Someone was at the door...

One should seek wisdom…

better yet – understanding

Proverbs 4:7, Bible

The sign on the front door says, “NO SOLICITATION.”

The knocking persisted anyway.  As I headed to the living room to see who was there, I wondered whether person might be Hispanic and unable to read the sign.

There they were…a woman and a young girl – a diminutive eight (8) year old in a plain dress and shoulder length light brown hair.

“I’m sorry, we take no solicitations.”  The woman, yet unnamed, replied, “Well, we are not selling anything. We just wanted to give you this.”  And with that, she held out a nicely printed religious tract suggesting I might find answers to some deeper truths. 

Another day, another time…

As I looked at the Jehovah’s Witness marketing piece, I was immediately taken back to a small trailer outside of Fort Rucker, Alabama where I spent the last year in military service.  It was the fall of 1970 and the ‘Witnesses’ were preparing for the end of the world in 1975.  The young man had been coming to my trailer for a couple of weeks, but on this particular day brought one of the elders to answer the questions he knew would ‘seal the deal’ for his proselyte quota.  The impending ‘world’s end’ had fed the intensity of the work. 

In the early 70s, ‘Witnesses’ numbers were growing and their efforts (always impressive) were at full steam.  It wasn’t, of course, the first time. Their leadership unsuccessfully forecast the coming of Christ in 1874…then later 1914 followed by some of the prophets in 1925. There had been other bold prophetic expressions over the years…too numerous to list here – background noise…all background noise.

Who are these people?

These gentle folk are so often treated rudely, and with discomfort by folk on the receiving end of ‘cold calls’ that friendliness, curiosity and courtesy is often mistakenly interpreted as potential ‘fish for the net’ of the Kingdom – their Kingdom, of course.  I looked at the brochure and chatted a little with, ah…well, I needed to ask.  

“I’m sorry for being impolite, what are your names?  My name is Ted.”  “Karen and my daughter is Harper,” she replied.  “Harper?” I said to the young girl. “Why, that is an interesting name.  Have you heard of Harper Lee, the author of ‘To Kill a Mockingbird’?” If Harper’s smile could have gotten any wider, it would have swallowed up the day!  “I was named for her, and mom has a signed copy of the book she is going to give to me when I am older.”  There are few things in life I enjoy more than connecting with children…yes sir, I hit a home run there! 

We had a pleasant conversation – the three of us.  I posed a question of two that gave Karen pause.  I squatted down so Harper and I could see each other eye to eye. I told her I was impressed she was brave to come with her mother and encouraged her faith.  I gave her, my familiar (at least to me) child version of making sure she studied hard in school.  I said I was confidant God had a plan for her life and only she would know what that was. 

Karen, not able to answer the questions, indicated she would be back with the answers.  Maybe so…maybe not, but next time it would NOT be in the company of Harper.  I had my chance with Ms. Harper and it was good!

As we said good-bye, I was again transported to another place and another time. 

Memory banks part deux…

It had once been a rural roadside tavern called the ‘Ace of Spades,’ on Route JJ, just off State Highway 24, a few miles west of Moberly, Missouri – founded in the late 1860s, nicknamed the ‘Magic City’ for it rapid growth as a railroad center.  That had been then…by the time I arrived, and for the next three decades of my life, it was a rural community with a little industry, and relatively stagnant growth.

Somewhere in the 1960s, an itinerate minister set up a satellite church in this converted tavern with a small number of folk.  In a short period of time, he met a woman, who would change his life and be the most curious human being I ever met.  She had a spiritual conversion and in the end the minister found himself captured by her.  It wasn’t a personal relationship, but she saw things others didn’t; she felt things others could not; she understood things so far beyond her ‘no education…lower class…rough and tumble…’ background, that it defied the rational mind.  Heck, she defied the irrational mind!!

This fellow knew the scripture better than anyone I have ever met before or since. The woman did not know the Bible, but she seemed to know things…things that resonated with his scriptural knowledge.  Between the two of them, a union of purpose developed and for the next few years, aside from eating and sleeping they worked unrelentingly developing Bible teaching curriculum. 

I had always wanted to know the scripture, but for the seeker, there are obstacles.  If one takes the academic route, one does not, with little exception, find real passion of faith.  If one goes the route of evangelical fundamentalism, one becomes entangled in ideology of the denomination/sect, and loaded down with judgment of others and personal guilt from the burden of one’s sinful nature!! My parents had rejected ‘…guilting…’ us into submission…I wasn’t looking for that!

In 1974, in the midst of my doctoral program, I became involved with this Bible teaching ministry…become involved would be an understatement.  Other than professional work, my life was completely consumed by this work.  It appealed to me because it focused on teaching the scripture and working to resolve one’s personal life issues. The scriptures were taught as spiritual weapons to fight a spiritual warfare, not with others, but within our own minds.  Acceptance of the principle that we are all in some degree or another ‘…in trouble…’ was, in many ways freeing. 

If there were only time…

Much could be written about those years, but pertinent to Karen and Harper is the amount of time we spent studying other religious teachings.  It was part and parcel of the ministry.  We studied the Bible, worked on our own personal lives and considered what other people believed.

Sunday afternoons were often set aside for a doctrinal ‘…live fire…’ laboratory. The pastor would show up as though he were a member of a different faith.  It might be any faith, and as it turned out, he was extremely knowledgeable of many doctrinal teachings.  He would make statements of faith from conventional denominations such as Methodists, Baptists (my background) or Presbyterians.  He might show up as a Mormon missionary or Jehovah’s Witness or a host of other teachings, AND importantly, we had no warning what the teaching would be.  On those Sunday afternoons we teased that the ‘Panel’ had shown up.  While the topics and ideas could be challenging, these free thinking, afternoons were edifying and some of my very favorite.

