For the past couple of months, my father-in-law has been staying with us while he works a job out here in Houston. The job market back in North Carolina, where he lives, is not as robust as that here for the engineering specialty he does, so we are putting him up while he works so that he won't have to stay in a hotel the entire time and worry about cooking, laundry, and all the other housekeeping tasks you can't escape.
Skip has a three-word prescription for any type of inflammatory situation. Whether concerned that the world is targeting you for abuse, upset that someone else gets better treatment than you for the same effort, or that things are just not going your way:
"Get over yourself."
We all know types that obsess (and compulse, for that matter) over meticulous details and slights, sucking up all the positive energy in the room like black holes of emotion.
" Boy, that guy" he will say "really needs to get over himself."
We all are subject to chuckleheads who stubbornly apply the letter of the law rather than its spirit, who meander into legalisms and hijack productivity with foolishness.
"Someone needs to tell them to get over themselves."
In fact, his universal proscription has me chuckling with anticipatory glee any time he starts a tale from work or from his colorful past, because I just know where it is going. Someone or other it seems, needs to get over himself.
So I started thinking the other day that what seems on first consideration to be nothing more than a cynical crack is actually incredibly good advice.
For what besides your very own self gets in your own way almost every day? Often I have heard the adage that my life would be a lot simpler if I were not held back by the actions of the confounded idiot I face in the mirror when I shave every morning. What anger, or fear, or pessimism ruins otherwise grand days and great plans? If I could come to terms with Jeff and just let go of my knee-jerk reactions, I could accomplish much more each day.
And there are other benefits, too:
Several years ago, I took a course on keeping harmful speech out of my life. It was taught by a retired preacher who helped a group of us examine the ways that spiteful and judgemental speech can drive wedges between people in both egregious and minor ways. One of the most important points that I keep with me from that course is this
People may do things to get on your nerves-but remember, they are still YOUR nerves.
Even when provoked, you have to own your response. There are TONS of unreasonable people out there in the world who do horrible wrongs deliberately on a daily basis. There is no way to stop some of the most outrageous behavior, and power only in the way I respond to provocation. With viciousness. Or anger. Or coldness. Or indifference. Or, just maybe, with understanding. With compassion.
And it seems to me that living my life in gratitude also means returning not anger for anger but returning compassion and understanding for hurts and slights. Daily it is a monumental task NOT to flip off the jackhole who cut me off in traffic, or to get my nose out of joint when someone close to me inflicts some minor hurt. Daily it is hard to hold my tongue when I want to let loose and tell someone "Hey, you know what you need? You need to just get over yourself!"
I guess it starts with my getting over myself.
Let no evil talk come out of your mouths, but only such as is good for edifying, as fits the occasion, that it may impart grace to those who hear. Ephesians 4:29
Wednesday, June 26, 2013
Thursday, June 20, 2013
Take it where you can get it
Another Father's Day has come and gone, and my ambivalence to the holiday has continued. Oh, I don't mean in regard to my own kids, or to my wife. Father's Day is always an occasion where I feel honored and singled out-my family really let me know how appreciated I am.
I mean my own father.
Yeah, him.
When my parents divorced, I was six. I had been my father's pint-sized hunting companion and fishing buddy. We had spent a lot of time together outdoors and in the woods, and I was on my way to becoming as much of a shooter, a hunter, and an outdoorsman as he was.
Something happened along the way-when they divorced, he dropped totally out of my life-and that of my brothers. Adam was about two, and Shawn was a baby, only about nine months or so. I didn't see him between the ages of six and eighteen, even though he lived less than five miles away, in the same town. I don't really know how that is even possible, to stay away from your kids for that long, and how to keep from running into us when we lived so close together.
The intervening years brought us back in touch-but barely. He seems to be a nice enough guy, but hard to get to know. Keeps to himself. Plays things close to his chest. Tells stories and tall tales and jokes, but never lets any real information out about who he is. A nice enough guy, but a total mystery. I've been to his house about three times in the past ten years, and always find myself squirming uncomfortably, aching to get the hell out of there, after about, oh, two minutes.
A lot of family relationships are built on shared memories, stories, and experience. What if you have none? What is left?
I call him, every now and then. I can't remember him ever calling me. Not even returning a call to me if I left a message on his machine. I used to send a card every now and then, holidays or birthday or Father's Day even, but it never seemed to make a difference, he never seemed to show any kind of interest or even to notice, and after awhile it just became a bother. All the contacts with him have been initiated by me, and after a while of a one-sided relationship, you get weary of carrying the weight and the worry and the bother. All. By. Yourself.
