Tuesday, December 23, 2014

The Pickup Truck

Before Thanksgiving I finally talked my dad into selling me  his '92 Chevrolet Silverado. He hadn't driven 50 miles in the last year or so. It was sitting in his driveway, the tires settling ever lower, sort of waiting to be taken out of retirement.

Dad and I spent  a day or so engaged in inverted haggling. I was wanting to pay more than he was wanting to sell it to me for. In fact, his first offer was to give it to me, but I thought there were too many kids/grandkids/great-grandkids who probably deserved or might want it. So we haggled and pushed and ended up right where my masters level conflict resolution certification said we would. The exact halfway point between my first offer and his first offer.

I checked the oil and coolant, made sure the tires were up, finalized the signals with my bride who would be flying escort in her Acadia, and set out to drive it from Abilene to Red Oak.
The first thing I noticed was that the steering wheel had a lot of play in it. By a lot I mean the thing was in a permanent quarter turn when the truck was traveling straight. Because of the play in the steering the truck tended to sort of wander all over the road. A gust of wind, a semi booming by, a bend in the highway and I found myself herding that truck from one side of the lane to the other. The brakes were a little squishy too, but I figured the truck would protect me if we couldn't avoid a collision.

As I took inventory of the accessories in the truck I found that it had an AM/FM radio, a huge hump in the floorboard which no clutter organizer would fit, and a cassette player. Well that is interesting, other than sermon tapes, I'm not sure I even own any cassette tapes. Eight tracks, yes, cassettes no. That entire fad came during my early family/kids years and I did not have money for that nonsense. Eight tracks were here to stay. And the over lying aspect of the interior of the truck was a thin pervasive coat of fine red dust. I was bringing part of the farm home with me.

We hurdled along at highway speeds with me testing all the knobs and buttons. The AC would work but if I put the fan on high, it sounded like the dashboard was being dismantled from the inside. The Freon was low so the air was not really cool. I did find out later that the heater doesn't work all that well either, but I have lots of coats and sweaters. After a pretty good upper body workout, we arrived home safe and sound and the farm truck sits proudly in my driveway. My plans are to fix it up as time and money permit. I am not in a big hurry. It is street legal after a couple of failed attempts at an inspection. New tie rods fixed most of the wandering around and there is a paint job in the future and some work on the interior. The old girl drives like a dream and I love the sound and feel when I tool around on weekends getting my errands done.

As I drive it around town and run errands  I wonder why it feels so good. I think it is because it reminds me of the man I admire most in this world, my dad. They are sort of alike, this old truck and my dad. They share a simplicity of life. There is not one single cup holder in the truck, no knobs or buttons that no one can figure out. You want the radio on, push the radio button. You want the heater on, push the button that says heater. Simple, strong, easy to be with. My dad is the same way. He does not demand or create a great deal of angst in those around him. His approach to life is quite simple, be nice, be kind, help out where you can, enjoy the world around you. He does not carry with him a lot of baggage that people have to deal with. Of course his memory now at 93 is a bit like the steering on the truck, it wanders a bit. And we have to remember that he is not going to understand or appreciate the newfangled junk in our lives. But he is strong in his faith in God and in his family. He is a joy to be around and I love to visit with him. Even though we spend a lot of time visiting about the same things over and over.

So the truck purchase was a sentimental one. OK, that's fine that I fall into that category. I have never promised that I had more than my share of logic. But this old truck, and my memories of my dad are sentimental possessions that I cherish. It is a part of who I am, and who I wish I was.

Godspeed to those who have something from someone who means so much to them. Sentimentality is worth every moment.
Don

Wednesday, November 19, 2014

Interstellar

New movie, skipping off the edges of physics, space travel, family dynamics, and cinema. Actors are passable, the obvious manipulation does its job, the special effects keep getting better and better. The movie even gets to bend all reality and craft an improbable happy ending. There are a few things wrong with the premise of the movie. For instance, the protagonist is the "only" guy in the entire world who can do this. My experience in life is that for any given job or mission or duty there are hundreds, if not thousands, of people who can do as well or better. The observation in my field of work is that salesmen can hold out for about 15 minutes because we know that there are thousands standing behind us in line who could do just as well and will do it cheaper. Another thing wrong with the movie is the very heart wrenching discovery that the "mother/wife" has died and he is raising the kids on his own. Not wishing to spoil anything, a really no-nonsense wife in this movie would have been a huge help and the movie would have been about 15 minutes long.
   "I'm going to space to find a wormhole and save mankind and I'll be gone for decades"
   " I don't think so, Buzz. Get back out there and get to work."
End of movie.

But the movie made me think. Not about the trajectory of mankind. Nor did it make me think of all the theories surrounding space travel, time-folding, worm holes, quantum physics or any of that other  stuff I like to view as black magic (like iPhone set ups, math, or female logic). But it made me think about what influence I have on the lives of my kids and grandkids. What imprint is there? The movie speaks to the "ghost" of the parent following the child through their years after the parent is gone. There was a line in the movie to effect that parents are there to create memories for their children. This seems so superficial to me. Memories for what? to be sad? to be angry? to be filled with bittersweet remorse? Are we as parents  really just to serve as an apparition that only provides a context of history? Like a cosmic book marker?

It is my hope that I was able to provide something a little more substantial than a nice little picture book in their heads. The world is struggling with bigger issues than this. It has always been my hope that I have taught the benefits of being truthful even when truth is not valued , being courageous when the loss could be devastating, being faithful when it seemed worthless, being honest when no one else can be. I would hope that somewhere along the line when one of my kids or grandkids is facing a moment that will define who they are they can draw on my words, my example, my values and make the choice that will allow them to be the people of integrity I had always wanted to be..and wanted them to be. God, I pray every day that my mission here has been  more meaningful than creating happy moments for my children. We yearn for significance. But we settle for a memory?

