Merv is one of my favorite people in the world, or recently has attained that status since we have moved to Rockford. Merv is one of my next door neighbors; he is a cross between Wilson from Home Improvement, and Mr. Rogers. More the latter than the former I think. Merv and his wife, Ruth, live directly across the street; the road is not a barrier between our houses, more like a moving conveyor belt like you might see in an airport. A couple of times a week either he or I can be seen floating across the street to chat or borrow stuff.
Merv is seventy-five years old but (and this is said in the most positive sense of the word) acts like a twenty-four year old. He stands five foot six at the maximum; his thin white hair waves in the wind like corn silk. Sometimes I watch the hair on his head - it is mesmerizing, it puts me into a trance. Sometimes a rouse myself and find him looking at me as if I have missed the question he has put forth. I don't know if I have seen Merv yet without a smile on his face. Smiles are always encouraged by eyes and Merv has really big eyes - they are magnified by enormous glasses with lenses circa 1980.
The thing about Merv is he's got ants in his pants. That's what my parents used to say when I, or my siblings, couldn't sit still. It seems to me like Merv mows his lawn four times a week or he's got some sort of project that requires immediate attention. Sometimes, when Merv can't find things to do at his house, he'll come over to mine and start fixing things at my place. A few weeks ago, while I was walking Greta home from school, one of my other neighbors, Christina, asked if I was hiring out for lawn help. With a surprised look on my face I told her 'no.' She said that there was this old guy in my front lawn spreading fertilizer. She wondered why I hadn't hired someone younger to do my lawn.
Another time I got a call at my office by a different neighbor who had called to tell me there was a stranger on top of my roof (and he didn't have a big red suit and a bag of toys). Merv had been on the roof of my house patching my chimney so it didn't leak.
I like Merv - not just 'cause he takes care of me and teaches me how to do home improvement projects, but because he's an average Joe - Average Merv; I should start calling him that.
A month ago, after Christine and I had watched our two maple trees fall, I decided to rent a log-splitter. Most people who know me know that I am machinery inept. Table saws scare me; jigsaws give me nightmares and my last attempt at using a nail gun made me so angry I almost nailed my shoe to the floor. It's not that I don't understand machinery, but I think there is a vast conspiracy by tool makers and moving part experts to foil all attempts that I make to improve my home.
So, I decided to get a log splitter. I have neither the muscles nor the aim to split all the logs of two trees. I also decided that I needed help. If anyone would know anything about splitting logs, it would have to be Merv. When I asked him he said, "Sure I'll help you split logs."
"You've done this before, right?" I asked.
"I was an accountant - that wasn't part of the job description," he responded. "But, how hard can it be?"
It turns out, it really wasn't that hard. The guy who rented the machine to me showed me all of the proper procedures for turning it on, squishing logs, proper use blah, blah, blah. All that I heard and saw was this cool looking contraption that looked like a cannon from a space ship. I couldn't wait to get home to try the baby out.
As we backed the machine into the driveway, Merv's perma-smile got just a bit bigger. We had three hours to be 'real men' doing 'real men' things. Like Tim the Toolman, I got everything prepared and we started the operation. At first we were tentative; I was putting logs in, pulling my hands back while Merv ran the joystick. It was loud, hot work but the power of the machine was incredible. Even the biggest logs splintered like twigs. As we got the hang of it, I got more and more comfortable with what I was doing. The machine was no more an instrument of great power but a toy. I lessened my attentiveness. Faster and faster I put the logs on; pulling them out with great abandonment.
Around 11:00 Merv said that he had to go to lunch soon so I increased the pace.
It happened so quickly. I don't remember how it happened, but in my haste, in my ignorance of the true power of the machinery, pain surge from my hand. Somehow, on the last log, the end of my thumb had become lodged between the log and the brace and as the wedge crushed the log, so too was the end of my thumb. Pain was instantaneous; so was the blood. I looked at the remnant of the last part of my thumb, then I looked at Merv and shook my head. It wasn't good and certainly wasn't pretty. If only I hadn't been so stupid. If only I could just rewind my life a few minutes and remember the power of the machinery. If I could go back and do it all over again.
I got to visit the doctor a couple of days later. I won't go into the graphic details of what my thumb looked like but we'll just say it wasn't for the squeamish. The doctor didn't seem to care too much. Obviously they've seen some things worse than this. He unwrapped the splint and thumb made a 'hmmm' sound from his throat - that made me nervous and then said, 'Looks good, Mr. Matthias."
What? Looks good? Are you joking or just a sadist?
"Well," he said, "Here's what's probably going to happen: First of all, the bone you broke probably will never reconnect - but some scar tissue will build up between the bones and maybe that will be just fine. Second thing. Your thumb nail will fall off - or at least part of it. If it doesn't come all the way off, we'll probably have to numb your thumb and pull it off." I think my eyes started to roll back in my head for a little bit. "Stay with me, Mr. Matthias. If, and that's a big if, if your nail comes back the odds are it won't be in the same formation that it was in the past. It probably will have some ridges - only half may come in. In fact, it may be that your nail doesn't grow out straight, but out and up. That will be interesting." Interesting for you, Doc. So, what he's telling me, get used to being The Thumb in the freak show at the Circus.
"What about the numbness, Doc?" I asked. I hate the feeling of not being able to feel a certain part of skin. That gives me the willies.
"Because the cut was so deep, you probably won't gain full feeling again. You might experience pressure or maybe some hot and cold, but feeling - I don't know. It'll just take time to see how this all plays out. But, you'll get used to it."
Easy for him to say. Easy for him to say.
If only. A lot of if only's come talk to me. If only I hadn't said this. If only I hadn't done that.
A man called me a while ago and said that his wife had caught him cheating on her - it wasn't physical, but there were some questionable e-mails and photographs. Some would call it an emotional affair - semantics, if you ask me - Jesus says, if you even look at another woman who is not your wife in a lustful way, you have committed adultery. Either way, his wife was appropriately furious, angry, hurt and resentful. The man asked me if I knew what was going to happen.
If only. If only.
Well, in many ways it is a perfect application of The Thumb analogy. Marriage, when first begun, normally has an essence of power about it. We stand back and revel in the beauty and awesomeness of trusting your heart and life to someone else. The vows we make impel us to be very careful with the heart of the person that we are caring for. Sometimes, after a few years, marriage for some becomes routine - it becomes just a part of life and the emotional and physical power that once seemed so overwhelming becomes a normal part of life. Some forget the awesome power that marriage has and we take it for granted. Then, eyes are put where they shouldn't be or hearts where they weren't meant to be. This man said it was exciting at first. It felt like he was getting away with something. He felt like a 'real man' again. Someone was paying attention to him.
But then the fateful day. He was caught. Trapped. Squished. Broken. If only he could do it over.
Now the predicament that his sin had led him to was very painful, very present and very real. The brokenness of their marriage may or may not ever be healed. Certainly, it would never be the same. The scar tissue might heal to some semblance of the past, but numbness might be a constant for the rest of their life together. Just like my nail may not come in fully, or even at all, their marriage will take a lot of time and healing before it is functional again. He and his wife need a splint, but it will take a superhuman amount of forgiveness from an incredibly strong wife to begin to trust and grow again.
The man didn't appreciate the power of marriage. In the bond of marriage there should be safety. When a man and woman leave their parents and join themselves together, they are one. What the husband does affects the wife - everything! What the wife does, the husband feels - everything! That is the power of marriage.
If only the world would start to respect the power of marriage more.
Friday, June 5, 2009
Thursday, May 21, 2009
Job Satisfaction part tres
Perhaps everyone has some job dis-satisfaction at some point. Their profession turns abruptly to con-fession, and all of us can confess that there are parts of a career that we would love to do without.
My brother-in-law is a partner for Accenture (formerly Arthur Anderson). Russell has worked all over the world including exotic places like New Zealand, Kuala Lumpur, London, Amsterdam, Singapore and, of course, Canada. The one place Russell will not work is the United States - and why is that? Not because he doesn't like the States or that he has a political quarrel with this country, but he doesn't appreciate working 80 hours per week and then receiving so little time off to rejuvenate. Almost everywhere else in the world, there is a mandatory four weeks of holidays for workers so that they can be more productive, but here in the States? You'd be fortunate indeed if you received at least three. There is something so appealing and appalling at the same time about the American "work ethic." The harder you work, the more money you earn, the less time you spend with your family and children, the more (possibly) you rue the lack of time enjoyed when you were younger.
Why the love affair with the almighty work ethic? I have even heard some workers bragging about how much time they work and how little time they spent at home. "I worked 70 hours last week," one might say. "Yes, well, I had a presentation with the 'higher up' and pulled two all nighters." A last one might add, "I gave 70 hours at the office, fifteen hours of charity work, and missed the birth of my daughter. Ah well, she'll forgive me someday."
Of course the last statement I made up, but we often play that career poker game of upping the ante and laying down a full house of not being in the house. It is shameful. But we must work, right?
Yes, we must and there are still parts of the job we would love to avoid whether personnel issues, details or public speaking. If we could trim down our jobs to doing just the things we like to do, well, then you've got your hobby.
The characters of my tree chopping story had different understandings and levels of job satisfaction (or dis-satisfaction), but what was most saddening was that none of them enjoyed what they were doing. Not only were they not being paid well, but it was simply a way to spend their time.
The economy has tanked, and in some ways, I don't want this blog to come off as patronizing, but at this point, when people are out of work, in some ways, it's a re-orientation of what people would really like to do with their lives. What is it that moves them? What is their passion? It might even be an opportunity to sit back, take a deep breath and ask the question, "What is it that God has planned for me?"
How will God use you? Even in the midst of hardships with a profession, how will God use you?
Paul was a tent-maker. Working with canvas (actually, I have no idea what they made tents out of two thousand years ago, but go with me) could have been a tedious job. And, strangely enough, Paul could have done anything he wanted. With his education, his intelligence, his oratory abilities, Paul could have been a Public Relations person for the Roman Empire and made good money at it, too. But, of course, Paul listened to the voice of God (after a while and after some horrible decisions) and was called to put his talents to use.
Many youth and adults that I have come into contact with assume that Paul was always happy with his decision, that he had a nice life as a preacher - worked one day a weak like all preachers do. He lived in a big house next to the temple, carried out his Sunday duties, kissed the kids when they went off to kindergarten.
Many of you already know that Paul was not married, had no real permanent home, although he was a Roman citizen. His preaching was not limited to temples either: he was perfectly comfortable sharing his gifts wherever he was. But, what many people don't realize about the apostle Paul, that his tasks - his profession - his road as an evangelist was pocked with pitfalls. 2 Cor. 11:23-31
"Are they ministers of Christ? I am talking like a madman - I am a better one: with far greater labors, far more imprisonments, with countless floggings, and often near death. Five times I have received from the Jews the forty lashes minus one. Three times I was beaten with rods. Once I received a stoning. Three times I was shipwrecked; for a night and a day adrift at sea; on frequent journeys, in danger from rivers, danger from bandits, danger from my own people, danger from Gentiles, danger in the city, danger in the wilderness, danger at sea, danger from false brothers and sisters; in toil and hardship, through many a sleepless night, hungry and thirsty, often without food, cold and naked. And, besides other things, I am under daily pressure because of my anxiety for all churches. Who is weak, and am I not weak? Who is made to stumble, and I am not indignant? If I must boast, I will boast of the things that show my weakness. The God and Father of the Lord Jesus (blessed be he forever!) knows I do not lie."
Paul had the weight of the world on his shoulders; not just the physical suffering, not just the emotional abandonment, not simply the horrifying circumstances, but he carried the cares of a burgeoning church like the yoke of an oxen. But even in his calling, he realized his reliance on the Lord. And so he pressed on - he was greater for it. The beatings and dangers made him stronger and he impressed that fact upon the Corinthians and those who read the letters - even to us today! His job satisfaction was at an all time high because he was weak in the Lord which made him strong. 12:9 "But he said to me, 'My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.' So I will boast all the more gladly of my weaknesses, so that the power of Christ may dwell in me."
His grace is sufficient. Even as we struggle through our job satisfaction (or dis-satisfaction) his grace is sufficient and in our weakness, God's power (which is his love) is made perfect. Reliance in him created the power of the Apostle Paul. If anyone was entitled to claim job dis-satisfaction, Paul could have. But, he simply claimed to be weak.
A few months ago, I met with a young man in his early 30's who had been stationed in some heavy combat in Iraq. Not only was he suffering from emotional and physical trauma from military duty, but when he returned, his life took a drastic turn for the worse as his spouse had not stayed faithful while he was serving his country. I met with him at his parents' house and, while sitting under an umbrella on the back deck, he revealed to me how he felt the need to be strong - the need to be in control. He needed to swallow all of his emotions so that he could be the powerful soldier that he was: no soldier would weep over the hand the life dealt.
He was struggling with a power issue. And as we met, I talked with him about this verse. Maybe God was calling him to be weak? Maybe God was calling him to let the power shift to the Almighty? Maybe true healing comes from our ability to be weak and let the Spirit take control.
The young man wept. His tears - his fears of failure, denial, rage, pain, agony came rushing in a torrent. It was a flood of emotion that I had never seen before - the dam broke and after everything had poured out an overwhelming sense of exhaustion rolled over his face. His body fell limp. He tried to apologize and then stopped himself. "I'm finally weak," he said. "I'm finally weak."
