My wife and I traveled to Alaska about 4 years ago in July/August. If I had to describe Alaska I would include the words big and wild, and wide and beautiful. We saw some fantastic sights while we were there; an ocean full of ice; calving glaciers; a mother grizzly and her cubs; moose; caribou; spouting whales; and mountains so tall that they make the Blue Ridge look like a bump in the road.
The people who live in Alaska year round are different from the people who go to Alaska on vacation. In my opinion, they are the remnants of the American pioneers who left the East and traveled hundreds of miles to the West and settled in places where there were no support systems. They had to rely on themselves and their own skills. And where they lacked knowledge and skill, they had to be creative and invent new ways of doing things. Or, they had to do without.
When I asked year round residents if they liked living there, without fail, all of them told me they loved it. Even though roads are not plentiful; even though many people's homes are off the power grid; even though 32 feet of snow may pile up in their yard and on the roofs of their homes; even though many of them cannot just call the plumber when a pipe ruptures; even though neighbors are many miles away and visitors are scarce; they love it.
And I started thinking, why do all the people who live there love it? And I think it is because all of the people who went there who did not love it have left. The Alaskan life is not for everyone. You may go there and wish you could live there, but when you try it, you find that you are not up to the challenge. Alaska is beautiful, but behind that beauty lies all of the terrible forces that have shaped that land into what it is. But most people cannot see these things.
One of my earliest memories of my father is of him standing in front of his bedroom mirror shirtless, swinging a baseball bat over and over, watching every nuance of his swing. People used to talk of his beautiful, natural swing, but none of them ever saw him work in front of the mirror. They never saw the forces in his life that shaped his love for baseball; the loss of his mother at age 10, a father who could not care for his children. The baseball diamond was where he found love and friendship. It became his father and his mother.
Sometimes we see a person who has a great spirituality and we want what they have. But behind that spirituality often lies a great price; a life of suffering and hardship. I am reminded of Matthew 20 in which Jesus tells James and John that they do not know what they are asking for when they ask to sit at his right hand in his kingdom. He asks them if they are prepared to go through the same things that he will have to go through and they answer, yes. We are able. And Jesus tells them that he cannot grant this, but such places are granted to those that God has prepared.
Our tour guide told us a story about the moose in Alaska. They are attracted to the paved roads because they are smooth and warm. They like to lay down on them and sleep and are soon covered by snow. Cars, traveling along the roads, especially at night, cannot see these huge animals. Many cars have been wrecked and people injured and killed because they were not prepared for what lay ahead.
We are all in search of God, whether we realize it or not. We may look for God in places of comfort, places of great beauty, or places of peace. Warm spots in the road. But maybe God can be found in the simple things of our everyday lives; like watering the garden, or mowing the grass. Maybe the peace and the beauty we are looking for are right here in front of us.
Thursday, July 2, 2015
Monday, May 4, 2015
Quiet Desperation
On Thursday, May 4, 1970 (45 years ago today), I was a Junior in high school sitting in a boring English class, looking out the window when I heard the the teacher ask us if we had heard the news of the Kent State shootings. For the first time, she had my undivided attention.
The image that first ran through my mind was of a lone, crazy gunman shooting at young people. But then Ms. Brown said something incredible. National Guardsmen had fired 67 shots in less than 15 seconds, killing four students and wounding nine more. They were shot protesting the Cambodian bombing. Our own military had fired on and killed our own young people.
I had recently purchased a paperback copy of Henry David Thoreau's book Walden, which also contained his "Essay on Civil Disobedience". It is this essay that inspired Gandhi and Martin Luther King. The book lay on my dresser unread until that day.
After school, I picked the book up and read it from cover to cover. I still have that book on my shelf and it is still an inspiration to me.
In his book, Walden, Thoreau says that the majority of people live a life of quiet desperation. In other words, people want more than they are able to get out of life; they yearn for a higher life. Thoreau believed that inside each person is something greater waiting to escape, but we suppress those inner desires for the heavier expectations that everyday life puts on us. We are afraid to do what it takes to actually make the world a better place. In fact, most people want the world to be better, but they believe that their efforts would not make a difference.