Godspeed to the parents who are able to cast a bigger vision, a deeper significance than the Hollywood version. The only thing of value we can leave is the ability to pass along the words of meaning; truth, justice, honor, mercy, compassion, sacrifice and of course love. The greatest of these is love.

Don

Monday, October 27, 2014

Travel Interruptus

Earlier this month my bride and I celebrated our 39th anniversary. The actual day fell on a weekend, but it was a weekend in which I was going to have to travel to a trade show in Charleston, SC. I thought it would be nice to make the trip a few days early and spend some valuable time for our anniversary and as a since departed friend of mine once said, "Treat her like a girlfriend instead of a wife." In the intervening years I have decided to take the more positive aspects of that statement instead of all the implications it might have. So I booked us some flights from DFW to Charleston (not that many) on Thursday and my bride would return Sunday while I stayed for the trade show. Pretty good plan, but on the shifting sands of air travel.

Thursday, midday a storm rolled through the Dallas/Ft Worth area, knocking down trees, knocking out power, dumping significant rain on all the streets between our house and the airport. But we powered through and made it in plenty of time to check our bags, get a little dinner, get ready for the anniversary trip. Check in went fine, flights were being delayed and some cancelled, but ours was fine. A nice meal at TGI Fridays in the airport, nothing special, but nice. Got to our gate. Flight showed on time. We were called to board and we settled in ready for the adventure to begin. And it began with the flight attendant telling us the flight had been cancelled. Well that's odd, everyone was boarded, the pilots were in their seats, we had passengers, there was no mechanical problems. Cancelled. Get off the plane.

Okay, this happens, but not usually when everyone has boarded. So they sent us to another gate to get "rebooked" the line was about a multitude long. Again, no problem. I have my handy-dandy iPhone where I can call Executive Platinum desk for immediate help. Except this time they said to leave my number and they would call me back when they reach my place in line. Okay, now the blood pressure is building a little. But 28 minutes later I get an email. Congratulations! We have rebooked you on a flight that leaves at 10PM to Hartford CT, with a 2 hour layover, then a flight to Charlotte NC landing at 6:30AM, then a 4 hour layover, and finally to Charleston SC at 11:30AM, THE NEXT DAY!  This is exactly what I had in mind for a 39th Anniversary trip. Two minutes later Exec Platinum desk called and we started looking at options. I told her about the text and she pulled it up and said, "Did you book this?" I said (politely) that no one would book that. She agreed it was awful.
After several options we decided to fly into the Columbia SC the next morning and drive over from there. By the way, Hampton Inn in Mt Pleasant SC held our room and refunded my points. I asked the lady if we could still get a King-NS, she assured me she would (and did) take care of us.

So now we are trying to retrieve our bags. The baggage claim lady was getting overwhelmed. She tossed an 800 number at me which also had a 24 minute wait before they told me they could only help if my bags were late, not missing. I and my bride (constantly reminding me to stay calm) trudged back over the baggage lady who now was dealing with the line of multitudes previously at the rebooking desk. When I was close enough to hear her spiel, I heard the 800 number speech. I raised my hand and in a loud (but polite) voice said, "That 800 number wont help with this problem" I think she took a couple of years off my life with her stare. My statement seemed to make the crowd a tad restless.

When it was my turn, she "Now what is YOUR problem" a tad snarky. I took a deep breath and explained the entire situation.
She said, "The bags will be delivered to your final destination."
I said, "Which one? Charleston or Columbia?"
She said, "Oh"
Finally I got to her. She didn't know. Now she made efforts to fix our problem and while not much help, she made honest effort to help and not clear people problems off her desk.

The short story is we spent the night at the Embassy Suites close to the airport, caught a really early flight to Columbia, picked up our bags in Charleston (which had made the trip to Hartford, Charlotte, and ultimately to Charleston; they looked tired) We also ended up with a lovely weekend touring Ft Sumter, shopping some antique places, having some excellent "low country" cooking (82 Queen, by the way in downtown Charleston is excellent) and treating each other like lovers instead of old marrieds. And my blood pressure dropped to normal ranges by about midday Saturday.

I am thinking a road trip for the 40th.

Godspeed to all you long time lovers, its the journey not the destination, right?
Don

Monday, September 22, 2014

Uncle Ken

Uncle Ken and Aunt Anna. These words have been said thousands of times on my bride's family. They simply go together, like milk and cookies, peanut butter and jelly. You say one and the other comes right along after it. The family in some ways sort of swirls around these 5 words.

But the Uncle Ken part is now permanently gone from the phrase. He has finally found some rest from the Alzheimer's that has plagued him for the past several years. The insidious thing about Alzheimer's is that it is not a cataclysmic event, or a recognizable battle like cancer which have status markers. No, this one just sort of allows the patient to slowly slip away, almost imperceptibly, but gaining momentum as the disease robs the patient of his memory and his personality and finally his life. His foothold in the river of life gave way. He held out with dignity and quiet courage, robbed in some ways of the final moments, but it won't change the way he stood his ground as long as he could.

Uncle Ken was always a quiet man. Though he would share a laugh and enjoyed the stories. But in my mind's eye the way I remember him is sitting in his chair in the living room, in front of a small TV, with stacks of degree plans around him. I have no idea how many he would complete in an evening, but he kept a steady pace until bedtime. Later, after retirement he would be in the same chair, holding a book or a crossword watching his old movies. Interruptions never seemed to irk him (as they would and do me) and he was always willing to visit, sneaking peeks at the TV while carrying on his end of the conversation. He was not one to argue, and man did his family give him plenty of opportunity. There were times when (a bit of confession here) things seemed a little too settled, I would make a comment sure to set off the fireworks, then step out of the way and watch the show. Uncle Ken didn't seem to have this bit of mischief that seems to be a part of my DNA. No, he was a quiet island in a turbulent sea.

