Somebody touched me...

“Touch has a memory.” 

– John Keats

He was a small man in a well-worn brown suit, sitting alone in a circular waiting room.  He had been glancing at the book in his hand, then gazing to some distant place…returning to the book again.

The Big Easy…

I had been in New Orleans for a three-day training program at one of the local downtown hospitals.  Rather than staying in the city, the hotel was in Metairie twenty minutes or so away.  While things are coming back – other than the downtown tourist areas – most everywhere else in the city is still undergoing substantial rehabilitation. 

Folks often think traveling to these kinds of places is exciting and in some cases sort of exotic.  For the less traveled, let me explain.  It goes like this: Up and at it for breakfast around 6:30AM.  Work through the day…finish up after dark…eat dinner somewhere in the late 7PM to early 8PM hours, finishing an hour or so later.  That leaves a little time to read and tuck in to start the cycle once again.  It is incredibly exotic!!

The event…

We were waiting for security to open a small conference room, where the morning would be spent team-teaching a course on the management of chronic back and neck pain.  In the 10 minutes or so during ‘the wait,’ I watched this fellow repeat the cycle of eye to book…eye to some distant place…eye back to the book.  He read a few words and appeared to think a little about what he had read.

The guard came and as we started toward the room, I walked by the fellow and noted he was in the scriptures – he was ‘…redeeming his time…’ while waiting for a doctor’s appointment.

As I passed he looked up and our eyes briefly met.  “What book are you reading?” I asked.  He looked a bit startled, refocusing his eyes, “Luke Chapter 8.”  He replied.  “What’s it saying?” I followed. 

In a halting rhythmic rich Haitian/English – the French accent oozing compellingly from his tongue – he began to recite the story of the woman who had had an issue of blood for 12 years and could find no relief.  She believed if she touched Christ’s garment she would be healed…so she did and the scripture says she was healed.

Just then, the man was called for his appointment and he stood.  I said to him, “Do you know what the next few scriptures say?”  He shook his head no. “Not yet.”

I replied, “Christ says, 'Somebody touched me.'” To which his disciples replied, that he was in a crowd with many people touching him.  Christ responded, “Somebody touched ME,” for he had felt virtue come out of him. 

It was not a handshake…it was not a pat on the back…it was an intimate connection to his spiritual body…a transfer of spirit understood by every parent who calms an upset child through the touch of their hand, a look of safety as their eyes connect, or the warmth of the bond when holding one another.

In that instant and interchange, the universe stopped for the two of us.  We looked into each other’s eyes for the briefest of moments…excellent moments…a common and transcendent bridge of communication.  In that ever so fleeting connection...there was no time.

We shook hands smiled, nodded in acknowledgment and off we went to our respective days.

It was good…

My life seems to be filled with little moments like this.  I suppose, in some ways, I look for them.  I sometimes think maybe it is because God knows how frail I am and that I need them…need them to be reinforced that there 'is' meaning…to appreciate the interconnectedness of the human spirit…to be reminded in spite of being bombarded with negativity, separation, and self-interest, we are all part of the same tapestry of humanity.

There is so much I don’t know…so much I do not understand…so much that escapes my sense of life.  Stepping away, in an attempt to gather significance from the big picture often overwhelms me.

But then…then I see a small man sitting on the edge of a circular waiting room, glancing at the book in his hand, gazing to some distant place.  We exchange a few words from a text we have in common, and we find a ‘place.’

It doesn’t matter we will never see one another again…it doesn’t matter we know nothing about each other’s lives…nothing matters really except this…

He touched ‘Me!’

- ted

Babies and bathwater...

“Can’t we all just get along?”

– Rodney King

I recall her saying, “If it’s written on an outhouse wall, and it’s the truth, then consider it.”

I spent thirty years in a spiritual community in rural Missouri. I haven’t written much about those years in that community, because I suppose (surprisingly), I haven't been inspired to write or say much.

There were two people in leadership positions when I arrived in 1975. A woman named Theora and a man we called Brother Eddie. It was a small group of people living on an acre of land a few miles west of Moberly. At the time, I had just finished the first year of doctoral work in Columbia.