And so, they do nothing, but they still yearn for something more.
In his "Essay on Civil Disobedience", written in 1849, Thoreau wrote about "the majority of one". Here is what he said: "I know this well, that if one thousand; if one hundred; if ten men whom I could name- if ten honest men only- aye, if one HONEST man, in this State of Massachusetts, ceasing to hold slaves, were actually to withdraw from this copartnership, and be locked up in the county jail, it would be the abolition of slavery in America. For it matters not how small the beginning may seem to be: what is once well done is done for ever."
Since that time, I have thought often of that day in English class. It changed me but I wonder how it changed me. And I wonder what I have done to make the world a better place. And I am filled with sense of quiet desperation.
The image that first ran through my mind was of a lone, crazy gunman shooting at young people. But then Ms. Brown said something incredible. National Guardsmen had fired 67 shots in less than 15 seconds, killing four students and wounding nine more. They were shot protesting the Cambodian bombing. Our own military had fired on and killed our own young people.
I had recently purchased a paperback copy of Henry David Thoreau's book Walden, which also contained his "Essay on Civil Disobedience". It is this essay that inspired Gandhi and Martin Luther King. The book lay on my dresser unread until that day.
After school, I picked the book up and read it from cover to cover. I still have that book on my shelf and it is still an inspiration to me.
In his book, Walden, Thoreau says that the majority of people live a life of quiet desperation. In other words, people want more than they are able to get out of life; they yearn for a higher life. Thoreau believed that inside each person is something greater waiting to escape, but we suppress those inner desires for the heavier expectations that everyday life puts on us. We are afraid to do what it takes to actually make the world a better place. In fact, most people want the world to be better, but they believe that their efforts would not make a difference.
And so, they do nothing, but they still yearn for something more.
In his "Essay on Civil Disobedience", written in 1849, Thoreau wrote about "the majority of one". Here is what he said: "I know this well, that if one thousand; if one hundred; if ten men whom I could name- if ten honest men only- aye, if one HONEST man, in this State of Massachusetts, ceasing to hold slaves, were actually to withdraw from this copartnership, and be locked up in the county jail, it would be the abolition of slavery in America. For it matters not how small the beginning may seem to be: what is once well done is done for ever."
Since that time, I have thought often of that day in English class. It changed me but I wonder how it changed me. And I wonder what I have done to make the world a better place. And I am filled with sense of quiet desperation.
Friday, April 17, 2015
One Hot Summer Day
One hot summer day my father was attempting to teach me the basics of hitting a baseball. I was nine years old and I was frustrated. After missing the next pitch I yelled "I can't do it!" and I threw the bat to the ground.
Dad walked up to me, squatted in front of me and held me by the shoulders. He said, "if you want to be a ball player, you have to want to be one in here." and he pointed to my heart.
Then he told me a story that I have never forgotten, one that I remember at the beginning of each baseball season; a story that I think of whenever I am feeling sorry for myself.
When my dad was in the ninth grade he wanted to play for the high school baseball team. The coach told him that he didn't really need any more players and they didn't have any more room on the team bus. But dad persisted and made a deal with the coach. The coach, wanting to get rid of dad, told him that if he could be at the next game in Goldsboro, N. C., he would consider putting dad on the team. The coach didn't really expect dad to show up in Goldsboro (about 47 miles away from Rocky Mount).
But what the coach did not know was that he had made a deal with a ninth grade boy who loved baseball more than life itself. Dad skipped school the day of the game and thumbed to Goldsboro. It rained the last part of the trip, but he made it to the stadium a few minutes ahead of the team bus.
When the bus pulled into the parking lot, there was my father, soaking wet and ready to play, waiting for the coach.
The coach put him on the team.
That hot summer day, as my father squatted in front of me, I received a gift much more precious than baseball. He gave me a part of himself that I will always have. I never really learned to hit a baseball well. I was decent but not the hitter my father was. But I hung in there. I kept trying. And each time the team took the field, there I was, ready to play.