In the first instance we were to listen to the idea and see if it framed well with the scripture…at least the scripture as we had been taught.  There was NOT a list of topical verses we were encouraged to memorize as tools for Biblical debate.  We were encouraged to think…to let what we had been learning find a form that worked in our own minds.  Over time, of course, there would be standard kinds of ideas that emerged when encountering a particular religious faith...but they would be tailored individually to the ideas that worked personally for us.  We were encouraged to use our knowledge not as a fighting tool, but a teaching tool.  We learned to ask questions…to understand the person we were talking to.  The battleground was not with others, but as the scripture says to become “…renewed in the spirit of your mind…” (Ephesians 4:23) Working to bring “…into captivity every thought to the obedience of Christ…” (2Corinthians 10:5). Yes sir, plenty to work on in our own gardens!!

We were taught that it was NOT our responsibility to convert someone to our teaching…to our point of view.  That was God’s job.  We were farmers planting seeds – He would be responsible to change the heart.  As the years have passed, I have more fully come to appreciate Paul’s words in 1^st Corinthians, “I have planted, Apollos watered; but God gave the increase…” (Vs. 3:6)

Back to Karen…

So here were Karen and Harper standing at my door, exercising their faith…acting on their belief…trying, of course to convince me of a particular teaching, that for them, regardless of what others believed, had brought order and consistency.   Certainly, one could argue doctrine and ideology, but really what is the purpose of the scripture?  Christ only ‘fought’ against hypocrisy and evil in religious leaders.  The common folk?  He loved them…fed them…provided parables for them…taught them through example after example.

There is no context in the New Testament for using the teachings to strike a blow to the seeking heart.  There is no context in the New Testament to feel superior because we belong to a particular faith.  There is no context in the New Testament for a specific…particular…unique…special teaching that, in the Christian context, betters all others.

What is our responsibility?

A lawyer once asked Christ, what he needed to do to inherit eternal life.  The answer was NOT, “Join the <fill in the church here> and accept all of its teachings.”  He rather said this:

“Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, and with all thy soul,

and with all thy strength, and with all thy mind; and thy neighbour as thyself.” (Luke 10:27)

He gave the same response with asked what the greatest…the GREATEST …commandment was.  Love God and love your neighbor…he had distilled the 10 commandments into two…two that promote life, in ourselves, and those with whom we come in contact.

On the front steps of my home this week, Karen, Harper and I found that place of respect and humanity…and it was “…very good.”

- ted

First hints...

If the red slayer think he slays, Or if the slain think he is slain,

They know not well the subtle ways, I keep and pass and turn again.

-   Emerson, RW

Who knew clouds were gathering in the distance?  Who knew the earth, in a garden so carefully tended, was losing its vitality. Who knew…what lay ahead?

The Show Me state…

September in Missouri is one of the more pleasant times of the year. The heat and humidity of the summer has begun to lose its energy.  Gone are the days that do their best to make outdoor life unpleasant – some might say unbearable.  Yet with the subtleness of an hour hand quietly moving over the face of a clock, and with the unmistakable, yet indescribable smell in the air, the magic of fall slips quietly into place.

For a few short weeks, Missouri almost takes on the climate of southern California winters…warm days…cool nights.  Missouri, of course doesn’t have the ocean, but California doesn’t have the changing foliage.  In Missouri, in the fall…the annual cyclic death of the leaves, provides beauty and royal color rivaling the greatest treasures of the earth – “…yet I tell you, Solomon in all his glory was not so arrayed as…these.”

Yesterday, all my troubles seemed so far away…

It was 2006 – Molly and I were living in Detroit and had returned home to Missouri for a few days visiting friends and family.  Thirty years in a closely knit religious community had created deep bonds.  Jerry and Diane lived some 55 miles north of Jefferson City on Highway 63 in Clark, Missouri…a community of about 300 people tucked away in the southeast corner of Randolph County.

To be more precise, they didn’t exactly live in Clark, but on a nicely situated piece of land a few miles to the west on Route B, with a small fishing pond just out back.  The kind of idyllic place one imagines Thoreau might have found himself, at another time in another place.

As I looked off the deck to the water and small groups of people – some chatting…some fishing…all enjoying one another – I pictured Jerry and Diane’s quiet mornings and wondered if they thought:

“…I have a great deal of company in my house; especially in the

morning, when nobody calls…” H.D. Thoreau

There was food on the table and some of the more meaningful people I had known for the previous 30 years – Mattie, Marguerite, Judy, Jim, Sharon, Diane, Jerry – a grand group indeed.

It would be the last time I would see Mattie and Marguerite, matriarch’s of the church, who had so influenced my life.  Strong, smart women who had lived in an unsung generation, in isolated geography with poor educational opportunity, which belied their power, intelligence and impact on my life along with so many others. 

A momentary reflection…

Mattie!  That laugh…that spirit…God, she could make a pan of corn bread and strawberry/rhubarb pie that would bring a king’s ransom – if the king had only known.  A country woman with only one good eye and a bone conduction hearing aid…the microphone for which she kept in her bra.  Sometimes, for her to hear you clearly, you had to speak into her chest! 

Plain spoken she was…simple in life with a richness of spirit that had no discernable boundaries. Her word?  Ha, it was all you needed!  Her heart?  Just try to fail in some way that would cause her love for you to falter!  She was not a particularly attractive woman until…until she settled her eye on you and began to draw you in.  Then?  Then, there are few women I have known who could capture you so fully.

You know the feeling…

That afternoon was like putting on an old pair of tennis shoes.  Before we all gathered to eat, someone pulled out a guitar.  We played…we sang…told stories and laughed ourselves silly, as we had done so often before – before when we were so tightly interwoven into the fabric of each other’s lives…as natural as breath itself. 

But that was then.  The more than three decade experiment to “…change the world…” had managed only to change our worlds…our minds…our hearts.  Millions would never know, but we knew; in the end that would be enough.

