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The Journey

“There is meaning in every journey that is unknown to the traveller” – Dietrich Bonhoeffer.

Three years ago my father, brother, and I lived these words as we drove to Canada. Our purpose was to visit a family friend who lay dying. But there was another purpose hidden in that trip, of which we knew nothing at the time.

Driving through the bleak landscape of upstate New York our conversation turned to matters of the heart. The solemnity of our purpose drew out discussion about death, life, love, faith. The three of us shared openly at the inmost level. It was cathartic and deeply bonding. And though we could not know it at the time, that conversation became a touchstone throughout my own father’s decline and death earlier this year.

It had been years since I was in my hometown. I took the wrong exit. This took us past our old church. We stopped in on a whim and slipped into the back to join the evening service. Each of us was filled with grace in that moment.  Though unspoken at the time, we each knew we were on holy ground. We were somehow meant to be there, together as a family, and together for our dying friend.

We saw her the next morning. She lay in bed in her living room, sun beaming through the window, surrounded by family. Our time together was filled with tears and laughter, as it should be. We wept with joy recalling the times beyond number of outrageous fun. We wept knowing this was the last time we would all be together in this life. Once again the conversation moved gracefully to matters of the heart. As a result my brother and I quickly drew close with the family daughters, whom we had known well as children but had not seen in many long years.

This January, during my dad’s memorial service in Canada, this very same family–these same daughters–provided the anchor for my brother and me. Who else could so closely identify with our grief? And who could ever have foreseen this at the time? “Life is lived forwards, but is only understood looking backwards”-Søren Kierkegaard.

Marian in Spring

Beams of light bend through the trees

The beauty brings me to my knees

Golden peace cascading to the ground

Silence all around, and simple stillness save

The bending ferns and flowers bowing down

Spring begins her overflow

The season’s graceful undertow

Drawing life from every dormant bloom

You sail on her tide, as sparkling laughter flows

Encircling hearts to yours throughout the room

Marian our dearest friend

Your life a gift that never ends

By the Living Springtime you embraced

You in dappled light, the Maker’s heart, and ours

The sweetest springtime garland interlaced

This post is dedicated to our late friend who passed away three years ago this week, to her dear family, and to my own dad this Father’s Day – my first without him.

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The Princess

Our receptionist was born and raised a true princess. She moved through life at only one speed: regally slow. This proved true even when bullets hissed by our office window.

It was my brother-in-law’s first week on our project in Africa. We were on a conference call with the New York team. Outside our second story office on the university campus, students were protesting. The army was sent in to disperse them. We peered out the window from time to time, but nothing seemed to be happening.  Then in an instant, the protest turned into a riot.

The two sides clashed in the parking lot below our office window. The students screamed and charged. The army began to fire their automatic weapons into the air to disperse the crowd. We dove for cover under the conference table as bullets whined by us from the parking lot below.

Except for our princess receptionist. As minor royalty from a tribe in western Uganda she was utterly unflappable. Amidst the volleys of rifle fire, screaming students, and cowering colleagues, she calmly sashayed across the office in her regally slow way to fix a cup of tea. As you do.

My brother-in-law stared at me wide-eyed under the table as the percussion of the guns continued. I assured him there was nothing to worry about and joked that this only happened every other week. In truth I was petrified. We had forgotten all about the people from New York on the conference line. Then their voices came on:

“What the hell is that noise, Chuck?” they asked.

“Weapons fire” I replied, trying to sound ho-hum. “I suppose we’re going to have reschedule the call”.

At which point, the New York team began to scroll through their Blackberry’s (remember those?) and mumbled stuff like “I suppose I could do next Tuesday, does that work for you?”

“Ah, guys” I said, no longer hiding behind a façade of calm, “we’re actually in the middle of a riot here. We’ll reschedule later”. I hung up. Our receptionist added more sugar to her tea. Then sipped it for taste.

Finally during a break in the chaos we saw a safe opening for us all to leave the office. But before doing so, the princess glided over to the hallway mirror to adjust her hair. And then washed up her tea cup.