In our weakness, God does his greatest work. In our suffering, God loves us harder than ever. In our struggles with profession or con-fession, God works through us so that we can live in this world and love others.
We may or may not be satisfied with our job which earns wages, but we can be satisfied with our calling as Christians - to love.
Just to be satisfied with the job of loving.
My brother-in-law is a partner for Accenture (formerly Arthur Anderson). Russell has worked all over the world including exotic places like New Zealand, Kuala Lumpur, London, Amsterdam, Singapore and, of course, Canada. The one place Russell will not work is the United States - and why is that? Not because he doesn't like the States or that he has a political quarrel with this country, but he doesn't appreciate working 80 hours per week and then receiving so little time off to rejuvenate. Almost everywhere else in the world, there is a mandatory four weeks of holidays for workers so that they can be more productive, but here in the States? You'd be fortunate indeed if you received at least three. There is something so appealing and appalling at the same time about the American "work ethic." The harder you work, the more money you earn, the less time you spend with your family and children, the more (possibly) you rue the lack of time enjoyed when you were younger.
Why the love affair with the almighty work ethic? I have even heard some workers bragging about how much time they work and how little time they spent at home. "I worked 70 hours last week," one might say. "Yes, well, I had a presentation with the 'higher up' and pulled two all nighters." A last one might add, "I gave 70 hours at the office, fifteen hours of charity work, and missed the birth of my daughter. Ah well, she'll forgive me someday."
Of course the last statement I made up, but we often play that career poker game of upping the ante and laying down a full house of not being in the house. It is shameful. But we must work, right?
Yes, we must and there are still parts of the job we would love to avoid whether personnel issues, details or public speaking. If we could trim down our jobs to doing just the things we like to do, well, then you've got your hobby.
The characters of my tree chopping story had different understandings and levels of job satisfaction (or dis-satisfaction), but what was most saddening was that none of them enjoyed what they were doing. Not only were they not being paid well, but it was simply a way to spend their time.
The economy has tanked, and in some ways, I don't want this blog to come off as patronizing, but at this point, when people are out of work, in some ways, it's a re-orientation of what people would really like to do with their lives. What is it that moves them? What is their passion? It might even be an opportunity to sit back, take a deep breath and ask the question, "What is it that God has planned for me?"
How will God use you? Even in the midst of hardships with a profession, how will God use you?
Paul was a tent-maker. Working with canvas (actually, I have no idea what they made tents out of two thousand years ago, but go with me) could have been a tedious job. And, strangely enough, Paul could have done anything he wanted. With his education, his intelligence, his oratory abilities, Paul could have been a Public Relations person for the Roman Empire and made good money at it, too. But, of course, Paul listened to the voice of God (after a while and after some horrible decisions) and was called to put his talents to use.
Many youth and adults that I have come into contact with assume that Paul was always happy with his decision, that he had a nice life as a preacher - worked one day a weak like all preachers do. He lived in a big house next to the temple, carried out his Sunday duties, kissed the kids when they went off to kindergarten.
Many of you already know that Paul was not married, had no real permanent home, although he was a Roman citizen. His preaching was not limited to temples either: he was perfectly comfortable sharing his gifts wherever he was. But, what many people don't realize about the apostle Paul, that his tasks - his profession - his road as an evangelist was pocked with pitfalls. 2 Cor. 11:23-31
"Are they ministers of Christ? I am talking like a madman - I am a better one: with far greater labors, far more imprisonments, with countless floggings, and often near death. Five times I have received from the Jews the forty lashes minus one. Three times I was beaten with rods. Once I received a stoning. Three times I was shipwrecked; for a night and a day adrift at sea; on frequent journeys, in danger from rivers, danger from bandits, danger from my own people, danger from Gentiles, danger in the city, danger in the wilderness, danger at sea, danger from false brothers and sisters; in toil and hardship, through many a sleepless night, hungry and thirsty, often without food, cold and naked. And, besides other things, I am under daily pressure because of my anxiety for all churches. Who is weak, and am I not weak? Who is made to stumble, and I am not indignant? If I must boast, I will boast of the things that show my weakness. The God and Father of the Lord Jesus (blessed be he forever!) knows I do not lie."
Paul had the weight of the world on his shoulders; not just the physical suffering, not just the emotional abandonment, not simply the horrifying circumstances, but he carried the cares of a burgeoning church like the yoke of an oxen. But even in his calling, he realized his reliance on the Lord. And so he pressed on - he was greater for it. The beatings and dangers made him stronger and he impressed that fact upon the Corinthians and those who read the letters - even to us today! His job satisfaction was at an all time high because he was weak in the Lord which made him strong. 12:9 "But he said to me, 'My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.' So I will boast all the more gladly of my weaknesses, so that the power of Christ may dwell in me."
His grace is sufficient. Even as we struggle through our job satisfaction (or dis-satisfaction) his grace is sufficient and in our weakness, God's power (which is his love) is made perfect. Reliance in him created the power of the Apostle Paul. If anyone was entitled to claim job dis-satisfaction, Paul could have. But, he simply claimed to be weak.
A few months ago, I met with a young man in his early 30's who had been stationed in some heavy combat in Iraq. Not only was he suffering from emotional and physical trauma from military duty, but when he returned, his life took a drastic turn for the worse as his spouse had not stayed faithful while he was serving his country. I met with him at his parents' house and, while sitting under an umbrella on the back deck, he revealed to me how he felt the need to be strong - the need to be in control. He needed to swallow all of his emotions so that he could be the powerful soldier that he was: no soldier would weep over the hand the life dealt.
He was struggling with a power issue. And as we met, I talked with him about this verse. Maybe God was calling him to be weak? Maybe God was calling him to let the power shift to the Almighty? Maybe true healing comes from our ability to be weak and let the Spirit take control.
The young man wept. His tears - his fears of failure, denial, rage, pain, agony came rushing in a torrent. It was a flood of emotion that I had never seen before - the dam broke and after everything had poured out an overwhelming sense of exhaustion rolled over his face. His body fell limp. He tried to apologize and then stopped himself. "I'm finally weak," he said. "I'm finally weak."
In our weakness, God does his greatest work. In our suffering, God loves us harder than ever. In our struggles with profession or con-fession, God works through us so that we can live in this world and love others.
We may or may not be satisfied with our job which earns wages, but we can be satisfied with our calling as Christians - to love.
Just to be satisfied with the job of loving.
Friday, May 15, 2009
Job Satisfaction - Part Deux
The tree expert, the one from the far distant land of Moronia, from here-to-forth (I don't know if that's really a phrase) shall be called Ernie, placed his tool of choice on the ground. It was a blending of a pool skimmer pole and a chainsaw. I have no idea how it worked other than the fact that the blade moved from twenty feet away while Ernie could keep his feet planted firmly on the ground. Ernie moved with the fluidity of a natural athlete; his bare arms rippled when he held the chainsaw. I watched Christine out of the corner of my eye to see if she was noticing the physique of this young buck. Yup. I tried to place myself a little more in the path of her view so she would look at my be-muscled form. I flexed. Nothing. I cleared my throat while raising my own arms behind my head. She was transfixed. But who can blame her? For her to look at my arms at that point would be like a person going to the zoo to look at domesticated kittens while the lions are roaring in the background.
Ernie, with no verbal encouragement from his friends - in fact, there was not even a recognition that Ernie was going to climb the tree at all - put these spiky things on his shoes, draped some ropes over his head, I noticed he was looking our way to see if we were watching - he purposely flexed his muscles - I saw that! - and began to shinny his way up the now stripped down maple tree. Our tree looked as if it had been systematically disrobed; naked, it stood, as if on stage, very self-conscious, wanting only to disappear. It was at that point I felt the most sorry for it, if one can feel pain for a tree anyway. I think this is the way many people feel at the end of their lives, disrobed, naked - nothing left to cover them. They are painfully aware that earthly life is soon to disappear.
I worked in a nursing home for my clinical pastoral education. Through the first thirty-one years of my life, I had never been in the presence of any one who was truly in the last stages of dying. But, that changed when I met Catherine. She was smart as a whip; feisty, eighty-eight years old and weighed about ninety pounds. The opportunity arose for me to visit with Catherine a few times during a rousing game of Bingo. While most people in the nursing home were playing one card, Catherine was playing three and in the midst of the calls, she would quickly place her chips and go right back to her crossword puzzle. She saw me approach and squinted her eyes through her enormously thick glasses.
"Hello, young buck," she said. Most people in the nursing home dispense with any formalities about titles. They've earned the right, I believe.
"Hello, Catherine, how are we today?"
She waved her hand at me as if flushing a gnat from in front of her face. "Pshh. Shut up, Reid. Stop acting like one of the stiff doctors."
I took a chair beside her. "Are you winning?"
She looked over the table in front of her. An assortment of shampoos, stuffed animals, hand creams and quarters were strewn in front of her. She leaned over to whisper to me. "Some of the others get excited about this (excrement), but to me, it's just stuff to clutter up my room. I usually just give it away anyway."
"That's very kind of you, Catherine."
"I just don't want it in my room. There's nothing kind about it." She reached over and grabbed my hand. "Let's blow this popsicle stand."
We strolled down the hallway to her room, she in her wheelchair, I, ambulatory. As we turned in to her room, she motioned for me to sit in one of the last remnants from her home. It was an old, greenish-brown rocking chair circa 1965. As I sat down, she wheeled herself closer to me and immediately took my hand back onto the pillow on her lap covered by a blanket. Catherine always had a blanket over her legs. With liver-spotted hands, she stroked my hand like a cat.
"Reid, I'm getting ready to die."
"Don't say that, Catherine, you've got a lot of days left to live."
She gripped my hand tighter. With one hand she pulled back the blanket to reveal something that I had not known about her. She had both legs amputated. My first reaction was to pull my hands away from her. Holding on tight she said, "That's the reaction that most people have - fear. They want to pull away as if diabetes was contagious, or that death can be transferred through the air we breathe. Please don't do that."
I tried to relax. She pulled the blanket back over her legs. "I'm going to die," she repeated. "But that's not the worst part. What is the scariest, most hurtful part, is that I've been amputated from my family and friends. They come because they feel guilty, or responsible. They don't really want to be here; they just want to put in their time so that they can get their inheritance when I'm gone." I shook my head. "Slowly, piece by piece, my life is being lopped off just like my legs, and I am left just a small shell. It's horrible."
Catherine died two days after this discussion.
It was horrible to watch our tree fall. Piece by piece, amputated from the head to the roots, falling sometimes gracefully to the ground, sometimes crashing. Ernie dissected our maple tree until she was simply a stump sticking up from the ground like a giant's knuckle. As Ernie finished his dismantling, the other three scrambled around on the ground where the tree used to stand. Like ants searching for discarded crumbs from a picnic, the other three workers piled up limbs, branches and leaves. The youngest, who was also the smallest, seemed to be the guinea pig of the group. He got all the rough jobs. Mainly, it was his task to stack the largest of the cut logs, put them into a wheel barrow, and stack them once again around the side of our garage. I tried once again to strike up a conversation.
"So you get to be the strongback of the group?" I asked.
"Yeah, I'm the newest. I get all the jobs that the other (sphincter muscles) don't want to do."
"What's your name?" I walked with him to help him deliver his load of chopped limbs.
"Pete."
"Pete, do you mind if I make an observation?"
"Go ahead." He struggled to lift some of the biggest logs on to the pile.
"It doesn't appear as if your crew gets along very well."
Eddie looked at me out of the corner of his eye. Sweat dripped from his brow as the largest of the tree stumps thumped onto the red lava rock that covers the ground outside of our garage.
"Are you a fortune teller?" He smirked.
"Not that I know of," I said.
"The guys I work with are a bunch of (gluteus maximii). They show up, pretend to look busy, and boss me around. I'm fed up with it. I'm about to tell them to shove it (expletives deleted.)" He looked me over for a little bit and then continued. "I'm working two jobs, my girlfriend and I just had a baby, and I'm eight hundred dollars behind on rent. Those guys..." He shook his head.
From a distance I heard Pete being called back. "Pete. Get your lazy (bones) back here and keep working!" One of the others, who I assumed to be the leader of the crew had lit up a smoke and was waving to Peter. Peter mumbled under his breath and hefted his wheelbarrow back to the downed tree. As he made his way through the now trampled grass, the foreman began to lay into Peter. I couldn't here what he was saying, but body language spoke volumes. The foreman pointed his finger into Peter's face; his voice obviously raised, the capillaries in his face filled to full volume. After his verbal admonishment, the foreman walked over to where I was standing. With a stance of penitence the foreman said, "Sorry about that."
I raised my hand. "No problem." I had no idea what he was sorry about.
"He does this on most jobs. If he can chat up the owners, he'll tell them a sob story about his family situation. He hopes that the owners of the trees will feel pity for him and give him a secret bonus. This is his last warning. So, I truly apologize." If he would have been wearing a hat, it would have been in his hands, I think.
"Is his situation really as dire as he says it is?" I asked.
"Well, yeah," the foreman said. "But that's so unprofessional. Besides, if he gets tips on the side, where does that leave the rest of us." The foreman mumbled under his breath. Some form of curse against Peter, I think.
I waved him off over the chorus of chainsaws. "I hope you have a better day."
He didn't say a word.
