Even though today was the last day of March, today's 82 degrees made for one of the best weather days St. Louis can ever expect: clear skies, beautiful sunlight, just slightly toasty in the afternoon, and just a slight chill in the night.
It was so nice today that my work team decided to hold its weekly meeting outside on an office patio, and then our bimonthly happy hour (just for our team) was outdoors as well, at a rooftop bistro.
And that might have been the end of today's outdoor activities except for a phone query from my daughter Amy: would I like to see the high school baseball team play tonight (in its only night game)? Her boyfriend is on the team and he had watched her during softball season. The game wasn't far from the office, and I've made a habit of watching more high school sports this year, partially because Amy has been in marching and pep bands, but also because I know a lot of these student athletes as Amy's contemporaries and have seen them literally grow up into young men and women.
So I headed south on the highway and eventually found the field: "Heine Meine Field." No kidding. I got there before Amy, who was getting a ride from her boyfriend's family. The teams were warming up but I could tell something was wrong: there were no umps.
Long story short, the umps arrived late, delayed by their previous game; Amy arrived, the game got underway and it was a tight contest. Our team took the early lead 2-0, fell behind 4-2, then tied it but fell behind again at 6-4 and tied it again at 6-6 in the sixth and penultimate inning. It had been a long day and I thought about leaving early but as long as the score was close I was going to stay. In the top of the 7th inning, our guys bust out with a huge rally taking the lead 12-6 and then holding their opponents to only one run for a final score of 12-7.
The numbers don't tell the whole story but the fact that I can rattle off the lead changes tells me two things: (1) I am obsessive about recalling the ebb and flow of any game; and (2) it's the small things that can make a difference, in baseball and in life.
I won't wax poetic about baseball -- so many have already done that so well, like Bart Giamatti and George Will. I will, however, liken the return of baseball season to Lent being the theological transformation of winter and dying to spring and living. This is the 'right time,' the time of energy and renewal, the time of hope. And even though there can be only one World Series champion, every fall/winter the other teams take their winter break and think/hope "wait til next year."
But tonight, the little things that mattered were between people, like reading between the lines of a book, play or dialogue. High school sports are more fun because as a spectator I am so much closer to the action (than at a pro game), plus I know the kids and the coaches/teachers. The skill level may pale in comparison to the pros, but the competition level is just as intense. Perhaps even more intense because these kids play for school and town pride, with (friendly) rivalries that are part of their identities. In the pros it seems like the competition is just there, a necessary by-product of filling the seats during the regular season and playoffs.
I wasn't looking for anything 'profound' during the game, but I noticed profundity nonetheless in the body language of the players and coaches, because I wasn't close enough to hear their chatter. The coaches reinforced good habits and corrected bad ones, in between at-bats and plays. There were so many instances of eye contact and demonstrating proper grip, stance and attitude, or even more impressively knowing glances serving as a shorthand of previous coaching lessons. I even saw the umpires doing it when explaining to our pitcher after he balked in a run; they were explaining what to do and what not to do with runners on base.
I heard it in the cheers from the parents and non-coach teachers in the crowd; the beauty of the inter-connectedness for all in attendance, in healthy competition against a neighboring team. So many relationships, so much mutual support.
I later learned more about tonight's rivalry; the opposing team won the league title last year. And then I discovered our team started five sophomores, plus there's some great talent on the JV team just waiting to get the opportunities on the Varsity Squad. Many are already talking about our chances in the playoff tournament which isn't too far away. The season is just starting and we're all abuzz because we have a clean slate and success is within the realm of possibility for all teams -- especially ours. It's a time of great hope.
[This blog automatically feeds my Facebook Notes page; click here to see the original blog]
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Lent Day 36: Christ and the Recovering Adolescent
On Palm Sunday I was a bit out of sorts during the service, a bit disoriented because of everyone (not just worship leaders) processing (or is that proceeding?) into the Sanctuary/church.
Prior to that I was teaching youth group, something that I feel like I've been doing forever, not because it's something that I got to do, but because it's something that I get to do.
Within two weeks of my baptism at age 23, I was co-teaching the youth group at my church. The oldest students in that group were just six years younger than me, and all of them had a decade more experience in church life than me. It's not the sort of thing anyone plans, from the youth board's perspective or the newly baptized. It just happened, the sort of serendipity that the New Me has gotten used to, in a good way.
I don't really remember much about those early years of youth group, other than I was a ball of energy. I was excited and anxious about being 'responsible' for a group of young adults who were really not that much younger than me. The other thing I recall doing was mimicking what my favorite teachers did best: ask questions... open-ended questions. And because I was new to the church, I got to ask the teens what they thought and believed about almost anything, and in particular, why we say and do the things we do during worship service. I always got interesting answers, and often the tables were turned. I didn't always have the answers, but I always shared my thought process and then invited guest speakers to help provide answers to our persistent questions.
After about three years of that hectic pace I was feeling burnout. I discovered later that the average tenure for a youth worker is 18 months before burnout sets in. One Sunday I yelled across the church parking lot to Ed Schroeder about the Crossings classes I had heard about; soon after I enrolled in a class. It changed my life, helping me to more fully appreciate the meaning of my Baptism, to live in a way where the energy wasn't draining from me, but my energy was being replenished and renewed -- a qualitatively different kind of energy as well, coming from the Cross and the Resurrection. In short, there was a New Me.
I continued youth work for another decade until Noah came along. I could do the youth ministry while Amy was young and an only child, but with two young kids it was too much. I started again after Amy was confirmed -- the affirmation of her baptism -- and joined youth group.
I was a bit tentative the second time around because I felt that much of the 'success' in my first tour of duty was because I was unrelated to any of the youth. With some distance, the teens could be a bit more free in the discussions. But I found it didn't really matter. There's some adjustment because of the father-daughter relationship, but it's surprisingly pleasant to be able to talk about faith matters and other things in an adult way with my own daughter, especially in a group setting. It's definitely something I didn't expect and I savor every moment.
On Palm Sunday Amy wasn't at youth group because she was recovering from a weekend competition. I sort of groaned about getting up early and going because I had to do it. But the teens were marvelous, always full of energy even if much of it was grousing about waking up early on a weekend day (but hey, I felt the same way). As was the theme of the day I did everything out of pattern and sat in a different seat. I looked up and noticed a picture I rarely get to see: Poseidon from a beach, with the waves depicted as white stallions.
I mentioned how the painting reminded me of Percy Jackson and New Olympians: The Lightning Thief (because Percy is the son of -- spoiler alert -- Poseidon), and how I somewhat enjoyed the movie but after reading the book, hated the movie in solidarity with Noah's opinion. I then instinctively asked -- because it was clear we weren't going to stay on topic that day -- apart from the book to movie adaptation problem, why is it that it's easier to write books or make movies about gods other than the God we profess and confess each Sunday?
I actually wasn't prepared for the onslaught of opinions, but it was beautiful. I don't need to go into the details of the discussion, but it's safe to say we'll be revisiting this same theme later in the year. This is a wonderful phase of life these teens are going through: a time of questioning of the world, of themselves, of God, and reflecting on what these things mean to them and how to incorporate it into their daily lives.
It reminded me of when I led a Crossings weekend workshop and one of the participants, in introducing herself with name, congregation and job, described herself as a "'recovering adolescent' -- make that 'youth minister.'" I don't remember her name, but I laughed my head off at that comment and have stolen it and used it shamelessly ever since. I get to be with the youth of my church, be a recovering adolescent-in-Christ and I love every minute of it.
[This blog automatically feeds my Facebook Notes page; click here to see the original blog]
Prior to that I was teaching youth group, something that I feel like I've been doing forever, not because it's something that I got to do, but because it's something that I get to do.
Within two weeks of my baptism at age 23, I was co-teaching the youth group at my church. The oldest students in that group were just six years younger than me, and all of them had a decade more experience in church life than me. It's not the sort of thing anyone plans, from the youth board's perspective or the newly baptized. It just happened, the sort of serendipity that the New Me has gotten used to, in a good way.
I don't really remember much about those early years of youth group, other than I was a ball of energy. I was excited and anxious about being 'responsible' for a group of young adults who were really not that much younger than me. The other thing I recall doing was mimicking what my favorite teachers did best: ask questions... open-ended questions. And because I was new to the church, I got to ask the teens what they thought and believed about almost anything, and in particular, why we say and do the things we do during worship service. I always got interesting answers, and often the tables were turned. I didn't always have the answers, but I always shared my thought process and then invited guest speakers to help provide answers to our persistent questions.
After about three years of that hectic pace I was feeling burnout. I discovered later that the average tenure for a youth worker is 18 months before burnout sets in. One Sunday I yelled across the church parking lot to Ed Schroeder about the Crossings classes I had heard about; soon after I enrolled in a class. It changed my life, helping me to more fully appreciate the meaning of my Baptism, to live in a way where the energy wasn't draining from me, but my energy was being replenished and renewed -- a qualitatively different kind of energy as well, coming from the Cross and the Resurrection. In short, there was a New Me.
I continued youth work for another decade until Noah came along. I could do the youth ministry while Amy was young and an only child, but with two young kids it was too much. I started again after Amy was confirmed -- the affirmation of her baptism -- and joined youth group.
I was a bit tentative the second time around because I felt that much of the 'success' in my first tour of duty was because I was unrelated to any of the youth. With some distance, the teens could be a bit more free in the discussions. But I found it didn't really matter. There's some adjustment because of the father-daughter relationship, but it's surprisingly pleasant to be able to talk about faith matters and other things in an adult way with my own daughter, especially in a group setting. It's definitely something I didn't expect and I savor every moment.
On Palm Sunday Amy wasn't at youth group because she was recovering from a weekend competition. I sort of groaned about getting up early and going because I had to do it. But the teens were marvelous, always full of energy even if much of it was grousing about waking up early on a weekend day (but hey, I felt the same way). As was the theme of the day I did everything out of pattern and sat in a different seat. I looked up and noticed a picture I rarely get to see: Poseidon from a beach, with the waves depicted as white stallions.
I mentioned how the painting reminded me of Percy Jackson and New Olympians: The Lightning Thief (because Percy is the son of -- spoiler alert -- Poseidon), and how I somewhat enjoyed the movie but after reading the book, hated the movie in solidarity with Noah's opinion. I then instinctively asked -- because it was clear we weren't going to stay on topic that day -- apart from the book to movie adaptation problem, why is it that it's easier to write books or make movies about gods other than the God we profess and confess each Sunday?
I actually wasn't prepared for the onslaught of opinions, but it was beautiful. I don't need to go into the details of the discussion, but it's safe to say we'll be revisiting this same theme later in the year. This is a wonderful phase of life these teens are going through: a time of questioning of the world, of themselves, of God, and reflecting on what these things mean to them and how to incorporate it into their daily lives.
It reminded me of when I led a Crossings weekend workshop and one of the participants, in introducing herself with name, congregation and job, described herself as a "'recovering adolescent' -- make that 'youth minister.'" I don't remember her name, but I laughed my head off at that comment and have stolen it and used it shamelessly ever since. I get to be with the youth of my church, be a recovering adolescent-in-Christ and I love every minute of it.
[This blog automatically feeds my Facebook Notes page; click here to see the original blog]
Monday, March 29, 2010
Lent Day 35: Palm Monday and The Outsider
For several reasons, yesterday's Palm Sunday service reminded me greatly of the five years I attended mass/worship before I was baptized.
The kids were wiped out from our weekend trip (to participate in/see the Color Guard/Drum Line championships), and Denise spent the morning retrieving our dog from his first time ever being kenneled, which exhausted everyone. I went to church to lead the youth group discussion, and then settled in for late service without anyone else from my family.
The Sunday of The Passion (Palm Sunday) begins with a procession of the pastors, choir and members from one end of the building to the sanctuary (church building proper). We recall the story of Jesus riding into Jerusalem, with cheers from people waving palm leaves. (I still can't figure out what today's equivalent would be: a ticker tape parade?) Usually the procession is from the back of the church and includes only those who lead the service (preside, assist, sing); the members are usually in the pews. But with everyone in the processional, it's a free-for-all regarding seats. By the time I had gotten seated I felt out of sorts. As much as I knew the people around me, I was out of my usual pattern.
The service itself is also unusual, but in a good way. The music is much more ornate, and there are many more readings. In fact, the entire Passion -- from Jesus' triumphant march into Jerusalem through his dying on the Cross -- is read aloud, with different folks reading the parts of Jesus, the disciples, Pilate, the thieves on the crosses alongside Jesus, and so on. And with so much being read aloud, there is no sermon.
Perhaps it was my being out of pattern or my fatigue (I had driven 600 miles in two days) or perhaps it's my Lenten discipline of minimizing audio noise -- everything about the service struck me deeper than in recent years. I listened, not just heard, all the words very carefully. I sang all the hymns much more intensely. And for all 'choreography' in the service -- the Cross that lead the procession, the Words of Institution spoken in preparing the bread and wine for Communion, all the movement that takes place in a service -- I locked in, almost like watching the action for the first time.
I've been asked why it took me five years to decide to get baptized, and I've never had a really good answer. It just didn't seem like I was ready until it was time, and yet I went almost weekly to some form of Christian worship. For the first two years I attended Catholic Mass, and indeed was almost baptized there. I studied the different parts of the worship liturgy, marveling at how everyone knew what to say or do at certain times during Mass. In taking one of the adult Christian education classes I had been preparing to baptized on Easter Vigil, the Saturday between Good Friday and Easter Sunday.
For the following three years I attended a Lutheran church, the very one I still attend today. I attended worship, intellectually observing the differences between a Protestant service and a Catholic Mass. I took the Lutheran adult Christian education class and for whatever reason felt more comfortable there. I don't why I felt that way, but I think I felt more comfortable or emboldened to ask questions. And I asked many questions about why pastors and worshipers say and do the things they say and do during the service. I asked the questions that an outsider would ask, one who felt confident enough to ask without being laughed at.
As much as I marveled at the rituals, I needed to understand why everyone performed them. Without knowing the underlying reasons, the gestures would be mere superstitions. I asked many questions and still remember most if not all of the answers. I tend to internally reinforce those lessons during worship service -- to always remember why I do the things I do, like during the Exchange of Peace, or how I respond while receiving Communion.
I don't know why I'm so obsessed about remembering "the why" underlying the rituals; perhaps it's the ultra-rational side of me that never wants to be accused of being superstitious. But there's part of me that always feels The Outsider, the person looking in where others are already accepted, forgiven and loved. Like part of me doesn't deserve to be there and share in the gifts of the church. Perhaps that's why I waited five long years to finally become baptized.
Maybe it took me that long to figure out that no one actually deserves these things, and that's why people go to church: to get something (good/Good) that they don't deserve. And that in the big picture we're all Outsiders, who are made Insiders by the very story that we'll hear throughout this Holy Week.
