"Who are your people?" Back in my hometown for a Christmas visit to my mom's, I took my granddaughter Marley to "the Monkey Park", Opelika Municipal Park, so called because it once housed monkeys. They kept escaping and were removed in the 1970's, when I was a little kid, and all official correspondence has referred to it as the Municipal Park for 40 years, but the name still remains. The Monkey Park has it all-three or four sets of swings and slides, old-fashioned see-saws and animals mounted on springs, a miniature train, creeks and bridges.
While we were going up ladders and down slides, over and around the bridges and streams, we encountered an old lady walking an overly friendly dog, who immediately questioned me as to whether I was a native Opelikan. Upon finding I was, she wanted to know about "my people". Meaning who I am related to. Turns out she knows-or knows of-most of my family. Not hard to do in a town of 25,000 with deep roots. In case you don't exactly know the family lines named in this type of game, you are always safe with "I went to school with some Smiths." High school graduation dates are pulled out, examined, compared, cousins can be cross-referenced, neighborhoods are sketched in.
Most Opelika folks I run into know some of "my people", so I am part of the narrative, the lifeblood of this tiny little community. Although I moved from Opelika to Auburn in the 1990s. Although I moved from there to Pelham on the outskirts of Birmingham right about 1999. Although I moved to Texas last year. When I go to Opelika I am still "home" since folks know "my people" and accept me as part of the native population.
So its pretty safe to say that in my little corner of East Alabama, if you know Barbers, Burdettes, Harringtons, Sassers, Griffiths, Alexanders, or even Ducks, you might know some of my people.
Which brings up my wife's family. I spent Christmas evening and the next couple of days in Clanton with her aunt and uncle and their grown kids and their families. Tales were told. Coffee-from a Keurig, even!-was consumed, in large quantities, as was homemade soup. Kids abounded, gossip was recycled and fudge disappeared in industrial quantities.
Driving out to the family home, down Lay Dam Road from the big Peach on the side of I-65 in Clanton, I felt the same way I feel when driving to my ancestral homes. Remembering all the visits of years past, the nostalgia of childhood dreams fading into the glow of maturity, the bittersweet tang of memories of those who have died. Just like I feel when I drive past my grandmother's.
Because, you know, it IS exactly the same. When I started dating Stacey back in 1987 and started spending holidays with her family, it started this quarter-century relationship with all of them. In particular, I was very close to her Grandmother Peggy, and would often take the kids to visit her even if Stacey was in school or working or otherwise unavailable. Peggy always had high hopes and plans for Stacey-because I think all the family realized how brilliant Stacey was from the time she was a young girl-and when Peggy made sure that I shared her high opinion of her first-born granddaughter, we got on famously.
When Peggy died, it felt to me like I had lost my grandmother as well. I have related before that I still murmur my Grandmother Lessie's name every week in church during the prayers for the departed, but I have to confess that I murmur Peggy's name as well.
Because, you see, she was the first grandmother I lost.
So all these Pettys and Martins and Curetons and Burkes, all these aunts and uncles and cousins and babies and such that live in Clanton on the way to the lake, those are "my people", too. Most emphatically so, since I chose this bunch out of my own free will. And up in the Carolinas, those Campbells and Swansons? Yep, those too. Just can't seem to turn around without finding more of "my people".
I can't even think about all the people I am related to by not just blood or marriage but by something as powerful and simple as just friendship and love!
In the final summation, it's not just about where you come FROM, its where you are going to, and who you are on a journey with.
So-who are YOUR people?
But Ruth said, “Do not
urge me to leave you or to return from following you. For where you go I
will go, and where you lodge I will lodge. Your people shall be my people, and your God my God. Where you die I will die, and there will I be buried. May the Lord do so to me and more also if anything but death parts me from you."
Friday, December 28, 2012
Sunday, December 23, 2012
Playing favorites?
People have favorite cars, favorite brands of beer, even favorite movies and favorite days of the week. We tend to quantify, measure, and compare everything from days of the week to breeds of cat. So with something as important as kids, how can you NOT have a favorite kid? I mean, sure you love all of them, and they are all precious to you, and all that. I get it. But it is just natural that one of your kids be more like you-or less like you, as the case may be. And with different memories in common than the others. So, just like most of you who just won't admit it, I do have a favorite child...
My oldest child, Pamela, was born when I was only 20, so she holds a dear place in my heart of the child with whom I grew up. Stacey and I really learned as we went with Pam, everything was new and chaotic and astonishingly moving. First steps, first words...first tantrum, first school detention. I spent so many years as a young room parent at her schools-since I worked mainly nights as a restaurant manager, I could spend days as a field trip chaperone and room father. Pam and I, we spent so much time and so many precious memories together. While I was figuring out how to be an adult, she taught me what it takes to be a dad. She learned about the Cure and the Smiths from me, and I learned about Barney and the Little Mermaid from her. She is the oldest child, just like me, and she quickly became dependable and mature with her brother and sister, almost a deputy parent, just like me. We are so alike-she also had a child at 20, and when Marley was born, we found yet another thing we had in common-juggling young parenthood and life and responsibility at a time of life when most of your friends are still partying every night. How could I NOT make a favorite of a child who is SO like me?
Which brings me to my son, Andrew. He is so funny, so unabashed, and such a natural in social groups. He never meets a stranger, and he works a room better than any politician I have ever seen. From working in soup kitchens and church functions in Florence while he was in school, he found that he has a way with people; old ladies in particular take a real shine to him. Of all my kids, Andrew is the one about whom I have the most stories, of things said and done that just amaze, amuse, and astound everyone we know. Playing golf with me when he was about three, he was troubled by our golf partner's lack of a left arm. "Dad, he doesn't have one of his arms. How is he gonna hit the ball?" he asked in a loud stage whisper. Horrified at this lack of discretion, I tried in vain to shush him, to no avail-after two or three more repetitions of this line of query, he jumped out in front of us, pointed right to the fellow, and yelled "But, Dad, look!! He has no arm!! Dad!! How is he gonna hit the ball!!??" My mortification has fueled retellings of this episode at family gatherings for almost 20 years now. He loves to talk to people, is generous and helpful and extremely sentimental, just like me. How could I NOT make a favorite of a child who is SO like me?
Sarah, my youngest, is younger than Andrew by 5 years and Pam by 10. As the baby of the family, she was fortunate enough to come into her own when we had more patience, more money, and more wisdom. We have called her "The Littlest Camper" many a time, and the whole family loves the stories of her bringing wildly inappropriate items like a three-foot stuffed animal as well as a camp chair for said bunny to our trips. She is known for not arguing or pitching a fit, for simply going ahead and doing what she wanted to anyway without even discussing it. Of all the kids, she is the one who excels in school because she is driven to do so, rather than to satisfy a rewards-based system. She gets pissed off at poor grammar and by fellow students who interfere with what she sees as her serious work. She speaks fluent sarcasm, and has a very dry sense of humor, just like I do. How could I NOT make a favorite of a child who is SO like me?
So there is my big confession. I know it is wrong to pick out a child as your favorite-why, it will probably warp all of them. But how in the name of common sense can you NOT ally yourself more strongly with the one who is more like you in personality or circumstance? I know that I grew up with two brothers, and I am firmly convinced that my Mom played favorites when we were growing up. I am definitely her favorite child, sorta like Adam and Shawn are.
I have not exactly discussed this in certain terms with her, but I am pretty convinced that my stance on this issue is shared by Stacey. She, of course, is my favorite wife.
My oldest child, Pamela, was born when I was only 20, so she holds a dear place in my heart of the child with whom I grew up. Stacey and I really learned as we went with Pam, everything was new and chaotic and astonishingly moving. First steps, first words...first tantrum, first school detention. I spent so many years as a young room parent at her schools-since I worked mainly nights as a restaurant manager, I could spend days as a field trip chaperone and room father. Pam and I, we spent so much time and so many precious memories together. While I was figuring out how to be an adult, she taught me what it takes to be a dad. She learned about the Cure and the Smiths from me, and I learned about Barney and the Little Mermaid from her. She is the oldest child, just like me, and she quickly became dependable and mature with her brother and sister, almost a deputy parent, just like me. We are so alike-she also had a child at 20, and when Marley was born, we found yet another thing we had in common-juggling young parenthood and life and responsibility at a time of life when most of your friends are still partying every night. How could I NOT make a favorite of a child who is SO like me?
Which brings me to my son, Andrew. He is so funny, so unabashed, and such a natural in social groups. He never meets a stranger, and he works a room better than any politician I have ever seen. From working in soup kitchens and church functions in Florence while he was in school, he found that he has a way with people; old ladies in particular take a real shine to him. Of all my kids, Andrew is the one about whom I have the most stories, of things said and done that just amaze, amuse, and astound everyone we know. Playing golf with me when he was about three, he was troubled by our golf partner's lack of a left arm. "Dad, he doesn't have one of his arms. How is he gonna hit the ball?" he asked in a loud stage whisper. Horrified at this lack of discretion, I tried in vain to shush him, to no avail-after two or three more repetitions of this line of query, he jumped out in front of us, pointed right to the fellow, and yelled "But, Dad, look!! He has no arm!! Dad!! How is he gonna hit the ball!!??" My mortification has fueled retellings of this episode at family gatherings for almost 20 years now. He loves to talk to people, is generous and helpful and extremely sentimental, just like me. How could I NOT make a favorite of a child who is SO like me?
Sarah, my youngest, is younger than Andrew by 5 years and Pam by 10. As the baby of the family, she was fortunate enough to come into her own when we had more patience, more money, and more wisdom. We have called her "The Littlest Camper" many a time, and the whole family loves the stories of her bringing wildly inappropriate items like a three-foot stuffed animal as well as a camp chair for said bunny to our trips. She is known for not arguing or pitching a fit, for simply going ahead and doing what she wanted to anyway without even discussing it. Of all the kids, she is the one who excels in school because she is driven to do so, rather than to satisfy a rewards-based system. She gets pissed off at poor grammar and by fellow students who interfere with what she sees as her serious work. She speaks fluent sarcasm, and has a very dry sense of humor, just like I do. How could I NOT make a favorite of a child who is SO like me?
So there is my big confession. I know it is wrong to pick out a child as your favorite-why, it will probably warp all of them. But how in the name of common sense can you NOT ally yourself more strongly with the one who is more like you in personality or circumstance? I know that I grew up with two brothers, and I am firmly convinced that my Mom played favorites when we were growing up. I am definitely her favorite child, sorta like Adam and Shawn are.
I have not exactly discussed this in certain terms with her, but I am pretty convinced that my stance on this issue is shared by Stacey. She, of course, is my favorite wife.
Wednesday, December 19, 2012
It was bound to happen...
Those who really know me were not absolutely convinced that I could stay as solely a stay-at-home parent forever. Too restless, or too much energy to be consumed, or too easily pulled into doing something which needs attention. So I am sure I will not surprise anyone I know when I admit that I just had to get involved in the neighborhood crisis recently.
See, it has to do with the schools, and the kids, and the buses. Due to some colossal screw-up last year, the school system here dropped about 50 bus routes for kids that live within 2 miles of their school, when in prior years (that sticky word precedent) they picked them up. The most egregious errors involved mistakes in which a school was indeed only a 1/2 mile away from the particular neighborhood-but it was across on the other side of the interstate. Most parents don't fancy the idea of their children walking to school across ten lanes of 70 mph traffic. Especially the kindergartners. So there was a huge swell of criticism, finger-pointing, and lawsuit-threatening by angry parents at the school board meeting, and the response from the school board was to go into crisis hiring mode, trying to call back to work all the drivers that it had previously lost or let go, holding job fairs, sending emails to all parents in the district, and slapping "Hiring bus drivers" signs on all buses and school billboards. My neighborhood was one which lost its service to the elementary school a mile away, and the bus debacle was the topic of sidewalk conversation from August to now.
Which sort of explains why I was sitting down at the Texas Department of Public Safety this morning parallel parking "old number 459" for an examiner to pass my CDL exam. Yeah-that's right. Parallel park. A school bus. I can.
Can you?
Okay, I thought, why don't I take this little part-time job to help out the school? Work a couple of hours in the morning and in the afternoon, summers off, weekends off, any time school is out of session I am home. Save a little money to finance going back to school when I establish in-state residency here in Texas. Get state benefits in the form of some sort of pension or other, get to drive a school bus-a school bus!-and get paid a decent little check for it. Clock in, clock out, go home, easy job, right?
So a funny thing happened on the way to the bus depot....