I've been thinking lately about what will happen as he gets older, if he has made provision for what is euphemistically called the declining years. He has no children other than me and my brothers, and they have no contact at all with him. As a matter of fact, both of them unloaded the Barber name, which is a pretty good indication of how far they feel from him. My middle brother, Adam, is a Burdette after my stepfather's family, and Shawn, when he married, changed his last name back to my mother's maiden name of Harrington.
My current hope-actually more of a desperate prayer- is that either my father's current wife or his sister outlive him and can fill all those obligations. Power of attorney. Guardian. Choice of nursing home. Next of kin. Executor of will. Blah blah blah.
That's a hell of a relationship, hoping against hope that I won't be dragged into his world when he has shown so conclusively that he has never had an interest in bringing me into any part of it.
What do you do when you grow up without a father present?
You get your fathering where you can.
I was blessed with more than a few really inspiring male role models. My stepfather's dad, Joe Burdette, who taught me that you can live in love with God and all the world and that there is nothing manlier than service to your family. Gene Hunter, who showed me that living in community with others and calm serenity can be achieved by doing what you say you're going to do at all times. Bill Yon, who drew me deeper into the St. Francis church family and taught me that faith comes in all sorts of disguises. Uncles, teachers, managers, I've taken bits and pieces of advice where I have found it, and rolled it into my own outlook on life.
The old adage is that where a door shuts, a window is opened, and I hope I have been aware enough to realize the occasions when God has sent someone across my path to teach me, to instruct me, to lead me to a new level.
I have no idea where my mostly absent relationship with my father will turn in the future, but I try to keep myself open to changes. Who knows what will come my way later on? I strive to not close off any avenues, to be open and receptive to whatever transpires.
After all, I've had EXCELLENT fathers to teach me to lead with my head but listen to God's voice in my heart.
Happy Father's Day to all of you!
I mean my own father.
Yeah, him.
When my parents divorced, I was six. I had been my father's pint-sized hunting companion and fishing buddy. We had spent a lot of time together outdoors and in the woods, and I was on my way to becoming as much of a shooter, a hunter, and an outdoorsman as he was.
Something happened along the way-when they divorced, he dropped totally out of my life-and that of my brothers. Adam was about two, and Shawn was a baby, only about nine months or so. I didn't see him between the ages of six and eighteen, even though he lived less than five miles away, in the same town. I don't really know how that is even possible, to stay away from your kids for that long, and how to keep from running into us when we lived so close together.
The intervening years brought us back in touch-but barely. He seems to be a nice enough guy, but hard to get to know. Keeps to himself. Plays things close to his chest. Tells stories and tall tales and jokes, but never lets any real information out about who he is. A nice enough guy, but a total mystery. I've been to his house about three times in the past ten years, and always find myself squirming uncomfortably, aching to get the hell out of there, after about, oh, two minutes.
A lot of family relationships are built on shared memories, stories, and experience. What if you have none? What is left?
I call him, every now and then. I can't remember him ever calling me. Not even returning a call to me if I left a message on his machine. I used to send a card every now and then, holidays or birthday or Father's Day even, but it never seemed to make a difference, he never seemed to show any kind of interest or even to notice, and after awhile it just became a bother. All the contacts with him have been initiated by me, and after a while of a one-sided relationship, you get weary of carrying the weight and the worry and the bother. All. By. Yourself.
I've been thinking lately about what will happen as he gets older, if he has made provision for what is euphemistically called the declining years. He has no children other than me and my brothers, and they have no contact at all with him. As a matter of fact, both of them unloaded the Barber name, which is a pretty good indication of how far they feel from him. My middle brother, Adam, is a Burdette after my stepfather's family, and Shawn, when he married, changed his last name back to my mother's maiden name of Harrington.
My current hope-actually more of a desperate prayer- is that either my father's current wife or his sister outlive him and can fill all those obligations. Power of attorney. Guardian. Choice of nursing home. Next of kin. Executor of will. Blah blah blah.
That's a hell of a relationship, hoping against hope that I won't be dragged into his world when he has shown so conclusively that he has never had an interest in bringing me into any part of it.
What do you do when you grow up without a father present?
You get your fathering where you can.
I was blessed with more than a few really inspiring male role models. My stepfather's dad, Joe Burdette, who taught me that you can live in love with God and all the world and that there is nothing manlier than service to your family. Gene Hunter, who showed me that living in community with others and calm serenity can be achieved by doing what you say you're going to do at all times. Bill Yon, who drew me deeper into the St. Francis church family and taught me that faith comes in all sorts of disguises. Uncles, teachers, managers, I've taken bits and pieces of advice where I have found it, and rolled it into my own outlook on life.
The old adage is that where a door shuts, a window is opened, and I hope I have been aware enough to realize the occasions when God has sent someone across my path to teach me, to instruct me, to lead me to a new level.
