dedication and grace. It is my sincere hope that he sees a little of that in mine.

Godspeed to Nancy and Glen. This journey has been steep for you. My prayer is that your reward will be great for making the journey with all the grace and humility you exhibit every time I see you. We love you.
Don

Wednesday, March 27, 2013

Prevarication

"To stray from or evade the truth; equivocate.."

I am  not a good liar. There are times when that trait would be very useful..

But I simply cannot live with the consequences of prevarication. Even the word makes it sound okay. I like the word "equivocate" just as much. It sound like I would LIKE to tell the truth, but I simply can't. Sorry Truth, I was rooting for you,  but it simply didn't work out this time. Maybe next time.

Yesterday I intentionally practiced prevarication with my boss. Not a huge deal. I am on a trip to meet with an underperforming rep, at the last minute the rep informed me (long after the plane tickets were bought) that he "thinks he has passover" on Monday. Really? It came to you last minute? I can tell you right now when Easter and Christmas are this year, and next, and the one after that. But the trip was planned and I didn't want the hassle of changing flight schedules, hotels, etc.

Now I had several long phone calls where I asked him to bring this and that. We discussed several aspects of his territory. These were preparatory conversations and ones that were going to take place anyway. And I found them mildly annoying because this was not the training scenario that I had developed in my head. So I was frustrated.

Then my boss called and during the conversation asked in passing how it was going with the rep, I told it was fine, we were covering the basics and would dig deeper the next day. I have worked with this guy long enough to know what he was asking, but I prevaricated. I answered the questions as if the rep and I had spoken in person, but I knew that my boss had not gotten the correct picture of what had happened. Essentailly, I had answered what he had asked, but had evaded the "truth" of his questions.

In years past this would have produced a pang of guilt, quickly over and soon forgotten. Perhaps when I was younger, it was easier. But this small omission, hinging really on one word in his question and a small word in my answer kept me up all night. Rattling around in my head was not so much the variety of ways that the real truth could come out, but the reality that I had violated some deep-seated view of myself. Several times during the night I was tempted to pick up the phone, reclarify the question and get this out of my head. By the time I decided to call it was midnight in California and it would seem even more bizarre than the original innocuous question.

Why does this matter so much to me now? Our culture does not put much of a premium on honesty or integrity or truthfulness. Our cornerstone institutions put no real emphasis on these traits either. In fact it seems that the world around us values the imagination applied to creative prevarication. How far can one stray from  the truth and not be considered a liar? It is not a line in the sand, but a continuum from stark truth to any small ingredient of truth. The continuum is a mile wide and paper-thin. It bothers me now because I know better. There is no illusion that I was telling the truth, I can fool a lot of people, but my conscience calls me on it everytime. My bride can do just about as well. Words are usually my friends until they convict me inside my own brain. The older I get the less truth is subjective, it has become objective. What I say and do is either the truth or it is not. Very simple, very hard.

So I left a text for my boss very early the next morning asking him to call, not an emergency, but call as early as you can. He called, I went straight to the confession, offering no qualifiers (by the way, a true apology offers no reasons, no qualifiers, it is a simple "I'm sorry")  He said he trusted me 1000%, he felt it odd that my answer was uncharacteristically short (not sure what he meant there) and to move on. The situation still bothered me during the day, but more of a dissapointment in myself, than a reliving the event. Am I the only one that is bothered by this? I suspect not, but it still pesters me that I slipped out of my own self-image so easily, and for no real reason. At this point I guess the moral victory here is that I was bothered by the entire episode. I liked last year's model of me much better. Sigh.

Godspeed out there. Self realization can be tough, but at least be truthful to yourself.
Don

Tuesday, March 19, 2013

Not My Future

Greetings from rainy, humid, partly sunny Ft. Meyers, FL. I have no idea about the history or naming of this town. I can only hope that it was a military installation at one time because the only other option is that some unfortunate little kid was named "Fort". Which would be particularly cruel form of teasing by his 1st grade class mates. Down here on business and was reminded again why we are not really tempted to move back to Houston. As my late father-in-law used to say when visiting us all those years ago in Houston, "when I shower, it feels like I'm just changing sweat." One of the few things on which we agreed.

