It's twenty til eight in the evening, and I am at home. I'm beginning to wander around the house, moving from tiny chore to tiny chore, idly tidying here and there. Stopping to pet the cats on the head. It's coolish for July, and I've been out in the backyard enjoying the garden, taking time to just check in on all my plant friends out there, and feeling the touch of tomato plants as I brush by. I consider this bliss, and a bliss for which I no longer feel a need to apologize.
I consider that, during the symphony season, the rehearsals will have begun only 10 minutes ago. Presbyterian churches are just beginning committee meetings. Soccer practices, football games, date nights, and church services, all would be underway about now. But, I am at home. No apologies.
I've been there, done that deal of dashing. Dashing from one scheduled event to the next. Allotting 12 minutes for the grocery store, 7 minutes in the post office, hours in the car pool line. I've been there, done that with dropping in the bed, exhausted, only to wake up to start it again the next day, exhausted.
Of course, though, I was just exhausted from living life fully, from taking advantage of all the wondrous experiences life has to offer. For much of the time, it was all good. But, even so, I wondered. I wondered what my grandparents knew when they sat on the porch in the evenings. And, I mean really sat on the porch. No apologies.
What I know now is that they worked a farm. They worked from before sunup to just after sundown. The last task I would remember of them for the evening was to slop the hogs with the bucket of remnants left from the day's meals, including supper that was just completed. Then, in the dusk, after supper, they sat on the front porch together with whatever visiting family might be around and watched the evening roll across the hill. Few cars ever passed, so it really was basically just watching that hill across the road disappear into darkness.
I've wondered about that ritual many times, even as I screeched into the school parking lot well past bedtime to retrieve my children from field trips, or band trips. Or sat in the bleachers or concert halls well past bedtime to cheer and applaud the accomplishments of the younger generation. I've wondered about that ritual even as I've sat in well intentioned meetings that have the power to hold me in that place, but for what really?
Years of wondering vaporized with a sudden realization that there was a beauty to that ritual. A closure. Measurement to the day. Barely a break in the day from plowing for harvesting or bunching tobacco or milking the cows or gathering the eggs. But, when the day was done, it was done. No apologies. It was time for rest, for reflection and conversation, for engagement of a different sort with oneself and others. A Sabbath built into every day.
Thank goodness I no longer have to wonder. It now seems very wise to me. The evenings are sacred. No apologies.
Wednesday, July 16, 2014
Thursday, June 26, 2014
It's called busy work, though I've never completely understood why. Busy work supposedly let's our hands do the work, disengaged from our brains. We're just busy. Not engaged. Or, at least that's how I understand it. And, so, it was busy work that I was doing at the kitchen sink, scrubbing that last pot, trying to be delicate and aggressive at the same time ... getting that perfect balance of pressure to remove the baked on goop while preserving that valuable finish on the surface of the pan, when she came to mind. That friend of mine with the story that still makes me chuckle years later.
Her story is that, while a teenager at home alone, she literally scrubbed the teflon finish right off her mom's electric skillet. It was the dickens of a job, she'd say. The elbow grease and commitment to get the last of that "mess" off that skillet was Herculean. But, by golly, she'd done it.
That story engaged my disengaged brain and set me on a course of thinking that when I remember friends, I remember stories. I can identify friends by a single story that makes me laugh, builds me up in encouragement, or causes me to see life differently than before.
I remember my first Tennessee friend. From my new front yard after moving across the country, literally, from Oregon when I was five years old and scared for friends, I looked across the road and saw her leaning up against the corner of her house. She was six years old and wearing a dress up bridal gown and veil. And she was looking back across the road at me, who might have even been wearing a glittery dress up prom dress. My heart leapt in assurance of friendship!
There's the friend who flew to Houston, Texas to help move me and my Suburban back home to Alabama after a summer at MD Anderson Cancer Center there. In response to my attempts to reimburse her for the flight she'd made to Houston, she'd said, "Well, you can pay me back if you want. But, be warned, I'm going to change that money into quarters and dump it on your front lawn." Enough said.