I have no idea where my mostly absent relationship with my father will turn in the future, but I try to keep myself open to changes. Who knows what will come my way later on? I strive to not close off any avenues, to be open and receptive to whatever transpires.
After all, I've had EXCELLENT fathers to teach me to lead with my head but listen to God's voice in my heart.
Happy Father's Day to all of you!
Tuesday, June 11, 2013
Sisters and brothers
Her name was Apriya, and she sat on the front seat of the bus, with the rest of the kindergartners. A tiny waif-like Audrey Hepburn-ish wisp of a girl, delicate and wide-eyed and animated. And chatty. Very precise in speech and diction and hand movements to illustrate her story.
And did I mention chatty?
The whole trip she kept me entertained with stories, of what she did in school that day, of vacations and pets.
But mostly about her sister. Her younger sister.
The year after next, her sister is to start kindergarten. Apriya by then will be a second grader, and assigned a seat somewhere in the middle of the bus, following the pecking order set since time immemorial. Little kids in the front where the driver can watch them, big kids in the back, the rest dispersed somewhere in the middle. By the time her sister arrives, Apriya will have been displaced from the front in favor of younger riders.
The problem with this? Apriya's sister is going to need her right there with her. About this she was persistently insistent.
"She is very scared of new things, I just KNOW she will cry the first day" she stressed, her face a mixture of persuasion and concern. "She will only be OK if I am there to tell her where to get off the bus, and what is going on all the time, and I will have to hold her hand if she gets scared."
I have two brothers, one 4 1/2 years younger and the other 6 years younger. I never attended the same school with them, never had the opportunity to shepherd them through the process of adjusting to school. It's different with boys, also. Most of our interactions when we were young involved playing outside in the woods or inside with Star Wars toys. Or launching balls, sticks, rocks, or other missiles at each other in countless hard-fought battles. Lots of battles.
I see it is different with sisters. Stacey and her sister Amy, who is two years younger, have always kept in closer contact than I with my brothers. Rare is it when a day passes when they are not in contact. Sure, they fight and squabble just like brothers do, but they also call to ask for advice. To offer support. To take care of each other.
If I close my eyes and imagine hard enough, I can see Stacey at 6 years old worried how Amy will adapt to riding a bus to school in two more years. Worried that she will cry the first day, that she needs help to get through, needs to have the process explained to her, and to be comforted. To have her hand held when scared.
Sisters are like that.
When we reached Apriya's bus stop, her mom and her sister were waiting for her at the corner. Of course, her sister was waiting fifty feet or so in advance of the stop, in order to race the bus to the corner, and so she came bounding up out of breath and beaming. Apriya pointed her out to me, although she looked and acted so similarly that it was obvious they belonged together, and together they walked home with their mom.
Holding hands.
I think Apriya and her sister will be just fine in a couple of years, regardless of where they sit on the bus. A love that powerful is not diminished by any distance.
Not even 1200 miles could keep them apart. Just ask my wife and her sister. They know.
And did I mention chatty?
The whole trip she kept me entertained with stories, of what she did in school that day, of vacations and pets.
But mostly about her sister. Her younger sister.
The year after next, her sister is to start kindergarten. Apriya by then will be a second grader, and assigned a seat somewhere in the middle of the bus, following the pecking order set since time immemorial. Little kids in the front where the driver can watch them, big kids in the back, the rest dispersed somewhere in the middle. By the time her sister arrives, Apriya will have been displaced from the front in favor of younger riders.
The problem with this? Apriya's sister is going to need her right there with her. About this she was persistently insistent.
"She is very scared of new things, I just KNOW she will cry the first day" she stressed, her face a mixture of persuasion and concern. "She will only be OK if I am there to tell her where to get off the bus, and what is going on all the time, and I will have to hold her hand if she gets scared."
I have two brothers, one 4 1/2 years younger and the other 6 years younger. I never attended the same school with them, never had the opportunity to shepherd them through the process of adjusting to school. It's different with boys, also. Most of our interactions when we were young involved playing outside in the woods or inside with Star Wars toys. Or launching balls, sticks, rocks, or other missiles at each other in countless hard-fought battles. Lots of battles.
I see it is different with sisters. Stacey and her sister Amy, who is two years younger, have always kept in closer contact than I with my brothers. Rare is it when a day passes when they are not in contact. Sure, they fight and squabble just like brothers do, but they also call to ask for advice. To offer support. To take care of each other.
If I close my eyes and imagine hard enough, I can see Stacey at 6 years old worried how Amy will adapt to riding a bus to school in two more years. Worried that she will cry the first day, that she needs help to get through, needs to have the process explained to her, and to be comforted. To have her hand held when scared.
Sisters are like that.