Ernie, with no verbal encouragement from his friends - in fact, there was not even a recognition that Ernie was going to climb the tree at all - put these spiky things on his shoes, draped some ropes over his head, I noticed he was looking our way to see if we were watching - he purposely flexed his muscles - I saw that! - and began to shinny his way up the now stripped down maple tree. Our tree looked as if it had been systematically disrobed; naked, it stood, as if on stage, very self-conscious, wanting only to disappear. It was at that point I felt the most sorry for it, if one can feel pain for a tree anyway. I think this is the way many people feel at the end of their lives, disrobed, naked - nothing left to cover them. They are painfully aware that earthly life is soon to disappear.
I worked in a nursing home for my clinical pastoral education. Through the first thirty-one years of my life, I had never been in the presence of any one who was truly in the last stages of dying. But, that changed when I met Catherine. She was smart as a whip; feisty, eighty-eight years old and weighed about ninety pounds. The opportunity arose for me to visit with Catherine a few times during a rousing game of Bingo. While most people in the nursing home were playing one card, Catherine was playing three and in the midst of the calls, she would quickly place her chips and go right back to her crossword puzzle. She saw me approach and squinted her eyes through her enormously thick glasses.
"Hello, young buck," she said. Most people in the nursing home dispense with any formalities about titles. They've earned the right, I believe.
"Hello, Catherine, how are we today?"
She waved her hand at me as if flushing a gnat from in front of her face. "Pshh. Shut up, Reid. Stop acting like one of the stiff doctors."
I took a chair beside her. "Are you winning?"
She looked over the table in front of her. An assortment of shampoos, stuffed animals, hand creams and quarters were strewn in front of her. She leaned over to whisper to me. "Some of the others get excited about this (excrement), but to me, it's just stuff to clutter up my room. I usually just give it away anyway."
"That's very kind of you, Catherine."
"I just don't want it in my room. There's nothing kind about it." She reached over and grabbed my hand. "Let's blow this popsicle stand."
We strolled down the hallway to her room, she in her wheelchair, I, ambulatory. As we turned in to her room, she motioned for me to sit in one of the last remnants from her home. It was an old, greenish-brown rocking chair circa 1965. As I sat down, she wheeled herself closer to me and immediately took my hand back onto the pillow on her lap covered by a blanket. Catherine always had a blanket over her legs. With liver-spotted hands, she stroked my hand like a cat.
"Reid, I'm getting ready to die."
"Don't say that, Catherine, you've got a lot of days left to live."
She gripped my hand tighter. With one hand she pulled back the blanket to reveal something that I had not known about her. She had both legs amputated. My first reaction was to pull my hands away from her. Holding on tight she said, "That's the reaction that most people have - fear. They want to pull away as if diabetes was contagious, or that death can be transferred through the air we breathe. Please don't do that."
I tried to relax. She pulled the blanket back over her legs. "I'm going to die," she repeated. "But that's not the worst part. What is the scariest, most hurtful part, is that I've been amputated from my family and friends. They come because they feel guilty, or responsible. They don't really want to be here; they just want to put in their time so that they can get their inheritance when I'm gone." I shook my head. "Slowly, piece by piece, my life is being lopped off just like my legs, and I am left just a small shell. It's horrible."
Catherine died two days after this discussion.
It was horrible to watch our tree fall. Piece by piece, amputated from the head to the roots, falling sometimes gracefully to the ground, sometimes crashing. Ernie dissected our maple tree until she was simply a stump sticking up from the ground like a giant's knuckle. As Ernie finished his dismantling, the other three scrambled around on the ground where the tree used to stand. Like ants searching for discarded crumbs from a picnic, the other three workers piled up limbs, branches and leaves. The youngest, who was also the smallest, seemed to be the guinea pig of the group. He got all the rough jobs. Mainly, it was his task to stack the largest of the cut logs, put them into a wheel barrow, and stack them once again around the side of our garage. I tried once again to strike up a conversation.
"So you get to be the strongback of the group?" I asked.
"Yeah, I'm the newest. I get all the jobs that the other (sphincter muscles) don't want to do."
"What's your name?" I walked with him to help him deliver his load of chopped limbs.
"Pete."
"Pete, do you mind if I make an observation?"
"Go ahead." He struggled to lift some of the biggest logs on to the pile.
"It doesn't appear as if your crew gets along very well."
Eddie looked at me out of the corner of his eye. Sweat dripped from his brow as the largest of the tree stumps thumped onto the red lava rock that covers the ground outside of our garage.
"Are you a fortune teller?" He smirked.
"Not that I know of," I said.
"The guys I work with are a bunch of (gluteus maximii). They show up, pretend to look busy, and boss me around. I'm fed up with it. I'm about to tell them to shove it (expletives deleted.)" He looked me over for a little bit and then continued. "I'm working two jobs, my girlfriend and I just had a baby, and I'm eight hundred dollars behind on rent. Those guys..." He shook his head.
From a distance I heard Pete being called back. "Pete. Get your lazy (bones) back here and keep working!" One of the others, who I assumed to be the leader of the crew had lit up a smoke and was waving to Peter. Peter mumbled under his breath and hefted his wheelbarrow back to the downed tree. As he made his way through the now trampled grass, the foreman began to lay into Peter. I couldn't here what he was saying, but body language spoke volumes. The foreman pointed his finger into Peter's face; his voice obviously raised, the capillaries in his face filled to full volume. After his verbal admonishment, the foreman walked over to where I was standing. With a stance of penitence the foreman said, "Sorry about that."
I raised my hand. "No problem." I had no idea what he was sorry about.
"He does this on most jobs. If he can chat up the owners, he'll tell them a sob story about his family situation. He hopes that the owners of the trees will feel pity for him and give him a secret bonus. This is his last warning. So, I truly apologize." If he would have been wearing a hat, it would have been in his hands, I think.
"Is his situation really as dire as he says it is?" I asked.
"Well, yeah," the foreman said. "But that's so unprofessional. Besides, if he gets tips on the side, where does that leave the rest of us." The foreman mumbled under his breath. Some form of curse against Peter, I think.
I waved him off over the chorus of chainsaws. "I hope you have a better day."
He didn't say a word.
Thursday, May 14, 2009
Job Satisfaction
This will be a multi-part story - I think most people like sequels, although generally the second installment often falls short of the mark. I will attempt in this coupling of weeks to produce some semblance of profundity, but if I fail, ah well, just a blog. Just a blog.
This is a tale of two Mondays. The first, I, Reid, an observer. The second, I, Reid, a character worthy of a Oscar nomination.
Monday #1:
The day blossomed brightly; the light shone through the cracks in the window panes of my bedroom between the shade and the wood. It splayed lightly on the hardwood floor of the bedroom, illuminating the dust that hangs suspended in the air. I rolled over to spy the alarm clock on the dresser and after glancing at the face glowing 6:27, I groaned inwardly calculating how many seconds I could postpone putting my bare feet on the cold floor. But, once my body was awake, and my brain sufficiently suffused with blood from the act of calculating, there was no going back to the glorious, blissful ignorance of early morning sleep.
I stretched my legs hearing the joints crack like a bag full of popcorn. I turned back to my wife, Christine, who had pulled the blankets up over her head like a groundhog returning to its darkened den. I looked up into the mirror that sits next to our bed and noticed the lines of weariness haloing my eyes. The nest of my hair poked out around my ears and I brought a hand up to attempt to tame the static charged follicles. To no avail; the savage hair fought back and stayed standing at attention.
Placing my feet on the ground, I felt the coolness begin to soak the warmth out of my body. Shivering, I reached for the clothes that I had discarded on the floor eight hours before and put them on. Twice I attempted to put my sweatpants on; the first time backwards, the second time both legs in one hole. What a great way to start a day.
I walked out into the hallway to roust the girls from their own pleasant slumbers. The youngest, eyes already opened but smile hidden by the covers, slipped out of bed and reached arms up wanting me to carry her to the breakfast table. I denied her the opportunity, but I always have to remember that the days of carrying my girls are rapidly closing and I want to continue to hold on to their last piece of childhood that I can. I looked at the middle daughter who caught my eye and then emulated her mother by snapping back into the darkened tunnel of her covers.
"Breakfast in 10 minutes, Josephine." I said.
I only got a muffled grunt.
I opened Elsa's door. Her light was already on and a book was open on her bed. "How long have you been up?" I asked.
"When does the sun start shining?" She smiled and pushed her glasses back up on her nose with one finger. Her brown eyes looked at me quizzically as if I had asked her the most inane question in the world.
"Elsa, you have to start turning on more lights when you read. That's why God made the sun so nine-year-old girls can wake up too early in the morning to feed their reading addiction."
Elsa rolled her eyes and said, "Dad, you're so weird."
"10 minutes, Els, 10 minutes." I could see her calculating in her own head how long it would take to get dressed and how many pages that would leave her to read.
Walking down the hallway I heard how the floor made the same sounds as my creaking bones did when I awoke. Maybe it's the same thing: the bones of the house, the floors and walls, creak when they are wakened? Flipping the kitchen light, I shuffled across the grainy, tiled floor of the kitchen noticing the dishes that I'd neglected the night before. Housework never seems to be over, have you ever noticed that? Is there ever a moment when you sit down, look at every corner of the house and say, "Great, now I can take a break."
After making the traditional breakfast and lunch for the girls, cereal and milk for the former and traditional Vegemite sandwiches for the latter (isn't that what all children have for lunch?), I perused my calendar for the day. It was my day off - or as 'off' as it gets. As an adult, there really is no such thing as an off day, no day to leisurely read a book or take a walk, I noticed a star by the calendar. Today was the day that the tree removal experts were coming. Over the years two trees in our front yard had gradually begun shedding limbs like chickens molting feathers and it was only a matter of time when one of those thousand pound feathers was going to pulverize the roof of the house. Well, that certainly would be an exciting way to spend a morning.
Christine had been having some back problems, so she, too, stayed home from work that day. After reviving ourselves with coffee for me and breakfast for her, we sent the girls off to their respective schools and waited for tree specialists to come and commit arbor-cide. We loved our trees but we loved our roof even more.
Not much later we heard the muffler of a truck pull up in front of our house. As I looked out the front window, the passenger door of the van opened and before any person exited the vehicle, a cloud of cigarette smoke preceded the person. It was like when a famous performer comes on stage and the smoke machines buffet out smog to hide the performer to the last minute. Well, the 'performer' finally emerged waving away the smoke from his addiction. He was of medium height wearing a sleeveless shirt exposing arms encircled by barbed wire tattoos. His compatriots were vomited forth from the van and it was apparent from the beginning that Monday had started off in a very negative way for these men. The four of them proceeded to avoid all conversation, eye contact and in general, communication. The one with a pony tail looked like he'd actually slept in the van over night; the tallest one ground his teeth so hard that the muscles in his jaws rolled back and forth like and earthquake. The smallest one took a long drag on his cigarette and flicked the still lit cancer stick into our yard. It was lucky that Christine did not see that - she would have made their morning even worse with a verbal tongue lashing and perhaps her own sermon on the dangers of cigarette use. It is somewhat ironic, though, that all the men who work with wood would all be smokers.
As they split apart to their respective responsibilities like neutrons splitting apart in a nuclear reaction, it became quite clear we were in for a very interesting spectacle. In fact, Christine and I pulled up lawn chairs to watch the show.
As we settled in, the tallest one, who, as far as we could find out was from the planet Moronia - at least that's what we gathered from the smallest one - began to hack off the limbs of one of the trees with the greatest of ease. With seemingly precise calculation he lopped off branch after branch away from the house. It was hard to watch, but he was such and artist, that I even stopped to praise him for his artistry.
"Wow!" I said as I walked over to him. "You have real talent." He stared at me without responding. Perhaps he didn't hear me. Perhaps he'd lost his hearing from being around chainsaws for a large chunk of his adulthood. Perhaps he thought I was joking. Either way, he started his chainsaw and raised it like Jason from the Halloween movies. I guess on the planet Moronia they have no expression for the word "thank you?"
Next blog I'll get to the other characters of the operation who had names, as far as we could tell, that resembled what most people would call a domesticated donkey - one of them was called by the others "Idiot", another "Doorknob" - I'm not sure any of them called each other by the name given them by their parents. All in all, this was the grumpiest group of working people I'd ever seen.
This is a tale of two Mondays. The first, I, Reid, an observer. The second, I, Reid, a character worthy of a Oscar nomination.
Monday #1:
The day blossomed brightly; the light shone through the cracks in the window panes of my bedroom between the shade and the wood. It splayed lightly on the hardwood floor of the bedroom, illuminating the dust that hangs suspended in the air. I rolled over to spy the alarm clock on the dresser and after glancing at the face glowing 6:27, I groaned inwardly calculating how many seconds I could postpone putting my bare feet on the cold floor. But, once my body was awake, and my brain sufficiently suffused with blood from the act of calculating, there was no going back to the glorious, blissful ignorance of early morning sleep.
I stretched my legs hearing the joints crack like a bag full of popcorn. I turned back to my wife, Christine, who had pulled the blankets up over her head like a groundhog returning to its darkened den. I looked up into the mirror that sits next to our bed and noticed the lines of weariness haloing my eyes. The nest of my hair poked out around my ears and I brought a hand up to attempt to tame the static charged follicles. To no avail; the savage hair fought back and stayed standing at attention.
Placing my feet on the ground, I felt the coolness begin to soak the warmth out of my body. Shivering, I reached for the clothes that I had discarded on the floor eight hours before and put them on. Twice I attempted to put my sweatpants on; the first time backwards, the second time both legs in one hole. What a great way to start a day.