I have laughed so hard with another friend that we've thought we really might have "busted" the proverbial gut and might have to make a run to the emergency room. I also think of her every time I peel cucumbers or carrots, picturing her graceful stance at the cutting board, carefully and deliberately preparing salad to share with visitors. But in that gracious and abundant offering of salad there was a dash of hilarity when once it was asked if Godzilla would be joining us for salad.
There's the group of four, who making our way through the dim, vast tunnels of Gibraltar came to be known as The Unit. We've been stranded on a train in France after national news making catastrophic train failure. We've found ourselves not speaking to each other when, during an episode in our relationship lovingly referred to as "The Madrid Moment," we'd found ourselves on the wrong train in Madrid on the infamous seventh day of travel together ... the day all travelers grow to hate their travel companions no matter how much love is there. Y'all, we know who we are.
When I say "we gave our dog away at a Strawberry Plains gas station," there are new friends who know the rest of the miraculous story. Elton John sing-alongs around the piano in the 1970"s? You definitely know who you are! And, a forever sister despite divorce binds us as Heart Sisters with a saga all our own.
I revisit these stories as often as I revisit these friends. These stories, all our stories, are the threads that stitch us together. We've got to tell our stories, then retell them again to savor and set in a firm foundation of friendship. Because of that revisiting, I can say with accuracy that these friends know who they are to me. If they don't, I've got some visiting to do. You and yours, too.
Her story is that, while a teenager at home alone, she literally scrubbed the teflon finish right off her mom's electric skillet. It was the dickens of a job, she'd say. The elbow grease and commitment to get the last of that "mess" off that skillet was Herculean. But, by golly, she'd done it.
That story engaged my disengaged brain and set me on a course of thinking that when I remember friends, I remember stories. I can identify friends by a single story that makes me laugh, builds me up in encouragement, or causes me to see life differently than before.
I remember my first Tennessee friend. From my new front yard after moving across the country, literally, from Oregon when I was five years old and scared for friends, I looked across the road and saw her leaning up against the corner of her house. She was six years old and wearing a dress up bridal gown and veil. And she was looking back across the road at me, who might have even been wearing a glittery dress up prom dress. My heart leapt in assurance of friendship!
There's the friend who flew to Houston, Texas to help move me and my Suburban back home to Alabama after a summer at MD Anderson Cancer Center there. In response to my attempts to reimburse her for the flight she'd made to Houston, she'd said, "Well, you can pay me back if you want. But, be warned, I'm going to change that money into quarters and dump it on your front lawn." Enough said.
I have laughed so hard with another friend that we've thought we really might have "busted" the proverbial gut and might have to make a run to the emergency room. I also think of her every time I peel cucumbers or carrots, picturing her graceful stance at the cutting board, carefully and deliberately preparing salad to share with visitors. But in that gracious and abundant offering of salad there was a dash of hilarity when once it was asked if Godzilla would be joining us for salad.
There's the group of four, who making our way through the dim, vast tunnels of Gibraltar came to be known as The Unit. We've been stranded on a train in France after national news making catastrophic train failure. We've found ourselves not speaking to each other when, during an episode in our relationship lovingly referred to as "The Madrid Moment," we'd found ourselves on the wrong train in Madrid on the infamous seventh day of travel together ... the day all travelers grow to hate their travel companions no matter how much love is there. Y'all, we know who we are.
When I say "we gave our dog away at a Strawberry Plains gas station," there are new friends who know the rest of the miraculous story. Elton John sing-alongs around the piano in the 1970"s? You definitely know who you are! And, a forever sister despite divorce binds us as Heart Sisters with a saga all our own.
I revisit these stories as often as I revisit these friends. These stories, all our stories, are the threads that stitch us together. We've got to tell our stories, then retell them again to savor and set in a firm foundation of friendship. Because of that revisiting, I can say with accuracy that these friends know who they are to me. If they don't, I've got some visiting to do. You and yours, too.