But a new picture is now a part of the story. Uncle Ken was a waist gunner on a B-17 in WWII. This quiet, gentle, English scholar was pitched into the killing fields in the sky over Germany and France, and somehow managed to come home a decent, quiet, gentle, English scholar. This alone is a tribute to his ability to withstand conflict with poise and dignity. So at the graveside, his casket draped with an American flag, a color guard came and played taps, and gently and with great ceremony folded the flag and presented it to Aunt Anna. The essential message was that the President of the United States and the American people say "Thank you" for his service and dedication and sacrifice.

As I reflected on this over the past few days, it occurred to me that funerals are in essence the time and place to say "Thank you" to the ones who have stepped into the great Uncounting. We say thank you for all the good you have done and the memories and the benefits of knowing you. This picture of the Staff Sargent kneeling in front of Aunt Anna sums up the entire day. It is a moment to say to Uncle Ken, I am a better person for knowing you, thank you for that. Our deepest regrets are for the things we didn't do, not the ones we did and I think this is true here. I wish I had spent a moment more and said Thank you to one of our family members who left a lot of good memories and a wealth of good humor and quiet dignity.

There will be more of these events. The river has cleared somewhat in my own stretch of the sandbar. My dad is 92 and while still holding on, the river rages against him. Perhaps I am fooled by my own foothold and with a  quick turn and it is I who slides by those who are younger, in a calmer section of the river. Perhaps hearing them whisper or cry "thanks" as I slide by.

It is my resolve to be more appreciative of those ahead of me. They have conquered the same currents I now fight. I also want to be able to help those behind me who need to know what little I have gained. It is important that they understand the need to be grateful. This is a lot from a single mental picture of a soldier presenting a flag to a lady who has lost her companion of 60 years, but I hope this little bit of acknowledgement makes up for the lack of maturity it takes to say "Thank you".

Godspeed, Uncle Ken. You were one of a kind.
Don

Monday, August 18, 2014

We've Added On

For the past 8 months or so we have been planning an addition. These kinds of things take time. It is a process with which we are quite familiar, but seems to be fresh and new each time.
It is not a new room to the house, it is new room in the heart. Chloe Jane Jolly made her appearance Saturday evening and moved into her room into our hearts. She came in at a whopping 6 lbs 11oz, and just a tad over 19 inches, appears to be another blue-eyed blondie which my grandkids seem to run to (only one brown-eyed kid in the bunch). But we are having to really make the room large enough to hold all the hopes and dreams and wishes and prayers and memories. That part is nothing new with 6 other rooms already filling up.

So Saturday night as the last in line (other than the other granddad, who would be there on Sunday) I was handed this little scrunched up bundle. Her little eyebrows sort of knit together in concern, but after a moment she seemed to settle in close. That was when I opened the door and showed her the room made just for her. It still surprises me that each one opens a different door to my heart. Each with their own names and each furnished uniquely for them. But what really surprises me is that this does not become old hat, it is not mundane or routine. It is all at once familiar and new, ancient in some ways and all about the future in others. In one corner were the prayers that have been offered over the past several months. In another corner are stacked the qualities of integrity, compassion, openness, etc. that I hope she will adopt and use. But the main part of the room is open. I can't furnish it until I know her a little better. What will she need? Each one has needed a different set of furniture to make their own. Only by observation and prayer can I pick out the right décor for her room.

But I will tell you this. This little button of girl has already captured me. As my kids will tell you, as my kids-in-law will tell you, as my bride will tell you, I am not the patriarch that stands aloof and direct. I find myself sitting on the floor most of the time at my kids' house, sword fighting, "westling", and oohing over princesses and dollies, throwing baseballs, and sipping from tiny teacups. For the life of me I can't keep the Disney gals separated by name, but I can hum the songs to most of the movies. But it is in these moments that I figure out how to decorate each one's room in the house of my heart.
I have no idea what little Miss Chloe's nature will be. Judging from her parents and her siblings, she will be bright and funny, but will she tend towards her daddy as an artist? or will she be a number-cruncher like her mommy? Will she be intro? or extro? Will song burst from her like her cousin Phoebe? or will she be constantly on the go and full of questions like her cousin Lincoln? Do you see why I wait and let the memories decorate the room? It is in my head that events and people happen around us and to us at a specific time and moment in our lives. It is up to us to grasp the significance of that moment. It is up to us to decorate the room.

Godspeed little miss Chloe. As the book by Billy Crystal  says, "I loved you before I knew you"
Grandaddy (Don)

Friday, August 15, 2014

Trust

This morning I got up early and drove to the gym to work out. My bride stayed home nursing a surgically repaired shoulder and getting some extra zzz's in as well.
The workout was normal and went out to the car, and turned the key, and someone strangled a cat for a moment before I realized the car had apparently expired and I had listened to the death rattle of the old Blazer.
Well this is new. I don't carry my cell phone to the gym (don't know, so don't ask). The car is dead. And the phone in the gym apparently is wired to the alarm system, so no one can use the phone when the manager is not there. No one in the gym at that hour of the morning. So I sat and pondered my options while cussing out the old Blazer. Then I remembered there was a donut store around the corner in the same shopping center. Does anyone else see the irony in me having to go to the donut store for help after working out?
So I trudged to the store, asked to borrow their phone which turned out to be her personal cell phone (all the directions and prompts were in Spanish) and called my bride on our home phone because I could not remember her cell phone number. After all, it is just a button with her name on the menu, so who memorizes all those numbers? We do not use our home phone for anything but renting Pay-per-view on cable, and keeping Indian call centers open for telephone solicitation.
My bride did not pick up which is normal. But as I reversed my trudging to the defunct Blazer it occurred to me that there was something of a spiritual parallel here.
She might take a while to get the message, the girl is a world-class sleeper. She may have been in the shower, she could be in the other room making coffee. But I knew she would show up. Why? Because she always has.
You see this is kind of like praying. We shoot a prayer heavenward and hear no response, but we know He will show up. It may not be in the moment that we impatiently want, but he will show up. Because He always has.
The other comfort I had was knowing that if I was gone too long she would come looking for me. I knew she would know the time frame of my journey and when I didn't reappear at the right time, she would get in the truck and drive the route and all the alternative routes until she found me. She always has.
He will do the same. When we don't "show up" for a time, He will come looking for us. He will search every place He knows we hang out in, no matter how disgusting or inconvenient. The reason I know this is because He always has.
It is a marvelous blessing to be able to make a call, leave a message, and live in the full confidence that the one who we trust will show up.
Godspeed, I hope He picks up when you call, but if not, wait until He arrives. It completes the confidence that we know is justified. He always has, He always will.
Don