[This blog automatically feeds my Facebook Notes page; click here to see the original blog]
The kids were wiped out from our weekend trip (to participate in/see the Color Guard/Drum Line championships), and Denise spent the morning retrieving our dog from his first time ever being kenneled, which exhausted everyone. I went to church to lead the youth group discussion, and then settled in for late service without anyone else from my family.
The Sunday of The Passion (Palm Sunday) begins with a procession of the pastors, choir and members from one end of the building to the sanctuary (church building proper). We recall the story of Jesus riding into Jerusalem, with cheers from people waving palm leaves. (I still can't figure out what today's equivalent would be: a ticker tape parade?) Usually the procession is from the back of the church and includes only those who lead the service (preside, assist, sing); the members are usually in the pews. But with everyone in the processional, it's a free-for-all regarding seats. By the time I had gotten seated I felt out of sorts. As much as I knew the people around me, I was out of my usual pattern.
The service itself is also unusual, but in a good way. The music is much more ornate, and there are many more readings. In fact, the entire Passion -- from Jesus' triumphant march into Jerusalem through his dying on the Cross -- is read aloud, with different folks reading the parts of Jesus, the disciples, Pilate, the thieves on the crosses alongside Jesus, and so on. And with so much being read aloud, there is no sermon.
Perhaps it was my being out of pattern or my fatigue (I had driven 600 miles in two days) or perhaps it's my Lenten discipline of minimizing audio noise -- everything about the service struck me deeper than in recent years. I listened, not just heard, all the words very carefully. I sang all the hymns much more intensely. And for all 'choreography' in the service -- the Cross that lead the procession, the Words of Institution spoken in preparing the bread and wine for Communion, all the movement that takes place in a service -- I locked in, almost like watching the action for the first time.
I've been asked why it took me five years to decide to get baptized, and I've never had a really good answer. It just didn't seem like I was ready until it was time, and yet I went almost weekly to some form of Christian worship. For the first two years I attended Catholic Mass, and indeed was almost baptized there. I studied the different parts of the worship liturgy, marveling at how everyone knew what to say or do at certain times during Mass. In taking one of the adult Christian education classes I had been preparing to baptized on Easter Vigil, the Saturday between Good Friday and Easter Sunday.
For the following three years I attended a Lutheran church, the very one I still attend today. I attended worship, intellectually observing the differences between a Protestant service and a Catholic Mass. I took the Lutheran adult Christian education class and for whatever reason felt more comfortable there. I don't why I felt that way, but I think I felt more comfortable or emboldened to ask questions. And I asked many questions about why pastors and worshipers say and do the things they say and do during the service. I asked the questions that an outsider would ask, one who felt confident enough to ask without being laughed at.
As much as I marveled at the rituals, I needed to understand why everyone performed them. Without knowing the underlying reasons, the gestures would be mere superstitions. I asked many questions and still remember most if not all of the answers. I tend to internally reinforce those lessons during worship service -- to always remember why I do the things I do, like during the Exchange of Peace, or how I respond while receiving Communion.
I don't know why I'm so obsessed about remembering "the why" underlying the rituals; perhaps it's the ultra-rational side of me that never wants to be accused of being superstitious. But there's part of me that always feels The Outsider, the person looking in where others are already accepted, forgiven and loved. Like part of me doesn't deserve to be there and share in the gifts of the church. Perhaps that's why I waited five long years to finally become baptized.
Maybe it took me that long to figure out that no one actually deserves these things, and that's why people go to church: to get something (good/Good) that they don't deserve. And that in the big picture we're all Outsiders, who are made Insiders by the very story that we'll hear throughout this Holy Week.
[This blog automatically feeds my Facebook Notes page; click here to see the original blog]
Saturday, March 27, 2010
Lent Day 34: Charlie Brown, Christmas and Crossings
Yesterday I wrote about how much "A Charlie Brown Christmas" is a significant part of my spiritual journey.
Because I'm heading back home to St. Louis today after having watched Amy compete in the Winter Color Guard and Drum Line Championships in Springfield, MO, I don't have much time to write. I'm dovetailing on yesterday's entry with something I wrote for the Crossings Community - an essay that talks about a slice of my life -- working in the financial services industry during the October 2008 market meltdown, crossed with the Luke version of the Christmas story, and brought together by Linus reciting Luke in "A Charlie Brown Christmas" special. The essay is called "Lucre, Linus and Luke -- Crossing the Current Financial Crises."
[This blog automatically feeds my Facebook Notes page; click here to see the original blog]
Because I'm heading back home to St. Louis today after having watched Amy compete in the Winter Color Guard and Drum Line Championships in Springfield, MO, I don't have much time to write. I'm dovetailing on yesterday's entry with something I wrote for the Crossings Community - an essay that talks about a slice of my life -- working in the financial services industry during the October 2008 market meltdown, crossed with the Luke version of the Christmas story, and brought together by Linus reciting Luke in "A Charlie Brown Christmas" special. The essay is called "Lucre, Linus and Luke -- Crossing the Current Financial Crises."
[This blog automatically feeds my Facebook Notes page; click here to see the original blog]
Friday, March 26, 2010
Lent Day 33: A Charlie Brown Christmas
A Christmas reference might be more relevant during Advent than Lent, but since this Lenten blog has shared not only Lenten reflections but also glimpses of my spiritual journey, the classic Charlie Brown Christmas special needs to make an appearance.
For many kids who grew up on television, Charlie Brown specials were an annual event. They were available only by watching on broadcast television, long before cable TV and VHS became mainstream, let alone DVDs and DVRs. "Must-see TV" to me back then meant watching movies like "The Wizard of Oz" or Christmas specials like "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer" or "Santa Claus is Coming to Town." If you missed the one time it was shown that holiday season, you had to wait an entire year to have another opportunity.
Among all the Christmas specials, "Charlie Brown" stood out for me. In some ways that wasn't surprising because of all the newspaper comic strips, "Peanuts" was always special. I always used to read the comic strips in the order of personal favorites, from least to most favored (I still do actually). "Peanuts" always got to be the best, saved for last.
But "A Charlie Brown Christmas" was even more noteworthy. Even though I didn't grow up "in the church," I knew something was qualitatively different about it, because it was (and still is, I think) the only mainstream Christmas special that actually quoted Scripture. I didn't really understand or even come close to appreciating the full meaning of Luke's account of Christ's birth, as recited by Linus, but I knew that it was important. In the midst of bringing the comic strip to animated life, amongst the crazy vignettes of those lovable Peanuts characters caught up in over-commercialized yuletide madness and beautiful jazz music, Linus recites those precious words of Scripture over dead silence. There's no background music, no Foley artist adding sound effects. Just those important words, plain and simple.
Years later I've studied those words, the Lukan Christmas story, over and over again. Hearing Linus recite those words is now as much a part of spiritual journey as watching that Christmas special was part of my childhood.
[This blog automatically feeds my Facebook Notes page; click here to see the original blog]
For many kids who grew up on television, Charlie Brown specials were an annual event. They were available only by watching on broadcast television, long before cable TV and VHS became mainstream, let alone DVDs and DVRs. "Must-see TV" to me back then meant watching movies like "The Wizard of Oz" or Christmas specials like "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer" or "Santa Claus is Coming to Town." If you missed the one time it was shown that holiday season, you had to wait an entire year to have another opportunity.
Among all the Christmas specials, "Charlie Brown" stood out for me. In some ways that wasn't surprising because of all the newspaper comic strips, "Peanuts" was always special. I always used to read the comic strips in the order of personal favorites, from least to most favored (I still do actually). "Peanuts" always got to be the best, saved for last.
But "A Charlie Brown Christmas" was even more noteworthy. Even though I didn't grow up "in the church," I knew something was qualitatively different about it, because it was (and still is, I think) the only mainstream Christmas special that actually quoted Scripture. I didn't really understand or even come close to appreciating the full meaning of Luke's account of Christ's birth, as recited by Linus, but I knew that it was important. In the midst of bringing the comic strip to animated life, amongst the crazy vignettes of those lovable Peanuts characters caught up in over-commercialized yuletide madness and beautiful jazz music, Linus recites those precious words of Scripture over dead silence. There's no background music, no Foley artist adding sound effects. Just those important words, plain and simple.
Years later I've studied those words, the Lukan Christmas story, over and over again. Hearing Linus recite those words is now as much a part of spiritual journey as watching that Christmas special was part of my childhood.
[This blog automatically feeds my Facebook Notes page; click here to see the original blog]
Thursday, March 25, 2010
Lent Day 32: Death Desensitized
As much as I love pop culture, my wife doesn't. Or more accurately she hates the excessive amount and intensity of violence in movies and on TV shows.
Maybe it's because I love watching and studying movies/TV and appreciate the creators' craft in portraying fantastic scenes, usually with lots of action and possibly injuries and death. I understand and know that the depictions are created; the beauty of this art form is that one can create on film a place that exists nowhere else, and may never have existed at all. I easily distinguish the portrayal from reality.
From her perspective she's worked in emergency rooms and done social work; graphic portrayals of those places in a show like ER or violence on crime shows make her queasy. She easily conflates the portrayal with reality.
I once tried to get her to watch HBO's Rome, but the graphic depiction of cavalier attitudes towards sex and violence, although only 4 minutes per 60 minute episode, marred the remaining 56 minutes of excellent drama. We do watch some shows with graphic violence, like Bones or Castle, where the main draw of the show are the relationships between the characters (mostly unresolved sexual tension), and the grisly stuff is just part of the 'case of the week.'
She also feels that the supersaturation of violence in pop culture correlates highly with violence in the real world. For years I've fought that notion, but as I grow older (and wiser?) I can't argue with it as much... especially in raising two children who are in their teens. It's one thing to watch a show with our son (12 years old) and strongly reinforce that the projected violence is just make-believe, there to entertain. It's another thing to discuss how in real life people would never do such things, and yet people actually do such things.
And then there's the death count. When I started this Lenten blog, it was about a friend's father's death and a discussion about death, dying and how to appreciate life more. With all the writing, I haven't watched as much TV or movies, so perhaps that helped reset my awareness and tolerance for depicted violence and death.
Last night I watched this week's episode of '24.' The show's premise, as groundbreaking as it was when it first burst onto the small screen years ago, is getting very long in the tooth and the series may end with this season. I was a late adapter, starting in the 5th season and watching previous seasons on DVD; I keep watching because I hope they can recapture greatness of seasons past, by adding just enough variation from previous seasons. And yet, for me the legacy of 24 was evident in Entertainment Weekly's 'body count' from a couple of years ago. Each week the magazine would update how many characters had died on the show during the emergencies that required 24 'real-time' hours of crisis management. What does it say about our culture when an entertainment magazine keeps a death toll? (I can't find a trace of 24's body count, but I did find a summer movie body count; equally disturbing.)
To grab and keep our attention, Hollywood creates bigger and deadlier menaces on screen, and death seems so trivial, and well, expected.
And even when death comes to major characters, they don't really stay dead very long, or they come back in some other form. It's not new to television or the movies -- literature and storytelling throughout the eons focus on cheating death -- and based on how much favorite actors garner big ratings or box office receipts, it totally makes sense.
But it really hit me when I took Noah to see Percy Jackson and the New Olympians: The Lightning Thief. Early in the movie, Percy and his mom are running away from a vaguely familiar (to those who studied Greek mythology) monster; how such a monster appears in the 'real world' of the movie up to that point is the first glimpse of the Olympians persisting in our world. (Or is it we who persist in their world?) Percy, who is later revealed as a demigod, vanquishes the monster -- a minotaur, but not before his mom is struck and disappears during the battle. I was actually shaken by that. I leaned over and asked Noah (who has read all the books), "did she die?" He paused, then whispered "well, I don't want to give it away."
MILD SPOILER ALERT... if you want to see the movie or read the book, stop reading this post...
His mom didn't die, or more accurately she went to Hades, and part of Percy's quest was to go there and bring her back. As in all juvenile fiction, there's a happy ending.
By the way, Noah hated the movie. He had waited anxiously for the first (and probably only) movie based on one of his favorite book series. He couldn't believe how much they changed the book to make the movie. I tried to be realistic and tell him to get used to it; movie adaptions of books will never please everybody. On his recommendation I read the first book and finished it last night. I'm just as mad as he is. The book is quite good, and the movie makes several inexplicable changes that neuter the clever updating of Olympians for our times.
But back to Noah's response: have we become so blase about death? That we automatically expect any fictional character to miraculously return to life, or somehow be able to communicate with us from the great beyond with such ease?
And how does that affect us when we're grieving over the loss of a loved one in real life? Do we compartmentalize that well? Does it ease our grieving or make an already difficult task even harder?
And at this point, I can't help thinking of one working definition of fear (from a Crossings class taken from my mentor Ed Schroeder):
[This blog automatically feeds my Facebook Notes page; click here to see the original blog]
Maybe it's because I love watching and studying movies/TV and appreciate the creators' craft in portraying fantastic scenes, usually with lots of action and possibly injuries and death. I understand and know that the depictions are created; the beauty of this art form is that one can create on film a place that exists nowhere else, and may never have existed at all. I easily distinguish the portrayal from reality.
From her perspective she's worked in emergency rooms and done social work; graphic portrayals of those places in a show like ER or violence on crime shows make her queasy. She easily conflates the portrayal with reality.
I once tried to get her to watch HBO's Rome, but the graphic depiction of cavalier attitudes towards sex and violence, although only 4 minutes per 60 minute episode, marred the remaining 56 minutes of excellent drama. We do watch some shows with graphic violence, like Bones or Castle, where the main draw of the show are the relationships between the characters (mostly unresolved sexual tension), and the grisly stuff is just part of the 'case of the week.'
She also feels that the supersaturation of violence in pop culture correlates highly with violence in the real world. For years I've fought that notion, but as I grow older (and wiser?) I can't argue with it as much... especially in raising two children who are in their teens. It's one thing to watch a show with our son (12 years old) and strongly reinforce that the projected violence is just make-believe, there to entertain. It's another thing to discuss how in real life people would never do such things, and yet people actually do such things.
And then there's the death count. When I started this Lenten blog, it was about a friend's father's death and a discussion about death, dying and how to appreciate life more. With all the writing, I haven't watched as much TV or movies, so perhaps that helped reset my awareness and tolerance for depicted violence and death.
Last night I watched this week's episode of '24.' The show's premise, as groundbreaking as it was when it first burst onto the small screen years ago, is getting very long in the tooth and the series may end with this season. I was a late adapter, starting in the 5th season and watching previous seasons on DVD; I keep watching because I hope they can recapture greatness of seasons past, by adding just enough variation from previous seasons. And yet, for me the legacy of 24 was evident in Entertainment Weekly's 'body count' from a couple of years ago. Each week the magazine would update how many characters had died on the show during the emergencies that required 24 'real-time' hours of crisis management. What does it say about our culture when an entertainment magazine keeps a death toll? (I can't find a trace of 24's body count, but I did find a summer movie body count; equally disturbing.)