I walked out into the hallway to roust the girls from their own pleasant slumbers. The youngest, eyes already opened but smile hidden by the covers, slipped out of bed and reached arms up wanting me to carry her to the breakfast table. I denied her the opportunity, but I always have to remember that the days of carrying my girls are rapidly closing and I want to continue to hold on to their last piece of childhood that I can. I looked at the middle daughter who caught my eye and then emulated her mother by snapping back into the darkened tunnel of her covers.
"Breakfast in 10 minutes, Josephine." I said.
I only got a muffled grunt.
I opened Elsa's door. Her light was already on and a book was open on her bed. "How long have you been up?" I asked.
"When does the sun start shining?" She smiled and pushed her glasses back up on her nose with one finger. Her brown eyes looked at me quizzically as if I had asked her the most inane question in the world.
"Elsa, you have to start turning on more lights when you read. That's why God made the sun so nine-year-old girls can wake up too early in the morning to feed their reading addiction."
Elsa rolled her eyes and said, "Dad, you're so weird."
"10 minutes, Els, 10 minutes." I could see her calculating in her own head how long it would take to get dressed and how many pages that would leave her to read.
Walking down the hallway I heard how the floor made the same sounds as my creaking bones did when I awoke. Maybe it's the same thing: the bones of the house, the floors and walls, creak when they are wakened? Flipping the kitchen light, I shuffled across the grainy, tiled floor of the kitchen noticing the dishes that I'd neglected the night before. Housework never seems to be over, have you ever noticed that? Is there ever a moment when you sit down, look at every corner of the house and say, "Great, now I can take a break."
After making the traditional breakfast and lunch for the girls, cereal and milk for the former and traditional Vegemite sandwiches for the latter (isn't that what all children have for lunch?), I perused my calendar for the day. It was my day off - or as 'off' as it gets. As an adult, there really is no such thing as an off day, no day to leisurely read a book or take a walk, I noticed a star by the calendar. Today was the day that the tree removal experts were coming. Over the years two trees in our front yard had gradually begun shedding limbs like chickens molting feathers and it was only a matter of time when one of those thousand pound feathers was going to pulverize the roof of the house. Well, that certainly would be an exciting way to spend a morning.
Christine had been having some back problems, so she, too, stayed home from work that day. After reviving ourselves with coffee for me and breakfast for her, we sent the girls off to their respective schools and waited for tree specialists to come and commit arbor-cide. We loved our trees but we loved our roof even more.
Not much later we heard the muffler of a truck pull up in front of our house. As I looked out the front window, the passenger door of the van opened and before any person exited the vehicle, a cloud of cigarette smoke preceded the person. It was like when a famous performer comes on stage and the smoke machines buffet out smog to hide the performer to the last minute. Well, the 'performer' finally emerged waving away the smoke from his addiction. He was of medium height wearing a sleeveless shirt exposing arms encircled by barbed wire tattoos. His compatriots were vomited forth from the van and it was apparent from the beginning that Monday had started off in a very negative way for these men. The four of them proceeded to avoid all conversation, eye contact and in general, communication. The one with a pony tail looked like he'd actually slept in the van over night; the tallest one ground his teeth so hard that the muscles in his jaws rolled back and forth like and earthquake. The smallest one took a long drag on his cigarette and flicked the still lit cancer stick into our yard. It was lucky that Christine did not see that - she would have made their morning even worse with a verbal tongue lashing and perhaps her own sermon on the dangers of cigarette use. It is somewhat ironic, though, that all the men who work with wood would all be smokers.
As they split apart to their respective responsibilities like neutrons splitting apart in a nuclear reaction, it became quite clear we were in for a very interesting spectacle. In fact, Christine and I pulled up lawn chairs to watch the show.
As we settled in, the tallest one, who, as far as we could find out was from the planet Moronia - at least that's what we gathered from the smallest one - began to hack off the limbs of one of the trees with the greatest of ease. With seemingly precise calculation he lopped off branch after branch away from the house. It was hard to watch, but he was such and artist, that I even stopped to praise him for his artistry.
"Wow!" I said as I walked over to him. "You have real talent." He stared at me without responding. Perhaps he didn't hear me. Perhaps he'd lost his hearing from being around chainsaws for a large chunk of his adulthood. Perhaps he thought I was joking. Either way, he started his chainsaw and raised it like Jason from the Halloween movies. I guess on the planet Moronia they have no expression for the word "thank you?"
Next blog I'll get to the other characters of the operation who had names, as far as we could tell, that resembled what most people would call a domesticated donkey - one of them was called by the others "Idiot", another "Doorknob" - I'm not sure any of them called each other by the name given them by their parents. All in all, this was the grumpiest group of working people I'd ever seen.
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
The Sliver of Hope
Speaking of slivers, I'm kind of a baby when it comes to foreign objects lodged in the epidermis. As I was doing some home repairs a few months ago (which I am hopefully inept at), I happened to be filing down some metal and pushed a curled piece of aluminum under my fingernail. It hurt, yes, but I treated the episode as if I'd received a mortal wound. Not knowing the exact procedure for a wound of this sort, I lifted my hand high above my head and began to run around the house looking for the tweezers. I'm not sure why I lifted my hand above my head, but certainly if you lift something high enough eventually the pain will cease, right? So, with my left hand I rummaged through our bathroom drawer and located the floral bag that contains all the instruments of torture for removing a splinter. Of course there is a tweezers and some kind of cream that is supposed to suck out all of the infecting germs. Then there is the 'probe.' It's a nice name for a very sharp object that is meant to dig out a splinter underneath the surface of the skin. It is truly medieval just looking at it.
As an aside, did you know that in Rudesheim/Rhein, Germany, you can spend 25 Euros to view the instruments of torture from the middle ages? You can come to my house and I'll charge you nothing to see our splinter removing bag.
After finding the bag, I took it to Christine holding it in front of me as if it were a dirty diaper. "What's wrong with you?" she asked. "And why are you holding your hand above your head like that?"
Scrunching up my face in agony I responded, "Splinter." I was breathless. "I've got a monster metal shaving shoved all the way to my cuticle. I hope we don't have to go to the hospital. I don't want this thing amputated." I made that up, but worst case scenario always crosses one's mind.
Christine stood up and held out her hands, grabbed the bag and then pulled my hand down from the sky. "Let me look at it." Even as she touched the digit, I felt pain shooting down my arm. I don't know if it was from the splinter or just from having it over my head for so long. "Relax," she said in this condescending way - I already knew what she was thinking - Big Baby. "Easy," I said holding on to the painful arm with my good hand. "How does it look? Can you get to it?"
Christine didn't even look me in the eyes. "Hmmm."
"What does that mean, hmmm? Is it going to take surgery?"
Finally, she looked up at me. "It's in a little ways. I think the probe should do the trick."
The probe. The probe. Anything but the probe.
"Take a few deep breaths. This might hurt a bit." I began the sure process of hyperventilation. I retracted my hand from her and said, "I don't think I want to do this. Eventually it will get pushed out, won't it?"
"Yes, eventually, I suppose," Christine said, "But do you want to be in your agony-like state for a while, or get it over with. If we get it out, then you won't have to bother with worrying about infection. Give me your hand. Let's do this thing."
Christine really is a good nurse, although at this point, I wasn't quite sure about her bedside manner. She was hurting my pride as much as my finger. Which hurts more, bruised pride or slivered finger? I tentatively gave my hand back to her and the silver of the probe flashed in the sunlight. It looked like a surgeon's scalpel in a slasher movie. Then, it happened. She grabbed the finger and squeezed. "For goodness sake," I said, "Give me a wooden spoon to bite down on - or at least your miniature plastic whisk!"
"Hold still," she said while holding on to my finger like a bull rider on top of the wild toro.
"Why do you have to pinch it? Can't you just tweeze it out?"
"If I don't pinch your finger," she said, "The sliver will stay in. Like I said, it's going to hurt but when it comes out, you'll feel so much better."
Unfortunately, she was right and after the sliver was extricated, and my wounded digit appropriately creamed and wrapped, my pride bruised but healing, I thanked her and hoped that it wouldn't happen again. But, slivers are unavoidable obstacles of life. If you aren't getting any slivers that you aren't working at the beautiful, difficult things in human existence.
Working out slivers in relationships is just as touchy. Most people who are wounded are very careful about holding back the injury from healing. Because of careless words or actions, the injury is often unnoticed and we back away from healing because the healing process is usually quite painful. Many people don't want to talk about the feelings of injury for fear of offending more or the words they use will be misconstrued. People want to be 'nice' more than they want to be 'healthy.'
I asked a young man who was having problems with his brother if he had worked to resolve the feelings with his brother. He shook his head and said, "Are you kidding? If I let him know that he hurt me, something so trivial, he'll look at that as weakness and roll his eyes. I can't appear weak in front of him."
"So, how are you going to handle it?" I asked.
"I'm going to avoid him until I feel better about what happened."
"And when will that be? Will you just forget about it or let it fester until the next time he says something and then you get really mad?"
The young man looked up at me, "Thanks for the encouragement, Pastor."
"I am encouraging you. Encouraging you to build a relationship of trust and communication. If he isn't aware that you are hurt, whether intentional or unintentional, how will you expect to have a relationship with him. If you simply avoid him, you are taking the easy way out. You're doing what we call - self preservation. If humans are good at anything, they are good at avoiding pain."
"But what if it hurts? What if, after we're done talking, he doesn't want to see me again?"
"That's always the fear of the unknown - the 'what if'. But, if you can sit down and talk with him and tell him how you feel, not just rehash the events that triggered the hurt feelings, I believe that you'll get through this."
Truly, one of the most difficult parts of managing conflict, is to get beyond the event and deal with the feelings involved. The event is the visible part of the sliver - like the tip of the iceberg - that can be seen and you attempt to get a hold of it and pull it out, but the deeper, more painful part of the sliver are the feelings that are very close to the nerves. Care must be taken, but working in the midst of pain is the only way to extricate the sliver - to get rid of the that which is causing the pain. The root of the problem, if you will.
So, how is this done? Sometimes the two people can come together. If they are family members, one bold person asks the other one to talk (and listen). Sometimes the fear of confrontation takes over and the injured one tries to resolve the conflict outside of the two parties involved. This triangulation often will confuse the third part of the triangle and the injured one will attempt to 'persuade' the new member of the triangle to his or her perspective. Generally, triangulation is a difficult thing. Triangulation leads not only to misplaced feelings but the beginnings of gossip and as soon as gossip starts, the event is broadcast and there is no return from that excursion.
The bible gives us a few possible solutions. If, at first, the attempt to reason with your fellow family member alone does not work, then take someone trusted with you to the meeting. It is usually best not to take someone with a personal stake because it then feels like there is a ganging up. Perhaps someone not quite so close to the situation would be better - a mediator. This person is there simply to moderate discussion so that it does not become a personal attack, but a sorting out of feelings from a specific event. Have each person share how the event made them feel rather than how the other person screwed up. Start statements with, "I feel _______ when this happens." Talk about the root of the problem rather than the visible manifestation. This is not simply psycho-babble but an important tool for all family members to take hold of. Simply another tool in the tool box to promote healthy family dynamics.
It is not easy. It probably will hurt a little bit. But if done correctly, the brief amount of pain will bring forth growth and allow the pair to avoid situations where similar slivers might occur. To watch what one says - and, to watch how one says it. It's 5% what you say and 95% how you say it.
So, no that I've taken the scenic route to this blog, are there any slivers in your life that are coming to a head? Any moments for extraction? Any infections causing a great amount of pain? Can you find a way to head them off?
As an aside, did you know that in Rudesheim/Rhein, Germany, you can spend 25 Euros to view the instruments of torture from the middle ages? You can come to my house and I'll charge you nothing to see our splinter removing bag.
After finding the bag, I took it to Christine holding it in front of me as if it were a dirty diaper. "What's wrong with you?" she asked. "And why are you holding your hand above your head like that?"
Scrunching up my face in agony I responded, "Splinter." I was breathless. "I've got a monster metal shaving shoved all the way to my cuticle. I hope we don't have to go to the hospital. I don't want this thing amputated." I made that up, but worst case scenario always crosses one's mind.
Christine stood up and held out her hands, grabbed the bag and then pulled my hand down from the sky. "Let me look at it." Even as she touched the digit, I felt pain shooting down my arm. I don't know if it was from the splinter or just from having it over my head for so long. "Relax," she said in this condescending way - I already knew what she was thinking - Big Baby. "Easy," I said holding on to the painful arm with my good hand. "How does it look? Can you get to it?"
Christine didn't even look me in the eyes. "Hmmm."
"What does that mean, hmmm? Is it going to take surgery?"
Finally, she looked up at me. "It's in a little ways. I think the probe should do the trick."
The probe. The probe. Anything but the probe.
"Take a few deep breaths. This might hurt a bit." I began the sure process of hyperventilation. I retracted my hand from her and said, "I don't think I want to do this. Eventually it will get pushed out, won't it?"
"Yes, eventually, I suppose," Christine said, "But do you want to be in your agony-like state for a while, or get it over with. If we get it out, then you won't have to bother with worrying about infection. Give me your hand. Let's do this thing."