So after a couple of weeks of training I have passed all my exams. Written exams on the intricacies of air brakes and freight-loading, and then road tests in which one must demonstrate an inhumanly icy control of sixteen tons of yellow metal wrapped around a chugging diesel engine that catches the wind like the side of the Sears Tower and makes turns like an aircraft carrier. And I have ridden as a trainee/observer with other drivers who range from control freaks who wish they could strap their kids down and duct tape their mouths shut all the way to over-friendly aging hippies who call everyone "dude" and ignore anything going on as long as it doesn't involve projectiles, bodily fluids, or litter. Especially litter, because you have to clean up your own bus.
And the grand lesson I take home from everything I've seen happening is a lesson that I already know so well. There are drivers who say they got a bad route and got bad kids this year. Their buses are almost uniformly chaotic and unfriendly, hostile and unwelcoming. Every day is a struggle for power, and the only resolution comes in fruitless meetings with the principal between driver, student, and parents. Then there are drivers who say they have the best route there is, and their kids are great. These kids say hello when they get on the bus, they say goodbye and thanks when they exit. Sure, they make noise and act like kids, but everyone likes to unwind after a day at work-which school is for them.
And these drivers all pick up kids at the same schools and drop them off in the same neighborhoods. So the kids that got off my bus today laughing and smiling live right down the street from the ones that argued with their driver, left trash on the bus, or threw coats across 3 rows of seats. The difference I can see is that the drivers with "good" kids engage them daily, maybe just nodding at them and saying hello as they enter and goodbye as they leave. Remembering their names, how to pronounce them. The lesson is that everyone matters.
Everyone has a name, and everyone deserves to hear himself or herself called by it. Maybe a nod and a smile every so often. Just like adults, kids are people, and I see daily that the way we approach people and approach life has immediate effect upon our circumstances and situations. There are some things, indeed, over which I have no control, but treating people as I like to be treated is always in my reach. I have never been in a situation in which a word of interest or kindness to someone else has not positively changed the atmosphere.
Even if it has only changed the way I think about the other person.
So I daily affirm the profound truth that how I act has immediate and positive consequences for my life.
And did I mention that I can parallel park a bus! Yes, a school bus. Can you?
See, it has to do with the schools, and the kids, and the buses. Due to some colossal screw-up last year, the school system here dropped about 50 bus routes for kids that live within 2 miles of their school, when in prior years (that sticky word precedent) they picked them up. The most egregious errors involved mistakes in which a school was indeed only a 1/2 mile away from the particular neighborhood-but it was across on the other side of the interstate. Most parents don't fancy the idea of their children walking to school across ten lanes of 70 mph traffic. Especially the kindergartners. So there was a huge swell of criticism, finger-pointing, and lawsuit-threatening by angry parents at the school board meeting, and the response from the school board was to go into crisis hiring mode, trying to call back to work all the drivers that it had previously lost or let go, holding job fairs, sending emails to all parents in the district, and slapping "Hiring bus drivers" signs on all buses and school billboards. My neighborhood was one which lost its service to the elementary school a mile away, and the bus debacle was the topic of sidewalk conversation from August to now.
Which sort of explains why I was sitting down at the Texas Department of Public Safety this morning parallel parking "old number 459" for an examiner to pass my CDL exam. Yeah-that's right. Parallel park. A school bus. I can.
Can you?
Okay, I thought, why don't I take this little part-time job to help out the school? Work a couple of hours in the morning and in the afternoon, summers off, weekends off, any time school is out of session I am home. Save a little money to finance going back to school when I establish in-state residency here in Texas. Get state benefits in the form of some sort of pension or other, get to drive a school bus-a school bus!-and get paid a decent little check for it. Clock in, clock out, go home, easy job, right?
So a funny thing happened on the way to the bus depot....
So after a couple of weeks of training I have passed all my exams. Written exams on the intricacies of air brakes and freight-loading, and then road tests in which one must demonstrate an inhumanly icy control of sixteen tons of yellow metal wrapped around a chugging diesel engine that catches the wind like the side of the Sears Tower and makes turns like an aircraft carrier. And I have ridden as a trainee/observer with other drivers who range from control freaks who wish they could strap their kids down and duct tape their mouths shut all the way to over-friendly aging hippies who call everyone "dude" and ignore anything going on as long as it doesn't involve projectiles, bodily fluids, or litter. Especially litter, because you have to clean up your own bus.
And the grand lesson I take home from everything I've seen happening is a lesson that I already know so well. There are drivers who say they got a bad route and got bad kids this year. Their buses are almost uniformly chaotic and unfriendly, hostile and unwelcoming. Every day is a struggle for power, and the only resolution comes in fruitless meetings with the principal between driver, student, and parents. Then there are drivers who say they have the best route there is, and their kids are great. These kids say hello when they get on the bus, they say goodbye and thanks when they exit. Sure, they make noise and act like kids, but everyone likes to unwind after a day at work-which school is for them.
And these drivers all pick up kids at the same schools and drop them off in the same neighborhoods. So the kids that got off my bus today laughing and smiling live right down the street from the ones that argued with their driver, left trash on the bus, or threw coats across 3 rows of seats. The difference I can see is that the drivers with "good" kids engage them daily, maybe just nodding at them and saying hello as they enter and goodbye as they leave. Remembering their names, how to pronounce them. The lesson is that everyone matters.
Everyone has a name, and everyone deserves to hear himself or herself called by it. Maybe a nod and a smile every so often. Just like adults, kids are people, and I see daily that the way we approach people and approach life has immediate effect upon our circumstances and situations. There are some things, indeed, over which I have no control, but treating people as I like to be treated is always in my reach. I have never been in a situation in which a word of interest or kindness to someone else has not positively changed the atmosphere.
Even if it has only changed the way I think about the other person.
So I daily affirm the profound truth that how I act has immediate and positive consequences for my life.
And did I mention that I can parallel park a bus! Yes, a school bus. Can you?
Tuesday, December 11, 2012
Rehabilitating Scrooge
At this time of year, exposed to endless retellings of A Christmas Carol from productions as diverse as the Muppets to the Alastair Sim 1951 classic version to Jim Carrey's recent film, I find myself thinking a lot about Ebenezer Scrooge, about what he means to the modern zeitgeist and that of Dickensian London. He is a character about whom I am really conflicted and can never quite pin down.
To start with, his name has gone the long way round in giving him a bum rap. "Scrooge" has come to mean a miserly curmudgeon in our days, but in the English of Dickens' day it meant to squeeze, so the surname Scrooge would carry the meaning of squeezing rather than miserliness. As in squeezing or pinching pennies, or wringing work out of his clerk, or payments out of his debtors. And how unfair that the name Scrooge has come to mean an angry and cheap old man when if you were to give justice to the conclusion of the book it might stand for reborn or redeemed or newfound generosity of spirit.
But WHY has Scrooge come about, to keep Christmas like no other, to be kindly and generous? This is where another conflict comes in. From a quick read of the book, it appears that Scrooge's motivation is to escape a quick and ignominious end. Time and again he entreats the Spirits who haunt him "Can I still have the power to change my future?" after being confronted with visions of business associates speaking harshly of him after death, of cackling servants who steal and sell his few possessions as soon as he is dead, of his lonely and neglected grave. Jailhouse conversions are not always impressive; Scrooge turning to the path of family and friends and celebration rather than continuing in his solitary misery because he is given a vision that he will die unmourned and unloved is hardly stirring. It is simply self-interest. What glory is there in coming to the right path simply to avoid the wrong? If you want me to celebrate Scrooge's great redemption you had better do better than dodging an evil end.
But wait!but see!but read!-there is more, there is more lurking when you read further. Scrooge's REAL redemption comes not through following his own enlightened self-interest, but through the welfare of others. His heartstrings-and ours-are stirred not by his surface acceptance of Christmas, but by his appeal to others in his life. His shame at the shabby manner in which he has treated his nephew Fred, his horror at the idea that Tiny Tim will surely die if he does not receive help, and his disgrace at the memory of his brusque treatment of the men out collecting donations for the poor-these have more to do with his redemption. When Dickens tells us that he kept Christmas as well as anyone could, we know in our hearts that this phrase has little to do with decorating a tree or buying gifts or attending church, but in the works which his newly realized love wrought.
So I should worry less about Scrooge's motivation in self-improvement and let him work out his salvation in his own manner. Accordingly, I should not worry about others who are motivated to seek God or to do good in order to dodge hellfire and damnation, or in order to look good to other people. After all, EVEN IF a huge corporation decides to run a downtown soup kitchen in order to increase its public image before a major trial for public fraud commences, a few lives still may be blessed by full bellies no matter the motivation. As Jesus noted, those not against us are for us. Who am I to question anyone else? I have plenty of my own to work out.
The power of A Christmas Carol is in its ability to reach out to all of us after more than a century and bring our faith and actions into concert through its fable. Keeping Christmas is not only the self-interested ploy to escape shame and death and humiliation, but a joyful manifestation of all that makes us brothers and sisters in life. To extend a hand to each other, all the year long and not just for one day. To celebrate together, to share burdens together, to believe and to work together.
To remember that "It is a fair, even-handed, noble adjustment of things, that while there is infection in disease and sorrow, there is nothing in the world so irresistibly contagious as laughter and good-humour."
....especially when watching the Muppet version-there is nothing so full of laughter and good-humour as a Muppet.
To start with, his name has gone the long way round in giving him a bum rap. "Scrooge" has come to mean a miserly curmudgeon in our days, but in the English of Dickens' day it meant to squeeze, so the surname Scrooge would carry the meaning of squeezing rather than miserliness. As in squeezing or pinching pennies, or wringing work out of his clerk, or payments out of his debtors. And how unfair that the name Scrooge has come to mean an angry and cheap old man when if you were to give justice to the conclusion of the book it might stand for reborn or redeemed or newfound generosity of spirit.
But WHY has Scrooge come about, to keep Christmas like no other, to be kindly and generous? This is where another conflict comes in. From a quick read of the book, it appears that Scrooge's motivation is to escape a quick and ignominious end. Time and again he entreats the Spirits who haunt him "Can I still have the power to change my future?" after being confronted with visions of business associates speaking harshly of him after death, of cackling servants who steal and sell his few possessions as soon as he is dead, of his lonely and neglected grave. Jailhouse conversions are not always impressive; Scrooge turning to the path of family and friends and celebration rather than continuing in his solitary misery because he is given a vision that he will die unmourned and unloved is hardly stirring. It is simply self-interest. What glory is there in coming to the right path simply to avoid the wrong? If you want me to celebrate Scrooge's great redemption you had better do better than dodging an evil end.
But wait!but see!but read!-there is more, there is more lurking when you read further. Scrooge's REAL redemption comes not through following his own enlightened self-interest, but through the welfare of others. His heartstrings-and ours-are stirred not by his surface acceptance of Christmas, but by his appeal to others in his life. His shame at the shabby manner in which he has treated his nephew Fred, his horror at the idea that Tiny Tim will surely die if he does not receive help, and his disgrace at the memory of his brusque treatment of the men out collecting donations for the poor-these have more to do with his redemption. When Dickens tells us that he kept Christmas as well as anyone could, we know in our hearts that this phrase has little to do with decorating a tree or buying gifts or attending church, but in the works which his newly realized love wrought.
So I should worry less about Scrooge's motivation in self-improvement and let him work out his salvation in his own manner. Accordingly, I should not worry about others who are motivated to seek God or to do good in order to dodge hellfire and damnation, or in order to look good to other people. After all, EVEN IF a huge corporation decides to run a downtown soup kitchen in order to increase its public image before a major trial for public fraud commences, a few lives still may be blessed by full bellies no matter the motivation. As Jesus noted, those not against us are for us. Who am I to question anyone else? I have plenty of my own to work out.
The power of A Christmas Carol is in its ability to reach out to all of us after more than a century and bring our faith and actions into concert through its fable. Keeping Christmas is not only the self-interested ploy to escape shame and death and humiliation, but a joyful manifestation of all that makes us brothers and sisters in life. To extend a hand to each other, all the year long and not just for one day. To celebrate together, to share burdens together, to believe and to work together.
To remember that "It is a fair, even-handed, noble adjustment of things, that while there is infection in disease and sorrow, there is nothing in the world so irresistibly contagious as laughter and good-humour."
....especially when watching the Muppet version-there is nothing so full of laughter and good-humour as a Muppet.
Thursday, December 6, 2012
I need more reason in this season
'Tis the season. The Christmas season, in which we split into several different crowds all scrapping and fighting and tugging over our common holiday much as Christianity, Judaism, and Islam all lay claim to Jerusalem. Just read Facebook and it is obvious to see this: Calls to focus on the fact that "Jesus is the reason for the season" intersperse with secular posts about Christmas trees and ho-ho-ho-ing. Deeply spiritual musings about the quiet preparation of Advent vie with someone's Granny's 100-proof fruitcake recipe for attention. What is one to do, how is peace to be made between all the aspects of Christmas? Religion, family, tradition, gifts, movies, carols, overeating and overdrinking?