To grab and keep our attention, Hollywood creates bigger and deadlier menaces on screen, and death seems so trivial, and well, expected.
And even when death comes to major characters, they don't really stay dead very long, or they come back in some other form. It's not new to television or the movies -- literature and storytelling throughout the eons focus on cheating death -- and based on how much favorite actors garner big ratings or box office receipts, it totally makes sense.
But it really hit me when I took Noah to see Percy Jackson and the New Olympians: The Lightning Thief. Early in the movie, Percy and his mom are running away from a vaguely familiar (to those who studied Greek mythology) monster; how such a monster appears in the 'real world' of the movie up to that point is the first glimpse of the Olympians persisting in our world. (Or is it we who persist in their world?) Percy, who is later revealed as a demigod, vanquishes the monster -- a minotaur, but not before his mom is struck and disappears during the battle. I was actually shaken by that. I leaned over and asked Noah (who has read all the books), "did she die?" He paused, then whispered "well, I don't want to give it away."
MILD SPOILER ALERT... if you want to see the movie or read the book, stop reading this post...
His mom didn't die, or more accurately she went to Hades, and part of Percy's quest was to go there and bring her back. As in all juvenile fiction, there's a happy ending.
By the way, Noah hated the movie. He had waited anxiously for the first (and probably only) movie based on one of his favorite book series. He couldn't believe how much they changed the book to make the movie. I tried to be realistic and tell him to get used to it; movie adaptions of books will never please everybody. On his recommendation I read the first book and finished it last night. I'm just as mad as he is. The book is quite good, and the movie makes several inexplicable changes that neuter the clever updating of Olympians for our times.
But back to Noah's response: have we become so blase about death? That we automatically expect any fictional character to miraculously return to life, or somehow be able to communicate with us from the great beyond with such ease?
And how does that affect us when we're grieving over the loss of a loved one in real life? Do we compartmentalize that well? Does it ease our grieving or make an already difficult task even harder?
And at this point, I can't help thinking of one working definition of fear (from a Crossings class taken from my mentor Ed Schroeder):
Love and hate are not opposites; love and fear are opposites. The greatest fear stems from possibly losing what, or who, you love most.
[This blog automatically feeds my Facebook Notes page; click here to see the original blog]
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Lent Day 31: "Lost" and "Earned Grace"
Few things get me jazzed up like a hearty discussion about pop culture. Case in point: last night's episode of the TV show Lost. I have a love/hate relationship with the show because it can be fantastically intriguing and other times I wonder if the creators have any idea what they're doing.
Ever since I read that the creators have two goals -- to create an entertaining hour of television every week even for those who've never seen the show, and to have all the episodes interlock in order to reward long-time viewers -- I've been more forgiving of the zigs and zags, and will wait until the series finale to pass judgment.
But last night's episode, with a title like Ab Aeterno ("from the beginning of time") and focusing on one of the best characters, the seemingly immortal Richard who shows no sign of aging no matter how far the other characters flash forward or backward in time, had lived up to all my expectations. Long story short, Richard, in trying to save his wife by negotiating with a greedy doctor for her medicine, accidentally killed him. While imprisoned he learned English by reading a English-language Bible. Soon after the priest, speaking in their native Spanish, explained that no amount of Bible reading would save him because murderers are destined to hell, Richard's life was bought by a ship captain who needed English speakers on their trip to the New World.
The ship crashed on The Island, the focal point of Lost, and we get to see Richard struggle with physical survival and eventually mourn the loss of his wife, the dear Isabella. Because it is The Island, Richard ends up reflecting on what he'd lost in life and what he would do (which was anything) to regain his lost treasure -- Isabella. And because it's Lost, he ends up as a ping pong ball between the two main timeless characters who have warred for ages: Jacob and Ethan.
Jacob and Ethan appear as demigods, or at least as master manipulators. There are still many secrets to learn in the seven remaining episodes. What's clear is that Jacob and Ethan are foes and use the people trapped on the island (throughout the centuries) as pawns. What's not clear is who is the good one, and who's bad. Is this some sort of God and Devil conflict? No one knows. But the themes of loss, remorse, sacrifice and redemption are universal, and it's all presented in an alluring manner.
What struck me most about the episode occurred when I read some commentary this morning from Mo Ryan of the Chicago Tribune. (She, Alan Sepinwall and David Bianculli are my favorite TV critics.) Mo is an avid fan and shares everything she loves and disdains about television -- my kind of critic. Mo likens the island to a Hellmouth, as in Buffy the Vampire Slayer Hellmouth (and that's a whole 'nother geek discussion for another day), and NOT Hell. She also empathizes with Richard's loss:
But that's the way the Old Me used to think... the Old Me prior to my baptism at age 23. But truthfully, even after my baptism I continued to think that way, until a few years later I took a class from my mentor, Ed Schroeder, in one of the Crossings classes. Those classes changed my life because they showed me how the Good News permeates my daily life. Not in some sort of academic way, but rather in a very tangible "how do I get through the day and the night kind of way."
Another time I'll go deeper into that personal history, but for now, I can sum up that those Crossings classes were my Confirmation -- or affirmation of my baptism -- lessons. (As an adult baptized there was no need to take a Confirmation class.) That's when I better understood what the "New Me" means. And the biggest distinction is that no one "earns grace." At least not from the Christian perspective.
This entire season of Lent will eventually lead to the Cross and then to the Resurrection. Most people in the world know of this story irrespective of their own beliefs. Most know that it was a pivotal event in human history, that it involves the execution of Jesus and the disappearance of a body. There's been much controversy over the main elements of the story and perhaps even more controversy in the recording and differences of interpretation of those events.
For me, the New Me, the main thing that matters is believing that Jesus died for me. And rose for me. And that in that belief, all the things that kill me (like the incredible stress at work today) are swapped on the Cross and in the Resurrection.
That's not really new; a lot of other people believe this as well. What was eye-opening to the new me was/is that I don't have to do anything to receive these gifts... except to believe, that is. I don't actually deserve any of this goodness. And I can't earn any of this goodness for myself. It is gift -- grace -- pure and simple.
It sounds simple, but it's not simple in practice. I think of all the people who have been generous to me over the years -- parents, other relatives, friends -- and I've been very blessed and am grateful. Grateful to the point where I always, that is ALWAYS, want to reciprocate. Even if it's not immediate, every act of kindness that I receive I immediately think of what can I do in the future to show my appreciation.
That's not a bad thing. If humans weren't hard-wired to reciprocate kindness and generosity I can't fathom how the species could have survived let alone thrived.
But to receive something, a gift -- grace -- without earning it and without deserving it and without reciprocating, that's challenging.
That's something the New Me responds to... every day, and especially during this Lenten season. And so I keep writing...
[This blog automatically feeds my Facebook Notes page; click here to see the original blog]
Ever since I read that the creators have two goals -- to create an entertaining hour of television every week even for those who've never seen the show, and to have all the episodes interlock in order to reward long-time viewers -- I've been more forgiving of the zigs and zags, and will wait until the series finale to pass judgment.
But last night's episode, with a title like Ab Aeterno ("from the beginning of time") and focusing on one of the best characters, the seemingly immortal Richard who shows no sign of aging no matter how far the other characters flash forward or backward in time, had lived up to all my expectations. Long story short, Richard, in trying to save his wife by negotiating with a greedy doctor for her medicine, accidentally killed him. While imprisoned he learned English by reading a English-language Bible. Soon after the priest, speaking in their native Spanish, explained that no amount of Bible reading would save him because murderers are destined to hell, Richard's life was bought by a ship captain who needed English speakers on their trip to the New World.
The ship crashed on The Island, the focal point of Lost, and we get to see Richard struggle with physical survival and eventually mourn the loss of his wife, the dear Isabella. Because it is The Island, Richard ends up reflecting on what he'd lost in life and what he would do (which was anything) to regain his lost treasure -- Isabella. And because it's Lost, he ends up as a ping pong ball between the two main timeless characters who have warred for ages: Jacob and Ethan.
Jacob and Ethan appear as demigods, or at least as master manipulators. There are still many secrets to learn in the seven remaining episodes. What's clear is that Jacob and Ethan are foes and use the people trapped on the island (throughout the centuries) as pawns. What's not clear is who is the good one, and who's bad. Is this some sort of God and Devil conflict? No one knows. But the themes of loss, remorse, sacrifice and redemption are universal, and it's all presented in an alluring manner.
What struck me most about the episode occurred when I read some commentary this morning from Mo Ryan of the Chicago Tribune. (She, Alan Sepinwall and David Bianculli are my favorite TV critics.) Mo is an avid fan and shares everything she loves and disdains about television -- my kind of critic. Mo likens the island to a Hellmouth, as in Buffy the Vampire Slayer Hellmouth (and that's a whole 'nother geek discussion for another day), and NOT Hell. She also empathizes with Richard's loss:
Much of "Ab Aeterno" focused on the ideas of sin, forgiveness, grace, penance and absolution. And faith, obviously. Jacob made Richard ageless, but we found out that Richard wanted to stay alive forever so that he would not go to hell. The poor guy.When I got to the line, "If anyone has earned grace, it's him," I stopped in my tracks. In many ways it's not that noteworthy. We pretty much live our lives trying to be good, help others, make up for the bad things we do, or for the good things that we should have completed. After enough penance, we hope that we've compensated enough. We stockpile enough good stuff to make up for the bad stuff.
Whether or not the island is the actual Hell of his faith, hasn't Richard done enough penance? Hasn't he suffered enough? If anyone has earned grace, it's him. If anyone has had his faith tested, it's him -- he who thought his years on Earth were ultimately a waste of time. And what were his sins, really? He killed a man, accidentally, in order to get medicine for his wife. And then he spent several lifetimes working for a man who he thought was, ultimately, doing good things.
But that's the way the Old Me used to think... the Old Me prior to my baptism at age 23. But truthfully, even after my baptism I continued to think that way, until a few years later I took a class from my mentor, Ed Schroeder, in one of the Crossings classes. Those classes changed my life because they showed me how the Good News permeates my daily life. Not in some sort of academic way, but rather in a very tangible "how do I get through the day and the night kind of way."
Another time I'll go deeper into that personal history, but for now, I can sum up that those Crossings classes were my Confirmation -- or affirmation of my baptism -- lessons. (As an adult baptized there was no need to take a Confirmation class.) That's when I better understood what the "New Me" means. And the biggest distinction is that no one "earns grace." At least not from the Christian perspective.
This entire season of Lent will eventually lead to the Cross and then to the Resurrection. Most people in the world know of this story irrespective of their own beliefs. Most know that it was a pivotal event in human history, that it involves the execution of Jesus and the disappearance of a body. There's been much controversy over the main elements of the story and perhaps even more controversy in the recording and differences of interpretation of those events.
For me, the New Me, the main thing that matters is believing that Jesus died for me. And rose for me. And that in that belief, all the things that kill me (like the incredible stress at work today) are swapped on the Cross and in the Resurrection.
That's not really new; a lot of other people believe this as well. What was eye-opening to the new me was/is that I don't have to do anything to receive these gifts... except to believe, that is. I don't actually deserve any of this goodness. And I can't earn any of this goodness for myself. It is gift -- grace -- pure and simple.
It sounds simple, but it's not simple in practice. I think of all the people who have been generous to me over the years -- parents, other relatives, friends -- and I've been very blessed and am grateful. Grateful to the point where I always, that is ALWAYS, want to reciprocate. Even if it's not immediate, every act of kindness that I receive I immediately think of what can I do in the future to show my appreciation.
That's not a bad thing. If humans weren't hard-wired to reciprocate kindness and generosity I can't fathom how the species could have survived let alone thrived.
But to receive something, a gift -- grace -- without earning it and without deserving it and without reciprocating, that's challenging.
That's something the New Me responds to... every day, and especially during this Lenten season. And so I keep writing...
[This blog automatically feeds my Facebook Notes page; click here to see the original blog]
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Lent Day 30: A Hint of Spring
Today wasn't the first warm day of the season; we had several such days last week but the cruel joke that is St. Louis weather gave us rainy cold weather for the first official days of spring.
But today it felt like spring in the meteorological and emotional sense: the fragrance of budding plants and the increasing critter noise near the creek on my walk to the train station both reflect my warming demeanor. And the fact that my workday wasn't completely wall-to-wall meetings and I could even walk to an off-site restaurant for lunch didn't hurt either.
Today I got to smell the proverbial roses: I was blessed to meet a new friend (or more accurately get to know the only person I've ever 'friended' on Facebook without having met in person first), during the off-site lunch. On the way home I was honored to meet to the newest member of our a subdivision: a baby girl born a few months ago -- but because of the weather I didn't even know she had even been born. I even met a new workman -- doing stuff for my neighbor -- who will do some minor repairs on my roof. And at long overdue haircuts for Noah and me, I had a delightful conversation with our stylist (because they're not really called barbers anymore).
There's nothing profound about any of these events, but I think my appreciation for them is. For all of Lent, which has been cold and gray, I've felt stifled... even oppressed. But in all of this writing (and removing the noise from my commutes), I've been keenly grateful for all the joys of life, especially the littlest ones. I've been thinking of the fine line between death and life, appreciating the "now" and eagerly anticipating new life and the beginning of spring.
I thank God for this day, and for one of my favorite hymns that our church band plays every Lent: As the Sun with Longer Journey (Evangelical Lutheran Worship, #329), text by John Patrick Earls and music by Carl F. Schalk:
But today it felt like spring in the meteorological and emotional sense: the fragrance of budding plants and the increasing critter noise near the creek on my walk to the train station both reflect my warming demeanor. And the fact that my workday wasn't completely wall-to-wall meetings and I could even walk to an off-site restaurant for lunch didn't hurt either.
Today I got to smell the proverbial roses: I was blessed to meet a new friend (or more accurately get to know the only person I've ever 'friended' on Facebook without having met in person first), during the off-site lunch. On the way home I was honored to meet to the newest member of our a subdivision: a baby girl born a few months ago -- but because of the weather I didn't even know she had even been born. I even met a new workman -- doing stuff for my neighbor -- who will do some minor repairs on my roof. And at long overdue haircuts for Noah and me, I had a delightful conversation with our stylist (because they're not really called barbers anymore).
There's nothing profound about any of these events, but I think my appreciation for them is. For all of Lent, which has been cold and gray, I've felt stifled... even oppressed. But in all of this writing (and removing the noise from my commutes), I've been keenly grateful for all the joys of life, especially the littlest ones. I've been thinking of the fine line between death and life, appreciating the "now" and eagerly anticipating new life and the beginning of spring.
I thank God for this day, and for one of my favorite hymns that our church band plays every Lent: As the Sun with Longer Journey (Evangelical Lutheran Worship, #329), text by John Patrick Earls and music by Carl F. Schalk:
As the sun with longer journey melts the winter's snow and ice,
with its slowly growing radiance warms the seed beneath the earth,
may the sun of Christ's uprising gently bring our hearts to life.
