The house was too noisy.
The children were relentless tornado sirens.
But you can't be the uncle
Who tells children to shut up,
So I slipped away to sandy shores to dig.
I found a log, near the embankment,
Next to a pile of charred wood.
It had been talked, and laughed, and sung over,
Inscribed with life,
Then seared by flame into ornate patterns.
But I'm not here to share,
I'm here, alone, to dig,
To find a little rock to polish by throwing it to the waves.
They smash the stone against the sandy shore,
Over and over,
Until it yields something to share with the noisy children.
Pictures of Buffalo
It's easy to live life through a two inch screen.
I heard a story about a couple who banned the use of phones and cameras at their wedding. They wanted people to take in the experience with them, rather than re-view it through a pixelated portal. I'm sure the photographer was excluded from the ordinance.
It's tempting to try and capture every significant moment digitally. We want to be able to relive something in a way that our imagination won't let us, so we are in a state of constant cell phone preparedness.
The irony is, that in trying to preserve the moment, we miss it altogether. Courtney and I are in Oregon this week. My parents came out for my graduation, so we drove back with them, making stops along the way. As we took a northern route home from Indiana, it only made sense to drive through Yellowstone and get our first glimpse of Old Faithful. Standing in front of the steaming spout with two or so minutes left before the fireworks began, we heard my Dad yell from near the lodge. Two Bison were sauntering in our direction, seemingly ignorant of the mostly Asian and European mass that had worked itself into a frenzy over its casual presence. I snapped into action, literally. Before you could say Kodak is bankrupt I was capturing the experience with high-resolution clarity. Then it hit me, put down the camera. Instead of worrying about a good shot, or missing something fantastic, I decided just to breath it in.
The Buffalo mozied toward us. I sware, if I ever saw anything mozy, it was this buffalo, and it was beautiful. I've never been that close to an unleashed beast and felt the awe of its strength; at any moment he could have run down my wife, myself, or any of the other greenhorn tourists. This was a taste of raw nature, and in trying to preserve the moment, I almost missed it.
Moments of wonder can't be forced, captured, or preserved. We can only stop, listen, and accept them for what they are, when they come and when they leave. If this weren't the case, Courtney and I wouldn't have to work on our marriage; we could just watch our wedding video and relive the idealized passion. But instead we try to make space for great moments, put down the camera, and breath them in like life.
Mother's Week: Dancing in the Pain
Mom Danced --once or twice. Both times
with medical consequences. One dance sessions happened as she
walked toward her car as us boys played basketball on the concrete. I
don't remember why she started dancing, but the next thing we knew, she was flat on gravel laughing --or crying, I'm still not sure
which.
On another occasion mom filleted the
back of her hand with a Miracle Blade knife while talking on the
phone, which was also the cause of both pain and laughter. She
was millimeters from severing a tendon.
My mother never gave me the impression
that life was easy, or even all that pleasant, but she found reasons
to laugh. I'm thankful to have caught that trait; life is far too
serious and severe to go through it without a healthy dose of
laughter mixed with the pain. Sometimes you just gotta dance, even
if it costs you an ankle.
Mothers' Week: The Mother-In-Law
I hope you noticed that the apostrophe in Mother's week moved. There is another mother I need to throw into the mix of awesomeness --my mother-in-law Paula.
TV did an excellent job of brainwashing me into thinking that a mother-in-law is an unfortunate reality. Whoever it was, she was going to be manipulative, self-serving, obnoxious, and loud. I must have found the exception --well except for the loud part.
If Paula were to die today (which I hope she doesn't) I fully expect at least a thousand people would show up for the funeral. I really don't feel like I'm exaggerating. Sometime around midnight the officiating pastor would have to cut things short and send everyone home grumbling that they had barely begun. Paula is a teacher at a local elementary school; everywhere we go, we run into someone she had as a student. They all shout her name and come running as if she saved their life from a burning building (the more I get to know her, the more likely this scenario seems).
There are some people who do their job quite well from 9 to 5 and make quite an impression on a lot of lives. And then there are those who go into a bug bed infested, 1970s, single wide trailer after work to clean up, take the sick mother some food, and sit on a bug bed infested couch to talk to them like they are actually people. No, this isn't someone involved in a church program, just my mother-in-law doing what seems to come so natural to her.
TV did an excellent job of brainwashing me into thinking that a mother-in-law is an unfortunate reality. Whoever it was, she was going to be manipulative, self-serving, obnoxious, and loud. I must have found the exception --well except for the loud part.
If Paula were to die today (which I hope she doesn't) I fully expect at least a thousand people would show up for the funeral. I really don't feel like I'm exaggerating. Sometime around midnight the officiating pastor would have to cut things short and send everyone home grumbling that they had barely begun. Paula is a teacher at a local elementary school; everywhere we go, we run into someone she had as a student. They all shout her name and come running as if she saved their life from a burning building (the more I get to know her, the more likely this scenario seems).