So last night I took the rep to dinner here in Ft Meyers and as he drove around looking for a place in which we both could find something, we passed up Cheddars and Longhorn, Olive Garden and PF Chang's and finally settled on Carrabbas. As we walked in I noticed that at the age of 59 (me) and early 40's (rep) we dramatically lowered the average age of the diners. This was a blue-hair convention. Now, I will admit that my hair is not exactly the same color as portrayed in my high school photos, but this was a different group. The other noticeable characteristic was the leather complected diners. This crowd could make a raiding Arab party look a little pale. Bermuda shorts and polos and sandals seemed the dress code. I felt out of place in my jeans, Danskos, and sport shirt (untucked) My rep looked like he needed a kid's menu.

As I took all this in I was reminded of a special I saw on HBO a couple of weeks ago depicting the life of Northern transplants to FL. The cast could have been dining last night in the same place. It was eerie how similar these folks looked to the folks profiled in the HBO show. The show might have been the most depressing show I have watched in a long time. It profiled about 5 or 6 "residents" at a retirement community that had all moved from the NY, New England area. They were all post-70s, they were all widowed/widowered (?) And none of them were living the life they thought they might be at this point. It was a common quote that each had a lot of acquaintances, but no friends. There seemed to be a lot of activity, but not connection. The little apartments were festooned with keepsakes from another life and another time. A constant reminder that they were not in the lives of their kids or grand kids, nor did there seem to be much motivation to change the scenario.

It occurred to me that they had moved to FL to die, out of sight of their families, out of sight of their lives from before, without the touch and warmth of their old friends, without anything but the knick knacks of their youth. What disturbed me the most was that in some ways they were already a memory. Their families would not remember them from the recent past, but from some snapshot of a happier, more fulfilling time.

Perhaps this was the point. To escape the reality of growing old, to preserve a more youthful memory. But some of these people had been there for 30 years. Would they have made the same decision, the decision to leave family and friends if they thought it was a 30 year marathon? At the age of 65, would they have said to themselves, "I would rather be warm, than to be warmed by family?"

I have no idea what the logic was behind the decisions. But my take on the growing old thing is this, I want my kids and my grand kids to see me grow old, to struggle with a faltering mind and body that is grinding down. Why? Because I hope to be able to teach in those moments. I watch my dad at 90 still enjoying life, troubled by a hip that makes it hard to walk and climb stairs, frustrated by the struggle to remember all the grand kid/great-grandkids names (frankly, I struggle with it as well) and knowing that the vast majority of the life's journey is behind rather than ahead. But he still jokes and laughs and reads, and cross-word puzzles, and limps his 16 block walk. He is, in my opinion, the epitome of courage in old age. I am logging away his wisdom to teach to my progeny.

There is an old saying, 'Live long enough to be a problem to your kids."  My take on this is to live long enough to teach them ALL the lessons you have. Deal with the cold, deal with the aching body, deal with the faulty memory, but teach. I remember sitting on the edge of my mother's bed when she was in the last few days of her life, and knew she was at the end. I was 30 and she was teaching me the eternal, spiritual truths she wanted me to know. She only had 57 years to accumulate and export her special brand of wisdom. My dad has had 90+ years, but he is still teaching. I hope my last words are words of wisdom to my kids, my grandkids, and if God is willing my great-grandkids. I hope my legacy is one of teaching truths by the way I lived to the ones I love. Not in some far away, lonely place. This will not be my future.

Godspeed to all those who have some journey left. Reach behind you for the hands of those that follow and help them up the trail. And then at the right moment, push them forward with words of encouragement, words of wisdom.Then and only then will your journey be finished.
Don

Wednesday, March 6, 2013

Discontent

These past few months have been odd for me. It has been a season of trying and not seeing benefit. It has been a season of worry over a great many small things which leads to a life of worry in the big things. It has been a season of discontent.