Through the days of waiting, watching, in the desert of our sin,
searching on the far horizon for a sign of cloud or wind,
we await the healing waters of our Savior's victory.
Praise be given to the maker of the seasons' yearly round,
Father, Son, and Holy Spirit -- Source, Sustainer, Lord of life,
as the ever turning ages roll to their eternal rest.
Monday, March 22, 2010
Lent Day 29: Ear Worms
Throughout the day I make many pop culture references, some of them even out loud. And quite often the reference is a band name or a song, like "YMCA," the "The Macarena" or our family's current favorite, the theme song from "The Cleveland Show," which apparently Noah and his fellow scouts sang incessantly while Denise drove them to a recent Boy Scout camping trip.
I had been thinking of these "ear worms" while shopping at Trader Joe's for a party I attended tonight. As an employee asked if I wanted help, on cue "Love Will Keep Us Together" started blaring from the store's speakers. He apologized for the "poor music" and started showing me esoteric snacks. I opted for the Wasabi Wow mix and marveled how this 70's ear worm popped up just as I was thinking about them.
This entire Lent I've given up any kind of audio (radio, iPod) while commuting. And these days I've been doing a lot more traveling and am really missing listening to anything. Apparently one of the side effects is mentally playing back any music I have heard, which has mostly been at church.
Last Wednesday, at the Vespers service that Amy and Miriam performed a mini-play, our church used the Holden Evening Prayer, written by Marty Haugen... yes the one that some songs written with 6 flats. I hadn't played that music in a couple of years and probably hadn't even been to a service with that musical setting for about the same span.
For two days I heard the final song in my head, not the whole thing but just the melody. It stuck with me in all my quiet moments (of which there were many); on Friday at work while walking down the stairwell to the cafeteria I finally started humming the melody. I had held off from humming outside my head until I could find the starting pitch. Amazingly I replicated the entire melody -- rhythm, all the intervals, reverberating in the vertical concrete speaker cabinet. The hauntingly beautiful melody resonated within and outside of me. But I couldn't remember the words.
Yesterday I was cleaning up the house and found my copy of the Holden music. Without thinking I sat down and started playing the music (remembering most of it). When I got to the last piece, the "Final Blessing," (click here to hear it from a music catalog page) I finally got to sing the words I had been missing:
Let us bless our God
Praise and thanks to you
May God Creator bless us and keep us
may Christ be ever light for our lives
may the Spirit of Love be our guide and path
for all of our days
A - men
That ear worm finally receded, quite peacefully.
I had been thinking of these "ear worms" while shopping at Trader Joe's for a party I attended tonight. As an employee asked if I wanted help, on cue "Love Will Keep Us Together" started blaring from the store's speakers. He apologized for the "poor music" and started showing me esoteric snacks. I opted for the Wasabi Wow mix and marveled how this 70's ear worm popped up just as I was thinking about them.
This entire Lent I've given up any kind of audio (radio, iPod) while commuting. And these days I've been doing a lot more traveling and am really missing listening to anything. Apparently one of the side effects is mentally playing back any music I have heard, which has mostly been at church.
Last Wednesday, at the Vespers service that Amy and Miriam performed a mini-play, our church used the Holden Evening Prayer, written by Marty Haugen... yes the one that some songs written with 6 flats. I hadn't played that music in a couple of years and probably hadn't even been to a service with that musical setting for about the same span.
For two days I heard the final song in my head, not the whole thing but just the melody. It stuck with me in all my quiet moments (of which there were many); on Friday at work while walking down the stairwell to the cafeteria I finally started humming the melody. I had held off from humming outside my head until I could find the starting pitch. Amazingly I replicated the entire melody -- rhythm, all the intervals, reverberating in the vertical concrete speaker cabinet. The hauntingly beautiful melody resonated within and outside of me. But I couldn't remember the words.
Yesterday I was cleaning up the house and found my copy of the Holden music. Without thinking I sat down and started playing the music (remembering most of it). When I got to the last piece, the "Final Blessing," (click here to hear it from a music catalog page) I finally got to sing the words I had been missing:
Let us bless our God
Praise and thanks to you
May God Creator bless us and keep us
may Christ be ever light for our lives
may the Spirit of Love be our guide and path
for all of our days
A - men
That ear worm finally receded, quite peacefully.
Saturday, March 20, 2010
Lent Day 28: A Strange Place
Previously I referenced a Madeleine L'Engle poem that I heard read at a recent church service, because I wanted to see with my eyes what I had heard with my ears. I've finally had a chance to read more of that book, including poems that were not read aloud.
I didn't explain before that Madeleine L'Engle, of A Wrinkle in Time fame, wrote many poems "reflecting on themes of love, loss, faith and beauty" (from the book jacket) and are all collected in a book called The Ordering of Love.
Here's one that really caught my eye, because it captures exactly what I've been exploring for the past 27 days of Lenten posts. I've not written much poetry, or sad to say even read much poetry in my lifetime, but that will probably change soon. I'm appreciating more than ever the fullness of expression with an economy of words. Here is a "This is a Strange Place" (from p. 124 of The Ordering of Love)
I didn't explain before that Madeleine L'Engle, of A Wrinkle in Time fame, wrote many poems "reflecting on themes of love, loss, faith and beauty" (from the book jacket) and are all collected in a book called The Ordering of Love.
Here's one that really caught my eye, because it captures exactly what I've been exploring for the past 27 days of Lenten posts. I've not written much poetry, or sad to say even read much poetry in my lifetime, but that will probably change soon. I'm appreciating more than ever the fullness of expression with an economy of words. Here is a "This is a Strange Place" (from p. 124 of The Ordering of Love)
This is a strange place
and I would be lost were it not for all the others
who have been here before me.
It is the alien space
of your absence.
It had been called, by some,
the dark night of the soul.
But it is the absence of night as well as light,
an odd emptiness,
the chill of any land without your presence.
And yet in this Lent of your absence,
I am more certain of your love and comfort
than when it is I who have been withdrawn from you.
Friday, March 19, 2010
Lent Day 27: Proud of a Papa and a Mama (pop culture edition)
Extremely exhausted from work this week. Time for a only a short post, of Craig Ferguson fondly remembering his father in a special episode of the Late Late Show.
Here are two clips from the show itself: Part 1, Part 2
Here's a column about Ferguson referring back to his interview with Desmond Tutu, but also mentions Ferguson's eulogy for his father.
I'm a huge Ferguson fan, and until I discovered his show I had given up on late night talk shows. I had heard about the eulogy for his father on the internet and then looked up these clips on YouTube. His sincere and honest sharing, weaving in the serious and comedy, the reverent and irreverent instantly hooked me on his take on life, by being so open in his grieving.
He did the same after his mother passed away a few years later (Part 1, Part 2)
Thanks Craig...
Here are two clips from the show itself: Part 1, Part 2
Here's a column about Ferguson referring back to his interview with Desmond Tutu, but also mentions Ferguson's eulogy for his father.
I'm a huge Ferguson fan, and until I discovered his show I had given up on late night talk shows. I had heard about the eulogy for his father on the internet and then looked up these clips on YouTube. His sincere and honest sharing, weaving in the serious and comedy, the reverent and irreverent instantly hooked me on his take on life, by being so open in his grieving.
He did the same after his mother passed away a few years later (Part 1, Part 2)
Thanks Craig...
Thursday, March 18, 2010
Lent Day 26: Proud Papa, Part 2
Another daily grind (which is fast becoming Dilbertville), another day ending pleasantly with a "proud papa" moment.
But instead of a serene church it was noisy dojo full of sweaty judo players, practicing and preparing for their promotions exams.
Noah was up for his green belt, long overdue since his last promotion to orange belt. Twelve is a tough age for commitment... come to think of it, twelve is a tough age for a lot of things. Prior to last year, Noah was pretty gung ho about judo, even going to a Nationals Junior Tournament in Indianapolis a couple of summers ago. But after taking last summer off he had the toughest time regaining momentum.
Long story short, he passed. He didn't ace the exam, and in fact if he had taken that exam from people who didn't know him, he likely would have failed. But his panelists have seen what he can do, and how hard he has practiced, and part of judo philosophy is to help everyone learn and to mutually benefit each other. They passed him partially on his performance tonight but also on what he's done over the years.
The truth is, he didn't test well. I cringed throughout the exam. I had helped him with his judo terms in English and Japanese this past week, and couldn't believe how much he struggled with his recall. He was so tentative at everything. He was, as my dad likes to say, suffering from "choke-ilitis," a term I've always hated.
I felt so helpless there. I knew that he knew the test material; it was stuff he could do in his sleep. But maybe that was the problem: he was wide awake and clearly suffering from nerves. He couldn't relax enough to let his mind work, even with coaxing from his teachers. It was stage fright on a grand scale.
But it wasn't me being tested. Noah was being given an oral exam, which by the way is something most people never take, plus having to demonstrate competency of the physical moves on a guy who was almost double his weight. On top of having a panel of three black belt teachers, he had to do everything in front of a large group of students -- both his juvenile classmates, plus folks from the adult class. Oh yes, and all the parents.
His sensei, one of the kindest, most nurturing and yet toughest teachers I know, quickly recognized that Noah was nervous, and even himself had admitted to being nauseous every time he had taken a promotion exam during his long judo career. Later Noah admitted to feeling the same way all day, the day before spring break began.
All this being said, I wonder how well any of us would if put in a similar situation. To be cross-examined by a panel of elders who change their questioning based on your performance throughout the exam. And then to do all of that in front of an audience. Absolutely daunting.
I think we all face moments similar to that: moments of truth, although perhaps not so dramatically. Those are the times that test one's character, and sometimes they're so private that no one else even notices the challenge or response.
I've been trying to think of how old I was when undergoing something similar to Noah's exam tonight, but I'm pretty sure I've never done it. I've faced many tests before but have always had the luxury of time and privacy; Noah was in the spotlight for nearly 10 minutes. It was like he was on trial.
His sensei had kind words for Noah in qualifying tonight's results and coaching him for his next exam. Sensei Dave said that the judo tests serve people well throughout life: "taking a promotions exam in judo makes going to a job interview in front of a bunch of grumpy old men seem like a piece of cake."
So tonight there's a different kind of fatherly pride, not so much about the outward accomplishment of earning a green belt, but rather the response to challenge and adversity during times of trial, and commitment to self-improvement over the coming months. (Plus there's the satisfaction of having Noah participating in such a developmentally-focused martial arts school.)
Again, a "proud papa" moment that's also humbling in the blessing of having Noah in my life.
But instead of a serene church it was noisy dojo full of sweaty judo players, practicing and preparing for their promotions exams.
Noah was up for his green belt, long overdue since his last promotion to orange belt. Twelve is a tough age for commitment... come to think of it, twelve is a tough age for a lot of things. Prior to last year, Noah was pretty gung ho about judo, even going to a Nationals Junior Tournament in Indianapolis a couple of summers ago. But after taking last summer off he had the toughest time regaining momentum.
Long story short, he passed. He didn't ace the exam, and in fact if he had taken that exam from people who didn't know him, he likely would have failed. But his panelists have seen what he can do, and how hard he has practiced, and part of judo philosophy is to help everyone learn and to mutually benefit each other. They passed him partially on his performance tonight but also on what he's done over the years.
The truth is, he didn't test well. I cringed throughout the exam. I had helped him with his judo terms in English and Japanese this past week, and couldn't believe how much he struggled with his recall. He was so tentative at everything. He was, as my dad likes to say, suffering from "choke-ilitis," a term I've always hated.
I felt so helpless there. I knew that he knew the test material; it was stuff he could do in his sleep. But maybe that was the problem: he was wide awake and clearly suffering from nerves. He couldn't relax enough to let his mind work, even with coaxing from his teachers. It was stage fright on a grand scale.
But it wasn't me being tested. Noah was being given an oral exam, which by the way is something most people never take, plus having to demonstrate competency of the physical moves on a guy who was almost double his weight. On top of having a panel of three black belt teachers, he had to do everything in front of a large group of students -- both his juvenile classmates, plus folks from the adult class. Oh yes, and all the parents.
His sensei, one of the kindest, most nurturing and yet toughest teachers I know, quickly recognized that Noah was nervous, and even himself had admitted to being nauseous every time he had taken a promotion exam during his long judo career. Later Noah admitted to feeling the same way all day, the day before spring break began.
All this being said, I wonder how well any of us would if put in a similar situation. To be cross-examined by a panel of elders who change their questioning based on your performance throughout the exam. And then to do all of that in front of an audience. Absolutely daunting.
I think we all face moments similar to that: moments of truth, although perhaps not so dramatically. Those are the times that test one's character, and sometimes they're so private that no one else even notices the challenge or response.
I've been trying to think of how old I was when undergoing something similar to Noah's exam tonight, but I'm pretty sure I've never done it. I've faced many tests before but have always had the luxury of time and privacy; Noah was in the spotlight for nearly 10 minutes. It was like he was on trial.
His sensei had kind words for Noah in qualifying tonight's results and coaching him for his next exam. Sensei Dave said that the judo tests serve people well throughout life: "taking a promotions exam in judo makes going to a job interview in front of a bunch of grumpy old men seem like a piece of cake."
So tonight there's a different kind of fatherly pride, not so much about the outward accomplishment of earning a green belt, but rather the response to challenge and adversity during times of trial, and commitment to self-improvement over the coming months. (Plus there's the satisfaction of having Noah participating in such a developmentally-focused martial arts school.)
Again, a "proud papa" moment that's also humbling in the blessing of having Noah in my life.
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Lent Day 25: Proud Papa
Today's daily grind, which I think used to be called the "rat race," concluded in the most pleasant of ways at a Lenten Vespers service filled with beautiful contemplative music, readings, a sermon and a "proud papa" moment.
I love Vespers (or evening service) because of its reserved character, a perfect tonic at the end of the day. I'm not sure I would like the monastic life with reserved times for prayer and meditation throughout the day, but an evening service on Wednesdays throughout Advent and Lent seems about right to me. And the fact that it was right after a Lenten Vespers service that I had the guts to ask Denise for a cup of hot chocolate at the now defunct "Parkmoor" restaurant (now a Walgreen's, of course), and then over that hot chocolate ask her out for a first date makes the season even more memorable.
But today, as I left the ever-increasing pile of uncompleted tasks at the office, I rushed to church to enjoy a community supper (corned beef and cabbage, even though the church's heritage was originally strongly German), and then quickly jumped into my A/V guy mode. This is slightly odd because I was never the A/V guy in high school, but I do a lot of that now at church and at the office. My job was to get daughter Amy and best friend (of several best friends) Miriam hooked up with lavaliere (lapel) microphones for a mini-play during the service.
I had heard them practicing throughout dinner but didn't really pay attention to the lines. My job was to make sure their lines could be heard.