Dad walked up to me, squatted in front of me and held me by the shoulders. He said, "if you want to be a ball player, you have to want to be one in here." and he pointed to my heart.
Then he told me a story that I have never forgotten, one that I remember at the beginning of each baseball season; a story that I think of whenever I am feeling sorry for myself.
When my dad was in the ninth grade he wanted to play for the high school baseball team. The coach told him that he didn't really need any more players and they didn't have any more room on the team bus. But dad persisted and made a deal with the coach. The coach, wanting to get rid of dad, told him that if he could be at the next game in Goldsboro, N. C., he would consider putting dad on the team. The coach didn't really expect dad to show up in Goldsboro (about 47 miles away from Rocky Mount).
But what the coach did not know was that he had made a deal with a ninth grade boy who loved baseball more than life itself. Dad skipped school the day of the game and thumbed to Goldsboro. It rained the last part of the trip, but he made it to the stadium a few minutes ahead of the team bus.
When the bus pulled into the parking lot, there was my father, soaking wet and ready to play, waiting for the coach.
The coach put him on the team.
That hot summer day, as my father squatted in front of me, I received a gift much more precious than baseball. He gave me a part of himself that I will always have. I never really learned to hit a baseball well. I was decent but not the hitter my father was. But I hung in there. I kept trying. And each time the team took the field, there I was, ready to play.
Friday, January 9, 2015
Buddha Never Drove a Car
After meditating for weeks under a bodhi tree, the Buddha taught that
1. Life means suffering
2. The origin of suffering is attachment
3. The cessation of suffering is attainable
4. The path to the cessation of suffering is the eightfold path
I agree that the origin of much of our suffering is attachment. But I am not sure that the cessation of suffering is attainable, especially if you are one of the 1+billion people who drive a car.
I once owned an olive green 1970 American Motors Hornet. It was my first car. I bought it after my senior year at Appalachian State for $800 using college graduation money my parents gave me and a loan. I drove it to and from the mountains during graduate school. It was the car that Melanie (my wife) and I drove away from the church on our wedding day and during our first year of marriage.
But, I never loved that car. I was never attached to it. Yet, I suffered.
It had windshield wipers that wiped the windshield based on the speed of the car. So, in a drenching downpour or a blizzard, I would have to drive 55 miles per hour in order for the wipers to keep pace with the storm.
It had an alternator that constantly lost its connection to the battery and to this day I have nightmares of a red alternator light glowing in the dark on a lone deserted road.
It did not have air conditioning and it was designed in such a way that the heat from the engine would blow directly into the car if the windows were rolled down. So, in the summer, you were actually better off with the windows rolled up.
The defroster had a mind of its own and would decide to work only after I had driven up interstate 77 with my head hanging out of the window on those cold, frosty winter mornings of January 1977 (the coldest winter in 100 years) on my way to work.
When I sold that car to a wheeling, dealing, car dealer (famous for his "We're Dealing!" slogan) for $200, I felt that I had received the better deal. And I never turned to look back at it on my way home.
So, in a way the Buddha was right. Unattaching myself from that car ended a lot of suffering.
Since that time, I have owned other cars.
A Chevette that suddenly lost all power (especially on interstate highways) and no mechanic on earth could find the reason.
A Cutlass whose paint slowly started developing spots that grew larger and larger. The week after I had it repainted, it was wrecked beyond repair.
A Buick whose check engine light glowed and glowed and glowed; aggravating me nearly to insanity. Then, the horn began to blow on its own, for no reason, especially in rush hour traffic, making the check engine light seem like a minor problem.
And the list goes on.
If the Buddha had driven a car, maybe he would not have had to meditate so long under the bodhi tree to discover the origin of suffering.
1. Life means suffering
2. The origin of suffering is attachment
3. The cessation of suffering is attainable
4. The path to the cessation of suffering is the eightfold path
I agree that the origin of much of our suffering is attachment. But I am not sure that the cessation of suffering is attainable, especially if you are one of the 1+billion people who drive a car.