Monday, June 9, 2014
At the bottom of my résumé, under Other Interests, I have included the following:
To be clear, then, what I'm trying to say is that I want to dedicate myself to work that matters in some way for not just myself, but for others. What I am trying to say is that I want the travel I experience to open me up to a better understanding of the greater world in both its glories and the needs of its people. What I am trying to say is that I am inspired by non-fiction books, which speak to the real life experiences of others from which I am inspired either to do likewise or to carry on.
When feeling overwhelmed, for example, I'm apt to say, "If Dear Mad'm can do it, so can I!" Check her out. Stella Walthall Patterson is her name, and "Dear Mad'm" is her story. It's definitely one of the 1940's, peppered here and there with occasional quirky political incorrectness, but one from which we can still gain. And, that's the point. To gain intrinsically, to grow in our ideals, in our virtues and values, and our ethical treatment of all of life. Live life experiences from which we can gain. Read books from which we can gain. All this can shape us to be more the kind of person we want to be.
I have a top seven, so far, of books that have done that for me. Stories to which I go back for regular helpings. "Dear Mad'm" is in that top seven for its story of an 80 year old woman striking out to live alone with her "young legs" in an isolated cabin in the mountains. So is "Angela's Ashes," from which I learned I'd rather be the oppressed than the oppressor. "Isaac's Storm," taught me that whatever storm or natural disaster we encounter in our own lives has already, most likely, happened in the life of someone else. We must be sensitive to and aware that Isaac stood on the coast of Galveston in early September 1900, feeling inadequate in his job as meteorologist, suspecting that something powerful was approaching that he couldn't even begin to name, nor from which he could save the people he loved.
"Christy" was only 19 years old when she boarded a train, alone, in Buncombe County North Carolina and entered into a place of need in Appalachia, not far from where I grew up in East Tennessee, and left the mark of education and opportunity for the people of that area. "The Long Walk to Freedom" never fails to remind me that it is possible to own a life, as Nelson Mandela did, that peacefully yet dramatically changes the course of a nation caught up in violent turmoil. And I pray anytime I want to complain about the cold or uncomfortable aspects of life, that Corrie Ten Boom will always be close by in remembrance. "The Hiding Place" calls us all to do better, and more, than complain.
Rounding out the life shaper list, and truly, in my opinion and belief, the Greatest Story Ever Told, is the Bible. These Words hold the story of God's plan for Creation, and that includes us. It is that plan upon which I rest and work and get on with that which is pure, that which is lovely, that which is admirable. Think on those things.
- Creating programs and opportunities for helping others reach their full potential and which improve the human condition
- Giving comfort to those in need
- Servant leadership
- Traveling (global, local, all types for cultural experiences)
- Reading books of purpose and value
Reviewing that résumé now, a few years after having composed it, I can see clearly that these are ideals rather than interests, but the list still makes perfect sense to me. These ideals matter in the definition of who I am. But why does that particular list matter so much to me that I am intent on keeping it in my résumé, even though I now can see that it is in a language perhaps not always understood by potential employers? In trying to clearly convey who I am, am I unintentionally esoteric?
To be clear, then, what I'm trying to say is that I want to dedicate myself to work that matters in some way for not just myself, but for others. What I am trying to say is that I want the travel I experience to open me up to a better understanding of the greater world in both its glories and the needs of its people. What I am trying to say is that I am inspired by non-fiction books, which speak to the real life experiences of others from which I am inspired either to do likewise or to carry on.
When feeling overwhelmed, for example, I'm apt to say, "If Dear Mad'm can do it, so can I!" Check her out. Stella Walthall Patterson is her name, and "Dear Mad'm" is her story. It's definitely one of the 1940's, peppered here and there with occasional quirky political incorrectness, but one from which we can still gain. And, that's the point. To gain intrinsically, to grow in our ideals, in our virtues and values, and our ethical treatment of all of life. Live life experiences from which we can gain. Read books from which we can gain. All this can shape us to be more the kind of person we want to be.