I wish I could say that this is the first time in my 59 years that this has happened, but this is simply not so. There have been times when the discontent was greater, with far graver issues driving the mood. There have been times when this discontent has lasted longer, a few times it has been for years, several seasons in fact. There have been times when the discontent would seem sharper or deeper. But this is the moment I find myself in.

In the past I have wondered if this were due to some personality disorder. Being of Irish descent, I have read that Irish can be moody. My bride will attest to the fact that at times I am not good company, silent, uncommunicative, restive, remote. She does not find these moments in the least romantic. She finds them irksome, and I don't blame her. But I am far enough removed from my heritage on the emerald isle to know that  my DNA is not the sole blame.

During my young adult years I wondered if it were some deep spiritual flaw. That somehow I had taken a wrong turn and wandered away from the god and church of my youth. There seemed to be a message from the church that if I were not happy, then the fault fell squarely on my shoulders and I best snap out of it. These were the times when God chose to remain silent, not helping the feeling one bit. I have not found the church as we know it today to be much help in this arena. It seems we spend a lot of time trying to convince each other that all is right, that we are right, and this self-imposed righteousness will prevail. But all this did for me was to drive the discontent underground, or under surface. Probably not the healthiest reaction.

And now I wonder how deeply this has affected my children. There are moments when I see this darkness reside in them. It makes my heart ache that this was my legacy to them. A deep and unsettling creature that resides within, waiting to surface and squash the natural joy should be the norm and not the exception. We teach with our lives, not our words. What was my lesson to them? Like a bill in the mail, I hate to even look. My only hope is that they also received the resolve and the strenght that my bride brings to the equation. It is my prayer that this will be enough to see them through.

Then about 10 years ago I began the journey of spiritual pursuit, delving into the recesses of my heart and mind and thought. Somewhere in all that it occurred to me that whatever forces drew toghether to create me, created me as I am. My nature is to question, and to question is to find answers that can be unsettling. DNA, God, parents, friends, experiences, philosophy, decisions all were mixed in the cauldron of my life and produced...me. Part of this is my bent towards discontent. But it is this discontent that will not let me rest. It is what drives me forward. It is what allows me to venture into events and circumstances where most sane people would not go. With a modest intellect and a sturdy body, and a constant quest for new ideas and thoughts and experiences, I have managed to develop a world around me that is filled with the very love that makes me worry. It occurred to me that one element of this fabric is my struggle with discontent.

I have never struggled with long bouts of depression, but I have come to realize that being a functional skeptic has its price. Discontent is the price for a searching mind and a restless soul.

Godspeed, I hope the journey is a good one. It is the discontent that drives me to pick up my pack, to turn down the trail and continue on. At times the journey is beautiful and at times it is hard, but it is the only journey I get. If you struggle with the discontent, I feel for you, we both carry the burden..and the reward of this discontent.
Don

Tuesday, February 5, 2013

NYC

Last week I spent one night in "The City". It has been years since I have worked there. We were meeting the folks from Burlington, and it was a single appointment with all their buyers.
So I flew in the night before to LaQuardia, took a cab to 32nd and Broadway, checked into my hotel, then decided to go exploring. My rationalization was to walk the 6 blocks to the building where the meeting was going to take place and have it timed from my hotel to the appointment.

It was a drizzly, cold night. I had changed into jeans and pullover sweater, grabbed my heavy coat and just wandered around, watching the people, and seeing the sights. As I strolled up Broadway, crossing the numbered streets in ascending order, it occurred to me that there was something quite unique about New York. The more I watched the people scurry past me, the more it became important to decide what it was that made the city different.

As it relates to foot traffic, it was a lot like Vegas. People crowded on the sidewalk is a constant reminder that both New York and Vegas thrive without the modern convenience of cars and parking and traffic. But this is where the similarity ends. There was simply something different in these two cities.