[If you know others who might enjoy a lighthearted story to begin their week, kindly forward them WordsfortheWeary. The more the merrier.]

[Apologies for a lack of blog post last week! Sometimes Mondays are too much even for us at Words for the Weary!]

Image Credit: Best African Proverbs

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The Story

He approached me along an empty Sunday morning street.  Unsteady on his feet and reeking of liquor, he politely asked for spare change. I gave him a coin and a smile, assuming he would move on. Instead, what followed was 10 minutes of pure grace.

Surprised by the coin, he steadied himself. He searched my face through filthy spectacles. Satisfied, he said, “You know that coin you gave me is going right down my throat, don’t you? I’m on the drink. I can’t help it. I just thought you should know. I don’t want to take advantage of your generosity”. I nodded without judgement, amazed by his honesty.

He then asked my name. It turns out we are namesakes. As proof, he pulled out a crumpled birth certificate which, for reasons unknown, he carries in his back pocket. Charles is 62, short, stout, weathered from a hard life. He is a native of the small English town where we met that morning. He spent a few happy years in Canada, another bond between us. He now lives in a shelter run by the local church that he describes as “Nice folk, but with their head up their ass.”

Standing together on the empty village street, his story flowed out. There was no boasting and no desire for pity in its telling. It was not the afflicted drunken ramble of someone in a bar. His only purpose was connection. For my part I mostly just listened, humbled by the unselfconscious honesty of this man, gently sharing his brokenness without wallowing in it.

Charles’ wife died of cancer in her 40s and left him with four kids. He stole cars to make ends meet, did some time in prison. He wept as he recalled his two girls killed in a car crash. He opened his shirt to show me their names tattooed over his heart. I asked about the angry scar on his collar bone. Knifed by some arse-hole in a pub in Wales. He often drinks in Wales since most local pubs have banned him.

The names of his boys, Bradley and Kevin, are inked on each arm. Bradley has two kids: “Them grandkids love me. Think I’m the greatest bloke alive. They’re the reason I never give up. Even at rock bottom on the drink, I will never give up. Never.” As he said this, I knew it to be true.

He caught my eye as I glanced down at his massive, bruised hands.  He remarked that he had knocked someone out with a single blow at the pub the previous evening. When I asked why, he said “You just can’t talk filth in front of ladies like that Charles. I mean, I had a daughter and a wife. Nobody should talk to a lady like that bloke was doing last night. Next time, he’ll think about it”.

As my bus approached he reached into his pocket and pulled out a shiny copper penny. It had a hairpin bent around it. He gave it to me. “I do this when I find a new penny lying about”, he said. “Give this to someone you love Charles”. We shook hands in parting, his iron grip like that of a stonemason. It’s the only time in my life that I wished for my bus to be late.

[If you know others who might enjoy a lighthearted story to begin their week, kindly forward them WordsfortheWeary. The more the merrier.]

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Mount Sinai

Watching the sunrise from atop Mount Sinai was a once-in-a-lifetime experience for me and my trekking partners. And for several busloads of Japanese tourists.

I was part of a group of ten people trekking in the Sinai desert for a week to raise money for a children’s charity. The Sinai wilderness is barren, silent, mystical. In the entire trek we saw almost no-one else.

We were at altitude with no moisture in the air, 1,000 miles from the nearest city. This made the night sky a thing of absolute awe and wonder. As we lay there one night marvelling at the billions of stars, one of the trekking partners mused, “No wonder so many religions come from here. Anywhere else on the planet we might think “My, isn’t humanity clever”. Here you look up at such a sky and think “We are totally, totally insignificant…”

On the final night we camped on the back slope of Mount Sinai, the mountain where Moses received The Law. We awoke at 2:00 AM to trek round the front. There, thousands of ancient steps have been carved out of the mountain leading to a chapel on the summit. Our objective was to climb the steps up to the chapel in the dark to watch the sunrise over the Sinai wilderness.