Wednesday, July 23, 2014

Uncertainties, Fears, and Monsters Under the Bed

Several years ago my bride and I were on a road trip to help my eldest daughter move into their new home. On the way we hit a deer in my little Ford Ranger ( this event was chronicled in the blog post "The Deer Slayer" November 3, 2008. Still one of my favorite posts). While we were sitting in the pitch dark of a small west Texas county highway, it reminded us both of how much light and noise we live with every day. As the night drew on and we waited for my brother to come help us, we both began to hear the rustlings and stirrings in the brush around us. I had grown up on a farm and spent most summer nights sleeping outside in the screened in porch and was aware that most of the subtle noise was probably rats or mice and not a threat. However, all these years later and with a bride who was not raised on a farm, the crunching of leaves conjured up far worse threats than a deranged mouse. While the logical mind was convinced these were harmless little night creatures, the imagination mind convinced us that it was a blood thirsty mountain lion grown tired of deer meat and looking for some nice Dallas-fed human flesh. The imagination mind is far more convincing than the logical mind and shouted down all the reasoning and legitimate objections the logical mind could make. Fear triumphed over logic.

When we stop for a moment and evaluate our lives it seems that fear of the uncertainty bullies us like a boss from our nightmares. All the logic in the world will not mitigate the fear that can creep in or slam into us unexpectedly. It seems we let the fear run unchecked in all directions and our imagination kicks in with all sorts of dire consequences. In the end it robs us of the ability to move forward with confidence and exuberance.

And this is a portion of every part of our lives. Work place hassles and uncertainties can cause us to make conservative decisions that limit the scope of possibilities. The possibility of loss or narrowed results make us even more apt to make decisions that limit and constrain us. Perhaps the fear surrounds our health or the health of a loved one. We lose the power to live according to our expectations because the world has closed in a bit. Or perhaps it is the fear of loss of friends or influence or connection or significance that drives us into a well-crafted shell to minimize loss, and like someone who lives the life of the miser because they can't imagine the losing the baubles they have instead of reaching the riches within our grasp.

Fear is a bully. Fear uses the uncertainties against us. I do not care for bullies. They rob us of the joy that our lives are supposed to be built on. As most of you know, my worldview is a fairly traditional Christian view. It has been (although the culture is changing) anathema to mention uncertainties, to vocalize fear, to speak out and say that we are afraid. My brother compiled a book called "Do Not Be Afraid" and I made contributions to that book. I think when scripture encourages us to not be afraid it is really saying, "Don't let the fear bully you." We all live with fear. We all have uncertainties, we all wonder what is scratching around outside, we all wonder about the monsters under the bed. But somewhere out there is the answer to the fear. At some point we have to live our lives like we have nothing to lose. We are the only ones who can defy the bully and live as we were intended.

Godspeed to the fearful. We are the bully beaters.
Don

Friday, May 23, 2014

A Social Experiment

We have entered into a social experiment. A month or so ago some dear friends of ours put their house on the market and it sold the first weekend. Since that moment they have been in a panic about the next nest, where to sleep and shower in the interim, and the normal spark of dealing with moving all their stuff.

My bride and I asked them to take the upstairs at our house. It is not being used, it is remote from the area where we live, and it is available. With some trepidation on the part of the bride in their equation, they accepted. I hugged them both at church the next time I saw and them and exclaimed how much fun this was going to be! She responded by saying they didn't feel like they had a lot of friends and didn't want to lose the ones they had. We assured her there was no way.

So we spent a weekend moving all their heavy stuff to storage. I told them both they were going to have to get younger friends the next time. I have discovered that my mind remembers being able to lift heavy things all day, but my body has settled into semi-retirement. My training in college for packing into a truck has not been lost, so I spent most of my time working the puzzle of filling every little nook and cranny on the truck to get as much as possible. Showed their s-I-l the "mover's" knot and generally had a good time. Associate ministers everywhere listen to me, if you want a dynamic men's ministry just make sure they sweat. It can be play or work, but when men sweat together they share and discuss and bond. Prayer meetings and weekend retreats don't work, but put a shovel or a ball in their hands and you have the groundwork for a long lasting ministry.

Another week afterwards this couple spent every night getting their small stuff in storage and finally moved in upstairs.

Here is what I discovered:
1. We all work, so the schedules are dictated by drive time, on time at work, and natural sleep patterns. We discovered that they apparently live on pacific time and we are eastern time zone folks.
My bride and I wake up at 4:30 to work out, they umm, do not. At 9:15PM my lights go out, both figuratively and literally. I'm done, cooked. I don't know what time is lights out for them, but I know they don't roll out at 4:30.
2. Meals for us during the week, particularly breakfast are catch-as-catch-can. I usually have a yogurt and coffee, not sure what anyone else has. Dinners are a bit tricky and has created the most communication. Who is going to be where is the constant theme. We have ended up with some interesting left-overs. But everyone seems to be getting enough nourishment.
3. It is kind of nice to have a visit in the late evenings. To realize we share some of the same communication issues and letting the unwinding work.
4. We do not share the same interests in TV programming. They are both musically and dramatically inclined and like the "English" shows. I like good humorous writing, don't care for much on TV right now, so normally I snooze on the couch while they compare programming notes with my bride.
5. I can't set the sprinkler system to avoid everyone's schedule, so I opted to get me a little damp, keep my bride dry, and hope they can run the gauntlet to their cars. Sorry, I have priorities. Happy wife, happy life.
6. It seems to be working. I'm sure they aren't creating any stress for my bride that I don't already create. They sure aren't creating any stress for me. Not sure how the whispered conversations are going upstairs, but really how bad could it be?