Only love and a photograph…

As I looked at the picture of all of us sitting around the kitchen table, from that afternoon there was someone missing.  My sister Nancy was to come with us, but had a few things to catch up on, so said she and Riley – her trusty dog – would be an hour or so late.  Getting to Jerry and Diane’s could be a challenge for the uninitiated, but she had been there several times before…we would see her soon. 

The afternoon passed…it was a great afternoon – she never arrived.

Later when we talked about it, she had in fact made the trip…driven past the plainly marked Route B sign heading north several miles before turning around; passing the plainly marked Route B sign heading south on her way back to Jefferson City.  She said someone must have taken the signs down.  In the busyness of life, it seemed a bit odd, but I marked it up to some preoccupation in her mind.

A sign of the times…

As I look over my shoulder, it wasn’t only she that had missed the sign that day.  It was I who had missed my first sign that she had begun to slip away from us…even then. 

The highway for the subsequent years of her life would prove to be her most difficult.  Before it was over, all of the signposts were gone…all of the beauty of that September day in 2006 would be lost…all of the life would be taken…

Five years, five months and two days later she lay in a hospital bed in Columbia, Missouri taking her final breath. 

It is compelling to look back and think, “If I had only known…If I had done something different, maybe the outcome would have been altered…” In fact, that is not only a fools errand, but robs one of appreciating the beauty of the life she so richly reflected…it robs one of the appreciation for the heroic way she fought and fought…it robs one of the richness of the opportunity to have participated in the most intimate and unspeakable ways…

I refuse to let that thief steal from me twice…he took part of my life with her death…he will not take more through regret…

- ted

Canadian summers...

“In youth, it was always the place not the people.

Time so changes one’s perspective, for

in old age, it was never the place…”

-anonymous

South Central Ontario, Canada in the summer… there was a time when only God and a special few knew her.

More properly it was the Muskoka (Mus-ko-ka) region of Ontario that had attracted folk by its pastoral scenery and astonishingly beautiful lakes.  There were three that were linked together: Lakes Muskoka, Rosseau (Ross-so) and Joseph.  Ah Joseph, like its biblical name’s sake, this was a lake of richly deep and clear waters, around which in the fall its mantle of hardwood leaves defined the very essence of God’s vivid imagination – a cloak of such festive colors even Joseph himself would have felt some envy.

Before my time…

In the early 1900s my grandfather owned an art supply store in Toronto.  He was looking for a place to deposit the family in the summers while he went to Europe to buy brushes and other items for his inventory.  How he discovered this land, is unknown to me, but find it he did.  He purchased 212 acres (85.7 hectares) of land on the northeastern shores of Lake Joseph.  Lakes Muskoka and Rosseau had been found and occupied with summer hotels and cottagers for many years, but the Northern end of Lake Joe was more difficult to get to and had remained relatively untouched.

Buying the land was one thing, getting there another.  My mother talked about how they would take the train from Toronto to Bala – some 120 miles (193km) – and wind their way to Port Sandfield, a small town at the confluence of Lakes Joseph and Rosseau.  They would then fill a small motor driven ‘putter boat’ and make their way up the 10 or 11 mile (16-17.7km) journey to Stanley Bay where the land lay. 

The original cottage was a log cabin in a clearing around 100 yards (91 meters) or so from the lakeshore.  Twelve of the acres were on the lakeshore, while the back 200 contained a ten acre (4 hectares), beaver inhabited lake and uncharted woods. 

Summers were spent playing in the water and surrounding areas, while working to keep the raccoons and other small animals from raiding the pantry of food.  Every couple of weeks, a supply boat would come to a wharf about a quarter of a mile up the shoreline, where they would purchase supplies, and I understand, an occasional candy bar. 

My era…

By the time I arrived on the planet, the land had been in the family for nearly 37 years.  A family cottage had been built along the shore, in the middle of the 12 acres that kissed the southern shore of Stanley bay.  Family members would reserve time in the summers to take the cottage for a few weeks of campfires, corn roasts, sing-songs, fishing, Sunday church and interaction with whatever creatures of the woods ventured by to see these odd two-legged hairless animals. 

There was no electricity, no indoor plumbing, no telephone, no television…just family, a few board games we all played and our imaginations to fill the seemingly never-ending days that melted into nights.

It was during these years when family members began branching out to build their own cottages along the quarter mile (402m) shoreline.  One of my uncles had purchased the beach at the end of the bay, so it could be argued the end and entire southeastern shoreline of the bay was in family possession.

My mother was assigned a section of land, and my father began, what would become better than a decade’s odyssey of building our family cottage.  As a carpenter, my dad was a pretty good minister.  To say he had building skill, would be the grossest of overstatements.  While he served that great carpenter from Bethlehem and Nazareth, his enthusiasm exceeded his skill by a large margin.  Dad was a minister of the Gospel.  The ‘cottages’ he built for a living were “…not made with hands.”  Yet he was undeterred.

Every summer, he would borrow a little money, purchase small amounts of building materials and spend the month of August building our cottage.  Finally, on a day of celebration and great excitement we moved from the family cottage into our very own place along the bay.  There would be no more haggling for cottage time…we could be there whenever we wanted.

Thirty days a year…

Our holiday was the month of August, and we always had a lot of people visit.  Rarely a day or two went by where someone would not show up from somewhere.  It was truly ‘mi casa – es su casa’ (my home is your home).  If we didn’t have more than 50 souls visit during that month, my mother felt she had done something wrong.

Food, from the general store, was delivered a couple of times a week.  I would provide fresh fish for breakfast whenever I was lucky enough to catch some.

The family routine was pretty well set.  The evenings were generally social gatherings in the living room. We played games, told stories, laughed at silly jokes and…and…and we were circled in a love and fellowship that seemed so normal. I didn’t realize they were set in motion deliberately by parents who understood the importance community and hospitality.  We learned these life skills as naturally as young children learn a foreign language.