We set off in pitch blackness. After a few hours we had rounded the base of the mountain. There was a dull glow in the distance. As we approached, we discovered that it was a parking lot. It was full of buses full of pilgrims preparing to climb Mount Sinai just as we were. Our solitude was shattered.

We happened to fall in at the base of the steps in the midst of a group of particularly energetic Japanese pilgrims. Fulfilling every Karate Kid stereotype, each pilgrim was wearing a headband with something written on it in Japanese. Up ahead in the dark their leader would yell “YURIKI!” (courage in Japanese). The pilgrims would then lustily respond “YURIKI!” in unison. We soon left them behind. Our group was much fitter and had grown accustomed to the thin air at altitude. But for some time we could hear their call and response fading ever further below us in the dark.

After a couple of hours our little group reached the summit. We hunkered down against the outer wall of the chapel, poured some coffee, and faced eastward waiting for dawn. In time the sky began to glow pink. Then the top of the sun’s orange disk broke the horizon, flooding the vast desert wilderness below us with light. It was absolutely magical.

About this time, the bedraggled leader of the Japanese tour group finally reached the top. Exhausted and panting for breath, she uttered a feeble “yyyyyuuuuurrrrrrikiiiii”. The few pilgrims who had managed the summit with her gasped out an equally feeble response. Perhaps next time they might consider taking altitude tablets. Hey, the tablets worked for Moses…

 

[If you know others who might enjoy a lighthearted story to begin their week, kindly forward them WordsfortheWeary. The more the merrier.]

[Apologies for the small photo, working on improving]

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My Sister

My sister’s life lies somewhere between inspiration and calamity. She is the bravest person I know. But she also has life skills that lead her to exclaim that her life is “mostly a warning for others”.

My sister makes principled decisions anchored in what will be most meaningful for her and for others. She then lives the hard consequences with courage. She gave up a surefire job after college to work as an unpaid intern at a museum. There she made critical contributions to a new display on race relations. To make ends meet she lived in my aunt’s basement and waited tables. Out of conviction, she then left the comfort of her familiar life to move to a new city where she endured a soul-withering job, but found her soulmate. She recently left a top-tier college for a new post at a small Midwestern school. She believes in their cause and in her ability to make a difference there. She is an inspiration….

….and a warning. Take her recent trip to China. On her very first day in Beijing she became separated from her tour group. Soon hopelessly lost within the labyrinth of the “Forbidden City”, she was obliged to show someone a card that the tour company had given her. Written on the card in Cantonese was something to the effect of: I have lost my tour group. Please call my tour company at…. A panicked guide soon appeared for her. Life Skills – 0.

Next was a boat trip up the Yangtze River. Onboard she shared a cabin with her travelling companion. It had a small balcony off the side of the boat. One evening my sister prepared to go up on deck for dinner. She shut off the cabin lights. She closed and locked the balcony door and the cabin door. Seated alone at her dining table, my sister became increasingly annoyed that her roommate was taking so long to join her. Finally she began to eat on her own. Sometime later her roommate appeared, none too pleased. For quite some time she had been locked out on the balcony. She had since been pounding on the balcony door and yelling for help. She was finally rescued by someone in the adjoining room. Life Skills – 0: Calamity – 1.

Near the end of the trip it came time to buy gifts for the family back home. My sister discovered that to do so in a local Chinese shop, one had to barter. She does not like to barter. So instead, she returned to Philadelphia and went straight to the shops in Chinatown. There she bought all sorts of Chinese knick knacks for our family. No bartering, and we were none the wiser. Besides, she reckoned all the stuff came from the same place anyways. Life Skills – 1.

[If you know others who might enjoy a lighthearted story to begin their week, kindly forward them WordsfortheWeary. The more the merrier.]

Image found at funnysigns.net

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The Parade

I flattened the little kid. I walked into her full stride and knocked her to the pavement. As she lay there stunned, I bent down to help her up. All the while trapped inside my Pig-From-The-House-Of-Straw costume.