Growing up in a minister’s home was an interesting and profitable experience. My father and mother believed God to be benevolent and loving. I was taught that the scriptures were intended help one grow spiritually. They were taught in the context of love and edification. As a result, I had a strong affection for them.

After leaving home, I came to appreciate, in the broadest of brush strokes, that my experience was fairly unique.  I discovered that while most churches taught the love of God; they also taught that being unfaithful to Him would bring severe punishment – one I could not fathom. Damnation for eternity!

In the years, after leaving home as a teenager, I visited many churches and listened to many teachings.  I suppose like most who are seeking to understand, it was confusing to hear so many variations of ideas. In particular, because they were expressed with assurance and a sense of authority that echoed each one's singular belief that theirs was the only path to eternal life. Occasionally, I pointed out that a person existing forever in a burning hell seemed to be a kind of an eternal life. Questions like that were often part of the reason I found myself generally unwelcome.

Over time, I came to believe there were basically two types of churches. Those in which the scriptures were read, but not richly taught. This was not satisfactory for me because I hungered for more understanding. The other were churches that knew and taught the scriptures in depth, but used them as tools for control, filling parishioners with fear and guilt – a total turn-off for me.

And so I pressed forward, spending time in places that varied from free-standing, spirit filled local congregations, to monolithic groups such as Mormons and Jehovah's Witnesses. All of them teaching they had the insight to eternity setting them apart from the great unwashed who had, as yet, not accepted their belief systems.

Eventually, I gave up the quest for scriptural understanding, holding on to the 'island of belief' that the God of the universe was more interested in unity than disparity and failure. Whipping the beast into submission; however, heavy-handed or subtly, was much more detrimental than encouraging growth into the unique spiritual creature I so desired to become (if such were possible). It seemed to me that one does not love something (-one), by fearing it (them). This led to jettisoning it all and moving on. 

I would try to live a good life, work hard, be kind to people and do the best I could.  

But wait, there’s more…
As fate would have it, after having made that conscious decision, I heard of a small  spiritual community, called The Word Church. A fellow I met encouraged me to check the place out. In truth, I was not particularly interested, but as has been the case for most of my life, curiosity overcame disinterest, and I found myself visiting the place…a visit that changed the course of my life forever.

As it turned out, these people were a Bible teaching ministry. They taught the scriptures, one-on-one, verse-by-verse, weaving a slow but deliberate fabric of Old and New Testament into the minds of those who chose to study with them.  

I was interested but wary. 

After several church services, I asked the woman whether I might study with them for a couple of years until I finished school. She said, yes, but there was an agreement I would need to make. Here it came – the hook! There was always a hook!

I shut my mind down but listened. "You will need to commit to studying four books of the New Testament with an assigned teacher, before making a decision to continue studying with us,” she said.

She explained, teaching the scriptures in the way they did, took time and resources. One would need to ‘kick the tires’ to know what it took to do this. If after four books, there was still the interest, fine. If not, no harm-no foul. There would be no pressure to continue. The cost? Nothing for the first four books, and if the decision were made to go on, there would still be no financial obligation.

Those two years turned into thirty and provided a foundation of thought, opening my mind to understanding and possibilities I had never imagined. When studying anything that intimately, it becomes a part of the tapestry of your mind. It is not just learning a few verses on a particular subject to be pulled into the argument when defending the faith. Rather, it becomes a living body of knowledge that guides and leads to transcendent growth.

In 2005, the organization began to disassemble. Brother Eddie resigned. He had created no infrastructure of succession, and while there are still remnants, the ‘light’ of the work dimmed. But for me, there was and has been no diminishing.

Alive and well…

I cannot speak for others who participated in this life experiment with The Word Church. For me, it provided an alphabet of spiritual thought that grew into sentences, then paragraphs, and by now a part of the narrative of who I am.

That spiritual community furnished a foundation that permitted me to read thinkers of Eastern and Western philosophy through the lens of spiritual curiosity. It encouraged me to ask questions, and listen to what others thought. Rather than spiritual and structural confinement, it cultivated an openness to pursue that elusive seductress – truth…no matter how it comes.