I am firmly in the middle of all these battlegrounds. Christmastide is one of the most looked-for events of the year, when all the work of the church is bent toward celebration of the Incarnation and all that means for reconciliation and redemption. From Advent to Christmas I move each year, growing in awareness through the Holy Spirit in this retelling of the seminal event when God entered life among us and breathed as a man. But I also carry within me the memory of all the past Christmases celebrated with my family and my friends. Christmases of my childhood, the yearning nostalgia for my past childhood that can never be lived again, and the Christmases spent as my own family has grown, sweet memories of holidays spent with my wife and children and now my grandchild. Of mother and brothers and sisters-in-law, of grandparents and uncles and aunts and cousins and great-this-and-thats of all sorts.
Tied up in all these powerful religious symbols and family connections are all the rest of the Christmas meanings. Special music both holy and secular that foretells this glorious moment each year as clearly as the robin foretells spring. Santa Claus movies and a cold snap in the weather and jingle bells and all the rest of it, the whole mass of commercialism, American myth, tradition, and fa-la-la-ing that makes the season so very full and exhausting.
I think Christmas is big enough to belong to everyone. Originally, the wintertime Saturnalia was hijacked and the pagan elements married to Christian observance in order to integrate the existing Roman holiday into an emerging Christianity coming into its own. All of the pagan trappings were bothersome enough to folks like the Puritans, in fact, to move them to outlaw the celebration of Christmas, and it took Dickens' "A Christmas Carol", among others, to teach our modern world to "make merry" with caroling and feasts and gifts and Christmas trees.
And reconciliation.
Although there is a tension between religious and secular camps in relation to the celebration or "ownership" of the season, there is about a crucial basis of Christmas NO real difference in opinion.
Christmas is about reconciliation. It is about the reconciliation of God to man, when God became incarnate (embodied in flesh) to reconcile us to Him. When He used human means to His purpose of redeeming his fallen and straying children to His loving presence. When He reached out to the least of us by becoming one of us, to teach and lead and heal and save. It is also about the reconciliation of man to man, when we reach out one to another inspired by the Holy Spirit.
Even the most ardent of atheists agree that Christmas is a time for reconciliation of man to man. A time of the year when one thoughtfully steps back from the battle which is often characteristic of life and vows to treat one's neighbor more charitably. A season for renewal of old friendships, of extending forgiveness to those who have caused pain, and for enjoying family and friendship ties.
Although there is plenty of annoyance to go around-annoyance at missing the "real point" of Christmas whether you feel that that is the birth of Christ or simply the comfort of your family enjoying a meal around the table-there is generally all over the world the consensus that Christmas is a time for setting ASIDE our differences. For getting along at least for a day. For letting people cut into line in front of you at the grocery store. For plunking a quarter into the Salvation Army bucket whether or not you agree with their politics. For these simple reasons and many more Christmas is proof of work done in our poor broken world by kindness and sympathy. I know this to be from God, and it may be that you know it to be only human decency.
For this, Christmas offers to everyone peace and reconciliation. I love Christmas, and I try, as Dickens wrote, to keep Christmas well. From the small still space cultivated in Advent to the excitement of Christmas Eve with my family, I trim the tree and right my heart and try to make room for love in my life. I hope you are able to enjoy Christmas this year, in whatever manner you keep it.
And, as Tiny Tim said, God bless us, every one.
I am firmly in the middle of all these battlegrounds. Christmastide is one of the most looked-for events of the year, when all the work of the church is bent toward celebration of the Incarnation and all that means for reconciliation and redemption. From Advent to Christmas I move each year, growing in awareness through the Holy Spirit in this retelling of the seminal event when God entered life among us and breathed as a man. But I also carry within me the memory of all the past Christmases celebrated with my family and my friends. Christmases of my childhood, the yearning nostalgia for my past childhood that can never be lived again, and the Christmases spent as my own family has grown, sweet memories of holidays spent with my wife and children and now my grandchild. Of mother and brothers and sisters-in-law, of grandparents and uncles and aunts and cousins and great-this-and-thats of all sorts.
Tied up in all these powerful religious symbols and family connections are all the rest of the Christmas meanings. Special music both holy and secular that foretells this glorious moment each year as clearly as the robin foretells spring. Santa Claus movies and a cold snap in the weather and jingle bells and all the rest of it, the whole mass of commercialism, American myth, tradition, and fa-la-la-ing that makes the season so very full and exhausting.
I think Christmas is big enough to belong to everyone. Originally, the wintertime Saturnalia was hijacked and the pagan elements married to Christian observance in order to integrate the existing Roman holiday into an emerging Christianity coming into its own. All of the pagan trappings were bothersome enough to folks like the Puritans, in fact, to move them to outlaw the celebration of Christmas, and it took Dickens' "A Christmas Carol", among others, to teach our modern world to "make merry" with caroling and feasts and gifts and Christmas trees.
And reconciliation.
Although there is a tension between religious and secular camps in relation to the celebration or "ownership" of the season, there is about a crucial basis of Christmas NO real difference in opinion.
Christmas is about reconciliation. It is about the reconciliation of God to man, when God became incarnate (embodied in flesh) to reconcile us to Him. When He used human means to His purpose of redeeming his fallen and straying children to His loving presence. When He reached out to the least of us by becoming one of us, to teach and lead and heal and save. It is also about the reconciliation of man to man, when we reach out one to another inspired by the Holy Spirit.
Even the most ardent of atheists agree that Christmas is a time for reconciliation of man to man. A time of the year when one thoughtfully steps back from the battle which is often characteristic of life and vows to treat one's neighbor more charitably. A season for renewal of old friendships, of extending forgiveness to those who have caused pain, and for enjoying family and friendship ties.
Although there is plenty of annoyance to go around-annoyance at missing the "real point" of Christmas whether you feel that that is the birth of Christ or simply the comfort of your family enjoying a meal around the table-there is generally all over the world the consensus that Christmas is a time for setting ASIDE our differences. For getting along at least for a day. For letting people cut into line in front of you at the grocery store. For plunking a quarter into the Salvation Army bucket whether or not you agree with their politics. For these simple reasons and many more Christmas is proof of work done in our poor broken world by kindness and sympathy. I know this to be from God, and it may be that you know it to be only human decency.
For this, Christmas offers to everyone peace and reconciliation. I love Christmas, and I try, as Dickens wrote, to keep Christmas well. From the small still space cultivated in Advent to the excitement of Christmas Eve with my family, I trim the tree and right my heart and try to make room for love in my life. I hope you are able to enjoy Christmas this year, in whatever manner you keep it.
And, as Tiny Tim said, God bless us, every one.
Sunday, December 2, 2012
My relationship status? It's complicated
Several days ago I unduly alarmed my wife, not for the first time and probably not for the last. Our son had just rejoined Facebook, and in adding him to my list of family, I must have moused over the rest of the family status drop-down boxes in my hurry. Somehow, when I saved the change, it not only named Andrew as son in my profile, but also changed my relationship status from "married" to "it's complicated". I suppose I could theorize on the reasons why the drop-down box choice of "it's complicated" is right below that of "married", but the key fact is that soon I was receiving alarmed queries from all quarters. Within a couple of minutes I figured out what I had done and corrected it, but the damage was done. That's right, I had to explain to my wife why I had termed our marriage as "complicated" for all the world to see. I can certainly thank not my own silver tongue but her vast understanding (or her 25-year experience of my clumsiness and fumbling inattention to detail) for the result that she laughed at me rather than sending me to the doghouse for a couple of days.
The whole sordid incident has me thinking about marriage now, and why "it's complicated" might be a really perfect term for a healthy marriage anyway. I have been married now since 1990, and I know that Stacey and I are somewhat of a statistical anomaly to have been married so long when we violated so many of the common-sense rules. Got married not only young but before we finished college, and then had kids immediately rather than waiting until we could afford them. We moved here and there to support each other's careers, finally ending up out here in Texas hours away from all other family.
We have never been just alike, but have agreed on the big ideas and values such as how to raise kids, what we want out of life, politics, religion. Although we share a lot of common interests of taste, there is enough diversity of preference in music and movies so that we can still have our own standards of what we enjoy. I suppose that since we each have our own interests, we have something new to offer the other. Or at least I hope so. I think one of the ways you stay together is that you neither grow so far apart that you no longer even share things in common or grow so alike that you bore each other to death. Or at least I hope so.
One of the things I learned a long time ago that I credit with making my marriage stronger is that love is a verb rather than a noun. And as a verb, it is an active verb rather than passive. And instead of being just a transitory feeling or emotion, love is a deliberate daily choice to put someone else's interests ahead of or equal to your own. I am just as prone to Hollywood notions of breathless romantic swooning love as anyone else, but what these flights of fancy ignore is the reality of deliberation. Even if I am fatigued, distracted, angry, or moody, I endeavor to act in a manner that is in accord with the marriage vows I made to Stacey in front of God and our families and friends. Either in concert with or in spite of the emotions of love, the action and will of love is what testifies to the depth and strength of my commitment. Also, I attest that you can become more in love by changing your outlook. By dwelling on your spouse's good points rather than minor irritations, by noticing anew the very reasons why you fell in love to begin with, you will find yourself feeling more in tune and closer simply by ignoring outside distractions and paying attention to what is really important.
I think that our strengths and weaknesses have always complemented each other. At times she is the one responsible for calming me down when I grow too fanciful or engaged with too much activity. On the other hand, I sometimes take the lead in keeping her involved with social events or friends when she might initially prefer to stay at home. Generally, I am more extroverted than she is, and she is more practical and level-headed than I am, and I find that a lot of successful marriages are made of this blend of personalities.
Of prime importance, though, is the team we make. If separately we make plenty of mistakes, as a partnership we are pretty surefooted. Together we have gotten not only into but out of a lot of situations that would have defeated us alone. Together we have agonized over decisions involving family, finances, careers. Together we have sat down time and again at the kitchen table to plan, to compromise, to decide. This reliance on each other and the team we make has kept us on each other's side; the statement that "you know, this argument shouldn't get in the way of the fact that we're on the same team" has the power to put minor annoyances in perspective in short order.
So, maybe after all it's NOT complicated. Maybe the key to our marriage has always been this stubborn reliance on each other. I know she is my most ardent fan, which includes being my most exacting critic, because she knows what I am capable of and will not let me settle for less than the best. I supply the same function for her. Through it all, we know that regardless of a temporary condition, we are there in partnership with each other, and that we each carry a safe place in our heart for the other.
Still, just to be safe, I'm gonna make sure that I exhibit more care when changing those damn Facebook settings.
The whole sordid incident has me thinking about marriage now, and why "it's complicated" might be a really perfect term for a healthy marriage anyway. I have been married now since 1990, and I know that Stacey and I are somewhat of a statistical anomaly to have been married so long when we violated so many of the common-sense rules. Got married not only young but before we finished college, and then had kids immediately rather than waiting until we could afford them. We moved here and there to support each other's careers, finally ending up out here in Texas hours away from all other family.
We have never been just alike, but have agreed on the big ideas and values such as how to raise kids, what we want out of life, politics, religion. Although we share a lot of common interests of taste, there is enough diversity of preference in music and movies so that we can still have our own standards of what we enjoy. I suppose that since we each have our own interests, we have something new to offer the other. Or at least I hope so. I think one of the ways you stay together is that you neither grow so far apart that you no longer even share things in common or grow so alike that you bore each other to death. Or at least I hope so.
One of the things I learned a long time ago that I credit with making my marriage stronger is that love is a verb rather than a noun. And as a verb, it is an active verb rather than passive. And instead of being just a transitory feeling or emotion, love is a deliberate daily choice to put someone else's interests ahead of or equal to your own. I am just as prone to Hollywood notions of breathless romantic swooning love as anyone else, but what these flights of fancy ignore is the reality of deliberation. Even if I am fatigued, distracted, angry, or moody, I endeavor to act in a manner that is in accord with the marriage vows I made to Stacey in front of God and our families and friends. Either in concert with or in spite of the emotions of love, the action and will of love is what testifies to the depth and strength of my commitment. Also, I attest that you can become more in love by changing your outlook. By dwelling on your spouse's good points rather than minor irritations, by noticing anew the very reasons why you fell in love to begin with, you will find yourself feeling more in tune and closer simply by ignoring outside distractions and paying attention to what is really important.
