No Validation Required

I've been to a conference this morning where the mantra was "nothing for free" with regards to charitable response to people in need. And I find it funny how three words can set a train of thought in motion that would lead to my seeing clearly for the first time the two dynamic and different interventions of my parents - mom in her way, and my father in his at another time a few years later - that were at points of critical intersections for the direction of my life.

I've always seen the intervention of my father as most prominent, and it's a story I have told frequently in various ways. He was, in my teens, the local "narc." He was the police officer in my hometown who committed his professional focus and development to the attention of drug control. This was in the 1970's at what at that time could only be seen as the peak of that mountainous monster that was subversively destroying many a young life. Dad felt a call and a passion to educate everyone he encountered with the realities of the harm and waste of recreational drug use.

That passion, however, did not sit well with my high school classmates. I became a target of harassment. My young gentle self did not handle that well, and after many months of receiving insults, spits, and threats from the gang that stood outside the band room door (my favored sanctuary in the entire school once I entered in), I broke down after a threat made against my father. Threaten me all you want, but the moment you begin threatening my hero dad you've made headway into affecting Rhonda's well being. I made my way to the guidance counselor who made two major mistakes: he asked first if I was "ashamed" of what my father did in drug enforcement in the community, and then proceeded into his course of solution - which he found impossible because I wasn't a guy. He actually said to me, "There's nothing I can do. If you were a guy I'd give you permission to fight them." Incredulous then. Incredulous now, forty years later.

His only positive move was to mention the situation to the principal. Who mentioned it to my father. Who called me into his bedroom to privately identify from my yearbook the handful of major offenders. A few days later, Dad happened upon one of the little guys sitting on the curb hurling similar insults to drivers by the local Burger Chef. My dad came up behind the little guy, silently (not unlike a Doberman that doesn't bark on approach - only upon arrival at the target) and said, "I understand you and some of your friends have been bothering my daughter, Rhonda." Terror struck the little guy at the sight of the James Garner looking superman of a hero man that was the man standing before him, and he took off running. Dad took off, too, and in the stuff of legends, outran the little guy, got him in a hold by the collar and made warning that not another word - not another word -should be spoken in my direction. "OK! OK! OK! And I'll tell all my friends to apologize to her. And I'll apologize to her!" "No. not another word. not even an apology," And not another word ever was. Ever. Freedom for Rhonda. Protection. Appreciation. All things good about intervening and speaking up against what just isn't right. And, I try to carry that on.

This morning, though, with thoughts of "nothing for free" still ringing in my head, I land on the powerful moment that my mother came forward for me. It was when I was in 6th grade. For two years I had longed for the moment that I could be in the band at school. I'd dreamed of it since hearing the only classical album in our home in the mix of Country Western and Elvis. My ears danced on hearing a Dvorak symphony! And, I was to play flute, of course! My moment arrived, mom and I took off for the introductory band parent meeting, and arrived in the band room where the various instruments gleamed all around the room in their open cases. I was in heaven. Then, Mr. Proffitt began to speak to the cost of the instruments, and I realized two things: I hadn't thought about that part of this whole deal, and my dream was slipping away. I knew my family did not have funds to put toward this kind of investment. It was over for me before it began. But wait! Afterwards, my gentle and quiet mother began making her way through the crowd toward the band director, and, like a tiny barge, pulled me along behind her. I had no idea what she was doing. Why weren't we heading for the door?

She approached the band director and stated that her daughter was very much looking forward to being in the band. Family resources, especially after having just bought a neighbor's piano (with money borrowed from one of her dear brothers, I now remember), did not allow for the purchase of an instrument. I heard these words floating out there somewhere. And then she went where it's really hard to go. She asked if there was any option of my getting in someway, anyway, that would make it possible for me. My whole life hinged on that question. And on the answer.

The band director looked excitedly at me, spun on his heal and took off across the room. He rushed back across the room with a fully assembled bassoon held horizontally across his hands. I had never seen such a sight. He thrust it toward me, beamed, and said, "She can play this!" It's owned by the school and won't cost you anything." I never even thought twice though I didn't even know what this thing was. It got me in.

Turned out, it's the only instrument I have any real ability on. It was Divine intervention at its finest. I played bassoon and won scholarships to college. Bassoon was my ticket. And it was free. It was free. Yes, there was responsibility in response to the gift. Yes, there was a lot of hard work invested. Yes, we had to buy reeds. But, the bassoon was free. No rental charge. Or maybe there was and Mr. Proffitt paid it. I don't know. But my mother wasn't put in a position of having to grovel, or confess how much or how little she might be able to put toward it. It was free.

And, it changed my life. I could not possibly value it any more than I did and still do, even if it had "cost " us something.