Nights and days…

Each night dad would lay the next morning’s firewood. Both he and mum were early risers, and as dad lit the morning fire, mother would be in the kitchen singing quietly to herself while she got breakfast ready.  She was the ultimate optimist; if dealt a poor hand, she would make something out of it. 

A lot of people from many different cultures, nations and belief systems came to the Dreisinger cottage over the years.  We were encouraged to bring our friends or invite acquaintances  - who, in the end, could not fail to become a friend.  It was a laboratory of hospitality that prepared us for ways in life we could never imagine.

Cottages are great, but mothers…

One of my favorite stories, and one my friend John has reminded me of from time to time involves some fellas from Africa visiting for a few days.  He brought them to the cottage, and they only had a couple of days to be with  us..  I had pumped up the idea of going out on the lake and doing some fishing.  The smaller lake on the property, in addition to having beaver, also had lots of frogs that could be used for fishing bait.  We spent a day catching frogs and digging for worms for the appointed day.  I could hardly wait! 

The next morning, a huge thunderstorm unexpectedly appeared, meaning we weren’t going to be doing anything but staying in the cottage, with me sulking.  I was particularly upset as I crossed the living room toward the kitchen ready to complain my heart out to mother.   As I got near the door, I heard her quietly singing to herself as she began getting breakfast ready for the small herd that was visiting.  This was her custom in the mornings.  This particular morning it was one of her favorite hymns: JL Hall’s “When morning gilds the skies.”

The tune is gently melodic, and the words of the first verse begin like this:

“When morning gilds the skies

my heart awakening cries:

May Jesus Christ be praised!

Alike at work and prayer,

to Jesus I repair:

May Jesus Christ be praised!”

The skies were darkened with clouds, rain and thunder and my mother was singing about the sun coming to the morning sky.  My heart was stung by the contrast between my darkened mood and her skill for keeping her disposition elevated.  When I entered the kitchen, she could feel my frustration.  She just smiled, said she loved me, and asked if I would begin setting the table.  She had a skill set that it would take me decades to learn, and in all honesty have not fully mastered.

As I have gotten older and benefited from the lessons of my youth, I have read lots of life enhancing things.  The scriptures have been a place of comfort for me…I enjoy a little history and philosophy for reinforcement…I embrace the laboratory of life, where the next moment is sometimes so unexpected as to take my breath away.  BUT if I really want to settle my heart, and find that place of quiet strength, I close my eyes and see my mother standing in front of the sink at the cottage gently singing to herself… "When morning gilds the skies…"

- ted

Teaching old dogs...

“That which has been is that which will be,

And that which has been done is that

which will be done. So there is 

nothing new under the sun.”

- Ecclesiastes 1:9

I’m taking a course!   

It’s a class on how to establish life habits for success.  You know, the kind where you work through a structure that helps create a framework from which to motivate yourself to a more profitable and fulfilling life.

One could argue that developing success life habits in one’s sixties might just be a little late. After all, as my professional career and life, are on a gentle…maybe not so gentle downhill slope.  Shouldn’t I be sharing life experience and lessons rather than trying to gather new ones?

That’s the thing about lifetime learning, isn’t it…you know, it just keeps going, until…well, the ‘time of life’ is over!

In addition, the concepts in this course are not new.  In fact, as a person interested in the journey, there are not many new concepts to be heard.  So why bother???

We are creatures of habit, and of little doubt, habit is built on certain principles that cultivate values, which in turn develop character…Yes sir, a lifetime of practicing habits is not a bad pursuit.

It is surprising, however, how easy it is to let certain things slip away because you think you already know them.  For example, I tell my wife I love her every day.  Do I think she doesn’t know this?  Am I concerned she might somehow forget?  Not really.  I do realize, however, how frail we really are, and how frequently we need to be reminded of the things that matter. 

Editorial comment: A cautionary note – and trust me on this…I’ve learned words are not exactly like brushing one’s teeth in the morning.  My teeth do not care how I ‘feel’ about them…my wife does care how I ‘feel’ about her.  So simply repeating words out of habit without paying attention…is not particularly wise. 

I’ll bet you like to hear people say your life is meaningful to them!  There is little doubt I do.

Old/new…borrowed/blue…

Letting things slip by while we are pre-occupied is not new.  Philosophic and religious literature is filled with ideas to guide our lives.  Yet, these concepts are as meaningfully fresh as the rising sun.

The parable of the different kinds of soil in the Bible is a favorite example.  The seed sower tosses some seeds to the earth…landing on different soils – representing different aspects of our minds.

· - Roadside soil: we hear and don’t remember at all.  Remember the information for the exam when you crammed all night?  Of course you don’t!

·  - Stony soil: words land in our minds, but don’t take root…how about that diet or exercise program you started with enthusiasm?  How did that go?

·  - Thorny soil: we get started doing something, but other priorities overcome them and we put them off…you know, that book you wanted to read or vacation you thought would be good to take…

·  - Good soil: we focus on ideas that get exercised, which in turn produce new thoughts with more options to pursue…

The point?  Think about things before jumping into them.  Pay attention…count the cost at the beginning…measure twice, cut once…get the alphabet before writing the novel…  

Cultivating words we hear have much to do with creating a workable framework within which to operate…that’s what this course is about. 

For me??  It is the opportunity to ‘check’ the engine…to see how things are running.

Back to the point…

One of the assignments is to write a personal mission statement.  Warm-up activities provide questions from which to write. For example, consider the different roles occupying your life: husband/wife, mother/father, uncle/aunt, neighbor, colleague, friend, and so on.

Next, identify goals associated with those roles.  For example, how would you like people, with whom you have these roles, to think about you?  Were you honest, thoughtful, considerate, faithful and consistent…whatever was written.