I think that our strengths and weaknesses have always complemented each other. At times she is the one responsible for calming me down when I grow too fanciful or engaged with too much activity. On the other hand, I sometimes take the lead in keeping her involved with social events or friends when she might initially prefer to stay at home. Generally, I am more extroverted than she is, and she is more practical and level-headed than I am, and I find that a lot of successful marriages are made of this blend of personalities.
Of prime importance, though, is the team we make. If separately we make plenty of mistakes, as a partnership we are pretty surefooted. Together we have gotten not only into but out of a lot of situations that would have defeated us alone. Together we have agonized over decisions involving family, finances, careers. Together we have sat down time and again at the kitchen table to plan, to compromise, to decide. This reliance on each other and the team we make has kept us on each other's side; the statement that "you know, this argument shouldn't get in the way of the fact that we're on the same team" has the power to put minor annoyances in perspective in short order.
So, maybe after all it's NOT complicated. Maybe the key to our marriage has always been this stubborn reliance on each other. I know she is my most ardent fan, which includes being my most exacting critic, because she knows what I am capable of and will not let me settle for less than the best. I supply the same function for her. Through it all, we know that regardless of a temporary condition, we are there in partnership with each other, and that we each carry a safe place in our heart for the other.
Still, just to be safe, I'm gonna make sure that I exhibit more care when changing those damn Facebook settings.
Tuesday, November 27, 2012
Eating my words
I didn't want to like it. As a matter of fact, after learning about it, I made my mind up NOT to like it, to scorn it. But now I find myself in the unenviable position of having to set aside my previous prejudices and eat my words.
I am speaking of Ezekiel Bread, which I tried for the first time over Thanksgiving at my in-laws' in Charlotte. For those of you that are not familiar with this bread, it is a sprouted grain loaf based on a recipe found in the Old Testament. From the website of the company that makes it, Food for Life, here is the advertising line:
Ezekiel 4:9® products are crafted in the likeness of the Holy Scripture verse
Ezekiel 4:9® to ensure unrivaled honest nutrition and pure, delicious flavors
Okay, so here is the source of my problem with this "Biblical" bread. It is composed according to the verse Ezekiel 4:9 "And you, take wheat and barley, beans and lentils, millet and spelt, and put them into a single vessel, and make bread of them." So it sounds like this is a Godly recipe for sound nutrition, better than your grandmother's timeworn coconut cake recipe jotted down on the flyleaf of a stained copy of Joy of Cooking, a loaf to nourish your body and your soul, right? Well, to get the answer to this heavenly prescription we must read further. Ezekiel is instructed to eat this bread once a day, the measure of 20 shekels, which my research indicates is about 8 ounces, and with it drink 1/6th of a hin of water, which is probably about a pint. Furthermore, he is to form it into a cake and bake it over a fire of human dung, so that the people of Israel will "eat their bread unclean, among the nations whither I will drive them"(Shortly thereafter, Ezekiel begs God that he not defile the bread by preparing it using human dung, to which God relents and allows the dung of cattle to be used). In other words, God's ritual instructions through his prophet are an indicator of what is intended for Israel in captivity in its exile. They will be sent among "unclean" people who are symbolized by their "unclean" food. The paucity of the ration is also a reminder of what Israel will suffer in being besieged before its captivity and in its exile.The back of my loaf of Ezekiel Bread indicates that 20 shekels or 8 ounces weight as a daily meal results in around 550 calories. This scant ration plus a pint of water are NOT a recipe for health and superior nutrition; rather, they barely sustain life, at its most miserable level.
So, Punishment Bread. Forsaken Bread. Tastes Like Crap Bread. Certainly not God's own holy recipe for low-glycemic and gluten-free thriving. When I first saw this product in the high-priced natural-foods section of my grocery store, I was ASTONISHED at the absolute nerve of the manufacturer. HOW could they so blindly miss the mark, miss the point, not read the rest of the chapter, and not understand the import of the Scripture so blithely being quoted. Along the lines of a movie review stating "to say this is one of the best films of the year would be a horrendous lie" being redacted to "one of the best films of the year". HOW could a company so take one Bible verse out of context and HOW could unquestioning sheeple so gobble that crap up?
But.....over Thanksgiving, I had occasion to try Ezekiel Bread at my health-nut mother-in-law's house. Absolutely unexpectedly, it tasted stunningly wonderful. Not weak or pasty at all, it has a nutty, grainy crispness and fullness like the best of homemade wheat bread, and it somehow brings to my mind that little health store in everyone's home town. You know the one, that sells raisins coated with carob-bean chocolate, homeopathic remedies, and blacklight posters and that has a rack of government-conspiracy magazines next to the soy-milk-powder. Biting into it, I could almost smell patchouli-drenched hippies and hear the rustling of bead curtains hung behind the displays of hemp necklaces. Mmmm, mmmm, good.
Looking past the lack of understanding in the application of Scripture to the bread, I must congratulate the bakers on getting the taste and texture just right. They did take liberties with the (ahem) "Biblical" recipe by using sprouted grains rather than following the text exactly, but what they brought forth is full of protein, fiber, and that most wonderful of foodie characteristics, mouth feel. And I realize that even when something is inherently ill-researched and ill-founded and, well, just feels wrong, some good may still come of it. Maybe there is hope, after all, for those of us who begin all wrong-footed with the best of intentions that quickly go off-track.
Anyway, pass me a slice of that bread, will you? But hold the dung.
I am speaking of Ezekiel Bread, which I tried for the first time over Thanksgiving at my in-laws' in Charlotte. For those of you that are not familiar with this bread, it is a sprouted grain loaf based on a recipe found in the Old Testament. From the website of the company that makes it, Food for Life, here is the advertising line:
Ezekiel 4:9® products are crafted in the likeness of the Holy Scripture verse
Ezekiel 4:9® to ensure unrivaled honest nutrition and pure, delicious flavors
Okay, so here is the source of my problem with this "Biblical" bread. It is composed according to the verse Ezekiel 4:9 "And you, take wheat and barley, beans and lentils, millet and spelt, and put them into a single vessel, and make bread of them." So it sounds like this is a Godly recipe for sound nutrition, better than your grandmother's timeworn coconut cake recipe jotted down on the flyleaf of a stained copy of Joy of Cooking, a loaf to nourish your body and your soul, right? Well, to get the answer to this heavenly prescription we must read further. Ezekiel is instructed to eat this bread once a day, the measure of 20 shekels, which my research indicates is about 8 ounces, and with it drink 1/6th of a hin of water, which is probably about a pint. Furthermore, he is to form it into a cake and bake it over a fire of human dung, so that the people of Israel will "eat their bread unclean, among the nations whither I will drive them"(Shortly thereafter, Ezekiel begs God that he not defile the bread by preparing it using human dung, to which God relents and allows the dung of cattle to be used). In other words, God's ritual instructions through his prophet are an indicator of what is intended for Israel in captivity in its exile. They will be sent among "unclean" people who are symbolized by their "unclean" food. The paucity of the ration is also a reminder of what Israel will suffer in being besieged before its captivity and in its exile.The back of my loaf of Ezekiel Bread indicates that 20 shekels or 8 ounces weight as a daily meal results in around 550 calories. This scant ration plus a pint of water are NOT a recipe for health and superior nutrition; rather, they barely sustain life, at its most miserable level.
So, Punishment Bread. Forsaken Bread. Tastes Like Crap Bread. Certainly not God's own holy recipe for low-glycemic and gluten-free thriving. When I first saw this product in the high-priced natural-foods section of my grocery store, I was ASTONISHED at the absolute nerve of the manufacturer. HOW could they so blindly miss the mark, miss the point, not read the rest of the chapter, and not understand the import of the Scripture so blithely being quoted. Along the lines of a movie review stating "to say this is one of the best films of the year would be a horrendous lie" being redacted to "one of the best films of the year". HOW could a company so take one Bible verse out of context and HOW could unquestioning sheeple so gobble that crap up?
But.....over Thanksgiving, I had occasion to try Ezekiel Bread at my health-nut mother-in-law's house. Absolutely unexpectedly, it tasted stunningly wonderful. Not weak or pasty at all, it has a nutty, grainy crispness and fullness like the best of homemade wheat bread, and it somehow brings to my mind that little health store in everyone's home town. You know the one, that sells raisins coated with carob-bean chocolate, homeopathic remedies, and blacklight posters and that has a rack of government-conspiracy magazines next to the soy-milk-powder. Biting into it, I could almost smell patchouli-drenched hippies and hear the rustling of bead curtains hung behind the displays of hemp necklaces. Mmmm, mmmm, good.
Looking past the lack of understanding in the application of Scripture to the bread, I must congratulate the bakers on getting the taste and texture just right. They did take liberties with the (ahem) "Biblical" recipe by using sprouted grains rather than following the text exactly, but what they brought forth is full of protein, fiber, and that most wonderful of foodie characteristics, mouth feel. And I realize that even when something is inherently ill-researched and ill-founded and, well, just feels wrong, some good may still come of it. Maybe there is hope, after all, for those of us who begin all wrong-footed with the best of intentions that quickly go off-track.
Anyway, pass me a slice of that bread, will you? But hold the dung.
Sunday, November 25, 2012
Maybe not quite the Waltons
Thanksgiving marks the beginning of the frantic holiday season for the Barbers just like for many others. In particular, for us it marks a pilgrimage to my in-laws' house in North Carolina. Wednesday morning we left Texas at 4 AM, bound for Birmingham where we picked up Andrew on break from college, then pushed immediately on. With a few stops-the typical Cracker Barrel stop and several rest area pit stops to climb out of the car and stretch cramped limbs-we arrived in Charlotte around midnight. I felt rather like a clown in the circus when we unloaded the car. Since we made the trip in my 2-door Eclipse, we were jammed in with luggage, gear, Sarah's pillow and comforter that is her traveling comfort must, and food we packed for the trip to ensure less stops and less expenses. I doubt I could have gotten much more than a 3X5 index card added to the load, and we were wedged in like anchovies in a tin.
This was a tumultuous year for Stacey's dad. Going in to his doctor's office with cardiac concerns, he ultimately ended up spending several months in Duke University Hospital, teetering on the edge of death through multiple heart surgeries and infections. Since he spent so long in the hospital, his wife exhausted her paid vacation benefits and so I went to North Carolina and spent the last several weeks of his convalescence in the hospital with him so that she could return to work. I did little more than sit day after day in the room with him, occasionally walking with him through the corridors or fetching for him from the nurses ice cream to mix with the Ensure they had him taking after every meal, and watching him stubbornly refuse to give up, to fight to get back to his feet and to live life again. So I enjoyed seeing him busy in the kitchen again, astonished at his regained vigor and tenacity.
Thanksgiving in Charlotte is a busy and chaotic time. Too many people jammed in the house. Pull-out sofas, extra pillows and blankets everywhere are the order of the day. Stacey's sister Amy and her husband Adam have their two young children in tow, and this usually means toys pulled out and littered over the floor everywhere. Coffee is consumed at a furious rate, dishes pile up in the sink with a remarkable speed, the door slams with comings and goings to the store for last-minute items, for long walks around the neighborhood. Stacey's dad and stepmom keep up a spirited debate in the kitchen. More coffee, more snacking, kids getting their feelings hurt with each other, old stories aired out for one more telling. By the time Thanksgiving dinner is over with, too many calories and too much conversation and too much ado about nothing results in a stupefaction which extends to the next day, during which we generally do nothing more taxing than a long walk down to the park and back, and the traditional kickoff of the Christmas viewing season with their timeworn copy-VHS, even!-of National Lampoon's Christmas vacation.
And we enjoy Thanksgiving so much we consider the time well-spent to travel for two entire days coming and going the 1100 miles each way. Not only is this our yearly visit with Stacey's parents, but this is one of my favorite times as well. I was fortunate enough to marry into a family in which I was quickly accepted. I have friends who are standoffish and distant with spouses' families, and this to me would be a depressing and lonely matter. I have been related to her family for around 25 years, and I feel about as much a part of their family as I do mine. I was especially close to her grandmother Peggy, and many times would take the kids down to her house in Clanton to visit with her even if Stacey were not able to go while she was finishing up her degree at UAB. Stacey's sister Amy is brilliant, goofy, unabashed, and just plain fun to be around, a lot like my brothers are.