There are some people who do their job quite well from 9 to 5 and make quite an impression on a lot of lives. And then there are those who go into a bug bed infested, 1970s, single wide trailer after work to clean up, take the sick mother some food, and sit on a bug bed infested couch to talk to them like they are actually people. No, this isn't someone involved in a church program, just my mother-in-law doing what seems to come so natural to her.
Mother's Week: Rose Colored Glasses.
Growing up, my mother made me do a lot of things I didn't want to do, embarrassing things like sing in front of the church with my brothers. I always claimed to hate it, but the reason I hated it was because she made me do it. But if I'm honest, I liked the attention. I suppose that makes me a diva. But this isn't about my neurosis. It's mother's day... which I will be stretching out a bit, because my mother is that special. So here's to mom and all the ways that she inspires me. A week of writing is far too little thanks.
My mother claims I looking at the past with rose colored glasses. If she means that I'm leaving out her less noble traits, well maybe, but I'm trying to reveal the core of who my mother was and is, who I know and remember her to be. Maybe I am guilty of idealizing, but that's only because the things that stick the most are the things that were repeated most often. Maybe I'm blocking out memories of her hitting me with a baseball bat; it's more likely that she's just a fantastic woman, which is why it doesn't surprise me that people I rarely talk to are coming out of the woodwork to comment and like the links to these posts on my facebook wall. They are only more evidence that what I'm saying is quite true.
My mother claims I looking at the past with rose colored glasses. If she means that I'm leaving out her less noble traits, well maybe, but I'm trying to reveal the core of who my mother was and is, who I know and remember her to be. Maybe I am guilty of idealizing, but that's only because the things that stick the most are the things that were repeated most often. Maybe I'm blocking out memories of her hitting me with a baseball bat; it's more likely that she's just a fantastic woman, which is why it doesn't surprise me that people I rarely talk to are coming out of the woodwork to comment and like the links to these posts on my facebook wall. They are only more evidence that what I'm saying is quite true.
Mother's Week: Pain
Growing up, my mother made me do a lot of things I didn't want to do, embarrassing things like sing in front of the church with my brothers. I always claimed to hate it, but the reason I hated it was because she made me do it. But if I'm honest, I liked the attention. I suppose that makes me a diva. But this isn't about my neurosis. It's mother's day... which I will be stretching out a bit, because my mother is that special. So here's to mom and all the ways that she inspires me. A week of writing is far too little thanks.
Mom was not unfamiliar with pain. It was common for my brothers and I to play quietly while mom gave herself a shot and spent the entire day in a dark room, fighting off a migrane. It's hard for a son to see mommy hurt, it's even harder when you know that there isn't anything you can do other than play quietly.
I had migraines as a child as well, so those days that mom was out of commission, I could almost feel the insatiable throbs, the fight for a comfortable position, and the longing for a sleep deep enough to forget about the pain. Sometimes I prayed that I could go through the headaches instead of her, especially on days when getting to the dark room to recover was not on her list of options.
My mother is a fantastic cook; due to her particular prowess of cooking great food for over 400 people, a new position was created on top of the cooking committee at our church specifically for funerals, which in Mennonite country can be translated as, excuse for a big meal. I have this theory that at the core of being Mennonite, there is a necessary element of preparing, eating, and cleaning up a giant meal. When someone is born, you have a shower with lots of food, when someone gets married (I broke this tradition) a smorgasbord is expected; even your death is an excuse for people to chow down. Within this culinary driven sub-culture, my mother has a reputation for setting a table you won't soon forget. But what people back home may not know is that a fair number of these gargantuan meals coincided with one of those debilitating (to the average person) migraines.
But my mother is not average --and her drive to care for others continued even when her head was throbbing. Us boys were often on the receiving end of her selflessness. Even when our requests were rather petty, she saw to them, and never held our selfishness against us. Physical pain, self sacrifice, unending forgiveness toward undeserving little twits... sounds like someone else I know.
Mom was not unfamiliar with pain. It was common for my brothers and I to play quietly while mom gave herself a shot and spent the entire day in a dark room, fighting off a migrane. It's hard for a son to see mommy hurt, it's even harder when you know that there isn't anything you can do other than play quietly.
I had migraines as a child as well, so those days that mom was out of commission, I could almost feel the insatiable throbs, the fight for a comfortable position, and the longing for a sleep deep enough to forget about the pain. Sometimes I prayed that I could go through the headaches instead of her, especially on days when getting to the dark room to recover was not on her list of options.