I have a top seven, so far, of books that have done that for me. Stories to which I go back for regular helpings. "Dear Mad'm" is in that top seven for its story of an 80 year old woman striking out to live alone with her "young legs" in an isolated cabin in the mountains. So is "Angela's Ashes," from which I learned I'd rather be the oppressed than the oppressor. "Isaac's Storm," taught me that whatever storm or natural disaster we encounter in our own lives has already, most likely, happened in the life of someone else. We must be sensitive to and aware that Isaac stood on the coast of Galveston in early September 1900, feeling inadequate in his job as meteorologist, suspecting that something powerful was approaching that he couldn't even begin to name, nor from which he could save the people he loved.
"Christy" was only 19 years old when she boarded a train, alone, in Buncombe County North Carolina and entered into a place of need in Appalachia, not far from where I grew up in East Tennessee, and left the mark of education and opportunity for the people of that area. "The Long Walk to Freedom" never fails to remind me that it is possible to own a life, as Nelson Mandela did, that peacefully yet dramatically changes the course of a nation caught up in violent turmoil. And I pray anytime I want to complain about the cold or uncomfortable aspects of life, that Corrie Ten Boom will always be close by in remembrance. "The Hiding Place" calls us all to do better, and more, than complain.
Rounding out the life shaper list, and truly, in my opinion and belief, the Greatest Story Ever Told, is the Bible. These Words hold the story of God's plan for Creation, and that includes us. It is that plan upon which I rest and work and get on with that which is pure, that which is lovely, that which is admirable. Think on those things.
Wednesday, April 30, 2014
The Return of Breath
I'm
glad I know signs of life when I see them. Were that not the case, my grand
gardenia bush would be a pile of clippings by the side of the road awaiting
Monday morning trash pickup. It was this gardenia bush that, during my house-shopping
saga in the spring of 2011, met me at the side of the front porch steps and said,
"Welcome home!" It was a remarkable sight, this gardenia, for north
Alabama, standing nearly as tall as I, and as rotund as a Mini Cooper. And, it
wasn't just all talk because over the summer it produced dozens and dozens of fragrant
flowers.
My
mother had grown up in Jasper, Alabama and had enjoyed the somewhat common
nature of a gardenia bush there. But when she was transplanted to East
Tennessee, way up near Bristol and Johnson City, she'd crossed the line of
temperate climate that gardenias need. That didn't stop her longing, or her
trying, to return gardenias to her personal landscape, though. How well I
remember the many attempts at planting and sustaining a gardenia bush in our
front yard, our back yard, or down on the farm. Each little bush had come in a
pot and was garnished with blossoms. It seemed possible. But, sadly each
gardenia bush that was planted succumbed to the early falls and long, cold
winters. Finally, it was a tabletop gardenia every spring that was her consolation.
So,
when I encountered this grand show of a gardenia bush, something within me was
stirred. And, that welcoming gardenia represented the new life that swept into
my grieving daughter when she followed me in through the front door for the
first time, breathed her first full, deep breath of 3 years, and said softly,
"this feels like home."
The
winter of 2014 in Huntsville AL was hard for all living creatures, the Arctic
Blast phenomenon that just wouldn't stop, and this, the following spring, I
noticed my gardenia bush ... well ... it looked like I might have to accept
some pretty hard facts. The leaves from the past summer lay dead and dry around
its base, the skinny little twig branches were barren when other signs of
spring were bursting forth all around it. It was as though the gardenia bush
stood alone, suddenly no longer aware of the coming of spring and the chance
for new growth and life.
Still,
I hoped. I hoped against hope. I bent over the bush, looking closely for new
growth, snapping off tips of tiny arms that once bore the blossoms. Weeks
passed, and I went one morning to prune the dead from the bush fully aware and
brokenhearted that the pruning might go to the roots. Still yet I found the
gardenia's twigs would snap off like the brittleness in my heart over losing
this grand gardenia, until ... one twig bent under pressure, it gave way with
some softness. Then another, and another. So, I took my clippers and backed
off, giving a bit more time of watching for any signs of life within.