It is an experiment that is going well. Not sure why there was any trepidation. We are all adults, we all enjoy a lot of the same things, we all want the same things. And at the end of the day, isn't this what our professed faith is all about? helping, getting along, sharing, making a spot? My only regret is that I seem far more hesitant to do something like this on a more frequent basis. These are good, solid, hard-working, funny people, which makes this easy. But what is it in my nature that still runs those who need something through a filter? I remember having these same questions when we worked to renovate and furnish 40 apartments for refugees from New Orleans after Katrina. I learned to ignore the filter, but it seems somewhere along the line it seems to slip into place again. We feel that our charity should have criteria, when in reality it should be just a small portion of the charity needed in this world, without the impediment of my filtration system.

Godspeed to the displaced, and for our little set of displaced, Clark and Rebecca, you are far from wearing out your welcome.
Don

Wednesday, April 30, 2014

Old Friends

There are people in our lives that we spend a great deal of time with, then move apart, and it never really returns to the same level of closeness. We may even have family that falls into that category. As the time passed they, or us, have changed. Their habits seem odd and their life choices don't resonate at all. In those times I wonder who changed? Could I have predicted this shift all those years ago? Do we seem as odd to them as they do to us? The path diverged, perhaps only a fraction of a degree, but in the intervening years this divergence has created a gulf that will probably never  be bridged. Facebook has accentuated this phenomenon. As I read of others lives and habits and hobbies I realize I don't know these people anymore. There isn't any way to connect the dots, they are simply too far apart. And as I take inventory of all the people who have wandered into and out of my life, it occurs to me that most of the people I have known fall into this category whether we were friends in elementary school, high school, college, young marrieds, or somewhere in between. We shared a moment of life, then moved on and the path only randomly reconnects. What disturbs me the most about this is if I am dreadfully honest, it simply does not bother me all that much. Which creates a low grade alarm within my psyche and surfaces the question (again) "What is wrong with me?"

But there are other people that seem to find their homes permanently in my heart. They may have entered my life 40-50 years ago, we don't see each other all that often, we don't call or email or go out of our way to communicate. But when we reconvene the friendship it is like no time has passed. The connection is instantaneous and it is as solid as it was all that time ago. The father of just one of those types of friends told us as a group this very thing 40 years ago, and he was right.

This past weekend we enjoyed another one of those moments. We had a lovely dinner, we drank some really nice wine, and we talked and talked and laughed and laughed. We shared war stories about our kids. We commiserated about our uncertainty about what to do with the "second half" of our lives. The jokes were old and seemed new. The concern over recent health scares was deep and distressing. My old friend's wife shared some of her recent struggles with the fall out from breast cancer and in describing some of the effects and trauma, she looked at me and made a comment about me not being comfortable with the details of the struggles. I always come up with the perfect thing to say about two weeks after the moment, but I wanted to tell her that my distress was not embarrassment over hearing about her physical struggles, but my distress had everything to do with feeling helpless to render any words of comfort or relief. It is my belief that by the age of 60 there is little to be embarrassed about. We have all had enough procedures to make us painfully aware that these bodies are falling apart, slow for some, quick for others, but inevitable for all. So once again my inability to speak plainly about my empathy was a clear indication of my slow-wittedness, rather than any sense of propriety.

But here is my take on this certain feature of our lives. I think the thing that I fear the most is outliving all my old friends. As I look out in concentric circles from my bride to our close current friends to our older friends to my childhood friends, what happens if they are all gone and I am left here with no one to "remember" with? My dad is 91, closing in on 92. He has no siblings left, my mother has been gone for 30 years, fortunately his current wife is still with him. But as I write this, all the friends that I remember him having when I was growing up are all gone. How does that compute with him? How does he look around and share the 9 decades with a group of people who have no idea what he is talking about? I don't necessarily want to be the first to go out of my group (although the crowd would be better at the funeral, half missing me, half making sure I'm gone) but I fear being the only one left. Our old friends are the life library that we can wander through and check out the books of our memories. These books of memories are stored in our shared lives.

This does give me great anticipation for the great uncounting. I hope we are able to recall our friends and the warm memories they bring. What good is this life if we remember nothing of it in the next? I am hoping that me and Fry and Wray can laugh in our next life about the nuttiness of this one. Do the Houston days with Hunters and Halls and Martins mean nothing in the bigger scope of eternity? It is my sincere hope that the Dillards and Hackneys and the Jollys can all remember the songs in the capitol building and the "crab award". Why should it be a requirement that these do not get to go with us? To some large extent, if the creator finds worth in my life enough to let me squeeze in, won't  my admission be in part because of the goodness of these friends and these memories?

So we got to enjoy a moment with old friends, tried and true friends, always friends.

Godspeed to all the friends out there. Friends are there to create the moments that teach us to cherish time. They mark our days and push back the nights.
Don

Tuesday, March 25, 2014

Nothing Can Wash Away My Sin..

It seems most Sundays I find myself on the praise team at church for early service. The coordinator switches me from tenor to bass, depending on what she needs at the moment. I think I am one of the few guys that can sing either moderately well, but not excel at either one. But I do enjoy the camaraderie and the moment to sing with a group of folks who all enjoy the music and each other. The group assembles a few at a time and it seems there is a certain amount of visiting that goes on while the mikes are tested and sound is mixed, etc. However, I like to sing. So this past Sunday I insisted we all warm up on a few of my favorites ( I sang tenor, so I pushed for a couple of songs that had really fun tenor parts) The song that jumped to my mind was a simple little song, with simple words, and a really fun tenor line.