Christine really is a good nurse, although at this point, I wasn't quite sure about her bedside manner. She was hurting my pride as much as my finger. Which hurts more, bruised pride or slivered finger? I tentatively gave my hand back to her and the silver of the probe flashed in the sunlight. It looked like a surgeon's scalpel in a slasher movie. Then, it happened. She grabbed the finger and squeezed. "For goodness sake," I said, "Give me a wooden spoon to bite down on - or at least your miniature plastic whisk!"
"Hold still," she said while holding on to my finger like a bull rider on top of the wild toro.
"Why do you have to pinch it? Can't you just tweeze it out?"
"If I don't pinch your finger," she said, "The sliver will stay in. Like I said, it's going to hurt but when it comes out, you'll feel so much better."
Unfortunately, she was right and after the sliver was extricated, and my wounded digit appropriately creamed and wrapped, my pride bruised but healing, I thanked her and hoped that it wouldn't happen again. But, slivers are unavoidable obstacles of life. If you aren't getting any slivers that you aren't working at the beautiful, difficult things in human existence.
Working out slivers in relationships is just as touchy. Most people who are wounded are very careful about holding back the injury from healing. Because of careless words or actions, the injury is often unnoticed and we back away from healing because the healing process is usually quite painful. Many people don't want to talk about the feelings of injury for fear of offending more or the words they use will be misconstrued. People want to be 'nice' more than they want to be 'healthy.'
I asked a young man who was having problems with his brother if he had worked to resolve the feelings with his brother. He shook his head and said, "Are you kidding? If I let him know that he hurt me, something so trivial, he'll look at that as weakness and roll his eyes. I can't appear weak in front of him."
"So, how are you going to handle it?" I asked.
"I'm going to avoid him until I feel better about what happened."
"And when will that be? Will you just forget about it or let it fester until the next time he says something and then you get really mad?"
The young man looked up at me, "Thanks for the encouragement, Pastor."
"I am encouraging you. Encouraging you to build a relationship of trust and communication. If he isn't aware that you are hurt, whether intentional or unintentional, how will you expect to have a relationship with him. If you simply avoid him, you are taking the easy way out. You're doing what we call - self preservation. If humans are good at anything, they are good at avoiding pain."
"But what if it hurts? What if, after we're done talking, he doesn't want to see me again?"
"That's always the fear of the unknown - the 'what if'. But, if you can sit down and talk with him and tell him how you feel, not just rehash the events that triggered the hurt feelings, I believe that you'll get through this."
Truly, one of the most difficult parts of managing conflict, is to get beyond the event and deal with the feelings involved. The event is the visible part of the sliver - like the tip of the iceberg - that can be seen and you attempt to get a hold of it and pull it out, but the deeper, more painful part of the sliver are the feelings that are very close to the nerves. Care must be taken, but working in the midst of pain is the only way to extricate the sliver - to get rid of the that which is causing the pain. The root of the problem, if you will.
So, how is this done? Sometimes the two people can come together. If they are family members, one bold person asks the other one to talk (and listen). Sometimes the fear of confrontation takes over and the injured one tries to resolve the conflict outside of the two parties involved. This triangulation often will confuse the third part of the triangle and the injured one will attempt to 'persuade' the new member of the triangle to his or her perspective. Generally, triangulation is a difficult thing. Triangulation leads not only to misplaced feelings but the beginnings of gossip and as soon as gossip starts, the event is broadcast and there is no return from that excursion.
The bible gives us a few possible solutions. If, at first, the attempt to reason with your fellow family member alone does not work, then take someone trusted with you to the meeting. It is usually best not to take someone with a personal stake because it then feels like there is a ganging up. Perhaps someone not quite so close to the situation would be better - a mediator. This person is there simply to moderate discussion so that it does not become a personal attack, but a sorting out of feelings from a specific event. Have each person share how the event made them feel rather than how the other person screwed up. Start statements with, "I feel _______ when this happens." Talk about the root of the problem rather than the visible manifestation. This is not simply psycho-babble but an important tool for all family members to take hold of. Simply another tool in the tool box to promote healthy family dynamics.
It is not easy. It probably will hurt a little bit. But if done correctly, the brief amount of pain will bring forth growth and allow the pair to avoid situations where similar slivers might occur. To watch what one says - and, to watch how one says it. It's 5% what you say and 95% how you say it.
So, no that I've taken the scenic route to this blog, are there any slivers in your life that are coming to a head? Any moments for extraction? Any infections causing a great amount of pain? Can you find a way to head them off?
Thursday, April 9, 2009
A sliver
It's Holy Week - they all seem holy at some point or another, but this week is all about passion. Passion of the Christ. I watched Mel Gibson's rendition (re-enactment if you will), the glorifying gore fest of Hollywood weds strange biblical interpretion. I think more people talked about how gruesome the movie was than the actual content of the biblical narrative. Hollywood focuses on action rather than on dialogue, on blood rather than experience. I found myself cringing to watch the lengthy scenes of torture - not because it bothered me emotionally, but that I was thinking about the thousands of people who were going to watch this film because Mel Gibson's name was on it. He's come a long ways from Lethal Weapon, don't you think?
Western media has a fascination with gore. Our movies, newspapers, magazines, TV shows are awash with the ways that the human body can be hurt. Although most young people (and I included, at times) are immune or numbed to the display of blood, there are still moments when I have to avert my eyes. One such time that I did recently was while watching the TV show Survivor. I have to admit that I am a Survivor fan - I even tried out for the show a few years ago (I can't imagine why they didn't accept me - there must not be many Lutherans on the selection committee. If there were, I probably would have been sent to a subcommittee who would have passed me off to a task team of the subset of a committee. Anyway, I'm digressing farther and farther into the realm of losing even myself.) So, I was watching Survivor and one of my favorite players of all time, James, was enjoying one of the challenges. As he was running through a maze or something, he cut his finger a bit. James, an undertaker by profession, seemed to brush off the injury and proceed playing the game.
After a few days, the small cut on his finger, because it was not properly treated, became infected. The knuckle and surrounding skin began to swell. His pain was evident, but there was not possibility to take care of it without surrending his position in the game. Finally, a medic came to evaluate his injury and she, without hesitation, told him his options. He could continue playing the game and risk not only losing his finger but gathering a life-threatening blood infection - or leave the game and treat the finger. Wisely, James chose the latter, but I was frustrated. How could something so little take out the strongest player. I was imagining that if James would be taken from the game it would be for breaking a bicep or something. Not something little like that.
Maybe all of us have had something like that happen in our lives. Running your hand down a bannister or across a bare wooden wall - a sliver, finds its way under the skin. Sometimes I don't even notice it - not until it begins to hurt. Sometimes I assume that my body will simply just absorb the sliver, digest it and I will be none for the worse. I don't remove it right away, usually, because excising the sliver is almost more painful than the sliver itself - at first, that is. But gradually, the body knows that this intrusive substance will only cause sickness and pain and if left long enough, the poison seeps into the veins and heart; then, risk death.
All from a little sliver.
All from a little word. One word thrown casually gets under the skin of someone else. Or, a rumor that is just too juicy to pass by. Maybe a person who doesn't share the same ideologies, I just want to offer them a little barb - maybe a small, sarcastic remark. And there it is, that sliver of a painful word is lodged under the skin. It festers and soon the poison might seep in. Then, a word thrown back.
We as Christians - we as people - need to remember that we, together, are the body of Christ. What affects someone else, affects me also. When another member of the body is injured, in pain, or hurting, I am not immune to that. We can either treat the injury, even though the surgery process may be painful, or we can let it infect the whole body and the whole body will become ill. Churches are notorious for letting this happen. In the name of being 'nice' we try and let different words slide, but too often they become lodged too close to the pain receptors and soon we are passing on slivers to others in the church. That poison is what kills individual congregations.
When Jesus said, "Do to others as you would have them do to you," I think he truly meant, "When you do something to others you ARE doing it to yourself." We are intricately connected. We cannot separate ourselves.
Next week (it will only be one week, hopefully) let's discuss how to effectively treat the effects of infection in the body of Christ. How do we, as Christians, speak honestly and openly about things that may be hurtful?
That should be a fun sliver!
Western media has a fascination with gore. Our movies, newspapers, magazines, TV shows are awash with the ways that the human body can be hurt. Although most young people (and I included, at times) are immune or numbed to the display of blood, there are still moments when I have to avert my eyes. One such time that I did recently was while watching the TV show Survivor. I have to admit that I am a Survivor fan - I even tried out for the show a few years ago (I can't imagine why they didn't accept me - there must not be many Lutherans on the selection committee. If there were, I probably would have been sent to a subcommittee who would have passed me off to a task team of the subset of a committee. Anyway, I'm digressing farther and farther into the realm of losing even myself.) So, I was watching Survivor and one of my favorite players of all time, James, was enjoying one of the challenges. As he was running through a maze or something, he cut his finger a bit. James, an undertaker by profession, seemed to brush off the injury and proceed playing the game.
After a few days, the small cut on his finger, because it was not properly treated, became infected. The knuckle and surrounding skin began to swell. His pain was evident, but there was not possibility to take care of it without surrending his position in the game. Finally, a medic came to evaluate his injury and she, without hesitation, told him his options. He could continue playing the game and risk not only losing his finger but gathering a life-threatening blood infection - or leave the game and treat the finger. Wisely, James chose the latter, but I was frustrated. How could something so little take out the strongest player. I was imagining that if James would be taken from the game it would be for breaking a bicep or something. Not something little like that.
Maybe all of us have had something like that happen in our lives. Running your hand down a bannister or across a bare wooden wall - a sliver, finds its way under the skin. Sometimes I don't even notice it - not until it begins to hurt. Sometimes I assume that my body will simply just absorb the sliver, digest it and I will be none for the worse. I don't remove it right away, usually, because excising the sliver is almost more painful than the sliver itself - at first, that is. But gradually, the body knows that this intrusive substance will only cause sickness and pain and if left long enough, the poison seeps into the veins and heart; then, risk death.
All from a little sliver.
All from a little word. One word thrown casually gets under the skin of someone else. Or, a rumor that is just too juicy to pass by. Maybe a person who doesn't share the same ideologies, I just want to offer them a little barb - maybe a small, sarcastic remark. And there it is, that sliver of a painful word is lodged under the skin. It festers and soon the poison might seep in. Then, a word thrown back.
We as Christians - we as people - need to remember that we, together, are the body of Christ. What affects someone else, affects me also. When another member of the body is injured, in pain, or hurting, I am not immune to that. We can either treat the injury, even though the surgery process may be painful, or we can let it infect the whole body and the whole body will become ill. Churches are notorious for letting this happen. In the name of being 'nice' we try and let different words slide, but too often they become lodged too close to the pain receptors and soon we are passing on slivers to others in the church. That poison is what kills individual congregations.
When Jesus said, "Do to others as you would have them do to you," I think he truly meant, "When you do something to others you ARE doing it to yourself." We are intricately connected. We cannot separate ourselves.
Next week (it will only be one week, hopefully) let's discuss how to effectively treat the effects of infection in the body of Christ. How do we, as Christians, speak honestly and openly about things that may be hurtful?
That should be a fun sliver!
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Midnight Ride
George is getting frustrated with me. I have been sporadic at best. Writing blogs has taken a backseat to writing sermons but perhaps I can be forgiven as Lent has appeared in the blink of an eye and I am surrounded by the blanket of wondrous responsibilities of a pastor in the busiest weeks of the year. But, aside from my attempt at proclaiming an excuse, I met with a friend of mine, Karen who told me something truly blogworthy.
April 19, 1775 was a night that still 'rings' with history for the United States. Some historians (especially George who is a government teacher, I think) will remember this as the evening of the midnight ride of Paul Revere. His name, revered (sorry) throughout the centuries as the patriot who warned the Americans that the Redcoats were coming. As told in the story by Henry W. Longfellow in 1860, Revere, through difficulties and darkness, warned the people of Concord and Lexington about the upcoming surge of military men from England. What Wadsworth left out was that Revere was not the only one sent out to Lexington to warned Samuel Adams and John Hancock. There was another man - William Dawes.
Only the stoutest national historians know the name of Will Dawes. A shoemaker in Boston, he was one of the earliest patriots. Sent out on horseback to Lexington, unlike Revere, he took the long way. Then, when near arrest, he was thrown from his horse and escaped on foot. Eventually he reached the towns of Concord and Lexington, but Revere had already been there. Folklore tells us though that William Dawes would not have succeeded anyway. Dawes was not intimately connected with the people like Paul Revere was. Supposedly, Revere was out in the communities all of the time getting to know people, their schedules, their lives. People trusted him. Again, tradition tells us that Dawes did not know the people and when he came to warn people of the approach of the British, they either did not believe him or they did not listen to his voice. So, William Dawes has fallen off the cliff of American history as the silent partner of Paul Revere on his midnight ride from Boston to Lexington.
Perhaps as Christians we can learn a bit from the midnight ride. People trust the voice of a person they know - someone that is intimately involved in their lives. Like Paul Revere, we need to get out into the community and be a part of the lives of our fellow humans - not forcing ourselves, or intruding, but supporting and encouraging others in wending their way through life. If we, as the vocal chords of Jesus, show up simply proclaiming condemnation, or the approach of the end of the world, they either will not believe us, or disregard our voice. We are called to proclaim the Gospel, that the kingdom of God is drawing near, to love even if not loved in return. Then, those that we encounter will trust our voice - they know that we have their best interests in mind.