I have so much family that is important to me that it little matters to me whether they are mine through blood or marriage. Very special to me is my Grandmother Burdette, who is the mother of my stepfather who died in the 1980's. Grandmother has inspired me with her deep and loving faith, for showing me that loving God leads to loving other people, not in condemning or judging them. Many a Christmas or Thanksgiving I spent at her house would include a far-flung relative, friend, or acquaintance who was invited in to the holiday table as a matter of course to share love and joy among us. From her opening her home and her heart to anyone who needed companionship and community I learned what it means to be in fellowship with the rest of the world. I can draw a direct line between the dinner table at her house and the communion rail at which I kneel on Sundays in fellowship with others both present and absent, in the knowledge that we are all in this together.
My family is one which kids, plays, argues, drinks, tells the same stupid old jokes and stories, gossips, ridicules, berates, harangues, and laughs. Probably a lot like your family, I bet. Whether born into relationship with each other, or choosing to associate together through marriage or inclination, we belong to each other. The holidays may heap stress on us through travel, chaos, noise, and rubbing elbows in too close a proximity, but it also reveals the generosity of shared memory, a time when we can clear the plates from the table and sit down with a glass of wine or cup of coffee over dessert and ask of each other "So, do you remember the time when we...?" A time to revisit old stories and make new ones, to remember exactly why we turn to each other in need for assistance.
In short, home is where my family is. And, as Robert Frost says:
"Home is the place where, when you have to go there,
They have to take you in."
This was a tumultuous year for Stacey's dad. Going in to his doctor's office with cardiac concerns, he ultimately ended up spending several months in Duke University Hospital, teetering on the edge of death through multiple heart surgeries and infections. Since he spent so long in the hospital, his wife exhausted her paid vacation benefits and so I went to North Carolina and spent the last several weeks of his convalescence in the hospital with him so that she could return to work. I did little more than sit day after day in the room with him, occasionally walking with him through the corridors or fetching for him from the nurses ice cream to mix with the Ensure they had him taking after every meal, and watching him stubbornly refuse to give up, to fight to get back to his feet and to live life again. So I enjoyed seeing him busy in the kitchen again, astonished at his regained vigor and tenacity.
Thanksgiving in Charlotte is a busy and chaotic time. Too many people jammed in the house. Pull-out sofas, extra pillows and blankets everywhere are the order of the day. Stacey's sister Amy and her husband Adam have their two young children in tow, and this usually means toys pulled out and littered over the floor everywhere. Coffee is consumed at a furious rate, dishes pile up in the sink with a remarkable speed, the door slams with comings and goings to the store for last-minute items, for long walks around the neighborhood. Stacey's dad and stepmom keep up a spirited debate in the kitchen. More coffee, more snacking, kids getting their feelings hurt with each other, old stories aired out for one more telling. By the time Thanksgiving dinner is over with, too many calories and too much conversation and too much ado about nothing results in a stupefaction which extends to the next day, during which we generally do nothing more taxing than a long walk down to the park and back, and the traditional kickoff of the Christmas viewing season with their timeworn copy-VHS, even!-of National Lampoon's Christmas vacation.
And we enjoy Thanksgiving so much we consider the time well-spent to travel for two entire days coming and going the 1100 miles each way. Not only is this our yearly visit with Stacey's parents, but this is one of my favorite times as well. I was fortunate enough to marry into a family in which I was quickly accepted. I have friends who are standoffish and distant with spouses' families, and this to me would be a depressing and lonely matter. I have been related to her family for around 25 years, and I feel about as much a part of their family as I do mine. I was especially close to her grandmother Peggy, and many times would take the kids down to her house in Clanton to visit with her even if Stacey were not able to go while she was finishing up her degree at UAB. Stacey's sister Amy is brilliant, goofy, unabashed, and just plain fun to be around, a lot like my brothers are.
I have so much family that is important to me that it little matters to me whether they are mine through blood or marriage. Very special to me is my Grandmother Burdette, who is the mother of my stepfather who died in the 1980's. Grandmother has inspired me with her deep and loving faith, for showing me that loving God leads to loving other people, not in condemning or judging them. Many a Christmas or Thanksgiving I spent at her house would include a far-flung relative, friend, or acquaintance who was invited in to the holiday table as a matter of course to share love and joy among us. From her opening her home and her heart to anyone who needed companionship and community I learned what it means to be in fellowship with the rest of the world. I can draw a direct line between the dinner table at her house and the communion rail at which I kneel on Sundays in fellowship with others both present and absent, in the knowledge that we are all in this together.
My family is one which kids, plays, argues, drinks, tells the same stupid old jokes and stories, gossips, ridicules, berates, harangues, and laughs. Probably a lot like your family, I bet. Whether born into relationship with each other, or choosing to associate together through marriage or inclination, we belong to each other. The holidays may heap stress on us through travel, chaos, noise, and rubbing elbows in too close a proximity, but it also reveals the generosity of shared memory, a time when we can clear the plates from the table and sit down with a glass of wine or cup of coffee over dessert and ask of each other "So, do you remember the time when we...?" A time to revisit old stories and make new ones, to remember exactly why we turn to each other in need for assistance.
In short, home is where my family is. And, as Robert Frost says:
"Home is the place where, when you have to go there,
They have to take you in."
Saturday, November 17, 2012
Underdogs and square pegs
Through circumstance or conviction, through accident or design, I have spent much of my life as a member of a minority position or unpopular view, as an outlier who embraces heterodoxy. I grew up a liberal in the vastly conservative state of Alabama, then recently moved to uber-red Texas. In the midst of fanatical Alabama fans who rated their identity and self-worth by the fortunes of their team, I was an Auburn man, mindful to be grateful for success and gracious in win or loss. In a religious landscape dominated by Baptists and Methodists, I became an Episcopalian in my adulthood.
One of the most profound changes I underwent was my entry into junior high school. Prior to this, I attended schools on the less-affluent side of town. In my early schooling, the students were taught more or less together, and I was grouped with kids I had gone to school with from first grade. Upon entering seventh grade, we were separated into different levels, and I was tracked into high-level classes. It seemed as if the great majority of my classmates were kids I had not gone to school with before, who had known each other for six years and who represented a higher socioeconomic class than I did. I was always very conscious of the fact that I was poorer than a lot of the other students; I did come in for my fair share of ridicule, as most kids that age do, but my own self-consciousness played me false as well. I can joke now with no shame whatsoever that I came not only from a trailer park, but from the back end of the trailer park closest to the dumpster, but living through the differentness was mortifying. It set me to identify with the poor, the oppressed, the set-apart.
I read heavily and constantly, and consumed television uncritically and voraciously as well, with all the desperate hunger of a child who wanted to be someone else other than the ungraceful and unlovely socially awkward kid in the mirror. Although my fiction and fantasy world was varied and universal in its scope, I absorbed many common lessons from books, from TV, from movies: The true test of a man was to treat everyone fairly, most especially enemies because everyone treats friends well: Real riches lay not in amassing possessions and power, but in surrounding oneself with people that matter, in doing actions to benefit other people: Modesty and graciousness are more powerful character traits than boastfulness and anger. It can be argued that watching too much TV and movies have ruined generations of Americans, but there are powerful lessons there for anyone watching. You would be hard-pressed to find a story in which the protagonist triumphs because of a hard, uncaring, abusive personality. From my constant immersion, I learned all these lessons and more. My focus grew to be on supporting those in trouble, extending a hand of kindness to anyone who needed it, to reverence for the underdog who fought even though the cause might be hopeless.
By the time I graduated high school, I was a full-blown dissenter of every type. One of my favorite truisms is that one should always comfort the afflicted and afflict the comfortable. But once in college and in the presence of other people of modest means and unpopular political views, I found that I was not all alone on the continuum of politics and class standing. Joining the Episcopal Church, which practices the "big-tent" philosophy, taught me that I can be part of a religious community with people of very diverse needs and views who may be called to serve and worship God in many different modes. In the presence of others with some of the same beliefs I hold, I lost my sense of being surrounded and embattled. The whole of the family of humankind is similar-there are so many divergent views and approaches and needs evidenced by our actions, but our commonality holds us together.
So in the final analysis, the beliefs I hold and the associations I have built matter less than the commonalities we all share. Through experience and through conviction, I break bread with all manner of folks. Although I may vote or believe differently than some of my friends, I respect what they hold to be dear. I still know that other people can teach and affect me.
I know that as long as my heart is open my mind cannot be closed. Aren't we in all this together?
One of the most profound changes I underwent was my entry into junior high school. Prior to this, I attended schools on the less-affluent side of town. In my early schooling, the students were taught more or less together, and I was grouped with kids I had gone to school with from first grade. Upon entering seventh grade, we were separated into different levels, and I was tracked into high-level classes. It seemed as if the great majority of my classmates were kids I had not gone to school with before, who had known each other for six years and who represented a higher socioeconomic class than I did. I was always very conscious of the fact that I was poorer than a lot of the other students; I did come in for my fair share of ridicule, as most kids that age do, but my own self-consciousness played me false as well. I can joke now with no shame whatsoever that I came not only from a trailer park, but from the back end of the trailer park closest to the dumpster, but living through the differentness was mortifying. It set me to identify with the poor, the oppressed, the set-apart.
I read heavily and constantly, and consumed television uncritically and voraciously as well, with all the desperate hunger of a child who wanted to be someone else other than the ungraceful and unlovely socially awkward kid in the mirror. Although my fiction and fantasy world was varied and universal in its scope, I absorbed many common lessons from books, from TV, from movies: The true test of a man was to treat everyone fairly, most especially enemies because everyone treats friends well: Real riches lay not in amassing possessions and power, but in surrounding oneself with people that matter, in doing actions to benefit other people: Modesty and graciousness are more powerful character traits than boastfulness and anger. It can be argued that watching too much TV and movies have ruined generations of Americans, but there are powerful lessons there for anyone watching. You would be hard-pressed to find a story in which the protagonist triumphs because of a hard, uncaring, abusive personality. From my constant immersion, I learned all these lessons and more. My focus grew to be on supporting those in trouble, extending a hand of kindness to anyone who needed it, to reverence for the underdog who fought even though the cause might be hopeless.
By the time I graduated high school, I was a full-blown dissenter of every type. One of my favorite truisms is that one should always comfort the afflicted and afflict the comfortable. But once in college and in the presence of other people of modest means and unpopular political views, I found that I was not all alone on the continuum of politics and class standing. Joining the Episcopal Church, which practices the "big-tent" philosophy, taught me that I can be part of a religious community with people of very diverse needs and views who may be called to serve and worship God in many different modes. In the presence of others with some of the same beliefs I hold, I lost my sense of being surrounded and embattled. The whole of the family of humankind is similar-there are so many divergent views and approaches and needs evidenced by our actions, but our commonality holds us together.
So in the final analysis, the beliefs I hold and the associations I have built matter less than the commonalities we all share. Through experience and through conviction, I break bread with all manner of folks. Although I may vote or believe differently than some of my friends, I respect what they hold to be dear. I still know that other people can teach and affect me.
I know that as long as my heart is open my mind cannot be closed. Aren't we in all this together?
Monday, November 12, 2012
Driven to distraction
It is that time feared by every parent since coaches and carriages gave way to combusting coupes and wagons. I am teaching my child how to drive. The youngest child, in this case, and unless I am called upon to teach a grandchild to navigate a car down the roadway-probably have jet packs and personal helicopters by then, right?-this is IT for me. Texas requires a drivers education course for all new drivers prior to licensure by the state, but schools don't teach driver's ed, unlike in Alabama. For those who don't want to pay several hundred dollars for a driving school (and who have the time or inclination to keep up with mandated tracking logs and tests) they offer a parent taught course, in which you pay about 50 bucks, download the forms, and do it yourself. Note: if you figure in the cost of printing out the booklet and the tests and the forms, which is gonna run to a new toner cartridge and a couple of hundred sheets of paper, I'll be lucky to break even on my money-saving scheme.
I had forgotten just how much is taken for granted when driving. I'm a stubborn old traditionalist, so I firmly believe in starting a kid on a manual transmission. Cause the time will come when that skill will be vital, and it better be there. My time came when Stacey and I were 2 hours away from home and she tore a contact and couldn't drive due to lack of depth perception. I got a crash course in grinding gears, downshifting, and stalling as a 2 hour drive turned into almost 4 torturous hours. There are a lot of things worse than driving down old highway 280 from Birmingham to Auburn and stalling out in Dadeville, but I never thought I was going to be able to get out of the parking lot of the old Hardee's right in the curve. You know, where you have to start from a redlight in gear sitting on a 30 degree slope?
Sarah has done so well-so far. She has it much easier than Andrew did 5 years ago, because since his learning days I have had the clutch replaced and it's now so smooth you can shift into first, tap the gas, and feather the pedal out as it engages smoothly. With Andrew, the pedal was so hard and unresponsive that the clutch was either engaged or disengaged, no middle ground. Consequently, it would rocket into gear under his untrained acceleration and we would screech away across the parking lot. Glad that Stacey handed off his training to me, and she wasn't there for those burnouts. Otherwise he would have been removed from the Motorcar Training Programme, forbidden ever to drive, and be taking a bus everywhere.