I once owned an olive green 1970 American Motors Hornet. It was my first car. I bought it after my senior year at Appalachian State for $800 using college graduation money my parents gave me and a loan. I drove it to and from the mountains during graduate school. It was the car that Melanie (my wife) and I drove away from the church on our wedding day and during our first year of marriage.
But, I never loved that car. I was never attached to it. Yet, I suffered.
It had windshield wipers that wiped the windshield based on the speed of the car. So, in a drenching downpour or a blizzard, I would have to drive 55 miles per hour in order for the wipers to keep pace with the storm.
It had an alternator that constantly lost its connection to the battery and to this day I have nightmares of a red alternator light glowing in the dark on a lone deserted road.
It did not have air conditioning and it was designed in such a way that the heat from the engine would blow directly into the car if the windows were rolled down. So, in the summer, you were actually better off with the windows rolled up.
The defroster had a mind of its own and would decide to work only after I had driven up interstate 77 with my head hanging out of the window on those cold, frosty winter mornings of January 1977 (the coldest winter in 100 years) on my way to work.
When I sold that car to a wheeling, dealing, car dealer (famous for his "We're Dealing!" slogan) for $200, I felt that I had received the better deal. And I never turned to look back at it on my way home.
So, in a way the Buddha was right. Unattaching myself from that car ended a lot of suffering.
Since that time, I have owned other cars.
A Chevette that suddenly lost all power (especially on interstate highways) and no mechanic on earth could find the reason.
A Cutlass whose paint slowly started developing spots that grew larger and larger. The week after I had it repainted, it was wrecked beyond repair.
A Buick whose check engine light glowed and glowed and glowed; aggravating me nearly to insanity. Then, the horn began to blow on its own, for no reason, especially in rush hour traffic, making the check engine light seem like a minor problem.
And the list goes on.
If the Buddha had driven a car, maybe he would not have had to meditate so long under the bodhi tree to discover the origin of suffering.
Thursday, January 1, 2015
The Doll
I am 61 years old, and it never ceases to amaze me when I learn something new about my parents; something I had never heard before. And this past Christmas my mother shared a new story with me.
My wife and I were standing in her bedroom talking to her when I noticed a doll on a stand on a table near her dresser. I could tell it was an older doll with long braided hair and a "Gone with the Wind" look about the way it was dressed.
"That doll looks like Scarlet O'Hara." I said.
"You've seen her before," said my mother, "haven't you?
I could not remember seeing this doll.
"This is my doll." she said. "She didn't always look like this. I have had to replace her hair and her dress."
"How old were you when you got her?"
"Oh, I've told you all this before, haven't I?"
"No." I said.
So, she told me this story:
Mom was raised on a farm during the depression, where work was long and times were hard and there was always a baby in the cradle. The women worked in the kitchen and the house all day while the men were in the fields from sunrise to sundown. Money was tight, so clothes and gifts were almost always hand-me-downs and homemade. Her mother and father cut corners wherever possible. A lot of hard choices had to be made.
She was nine years old when her father came to her and said, "Mavis, your mother tells me that you don't believe in Santa Clause any more. Is that right?"
She stood, not knowing what to say.
"Well," said her father, "I guess that is my answer." You know that when you stop believing in Santa, Santa stops coming to see you. So, don't expect anything this Christmas."
"But Daddy," she cried after him as he walked away, "I'll believe. Let me have just one more Christmas." Her father kept walking as she ran after him, "I'll believe, I'll believe". Suddenly he turned and looked down at her.
"Ok", he said. "I'll give you some money and you and Virginia (her older sister) can walk to town and buy your own gift. But this is your last Santa Clause".
The next morning was cold and gray as mom and Virginia walked the 3 miles to downtown and peered in the store windows, looking for her last gift from Santa. They looked and they looked and finally they came to a store window filled with dolls.