Nothing can wash away my sin.
Nothing can wash away my sin.
Nothing can wash away my sin.
Nothing..nothing...nothing but the blood of Jesus.

The verses shift to:

Nothing can bring me peace with God.

and so on.

For the last two days I have reflected on the significance of my disciplines that do not spend a lot of time surrounding the reality of the words in the song. By the way, I believe all the words of this simple little song, but somewhere along the line I have come to grips with the fact that "sin management" is not the intent of the mission. Sin management requires that we look back to a time when sin governed all that I did and said. It no longer has that kind of sway over my life. Of course I still sin, of course I still seek to make my own way, of course I forge ahead without the guidance and will of the Creator. But sin no longer has the ability to undermine my hard fought faith. My sin disappoints me, it slows me down, it defeats me with regularity, but it does not cause me to dwell on its' significance. It has been defeated, washed away as the song says by an event 2000 yeas ago. Why dwell on it? Sin no longer holds my fascination. The focus now is on relationship.

When I lived on the farm years ago. We had to move irrigation pipe, marching from one side of the pasture to the other in 40' increments. On the numerous occasions I had to handle this chore alone, I had to line up the pipe in 20 or 30 separate segments. Which meant unhooking from the pipe ahead and carrying this 30' piece of pipe across 40' and re-hooking to the one ahead of it in line. If I looked back at the previous pipe just set in position and determine if the entire line was straight, I would end up with a crooked mess that would make a snake envious. But if I picked a point at the end of the pasture that was roughly 40' from the end pipe, the line was straight and true. I had to line it up with where I was going, not where I had been.

When we continue to dwell on the sins of the past we end up wandering all around in our lives and never really putting down a pipeline that is straight and true. I am not sure why so many preachers focus on this single topic, except that it surfaces guilt and guilt surfaces response. But it inhibits true spiritual growth.

The focus, the aim of the pipeline is relationship. When we look to simply forge the most direct line to Jesus or the Creator, or whatever term you find comfortable, we focus forward. We look to the future of what this relationship can and should look like. We become free to live a life of hope and purpose and mission. This future then becomes the "peace with God" this simple little song sings about.

Godspeed, not sure why this has been on my mind, but there it is.
Don

Tuesday, February 25, 2014

A Little Slow

I just recently I came across a quote that struck a chord within me.

"I am slow to learn and slow to forget that which I have learned. My mind is like a piece of steel, very hard to scratch anything on it and almost impossible after you get it there to rub it out."

To be brutally honest, I am a slow learner. Ask my bride. It was never much of a badge of honor; and a quality that is not highly respected in our culture. No one ever says, "He is a hard worker and he is a slow learner. We love that about him!" Usually the comment is a little less glowing and uttered with a certain amount of frustration. When will he catch on? A mental picture of a football squad waiting impatiently at the end of the agility run waiting for the slow kid to catch up seems to be the best illustration.

But there are a few things that are best learned slowly.

We live in a culture seeking immediate answers to every question. This must be a the root of the dysfunctional political climate. These guys only have 4/6/8 years to fix problems that have festered for decades. And they must fix them with an eye on reelection for the next go around. None of these factors lend themselves to long term reflection, to learning slowly.

Religion is perhaps the gravest offender of trying to learn quickly in the face of blindingly quick societal changes. By the time a book is published on how to do "church" it is out of date, swept away by generations that have already rejected the premise.

Education carries the greatest responsibility, but the rants are common and justified by my teacher-daughters/bride about the disconnect between applying modern solutions to age-old problems. It takes years to implement and like religion, is long past effectiveness by the time it is in the classroom.

A bit of self confession here. I was not a good student. Now my kids can blame me when their kids are a little slow and place blame where it belongs. My running joke all these years was that I finished in the top 75% of my high school class. For a joke to be really funny it has to have an element of truth...
But what I learn is there for good. I was always ashamed of my poor performance in school. Learning for me was a chore. Math is still a mystery to me and the higher math is especially confounding. The softer disciplines I enjoyed, but still struggled because the conclusions by the teachers I found mundane. It wasn't until years later while being tested in a job interview that it was discovered that I scored in the top 2% of the testing group for inductive reasoning. Deductive reasoning is taught in school, inductive is not. So I had to sit for additional testing to see how this happened. At least in my head this explained why normal linear logic seemed dull to me. It took me a while to understand the difference. Inductive reasoning also is a long course result, not a step by step process.

My point here is that some learning has to have time to work. Spiritual disciplines (which drive so much of my life) are measured in decades, not moments. Development of moral and ethical approaches to culture or business come about through years of experience and meditation. My bride and kids and kids-in-law all get exasperated when on long distance drives I do not listen to the radio, but sit and "think". It is my slow cooker learning process. Almost all of them want to ride in the other car.

Finally it occurred to me that we need both kinds of learners, slow and fast, deductive and inductive, logical and intuitive, short term and long term. You see I think the "slow learners" are the visionaries, the vision casters. We may not be the best at writing employee handbooks, but we are the best at inspiring the troops to look beyond today's problems to tomorrow's promises.

Godspeed to all the slow folks out there, what we bring to the table may be the best yet. By the way, the quote above was by Abraham Lincoln about himself in the book Team of Rivals. I take some comfort in that.
Don

Thursday, February 20, 2014

We Know All Too Well..

Yesterday I followed an interesting FB conversation between a well-intentioned guy and a defensive gal. As the guy kept posting I kept thinking to myself, "Dude, stop digging, the hole is getting too deep to get out of." About that time he simply said he was going to stop talking. Finally.

The topic was prompted by a lady who posted something about being nostalgic when seeing older couples who have been married for 50+ years and how sweet and admirable that is in today's culture. She went on to say that they had of course had tough times and weak moments, but had somehow persevered through it all to the promised land of the golden years. It was a kind enough post and certainly didn't seemed accusatory of anyone.