Pam, my oldest child and thus my first student, had it better than the other two-and worse. I made the mistake of showing her how to run a stick shift while on vacation in the woods one time, and she drove the two of us a shaky 1/2 mile in the old Isuzu Trooper when she was about 11 or 12. Not a popular choice with her mom, of course. When she did began driving, we no longer had a manual transmission so she did all her training on an automatic. Later on, when my brother moved to town, we got him to show her how to drive his manual gearbox Mazda pickup. I think she probably ground his gears about as badly as he ground mine when I showed him how to drive a stick years earlier, so I reckon we're even now. Never asked her how it went driving with him. He can either be extremely patient, or extremely nervous. Probably not EVER gonna ask her how it went....
Some of the best stories I have come from driving incidents. Like the time I strapped a Christmas tree to the roof of my old VW Camper. One of the old ones with the pop-up roof complete with a canvas cot in it that rolls out and side flaps that would do a tent proud. Those pop-ups are held in place with little rubber tabs, and the shelf-life on those little rubber tabs is defined as "until you subject them to any resistance." Once up to the top VW speed of 54 mph, the wind resistance stood that tree up like the mizzen-mast of a schooner, popped the tabs loose, and opened the pop top like a giant rotting canvas parachute. Which it more or less was. From the driver's seat, I felt the whoosh of air into this sail push me all over the road, and saw the tree twist over the side in a tangle of broken rope to be dragged behind until I managed to bring the whole mess to a halt. It was really fortunate that I had several people with me that night, because it took us all to get home. One holding the roof top down since the tab holders were ripped out. One hanging an arm out of the open sliding door to help hold the tree down to the roof. With my left hand out the driver's side window also holding the tree down, and feeling it try to stand up again every time I drove over 30 mph. The tree still held together, and it still had at least four more needles on it than Charlie Brown's Christmas tree, so everything was OK.
I should have learned my lesson about carrying crap on the roof, and maybe I did for a while, until we traveled with a baby about 10 years later. Had to have a crib, you see, and it wouldn't fit in the car. So I tied it nice and tight to the roof rack of the Trooper I had at the time. All the way there, 200+ miles, and no incidents. I suppose I tempted fate, because within 20 miles of beginning the return trip, a gust of wind caught the support board and stood the frame up vertically. Well, for the second time in 10 years I got to sail a car for about 30 seconds until the bungee cords broke and the whole apparatus blew off backwards. Of course it was run over immediately and turned into matchwood as it landed. The whole event spoke a lot about preparation. That, and the value of having a spare portable crib, another of which I picked up at a yard sale when we got home.
So I hope that Sarah continues to do as well as she has so far, paying attention to the road around her, being paranoid about the other drivers, and respectful of the hunk of steel under her control. Because there is ALWAYS something radically unexpected about to happen while you are driving, and how well you have mastered the basics, committed them to memory, and trained your muscles to automatically respond while your brain solves the new crisis has a direct correspondence to whether your driving surprises result in charming anecdotes or in tragedy. And I would far rather that she have a whole bunch of stupid stories like mine as the only result of her unintended consequences.
I had forgotten just how much is taken for granted when driving. I'm a stubborn old traditionalist, so I firmly believe in starting a kid on a manual transmission. Cause the time will come when that skill will be vital, and it better be there. My time came when Stacey and I were 2 hours away from home and she tore a contact and couldn't drive due to lack of depth perception. I got a crash course in grinding gears, downshifting, and stalling as a 2 hour drive turned into almost 4 torturous hours. There are a lot of things worse than driving down old highway 280 from Birmingham to Auburn and stalling out in Dadeville, but I never thought I was going to be able to get out of the parking lot of the old Hardee's right in the curve. You know, where you have to start from a redlight in gear sitting on a 30 degree slope?
Sarah has done so well-so far. She has it much easier than Andrew did 5 years ago, because since his learning days I have had the clutch replaced and it's now so smooth you can shift into first, tap the gas, and feather the pedal out as it engages smoothly. With Andrew, the pedal was so hard and unresponsive that the clutch was either engaged or disengaged, no middle ground. Consequently, it would rocket into gear under his untrained acceleration and we would screech away across the parking lot. Glad that Stacey handed off his training to me, and she wasn't there for those burnouts. Otherwise he would have been removed from the Motorcar Training Programme, forbidden ever to drive, and be taking a bus everywhere.
Pam, my oldest child and thus my first student, had it better than the other two-and worse. I made the mistake of showing her how to run a stick shift while on vacation in the woods one time, and she drove the two of us a shaky 1/2 mile in the old Isuzu Trooper when she was about 11 or 12. Not a popular choice with her mom, of course. When she did began driving, we no longer had a manual transmission so she did all her training on an automatic. Later on, when my brother moved to town, we got him to show her how to drive his manual gearbox Mazda pickup. I think she probably ground his gears about as badly as he ground mine when I showed him how to drive a stick years earlier, so I reckon we're even now. Never asked her how it went driving with him. He can either be extremely patient, or extremely nervous. Probably not EVER gonna ask her how it went....
Some of the best stories I have come from driving incidents. Like the time I strapped a Christmas tree to the roof of my old VW Camper. One of the old ones with the pop-up roof complete with a canvas cot in it that rolls out and side flaps that would do a tent proud. Those pop-ups are held in place with little rubber tabs, and the shelf-life on those little rubber tabs is defined as "until you subject them to any resistance." Once up to the top VW speed of 54 mph, the wind resistance stood that tree up like the mizzen-mast of a schooner, popped the tabs loose, and opened the pop top like a giant rotting canvas parachute. Which it more or less was. From the driver's seat, I felt the whoosh of air into this sail push me all over the road, and saw the tree twist over the side in a tangle of broken rope to be dragged behind until I managed to bring the whole mess to a halt. It was really fortunate that I had several people with me that night, because it took us all to get home. One holding the roof top down since the tab holders were ripped out. One hanging an arm out of the open sliding door to help hold the tree down to the roof. With my left hand out the driver's side window also holding the tree down, and feeling it try to stand up again every time I drove over 30 mph. The tree still held together, and it still had at least four more needles on it than Charlie Brown's Christmas tree, so everything was OK.
I should have learned my lesson about carrying crap on the roof, and maybe I did for a while, until we traveled with a baby about 10 years later. Had to have a crib, you see, and it wouldn't fit in the car. So I tied it nice and tight to the roof rack of the Trooper I had at the time. All the way there, 200+ miles, and no incidents. I suppose I tempted fate, because within 20 miles of beginning the return trip, a gust of wind caught the support board and stood the frame up vertically. Well, for the second time in 10 years I got to sail a car for about 30 seconds until the bungee cords broke and the whole apparatus blew off backwards. Of course it was run over immediately and turned into matchwood as it landed. The whole event spoke a lot about preparation. That, and the value of having a spare portable crib, another of which I picked up at a yard sale when we got home.
So I hope that Sarah continues to do as well as she has so far, paying attention to the road around her, being paranoid about the other drivers, and respectful of the hunk of steel under her control. Because there is ALWAYS something radically unexpected about to happen while you are driving, and how well you have mastered the basics, committed them to memory, and trained your muscles to automatically respond while your brain solves the new crisis has a direct correspondence to whether your driving surprises result in charming anecdotes or in tragedy. And I would far rather that she have a whole bunch of stupid stories like mine as the only result of her unintended consequences.
Thursday, November 8, 2012
Oh, what can you do with a sentimental heart?
I am one of those men much given to sentiment. Or perhaps much taken by sentiment would be a better description of the state in which my emotions can put me. Carried along on a wave of empathy, sympathy, or what was old-fashionedly termed "tender regard", I am apt to become misty or teary, to feel a lump in my throat and to feel my heart swell within my chest.
I suspect that men are actually more prone to this than are women. While women are characterized as much more emotional than men, some studies have shown that men may actually be more prone to such "womanly" stereotypes as emotional stress over a relationship or to falling in love at first sight. My own experience is that women are much more practical and levelheaded than popular images suggest. The myth of stoic manhood may be due to the fact that men often confine their sentiment into accepted channels. Even the strongest man can weep at the ending of "Saving Private Ryan". Even the most stiff-upper-lip Englishman shows unabashed emotion in regard to his dogs, his horses, or his Jaguar. The same maxim holds true for sports events and the birth of children, we are encouraged to show trembling chins and flushed faces at these at the very least.
In my own case, my own strongest sentiment seems to come about through grace, when I am aware of God's presence working through or around me. I remember several years ago sitting at the midnight Christmas service transported at Chip Dawson's solo rendition of "O Holy Night", eyes tightly closed and tears streaming down my cheeks in the glow of candlelight from the sconces around the sanctuary and from the altar, not able to do anything but to gasp at the glory of it all. I remember having a horrible day driving to work one morning, distracted and impatient and unappreciative, to be shocked by a sudden and brief flurry of snowflakes that did nothing more than to dust my windshield, but which opened my eyes to the miracle of beauty revealed in the midst of dreariness. I remember working at Birmingham's downtown soup kitchen several times, how I trembled at the joy of feeding all those hungry and smiling homeless men, how my heart filled with the honor of sharing food and fellowship not with poor broken-down wretches but with fellow humans down on luck and in need of being treated as treasured guests at the table. I remember meeting with a lady visiting her infant cousin's grave in Elmwood Cemetery where I worked, that I gave her a ride out to his grave. When I asked her his name, she was unsure of the spelling, and had to roll up her sleeve and check the spelling on the poorly-done tattoo on her arm which memorialized him. I heard her story as we drove out to it, how he had died at the hands of his mother's boyfriend, how the mother defended the boyfriend and fractured the family, how the mother was unwilling to even put a grave marker to remember her little boy so that his cousin got her tattoo so he would not be forgotten, how she took a bus across town and then walked to the cemetery to visit him and then always had to ask for assistance to find his unmarked grave. I stood by her as she prayed over his grave and left flowers on the bare little plot, then gave her a ride back to her home so she would not have to take another bus, and when I left her at her little public housing apartment with the dented metal chair and broken flowerpot on the porch I pulled over into a gas station parking lot and wept at her loyalty, her love, and her selfless devotion to his memory.
I hope I never become so inured to all this that I lose my ability to be astounded at life. That I always feel a lump in my throat or a tear in my eye when I am learning a new lesson in humility, that I am always thunderstruck in the presence of sublime music and beauty, that God's grace in action to heal others always makes my heart stir.
What no man can own, no man can take
Take this heart
Take this heart
Take this heart
And make it break
-U2, Yahweh
A new heart I will give you, and a new spirit I will put within you; and I will take out of your flesh the heart of stone and give you a heart of flesh.
-Ezekiel 36:26, Revised Standard Version
I suspect that men are actually more prone to this than are women. While women are characterized as much more emotional than men, some studies have shown that men may actually be more prone to such "womanly" stereotypes as emotional stress over a relationship or to falling in love at first sight. My own experience is that women are much more practical and levelheaded than popular images suggest. The myth of stoic manhood may be due to the fact that men often confine their sentiment into accepted channels. Even the strongest man can weep at the ending of "Saving Private Ryan". Even the most stiff-upper-lip Englishman shows unabashed emotion in regard to his dogs, his horses, or his Jaguar. The same maxim holds true for sports events and the birth of children, we are encouraged to show trembling chins and flushed faces at these at the very least.
In my own case, my own strongest sentiment seems to come about through grace, when I am aware of God's presence working through or around me. I remember several years ago sitting at the midnight Christmas service transported at Chip Dawson's solo rendition of "O Holy Night", eyes tightly closed and tears streaming down my cheeks in the glow of candlelight from the sconces around the sanctuary and from the altar, not able to do anything but to gasp at the glory of it all. I remember having a horrible day driving to work one morning, distracted and impatient and unappreciative, to be shocked by a sudden and brief flurry of snowflakes that did nothing more than to dust my windshield, but which opened my eyes to the miracle of beauty revealed in the midst of dreariness. I remember working at Birmingham's downtown soup kitchen several times, how I trembled at the joy of feeding all those hungry and smiling homeless men, how my heart filled with the honor of sharing food and fellowship not with poor broken-down wretches but with fellow humans down on luck and in need of being treated as treasured guests at the table. I remember meeting with a lady visiting her infant cousin's grave in Elmwood Cemetery where I worked, that I gave her a ride out to his grave. When I asked her his name, she was unsure of the spelling, and had to roll up her sleeve and check the spelling on the poorly-done tattoo on her arm which memorialized him. I heard her story as we drove out to it, how he had died at the hands of his mother's boyfriend, how the mother defended the boyfriend and fractured the family, how the mother was unwilling to even put a grave marker to remember her little boy so that his cousin got her tattoo so he would not be forgotten, how she took a bus across town and then walked to the cemetery to visit him and then always had to ask for assistance to find his unmarked grave. I stood by her as she prayed over his grave and left flowers on the bare little plot, then gave her a ride back to her home so she would not have to take another bus, and when I left her at her little public housing apartment with the dented metal chair and broken flowerpot on the porch I pulled over into a gas station parking lot and wept at her loyalty, her love, and her selfless devotion to his memory.