"All of the dolls were so beautiful." said my mother. "But there was one doll that had fallen over onto her face. She was laying there, like she was crying while all the other dolls looked out of the window smiling. And it felt like this doll was feeling what I was feeling. And even though I could not see her face, I knew I had to have that doll."
She went into the store and pointed the doll out to the person behind the counter. The money her father had given her was almost exactly the cost of the doll.
And as she and Virginia walked home that day, my mother held that doll close to her; a child holding on tight to the magic of Christmas. And the cold of the day seemed to disappear.
My wife and I were standing in her bedroom talking to her when I noticed a doll on a stand on a table near her dresser. I could tell it was an older doll with long braided hair and a "Gone with the Wind" look about the way it was dressed.
"That doll looks like Scarlet O'Hara." I said.
"You've seen her before," said my mother, "haven't you?
I could not remember seeing this doll.
"This is my doll." she said. "She didn't always look like this. I have had to replace her hair and her dress."
"How old were you when you got her?"
"Oh, I've told you all this before, haven't I?"
"No." I said.
So, she told me this story:
Mom was raised on a farm during the depression, where work was long and times were hard and there was always a baby in the cradle. The women worked in the kitchen and the house all day while the men were in the fields from sunrise to sundown. Money was tight, so clothes and gifts were almost always hand-me-downs and homemade. Her mother and father cut corners wherever possible. A lot of hard choices had to be made.
She was nine years old when her father came to her and said, "Mavis, your mother tells me that you don't believe in Santa Clause any more. Is that right?"
She stood, not knowing what to say.
"Well," said her father, "I guess that is my answer." You know that when you stop believing in Santa, Santa stops coming to see you. So, don't expect anything this Christmas."
"But Daddy," she cried after him as he walked away, "I'll believe. Let me have just one more Christmas." Her father kept walking as she ran after him, "I'll believe, I'll believe". Suddenly he turned and looked down at her.
"Ok", he said. "I'll give you some money and you and Virginia (her older sister) can walk to town and buy your own gift. But this is your last Santa Clause".
The next morning was cold and gray as mom and Virginia walked the 3 miles to downtown and peered in the store windows, looking for her last gift from Santa. They looked and they looked and finally they came to a store window filled with dolls.
"All of the dolls were so beautiful." said my mother. "But there was one doll that had fallen over onto her face. She was laying there, like she was crying while all the other dolls looked out of the window smiling. And it felt like this doll was feeling what I was feeling. And even though I could not see her face, I knew I had to have that doll."
She went into the store and pointed the doll out to the person behind the counter. The money her father had given her was almost exactly the cost of the doll.
And as she and Virginia walked home that day, my mother held that doll close to her; a child holding on tight to the magic of Christmas. And the cold of the day seemed to disappear.
Saturday, November 22, 2014
Things Change
My favorite coffee shop no longer exists. I was a regular visitor at lunch. I would order a large coffee and maybe something light to eat, sit at one of the many tables and write or read for 45 minutes before returning to the office. The coffee shop was my retreat from the problems and issues of my day; a place I could go to find a moment of quiet and rest.
It closed with no warning or advance notification. As I parked my car and walked to the door, I noticed a typed message taped to the window. "Thank you for the many years..." And that was it. I still drive by sometimes at lunch, hoping someone else has opened a coffee shop in that spot. But it has not yet happened.
It is funny, but I never thought of that coffee shop in terms of it being a temporary thing- there for a few years then gone. I just thought that it would always be there. I don't know why I thought of it that way. Certainly in my experience I know that nothing lasts forever. But I never imagined that one day I would walk up to its doors and they would be locked and it would be dark inside.
This is how it is with us and our lives and the lives of those around us. We know intellectually that no one stays young forever yet we refuse to consider life without them. When my youngest child left home for college, the first night he was gone the house seemed oddly quiet and empty. He normally went to bed later than my wife and I did, and I would lie in bed listening to him typing something to his late night friends or hear the TV show he was watching. Sometimes I would hear him laugh at something.