Amy read the Gospel lesson, and something was wrong with her mike. She was audible enough, barely from the back pew (which is not an issue because of the smaller attendance for Vespers). Turns out she couldn't reach the Un-mute switch under her shirt before she started the reading. But that was remedied in time for their play.
The play was a modern retelling of the Parable of the Prodigal Son, as told by the Elder Sister (instead of Elder Brother). Amy played the Elder Sister while Miriam played her best friend. The Elder Sister's part reflected that of the play-it-by-the-rules sibling, disdainful of the younger sibling's wasteful ways. The play did a great job in modernizing the responsible sibling's language in describing the irresponsible one... which is fantastic because most people tend to look at this parable and see how the younger sibling, after burning out from the partying life, returns home and welcomed home with a feast. Not punishing or ignoring him, but with a feast to celebrate the return of one who once was thought dead but if found alive.
One of my mentors (Ed Schroeder) taught this parable from the German translation, and the Germans call this story "The Lost Boys." It's not just the younger irresponsible one who is lost; the older one has lost his (in this case her) grasp of what's most important and not truly loving his parent and his sibling. (See here for a recent mention of Ed on lost coins, sheep and boys from Luke.) It's not just about following the rules, but about relationships, in this case the Father's love for both children, which is great enough to cover the 'good' one and the 'not-so-good' one.
As Amy read her lines she talked about her wanton younger brother and her dodo-head father. I wonder how much she enjoyed reading those lines with a 'meta' meaning, projecting onto Noah and me, even if for just a second.
On the other hand, as I was absorbing this age-old story revamped for modern audiences, and I deeply am filled with joy whenever I hear this story, I felt the 'meta' as well.
Amy and Miriam (and another friend Genevieve) have known each other for an impossibly long time; they were all in the womb (not the same one) simultaneously. They're the closest thing to blood sisters without actually sharing blood. They love each other, but also treat each other... well as one would treat siblings. And here they were, portraying best friends in a church skit.
Miriam and Amy, in particular, have always loved putting on shows. From the time they could speak they would stand on a stairwell landing, jointly singing songs they loved. They won't admit to liking this, but they used to sing the best of Barney's (the purple dinosaur) songs. Eventually they would mimic their favorite sketches, then other songs, then ad-libbing their lines. They both love "Wicked," and for Miriam's birthday one year we gave her the piano/song book from that musical.
To see them tonight, delivering a pitch-perfect dramatic rendition of this updated parable, makes my heart sing. It's not just the quality of their performance or their talent. It's because they contributed to our worship in their own unique way, reflecting their special relationship. They're not blood sisters, in the literal sense. But the bond they share, in their faith and the sacraments, may be even stronger than blood ties. So, it wasn't just their speaking the lines well, it's that the lines were being spoken from their hearts, of a story they know well of God's love and what it means to their lives.
So tonight I am a proud papa... and also humbled by the blessings of Amy and Miriam in my life.
[This blog automatically feeds my Facebook Notes page; click here to see the original blog]
I love Vespers (or evening service) because of its reserved character, a perfect tonic at the end of the day. I'm not sure I would like the monastic life with reserved times for prayer and meditation throughout the day, but an evening service on Wednesdays throughout Advent and Lent seems about right to me. And the fact that it was right after a Lenten Vespers service that I had the guts to ask Denise for a cup of hot chocolate at the now defunct "Parkmoor" restaurant (now a Walgreen's, of course), and then over that hot chocolate ask her out for a first date makes the season even more memorable.
But today, as I left the ever-increasing pile of uncompleted tasks at the office, I rushed to church to enjoy a community supper (corned beef and cabbage, even though the church's heritage was originally strongly German), and then quickly jumped into my A/V guy mode. This is slightly odd because I was never the A/V guy in high school, but I do a lot of that now at church and at the office. My job was to get daughter Amy and best friend (of several best friends) Miriam hooked up with lavaliere (lapel) microphones for a mini-play during the service.
I had heard them practicing throughout dinner but didn't really pay attention to the lines. My job was to make sure their lines could be heard.
Amy read the Gospel lesson, and something was wrong with her mike. She was audible enough, barely from the back pew (which is not an issue because of the smaller attendance for Vespers). Turns out she couldn't reach the Un-mute switch under her shirt before she started the reading. But that was remedied in time for their play.
The play was a modern retelling of the Parable of the Prodigal Son, as told by the Elder Sister (instead of Elder Brother). Amy played the Elder Sister while Miriam played her best friend. The Elder Sister's part reflected that of the play-it-by-the-rules sibling, disdainful of the younger sibling's wasteful ways. The play did a great job in modernizing the responsible sibling's language in describing the irresponsible one... which is fantastic because most people tend to look at this parable and see how the younger sibling, after burning out from the partying life, returns home and welcomed home with a feast. Not punishing or ignoring him, but with a feast to celebrate the return of one who once was thought dead but if found alive.
One of my mentors (Ed Schroeder) taught this parable from the German translation, and the Germans call this story "The Lost Boys." It's not just the younger irresponsible one who is lost; the older one has lost his (in this case her) grasp of what's most important and not truly loving his parent and his sibling. (See here for a recent mention of Ed on lost coins, sheep and boys from Luke.) It's not just about following the rules, but about relationships, in this case the Father's love for both children, which is great enough to cover the 'good' one and the 'not-so-good' one.
As Amy read her lines she talked about her wanton younger brother and her dodo-head father. I wonder how much she enjoyed reading those lines with a 'meta' meaning, projecting onto Noah and me, even if for just a second.
On the other hand, as I was absorbing this age-old story revamped for modern audiences, and I deeply am filled with joy whenever I hear this story, I felt the 'meta' as well.
Amy and Miriam (and another friend Genevieve) have known each other for an impossibly long time; they were all in the womb (not the same one) simultaneously. They're the closest thing to blood sisters without actually sharing blood. They love each other, but also treat each other... well as one would treat siblings. And here they were, portraying best friends in a church skit.
Miriam and Amy, in particular, have always loved putting on shows. From the time they could speak they would stand on a stairwell landing, jointly singing songs they loved. They won't admit to liking this, but they used to sing the best of Barney's (the purple dinosaur) songs. Eventually they would mimic their favorite sketches, then other songs, then ad-libbing their lines. They both love "Wicked," and for Miriam's birthday one year we gave her the piano/song book from that musical.
To see them tonight, delivering a pitch-perfect dramatic rendition of this updated parable, makes my heart sing. It's not just the quality of their performance or their talent. It's because they contributed to our worship in their own unique way, reflecting their special relationship. They're not blood sisters, in the literal sense. But the bond they share, in their faith and the sacraments, may be even stronger than blood ties. So, it wasn't just their speaking the lines well, it's that the lines were being spoken from their hearts, of a story they know well of God's love and what it means to their lives.
So tonight I am a proud papa... and also humbled by the blessings of Amy and Miriam in my life.
[This blog automatically feeds my Facebook Notes page; click here to see the original blog]
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Lent Day 24: The Only Time is Now...
I'm searching for the source of a quote but can't find it: "The only time is now."
I recall having a conversation with my mom while I was in high school, and clumsily described how the past didn't matter, nor the future as well, compared to the present. She shot back with "the only time is now." She probably cited that quote but I never wrote it down... neither the quote nor its citation.
Given yesterday's post "More About Time" I thought it would be a slam dunk to find that quotation. All I found was a reference to a Grateful Dead song (which I'm pretty sure I would have remembered had my mom cited that) and a great page at Wisdom Quotes about "now". There's a lot to chew on at that page.
Also, here are a couple of book recommendations stemming from the "now" theme, from a dear friend (who commented on my Facebook page to yesterday's post):
(Tonight's post is a bit on the short side; it was playoff night in the municipal volleyball league I play in. We qualified for the 4th and final playoff slot, and went on to beat the 1st and 2nd place teams to win the championship... so it was a long night of playing and then celebrating. The 'power of now' indeed, and as exercised by a team of players. I love this sport because of the team aspect.)
[This blog automatically feeds my Facebook Notes page; click here to see the original blog]
I recall having a conversation with my mom while I was in high school, and clumsily described how the past didn't matter, nor the future as well, compared to the present. She shot back with "the only time is now." She probably cited that quote but I never wrote it down... neither the quote nor its citation.
Given yesterday's post "More About Time" I thought it would be a slam dunk to find that quotation. All I found was a reference to a Grateful Dead song (which I'm pretty sure I would have remembered had my mom cited that) and a great page at Wisdom Quotes about "now". There's a lot to chew on at that page.
Also, here are a couple of book recommendations stemming from the "now" theme, from a dear friend (who commented on my Facebook page to yesterday's post):
- The Power of Now: A Guide to Spiritual Enlightenment, by Eckhart Tolle
- The Shack, by William P. Young
(Tonight's post is a bit on the short side; it was playoff night in the municipal volleyball league I play in. We qualified for the 4th and final playoff slot, and went on to beat the 1st and 2nd place teams to win the championship... so it was a long night of playing and then celebrating. The 'power of now' indeed, and as exercised by a team of players. I love this sport because of the team aspect.)
[This blog automatically feeds my Facebook Notes page; click here to see the original blog]
Monday, March 15, 2010
Lent Day 23: More About Time
"Daylight Savings Time" is sometimes called "Summer Time" and it sounds so much better than "Winter Time." "Winter" sounds like "hinter", which sounds withdrawn, dark, cold and away from the sun, as opposed to "Summer" which just sounds sunny, warm and welcoming. Even "Savings" Time sounds like something we should do; saving never sounds bad.
But as I wrote recently, "I wonder how much God laughs at the way we bend time to our own uses, and what all of our time-manipulating means in the context of God's time." I also wonder how much of this sounds like code language or gobbly-gook to a casual observer. I didn't grow up in the church, and started my spiritual journey in earnest during my senior year of high school. In essence I grew up as an existentialist, with knowledge, rationality and logic providing me with a framework of how the world works. It's was so long ago (one might say a lifetime ago) that even now I can't describe how I saw the world as a teenager, without the lenses provided with my baptism (at age 23).
But I do recall looking at the world logically, accepting natural phenomena with a scientific mind. The life cycle of all things was that creatures are born, live and then die. The same applies to non-organic things like the water cycle: evaporation, clouds, rain. There is a natural order to things.
There's a lot about the Christian faith that doesn't seem logical. It's difficult if not impossible to prove any of it. Part of the old me wanted to not believe because I was so scientific (almost Spock-like) that logic would keep my mind spinning in circles.
I'll return to continue that line of thought (in another post), but for now I'm focusing on time, as in God's time. So much about religion focuses on death after life, or at least that there's something beyond death. I know what conventional belief describes: that beyond what we can see (in the living world), there's something out there that we're not meant to see yet. And we talk often about reuniting in the after-life.
I can't prove that... and I can't disprove it. A practical (logical?) person could argue: even if it's not true, what's the harm in believing that? If you're right, you're covered; if not, how much effort has gone wasted?
I prefer to look at my own faith in the here and now. I have done much that I've regretted, and not gotten around to other stuff (which I've also regretted). The rational side of me says, "nobody's perfect" and give yourself a little slack... you'll do better tomorrow. But the truth is that the "old me" would have a tough time looking at myself in the mirror knowing the things that I've done and left undone. The "old me" would have trouble sleeping through the night -- not like a baby, but rather like an adult who has things that keep me awake at night.
The "new me," the one who God loves (and just as importantly I accept and believe that love for me), can look myself in the mirror and sleep with a relatively clear conscience. I am forgiven. I am forgiven for my shortcomings. I can keep trying again the next day, not because it's self-generated, but rather because I am compelled and propelled by God's forgiveness and love.
I can't prove any of this. But I can state the following, with confidence: the bothers and regrets that I would have felt (the "old me") comprise hell on earth; the upbeats and optimism of the "new me" provide "heaven" or a state of grace on earth. I'm a qualitatively different person because of experiencing heaven on earth. I'm more loving, grace-filled and compassionate. I had all of those qualities before to a lesser extent... but I also had fits of burnout from giving so much of myself. The "new me" is not so much self-replenished as I am God-replenished.
As for time? I'm grateful for God's time (lasting throughout the ages) in my lifetime in the here and now, extinguishing the hell on earth and providing heaven on earth. As for the after-life: the jury's still out, but I'm not part of that jury. Perhaps I should say "The Judge" is still out on that one, and I trust that my Judge is also My Redeemer, and I know that My Redeemer lives.
[This blog automatically feeds my Facebook Notes page; click here to see the original blog]
But as I wrote recently, "I wonder how much God laughs at the way we bend time to our own uses, and what all of our time-manipulating means in the context of God's time." I also wonder how much of this sounds like code language or gobbly-gook to a casual observer. I didn't grow up in the church, and started my spiritual journey in earnest during my senior year of high school. In essence I grew up as an existentialist, with knowledge, rationality and logic providing me with a framework of how the world works. It's was so long ago (one might say a lifetime ago) that even now I can't describe how I saw the world as a teenager, without the lenses provided with my baptism (at age 23).
But I do recall looking at the world logically, accepting natural phenomena with a scientific mind. The life cycle of all things was that creatures are born, live and then die. The same applies to non-organic things like the water cycle: evaporation, clouds, rain. There is a natural order to things.
There's a lot about the Christian faith that doesn't seem logical. It's difficult if not impossible to prove any of it. Part of the old me wanted to not believe because I was so scientific (almost Spock-like) that logic would keep my mind spinning in circles.
I'll return to continue that line of thought (in another post), but for now I'm focusing on time, as in God's time. So much about religion focuses on death after life, or at least that there's something beyond death. I know what conventional belief describes: that beyond what we can see (in the living world), there's something out there that we're not meant to see yet. And we talk often about reuniting in the after-life.
I can't prove that... and I can't disprove it. A practical (logical?) person could argue: even if it's not true, what's the harm in believing that? If you're right, you're covered; if not, how much effort has gone wasted?
I prefer to look at my own faith in the here and now. I have done much that I've regretted, and not gotten around to other stuff (which I've also regretted). The rational side of me says, "nobody's perfect" and give yourself a little slack... you'll do better tomorrow. But the truth is that the "old me" would have a tough time looking at myself in the mirror knowing the things that I've done and left undone. The "old me" would have trouble sleeping through the night -- not like a baby, but rather like an adult who has things that keep me awake at night.
The "new me," the one who God loves (and just as importantly I accept and believe that love for me), can look myself in the mirror and sleep with a relatively clear conscience. I am forgiven. I am forgiven for my shortcomings. I can keep trying again the next day, not because it's self-generated, but rather because I am compelled and propelled by God's forgiveness and love.
I can't prove any of this. But I can state the following, with confidence: the bothers and regrets that I would have felt (the "old me") comprise hell on earth; the upbeats and optimism of the "new me" provide "heaven" or a state of grace on earth. I'm a qualitatively different person because of experiencing heaven on earth. I'm more loving, grace-filled and compassionate. I had all of those qualities before to a lesser extent... but I also had fits of burnout from giving so much of myself. The "new me" is not so much self-replenished as I am God-replenished.