I hope I never become so inured to all this that I lose my ability to be astounded at life. That I always feel a lump in my throat or a tear in my eye when I am learning a new lesson in humility, that I am always thunderstruck in the presence of sublime music and beauty, that God's grace in action to heal others always makes my heart stir.
What no man can own, no man can take
Take this heart
Take this heart
Take this heart
And make it break
-U2, Yahweh
A new heart I will give you, and a new spirit I will put within you; and I will take out of your flesh the heart of stone and give you a heart of flesh.
-Ezekiel 36:26, Revised Standard Version
Monday, November 5, 2012
Connections (How many friends are too many?)
Occasionally, on the social media to which I subject myself, namely Facebook, I find that people often embark upon a periodic process of streamlining or simplifying friend lists, to "get back to the basics", to drop casual acquaintances in favor of profound friendships or family only. This tendency was exemplified last year by my son's then-girlfriend who expressed her dissatisfaction with people who engaged in social null sounds, who would greet her briefly in passing or ask her how her day was going but with whom she had no real connection. The issue at point was if anyone really cares to have an honest answer to the question "How are you?" and what it all means in the light of humanity's inability to communicate one with another in the absence of real concern.
These two related issues have me thinking about relationships and connections. Having recently moved 700 miles to a city where I knew no one except my wife and daughter, I have had to begin anew my social connections. Meeting neighbors, joining a church, talking to people at the gym; all of these I have done to rebuild my social life.
And I realize anew that all connections and relationships I make are important to me. Humans are inherently intensely social, depending upon a varied and lively contact with others for sustenance. Every day we seek out other people on many different levels. Casual acquaintances, family relationships going back decades, profound and deep friendships, love affairs and marriages, all are variations of the constant of two people talking to each other in a common tongue.
Too many casual relationships can bring a feeling of disjointedness, or shallowness rather than connectedness. But casual friendships offer a daily affirmation of belonging to one group or another. When I meet someone I barely know by sight in the grocery store and exchange a quick "How is it going?", I am not brushing someone off as not meriting further attention, I am actually acknowledging the mutual admiration there. "I see you, I don't know so much about you, but you are known to me and I acknowledge that". That is the real message given. If I ask the question "How are you?" I am not generally looking for an answer other than the null "Fine. And you?" but on the occasions when a real answer necessitating listening and responding presents itself, I am delighted to be called upon for this deeper interaction.
Too many profound and intimate relationships, on the other hand, both cheapen the nature of these friendships and exhaust the participants. If two or three people are your most intimate confidantes, the effort necessary to sustain these are within any one's grasp. But imagine the horror of having a dozen or more friends of this nature! Would you ever be able to sleep, to rest, or would you spend all your time responding to them, suffocating and being suffocated in all the depths of someone else's innermost desires? And in order to honor the sacred nature of a soul mate or best friend, that relationship should be unique. Can you recall the hurt you felt when your "best friend" in grammar school announced that now you were no longer the only best friend, that now you were one of several best friends? Or how much it hurt your child when it happened to him or her a generation later?
We swim in a sea of other people, and there are varying degrees of connection that we each need. But in common we all thrive in places where there are rich and varying relationships that we create and sustain. I am thankful both for my casual acquaintances, among whom are many with whom I have little in common other than community, my satisfyingly profound once-in-a-lifetime relationships like my best friend who is also my wife, and all the others in between.
If I see you in the grocery store or at the gas station and ask you how your day is or simply nod and smile, feel free to respond in kind, or to pour out all the details of what is on your mind. Either way, I will appreciate you. And I'll understand what you are saying. And I'll understand your deeper meaning.
As the close of the classic "It's a Wonderful Life" shows, "Remember, no man is a failure who has friends."
These two related issues have me thinking about relationships and connections. Having recently moved 700 miles to a city where I knew no one except my wife and daughter, I have had to begin anew my social connections. Meeting neighbors, joining a church, talking to people at the gym; all of these I have done to rebuild my social life.
And I realize anew that all connections and relationships I make are important to me. Humans are inherently intensely social, depending upon a varied and lively contact with others for sustenance. Every day we seek out other people on many different levels. Casual acquaintances, family relationships going back decades, profound and deep friendships, love affairs and marriages, all are variations of the constant of two people talking to each other in a common tongue.
Too many casual relationships can bring a feeling of disjointedness, or shallowness rather than connectedness. But casual friendships offer a daily affirmation of belonging to one group or another. When I meet someone I barely know by sight in the grocery store and exchange a quick "How is it going?", I am not brushing someone off as not meriting further attention, I am actually acknowledging the mutual admiration there. "I see you, I don't know so much about you, but you are known to me and I acknowledge that". That is the real message given. If I ask the question "How are you?" I am not generally looking for an answer other than the null "Fine. And you?" but on the occasions when a real answer necessitating listening and responding presents itself, I am delighted to be called upon for this deeper interaction.
Too many profound and intimate relationships, on the other hand, both cheapen the nature of these friendships and exhaust the participants. If two or three people are your most intimate confidantes, the effort necessary to sustain these are within any one's grasp. But imagine the horror of having a dozen or more friends of this nature! Would you ever be able to sleep, to rest, or would you spend all your time responding to them, suffocating and being suffocated in all the depths of someone else's innermost desires? And in order to honor the sacred nature of a soul mate or best friend, that relationship should be unique. Can you recall the hurt you felt when your "best friend" in grammar school announced that now you were no longer the only best friend, that now you were one of several best friends? Or how much it hurt your child when it happened to him or her a generation later?
We swim in a sea of other people, and there are varying degrees of connection that we each need. But in common we all thrive in places where there are rich and varying relationships that we create and sustain. I am thankful both for my casual acquaintances, among whom are many with whom I have little in common other than community, my satisfyingly profound once-in-a-lifetime relationships like my best friend who is also my wife, and all the others in between.
If I see you in the grocery store or at the gas station and ask you how your day is or simply nod and smile, feel free to respond in kind, or to pour out all the details of what is on your mind. Either way, I will appreciate you. And I'll understand what you are saying. And I'll understand your deeper meaning.
As the close of the classic "It's a Wonderful Life" shows, "Remember, no man is a failure who has friends."
Wednesday, October 31, 2012
Droids or ninjas?
A couple of days ago my neighbor's son paraded around his front yard in his Halloween costume. His mother had added cotton balls to his Iron Man pajamas to bulk it out into a muscular superhero suit for him, and they picked up a cheap mask at Party City to complete the look. He was perplexed, however, because he was also strongly drawn to being Darth Vader. The deciding fact for him, of course-the muscles. Forget the menacing lure of a lightsaber, a cotton ball Hans and Franz "Pump You Up" physique was much more enticing to him.
His consternation reminded me of Andrew's dilemma back when he was about 5 or 6. It was about 1997 or so, the year after the re-releases of the Star Wars trilogy, and he was part of the new generation of kids that got sucked into the Star Wars universe like I did. When it came time to pick out a Halloween costume that October, there was little doubt that he would go for a Star Wars character. We looked at several different costumes, from villains like Vader or a stormtrooper to Boba Fett to the hero side of the aisle, Han Solo or Luke Skywalker. The final decision was C3PO, based less on the droid's persnickety fussiness than on his gleaming gold head, the cool exposed wires in his abdomen, and his proper British accent.
The problem with this choice was that ninjas had become all the rage over the past several years. Cool black ninja suits, throwing stars, swords and batons and nunchaku-these were seriously cool weapons. And for a 5 year old? To choose between channeling the best movie he had ever seen, for which he already had action figures, lightsabers, Happy Meal plastic junk toys, and trading cards, and dressing as a silent and stealthy warrior, was an excruciating decision. Andrew already had a huge problem with making purchasing decisions, the type that more than once caused him to run from one toy to another in a store until I gave him a timed countdown to make the final choice or risk getting nothing. (We all know how those end, the split last-second decision, the momentary jubilation, the agony of the car ride back home, the wail of "I should have gotten the other one instead" from the back seat).
After an inordinate amount of time in the store, he decided on C3PO, based on the rationale that he could always be a ninja another year but that C3PO would not always be available, since it was just riding the surge after the re-releases of the Star Wars trilogy. Of course, on Halloween night, once dressed up, his other inclinations began to tug on him, and he bemoaned the fact that he had chosen a costume with no weapons of any sort. Alas! Why oh why had he not chosen Chewbacca with a cool bowcaster, or Vader with his lightsaber, or Han with a blaster? Oh, to have wasted an opportunity to show off martial prowess with some sort of weapon.
Andrew, being inventive, soon remedied this situation. He plundered through his toys until he found a sword. It was the type that was probably sold with a Roman Centurion helmet, or possibly a Crusader armored helm. He stuck this in his belt, dragging behind him on the ground, and pronounced himself properly attired for trick-or-treating.
I don't know how many people asked him about his costume, but his answer to all of them was the same "I'm C3PO." Pause five seconds. "With a sword". Totally and fearlessly unaware and unashamed of the incongruity of a futuristic robot being armed with a weapon more befitting a Norse god, he dragged that thing up and down the street, announcing his identity whether he was questioned about it or not. "C3PO."That dramatic pause. "With a sword."
The only drama came when an older lady answered her door and exclaimed over Andrew "Oh, I love your R2D2 costume." I remember having to stop him from pulling his sword out for some serious smiting of her based upon her (criminal) inability to distinguish between R2D2 and C3PO. He was incensed for the rest of the street to have been mistaken for being the other droid. That motivated him to announce loudly and clearly who he was before the door was even fully opened to him for the rest of the evening.
So tonight I surely will be looking for kids wearing Iron Man costumes and lightsabers dangling from their belts, for Princess Jasmine with vampire fangs, for all those kids who CAN'T get everything they need from just one identity. How can you NOT carry that awesome Captain America shield just because you are the Hulk? Kids have it right-you can be who you want to be.
C3PO.
With a sword.
His consternation reminded me of Andrew's dilemma back when he was about 5 or 6. It was about 1997 or so, the year after the re-releases of the Star Wars trilogy, and he was part of the new generation of kids that got sucked into the Star Wars universe like I did. When it came time to pick out a Halloween costume that October, there was little doubt that he would go for a Star Wars character. We looked at several different costumes, from villains like Vader or a stormtrooper to Boba Fett to the hero side of the aisle, Han Solo or Luke Skywalker. The final decision was C3PO, based less on the droid's persnickety fussiness than on his gleaming gold head, the cool exposed wires in his abdomen, and his proper British accent.
The problem with this choice was that ninjas had become all the rage over the past several years. Cool black ninja suits, throwing stars, swords and batons and nunchaku-these were seriously cool weapons. And for a 5 year old? To choose between channeling the best movie he had ever seen, for which he already had action figures, lightsabers, Happy Meal plastic junk toys, and trading cards, and dressing as a silent and stealthy warrior, was an excruciating decision. Andrew already had a huge problem with making purchasing decisions, the type that more than once caused him to run from one toy to another in a store until I gave him a timed countdown to make the final choice or risk getting nothing. (We all know how those end, the split last-second decision, the momentary jubilation, the agony of the car ride back home, the wail of "I should have gotten the other one instead" from the back seat).
After an inordinate amount of time in the store, he decided on C3PO, based on the rationale that he could always be a ninja another year but that C3PO would not always be available, since it was just riding the surge after the re-releases of the Star Wars trilogy. Of course, on Halloween night, once dressed up, his other inclinations began to tug on him, and he bemoaned the fact that he had chosen a costume with no weapons of any sort. Alas! Why oh why had he not chosen Chewbacca with a cool bowcaster, or Vader with his lightsaber, or Han with a blaster? Oh, to have wasted an opportunity to show off martial prowess with some sort of weapon.
Andrew, being inventive, soon remedied this situation. He plundered through his toys until he found a sword. It was the type that was probably sold with a Roman Centurion helmet, or possibly a Crusader armored helm. He stuck this in his belt, dragging behind him on the ground, and pronounced himself properly attired for trick-or-treating.