Some friends and I had signed up to be in the local town parade. We were assigned the “Three-little-pigs” and the “Big-bad-wolf” costumes. We got into the fluffy costumes, affixed the oversized heads, and took our assigned place in the parade line-up. Always a crowd-pleaser, we would chase each other around and make exaggerated huffing and puffing antics all along the parade route.

Wearing a giant pig costume is not as easy as it looks. For starters, the costume smelled AWFUL. You perspire like crazy in those things, as did the people who wore them before you. With the affixed head, there is very little air circulation. So basically you are walking a parade route in the sun in a fuzzy, sealed plastic bag full of sweat. Not pleasant.

Secondly, the parade route itself is not so straightforward. There was a marching band in front of us and a motorized float behind us (ironically, given that we were dressed as pigs, the float was promoting the local vegetarian club. True). We had to beware of all the stopping and starting lest we crash into the band or get run over ourselves by the float. And with many horses and carriages involved, lets just say there were a lot of “leavings” along the parade route. A lot.

Finally, the visibility out of the costume is near zero. We could only see through a screen in the pigs nostrils. We were constantly straining to see one another, keeping an eye out for leavings, the band, and the float. That’s where the kid comes in.

She probably loved the Three Little Pigs. Who can blame her? So she broke ranks from the roadside crowd and ran to give me a hug. With no peripheral vision, I never saw her coming. WHAMMO. Down she went with a pork knuckle to her chest.

Of course I was horrified. I bent over to help her up. She freaked out. Again, who could blame her? The giant pig that just flattened her was now towering above her, unable to communicate through a stupid costume that smelled of sweat and horse urine. From one nostril I could see the horrified mother. From the other, the father encouraging me to just move along. Which I did, in haste.

When I got home my father had taped the parade on our VCR. As fate would have it the incident occurred in front of the TV tower where they filmed the parade. The commentary went something like this:  “Well Ben, here come those rascally little pigs and the big bad wolf. Always a crowd fave… Good heavens…. Did that pig just….I believe it was the House of Straw…Oh dear… I hope she’s OK…

I hope so too.

 

[If you know others who might enjoy a lighthearted story to begin their week, kindly forward them WordsfortheWeary. The more the merrier.]

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Leftovers

“You ate the damn bunny?”

With these sweet, affirming words my wife greeted me this past Easter morning. How was I to know that particular, tasty little chocolate bunny was earmarked for one of our kids? There wasn’t a label on it. And for the record, it was totally worth it.

My wife was not pleased. She seldom is on days when I forage like a roving bear through our fridge, pantry, and shelves. This describes my behavior on most days.

I developed this bad habit as a child. My parents were late morning sleepers. My sister and I were early morning risers. So my parents began to leave out breakfast cereal, two bowls, and two spoons. Their message was clear: kids help themselves and leave mom and dad alone for another hour of sleep.

Soon tiring of mere breakfast self-service, my sister and I began to forage further afield. If we put a chair on top of the counter we could reach the jar with the chocolate chips. If we stuck a hairpin in the lock on the pantry we could access nuts, syrup, coconut, and other delicacies. Sweet dreams mom and dad, we can take it from here.

It turns out the bad habit of foraging is rather widely shared by others. In college, my brother taped a sign to their refrigerator aimed at his roommates: “Opening and closing the fridge door will not magically make food appear”. Another friend describes his own foraging habit by simply stating, “Chuck: I can work a fridge”. I have seen this. He speaks the truth. He is a one man swarm of locust on the leftovers.

And leftovers are the foraging focal point of my marital tension. After a good meal my wife and I fill the Tupperware with leftovers and put them in the fridge. In my wife’s mind, this will be her lunch for tomorrow. In my mind, this will be my snack in about 30 minutes. As noted previously, if there is no label on it, it’s fair game. She does not agree. We are taking this issue to arbitration.