Jesus speaks these same words in John chapter 10: "The one who enters by the gate is the shepherd of the sheep. the gatekeeper opens the gate for him and the sheep hear his voice. He calls his own sheep by name and leads them out. When he has brought out all his own, he goes ahead of them, and the sheep follow him because they know his voice."
The sheep hear his voice and follow because of his voice, but he does not call from a distance, he enters the pen with them. He calls them from the midst of them and leads them to safety.
This is our calling - our vocation as Christians - to be in the midst of life and be Jesus vocal chords.
A few years ago, I was roused by a phone call. A youth from the church had called to tell the me the worst possible news: a teenager was killed in an automobile accident and the youth were gathering to meet at a house were they could commiserate and lean on each other in their grief. The voice on the phone cracked as she asked if I would come and sit in their midst.
Throwing on some clothes, I headed down to the car and began to drive to their house. What would I say? What could I possibly express to teenagers in the grief of losing a close friend? What if I said something completely asinine and they ended up throwing me out? (I have said some pretty idiotic things before). My worries were unfounded. The youth didn't want me to say anything - they only wanted me to listen and throughout the late night and into the early morning of my own Midnight Ride, those kids shared with me fears, sorrows, joys, loves - every possible human experience. And the word I spoke?
God's word at the end of the night. I got to be God's vocal chords.
What a ride.
April 19, 1775 was a night that still 'rings' with history for the United States. Some historians (especially George who is a government teacher, I think) will remember this as the evening of the midnight ride of Paul Revere. His name, revered (sorry) throughout the centuries as the patriot who warned the Americans that the Redcoats were coming. As told in the story by Henry W. Longfellow in 1860, Revere, through difficulties and darkness, warned the people of Concord and Lexington about the upcoming surge of military men from England. What Wadsworth left out was that Revere was not the only one sent out to Lexington to warned Samuel Adams and John Hancock. There was another man - William Dawes.
Only the stoutest national historians know the name of Will Dawes. A shoemaker in Boston, he was one of the earliest patriots. Sent out on horseback to Lexington, unlike Revere, he took the long way. Then, when near arrest, he was thrown from his horse and escaped on foot. Eventually he reached the towns of Concord and Lexington, but Revere had already been there. Folklore tells us though that William Dawes would not have succeeded anyway. Dawes was not intimately connected with the people like Paul Revere was. Supposedly, Revere was out in the communities all of the time getting to know people, their schedules, their lives. People trusted him. Again, tradition tells us that Dawes did not know the people and when he came to warn people of the approach of the British, they either did not believe him or they did not listen to his voice. So, William Dawes has fallen off the cliff of American history as the silent partner of Paul Revere on his midnight ride from Boston to Lexington.
Perhaps as Christians we can learn a bit from the midnight ride. People trust the voice of a person they know - someone that is intimately involved in their lives. Like Paul Revere, we need to get out into the community and be a part of the lives of our fellow humans - not forcing ourselves, or intruding, but supporting and encouraging others in wending their way through life. If we, as the vocal chords of Jesus, show up simply proclaiming condemnation, or the approach of the end of the world, they either will not believe us, or disregard our voice. We are called to proclaim the Gospel, that the kingdom of God is drawing near, to love even if not loved in return. Then, those that we encounter will trust our voice - they know that we have their best interests in mind.
Jesus speaks these same words in John chapter 10: "The one who enters by the gate is the shepherd of the sheep. the gatekeeper opens the gate for him and the sheep hear his voice. He calls his own sheep by name and leads them out. When he has brought out all his own, he goes ahead of them, and the sheep follow him because they know his voice."
The sheep hear his voice and follow because of his voice, but he does not call from a distance, he enters the pen with them. He calls them from the midst of them and leads them to safety.
This is our calling - our vocation as Christians - to be in the midst of life and be Jesus vocal chords.
A few years ago, I was roused by a phone call. A youth from the church had called to tell the me the worst possible news: a teenager was killed in an automobile accident and the youth were gathering to meet at a house were they could commiserate and lean on each other in their grief. The voice on the phone cracked as she asked if I would come and sit in their midst.
Throwing on some clothes, I headed down to the car and began to drive to their house. What would I say? What could I possibly express to teenagers in the grief of losing a close friend? What if I said something completely asinine and they ended up throwing me out? (I have said some pretty idiotic things before). My worries were unfounded. The youth didn't want me to say anything - they only wanted me to listen and throughout the late night and into the early morning of my own Midnight Ride, those kids shared with me fears, sorrows, joys, loves - every possible human experience. And the word I spoke?
God's word at the end of the night. I got to be God's vocal chords.
What a ride.
Friday, March 13, 2009
Out of the Rut
I was late for church on Sunday. For most people, that may not be a cause for alarm; when you are one of the pastors, well...
My tardiness was due to the infernal Daylight Saving Time. It is Daylight Saving - there is no 's' on the end, although most people will place it there because it sounds better, I think. Benjamin Franklin dreamed up DST so that people could take advantage of an extra hour of daylight during the summer months. Many people 'waste' that hour of sunrise, he said, so why not move that hour where it can be put to best use.
His encouragement would be to have people go outside, breathe the fresh air, play with kittens - I don't know - whatever people would do if they could stay outside an extra hour in the sun. In recent decades, DST has been kept continually to conserve energy; less lights used - less energy consumed; it all adds up to good stewardship of resources. But frankly, it leaves me baffled. Originally, the first thinkers of DST wanted to add 20 minutes every Sunday in April and subtract twenty in September. Imagine how that actually could have been accomplished. Half the people would be twenty minutes late for everything. Ah, now I understand what happens on Sunday mornings!
I don't like DST; but my ire is not as great as my wife's who loves to sleep in in the morning. A night owl, she is, and staying up late and arising late is the pattern, the rhythm that works best for her. We do develop our own patterns and ruts that correspond to the endless circling and spinning around the sun. And when those patterns of life are interrupted, it is a jarring slap to the face. And, if we don't adapt to the corresponding newness of time, we will miss something very important (in my case, worship).
In the book of Mark, the first chapter, Jesus is baptized by John in the Jordan river - then, he is led by the spirit out into the wilderness where it seems that he is brought to the realization that life from this point on will be much different. His baptism and subsequent testing are a preparation for his true life's work which he tells all of Israel in John 10, "For this reason the Father loves me, because I lay down my life in order to take it up again. No one takes it from me, but I lay it down of my own accord. I have power to lay it down and I have power to take it up again. This command I have received from my Father."
Jesus' directive is to lay down his life for the all the sheep of the world and in this wilderness experience, in his testing, he finds the strength and power to understand the will of God. He is, I would think, jarred to his soul. The first thing he does after is his baptism is to go speak to the people. His first thought is to speak about the good news which is this, 'The Time is come (in other words, daylight saving has come; a new era of light has come into the world.) and the kingdom of God has come near! Repent and believe in the good news!"
The light has come into the world! Wake up! Don't miss it! Don't be sleepy while waiting for the savior. Wake up or the kingdom of God might pass you by (and for my own reference, the kingdom of God is not necessarily a place, but the person of Jesus).
But how is it that we wake up? How do we shake off the grogginess of the patterns of behavior that we are locked into? How do we scrape the sleep out of our eyes and climb out of the ruts that hold us entrenched?
Jesus says, "Repent." I think in many cases repent has become a very negative word. It usually is brought forth with a great pointing of the finger, a tongue wagging, someone much holier than me who looks at my sin, neglecting his or her own and shouts in my face, "Sinner! Repent! Say you're sorry for your sin!" My response is to look into to his or her eye and stare at the log that is jammed in it and turn back to myself. This pejorative interpretation of the word 'repent' has turned thousands of people away from Christianity and woefully caused a great amount of anxiety in a world longing to believe but one that can only see hypocrisy.
Jesus word, and the focus of his message, "Repent," is in the most positive sense. Repent means to turn back from the things that would cause you to miss the light that is rising. Turn away from that which hinders your ability to have life and to have it abundantly. 'Repent' is not just asking for forgiveness but acting as if you have been forgiven!
But we must also remember that we can never take Jesus words out of the continual sense of community that belongs in the body of Christ. When Jesus says repent, he is not talking to each person individually, but to the whole community. What we must always remember is that each one of our sins affects other people. We cannot isolate ourselves - insulate our lives - beyond the margins of life together. Thievery, adultery, coveting, killing - never affect only the person who succumbs but those who are injured. "Repent!" Jesus says - turn away from those things - live together in community - live together in life abundantly. Repentence is more about my neighbor than it is about myself. For the body to be healthy, the parts need to be holy.
And then believe in the good news. The light of the world has risen. Bask in it; breathe it in. Frolic in the freedom of an extra hour. Repent, not in the guilt of sinning, but in the loosening of the yoke - the weight is taken upon him whose burden is light. Believe this good news.
The Kingdom of God is near! Get out of the rut! Repent!
My tardiness was due to the infernal Daylight Saving Time. It is Daylight Saving - there is no 's' on the end, although most people will place it there because it sounds better, I think. Benjamin Franklin dreamed up DST so that people could take advantage of an extra hour of daylight during the summer months. Many people 'waste' that hour of sunrise, he said, so why not move that hour where it can be put to best use.
His encouragement would be to have people go outside, breathe the fresh air, play with kittens - I don't know - whatever people would do if they could stay outside an extra hour in the sun. In recent decades, DST has been kept continually to conserve energy; less lights used - less energy consumed; it all adds up to good stewardship of resources. But frankly, it leaves me baffled. Originally, the first thinkers of DST wanted to add 20 minutes every Sunday in April and subtract twenty in September. Imagine how that actually could have been accomplished. Half the people would be twenty minutes late for everything. Ah, now I understand what happens on Sunday mornings!
I don't like DST; but my ire is not as great as my wife's who loves to sleep in in the morning. A night owl, she is, and staying up late and arising late is the pattern, the rhythm that works best for her. We do develop our own patterns and ruts that correspond to the endless circling and spinning around the sun. And when those patterns of life are interrupted, it is a jarring slap to the face. And, if we don't adapt to the corresponding newness of time, we will miss something very important (in my case, worship).
In the book of Mark, the first chapter, Jesus is baptized by John in the Jordan river - then, he is led by the spirit out into the wilderness where it seems that he is brought to the realization that life from this point on will be much different. His baptism and subsequent testing are a preparation for his true life's work which he tells all of Israel in John 10, "For this reason the Father loves me, because I lay down my life in order to take it up again. No one takes it from me, but I lay it down of my own accord. I have power to lay it down and I have power to take it up again. This command I have received from my Father."
Jesus' directive is to lay down his life for the all the sheep of the world and in this wilderness experience, in his testing, he finds the strength and power to understand the will of God. He is, I would think, jarred to his soul. The first thing he does after is his baptism is to go speak to the people. His first thought is to speak about the good news which is this, 'The Time is come (in other words, daylight saving has come; a new era of light has come into the world.) and the kingdom of God has come near! Repent and believe in the good news!"
The light has come into the world! Wake up! Don't miss it! Don't be sleepy while waiting for the savior. Wake up or the kingdom of God might pass you by (and for my own reference, the kingdom of God is not necessarily a place, but the person of Jesus).
But how is it that we wake up? How do we shake off the grogginess of the patterns of behavior that we are locked into? How do we scrape the sleep out of our eyes and climb out of the ruts that hold us entrenched?
Jesus says, "Repent." I think in many cases repent has become a very negative word. It usually is brought forth with a great pointing of the finger, a tongue wagging, someone much holier than me who looks at my sin, neglecting his or her own and shouts in my face, "Sinner! Repent! Say you're sorry for your sin!" My response is to look into to his or her eye and stare at the log that is jammed in it and turn back to myself. This pejorative interpretation of the word 'repent' has turned thousands of people away from Christianity and woefully caused a great amount of anxiety in a world longing to believe but one that can only see hypocrisy.
Jesus word, and the focus of his message, "Repent," is in the most positive sense. Repent means to turn back from the things that would cause you to miss the light that is rising. Turn away from that which hinders your ability to have life and to have it abundantly. 'Repent' is not just asking for forgiveness but acting as if you have been forgiven!
But we must also remember that we can never take Jesus words out of the continual sense of community that belongs in the body of Christ. When Jesus says repent, he is not talking to each person individually, but to the whole community. What we must always remember is that each one of our sins affects other people. We cannot isolate ourselves - insulate our lives - beyond the margins of life together. Thievery, adultery, coveting, killing - never affect only the person who succumbs but those who are injured. "Repent!" Jesus says - turn away from those things - live together in community - live together in life abundantly. Repentence is more about my neighbor than it is about myself. For the body to be healthy, the parts need to be holy.
And then believe in the good news. The light of the world has risen. Bask in it; breathe it in. Frolic in the freedom of an extra hour. Repent, not in the guilt of sinning, but in the loosening of the yoke - the weight is taken upon him whose burden is light. Believe this good news.
The Kingdom of God is near! Get out of the rut! Repent!
Friday, February 27, 2009
A Day in the Life
Today is my birthday.
February 27th - I should say today is our birthday - we were born thirty-six years ago in the large metropolis of Blue Earth, Minnesota. Ryan, Vikki and I were born three days late; my sister, the largest, tipping the scales at 6 1/2 pounds and Ryan and I managing a mere 4 1/2. Imagine that - if you will - fifteen pounds of kids in one belly. It all seemed rather large until I saw the mortifying picture of the mother who was pregnant with septuplets. Her belly looked like a gasoline tanker; I had to resist my gag reflex. I did always tell Christine that she looked beautiful when she was pregnant, though.