And, that causes me to think on the Grace of God. It, too, is free. There is nothing we can do to purchase it or validate it with a fee. However, though free, the Grace of God requires a response. A responsibility to ourselves and to others. That's where the pay comes in.

May we never, never, never, hesitate to give freely. Never. Jesus Christ says give to everyone who asks of you (Luke 6:30).

Aunt Mary's Closet

When I was, let's say, between 5 and 12 years old, I was especially aware of stylish women in my life. Not necessarily rich or wealthy, in fact tipping toward the other end of the spectrum, but always so (as they themselves might had said) "sweetly" put together. High heels, fur wraps, snappy fitted suits, flowing dresses, classy cashmere sweaters. These were my mother and her sisters. Those years of my life primed me for the day I'd be grown up and could make the same sort of fashion statement - one of femininity and delight.

But, just like a finger placed lightly on a 33 1/3 which dragged the speed of beautiful music to a distorted, disturbing speed, upon entering "my" decade of fashion choices and styles, the 1970's hit. Gone with the proverbial wind were those fashion icons I'd longed to be old enough to wear, as chunky heeled shoes, granny gowns, and hip hugger pants entered dominance.

Shopping was a nightmare because I was looking for something that had been wiped from the planet - except in my aunts' closets. And, 40 years later I finally understand a part of the delight I was awarded upon being invited to sift through their closets and see if there might be anything I'd like. Are you kidding me???? "See if there's anything you might like," they'd say. Still breeds up some pretty strong emotions ... validation. welcome. graciousness. comfort. beauty. Aunt Mary. Aunt Dorothy. Aunt Hazel. Aunt Faye. Aunt Kaye. Aunt Nettie. And, my mother, Ann. Women born into anything but graciousness, but who were graced with it within. You'd never, ever, have known they picked cotton and mothered each other after a tragic and early loss of their own. And they cultivated graciousness over cotton and tragedy and shared it so naturally that it seemed nothing else even existed when I was around them.

So, the invitation to explore the closet brought me close to something beautiful (in a way, C. S. Lewis-esque), not just in fashion, but in that internal graciousness which is the source of all things beautiful. What they wore on the outside was a continuation of what welled up inwardly. And it was a truly beautiful combination. We all want to create the kind of environments that bring about our greatest sense of ease and calm, and they did it in their presentation of themselves to the world. There was power in their beauty, it affected people around them. It was a part of the fashion of the time, I know that, and yet what these women did was timeless and is something I still want despite the trends of any day. I recognize now that I speak with a catch in my throat when I think on how close we are to completely losing this wondrousness that they shared, and it's up to me, to us, to carry it on. May we always have a closet worthy of invitation, and be quick to invite.

Out of sight, out of mind

"Out of sight, out of mind." That's a trait I've identified in myself. It's a struggle about which I warn those who love me, or work with me, or expect anything from me. It can send a message of disregard to people I care about, or lack of importance on matters that are actually priorities for me.

I regularly temporarily forget the most valuable.

Long have I envied those who could keep multiple projects going, who can remember to speak on certain topics to someone in a chance encounter, who don't forget one of many driving forces or passions that happen to be on the proverbial back burner.

I have been applauded for my ability to put things out of mind. To that I respond "Hardly." I do not have the ability to put anything out of mind. If that were true, I wouldn't disappear for hours, days, or weeks into something that bothers me, or worries me, or that I know I must tend carefully. What leaves my mind leaves of its own accord. And, by the same token, what stays, stays of its own accord.

That's why I am sympathetic to - and patient with - the 3rd grader who forgets to take his lunch. Or the adult man who leaves his phone at the bank. Or the high school student who comes for a bassoon lesson with his instrument, but without his music bag. Or the young mother who leaves for a week long trip without the children's packed suitcase. Or myself when I miss a rescheduled meeting on yet another icy day of other events I am busy canceling.

It's also why I make lists. Keep a calendar. And then try to remember to reference said lists and calendars.

But, there's also a struggle with "hidden in plain sight." This morning, in clearing off my gigantic and cluttered bulletin board that hangs in plain sight right above my computer screen, I am "finding" notes, and codes, and notices that I haven't noticed in a couple of years. I've been looking at them for two years and haven't seen them in nearly as long. Papers, memos, notes absolutely no longer necessary yet pinned seemingly permanently. Holding valuable space with their insignificance. As these pieces are tossed in the clearing, I see the cork. I see thumbtacks available for the next piece of priority.

Evidently, I need to perform the same exercise with my brain. Clear out the unnecessary, free up space for what matters most.

The way to do that, and the lesson in this for me, I suppose, is deliberateness ... to be deliberate with what I see, with what I do and think. Let my mind and eyes rest on what remains on the board, and to continually strive for awareness with what needs to stay and what needs to be tossed. And, to keep making that list and checking it twice.