When we reached Apriya's bus stop, her mom and her sister were waiting for her at the corner. Of course, her sister was waiting fifty feet or so in advance of the stop, in order to race the bus to the corner, and so she came bounding up out of breath and beaming. Apriya pointed her out to me, although she looked and acted so similarly that it was obvious they belonged together, and together they walked home with their mom.
Holding hands.
I think Apriya and her sister will be just fine in a couple of years, regardless of where they sit on the bus. A love that powerful is not diminished by any distance.
Not even 1200 miles could keep them apart. Just ask my wife and her sister. They know.
Saturday, June 1, 2013
It's all in the mix tape
In planning for my brother Shawn's upcoming 40th birthday this month, my sister-in-law Amy sent out emails and Facebook messages last month, asking for stories or memories or messages for or about him. For once, I've been at a loss for words.
The old stories of things Shawn did as a kid have been rehashed over family get-togethers for the last 30 years, and most only serve to embarrass or anger him. What do you say to entertain, amuse, or enlighten other than the same old tired tales of cute mispronunciations or adolescent mischief which have been brought up time and again?
There are 6 years separating us in age, so when I moved out of the house to go to college Shawn was only 12. I'm pretty sure he was a snot-nosed punk kid full of bravado, and I know I was an arrogant know-it-all full of myself. We always spent a lot of time playing together; before the advent of video games, we played outside more often than not, a frantic mismash of activity and hooliganism. Baseball. Football. Fighting.Frisbee. Tree-climbing.Fighting. Running through the woods. Making war on each other with rocks and sticks and anything at hand.
I went away to school at first, 700 miles away. New challenges. New friends. New way of life, on my own and making my own decisions. I was BUSY my first quarter at college, in a whirlwind of momentum that seemed never to cease. Who could think of a brother back at home at a time like that?
So when he wrote me a letter, it was a bolt out of the blue. I remember it was a simple letter, I wish I still had it. Real jokey, I could hear his voice as I read it. I had become pretty fanatical about the Who, and he asked me to record him a cassette tape and mail it home, since I had taken all my albums and tapes to school. As I said, the letter was simple, maybe a couple of pages of what he had been doing, but it opened up an aching homesickness in me.
I put on hold everything I was doing to make that cassette tape for him. I made the PERFECT mix tape, a balanced blend of popular and obscure, of hard-edged raw rock and sweeping magnificent artistic composition. I even put it on one of my expensive high-quality blank tapes, and put it in the mail. The. Very. Next. Day.
Maybe the impact that your brothers make on you is not evident when you are there every day, going through the normal routines and drama and fights and reconciliations. Maybe the impact only comes when you get out of the forest and really look at the trees you have taken for granted. Maybe the impact of those thousands of casual interactions are only visible with enough time or distance between.
Happy 40th Birthday, Shawn!
The old stories of things Shawn did as a kid have been rehashed over family get-togethers for the last 30 years, and most only serve to embarrass or anger him. What do you say to entertain, amuse, or enlighten other than the same old tired tales of cute mispronunciations or adolescent mischief which have been brought up time and again?
There are 6 years separating us in age, so when I moved out of the house to go to college Shawn was only 12. I'm pretty sure he was a snot-nosed punk kid full of bravado, and I know I was an arrogant know-it-all full of myself. We always spent a lot of time playing together; before the advent of video games, we played outside more often than not, a frantic mismash of activity and hooliganism. Baseball. Football. Fighting.Frisbee. Tree-climbing.Fighting. Running through the woods. Making war on each other with rocks and sticks and anything at hand.
I went away to school at first, 700 miles away. New challenges. New friends. New way of life, on my own and making my own decisions. I was BUSY my first quarter at college, in a whirlwind of momentum that seemed never to cease. Who could think of a brother back at home at a time like that?
So when he wrote me a letter, it was a bolt out of the blue. I remember it was a simple letter, I wish I still had it. Real jokey, I could hear his voice as I read it. I had become pretty fanatical about the Who, and he asked me to record him a cassette tape and mail it home, since I had taken all my albums and tapes to school. As I said, the letter was simple, maybe a couple of pages of what he had been doing, but it opened up an aching homesickness in me.
I put on hold everything I was doing to make that cassette tape for him. I made the PERFECT mix tape, a balanced blend of popular and obscure, of hard-edged raw rock and sweeping magnificent artistic composition. I even put it on one of my expensive high-quality blank tapes, and put it in the mail. The. Very. Next. Day.
Maybe the impact that your brothers make on you is not evident when you are there every day, going through the normal routines and drama and fights and reconciliations. Maybe the impact only comes when you get out of the forest and really look at the trees you have taken for granted. Maybe the impact of those thousands of casual interactions are only visible with enough time or distance between.
Happy 40th Birthday, Shawn!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)