Now consider several people who have influenced your life (it could be anyone from any era). Invite them to an imaginary dinner and think about why they made the list.

Now we’re getting somewhere…

The course then provides examples of personal mission statements – some very short and some fairly long.  My favorite short example: “I want to be the person my dog thinks I am.”  I, of course, have cats and therefore would make such a mission statement not particularly edifying!

I should say, at this juncture, it is not the first time I have written such a document…there was one in my late twenties and another in my mid-fifties.  Both of them were long and wandering…attempting to distill things I felt were important. 

They reflected those who had influenced my life…mentored and guided…disciplined and loved me.  They spoke to the importance of character…consistency …virtue…justice – you know, the big things, and how I saw myself living in and interacting with the world.  I wanted to be a better listener, consistent, trusted and seen as a person who finished what they started.  I wanted to be a better man!

Nothing is straightforward…

The thing is that life is dynamic.  It does not always present itself in black and white, and can be a painful reminder that “…the best laid plans of mice and…” mission statements often find themselves in conflict.

And so, it was helpful to go through the exercise once again for any number of reasons, not the least of which to take stock as to how I thought I was doing. 

The lenses of life over time, like the eyes, need prescriptive adjustments.  It’s an odd thing though, unlike the eyes, with time life becomes clearer.  The texture of the experiences lead one to consider each word and thought through richer lens…that is the promise you know, “…if we ask, seek and knock…” we will see more clearly.

No more fooling around…

So, I dutifully wrote, and wrote, and wrote a little more – by the way, a meaningful exercise.  In the end, the mission statement came down to this.

“Try to think of others first.”

While a simple phrase, it was surprisingly difficult to distill everything I had written.  It does encompass listening better, being consistent, mature and finishing things started.  

The word "Try..." implies it is an ongoing process requiring daily reflection – a sharpening of the sword.

One would think this a revelation, but in fact, it is a principle invoked by those much wiser than I.  My favorites…

“…as you would that men should do to you, do you also to them likewise.”

- Christ (Luke 6:31)

“What I do not wish men to do to me, I also wish not to do to men.”

- Confucius (Analectics)

“…we are made for co-operation, like feet, like hands, like eyelids, like the rows of the upper and lower teeth.  To act against one another is contrary to nature;…” 

- Marcus Aurelius (Meditations)

While the ideas are not new, the exercise was excellent!  The good news?  I’m not quite halfway through the course.  Classes like this may not be the “…path less traveled,” but they surely are great priority reminders…

What’s your mission?

- ted

Downs - not out...

“Relax,” said the night man,

“We are programmed to receive.

You can check in anytime you like,

But you can never leave!”

- Felder, Frey, Henley:

Hotel California

“Honey…honey,” she squealed as she saw me come around the corner.  

She charged down the hall with that hallmark unstable gait that made her look like she was going to fall over sideways with every step.  She threw her arm around my legs, stood on my feet and hugged me for all she was worth.

When I arrived on the unit, there was little doubt Shelley was ‘my’ girl…my girl. 

It was the late 1970s and I was in the second year of my doctoral program.  I was taking a course that required I spend a couple of nights a week at the university hospital pediatric cancer ward. 

The blessing – the curse…

I have always had the capacity to not over think coming events in my life.  This has been a gift, and sometimes a curse.  It was a gift in the military, meaning I simply got up each day and faced whatever had been planned for me.  Basic training, okay…specialty training, that was fine…Vietnam, let’s do it... Since there was little I could do about the system, this attitude minimized my stress levels.  It has also been the same in matters of the heart for me.  Don’t over think…go with the flow. 

In the military, this served me well – I survived.  In matters of the heart, I have soared to the mountaintop and been crushed in the “…valley of the shadow of death!!”  Of little doubt a curse.

The circumstance…

My task wasn’t very complicated.  I showed up Tuesday and Thursday evenings for an hour and a half and played games with children, who for the most part would never see puberty.  I have always liked youngsters, so I thought this might be a good experience.

These kids were all somewhere between seven and eleven, and for the most part looked pretty much the same.  Shaven heads…sallow skin…no longer any self-consciousness…the brightness and sparkle in their eyes adding a visual contradiction.  


They had the look of some future race of children from a science fiction film, but this was no fantasy.  Each of them had a death warrant and as they slipped away one by one, would bring both closure and sorrow to the families upon whom this terminal sentence would be equally shared. 

Equally??  Not so equally, for it is the living who carry this forward, isn’t it??

The task at hand…

They were surprisingly enthusiastic when I showed up.  There was a box filled with board games for the older ones, some balls and small toys for the younger.  I told a story each evening and brought my guitar to sing a song or two, because…well, I didn’t know what else to do.  I felt somehow out of my element, but they had a kind of wisdom and a surprising amount of loving tolerance, that made me feel, by the end of most evenings together, my visits were meaningful.

I had actually compartmentalized this pretty well.  I knew they were terminal, and when I arrived for an evening and one of them had lost the battle, I was saddened, but seemed to be able to handle it and go on – you know, above the fray…or so it seemed.  However, the cumulative affect of these children’s deaths would haunt me for years.  I mean, what was the point?

The unexpected…

But then there was Shelley…damn!  Somehow she got under my skin and travelled through the circulatory system of my spiritual body, lodging herself firmly in my heart.  Something happened in my tenure at this “…hotel California…” that touched me so deeply, that as I write these words so many years later, tears gently fall.

Shelley had Down’s syndrome, and in addition to all the complications that can happen to a child born with this disorder, she had terminal cancer.  Often these kids are intellectually impaired, have seizures, hearing loss, visual impairments, upper respiratory problems and a host of other problems.  Shelley had them all, and a little more.  In addition to this, she was a behavioral problem!