Dinner was in a restaurant adjoining my hotel. My dining spot was at the edge of the dining room and the bar. Since I was by myself they put me at the smallest table, wedged into a corner, out of the way. As I sat and watched it occurred to me that there was a rich blend of languages flowing in eddys around my spot. German from a group just barely in my sight line to the right, English (as in England) right in front of me at the bar, and something else to my left, looked like middle Eastern, who knows. I was the only Texan in the area as far as I could tell. This simply added to mind strings of the evening. Was this the reason the city seemed so unique?

The next morning I rolled out early and walked to a Starbucks I had spotted the night before. It was raining, I was anxious toget there. When I walked into that wonderful aroma of coffee and pastries I looked around and realized there were no places to sit. Not crowded, no chairs. The only option was a stand-up bar running along the window facing out to the street. So at 6:30AM, I am sipping my Veranda and munching on my pumpkin cake slice watching the bundled up folks hurry along through the rain.

Then it hit me. The difference between Vegas and NYC is the way people walk. Vegas is a meandering sort of dawdle, gazing at the huge signs and billboards advertising Vegas shows with all the glitz possible. The NYC crowd had their heads focused in front of them and had places to go, people to see. It was the difference between a stroll and mission. New Yorkers are accused of being rude. I think they are less rude and more abrupt. They don't have time for anyone who doesn't know the system. Get moving or get out of the way. They live their lives having to negotiate a place and circumstance where there are millions of people trying to get from one place to another with as little interference as possible. I kind of like the pace and point of their efforts. It was nice to finally put that nagging insight into place.

I don't care for NYC, but I get it. I hate Vegas and I don't get it. I find Vegas to be sad and depressing. NYC is simply moving forward, with or without me.

Godspeed, the journey is a good one, but the journey with purpose is the better one.
Don

Wednesday, January 23, 2013

Carpe Diem

Seize the Day. This past weekend we were able to make it all the way to the prairie that my eldest daughter calls home. We will delivering a piece of furniture that had no place at our house and my son-in-law wishes had no place at theirs. We brought back a load of children's clothes to share with the other daughter and daughter-in-law. I spent the weekend trying to convince my son-in-law that it was a fair deal. He was not convinced.

Over the weekend I caught a little glimpse of times past as I watched my eldest grandson interact with his parents. This is a strong-willed child. He is sweet, contrary, focused, willful, active, competitive, smart, and he is standing on the cusp of being 10. What struck me about this weekend is that it reminded me that kids, boys in particular, go through stages where different people have different levels of influence on them.

I think that my daughter and s-i-l have structured much the same dynamics as most families. My daughter has done most of the lifting in discipline and care-giving and calling in the s-i-l when necessary. This seems to be a universal approach, at least it was when my bride and I were going through the on-the-job-training of raising kids. When all children are little, they want their mommas.

But I noticed the very beginnings of a shift. Getting the grandson to get up and get dressed is a formidable task. He wants to sleep or play or huddle by the fireplace (can't say I blame him on the last deal) and drags his feet doing what needs to be done. Breakfast was over, and his mom had gone to get dressed with the parting instructions to Eli to get up and get ready for church. He dawdled over his breakfast until his dad leaned over him and quietly said, "You've been told to get up and get dressed, get moving before you get in trouble."
And he moved. He doubled the time to get dressed, because he had to lie on the floor in front of the fireplace (have you tried to get dressed while prone? it does not look easy) But he got up and got dressed.

Here is my point (mostly to you dads out there) There is a moment from age 9 to 14 where the person with the most influence in the lives of these soon-to-be men are their daddies. We don't get a big window of opportunity. Before 9, they belong to their mothers, after 14 they listen to no one. But in that span while not little boys, and not hormonal, we as dads get to put our fingerprints on the men they will be.

This cannot be done heavy handed. It takes grace and patience, it takes living a life of example, it takes focus. I wish I could say I did all those things. My guess is that I hit a few and missed a lot. But the point is that in  that all too brief period of time, it is us dads who have the influence. We need to step up and exert the discipline, the guidance, the path that these old boys or young men take. No one else can do it. They want to become Dad. They will want to do what we do, backpack, run, golf, treatment of others, pray, study. It is in this moment that they will either learn to be strong, compassionate men, or they will learn to pursue their own desires, their own way...and they learn it from us.