As for time? I'm grateful for God's time (lasting throughout the ages) in my lifetime in the here and now, extinguishing the hell on earth and providing heaven on earth. As for the after-life: the jury's still out, but I'm not part of that jury. Perhaps I should say "The Judge" is still out on that one, and I trust that my Judge is also My Redeemer, and I know that My Redeemer lives.
[This blog automatically feeds my Facebook Notes page; click here to see the original blog]
Saturday, March 13, 2010
Lent Day 22: It's About Time
It's 9:14 as I type this. Or with the mental games I've been playing all week it's 10:14, in preparation for Daylight Savings Time.
In a way I should be happy about this, because the evenings will last longer, plus the days are getting longer. It's a been a long, cold winter, and any herald of Spring and new life should bring the reaction of relief and whole lot of welcome.
But the older I get the more I wonder about the wisdom of arbitrarily (although in a coordinated fashion) changing the rhythm Mother Nature provides. It's not that I'm such a nature freak that we shouldn't change anything, but there is something to be said about conducting our lives in concert with the cues nature sends.
Despite my alarm clock (which is on my iPhone so it keeps the same alarm despite Standard or Savings Time, and adapts for traveling into different time zones) going off at the same time for the past half year, I've been waking up before it, because of the slow glow of the increasingly earlier sunrises and more importantly, the birds I hear chirping and calling. And in the span of one day I'll be awakened by the same alarm because the birds don't honor Daylight Savings Time.
I'm a bit more respectful about circadian rhythms than a year ago because of the three visits to my mom's ranch our family has made since then. Although somewhat rustic, there's now satellite-delivered internet, but no satellite TV. Evening activities are reading, music (pre-recorded or supply your own), or discussion... a bit old school but kind of refreshing. Aside from the electronics we bring (which includes many different forms of electronic entertainment), by the time we retire to our cabin, it's very quiet and the instinct is to go to sleep. And then wake up with the birds and other wildlife, and of course the sun.
So as I sit in my living room banging away on the laptop in the electric and electronic glow that marks my residence as being part of "civilization" I wonder how much God laughs at the way we bend time to our own uses, and what all of our time-manipulating means in the context of God's time. It's no accident that this year I have finally started writing regularly in a blog; I am beginning to feel the urgency of the time I have remaining. I've always wanted to write but was lacking in discipline. There's so much I want to say and share, mostly with my kids. I see them, one already in the very independent orbit not around our family but the larger one with her friends. I don't begrudge her that; I remember fondly that time in my life... but in NY state that didn't happen until senior year. And the other child is on the verge of independence, so I savor the time that he wants to converse with me, or our nightly games of chess. It won't be long until he's in an outer orbit, and as a dear friend said to me last week: "our (the parents) social life is spent mostly at home, because we want to be around for a 'John' (their son) sighting."
So with all the stuff I want to share with my kids, even if we had the time and opportunity for me to talk about 'things' I'm pretty sure they don't want to talk with me about them now. That's what I did to my parents (blow off such opportunities) and similarly, all kids do to their parents. So... I write, mostly for myself... but I hope that it touches others, and especially my own children, someday.
[This blog automatically feeds my Facebook Notes page; click here to see the original blog]
In a way I should be happy about this, because the evenings will last longer, plus the days are getting longer. It's a been a long, cold winter, and any herald of Spring and new life should bring the reaction of relief and whole lot of welcome.
But the older I get the more I wonder about the wisdom of arbitrarily (although in a coordinated fashion) changing the rhythm Mother Nature provides. It's not that I'm such a nature freak that we shouldn't change anything, but there is something to be said about conducting our lives in concert with the cues nature sends.
Despite my alarm clock (which is on my iPhone so it keeps the same alarm despite Standard or Savings Time, and adapts for traveling into different time zones) going off at the same time for the past half year, I've been waking up before it, because of the slow glow of the increasingly earlier sunrises and more importantly, the birds I hear chirping and calling. And in the span of one day I'll be awakened by the same alarm because the birds don't honor Daylight Savings Time.
I'm a bit more respectful about circadian rhythms than a year ago because of the three visits to my mom's ranch our family has made since then. Although somewhat rustic, there's now satellite-delivered internet, but no satellite TV. Evening activities are reading, music (pre-recorded or supply your own), or discussion... a bit old school but kind of refreshing. Aside from the electronics we bring (which includes many different forms of electronic entertainment), by the time we retire to our cabin, it's very quiet and the instinct is to go to sleep. And then wake up with the birds and other wildlife, and of course the sun.
So as I sit in my living room banging away on the laptop in the electric and electronic glow that marks my residence as being part of "civilization" I wonder how much God laughs at the way we bend time to our own uses, and what all of our time-manipulating means in the context of God's time. It's no accident that this year I have finally started writing regularly in a blog; I am beginning to feel the urgency of the time I have remaining. I've always wanted to write but was lacking in discipline. There's so much I want to say and share, mostly with my kids. I see them, one already in the very independent orbit not around our family but the larger one with her friends. I don't begrudge her that; I remember fondly that time in my life... but in NY state that didn't happen until senior year. And the other child is on the verge of independence, so I savor the time that he wants to converse with me, or our nightly games of chess. It won't be long until he's in an outer orbit, and as a dear friend said to me last week: "our (the parents) social life is spent mostly at home, because we want to be around for a 'John' (their son) sighting."
So with all the stuff I want to share with my kids, even if we had the time and opportunity for me to talk about 'things' I'm pretty sure they don't want to talk with me about them now. That's what I did to my parents (blow off such opportunities) and similarly, all kids do to their parents. So... I write, mostly for myself... but I hope that it touches others, and especially my own children, someday.
[This blog automatically feeds my Facebook Notes page; click here to see the original blog]
Friday, March 12, 2010
Lent Day 21: A Wake for Bobby
I was corresponding with an old grade-school chum (via Facebook) and it triggered a different memory about other boyhood friends (twins) who changed my life. Here's what I wrote:
At the funeral reception, I'll never forget the sound of laughter which seemed so contrary to the somberness of the funeral itself. It was just one of the ways of saying goodbye to someone who was so loved. That entire experience (wake, funeral, reception) was one of the memories I had in the back of my head while describing western, Christian mourning rituals such a visitation to my colleague, N.
[This blog automatically feeds my Facebook Notes page; click here to see the original blog]
The other memory is that there were two brothers, twins: Bobby and Jimmy. I hung out with them and others throughout grade school and junior high school. By senior high, we kind of lost touch with each other -- different interests, different groups.I always recall this friendship as part of my spiritual journey. I grew up unchurched and I never really discussed religion with Jimmy and Bobby (who were raised Catholic). But the act of pulling that bully off me and to a greater extent their comments to the bully told me reams about their character; whether that came from their family upbringing or their religion didn't matter... I liked the source of their values. I always sensed it was something worth exploring further, which I eventually did although not with them.
I think it was sophomore or junior year of college at Christmas Break, and some of us alum would reunite, informally. I actually didn't do too much of that. But as Bobby was driving home from college from upstate, his car hit a tree on a wintry night with slick roads. His head hit the left column (support for the windshield); for a day or two he lay in a hospital bed, brain dead. Then his family pulled the cord.
If I recall correctly, he had just gotten engaged to be married, and this would have been the first time some of the home towners got to meet her. (He was driving alone at the time.)
Almost everybody who was in town went to the wake and the funeral. I was so unfamiliar with the rituals at the time. I knew about being quiet and somber; it was at the reception I came to learn that it was a celebration of Bobby's life, the joy he brought into everyone's life, and his love for life. Everyone was sharing stories of their fun times with Bobby.
The story I shared was back in elementary school, when I was being rough-housed by a bully. It speaks volumes that I can't remember his name or what he looked like. He had shoved me to my back on the playground (before school I think) and then sat on my chest, punching my face.
Twins Bobby and Jimmy, who I didn't know that well at the time, acted like hockey referees. That is, each twin pulled my assailant and me far away from each other.
I don't remember which twin said the following: "Why are beating him up?" "Because he's a Chink." "So what? You're a (I would insert the ethnic group here if I could remember), he's a black, she's an Italian, he's Polish, I'm German..." while pointing at folks in the crowd. "It doesn't matter. You can't beat on people just because of their background."
We were all in third grade. I got much closer to the twins over the next few years, because they were fun to hang out with, and obviously I liked the way they treated people in general, especially me.
I had recounted that story to them in our senior year, by which time we were hanging out in other circles, although we were still friendly. Neither of them remembered that story at all, although they weren’t surprised that it was something that they would have done.
As for me, I’ve obviously never forgotten it… or them.
At the funeral reception, I'll never forget the sound of laughter which seemed so contrary to the somberness of the funeral itself. It was just one of the ways of saying goodbye to someone who was so loved. That entire experience (wake, funeral, reception) was one of the memories I had in the back of my head while describing western, Christian mourning rituals such a visitation to my colleague, N.
[This blog automatically feeds my Facebook Notes page; click here to see the original blog]
Lent Day 20: Desmond Tutu and the Two Craigs
Too late, too tired for a long entry tonight, but just enough energy to cite an NPR story on Archbishop Desmond Tutu. I'd like to say it was NPR providing an inspiring story, but the truth is every story I've ever heard about Tutu has been greatly inspiring.
I've often thought about his life and imagined what I would have done in his shoes. I don't think I could have come close to what he did. He faced such cruelty, meanness, and hatred, and yet his responses were/are always so full of love, compassion, and grace. He truly loved his enemies, and by that I mean he wanted what's best for them, meaning God's love, compassion, grace... and forgiveness. "Truth and reconciliation" in Tutu's own words. The NPR story is entitled "We are 'Made for Goodness'" and that's the thread of all of Tutu's sermons. And indeed every time I've seen him, irrespective of context, he has preached the Word of God and God's love for us.
I was fortunate, make that blessed, to hear him speak at the 2000 ELCA National Youth Gathering here in St. Louis. I don't remember any of the details but I marveled at the theme of his story of forgiving his enemies. He kept thousands of young people (and me) on the edges of their seats about his story, which by all accounts should have been ancient history to them. Though the youth gatherings contain many "mountaintop" experiences, hearing his keynote presentation was "the moment" of that Gathering for me. I was in tears by the end of his witness to God's love in action.
He's also appeared as a guest on my favorite (and pretty much only) talk show, the Late Late Show with Craig Ferguson. Both men are charming and articulate, with the gift of gab. Tutu preaches and lives forgiveness and redemption; Ferguson is a living example of redemption. I don't know if his redemption is related to his relationship with God, but as a recovering alcoholic, Ferguson is very aware of how close he was to self-destruction and death, and for me, every new show reflects how much he appreciates his life and the beloved people in his life. It's a subtext that keeps me tethered to his show, but the truth is that he is so darn charismatic, clever, and funny, it's impossible for me to miss his show. And Ferguson's subtext is what made the Tutu interview so scintillating: he can turn on a dime between funny and poignant, and keep Tutu in stitches. It was a pleasure to watch.
Clips: Ferguson Intro, Ferguson Monologue Pt 1, Monologue Pt 2, Interview Pt 1, Interview Pt 2, Interview Pt 3, Tag - What Did We Learn on the Show Tonight, Craig
And in doing my links research for this blog entry, I learned that Tutu was the one guest who changed Ferguson's life.
Tutu popped at last year's ELCA Youth Gathering in New Orleans. He wasn't there, but was quoted as the inspiration for some of last year's keynote speakers. Craig Kielburger, founder of Free the Children, shared his stirring story of "being the change" in the world. I just found on their website, Kielburger's reference to Tutu in his own words:
(I guess I wasn't as tired as I thought...)
[This blog automatically feeds my Facebook Notes page; click here to see the original blog]
I've often thought about his life and imagined what I would have done in his shoes. I don't think I could have come close to what he did. He faced such cruelty, meanness, and hatred, and yet his responses were/are always so full of love, compassion, and grace. He truly loved his enemies, and by that I mean he wanted what's best for them, meaning God's love, compassion, grace... and forgiveness. "Truth and reconciliation" in Tutu's own words. The NPR story is entitled "We are 'Made for Goodness'" and that's the thread of all of Tutu's sermons. And indeed every time I've seen him, irrespective of context, he has preached the Word of God and God's love for us.
I was fortunate, make that blessed, to hear him speak at the 2000 ELCA National Youth Gathering here in St. Louis. I don't remember any of the details but I marveled at the theme of his story of forgiving his enemies. He kept thousands of young people (and me) on the edges of their seats about his story, which by all accounts should have been ancient history to them. Though the youth gatherings contain many "mountaintop" experiences, hearing his keynote presentation was "the moment" of that Gathering for me. I was in tears by the end of his witness to God's love in action.
He's also appeared as a guest on my favorite (and pretty much only) talk show, the Late Late Show with Craig Ferguson. Both men are charming and articulate, with the gift of gab. Tutu preaches and lives forgiveness and redemption; Ferguson is a living example of redemption. I don't know if his redemption is related to his relationship with God, but as a recovering alcoholic, Ferguson is very aware of how close he was to self-destruction and death, and for me, every new show reflects how much he appreciates his life and the beloved people in his life. It's a subtext that keeps me tethered to his show, but the truth is that he is so darn charismatic, clever, and funny, it's impossible for me to miss his show. And Ferguson's subtext is what made the Tutu interview so scintillating: he can turn on a dime between funny and poignant, and keep Tutu in stitches. It was a pleasure to watch.
Clips: Ferguson Intro, Ferguson Monologue Pt 1, Monologue Pt 2, Interview Pt 1, Interview Pt 2, Interview Pt 3, Tag - What Did We Learn on the Show Tonight, Craig
And in doing my links research for this blog entry, I learned that Tutu was the one guest who changed Ferguson's life.
Tutu popped at last year's ELCA Youth Gathering in New Orleans. He wasn't there, but was quoted as the inspiration for some of last year's keynote speakers. Craig Kielburger, founder of Free the Children, shared his stirring story of "being the change" in the world. I just found on their website, Kielburger's reference to Tutu in his own words:
Do you have a morning ritual that gets you ready for the day, mentally/physically/spiritually?
Whether I'm reading it online line or spread out on my kitchen table, I always start my day reading the newspaper. That way I can catch up with what's going on in the world. Archbishop Desmond Tutu once told me the newspaper was like a menu laying out all the world's issues that need our help.
If you're passionate about local issues, it's your first couple pages. If you want to make a difference on national issues, go midway through. If your passion is changing the world, it's always at the end. Either way, it's conveniently divided out for you every single day.
(I guess I wasn't as tired as I thought...)