Weeks
later, a day of rejoicing came when close inspection of the bush revealed the
tiniest of green growth, barely even perceptible, marching up the branches!
There is life! There shall be blossoms! This experience reminds me of the care
that must be taken with all that has life. Nurture life during tough winters,
prune away the brittleness, wait patiently for return of breath.
Friday, March 21, 2014
Life Atlas
I don't like giving directions to a place I've never been. I am wary of leading others astray. If the directions are not familiar to me from personal experience, I've been know to jump in the car and make a trial run following the directions I've been given before passing them on to someone else. Right before sending out invitations to our wedding reception I, shall we say, "encouraged" Frank to take us on a dry run to the remote destination. And, in much the same vein, I "encouraged" Frank to drive with me all the way from Huntsville, Alabama to Taft, Tennessee to the site of a celebration brunch, decisively following our own directions as we'd composed them before sharing them with our friends.
Seems I can't be sure of a journey, and certainly can't direct others on the same journey, unless I have traveled it myself.
And that has been a point of enlightenment for me. I often find myself discarding advice or opinions - and certainly being wary of giving advice or opinions - on subjects I know have not been personally experienced. And many of us generously serve opinion and advice like they're dollops of mashed potatoes. Who among us has not heard someone give a thorough synopsis, and resulting opinion, of a movie they've not seen or a book they've not read.
Nothing beats knowing personally what words like "6 - 18 months" feel like. Or, "the mass is 6 centimeters." Or, knowing how chemo feels, and how the process of loosing one's hair actually happens. Nothing can ever prepare a person for loosing a coveted job or position like actually loosing a coveted job or position. All the theories on how to manage Alzheimer's or Parkinson's pale in comparison of having traveled along with someone down that path. The guilt of divorce, the starkness of widowhood, the need to take the reigns, nothing can compare to experiencing those pivotal moments.
Being a subject of bullying develops an understanding of how words wound in a way that no onlooker can ever fully understand. Calling Huntsville's street people friends breeds kindredship as human beings unlike any study of demographics can. Having a common goal with someone very different opens the mind and the heart like no amount of reading about ways to do it can ever accomplish. Entering into the homes and life conditions of others outside our own awakens understanding that cannot be known from street view.
In experiencing the heartwarming joys, the unbearable pains and griefs, the paralyzing uncertainties, the awesome moments which reveal the sacredness of life, we're all building a Life Atlas. And in that Atlas will be directions, and landmarks that will lead others. Let's take great care then, shall we, in being careful that we, ourselves, have personally traveled to the destinations we include.
Seems I can't be sure of a journey, and certainly can't direct others on the same journey, unless I have traveled it myself.
And that has been a point of enlightenment for me. I often find myself discarding advice or opinions - and certainly being wary of giving advice or opinions - on subjects I know have not been personally experienced. And many of us generously serve opinion and advice like they're dollops of mashed potatoes. Who among us has not heard someone give a thorough synopsis, and resulting opinion, of a movie they've not seen or a book they've not read.
Nothing beats knowing personally what words like "6 - 18 months" feel like. Or, "the mass is 6 centimeters." Or, knowing how chemo feels, and how the process of loosing one's hair actually happens. Nothing can ever prepare a person for loosing a coveted job or position like actually loosing a coveted job or position. All the theories on how to manage Alzheimer's or Parkinson's pale in comparison of having traveled along with someone down that path. The guilt of divorce, the starkness of widowhood, the need to take the reigns, nothing can compare to experiencing those pivotal moments.
Being a subject of bullying develops an understanding of how words wound in a way that no onlooker can ever fully understand. Calling Huntsville's street people friends breeds kindredship as human beings unlike any study of demographics can. Having a common goal with someone very different opens the mind and the heart like no amount of reading about ways to do it can ever accomplish. Entering into the homes and life conditions of others outside our own awakens understanding that cannot be known from street view.