And they will be judged as men on the strength of our training.

So dads, take the reins, teach your children well. Moms, help this work by supporting both the dads and the sons. Grandparents, use this moment to provide perspective. They all will need it.

Godspeed to the men who are dads and the sons who they will raise. Seize the day, seize the moment.It is gone all too soon.
Don

Thursday, January 17, 2013

Thoughtful

There is a unique quality missing from the public discourse today. It is the lack of depth, the lack of thoughtful discernment. Today's discourse runs the course of denigration, combativeness, pettiness. I'm not sure when this started. But it seems to be getting worse.

A couple of weeks ago I began a book called Thomas Jefferson: the Art of Power by Jon Meachum. The book can be a bit tedious to read because it is filled with quotes from Jefferson's letters, notes, journals, and the language used is quite foreign to ours. It feels effusive, yet the thoughts and ideas are quite extraordinary.

One of the fascinating stories in the book is the presidential election when George Washington was leaving office and the election was heating up. According to this book, it was nothing like the elections today. Candidates did not "run" for office, but were nominated by groups or societies. These groups would function as the voice and advocate for the candidate. Whatever running platforms were published were done so via the newspapers and these advocacy groups. By the way, back then the electoral college would elect the top three candidates, with top two  being elected as the president and vice president, without regard to party. In this election for example, John  Adams (A Federalist) won and Thomas Jefferson (A Republican) came in second and was consequently the vice president. I find this a far better, and more fun, option than we have now.

Anyway, as Jefferson was being courted by various groups and individuals he was hesitant to respond. He was at the end of a 2 year hiatus from public service and was reluctant to leave Monticello for the "hurly-burly" of national politics. When a good friend named William Cocke was trying to tempt Jefferson out of political retirement, Jefferson responded with this insightful quote:
"For well I know that no man will ever bring out of office the reputation which carries him into it."

I wonder if our current leaders would understand the wisdom of these words and conduct themselves differently if they could internalize this truth. Perhaps the reason we have such shallow leadership today (and I am referring to all the parties involved) is that they spend so little time in reflection, so little time reading and studying the classics. Jefferson spent years under the tutelage of a pastor and a lawyer, he read voraciously about philosophy, law, history, the sciences. He was a student of politics in history and other nations. He strikes me as a thoughtful man. And this was at a time when the future of the nation was tenuous at best. Dangers lurked for this young nature both internal and external. Yet he found time to THINK about the higher thoughts, the higher callings.

Dallas Willard has said that we don't need smarter people, or busier people, but we need deeper people. All I can say is Amen, and Amen.

Godspeed to you out there who take the time to think, to meditate, to travel the lonelier paths.
Don

Tuesday, January 15, 2013

A Timely Message

There seems to be a lot going on in my world right now. Concerns about family and career and well, just my place in it all.
Then, when it seems that the Voice has grown silent, I read in my disciplines the following words:

May the Lord answer you when you are in distress;
may the name of the God of Jacob protect you.
May he send you help from the sanctuary
and grant you support from Zion.
May he remember all your sacrifices
and accept your burnt offerings.

May he give you the desires of your heart
and make all your plans succeed.
We will shout for joy when you are victorious
and will lift up our banners in the name of our God.
May the Lord grant all your requests.

Now I know that the Lord saves his anointed;
he answers him from his Holy heaven
with the saving power of his right hand.
Some trust in chariots and some in horses;
but we trust in the name of the Lord our God.
They are brought to their knees and fall,
But we rise up and stand firm.

O, Lord, save the king!
Answer us when we call!

Psalm 20: for the director of music; a psalm of David

It is my morning prayer that this song of David will speak into your life as it did mine.

Godspeed to the jouneyers out there. This is not a bad song to hum to ourselves.
Don