As I reflect back on this life of mine, I'm trying to ponder what has changed most since the 1970's. Many would say it's the music - digitally compressed files packed with digitally enhanced voices paired with digitally enhanced videos; it all seems so fake now. Gone are the disco kings and queens who made us (perhaps I'll speak for myself), me, want to shake my groove thing, yeah, yeah, yeah. Although by the time the disco was closing shop, I was all of five years old and I didn't even know what a groove thing was.
Some might say that the biggest change is in how information is passed. I am just old enough to remember when there was an actual dial on the phone and it took approximately a minute to call my friends, especially if they had a lot of zeroes or nines in their phone numbers. The phones were connected to the wall by a chord - there was a large fascination for me to curl the cord around my finger as I talked on the phone. In my home town of Rake, we didn't even need to dial the first three digits; since the town was so small, we only had to dial four numbers. The computer has changed the world, I know. All that information at our fingertips. I can type in a word on Google and have billions of hits in less than a second. I remember in high school writing papers and having to finger my way through the encyclopedia to look up the gestational period for the hoary marmot (it took me most of one study period). I also distinctly remember when there were only three channels to be had on the television. Perhaps because we lived in a rather remote section of Iowa, and the airwaves were a bit thinner (that's my assumption), we could only get PBS and two CBS channels. People always talk about the Cosby Show, but I have no recollection because the NBC station was too far away. My television experience from the younger years bounced back and forth between Dukes of Hazard and Love Boat. Also the early morning Saturday cartoon experience watching "Cartoon Olympics" and "Superfriends." Now the cartoons are for mature audiences. What's happening in the wild world of sports.
Speaking of sports, they've changed a bit too. Instead of athletes making a decent living, many of them earn (I use that term very lightly) more than the GNP of many small countries. I just found out this morning that Manny Ramirez turned down 45 million dollars for two years because he feels that he would be underpaid. Everything about that situation makes me want to scream and boycott any type of baseball for the next fifteen years. But, I won't. I am addicted to baseball and I will only inwardly scream and then hope the guilt goes away while I watch the Mets blow another September lead. Our sports addiction is fed by the media. For twenty-five years we have had ESPN - imagine that, one whole channel dedicated to just talking heads talking about sports. In college it was so bad that I would watch the same ESPN program two times in a row just in case I missed something before it. I'd also even watch ESPN if they were broadcasting the national spelling bee. Sports? Not necessarily, but that doesn't mean it's not a competition for which I can yell for the underdog to win.
These things have changed, perhaps, but one aspect that has evolved the most (in a negative way) is community. Remember when there were block parties, or card parties, or simply picnics when a whole community was invited? Where have those days gone? Well, I think I have a few answers and you can disagree with me if you want to.
1. Kids are busier than they have ever been before. Parents place kids in dance, sports, music etc. so early now, that the family is simply left gasping by all the places they need to drive them. this problem is driven by the need to succeed and where the parents failed in the past; they live out their dreams vicariously through their children. "I never was able to make it to the state championship basketball game," one parent might say, so he has them dribbling a basketball obsessively when the child is four months old. It's the Tiger Woods syndrome, I think. Tiger started golfing when he was two - even on the Johnny Carson show - and now every parent wants their child to be a prodigy of some sort.
2. Information technology has destroyed face-to-face communication. It is now thought that seventy-five percent of youth are not able to carry on a conversation with an adult and look them in the eyes when they speak. The cell phone has slain any sort of communication. And now that text-messaging is rampant, youth and adults no longer need to hear the voice of the other person. Even if we want to, we no longer know how to talk to each other. Instead of talking about important events in our lives - to share kids birthdays, special events, even just a meal, it now seems like work to many people and it's much easier to stay at home and be sedated by our television sets or computer screens.
3. Eating together is non-existent. A recent study suggests that an average family will sit down to a home-cooked meal once per week. Throughout the ages, this is where most family communication occurs. Taking time to prepare a meal, taking time to sit and discuss the day - these things are passe. Because we don't eat as a family, most of us no longer eat as a community either, which is one of the main reasons a community of faith is so important - eating together reaches into our innermost self and reminds us that at heart, all of us were made to be in community together.
4. Lastly, we are what we earn. The more money we make, the more important we are. People spend more time at work so that they can spend more money on a house that they are never in. There is no such thing as a nine to fiver anymore. Our value is translated by our work habits not our connections. It is the appropriate time in human existence, I believe, to refocus the community back to its roots - the greatest things in life are not things but relationships.
There is a bit of soap-boxing on my 36'th birthday. I was in the mood to take a sentimental journey and am looking forward to attempting ways to counter-act the four anti-social points that I sometimes add to my own life. Keep strong and have an excellent February 27th.
February 27th - I should say today is our birthday - we were born thirty-six years ago in the large metropolis of Blue Earth, Minnesota. Ryan, Vikki and I were born three days late; my sister, the largest, tipping the scales at 6 1/2 pounds and Ryan and I managing a mere 4 1/2. Imagine that - if you will - fifteen pounds of kids in one belly. It all seemed rather large until I saw the mortifying picture of the mother who was pregnant with septuplets. Her belly looked like a gasoline tanker; I had to resist my gag reflex. I did always tell Christine that she looked beautiful when she was pregnant, though.
As I reflect back on this life of mine, I'm trying to ponder what has changed most since the 1970's. Many would say it's the music - digitally compressed files packed with digitally enhanced voices paired with digitally enhanced videos; it all seems so fake now. Gone are the disco kings and queens who made us (perhaps I'll speak for myself), me, want to shake my groove thing, yeah, yeah, yeah. Although by the time the disco was closing shop, I was all of five years old and I didn't even know what a groove thing was.
Some might say that the biggest change is in how information is passed. I am just old enough to remember when there was an actual dial on the phone and it took approximately a minute to call my friends, especially if they had a lot of zeroes or nines in their phone numbers. The phones were connected to the wall by a chord - there was a large fascination for me to curl the cord around my finger as I talked on the phone. In my home town of Rake, we didn't even need to dial the first three digits; since the town was so small, we only had to dial four numbers. The computer has changed the world, I know. All that information at our fingertips. I can type in a word on Google and have billions of hits in less than a second. I remember in high school writing papers and having to finger my way through the encyclopedia to look up the gestational period for the hoary marmot (it took me most of one study period). I also distinctly remember when there were only three channels to be had on the television. Perhaps because we lived in a rather remote section of Iowa, and the airwaves were a bit thinner (that's my assumption), we could only get PBS and two CBS channels. People always talk about the Cosby Show, but I have no recollection because the NBC station was too far away. My television experience from the younger years bounced back and forth between Dukes of Hazard and Love Boat. Also the early morning Saturday cartoon experience watching "Cartoon Olympics" and "Superfriends." Now the cartoons are for mature audiences. What's happening in the wild world of sports.
Speaking of sports, they've changed a bit too. Instead of athletes making a decent living, many of them earn (I use that term very lightly) more than the GNP of many small countries. I just found out this morning that Manny Ramirez turned down 45 million dollars for two years because he feels that he would be underpaid. Everything about that situation makes me want to scream and boycott any type of baseball for the next fifteen years. But, I won't. I am addicted to baseball and I will only inwardly scream and then hope the guilt goes away while I watch the Mets blow another September lead. Our sports addiction is fed by the media. For twenty-five years we have had ESPN - imagine that, one whole channel dedicated to just talking heads talking about sports. In college it was so bad that I would watch the same ESPN program two times in a row just in case I missed something before it. I'd also even watch ESPN if they were broadcasting the national spelling bee. Sports? Not necessarily, but that doesn't mean it's not a competition for which I can yell for the underdog to win.
These things have changed, perhaps, but one aspect that has evolved the most (in a negative way) is community. Remember when there were block parties, or card parties, or simply picnics when a whole community was invited? Where have those days gone? Well, I think I have a few answers and you can disagree with me if you want to.
1. Kids are busier than they have ever been before. Parents place kids in dance, sports, music etc. so early now, that the family is simply left gasping by all the places they need to drive them. this problem is driven by the need to succeed and where the parents failed in the past; they live out their dreams vicariously through their children. "I never was able to make it to the state championship basketball game," one parent might say, so he has them dribbling a basketball obsessively when the child is four months old. It's the Tiger Woods syndrome, I think. Tiger started golfing when he was two - even on the Johnny Carson show - and now every parent wants their child to be a prodigy of some sort.
2. Information technology has destroyed face-to-face communication. It is now thought that seventy-five percent of youth are not able to carry on a conversation with an adult and look them in the eyes when they speak. The cell phone has slain any sort of communication. And now that text-messaging is rampant, youth and adults no longer need to hear the voice of the other person. Even if we want to, we no longer know how to talk to each other. Instead of talking about important events in our lives - to share kids birthdays, special events, even just a meal, it now seems like work to many people and it's much easier to stay at home and be sedated by our television sets or computer screens.
3. Eating together is non-existent. A recent study suggests that an average family will sit down to a home-cooked meal once per week. Throughout the ages, this is where most family communication occurs. Taking time to prepare a meal, taking time to sit and discuss the day - these things are passe. Because we don't eat as a family, most of us no longer eat as a community either, which is one of the main reasons a community of faith is so important - eating together reaches into our innermost self and reminds us that at heart, all of us were made to be in community together.
4. Lastly, we are what we earn. The more money we make, the more important we are. People spend more time at work so that they can spend more money on a house that they are never in. There is no such thing as a nine to fiver anymore. Our value is translated by our work habits not our connections. It is the appropriate time in human existence, I believe, to refocus the community back to its roots - the greatest things in life are not things but relationships.
There is a bit of soap-boxing on my 36'th birthday. I was in the mood to take a sentimental journey and am looking forward to attempting ways to counter-act the four anti-social points that I sometimes add to my own life. Keep strong and have an excellent February 27th.
Friday, February 13, 2009
The Way of the Dodo
A few weeks ago, I ran across an article expounding on the different aspects of life that are becoming obsolete or extinct. Of course we can all think of a few that have occurred in the last ten years: typewriters, eight-track cassettes, manual transmission cars, but the list from the Washington Post was a bit more exhaustive. Here is a list of a few of the things that Anna Jane Grossman brings forth as leaving - the way of the dodo:
Maps: With new GPS technology, folding maps has become a thing of the past. No more expletives when trying to figure out which section is folded first or finding the most direct route to towns that might not even appear on the map itself. Plus, it's much more fun to listen to a GPS system tell you to 'TURN AROUND NOW!!!" I think they even come with GPS systems for men which tell us "Now you'll never again have to pretend you know where you are going."
Cash: This is a true head-scratcher to me, but our society may be in the last throes of money that folds in wallets or jingle lingle lings in your pocket. For the first time in history it now costs more to make the money than it is worth. So - plastic. But, fear not, plastic in the next ten years will also become instinct. Cell phone technology will probably increase so much that all banking transactions will be done on the phone. Another interesting detail about a cash-less society is that even the most iconic of games, Monopoly, has now switched to cash-less. Each person is given a credit card and the banker swipes the card every time a transaction is made. Only the banker and the buyer know how much money the player has left. And, instead of receiving $200 when passing 'Go', the player receives two million dollars. That's quite the increase in real estate value.
Blind Dates: What used to be the scariest of moments in a single person's life, is now a little more under control. Because we are a 'googling' society, we can find out exactly what our blind date is like even before we accept the uncomfortable pressure from our parents.
Short shorts: Although these shorts, thankfully, went out of style in the early 1990's, they actually weren't buried until John Stockton retired from the NBA. Although, as recently as 2006, at a retro-throwback game between the Lakers and the Celtics, the Lakers wore short basketball shorts. Here was the quote from Kobe Bryant, star of the Lakers whose team was losing dreadfully at halftime: "I don't know what it feels like to wear a thong, but I imagine it feels like what we had on in the first half. I felt violated. I felt naked." Ah, remember the days. My high school basketball uniform shorts were so tight, it looked like I was wearing only my underwear. No wonder we lost so many basketball games.
Cassette tapes: They went out of style quite a while ago; CD's took over and hadn't really given up the ghost. But not only were tapes popular back in the 80's so were 'mix tapes.' Perhaps all of you gen x'ers can remember waiting for the top 9 at 9 to hear your sweet love muffin in 7th grade dedicating a song by Chicago or Styx. By that radio you would sit and as soon as the DJ would start to announce the dedication, you would press record on your 'boom box' which was as big as a hatchback car. Then, after recording Richard Marx's "Hold on to the Night," you would try to add a few other songs that would help you get through the day. Maybe "Money for Nothin'" or "We Built This City on Rock and Roll." What about "Heart of Rock and Roll." Sheesh. It's like taking a stroll through music's hall of shame. I remember when I was about ten years old, while we were eating family supper, I would take out the tape recorder, set it in front of the television and record the music from "Solid Gold." It wasn't quite the same without the dancers, but I was unusually hypnotized by Dionne Warwick.
So many treasures of the past become useless or else simply irrelevant with new technology. One of the startling beauties of the past that seems to be going the way of the dodo is prayer. More and more I talk to people about prayer life and they say that they either find prayer outdated or useless, or else they just don't have time. They don't see the purpose and more than one person has said, "God already knows what I want and He'll give it to me if He wants to." Prayer has been relegated to a role of polishing Aladdin's lamp and expecting a handsome thirty-three year old Jesus to come dancing out of the spout to address the concerns of daily monetary conditions, not just daily bread.