This brings me back to the quote that started this piece, “If it’s written on an outhouse wall, and it’s the truth, then consider it.”

In spite of this multi-decade quest, I am not certain what spiritual truth precisely is. I have heard and read things in the most unexpected places that have moved my life forward in positive ways…many of which I did not necessarily get in church - most notably tolerance for other people's beliefs. 

Christ said if we knew the truth, it would make us free. By that standard and the extent to which I have learned principles that have made my life freer – I can say this:

- We were made to edify and help one another – no strings

- Whenever possible be kind

- Finding passion leads to purpose
- One receives more in the giving than in the getting

- Accept the sanctity and respect of another’s belief

- Whatever makes someone a better person is profitable to all

- justice for one is justice for all, and injustice for one is injustice for all

It seems like it has taken a long time and a lot of study to come to appreciate the simple ideas my mother taught me as a child – love God with all your heart, and your neighbor as yourself. She was right, you know.

It HAS taken time to grow these seeds planted by those loving hands. It HAS taken time to weave them from simple expressions, into the living tapestry of my life.

Time...I hope there is enough.

- ted

It's that memory thing...

“Every event, every word, every sight, every sound –

each of them is stored somewhere in the

hard drives of our minds, or somewhere

in a 'cosmic cloud,’ ready to return

to consciousness at the most

unexpected moments.”

– Anonymous

Living in the hills of West Virginia as a boy was a wonder.  In the winters, when the snow fell, it would sometimes come in huge flakes carpeting the ground in perfect whiteness, creating a silence as still as outer space itself. Walking anywhere on one of those nights was magical. In particular walking toward, under the light of, and away from the infrequent streetlights that adorned the quiet street where I lived.

Our home was across the road from Fairmont Senior High School.  “Across the road…” meaning our street split with one-half going down a gentle slope to the high school, and the other half mildly uphill passing in front of our house. This made the distance from the school some fifty feet horizontally, and thirty feet vertically. The campus was so close that even my older sister Anne, could have hit the building with a snowball from our front yard.

Anne plays a central part in this brief remembrance…well partly so. Two years older than me, she had a small cadre of girlfriends, all of whom from a young boy's perspective were kind of cute. My crushes varied from girl to girl depending on which one of them paid me any attention or even gave me a smile.

In the winter of my eleventh year, Mykie W. was the momentary focus of my affections.

The high school grounds were built in the midst of a series of small rolling hills, just perfect for sled riding. Something we could do at the drop of a hat, because of the closeness of the campus. My sisters and I would sled double from time to time, but mostly it was with my younger sister Nancy. We rode top to bottom. Because I was the heavier of the two, I would take the bottom, and she would climb on top. It was just the way we did it. In retrospect, I think the girls liked it this way because I was the one who generally carried the sled back up the hill.

This brings me to one of my earliest and lasting humiliations. I shall remind the reader that Mykie was at the time, the object of my young heart’s affection.

I am uncertain how this happened, but a few of Anne’s girlfriends were at our home one winter’s eve and decided to go sled riding. As I passed through the living room, Mykie shot me a smile and asked if I would like to come along. BE STILL MY HEART. I casually said, "sure," and out we all went. I have little doubt the brightness of Rudolf's nose could not have matched the blushing color of my skin.

After a couple of rounds down the hill and trudging back up, Mykie asked if I would like to ride double – ARE YOU KIDDING ME?? From there, it was all downhill, which had nothing to do with the sleds. I said, with only my sisters' experience under my belt, "Do you want top or bottom?" As I recall, she said with the chill of that cold winter's air, "You sit up front; I’ll ride in the back.” We rode down that hill, and she rode out of my heart. As the writer, Brooks Landon once said, "Against the iceberg of her smile, I sailed the Titanic of my hope…."

If Mykie were asked about this event, I doubt she would have any remembrance. You see, it wasn't she who had the crush on me. She was just thoughtful toward her girlfriend's little brother. I, on the other hand, could have taken off my heavy winter coat, gloves, and scarf, and still been overheated by the embarrassment of realizing my level of sophistication was only outdone by youthful enthusiasm and ignorance.