When those sounds were gone, I felt an emptiness inside I had never felt. For all those years that he was home, I had taken those sounds for granted. And now, sitting up in bed, propped against my pillow, I felt the heavy darkness surrounding me. I would have given anything to hear those sounds for just one more night. I had never considered life without the sound of children in the house. I woke my wife from her sleep to try to explain how I was feeling but I could not put it into words. I could only ask, "Is this how it is going to be now?"
The fact that something changes- and changes forever- changes you forever. And you are never the same. And life is different.
I am now sitting in a poor substitute coffee shop with tile floors, yearning for the old chairs, the wooden creaking floors, the smell of coffee filling every aspect of it. Maybe one day I will find something that will fill the void. But I doubt it.
It closed with no warning or advance notification. As I parked my car and walked to the door, I noticed a typed message taped to the window. "Thank you for the many years..." And that was it. I still drive by sometimes at lunch, hoping someone else has opened a coffee shop in that spot. But it has not yet happened.
It is funny, but I never thought of that coffee shop in terms of it being a temporary thing- there for a few years then gone. I just thought that it would always be there. I don't know why I thought of it that way. Certainly in my experience I know that nothing lasts forever. But I never imagined that one day I would walk up to its doors and they would be locked and it would be dark inside.
This is how it is with us and our lives and the lives of those around us. We know intellectually that no one stays young forever yet we refuse to consider life without them. When my youngest child left home for college, the first night he was gone the house seemed oddly quiet and empty. He normally went to bed later than my wife and I did, and I would lie in bed listening to him typing something to his late night friends or hear the TV show he was watching. Sometimes I would hear him laugh at something.
When those sounds were gone, I felt an emptiness inside I had never felt. For all those years that he was home, I had taken those sounds for granted. And now, sitting up in bed, propped against my pillow, I felt the heavy darkness surrounding me. I would have given anything to hear those sounds for just one more night. I had never considered life without the sound of children in the house. I woke my wife from her sleep to try to explain how I was feeling but I could not put it into words. I could only ask, "Is this how it is going to be now?"
The fact that something changes- and changes forever- changes you forever. And you are never the same. And life is different.
I am now sitting in a poor substitute coffee shop with tile floors, yearning for the old chairs, the wooden creaking floors, the smell of coffee filling every aspect of it. Maybe one day I will find something that will fill the void. But I doubt it.
Tuesday, October 28, 2014
A Never Ending Love
I am sitting in a waiting room of a large hospital in the Oncology Radiation Department while my wife receives a treatment for an acoustic neuroma; a benign tumor that is growing on the acoustic nerve between her ear and her brain. This tumor threatens her hearing in her left ear and could cause trouble with the nerves on the left side of her face. Doctors are treating the tumor with a procedure called the gamma knife, in which they will focus a highly concentrated beam of gamma radiation onto the tumor in hopes that it's growth will be arrested. In order to do this, doctors have to attach a metal contraption called a halo to Mealnie's head, using screws and screw drivers.
All this is going on now, while I sit here and type this. They will not let me be with her. They told me that she is in good hands; that she will be well cared for. But no one will be with her who loves her and who knows her; no one who can comfort her the way that I can.
Last night, in our hotel room near the hospital, Melanie and I watched a movie called "the Notebook". It is a movie about a never ending love between two people; a love that overcame and survived all obstacles that the world put in its path; a love whose light shone just as bright at the end of their lives as in the beginning.
And that is why two people who love each other and have spent almost 38 years together; who have shared over half of their lives together; the good and the bad; the easy and the hard; should not be separated during a time like this. I feel as if I have deserted her. I am supposed to be with her and I am not.
There is a moment in the past that keeps running through my head as I sit here. I was in Melanie's dorm room to pick her up to go out. She grabbed her hair brush and stood in front of her mirror brushing her waist length black hair. She took my breath away in that moment, and I stared at her trying to memorize every detail of her so I would never forget her as she was that night.
But, as it turned out, I did not need to do that. There have been many more moments in which she has taken my breath away. And this morning, as I watched her walk down that hallway with the nurse, was one of them.
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