The biggest difficulty was her incontinence.  As a result she was kept in a diaper, which she hated!  The nurses would put them on her and she would take them off.  Shelley was 10, of fair size and stubborn with a capital ‘S!’ Keeping her in diapers was problematic. 

One evening, I suggested to the charge nurse they put her in panties rather than the diaper to see what she would do.  For some reason known only to the gods, she put panties on the girl and Shelley never soiled herself again!  While she had cognitive problems, she wasn’t stupid.  What she really wanted – and could not express – was to simply be like the other girls.

Love at third sight…

By the second or third week of my 16-week tenure at the hospital, I had fallen hopelessly in love with this quirky little girl, who ran to me without fail every time I entered the children’s ward.  Her glasses never stayed squarely on her face…she enjoyed making bodily sounds – laughing out loud – and almost always smiled when she looked at me.  Like any situation of the heart, I cannot really say what it was or how it happened, but from that point forward I was her “…Honey, Honey…” 

I found myself looking forward to those evenings.  No matter how difficult Shelley had been during the day or week, when I showed up, she would calm down and become a model patient.  Neither the nurses nor I were sure what caused this, but they also looked forward to my visits.

Just before Christmas of that year, Shelley needed bowel surgery.  She had obstructed and they went in to remove the blockage.  I stayed with her that night at the hospital.  She was still medicated, but would open her eyes from time to time and look to see if I were still there.  She would smile and quietly say, “…honey, honey…” We held hands and she would drift away, only to open her eyes again, smile and utter those words.

She survived the surgery, much to my delight and I headed home for Christmas break.  I thought of her quite a bit those couple of weeks at home and picked up a little present for her.  I had been surprised how special and natural it had become for us to see one another.  I made a decision to continue to visit her, even though my assignment was finished.

Back from the holiday…

I got back to school on the weekend and headed to the hospital to see how my girl was doing.  When I entered the ward, the charge nurse came to me, put her arms around me and softly said, “Shelley didn’t make it…complications from the surgery.  She died over the holidays.”  I was stunned…had I not been in this woman’s arms I’m not sure I would have been able to stand.  This, of course, was not possible…this was Shelley…my girl!

That night the entire nursing staff from the day shift took me out to console me.  They had lots to say about their work and their families and I realized, while I was a small cog in the wheel of their lives, my time there had meant something.  I remember that evening with a sense of bittersweet gratitude for these heroic people whose profession was daily filled with loss.

It’s been more than 36 years since that little girl captured my heart, yet every time I think of her my thoughts drift to some magic place where I am sure she is free…where I realize how little it really takes when the spirit is clean and the love pure.

Every once and awhile, in the quiet of the night, she comes like an ill-gaited fairy princess, stumbling down the hallway of my mind to wrap her arms around the legs of her prince…a moment of secure love…a little time with her “…honey, honey…”

- ted

It's the little moments...

In every real man a child is

hidden that wants to play. 

- Nietzsche, F

His name was Michael, and he couldn’t have been much more frail for a ten year old standing on two feet.

He was a little notable as we queued up together on that sunny California morning last week.  Together wouldn’t be exactly right…there was a woman between he and I as we both embraced the day. 

The kid was cute, with short blond hair, a dark grey two-toned zipper jacket – open in front.  His tee shirt had a picture of John Cena, a world champion wrestler in the entertainment world of Professional wrestling.  Because this activity goes on year round, more people come to these live events than any other sport on the planet.  Cena at 6’1” (1.85m) and 251lbs (114kg) could not provide a greater contrast to this youngster, but of little doubt he was Michael’s hero!

The boy had thick rectangular shaped glasses that slid a bit down his nose so that looking at him was like looking at one of those pictures where the camera is partly under water and partly out.  The top rim of the glasses cut directly through his animated blue eyes, giving him a strange appearance…the bottom of his eyes seemingly twice the size of the top!

For a tiny fellow, it appeared he had big ambitions.  In his left hand he held a couple of small books.  You have seen the kind before – ¼ inch thick (.63cm), six or so inches square (38.7cm) with glossy cardboard covers displaying bright pictures.  These two books were about fighter jets - one the Lockheed Martin F-22 Raptor, and other was a General Dynamics F-16 Falcon.

Michael seemed to know a fair amount about these fighter jets, but as youngsters do, he chattered away about how great it would be to have one of them. “I mean, if I had one of these F-22s, I could fly to school, hop out and wouldn’t even have to find a place to park.  Cooooool!!  I could fly anywhere I wanted, and if anybody tried to give me a hard time – KABOOM!  I would wipe ‘em out!”  While he was looking at the woman behind him, he wasn’t really talking to anyone…his excited imagination, vision and animated monologue coming from a place known only to him.

We weren’t alone…

There were a variety of other folk with us: a fellow in a tee-shirt and shorts who had lost his left leg and most of the use of his right arm, and a 40s something fellow who drove up in a black Mercedes 600 series…windows down…music blaring…overly large Bluetooth ear piece.  When he got out of the car, he tried to cut into the line, but a few hard looks – from a few hard looking people – and a 25:1 ratio not in his favor, suggested even to him, discretion would indeed be the better part of valor.  He had the look of the bully with no one to dominate, and slipped to the back of the line with the ‘common people.’

The most unique of our little tribe was a 6’3” (1.9m) 300 pounder (136kg)…a few teeth missing, an unshaven face and long grey hair tucked under an AC/DC (rock band of the 70s) black baseball cap.  The cap had a civil war cannon on the right side of the bill.  He was big and otherwise would have drawn little notice, except…well, except for the pink fluffy rabbit ears that fluttered in the cool morning breeze.

Michael was the only one who had the courage to ask the fellow why he wore the rabbit ears on his hat – quiet, but nervous chuckles filled the air…gotta love those kids! The fellow replied, “To dispel the myth that rabbits lay eggs!”  Michael gave a curious look and asked again…same answer.  The boy’s expression was…what???  Exactly!  I didn’t get it either.