I now live in the Sonoran Desert of Arizona amidst the wildlife and Saguaro (suh-war'-oh) Cacti. BUT as I sit in the darkness of my backyard on clear and brightly lit starry nights, I can close my eyes and feel the beauty of those cold, snowy West Virginia winters, and the warmth of Mykie W’s smile.

- ted

Unseen yet present...

“A man’s true wealth hereafter is the good he

does in the world to his fellow man. People

will say when he dies, what property has

he left behind him? The angels will ask,

‘What good deeds has he sent

before him?’”

- Mohammed

Prelude…

Chuck departed this earth on September 2^nd in the year of our Lord, twenty sixteen. We were neighbors and met from time to time, but aside from his outgoing and enthusiastic personality, we did not know each other well. He had a good life, a productive life, and in the end was taken with merciful quickness from the ravages of cancer…in his home…his faithful wife and family with him.

A collective goodbye…

They entered the sanctuary from the right side, those twenty-one musical instruments. They came single file in the most ordinary looking shapes and sizes. None of them appeared particularly remarkable.

Most looked well used by those souls who played them.  After some brief words by the minister officiating the memorial service, his son stepped in front of the musicians and turned his back to those of us assembled. Pointing to the pianist, and nodding to those he would direct, they stood. He looked at them, they to him. Lifting his arms, they began to play and share the precious gifts God had so mindfully placed within them. The instruments? Their voices. They opened their mouths, took a collective breath and began to sing.

These mostly middle-aged singers came to say farewell to the man who had encouraged, cajoled and disciplined them over decades of love and phrasing and expression, sharing the special gift he had been given…a teacher and mentor. His spirit helped untold numbers of young people look into the fields of their minds to find what he knew was there. He prospected for gold, and he found it.

Chuck touched many students through his love for music, giving them voice to places inside themselves they had not known existed. He taught them to sing, not just to perform, but to come alive, first within themselves and then to those that heard them.  He understood the scripture that it is better to give than to receive because he understood its paradox. If one truly gives of themselves, they cannot help but receive…a double blessing.

There is something about music that touches our souls in ways that we cannot describe. It is a compelling force that transcends culture and language and politics and religion and every other thing I can think of.  It builds bridges between us that little else can accomplish. It is a force that dives deeply into our souls and evokes feelings we do not have words to express.

This is embodied in the parable of the three servants, all of whom were give a certain amount of talents (money) by their master. One was given ten, another five and a third, one. The master then went on a long journey, and upon returning went to see them.

The servant given ten had doubled the investment to twenty. The servant given five had increased his to ten. BUT the servant, who had been given one, buried it in the ground in fear of losing what he had been given.  The master rewarded the two that had worked to increase the value of their gifts, but the servant who did nothing was sent away.

The point of this story is that when given gifts, they are intended to be grown. They will not do so without action. Often, however, people need help and guidance to find the talent hidden in the fields of their minds. That requires a teacher, a mentor also gifted as he or she searches for the buried treasure.

As it turns out, my neighbor Chuck was one of those willing servants whose gift was to help others find theirs. While I did not know him well, I knew him much better by the end of the memorial service I was honored to attend. The choir was students from different choruses he had led over the decades. Men and women, nondescript in appearance, filled the room with tightly woven harmonies. It wasn’t just that, but they sang with passion and love in honor of a man who had literally changed their lives.

And so this group of former choral students came to say goodbye to their friend and mentor in the way they knew best. They sang. The sanctuary was filled with classical, gospel, and popular evangelical music…soaring and soul touching. It was an open demonstration to all in attendance and to ‘their master’ that his investment had not been in vain.

I wept as they sang, feeling the richness of their faith and love. The investment Chuck made in the lives of these people was as evident as a shooting star in the heavens, streaking brilliantly across the sky. His faithfully exercised gift planted so diligently from his garden into theirs had brought forth fruit radiant from his labor.  The pebble dropped into the pool of their minds growing in ever expanding concentric circles into the universe.