This morning I “accidentally” ate my wife’s leftover lunch that she was taking to work. She was understandably upset. So I made it up to her by slipping a leftover chocolate Easter bunny into her purse on her way out the door. I confess that before doing so, I first nibbled a bit off the butt.

 

[If you know others who might enjoy a lighthearted story to begin their week, kindly forward them WordsfortheWeary. The more the merrier.]

{Image Credit: Card Karma on Flickr}

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Anna – an Easter story

Easter is a season about what really matters: life out of death. My grandparents would credit Jesus for bringing life out of death for humanity at Easter. But for their own marriage, they would credit Miller Lite beer.

Each year they swore off beer for Lent. Their marriage would then be stress tested for the next 40 days. When they got home after the Easter service they would line up a 6-pack of cold ones on the kitchen counter. The moment the clock struck noon they would each shotgun a couple of beers. Marital bliss restored: life out of death. Thank you Miller Lite.

My friend Carl’s much more substantive experience with this mystery involves his daughter Anna. She was born in 1974 more than three months premature. Brain-injured at birth, she had cerebral palsy and was unable to walk, talk, or do much of anything for herself.  But she was smart, strong and charismatic – with a big smile and infectious laugh that drew people to her. Carl says, “She was my anchor and touchstone and I like to think that I was hers.”  Anna died unexpectedly and much too soon in 2006, back when Carl and I worked together.

Last year, Anna was honored at a neighborhood Day of the Dead party in Oakland. The party was held in an old speakeasy where the evening’s pass phrase was: “The Veil is Thin.” Anna’s photo (enclosed) was placed with those of the other departed on an elaborate, makeshift shrine behind the bar.  According to Carl, “It was an evening to remember with lots of laughter and tears flowing from the audience to accompany the beautiful, haunting music and storytelling.”

Days later, the host of the party contacted Carl to tell him how drawn he had been to Anna’s photo during the party, coming back to it again and again: “I want to know that woman,” he said. “I’m not sure what it was about Anna’s picture and the way that she looked at me, but it was captivating in a way that words cannot define . . . it was more of a feeling that touched my soul. Viewing her just captivated me . . .I wish I knew her.” Carl remarked that Anna still has that kind of presence more than 11 years after her death “. . . shining through the darkness and bringing light to our lives still”.

Carl is a real writer. He shared with me the following poem about Anna. I believe it is an Easter poem:

hungry we are hungry for connection

let me tell you about Anna

brain broken at birth

who had no stops

 

inhabiting a body that didn’t

work where words went in

and didn’t come out and all

was said with feelings

 

that shook you awake how

can you not open yourself to that

not hiding from the love revealed

in no words not capturing you

 

in her arms but penetrating

your defences with a look

insisting on your presence

her feelings like knives

 

cutting away half measures

to what you thought you knew

you never knew or imagined

that your time on earth could be

 

so simple and joyful for even just this

one moment in her presence eyes lit up

seeing you in a way never seen

or thought possible who are you

 

who are you now when will you see

yourself through her eyes

exposed revealed redeemed

in the touch that she could only give

 

if touched first what if you too

could put words aside

fiercely surrendering to her

hard-won state of grace

 

that would be something to celebrate. 

Such a hard-won state of grace and something to celebrate indeed. Happy Easter friends!

[If you know others who might enjoy a lighthearted story to begin their week, kindly forward them WordsfortheWeary. The more the merrier.]

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Middle America Pt II

I just returned from a full month in the surprising and wonderful town of La Crosse, Wisconsin (see last week’s post). A few more unforgettable local moments took place in my final week there, including:

Decency:  A class of learning disabled adults came into the YMCA to try out the gym equipment. They far outnumbered the available staff. Most of them struggled with how to calibrate the bicycles, rowers, stair climbers, ellipticals, and other fitness machines. Within a minute, most of the gym regulars paused their own workouts to come alongside each disabled adult. They patiently helped to get them sorted. They then stayed by their side, chatting and laughing and helping each person try the different machines.