My mother is a fantastic cook; due to her particular prowess of cooking great food for over 400 people, a new position was created on top of the cooking committee at our church specifically for funerals, which in Mennonite country can be translated as, excuse for a big meal. I have this theory that at the core of being Mennonite, there is a necessary element of preparing, eating, and cleaning up a giant meal. When someone is born, you have a shower with lots of food, when someone gets married (I broke this tradition) a smorgasbord is expected; even your death is an excuse for people to chow down. Within this culinary driven sub-culture, my mother has a reputation for setting a table you won't soon forget. But what people back home may not know is that a fair number of these gargantuan meals coincided with one of those debilitating (to the average person) migraines.
But my mother is not average --and her drive to care for others continued even when her head was throbbing. Us boys were often on the receiving end of her selflessness. Even when our requests were rather petty, she saw to them, and never held our selfishness against us. Physical pain, self sacrifice, unending forgiveness toward undeserving little twits... sounds like someone else I know.
Mother's Week: People First.
Growing up, my mother made me do a lot of things I didn't want to do, embarrassing things like sing in front of the church with my brothers. I always claimed to hate it, but the reason I hated it was because she made me do it. But if I'm honest, I liked the attention. I suppose that makes me a diva. But this isn't about my neurosis. It's mother's day... which I will be stretching out a bit, because my mother is that special. So here's to mom and all the ways that she inspires me. A week of writing is far too little thanks.
My mother, Jane to those who love her, (and Delilah, or Diléeah to telemarketers) is a woman of action. My mother doesn't sit around philosophizing about things like I do, she gets things done. The walls I was raised in have witnessed appreciation dinners for teachers (complete with an entire pig roast), fifty or so guests each Christmas Eve, words of compassion and counsel, and more obnoxious teenagers streaking up and down the front porch than one could (or should be able to) count. I don't remember a time when we were prohibited from having someone over, even when Mom had a hard day and we were being jerks for even suggesting it. There was always some sort of treat waiting, along with lots of smiles.
Mom cared about people. They came first, even frustrating people, or people who might want to hurt you, or had hurt you already. Not that my mother was never hurt or frustrated, but it is obvious to me that my she always placed reconciliation in front of justice. My mother taught me that people are more important than being right, or understood, yourself.
My mother, Jane to those who love her, (and Delilah, or Diléeah to telemarketers) is a woman of action. My mother doesn't sit around philosophizing about things like I do, she gets things done. The walls I was raised in have witnessed appreciation dinners for teachers (complete with an entire pig roast), fifty or so guests each Christmas Eve, words of compassion and counsel, and more obnoxious teenagers streaking up and down the front porch than one could (or should be able to) count. I don't remember a time when we were prohibited from having someone over, even when Mom had a hard day and we were being jerks for even suggesting it. There was always some sort of treat waiting, along with lots of smiles.
Mom cared about people. They came first, even frustrating people, or people who might want to hurt you, or had hurt you already. Not that my mother was never hurt or frustrated, but it is obvious to me that my she always placed reconciliation in front of justice. My mother taught me that people are more important than being right, or understood, yourself.
The Problem with 'Fixing' Problems.
I've been
reading a lot of Flannery O'connor lately. I particularly enjoy her characters who are stories within themselves. There is the Bible salesman Manly
Pointer who steals Hulga the angry atheist's prosthetic leg, the chubby girl who
leaps across the table to strangle the subtly racist Mrs. Turpin,
whispering in her ear, "Go back to hell where you came from you
old warthog!", and even a 'Misfit' who kills the overly nostalgic, paranoid, and self-centered grandma. Flannery's characters are hardly
neutral, but rarely contrived; there is something about them that rings very true in us.
Yesterday I found myself in one of Flannery's characters: Sheppard, a single father and psychiatrist who tries to 'fix' people. The problem is, Sheppard tries to fix actions and behavior, rather than work to heal the heart. In the process he simply tries to conform people to his own image.
The problem with fixing isn't new to me. My wife often reminds me she wants me to listen rather than fix it. I've tried (rather unsuccessfully) to be more careful about not telling other people what they should do. What is new to me is what I realized about Sheppard's (and my own) attempts to fix people, it flows out of a desire to control others and thus my environment. If people are more like me, I don't have to try so hard to love them, because their doing what I want them to. Often, in group discussion I steer conversation toward a topic I'm more comfortable with. Or if someone has some differing theology, I try to steer them toward my perspective so I can feel more at home.
The healthy version of the fixer, is the healer. The tragedy in the story of Sheppard is that he never really listened to the heart of his son. When his son, looking through a telescope, insisted that he saw his dead mother waving at them, Sheppard tried to fix the behavior instead of dealing with the issues in his son's heart. He later returned to the attic to find his son hanging from the rafters.
Being a healer isn't as fun. It means listening to people when we think they're crazy, or stupid, or irrational, because often when people say something angry, bitter, or frustrated, their communicating something deeper, something that needs to be drawn out and listened to. Fixing the 'problem' only closes up a wound, leaving the bullet inside.
Also, read some Flannery O'connor; it's fantastic stuff.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)