[This blog automatically feeds my Facebook Notes page; click here to see the original blog]
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Lent Day 19: I Am Become Like a Pelican
One of the worst parts about serving as a lay church musician is that I don't always get to focus on the readings or other parts of the service. The church liturgy is the work of the people, and those who preside, assist, lector, usher or provide music are often focused on the choreography of the service for the congregation, and these 'leaders' often don't get to provide their full attention on all parts of the service.
One of the best parts (of serving as a lay church musician) is that I'm not shy about asking for the inspirational materials (readings, sermons) after the service because I couldn't focus my full attention at the time. This past Sunday was one of those times.
Our worship band provides music during what we call "Center Celebration," a worship service that comes right between the early (8:15) and late (11:00) service on the first Sunday of months during the academic year. Although it replaces the education hour (Sunday School, Youth Group, Bible Class) on that one Sunday, different groups volunteer each month to construct a themed service, like focusing on the environment or St. Francis of Assisi (which is held outdoors and pets are welcomed to be blessed).
This month's service focused on Lent, and we had poetry by Madeleine L'Engle interspersed throughout the regular parts of the liturgy, plus we played new music for Lent, published just this year.
One poem struck me between the eyes, or more like ears... and I couldn't find a copy on the "InterWebs," so I include it here with full attribution:
"I Am Become Like a Pelican"
I am become like a pelican in the wilderness....
For I have eaten ashes as it were bread,
and mingled my drink with weeping....
But thou, O LORD, shalt endure for ever.
Psalm 102:6, 9, 12
God is dead? Well, of course God is dead!
Where have you been? Did you not see the dark
Cover the hill and strike against the cross?
We killed him then two thousand years ago
And once was not enough. We kill him now
In each denial, each unloving act.
Daily we kill him, trampling on his name,
Spitting on his word. And we are told,
And rightly, that he died between two thieves
And not two candles shining on an altar.
And yet there, too, perhaps most terribly,
He's crucified each day by priest and those
Who take him, unaware of all the clouds
Of witnesses encompassing them in song
And prayer, who kneel there coldly unaware
Of those who suffer in the adjoining pew.
We do not understand his feast; we live
Again his crucifixion, but forget,
Each time we crucify him there again
Between those candles whose bright flame is lost
To darkened eyes, that when he died for us
After three days he rose, and still for us.
We kill him, but we cannot keep his light
From blazing forth in flame for every one
Who fouls his word and calls him dead and cries
In loneliness because his name is lost.
And yet, receiving now my heart's true food
I feel his light rush coursing through my blood.
Nourished by his spilled wine and broken bread,
I know that my Redeemer is not dead.
-- Madeleine L'Engle, from The Ordering of Love, pp. 314-315
This poem was read after communion, and from the musical perspective, we had just recovered from some of the mixed signals about which hymns to play when. (This was not a major concern... we just rolled with the flow; everyone received communion and sang hymns that they know by heart.) I wasn't expecting a long poem at that point in the service. Usually once communion is shared, it's a pretty quick slide to the "sending forth" end of the service.
So... I got to listen, to focus fully on the above words, and immediately I knew I wanted to read it myself, over and over again. Some might consider the poem controversial, but I think it's beautiful and resonates deeply within me for my Lenten journey.
[This blog automatically feeds my Facebook Notes page; click here to see the original blog]
One of the best parts (of serving as a lay church musician) is that I'm not shy about asking for the inspirational materials (readings, sermons) after the service because I couldn't focus my full attention at the time. This past Sunday was one of those times.
Our worship band provides music during what we call "Center Celebration," a worship service that comes right between the early (8:15) and late (11:00) service on the first Sunday of months during the academic year. Although it replaces the education hour (Sunday School, Youth Group, Bible Class) on that one Sunday, different groups volunteer each month to construct a themed service, like focusing on the environment or St. Francis of Assisi (which is held outdoors and pets are welcomed to be blessed).
This month's service focused on Lent, and we had poetry by Madeleine L'Engle interspersed throughout the regular parts of the liturgy, plus we played new music for Lent, published just this year.
One poem struck me between the eyes, or more like ears... and I couldn't find a copy on the "InterWebs," so I include it here with full attribution:
"I Am Become Like a Pelican"
I am become like a pelican in the wilderness....
For I have eaten ashes as it were bread,
and mingled my drink with weeping....
But thou, O LORD, shalt endure for ever.
Psalm 102:6, 9, 12
God is dead? Well, of course God is dead!
Where have you been? Did you not see the dark
Cover the hill and strike against the cross?
We killed him then two thousand years ago
And once was not enough. We kill him now
In each denial, each unloving act.
Daily we kill him, trampling on his name,
Spitting on his word. And we are told,
And rightly, that he died between two thieves
And not two candles shining on an altar.
And yet there, too, perhaps most terribly,
He's crucified each day by priest and those
Who take him, unaware of all the clouds
Of witnesses encompassing them in song
And prayer, who kneel there coldly unaware
Of those who suffer in the adjoining pew.
We do not understand his feast; we live
Again his crucifixion, but forget,
Each time we crucify him there again
Between those candles whose bright flame is lost
To darkened eyes, that when he died for us
After three days he rose, and still for us.
We kill him, but we cannot keep his light
From blazing forth in flame for every one
Who fouls his word and calls him dead and cries
In loneliness because his name is lost.
And yet, receiving now my heart's true food
I feel his light rush coursing through my blood.
Nourished by his spilled wine and broken bread,
I know that my Redeemer is not dead.
-- Madeleine L'Engle, from The Ordering of Love, pp. 314-315
This poem was read after communion, and from the musical perspective, we had just recovered from some of the mixed signals about which hymns to play when. (This was not a major concern... we just rolled with the flow; everyone received communion and sang hymns that they know by heart.) I wasn't expecting a long poem at that point in the service. Usually once communion is shared, it's a pretty quick slide to the "sending forth" end of the service.
So... I got to listen, to focus fully on the above words, and immediately I knew I wanted to read it myself, over and over again. Some might consider the poem controversial, but I think it's beautiful and resonates deeply within me for my Lenten journey.
[This blog automatically feeds my Facebook Notes page; click here to see the original blog]
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
Lent Day 18: More on Carol Ann
Yesterday I posted my entry on my aunt Carol Ann, which was a reconstruction of the entry I wrote and Blogger lost. It took me a week to find the time and energy to salvage my thoughts; and sometime today I realized I had missed something important.
The missing thought: my mom was interviewed after she and the other surviving sister (my Aunt Charlene) established a scholarship in Carol Ann's name. Until I started writing my blog entry on Carol Ann I hadn't realized that I missed a key portion of that interview: my mom talking about how her trip to India prepared her for Carol Ann's dying and death. I knew she had gone to India but never really understood why. Now that I know, I'm even more curious, especially because of my conversation with N... which kicked off my entire Lenten blog.
Curiouser and curiouser... (and please allow me that phrase since I took Noah to Alice in Wonderland that past weekend).
[This blog automatically feeds my Facebook Notes page; click here to see the original blog]
The missing thought: my mom was interviewed after she and the other surviving sister (my Aunt Charlene) established a scholarship in Carol Ann's name. Until I started writing my blog entry on Carol Ann I hadn't realized that I missed a key portion of that interview: my mom talking about how her trip to India prepared her for Carol Ann's dying and death. I knew she had gone to India but never really understood why. Now that I know, I'm even more curious, especially because of my conversation with N... which kicked off my entire Lenten blog.
Curiouser and curiouser... (and please allow me that phrase since I took Noah to Alice in Wonderland that past weekend).
[This blog automatically feeds my Facebook Notes page; click here to see the original blog]
Monday, March 8, 2010
Lent Day 17: Carol Ann
Last week I wrote about Charles "Sparky" Schulz, creator of Peanuts, and his mother Dena. Much of what people love about his Peanuts characters came out his own experience, and much of that was driven by his grieving over his mother's death and her not surviving to see any of his success. It's a common story in the arts; just look at at most of the acceptance speeches from last night's Oscar Awards.
But there's another dimension of Dena's story that strikes home for me: that she was so private about her disease and dying. Even Sparky didn't know that it was cancer until near the very end, even though he knew something was definitely wrong. I recently had a similar experience with my Aunt Carol Ann, the youngest of the three sisters in my mom's family. Having never married, she lived by herself and was able to withhold any news of her own malady -- breast cancer -- until near the very end, when she needed hospice care.
She had sought no Western medical treatment, relying solely on Eastern/Chinese medicines and therapy. I can't judge her decision... I'm not sure what I would do in her shoes, but I certainly respect it. And based on other aspects of her life, it wasn't a very surprising decision: she always marched to the beat of her own drum. Even though that phrase is not always used in a flattering light, it is here. She was the "cool aunt."
That's not to say that my other aunts are not cool, but Carol Ann got to do things her way with her own artistic flair, with the soul of an artist. I didn't understand until I was much older (and started watching Project Runway) the significance of her going to the Parsons School of Design. I knew that she was in the fashion industry but not that she was in the forefront of it. She worked at Catalina Swimwear, and as family legend has it, she designed the "French Cut" bathing suit. So the 10% of the population that can wear it love it, the other 40% groan, and of the remaining 50% ogle at it. Whether or not she actually designed it is almost irrelevant; the fact is she had so much talent that one cannot doubt that it could be true.
But I didn't realize that until much later. To me, she was the one with the carefree spirit, who lauded independent women (Mary Tyler Moore's Mary Richards character) and had a tremendous sense of humor. She not only introduced me to Monty Python, I got to stay up past my bedtime on weekends to watch the Flying Circus with her. She took my brother and me to see Star Wars in a Manhattan theater, something I'll never forget because that's first time I ever wanted to not leave the theater so I could immediately rescreen a movie. She is the person who, after seeing how much I loved her copy of "Peanuts Classics," gave it to me and it remains one of my prized possessions to this day.
Which brings me back to Dena and the privacy of dying. During the week of Carol's Ann memorial, the relatives took on the broad task of disposing of Carol Ann's property. For a studio apartment in downtown San Francisco, she had loads of stuff, mostly great swag from the fashion companies she worked for and with, and tons of books. Her library reflected a great appreciation for her Eastern heritage and holistic philosophy and practices, which was not surprising. As we dug deeper into her belongings we unraveled some of the mystery that was not only her dying but her life. (She had been diagnosed quite a while earlier and survived a significantly long time with holistic therapies, hence her library.) But her life was like a puzzle and no one person held all the pieces. I bet we'll never know all the pieces.
But here are some nuggets of what we learned. She had translated a book for her Tibetan Qi Gong Master. We knew she excelled at languages and taught Chinese language at private schools, and did translations, but translating for a book was a pleasant surprise in our archeological dig.
We found a photo of her with the Clinton family, at the White House. The Clintons have been photographed thousands of times, but this was a special event: the unveiling of the presidential portraits, and Carol Ann was the fashion consultant who selected Hillary's attire for the portrait. Some of the relatives knew about this but I was certainly in the dark.
And finally there were some photos of her with the Dalai Lama. Again, not an uncommon occurrence. But then I learned that she flew to Australia to consult on the stage design for his appearances there... that blew me away.
So Carol Ann, despite her brushes with greatness (kind of like Woody Allen's Zelig and Tom Hanks' Forrest Gump), was such a private person. And I still grieve for not having known her better, or having been able to help comfort her more during her final days. What I can do is remember the times she spent with me, especially one special day in Hong Kong when I visited there when I was about Noah's age (11). She took me for a day out on the town, no real schedule to keep. We ended up going to Victoria Peak and as the day progressed I got to choose how to get there. I don't mean from Point A to Point B; Carol Ann literally let me choose the mode of transportation, as in taxi, bus, train, tram, ferry, boat, etc. I can't name them all but there were exactly 11 conveyances in all... I was 11 at the time.
It was probably the coolest day of my childhood. I got to choose where to go, how to get there, no schedule, no budget. We had no real destination in mind, but we enjoyed the journey together. So whenever I think of her and mourn her passing, I always remember that day and hope that someday we'll journey together again.
[This blog automatically feeds my Facebook Notes page; click here to see the original blog]
But there's another dimension of Dena's story that strikes home for me: that she was so private about her disease and dying. Even Sparky didn't know that it was cancer until near the very end, even though he knew something was definitely wrong. I recently had a similar experience with my Aunt Carol Ann, the youngest of the three sisters in my mom's family. Having never married, she lived by herself and was able to withhold any news of her own malady -- breast cancer -- until near the very end, when she needed hospice care.
She had sought no Western medical treatment, relying solely on Eastern/Chinese medicines and therapy. I can't judge her decision... I'm not sure what I would do in her shoes, but I certainly respect it. And based on other aspects of her life, it wasn't a very surprising decision: she always marched to the beat of her own drum. Even though that phrase is not always used in a flattering light, it is here. She was the "cool aunt."
That's not to say that my other aunts are not cool, but Carol Ann got to do things her way with her own artistic flair, with the soul of an artist. I didn't understand until I was much older (and started watching Project Runway) the significance of her going to the Parsons School of Design. I knew that she was in the fashion industry but not that she was in the forefront of it. She worked at Catalina Swimwear, and as family legend has it, she designed the "French Cut" bathing suit. So the 10% of the population that can wear it love it, the other 40% groan, and of the remaining 50% ogle at it. Whether or not she actually designed it is almost irrelevant; the fact is she had so much talent that one cannot doubt that it could be true.
But I didn't realize that until much later. To me, she was the one with the carefree spirit, who lauded independent women (Mary Tyler Moore's Mary Richards character) and had a tremendous sense of humor. She not only introduced me to Monty Python, I got to stay up past my bedtime on weekends to watch the Flying Circus with her. She took my brother and me to see Star Wars in a Manhattan theater, something I'll never forget because that's first time I ever wanted to not leave the theater so I could immediately rescreen a movie. She is the person who, after seeing how much I loved her copy of "Peanuts Classics," gave it to me and it remains one of my prized possessions to this day.
Which brings me back to Dena and the privacy of dying. During the week of Carol's Ann memorial, the relatives took on the broad task of disposing of Carol Ann's property. For a studio apartment in downtown San Francisco, she had loads of stuff, mostly great swag from the fashion companies she worked for and with, and tons of books. Her library reflected a great appreciation for her Eastern heritage and holistic philosophy and practices, which was not surprising. As we dug deeper into her belongings we unraveled some of the mystery that was not only her dying but her life. (She had been diagnosed quite a while earlier and survived a significantly long time with holistic therapies, hence her library.) But her life was like a puzzle and no one person held all the pieces. I bet we'll never know all the pieces.
But here are some nuggets of what we learned. She had translated a book for her Tibetan Qi Gong Master. We knew she excelled at languages and taught Chinese language at private schools, and did translations, but translating for a book was a pleasant surprise in our archeological dig.
We found a photo of her with the Clinton family, at the White House. The Clintons have been photographed thousands of times, but this was a special event: the unveiling of the presidential portraits, and Carol Ann was the fashion consultant who selected Hillary's attire for the portrait. Some of the relatives knew about this but I was certainly in the dark.