But as I read the back and forth from the two who read the post and were impacted in completely opposite ways, it occurred to me that even the most innocuous comment can have unexpected consequences. The guy had a long marriage with a lot of trauma and was grateful for the steadfastness of his wife for all the trouble, and for her faithfulness in that time. The lady felt that she had tried and tried and had finally pitched it all in to save what she could of herself and her family. She felt the article was an indictment of her failure and the post raised the regret that never lurks far from the surface. And there is significant truth in her perspective. There is no way the guy or me to understand the complete devastation that this calamitous event causes. We can guess, we can conjecture, we can even empathize, but we can't know; not the deep, soul-bruising, crushing, suffocating first hand knowledge.

But having logged 38 years in this particular journey there are a few things that I do know.

- Long-marrieds know all too well how tenuous the bond is that they agreed to all those years ago. Better than anyone we know that it was not some unbounded love. In fact, I will tell you with full assurance and openness that there are years, yes, I said YEARS, where love has disappeared with no guarantee that it would return. There were long periods of time when one or both of us were unlovable.
- Long-marrieds know that the fight is never over. It settles down some when the major wars have been fought (career wars, sex wars, money wars, teen wars,.....) I think at some level we learn that it is simply too exhausting to keep battling when it is easier to let a lot of things slide. After about 40 years of age, almost no one changes. Neither partner is perfect, both are annoying in their own way, both see the ironies in the other but not in themselves, and neither is going to change much. But by year 35 or so both are so arm-weary that they let the gloves drop a little. Long term marriages are made up of two very tough-minded people, this trait never goes away. They have to work it out.
- Long-marrieds know that having kept this tenuous union together this long is not a matter of skill, or perfect love, or intelligence, or even faith. It is kept together by a curious combination at various times of pure, dumb luck and a deep-seated exasperating stubbornness. There is a saying that surviving soldiers are not necessarily heroic, but lucky. The divide is not skill, but luck...
- And somewhere along the line we all learn that we each live "Plan B" (I've written about this in another blog, so the idea is not new to my faithful few readers) We each think at various times that this was not what I bargained for. This was not the marriage that I dreamed of during the wedding rehearsals. This marriage has at least one (and the designated person isn't always the same one) partner that says and/or does the wrong thing. This was not the deal I signed up for. 
- And long-marrieds have learned that there is not a greater feeling in the world than to realize that the person they sleep next to every night is the one person in the world that has gone through every battle, suffered every disgrace, had their back day in and day out, wept with through the long and lonely nights, clung to when the storms of life have conspired to tear them apart, held them when there was nowhere else to turn. They realize that this has been the partner in the journey where the greatest highs were shared, the deepest and most intimate love was enjoyed, where the greatest accomplishments were partnered. But the longer they have been married, the less they take this for granted.

So when we see these folks holding hands, or grabbing a quick kiss, the hands are scarred and tired, and the lips have said some ugly things. But these two souls are hoping to finish the race even though the track took them places they never would have imagined. And they feel great empathy towards others who could not finish the race as they had imagined in the beginning. It is not my intent to point out how much better anyone is than anyone else, it is my point to say that really good people get crushed in this marriage deal, and really bad people sometimes fair better than they deserve. Long-marrieds know this all too well..

Godspeed, to all the long-marrieds, to the just started-outers, to those who have had to revision their future.
Don

Wednesday, February 12, 2014

What a Shame

Philip Seymour Hoffman died about a week ago of an overdose. There has been memorials, testimonies by other celebrities, a general shake of the head of a culture and the muttered, "What a shame." And it is a shame. He was talented, he had a certain level of fame, it appears he was a kind and loving father, he was unassuming in his neighborhood in NYC. But he dies prematurely due to a series of poor choices. It wasn't cancer. The plane did not fall out of the sky. A gunman didn't take him down in a shopping center. He bought the drugs, he prepped the drugs, and he stuck the needle in his arm. And he died by his own hand. Even as I write this it sounds cruel, unforgiving. That is not my intent. You see, I think we all die a bit by our own hand.

We are the sum of our decisions. It is as simple as that. As I reflect on my now almost 60 years I can point to a few key decisions that changed my life forever. Who I married has given me great joy. It could have turned out so differently if I had chosen someone else. Playing out that decision resulted in children who have brought me joy and comfort and sleepless nights. But it was the result of the first decision. Career choices have been marked as good and bad, but would I be in the spot I am now if any one of those decisions had been different? Because each one presented an array of options that I picked and followed the path. So I am sum of those decisions.

You may be thinking, "But wait, I didn't choose the cancer/divorce/slick road/bad boss" But you did choose the responses to all those things. While the event may have been random, your response was not. And we are formed by the decisions in the midst of those trials, not by the trials. Just in the past couple of years have I realized that my attitude, my demeanor is a result of my decisions. There are a couple of terms that I learned while getting my Masters. Orthodoxy is what we believe in our heads. Orthopraxy is what we do with what we believe. Orthodoxy drives or forms orthopraxy. In other words, what we really believe is what we live. Our decisions are a reflection of what we believe. We can't act our way to better thinking, we think our way to better acting. Religion and self-help gurus and diet plans all get this wrong. Until we decide in our heads, it will never lastingly apply to our actions.

Each of us die a little by our own hand. For me it is insecurity about my place in the world, for you it may be a bitterness about your childhood, or for another it may be a addiction. But our decisions about whatever the circumstance, if the decision is harmful, is from our own hand. And it is a shame.

I think the Creator looks down and wants the best for us, but allows us to make our own decisions, to live and die as a result of our own thinking. That is why so much emphasis is on "faith" the embodiment of our thinking, our decisions.

