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
Wednesday, January 22, 2014
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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