The confirmation class and I were talking about this very question just this last weekend. They now wonder if God really listens or if we should just pray when we are expected to like bedtime. "Now I lay me down to sleep..." or the speed prayer at meal time. During the rest of the day we're on our own. But C. S. Lewis and others liken prayer not just to asking God for what we want but allowing God to share with us what we need most. Sometimes we don't' even know ourselves. Prayer is not changing God's mind but allowing God to change us so that we realize we depend on Him for everything. When we think about our relationship with parents or guardian growing up, often they provide all of our needs without asking or even thanking. But imagine the shock if a child were to ask and thank their parent for everything that was given to them? What would happen if my own children were to thank us for the roof over their heads, the meals in front of them and the books that grace their rooms? Imagine my delighted shock and then my willingness to give even more to make them happy.
Isn't it so with God? If we were to ask and thank God for all the things to come, imagine how much more blessed we are in realizing that God does this simply because He loves us. Just through prayer. And the more we pray, the easier it becomes - the conversation is not limited to bedtime or mealtime, but lifetime - one long dialogue between the holy one of the universe and a minuscule human like me. It is hard to imagine.
So, if the option arises for you, don't let your prayer life go the way of the dodo. It is not obsolete; in fact, it is so incredibly important, that living without it is like living with shortened breaths. Pray, my friends. Pray.
Maps: With new GPS technology, folding maps has become a thing of the past. No more expletives when trying to figure out which section is folded first or finding the most direct route to towns that might not even appear on the map itself. Plus, it's much more fun to listen to a GPS system tell you to 'TURN AROUND NOW!!!" I think they even come with GPS systems for men which tell us "Now you'll never again have to pretend you know where you are going."
Cash: This is a true head-scratcher to me, but our society may be in the last throes of money that folds in wallets or jingle lingle lings in your pocket. For the first time in history it now costs more to make the money than it is worth. So - plastic. But, fear not, plastic in the next ten years will also become instinct. Cell phone technology will probably increase so much that all banking transactions will be done on the phone. Another interesting detail about a cash-less society is that even the most iconic of games, Monopoly, has now switched to cash-less. Each person is given a credit card and the banker swipes the card every time a transaction is made. Only the banker and the buyer know how much money the player has left. And, instead of receiving $200 when passing 'Go', the player receives two million dollars. That's quite the increase in real estate value.
Blind Dates: What used to be the scariest of moments in a single person's life, is now a little more under control. Because we are a 'googling' society, we can find out exactly what our blind date is like even before we accept the uncomfortable pressure from our parents.
Short shorts: Although these shorts, thankfully, went out of style in the early 1990's, they actually weren't buried until John Stockton retired from the NBA. Although, as recently as 2006, at a retro-throwback game between the Lakers and the Celtics, the Lakers wore short basketball shorts. Here was the quote from Kobe Bryant, star of the Lakers whose team was losing dreadfully at halftime: "I don't know what it feels like to wear a thong, but I imagine it feels like what we had on in the first half. I felt violated. I felt naked." Ah, remember the days. My high school basketball uniform shorts were so tight, it looked like I was wearing only my underwear. No wonder we lost so many basketball games.
Cassette tapes: They went out of style quite a while ago; CD's took over and hadn't really given up the ghost. But not only were tapes popular back in the 80's so were 'mix tapes.' Perhaps all of you gen x'ers can remember waiting for the top 9 at 9 to hear your sweet love muffin in 7th grade dedicating a song by Chicago or Styx. By that radio you would sit and as soon as the DJ would start to announce the dedication, you would press record on your 'boom box' which was as big as a hatchback car. Then, after recording Richard Marx's "Hold on to the Night," you would try to add a few other songs that would help you get through the day. Maybe "Money for Nothin'" or "We Built This City on Rock and Roll." What about "Heart of Rock and Roll." Sheesh. It's like taking a stroll through music's hall of shame. I remember when I was about ten years old, while we were eating family supper, I would take out the tape recorder, set it in front of the television and record the music from "Solid Gold." It wasn't quite the same without the dancers, but I was unusually hypnotized by Dionne Warwick.
So many treasures of the past become useless or else simply irrelevant with new technology. One of the startling beauties of the past that seems to be going the way of the dodo is prayer. More and more I talk to people about prayer life and they say that they either find prayer outdated or useless, or else they just don't have time. They don't see the purpose and more than one person has said, "God already knows what I want and He'll give it to me if He wants to." Prayer has been relegated to a role of polishing Aladdin's lamp and expecting a handsome thirty-three year old Jesus to come dancing out of the spout to address the concerns of daily monetary conditions, not just daily bread.
The confirmation class and I were talking about this very question just this last weekend. They now wonder if God really listens or if we should just pray when we are expected to like bedtime. "Now I lay me down to sleep..." or the speed prayer at meal time. During the rest of the day we're on our own. But C. S. Lewis and others liken prayer not just to asking God for what we want but allowing God to share with us what we need most. Sometimes we don't' even know ourselves. Prayer is not changing God's mind but allowing God to change us so that we realize we depend on Him for everything. When we think about our relationship with parents or guardian growing up, often they provide all of our needs without asking or even thanking. But imagine the shock if a child were to ask and thank their parent for everything that was given to them? What would happen if my own children were to thank us for the roof over their heads, the meals in front of them and the books that grace their rooms? Imagine my delighted shock and then my willingness to give even more to make them happy.
Isn't it so with God? If we were to ask and thank God for all the things to come, imagine how much more blessed we are in realizing that God does this simply because He loves us. Just through prayer. And the more we pray, the easier it becomes - the conversation is not limited to bedtime or mealtime, but lifetime - one long dialogue between the holy one of the universe and a minuscule human like me. It is hard to imagine.
So, if the option arises for you, don't let your prayer life go the way of the dodo. It is not obsolete; in fact, it is so incredibly important, that living without it is like living with shortened breaths. Pray, my friends. Pray.
Thursday, February 5, 2009
Sleeping Beauties
I have a friend, Roger, who called and complained to me that he has yet to end up in one of my blogs. Roger, by nature, is neither a complainer (nor a frequent caller, for that fact) but an excellent friend who is delusional about his basketball abilities. He's into old age now; in his fifties - old enough to be my father, or at least older uncle. Roger is one of those unique people in life that bring memories alive - not that he is a living fossil, I would never say that - at least not to his face, but the memories he brings forth are opportunities for us to smile and remember that life really is connected by moments of joy.
Roger is the principal of elementary schools in Waverly, Iowa. He is of average height, skinny, but not stick figured; my memories of him still picture him with brown hair but as of this age, I would guess salt and pepper is more likely. He has a smile that starts on one side of his face and then spreads to the other, kind of like the sun rising; the way he speaks is a constant sort of amusement to me - sarcasm, but not the biting kind - more like the bouncing kind (it bounces off me like water on a duck). His intelligence is apparent and kindness is evident (I'm stroking his ego a bit here). To put it simply, after years apart, Roger doesn't change - and that's a good thing.
Roger, as we were talking the other day, brought up his disastrous summer last year when the flooding of the Cedar River ravaged Waverly and the school district. Irving Elementary School lay underwater; its bathing produced devastating effects and Roger was left trying to relocate all of the children in his school to some other place. When disaster occurs, of course the first thing that is sacrificed is sleep. From what I hear from another friend, Roger seemingly didn't sleep for two weeks; his eyes looked like empty walnut shells - his body language suggested walking death. But like many Iowans last summer, Roger simply rolled up their sleeves and did what he had to do to save life as he knew it.
Even last night as I spoke with my spiritual practices class that one of the things that I take most for granted is sleep. I never really think about how great I feel after a good night of dreaming (or sometimes not dreaming), but when I don't get any sleep it feels as if the world may indeed come crashing down around my bed headed hair. Sleep is truly a gift - doctors might say it is the most necessary element to healing.
Even in one of the most famous fairy tales of all time, Sleeping Beauty, the main character, is put under a spell so that she might sleep instead of succumbing to illness and death. It gives new meaning to the phrase "getting some Beauty Sleep." Roger could really use some of that.
But we live in a society that seems to call a good thing bad and a bad thing good. I heard the other day a group of people bragging about how little sleep they get. One man said, "I average about six hours of sleep per night." "Oh yeah," said the woman, "I'm lucky if I get five. I go to bed at midnight and get up at five o'clock and begin work." The last man in the group looked at them with derision, "Four hours. That's all I need. I guess I'm blessed." It sounded like a demented episode of name that tune: "I can name that tune in four notes..." We consider ourselves blessed if we can get by on less sleep so that we can 'work' more. But, the studies show that the less sleep we get, the less productive we are. More hours of work does not necessarily increase productivity. It usually only lessens job satisfaction. But, we are a society that worships at the altar of work and bows down to the idol of ergomania. Those that work more are lifted up as ideal citizens; those that work 'only' forty hours per week are considered slackers.
Sad, really.
Many cultures around the world emphasize the need for rest - the need to replenish resources. Of course the traditional afternoon siesta in Spanish culture speaks to this. When Christine and I were in Germany in the mid '90's, some towns would shut down for two hours after lunch. A nap, at times, is not a luxury, but a necessity. Sleep is for healing and refreshing the soul. Take, for instance, Jesus modeling of retreating silence. Mark 1:32-34 Jesus spends his day having the sick and the demon possessed brought to him. After healing from the beginning to the end of the day, Jesus needs to retreat. So, in spite of the fact that not every person was healed, he gets up early in the morning to spend time in prayer - to be silent. Luke 8 also speaks of Jesus' need for sleep. The disciples have put out onto the Sea of Galilee and Jesus descends into the boat simply to sleep. Even the Son of God needs to rejuvenate.
My encouragement to you this week; in the midst of connecting joys in life - in the midst of stress and tragedy - look for sleep; look for rejuvenation; look for time in silence with God. Prepare for the days ahead.
Go ahead. You deserve a break today.
Roger is the principal of elementary schools in Waverly, Iowa. He is of average height, skinny, but not stick figured; my memories of him still picture him with brown hair but as of this age, I would guess salt and pepper is more likely. He has a smile that starts on one side of his face and then spreads to the other, kind of like the sun rising; the way he speaks is a constant sort of amusement to me - sarcasm, but not the biting kind - more like the bouncing kind (it bounces off me like water on a duck). His intelligence is apparent and kindness is evident (I'm stroking his ego a bit here). To put it simply, after years apart, Roger doesn't change - and that's a good thing.
Roger, as we were talking the other day, brought up his disastrous summer last year when the flooding of the Cedar River ravaged Waverly and the school district. Irving Elementary School lay underwater; its bathing produced devastating effects and Roger was left trying to relocate all of the children in his school to some other place. When disaster occurs, of course the first thing that is sacrificed is sleep. From what I hear from another friend, Roger seemingly didn't sleep for two weeks; his eyes looked like empty walnut shells - his body language suggested walking death. But like many Iowans last summer, Roger simply rolled up their sleeves and did what he had to do to save life as he knew it.
Even last night as I spoke with my spiritual practices class that one of the things that I take most for granted is sleep. I never really think about how great I feel after a good night of dreaming (or sometimes not dreaming), but when I don't get any sleep it feels as if the world may indeed come crashing down around my bed headed hair. Sleep is truly a gift - doctors might say it is the most necessary element to healing.
Even in one of the most famous fairy tales of all time, Sleeping Beauty, the main character, is put under a spell so that she might sleep instead of succumbing to illness and death. It gives new meaning to the phrase "getting some Beauty Sleep." Roger could really use some of that.
But we live in a society that seems to call a good thing bad and a bad thing good. I heard the other day a group of people bragging about how little sleep they get. One man said, "I average about six hours of sleep per night." "Oh yeah," said the woman, "I'm lucky if I get five. I go to bed at midnight and get up at five o'clock and begin work." The last man in the group looked at them with derision, "Four hours. That's all I need. I guess I'm blessed." It sounded like a demented episode of name that tune: "I can name that tune in four notes..." We consider ourselves blessed if we can get by on less sleep so that we can 'work' more. But, the studies show that the less sleep we get, the less productive we are. More hours of work does not necessarily increase productivity. It usually only lessens job satisfaction. But, we are a society that worships at the altar of work and bows down to the idol of ergomania. Those that work more are lifted up as ideal citizens; those that work 'only' forty hours per week are considered slackers.
Sad, really.
Many cultures around the world emphasize the need for rest - the need to replenish resources. Of course the traditional afternoon siesta in Spanish culture speaks to this. When Christine and I were in Germany in the mid '90's, some towns would shut down for two hours after lunch. A nap, at times, is not a luxury, but a necessity. Sleep is for healing and refreshing the soul. Take, for instance, Jesus modeling of retreating silence. Mark 1:32-34 Jesus spends his day having the sick and the demon possessed brought to him. After healing from the beginning to the end of the day, Jesus needs to retreat. So, in spite of the fact that not every person was healed, he gets up early in the morning to spend time in prayer - to be silent. Luke 8 also speaks of Jesus' need for sleep. The disciples have put out onto the Sea of Galilee and Jesus descends into the boat simply to sleep. Even the Son of God needs to rejuvenate.
My encouragement to you this week; in the midst of connecting joys in life - in the midst of stress and tragedy - look for sleep; look for rejuvenation; look for time in silence with God. Prepare for the days ahead.
Go ahead. You deserve a break today.
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