In experiencing the heartwarming joys, the unbearable pains and griefs, the paralyzing uncertainties, the awesome moments which reveal the sacredness of life, we're all building a Life Atlas. And in that Atlas will be directions, and landmarks that will lead others. Let's take great care then, shall we, in being careful that we, ourselves, have personally traveled to the destinations we include.
Saturday, March 15, 2014
Cheers to hard times! Really.
Frank and I, in our two giddy years of marriage, have been warned by the long married folks more than once to "get ready," "watch out." Or they may say, "just you wait." "Hard times are lurking out there somewhere for you two. Let's see if you still have that smile on your face and that glint in your eye when they hit. Then the honeymoon's sure to be over," and some people who know us well might add "finally."
I confess that Frank and I regularly reel in our gloating to each other and about each other because we are very aware we are probably obnoxious. Very happy, we are. Hinged and buckled up as one, we are. Function best together, we do. It shocks Frank, the independent bachelor til 58 and his first time saying "I do" when he said it to me. It pleases me, the one not married for the first time this time, that I know how skewed we could be by now with what I know are more typical responses to, well, most life experiences. I know what it's like to aggravate someone by the very breath I take. I know what it's like to throw the Coke can into the wall out of absolute outrage over something much, much bigger than the Coke can.
So, here's the public service announcement, and trust me on this one - I'm old enough and experienced to know ... I'm reaching elder status after all - Frank and I had a tractor-trailor load of challenge thrown at us from the very beginning than could ever be guessed or imagined. And, it chased us well into two years. Maybe this was all accelerated because we knew time was wastin'. We had enough "stuff" one day early on as we sat in his house chatting, that I looked at his front door and wondered why I wasn't hearing it slam behind me as I walked out and left that set of challenges.
But, I didn't walk out. He didn't give up. We knew that at the core of Frank and Rhonda was something Divine, something that could not be denied. Love. That was it. True love. Unconditional love. And that Core Love is still there. It's the hard times that prove it. Granted, it takes two, but we don't leave things unprocessed that grow into hatred. The air must be cleared, so we take the time to make time to really hear each other. And, that makes us feel safer with each other. The love has been tested and proven.
Bumps in the road prove a car sturdy, or not, able to absorb the shocks, or not. Turbulence in flight proves the steadiness of the pilot, or not. Crisis proves strength in a leader, unity among people, or not.
So, I say "Cheers to hard times. Really."
I confess that Frank and I regularly reel in our gloating to each other and about each other because we are very aware we are probably obnoxious. Very happy, we are. Hinged and buckled up as one, we are. Function best together, we do. It shocks Frank, the independent bachelor til 58 and his first time saying "I do" when he said it to me. It pleases me, the one not married for the first time this time, that I know how skewed we could be by now with what I know are more typical responses to, well, most life experiences. I know what it's like to aggravate someone by the very breath I take. I know what it's like to throw the Coke can into the wall out of absolute outrage over something much, much bigger than the Coke can.
So, here's the public service announcement, and trust me on this one - I'm old enough and experienced to know ... I'm reaching elder status after all - Frank and I had a tractor-trailor load of challenge thrown at us from the very beginning than could ever be guessed or imagined. And, it chased us well into two years. Maybe this was all accelerated because we knew time was wastin'. We had enough "stuff" one day early on as we sat in his house chatting, that I looked at his front door and wondered why I wasn't hearing it slam behind me as I walked out and left that set of challenges.
But, I didn't walk out. He didn't give up. We knew that at the core of Frank and Rhonda was something Divine, something that could not be denied. Love. That was it. True love. Unconditional love. And that Core Love is still there. It's the hard times that prove it. Granted, it takes two, but we don't leave things unprocessed that grow into hatred. The air must be cleared, so we take the time to make time to really hear each other. And, that makes us feel safer with each other. The love has been tested and proven.
Bumps in the road prove a car sturdy, or not, able to absorb the shocks, or not. Turbulence in flight proves the steadiness of the pilot, or not. Crisis proves strength in a leader, unity among people, or not.
So, I say "Cheers to hard times. Really."
Tuesday, February 25, 2014
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).
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).
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