I don't know how many people asked him about his costume, but his answer to all of them was the same "I'm C3PO." Pause five seconds. "With a sword". Totally and fearlessly unaware and unashamed of the incongruity of a futuristic robot being armed with a weapon more befitting a Norse god, he dragged that thing up and down the street, announcing his identity whether he was questioned about it or not. "C3PO."That dramatic pause. "With a sword."
The only drama came when an older lady answered her door and exclaimed over Andrew "Oh, I love your R2D2 costume." I remember having to stop him from pulling his sword out for some serious smiting of her based upon her (criminal) inability to distinguish between R2D2 and C3PO. He was incensed for the rest of the street to have been mistaken for being the other droid. That motivated him to announce loudly and clearly who he was before the door was even fully opened to him for the rest of the evening.
So tonight I surely will be looking for kids wearing Iron Man costumes and lightsabers dangling from their belts, for Princess Jasmine with vampire fangs, for all those kids who CAN'T get everything they need from just one identity. How can you NOT carry that awesome Captain America shield just because you are the Hulk? Kids have it right-you can be who you want to be.
C3PO.
With a sword.
Monday, October 29, 2012
In Praise of Grandmothers
I am both a statistical anomaly and a lucky man. I lived until last November with a full set of grandmothers-actually, with a spare, representing maternal, paternal, and step- line. How many others are privileged enough to take daily lessons of wisdom, of love, and of sacrifice so far into life?
Although my grandfathers all passed away, the last one several years ago, I was left with three wonderful ladies who loved me, who taught me by example and by word not only how life used to be but how it might be and how it should be if I were only to set my path to get where I knew I needed and wanted to go. Who showed me how to treat other people with warmth and dignity, to discipline children with firmness but without anger, to be upfront and honest and gracious to everyone I meet. To love God and look for his face in every face I see.
Well, I lived until last November this way, until Grandmother Harrington, my mom's mother, died after a slow decline into the shadowland of Alzheimer's. Although you might say that she began to die when she could no longer remember any of us, and it might be pretty close to the truth that her death came between her memory loss and her actual body finally fading away in her sleep, it is still an awfully final snap to get that call from your mom telling you that your grandmother is gone. She was the one with whom I spent the most time of all three, the one closest to the cookie-baking doting-on-grandkids stereotype. Even after I grew up and moved out on my own, I found every opportunity I could to visit her in the house that never changed, that represented all that was warm and comfortable and familiar about my childhood. It was a blow to finally realize that even though she was lost to me for years, the final note was played and nothing was left but memories.
My cousin Todd is a kind, witty, and personable Baptist minister, and I assumed he would be doing her service. For some reason, my mom asked me to co-officiate with him, although my knowledge of preachin' and churchin' is limited to the Book of Common Prayer and my lack of any skill of extemporaneous prayer (that is, prayer that is unrehearsed and spontaneous, made up on the spot) terrorized me. Todd and I put our heads together during her visitation service prior to the funeral, and figured out how we would split the duties.
I jotted down some notes of what I wanted to say, and sprinkled in some short phrases from the burial liturgy that meant a lot to me and would help me to express my feelings better. I knew that Todd would do a fine job of that smoothly-flowing spontaneous prayer that inspired pastors do so well, so I chose ideas based on her life and what I had learned from Grandmother.
Here is the text of my eulogy:
Although my grandfathers all passed away, the last one several years ago, I was left with three wonderful ladies who loved me, who taught me by example and by word not only how life used to be but how it might be and how it should be if I were only to set my path to get where I knew I needed and wanted to go. Who showed me how to treat other people with warmth and dignity, to discipline children with firmness but without anger, to be upfront and honest and gracious to everyone I meet. To love God and look for his face in every face I see.
Well, I lived until last November this way, until Grandmother Harrington, my mom's mother, died after a slow decline into the shadowland of Alzheimer's. Although you might say that she began to die when she could no longer remember any of us, and it might be pretty close to the truth that her death came between her memory loss and her actual body finally fading away in her sleep, it is still an awfully final snap to get that call from your mom telling you that your grandmother is gone. She was the one with whom I spent the most time of all three, the one closest to the cookie-baking doting-on-grandkids stereotype. Even after I grew up and moved out on my own, I found every opportunity I could to visit her in the house that never changed, that represented all that was warm and comfortable and familiar about my childhood. It was a blow to finally realize that even though she was lost to me for years, the final note was played and nothing was left but memories.
My cousin Todd is a kind, witty, and personable Baptist minister, and I assumed he would be doing her service. For some reason, my mom asked me to co-officiate with him, although my knowledge of preachin' and churchin' is limited to the Book of Common Prayer and my lack of any skill of extemporaneous prayer (that is, prayer that is unrehearsed and spontaneous, made up on the spot) terrorized me. Todd and I put our heads together during her visitation service prior to the funeral, and figured out how we would split the duties.
I jotted down some notes of what I wanted to say, and sprinkled in some short phrases from the burial liturgy that meant a lot to me and would help me to express my feelings better. I knew that Todd would do a fine job of that smoothly-flowing spontaneous prayer that inspired pastors do so well, so I chose ideas based on her life and what I had learned from Grandmother.
Here is the text of my eulogy:
" From
the Book of Common Prayer
Grant, O
Lord, to all who are bereaved the spirit of faith and
courage, that they may have strength to meet the days to
come with steadfastness and patience; not sorrowing as those
without hope, but in thankful remembrance of your great
goodness, and in the joyful expectation of eternal life with
those they love. And this we ask in the Name of Jesus Christ
our Savior. Amen.
courage, that they may have strength to meet the days to
come with steadfastness and patience; not sorrowing as those
without hope, but in thankful remembrance of your great
goodness, and in the joyful expectation of eternal life with
those they love. And this we ask in the Name of Jesus Christ
our Savior. Amen.
We
are the luckiest of families, lucky to keep our mother, grandmother,
great-grandmother until almost the age of 100, well into our own lives. Talk
with your friends, your co-workers, your church families, and you will learn
how blessed it is that Grandmother has been there for us for so much of our
lives.
I am
lucky to have lived with her for almost a year as a child. I am lucky to have
spent so much time in her company and in all of your fellowship at her house
for so many years.
Her
house was always like a time capsule. The Reader’s Digests that featured Humor
in Uniform from the Vietnam War, the pictures that never changed, the
furnishings that were never updated: to visit and fall into the slower rhythms
of a calmer, more peaceful lifestyle. Where else as a kid could life revolve
around talking around the table for an hour after the dishes were cleared,
around snapping beans and peas; where else would a kid look forward to spring
break all year long despite the worst selection of toys in the world? Really, a
bucket of broken army men, plastic airplanes, and cracked golf balls? In a
world changing from month to month, you could always count on Grandmother’s
house to be eternal and unchanging, where the same old stories were told, where
the pleasure of sitting around just talking and visiting were supreme over the
television, where the menu was always your favorite meals of all times. Someone
once asked me what my favorite food is, and the only answer that made sense to
me is “ Whatever my Grandmother cooks.”
Although we didn’t realize it at the
time, she was teaching us every minute of every day we spent with her. The
simple pleasures of company around the table, the value of fresh produce over
canned, the importance of playing outside all day long before coming in at
dinnertime. We learned the scandalous cheer of Roll Tide Roll Around the Bowl
and Down the Hole from her, we learned that it was more important to cheer for
the Tigers and the Braves no matter what and especially when they got whipped.
We learned to sit in the living room in front of the TV and not pay any
attention to it. I don’t think I can remember a single TV show I watched in her
den, but I sure remember sitting and talking and stringing beans into a big
metal bowl at my feet…
We learned thrift-boy, did we learn
thrift. Who else has seen her drop ice on the floor, pick it up, and wash it
off so as not to waste it? Who else remembers going to Jack’s and fighting over
who got which combo meal based upon which coupons were left? It was not even an
option to buy something with no coupon…
Maybe her last lessons were the most
important. When she started to lose her memory and not recognize us, she taught
us that who we are and what we have done is not as important as just belonging.
Even though she did not know WHO I was, she knew that I was someone in the
family,that I belonged to her, and she would smile when I came in. And I had to
learn that that was the important thing…
We owe a great debt to her for
keeping us together after Granddaddy died. From him we got our sense of humor,
our energy, our sense of fun. From Grandmother we learned the simple values of
home and family and togetherness, to love one another and to enjoy each other’s
company. Of comfort.
Eternal Lord, Heavenly Father, eternal
rest grant unto her, and let light perpetual shine upon her. Amen"
I miss Grandmother, some days more than others. There is not a Sunday when, during the Prayers of the People when we pray for "all who have died in the hope of the resurrection...let us pray to the Lord" that I do not whisper her name. I know that I will probably miss her with less of a sharp pain and more of a dull ache as time goes on, because that is the way of things and that is how God heals us, but for now I am comforted by the memories she left even though they come with a hard edge of bitter melancholy.
May her soul, and the souls of all the departed,
through the mercy of God, rest in peace. Amen.
through the mercy of God, rest in peace. Amen.
Friday, October 26, 2012
Still going to be the same world after the election
Stolen words from my friend Betty Bond express my thoughts perfectly:
No matter who wins on election day, our nation’s problems, let alone the world’s, will not all be solved. Maybe whoever is elected president will be able to help the family up the street with the out-of-work husband and the sick wife. But there will be many times in the next four years where it is going to be up to me to help that family. The consequences of this election, or any election, do not absolve us from the command to love our neighbor as ourselves. Whoever is president (or senator or judge), we are still called to reach out to a hurting world.
I have friends on both the left and right of the political continuum, being center-left myself but agreeable to those of other ideas, and this election is really bringing out the nastiness in everyone. I'm beginning to experience a kind of outrage fatigue. After hearing (and fact-checking) numerous counts of Obama being a Kenyan Muslim who is secretly waging a war against Christian America and trying to bring down the economy in favor of a socialist dictatorship and others equally astonishing of Mitt Romney being an evil privileged magic-underwear clad cultist with a dancing horse and a desire to revoke women's right to vote, I am finding it harder and harder to even CARE any more. With only slight exaggeration, I say that my feelings are akin to the townspeople in the story of the little boy who cried wolf. I have been subjected to such horrid lies, rumor, and damned statistics by both sides that I find it hard to muster any outrage when it is needed.
Maybe the key, like Betty reminds me, is that after all the work of the election is done and we have a President for the next four years, that we go back to our normal lives, reach out to each other, help those who are hurting, comfort the afflicted and afflict the comfortable.
Maybe we should render unto Caesar that which is Caesar's and unto God that which is God's. And that which is God's is not only worship and praise (the 1st Great Commandment) but loving my fellow-man like unto myself (the 2nd). Maybe the solution is not with tax breaks or tax increases or laws or regulations, but with all of us going about the business or living and helping each other, of paying our bills and educating our children and doing the best we can.
I certainly am set to do my part.
No matter who wins on election day, our nation’s problems, let alone the world’s, will not all be solved. Maybe whoever is elected president will be able to help the family up the street with the out-of-work husband and the sick wife. But there will be many times in the next four years where it is going to be up to me to help that family. The consequences of this election, or any election, do not absolve us from the command to love our neighbor as ourselves. Whoever is president (or senator or judge), we are still called to reach out to a hurting world.
I have friends on both the left and right of the political continuum, being center-left myself but agreeable to those of other ideas, and this election is really bringing out the nastiness in everyone. I'm beginning to experience a kind of outrage fatigue. After hearing (and fact-checking) numerous counts of Obama being a Kenyan Muslim who is secretly waging a war against Christian America and trying to bring down the economy in favor of a socialist dictatorship and others equally astonishing of Mitt Romney being an evil privileged magic-underwear clad cultist with a dancing horse and a desire to revoke women's right to vote, I am finding it harder and harder to even CARE any more. With only slight exaggeration, I say that my feelings are akin to the townspeople in the story of the little boy who cried wolf. I have been subjected to such horrid lies, rumor, and damned statistics by both sides that I find it hard to muster any outrage when it is needed.
Maybe the key, like Betty reminds me, is that after all the work of the election is done and we have a President for the next four years, that we go back to our normal lives, reach out to each other, help those who are hurting, comfort the afflicted and afflict the comfortable.
Maybe we should render unto Caesar that which is Caesar's and unto God that which is God's. And that which is God's is not only worship and praise (the 1st Great Commandment) but loving my fellow-man like unto myself (the 2nd). Maybe the solution is not with tax breaks or tax increases or laws or regulations, but with all of us going about the business or living and helping each other, of paying our bills and educating our children and doing the best we can.
I certainly am set to do my part.
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