I walked away from the memorial service feeling privileged to have felt the results of the work to which this man dedicated his life. Those to whom he gave, responded in kind, and while Chuck has shed this mortal coil, his gift remains alive to touch others hearts as it did mine.

- ted

The gently closing door...

“Time is a sort of river of passing events,

and strong is its current; no sooner is a

thing brought into sight than it is swept

by and another takes its place, and this

too will be swept away.”

– Marcus Aurelius

“I won’t be able to come this year for Thanksgiving. As I get older, traveling during the holidays becomes more and more stressful….” Michael, Molly’s brother, wrote.

This could be any member of anyone’s family as we live disparate lives in vastly different geographical locations. I am not certain this is only an American phenomenon, but surely because of our mobile society and vast country size, visiting with family is more than simply heading across town or making a half-day drive to see the people we love…

There was a time in this country when most people lived their lives in relatively close proximity to one another. The U.S., however, is large and as the transportation infrastructure and communication capability increased, families dispersed, and regular interaction became greatly reduced. What had been the exception (living away from family) has become the norm.

Our family, for example, is mostly on the East Coast.  Molly’s older brother lives in Tusla, Oklahoma, about a thousand miles away. That would put him a little more than half-way to Philadelphia, where her younger brother lives. My sister, nephews and nieces all reside in Washington and Baltimore respectively.

Both Molly’s and my parents are gone, and we have no children – apologies to Leah, Hannah, and Sarah, the girls with whom we cohabit. Even they are in their geriatric feline years.

The thing is that the folk of our families are all busy with their lives. The river is running faster for them than it is for us. Things on our end of life have slowed and are less complicated.

I remember those years when I returned from college or military service or work to be with family. I always looked forward to it, because it was a reuniting with people with whom I had long relationships. After all, mothers and dads and sisters had known me all of my life. The roots were deep. There is something comforting about interacting with someone who knows you well…seen you mature, and loved you anyway. In many ways, it was a touchstone for continuity.

Except for my older sister, all of that is gone now. While I have NO DOUBT, the one-generation downstream loves me, in many ways they do not know me. I suppose this is one of the reasons I write on a weekly basis. I am uncertain all of them read these musings, but they do provide a certain insight into the things that make life meaningful to me.

My nieces and nephews came along after I was already a semi-adult, not knowing me in the early years the way my nuclear family did. The closest would be my younger sister’s daughter, who lived with us from her birth to high school and had extremely frequent contact. Even she, however, arrived when I was in my thirties, when I, as she is now, was much busier in life. And, yet these gentle people know me the best, and have connections not shared by others.

While my older sister survives, her life path matured much faster than mine. I was still in college, trying to sort out whether life had any meaning when she was off, married with children and on a life of her own. It’s not that we don’t love one another, we surely do, but she was/is driven, finding a pathway early in life to which she steadfastly committed. The result? She has raised a great family and influenced hundreds of young people, injecting them with a passion for music and performance. Dedication to anything is by its very nature life consuming. The addition of children requires superhuman capacity. She has both. For us to see one another over the years, by the nature of her schedule, has meant a trip to the east.

As time drifts by, it is less likely that we will find ourselves leaving the warmth of the desert for a few days in the winters of the east. Even now, the realization I have much less time left than I have lived carries weight. It is also evident that the speed with which our families live (and I once lived) makes the possibilities of them coming west even less likely.

As I sit behind this keyboard, I feel a mild sense of melancholy, wrestling with the realization that life continues to contract. The note from Molly’s brother is another marker along the trail.

On the other hand, at least in the ‘glass half-full' mentality, I continue to subscribe to, I do not intend to go quietly into the night. I'll be in Asia and Europe in November, and then home for a quiet Thanksgiving with Molly and the girls. By early December, I should have recovered enough to point my mind toward those I have known the longest and deeply love.

My intent? While I can still manage it, do my best to head east this winter briefly to visit the snow zoo* and touch the stone of those folk who, in spite of knowing me for all these years, still love me.

- ted

* Snow Zoo: The place you visit for a few short days to get the flavor of an environment alien to your way of life – then returning home.