A reason for this line?

I turn 65 this summer.  In this country, at this age, a person registers with the Social Security Administration.  Social Security has many other functions and provides services for many other reasons, but for me it was registration because of my age. 

It’s one of those markers one reaches with mixed feelings.  Of little doubt, the journey to date could not have been more interesting, yet as surely as the sun begins its increasingly gentle slide to the horizon of the western sky, I am reminded the bulk of my years in service far outweigh the days ahead. Many people look forward to this…I’m not so sure…I mean is anything really secure??

One can register via the computer online, with the small technicality that you have to prove who you are.

There are two options:

1.     Mail your identification papers (e.g. birth certificate and passport) to the office of Social Security hidden in some bureaucratic building in the bowels of Washington, DC – OR,

2.     Hand deliver the documents to a local branch office where they are copied and immediately returned.

Are you kidding?  The choice seemed pretty clear, so it was off to the local branch office!

Back to the queue…

So here I was with 25 other hearty – maybe less than hearty – souls waiting for the Social Security office to open, and hence Michael!

This boy’s completely unbridled enthusiasm reminded me of a time when I had a ‘…no limits period…’ imagination…a time when reality is simply not part of the equation…a time when the dreams and energy of youth collide head on with a complete ignorance of the road ahead.  Life modifies much of this, but without it, where would we find vision?  What a gift and marvelous time of life! 

Another brief step-away…

I was just about this youngster’s age when I announced to my father I was going to be a professional athlete.  “Really?” he said. “Yes sir, “ I replied with dead seriousness, “In the spring and summer I am going to play baseball for the Cleveland Indians…in the fall, football for the Cleveland Browns, and in the winter basketball for the Boston Celtics.”  We had come to this city 20 years or so before the Cleveland Cavaliers basketball arrived, AND Robert Joseph (Bob) Cousy of the Boston Celtics was my hero on the court – so I would play for them!!  Yes indeed, there were no limits…then.

My father could have chuckled and told me they were foolish dreams – he did not!  He knew the chances his child would be an athletic prodigy were slim, but he would let me find that out myself, in my own way, in my own time. He and my mother would, love, support, encourage and never say I couldn’t do something.  They would allow me to find my place, with my dreams, in my life.  Their commitment was to be supportive and not create roadblocks.  They knew there would be enough of those without a contribution from them.

Michael and the line…

I was reminded of this as the doors opened and we made our way into the Social Security offices to each take care of the business for which we had come.  In some ways, I was a little envious of the unbridled imagination of this young boy.

Michael handed the books to his grandmother, who was a hemi-plegic with foam handled aluminum cane decorated like the most elegant images of Native American Totem Poles.  She took the books and slipped them between her useless right arm and her body to keep them safe.

Then Michael turned toward the door and shuffled forward a little at a time pushing the walker a few inches and catching up with it for the next cycle of slow deliberate and difficult movement.  The ankle/foot orthotic that kept his left foot from dragging was wrapped in a bright horizontal striped sock and tucked into the padded slipper on his foot.  As he entered the building, he chuckled and said to the big fellow with the rabbit ears, “Hey mister, why did you say you were wearing those rabbit ears?”  He still didn’t get the meaning of the man’s answer.

As I drove home and for a fair amount of the day, I thought about this young boy and the challenges I was certain would face him.  I hoped, as he grew, his family would let him find his place, with his dreams, in his life.  Mostly I hoped he would never lose the freedom he felt to ask about the ‘…bunny ears of life…’ that seemed to make little sense.  I fantasized a little in my mind’s eye, fast-forwarding twenty y ears or so.  Maybe that kid would never fly one of those fighter jets, but maybe he might just design them…that brought a smile. 

- ted

Just a game...

“All life is an experiment.  The more

Experiments you make, the better.”

 - Emerson, R.W.

His name was Fredrick K., but everyone knew he was ‘Freddy Freeze.’  Yes sir, as a ball handler, none of us had ever seen anyone the likes of Freddy.  In a close game with just a little time on the clock and a narrow lead, Freddie Freeze ALWAYS took the ball!

Military life winding down…

It was 1970 at Ft. Rucker, Alabama.  The war was over for some of us and we were spending our last year doing our military jobs before leaving the service.  I was living in a trailer with my best friend Dave, and ‘Widetrack’ the dog.

We hung around with a few fellas, but it was late summer and I needed more than my part-time bar waiter’s job at the Officer’s Club to keep myself busy.  As has been so often the case in my life, the unexpected happened.  Even though I lived off base, an occasional Saturday morning would find me in the gym shooting basketball.

Game on…

One of these mornings, the Ft. Rucker post basketball team was practicing.  It was the beginning of the season and they were working on drills.  The team was a half and half mix of white guys and African American players.  I can’t exactly recall how it happened…maybe it was a shoot around…maybe it was they were asking around for another player or two…However it happened, I found myself on the team.  A captain was the coach and it turned out all the white players, except me, were officers.

My first preseason game was with a local Community College…I warmed the bench.  Interestingly, so did the black players.  We all sat and watched the officers get their clocks cleaned by a group of local junior college players.  I thought we had a great mix of players on the squad, but it was 1970, we were in the Deep South, and frankly, I was naïve. 

It wasn’t that I hadn’t experienced racial prejudice.  In fact, once I had to buy food for a couple of my high school teammates when we played junior varsity basketball in Grafton, West Virginia.  We had finished an afternoon game before the varsity played, and left the gym to grab something to eat.  The small restaurant wouldn’t serve the black guys…I bought the food and we sat outside on the curb and ate the hotdogs.  Hot dogs! Yeah, but it was the 60s.

We played a couple more games at our home gym before the season actually started.  I got a few minutes of play as did the black players, but on balance, the officers played…and lost.  What we didn’t know is the post commander had come to watch, and was apparently unhappy with the results from ‘his’ team. 