Godspeed to all on the journey. We each decide the journey's course, the backpack we will carry, and the companions we will travel with.
Don

Wednesday, January 22, 2014

1st Amendment

This morning I read in USA Today that blogs are protected under the 1st Amendment. That comes as a huge relief. A lawsuit could wind up on my doorstep at any time because of this blog. However, I think it would require a certain number of people to READ the blog to run that risk. My following on this journey is small, but loyal. A few comments along the way, most positive. A few emails referencing the blog, most...ummm....with a differing view point. But as I have said all along, I write for me, for me to articulate thoughts and ideas, dreams and hurts, doubts and fears. Sometimes it seems to strike a chord with folks.

But I had not considered this blog a liability in any way. Partly because I have a few rules that I apply when writing:
1. It has to be something that has been triggered recently. There can be events, or ideas, or interactions that spin my head in a certain direction that seems worthwhile to me. So I write it down.
2. This is a constant reminder for me to reread the post and make sure that I have not embarrassed anyone. Sometimes events in others lives prompt me to write, but it would embarrass them. So I choose to either mask the thought in very general terms, or I ask permission, or I write the post, but don't publish.
3. I try not to attack anyone because, as my bride points out, they can't defend themselves. And while I may feel quite justified, it is not a fair fight when I have the only pulpit.

So I write what impacts me and my life and add dash of perspective and arrive at a thought that may be a bit undercooked or overcooked, but sometimes tasty anyway.

But what strikes about the public discourse today is the lack of discernment, the lack of wisdom. The right attacks the left, lights attack the dusky, the word-eaters attack the number-crunchers, the tall against the short, the thin vs the thick, the them against the us. No one brings to the conversation the ability to empathize, to understand, to discuss. We are all so intent on yelling out our position that we lose sight of the opportunity that others might have some genuine, well thought out perspectives. If I can listen and understand their point of view at an emotional level, then it makes it easier to adapt my view to a more common ground.

I wish this were true within small segments of our society, but it seems to inflict all moments of our lives together. Church, government, education, health care, transportation, marriage, familial, all are impacted with this lack of discernment. This little blog tries to find a moment when I can bring all sides to a conversation without anyone yelling at each other. The biggest challenge is to keep myself from entering the fray and causing more disinformation or distrust.

Besides, I have no money, so it wouldn't do any good to sue me anyway.

Godspeed, lets have a kind word out there.
Don

Tuesday, January 14, 2014

Intercessory Prayer

Big word. Simply put, it means that one person is praying to God for another person. In the tribe that I was raised in it can have a variety of meanings. The problem is that my tribe has never really put a lot of actual stock in the disciplines (unless you count arguing as a spiritual discipline, then we are spiritual titans). We talk a lot about prayer, we read and write a lot about prayer, we even make a pretty good show of it when we are all together to pray, but when you really pin someone down (me included) it becomes evident that we would rather do all the above than actually pray.
The other issue is that when we say to someone, "I am praying for you." what we are actually saying is that we are "thinking" about them. Or, we wish we had the discipline to sit down, carve out the silent and solitude it actually takes to delve deeply in prayer. Or it could mean we hit it a glancing blow before we eat. Not often do we mean that we are going to go to our knees, clench our mind around the fact that someone dear to us needs someone to stand in God's presence and plead their case. This is a bold move and runs its own set of risks for the prayer as well as the prayee.

The other issue is the passage we quote "The prayers of the righteous man availeth much" See, I can't even quote it without using King James English. The question that came to my mind several years ago when I started the spiritual journey "What if the guy praying is not actually righteous?" Hmmm. Could the prayer do more harm than good? Does the indictment of the unrighteous then fall on the one who is hurting? Besides, we have a sort of cultural bent that says if enough of us pray we can somehow influence God and his handling of the situation. If I can get enough folks (odds say some of them have to be righteous, right?) praying, then God pretty much has to bend towards public opinion, right? So we develop these prayer campaigns on FB, Email, church bulletins, etc. etc. and somewhere in our hearts feel that the simple quantity will get the job done. Quantity and some quality have to have the desired effect, right?

Here's the problem. I've seen it go both ways. I have lost a mother who had thousands of people praying for her. I've had a daughter suffer and survive the big C, three times. I have grandbabies that could be pointed to as results of prayers, and I have seen others who have nothing to show for the hours spent on knees.

So here is my big conclusion. Prayer probably does not change the heart of God, it changes the heart of the one praying. My prime proof text is the prayer in the garden, a son, a request, a denial. That prayer changed the heart of our savior, not the heart of the One who held the plan. It changes us in the most fundamental ways. I believe it is God's way of shifting our views and provides the proper forum for introspection.

All of this has changed my approach to "praying for others" First and foremost, I keep my list very short. Usually I only pray for one or two people at a time, but those prayers are linked to deep study and meditation. And it is every day for whatever time is needed. I try not to be flip about telling someone that I am spending time in prayer for them. If they seem to have a battalion of prayer helpers they do not need my help. Which leads me to the second shift in my thinking.

I know better than anyone else the level of my faith. It is meager at best. There is a reason that I refer to myself as a functional skeptic, with the higher emphasis on skeptic, not functional. The prayers of the skeptic are hard to articulate and I wonder how God receives them. The start of my prayers are always an appeal to God to not hold my hardheadedness against the one for whom I am praying, they have enough problems. It seems to me that a lot of people walk around with these enormous suitcases full of faith. They have an abundance. I seem to have mine in a flimsy WalMart bag. Tiny flecks of faith that were hard earned. In the past I was one of those who trailed a big bag of faith behind me, not realizing that it could be yanked from my hands and rifled through and confiscated  like a TSA agent in the airport. This is important because faith is the fuel of prayer.

So I am careful in my prayers for someone. Some might say miserly, but there is only a few flecks of faith, and I am the 4 year old child of God who constantly asks, "Why?" The list is short these days, with only a name or so on it. What little faith is being expended is expended for this one or two. I agonize over the results of these prayers.

Godspeed to the faithful, to the ones who pray, for the ones who need prayers, for the one who answers prayers.
Don