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

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

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

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

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

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

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