Life is change…

We practiced every afternoon at the Post Gym for a couple of hours.  After the third loss, the complexion of the team changed with the suddenness of monsoon rains turning a sunny sky into a downpour of unrelenting rain.  That afternoon none of the officers showed up for practice.  In fact, neither did the coach.

We started our normal shoot around to warm up, wondering whether we had ‘…missed the memo…,’ when a short red headed first lieutenant, with a drop-dead gorgeous woman by his side, came in the gym and called the team together.  As quickly as the door slammed in the faces of Eva Duarte de Perón’s rejected lovers, the captain was gone and Lieutenant Miller became our new coach.

Miller announced, he had never played basketball, didn’t know the game and was nervous about this assignment.  So nervous, he had brought his wife along for moral support.  We were stunned by our new coach AND his attractive wife.  It was one of those moments of cognitive dissonance – you know, our coach knew nothing about the game (not so good), but his wife was really attractive (not so bad)!

The commanding General felt there was a lot of talent on the team that wasn’t being properly used, and so with the swiftness of a dropping guillotine blade, made the change.  From that day forward, we never saw our old coach or any of the officer players again!

Then there was Freddy…

Miller asked how many guys had played college ball…five of the six African American players had college degrees and had started for their respective basketball teams.  Freddy Keith?  Well Freddy had played playground basketball in New York City.  For the uninitiated, New York street basketball is some of the best played anywhere on the planet…and we had an authentic NYC play grounder on our team!

Freddy had not originally been on the team, but was well known as the best player on base.  Unfortunately, he was also known as a significant troublemaker.  Outside of the gym, he had been a real problem, and in spite of having been in the military for almost three years, he was still a private first class – the lowest ranking enlisted man outside of basic training.  He had been busted more times than a professional lady working Times Square in his beloved New York City!

The only thing that saved him from being put in the post stockade was the ingenuity of his company commander, who out of sheer frustration told Freddy that if he got into any more trouble, the post gym would be off limits.  A stroke of genius!  Freddy coveted the game so much, the threat of losing gym privileges put him on the straight and narrow.  He had ‘…found the Lord…’ and a starting guard position on the team.

It is hard to express the beauty of a gift that has been worked and worked, until it becomes sharper than the scalpel of a world class surgeon.  This was Freddie’s ability with the basketball.  It was only a game, but it was ‘his’ game.  Never before or since…in collegiate or professional play…have I ever seen someone handle a basketball with the skill, focus, and, yes, love in the way Freddie played the game.  His only reward?  To be allowed in the gym to play the game.

The roster was filled…

We picked up another white guy, who had played some college ball somewhere in the northern plain states…a forward with a sweet shot and deadly accuracy from anywhere between 20 and 30 feet.  That was it…eight of us – a brotherhood of young men who loved the game, and in the end each other.

What Miller lacked in knowledge he made up for with unrelenting enthusiasm and a humbly pragmatic mind for delegation.  He knew…we knew – but no one else that he had virtually no knowledge of the game…we NEVER spoke about it.  He assigned specialist 4^th class John P. to captain the team.  Miller would be the ‘coach’ – John would design and call the plays.  It was an unspoken reality that served us well.

The mandate from the Post Commander had been simply this – WIN!  How and with whom didn’t matter to him…a black team – a white team…he didn’t care – just win!  The only thing that seemed clear…it would not be an officer team.

It was meaningful…

I learned a lot of basketball in those games with those men.  I was the highest jumper on the team thanks to the large ‘rear end’ and strong thighs my mother had given me.  I got a starting role – not because I was white, but because I could jump and had excellent rebound timing (gotta thank that mother).  To this day, I cherish the staring slot on that team as one of the great joys and achievements of my life….no token place in this brotherhood – you made the grade or someone else did. 

Because we were a post team we traveled all over the south playing other military Base and Fort teams.  We also had a girls’ team that traveled with us on the road.  They actually didn’t travel with us, but we often double-billed at home and away games.  They were all African American and they loved me!  When I say they loved me, I mean I was the starting white boy, the anomaly, and they cheered their hearts out whenever I scored or defended well.  It was at that time in my life I learned to love women’s basketball, and the women who play it.

I was the only guy on the team with a military drivers license, so I chauffeured for all the away games.  I actually can’t remember how many games there were, nor how close the finishes were.  I do remember watching Freddy taking us through the final buzzer more than once with the magic glue of finger tips from which even triple teaming opponents could not remove the ball.

When it was all said and done, we lost only one game that season…it was the divisional championship against Fort Campbell, and it was close.  We weren’t the biggest (I was center at 6’5” – 1.95m), nor were we the fastest.  We were a team of young men who learned to love Lieutenant Miller for his openness and enthusiasm…John P. for his leadership and strategic mind designing plays that worked…each other for the selfless play of the game…AND our secret weapon – Freddy ‘the freeze’ Keith!

I also learned a few life lessons that year on that team.  I learned that:

- Generals can do whatever they want

- Creative leadership can make a difference in people’s lives

- Success happens best when it doesn’t matter who gets credit

- When people focus on the task at hand, prejudice has little place

- Some people are so gifted you would rather ‘watch them play,’ than play with them!

- Love may not conquer all, but when done right, it can surely satisfy the soul

In the quiet moments as I write this piece, and reflect on that group of nobody guys…on a nobody team…in a no place part of the country, what a rich part of my life that was.  There was no hometown loyalty, no crowds of friends and family attending the games…there was us and the bond of the game.

We live such a short span of life, and really only in the present moment.  Everything not in the moment is either past or yet unknown.  In this moment, I have chosen to reflect on one of the small nooks and crannies of my life…briefly replaying the feelings toward those men, and running the tapes of the artistry of Freddie Freeze…well, feelings of love and appreciation are a great way to start the day!

- ted