And finally there were some photos of her with the Dalai Lama. Again, not an uncommon occurrence. But then I learned that she flew to Australia to consult on the stage design for his appearances there... that blew me away.
So Carol Ann, despite her brushes with greatness (kind of like Woody Allen's Zelig and Tom Hanks' Forrest Gump), was such a private person. And I still grieve for not having known her better, or having been able to help comfort her more during her final days. What I can do is remember the times she spent with me, especially one special day in Hong Kong when I visited there when I was about Noah's age (11). She took me for a day out on the town, no real schedule to keep. We ended up going to Victoria Peak and as the day progressed I got to choose how to get there. I don't mean from Point A to Point B; Carol Ann literally let me choose the mode of transportation, as in taxi, bus, train, tram, ferry, boat, etc. I can't name them all but there were exactly 11 conveyances in all... I was 11 at the time.
It was probably the coolest day of my childhood. I got to choose where to go, how to get there, no schedule, no budget. We had no real destination in mind, but we enjoyed the journey together. So whenever I think of her and mourn her passing, I always remember that day and hope that someday we'll journey together again.
[This blog automatically feeds my Facebook Notes page; click here to see the original blog]
Saturday, March 6, 2010
Lent Day 16: Worship Service Music
"ONE and two AND three and FOUR and ONE and two AND three and FOUR and"
That's my mantra for the day, to get the musical syncopation into my entire being by tomorrow morning. I'm part of a worship band at my church, and we play on the first Sunday of each month during the academic year. Tomorrow is the only time we play in Lent, and we ordered special music (published just this year) for it.
The music is extremely contemplative and ethereal. It sounds simple and on the page looks simple, yet there are subtleties in the soul of the music that bedeviled me at today's rehearsal. Actually this happens every month if I haven't really practiced before the rehearsal, but I had been doing better this year up until this month. And I assumed the piano part was simple, and by itself it is.
However... with music this delicately layered, the piano part is truly just a component, and must align tightly to a cantor, and to the assembly. The whole thing needs to work together, and the cantor and the band (and in this case mostly the piano because we dropped the guitars for this month) need to be able to cue the congregation.
In a way, I wish I didn't have to do the music tomorrow. For the first time in a long time I've had a stretch of worship services in which I don't usher, play music or fill the assisting minister role. I've gotten to just absorb all the sights and sounds of the services of and in Lent. But I'm glad for tomorrow's opportunity: I get to contribute music to the service. And with enough practice tonight, the melodies, rhythms and words are in my entire being, ready to share tomorrow morning.
Oh, and the words that go with my counting mantra above? They are:
"Hold us in your mer - cy. Hold us in your mer - cy. "
"ONE and two AND three and FOUR and ONE and two AND three and FOUR and"
[This blog automatically feeds my Facebook Notes page; click here to see the original blog]
That's my mantra for the day, to get the musical syncopation into my entire being by tomorrow morning. I'm part of a worship band at my church, and we play on the first Sunday of each month during the academic year. Tomorrow is the only time we play in Lent, and we ordered special music (published just this year) for it.
The music is extremely contemplative and ethereal. It sounds simple and on the page looks simple, yet there are subtleties in the soul of the music that bedeviled me at today's rehearsal. Actually this happens every month if I haven't really practiced before the rehearsal, but I had been doing better this year up until this month. And I assumed the piano part was simple, and by itself it is.
However... with music this delicately layered, the piano part is truly just a component, and must align tightly to a cantor, and to the assembly. The whole thing needs to work together, and the cantor and the band (and in this case mostly the piano because we dropped the guitars for this month) need to be able to cue the congregation.
In a way, I wish I didn't have to do the music tomorrow. For the first time in a long time I've had a stretch of worship services in which I don't usher, play music or fill the assisting minister role. I've gotten to just absorb all the sights and sounds of the services of and in Lent. But I'm glad for tomorrow's opportunity: I get to contribute music to the service. And with enough practice tonight, the melodies, rhythms and words are in my entire being, ready to share tomorrow morning.
Oh, and the words that go with my counting mantra above? They are:
"Hold us in your mer - cy. Hold us in your mer - cy. "
"ONE and two AND three and FOUR and ONE and two AND three and FOUR and"
[This blog automatically feeds my Facebook Notes page; click here to see the original blog]
Friday, March 5, 2010
Lent Day 15: TGIF / TGFT
TGIF -- Thank God It's Friday
If you believe Wikipedia, it's a term coined in the 1970s as a "common expression of relief at the end of the work week and anticipation of relaxing or partying over the weekend."
I've never been into the "party hearty" aspect of it although I enjoy weekends -- and I've never felt the relief of Fridays at the end of the work week as much as I have recently. Part of that is the workload at the office, part of it is that all my outside activities seem to be converging into a perfect storm of time demands.
Perhaps it's the fatigue talking -- I tend to get overly sentimental when raw from lack of sleep -- but I'm grateful for every single day. I've been blessed with many things, mostly the people in my life. I couldn't ask for a better family and in my darkest thoughts I might think I don't deserve them.
And as solemn and sober as this Lenten journal may have sounded (but it wasn't my intent at all), it's because I'm realizing how fragile all of this is... but I'm not downbeat about it. Quite the opposite in fact, I feel renewed by it. By turning off the radio during commutes and giving up most of my TV time to write every night, I see my life in sharper focus, more grateful for all my experiences, bad and good, challenging and rewarding.
And I'm not only thankful for (people/things in my life), but thankful to... thankful to God.
TGFT -- Thank God For Today
[This blog automatically feeds my Facebook Notes page; click here to see the original blog]
If you believe Wikipedia, it's a term coined in the 1970s as a "common expression of relief at the end of the work week and anticipation of relaxing or partying over the weekend."
I've never been into the "party hearty" aspect of it although I enjoy weekends -- and I've never felt the relief of Fridays at the end of the work week as much as I have recently. Part of that is the workload at the office, part of it is that all my outside activities seem to be converging into a perfect storm of time demands.
Perhaps it's the fatigue talking -- I tend to get overly sentimental when raw from lack of sleep -- but I'm grateful for every single day. I've been blessed with many things, mostly the people in my life. I couldn't ask for a better family and in my darkest thoughts I might think I don't deserve them.
And as solemn and sober as this Lenten journal may have sounded (but it wasn't my intent at all), it's because I'm realizing how fragile all of this is... but I'm not downbeat about it. Quite the opposite in fact, I feel renewed by it. By turning off the radio during commutes and giving up most of my TV time to write every night, I see my life in sharper focus, more grateful for all my experiences, bad and good, challenging and rewarding.
And I'm not only thankful for (people/things in my life), but thankful to... thankful to God.
TGFT -- Thank God For Today
[This blog automatically feeds my Facebook Notes page; click here to see the original blog]
Thursday, March 4, 2010
Lent Day 14: Blessed in Public (Transit)
"Have a blessed day... thank you for riding MetroLink."
I love having different ways of commuting to work, be it the roar of the car or the whoosh of cycling. But traveling by light rail provides me with a sense of actually living in a city. The St. Louis mass transit system is modest compared to others I've known, especially compared to New York (where I grew up), or San Francisco, Chicago, Boston and Washington DC. Add to that Hong Kong, Taiwan, Seoul, Tokyo, Beijing and Amsterdam -- hmm... I hadn't realized I've really traveled quite a bit.
All those cities require mass transit to sustain their populations; perhaps that's one reason St. Louis has never grown that much, at least since Prohibition. It's a choice the metro area has made -- to not support growth of the system but rather continue funding a motor vehicle-centric economy. And if one reads the forums of the local newspaper, it's apparent that many think that all train commuters are poor, people of color, rude and drags on society -- and get their rides paid for by the tax dollars from "upright honest citizens" -- and really like to "troll" the forums.
My own experience on MetroLink is that the ridership is mostly hardworking people just trying to get to and from work, school, the hospital, the ballgame, or shopping. People are mostly courteous and even quite helpful if they notice a novice rider. And it's great to be able to sit back and read, think or even sleep on the way to work.
But there's one thing St. Louis has that the other mass transit systems don't: the conductor/engineer announces all the stops. There is no pre-recorded voice on tape (long ago) or digital media (I was really impressed by New York's new subway trains last Thanksgiving). St. Louis offers personalized experiences that vary by conductor and his/her mood and I'd swear that's affected by the weather and other factors. Some are monotonous, leaning towards the pre-recorded messages; others become downright sing-songy.
But my favorite is: "Have a blessed (one syllable) day.. thank you for riding MetroLink."
Granted that "blessed" means different things to different people and might even be offensive to some. But I interpret that farewell in its most positive sense -- reflecting God's relationship with the conductor and him sharing that with, in this case, me and God's relationship with me.
To me it's special. And helps put me start the day on an upbeat note.
[This blog automatically feeds my Facebook Notes page; click here to see the original blog]
I love having different ways of commuting to work, be it the roar of the car or the whoosh of cycling. But traveling by light rail provides me with a sense of actually living in a city. The St. Louis mass transit system is modest compared to others I've known, especially compared to New York (where I grew up), or San Francisco, Chicago, Boston and Washington DC. Add to that Hong Kong, Taiwan, Seoul, Tokyo, Beijing and Amsterdam -- hmm... I hadn't realized I've really traveled quite a bit.
All those cities require mass transit to sustain their populations; perhaps that's one reason St. Louis has never grown that much, at least since Prohibition. It's a choice the metro area has made -- to not support growth of the system but rather continue funding a motor vehicle-centric economy. And if one reads the forums of the local newspaper, it's apparent that many think that all train commuters are poor, people of color, rude and drags on society -- and get their rides paid for by the tax dollars from "upright honest citizens" -- and really like to "troll" the forums.
My own experience on MetroLink is that the ridership is mostly hardworking people just trying to get to and from work, school, the hospital, the ballgame, or shopping. People are mostly courteous and even quite helpful if they notice a novice rider. And it's great to be able to sit back and read, think or even sleep on the way to work.
But there's one thing St. Louis has that the other mass transit systems don't: the conductor/engineer announces all the stops. There is no pre-recorded voice on tape (long ago) or digital media (I was really impressed by New York's new subway trains last Thanksgiving). St. Louis offers personalized experiences that vary by conductor and his/her mood and I'd swear that's affected by the weather and other factors. Some are monotonous, leaning towards the pre-recorded messages; others become downright sing-songy.
But my favorite is: "Have a blessed (one syllable) day.. thank you for riding MetroLink."
Granted that "blessed" means different things to different people and might even be offensive to some. But I interpret that farewell in its most positive sense -- reflecting God's relationship with the conductor and him sharing that with, in this case, me and God's relationship with me.
To me it's special. And helps put me start the day on an upbeat note.
[This blog automatically feeds my Facebook Notes page; click here to see the original blog]
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
Lent Day 13: "Mulligan" Needed (Tech Version)
I spent an hour writing tonight's entry, and blogger.com lost the entire entry, despite the "autosave" feature. D**n technology.
I knew something was up when the "Saving Draft" button got stuck. I couldn't get back to the edit buffer when I tried to copy the text to another program, like Word.
Huge bummer... I had just finished the final proofreading and was about to publish the post.
I'm too tired to re-create it tonight. I'm calling a mulligan and will try to do it again tomorrow.
[This blog automatically feeds my Facebook Notes page; click here to see the original blog]
I knew something was up when the "Saving Draft" button got stuck. I couldn't get back to the edit buffer when I tried to copy the text to another program, like Word.
Huge bummer... I had just finished the final proofreading and was about to publish the post.
I'm too tired to re-create it tonight. I'm calling a mulligan and will try to do it again tomorrow.
[This blog automatically feeds my Facebook Notes page; click here to see the original blog]
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Lent Day 12: Clarification on Hindu Rituals
Despite life getting in the way* I am committed to doing something for today's Lenten journal entry.
Yesterday I finally had the chance to follow up with N about Hindu traditions and clarify what he meant by being able to forget anything within 12 days. The initial conversation took place on Mardi Gras (two weeks ago) and wasn't nearly as long or in-depth as I would have liked. Thankfully there will be more discussion to follow.
I should have interpreted N's original comment as his psychological take on the Hindu mourning rituals that last 12 days. It's not that one forgets anything in those 12 days, it's that the initial mourning phase seems to take 12 days to complete. (N even cited studies that showed elephants who remain with a deceased elephant for about 12 days before eventually leaving the body.)
And it (the long prescribed mourning period) makes a lot of sense to me, or at least more sense than what this country allows or expects from the work perspective: the typical bereavement time for corporate America is five days. Even if one wanted to use vacation days for extended grieving, there would be a huge challenge when returning to work. It's difficult enough to take off two weeks when planning for it; even worse when it is an unplanned absence.
N also described follow-up mourning rituals that take place monthly and quarterly. They're designed to remember and respect the departed. Clearly the goal is not to forget anyone or anything. My bad, in trying to reflect upon a rushed conversation that darted from topic to topic. In any case, I look forward to my future conversations with N, which I know won't be nearly as rushed.
*Today's "life getting in the way" included my own weekly volleyball game, attending the high school basketball playoff game (which we -- the home team -- won 78-32), and then dealing with my credit card company about possible fraud alert, which thankfully was a charge that I really made but they flagged as being an unusual pattern. It still took quite a bit of time to follow-up and resolve.
[This blog automatically feeds my Facebook Notes page; click here to see the original blog]
Yesterday I finally had the chance to follow up with N about Hindu traditions and clarify what he meant by being able to forget anything within 12 days. The initial conversation took place on Mardi Gras (two weeks ago) and wasn't nearly as long or in-depth as I would have liked. Thankfully there will be more discussion to follow.
I should have interpreted N's original comment as his psychological take on the Hindu mourning rituals that last 12 days. It's not that one forgets anything in those 12 days, it's that the initial mourning phase seems to take 12 days to complete. (N even cited studies that showed elephants who remain with a deceased elephant for about 12 days before eventually leaving the body.)
And it (the long prescribed mourning period) makes a lot of sense to me, or at least more sense than what this country allows or expects from the work perspective: the typical bereavement time for corporate America is five days. Even if one wanted to use vacation days for extended grieving, there would be a huge challenge when returning to work. It's difficult enough to take off two weeks when planning for it; even worse when it is an unplanned absence.
N also described follow-up mourning rituals that take place monthly and quarterly. They're designed to remember and respect the departed. Clearly the goal is not to forget anyone or anything. My bad, in trying to reflect upon a rushed conversation that darted from topic to topic. In any case, I look forward to my future conversations with N, which I know won't be nearly as rushed.
*Today's "life getting in the way" included my own weekly volleyball game, attending the high school basketball playoff game (which we -- the home team -- won 78-32), and then dealing with my credit card company about possible fraud alert, which thankfully was a charge that I really made but they flagged as being an unusual pattern. It still took quite a bit of time to follow-up and resolve.
[This blog automatically feeds my Facebook Notes page; click here to see the original blog]
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