Priorities: I attended a fund raiser for the local hospice. This gave me a chance to personally thank the hospice staff who had cared for my father in his final days. I also picked up a promotional pamphlet that beggars belief for its sheer mid-western awesomeness, on every level. This is the direct text of the flier:

Hospice Care: Making Wishes Come True

Virginia was admitted to outpatient Hospice after it became apparent her lung cancer was not responding to chemotherapy. Her hospice nurse asked Virginia what she valued most in light of the diseases progression.

“One goal I still have is to tour the Spam Museum in Austin, Minnesota”, Virginia said.

It became clear over the next week that Virginia was too weak to travel to the museum. Committed to fulfill Virginia’s wish but unsure how to do so, her Hospice nurse called the Spam Museum. The manager she spoke with was so inspired by Virginia’s story that she agreed to drive the highlights from the Spam exhibits to La Crosse to bring Virginia’s dream to life…

Everything about this is awesome: (a) that there IS a Spam Museum, (b) that it was someone’s unfulfilled dying wish to visit it, (c) that the Hospice nurse saw fit to phone, (d) that they drove Spam stuff to La Crosse, (e) that someone wrote this into a promotional pamphlet, and (f) that I found the flier at an event to support the very same Hospice unit that took care of my father for terminal  lung cancer. You can’t make this up!

Cheeky: As I cleaned out dad’s house I discovered his extensive stash of irreverent religious items. Highlights include (a) a product called “The Nun Chuck”, which is a small catapult that flings foam nuns across the room, (b) a lawn sprinkler in the shape of Pope John Paul II called “Let us Spray” where water shoots out of the Pope’s upstretched hands, and (c) several Pope Francis paper face masks. I am not kidding, for some reason he had several of them. A man of faith, dad still managed to keep things in a proper mid-western perspective until the end.

 

[If you know others who might enjoy a lighthearted story to begin their week, kindly forward them WordsfortheWeary. The more the merrier.]

Image Credit: Dave Crosby, via Flickr

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Middle America

La Crosse, Wisconsin is magical. I’ve been here for a month and I am completely won over by the place, the people, and the large portions. Some of this month’s more unforgettable local moments include:

Guns: The local school held a fund raiser where the top raffle prizes were guns. My sister-in-law’s dad won himself a new .22. People in Wisconsin hunt, so nobody here thinks this is odd.

Trust: I accidentally mailed a letter with a name but no address. Realizing my mistake, I immediately went to the Post Office and explained the situation. The woman there asked for my street address and then said, “That address is on the south side, so your mail carrier is Pete”. She called Pete in his truck. He rifled through his stack of collected mail and said “Got it”. He then delivered the unaddressed letter to the Post Office at the end of his day. The kind lady called me. I picked up the letter. I was never asked to show ID or to sign a form.  I asked the kind lady about it and she just laughed, adding “Who would make up such a story?”

Service: I spent hours in the Social Security office on behalf of mom and dad. Their case is complicated, and the woman at the counter was new. She struggled with the transaction and I left with many things unresolved. But I did secure a meeting for the following Monday with her manager. The woman from the counter then called me the next day – let me repeat that someone from Social Security voluntarily called me – just to say she did not feel she had provided satisfactory service and she looked forward to Monday’s meeting with the manager to make sure everything got resolved. I nearly cried.

Jesus: We took my nephews to a maple sugar bush. The smell of wood fires and boiling sap were as delicious as the pancakes. We ate on a picnic table in a huge drive-shed filled with tractors, farm implements, fishing gear, mounted deer antlers, bags of fertilizer…and in the corner, a 9-foot statue of the Holy Family. Someone had placed a Green Bay Packers hat on Joseph.

Empathy: In my one and only ten-minute interaction with a local bank teller I discovered the following: she has three dogs, her favorite sandwich is peanut butter and pickle, she competes in 1950s dress-up pageants, she once wept in a cathedral in Ireland, her favorite line from a poem is tattooed on her foot. I learned all this after I disclosed that my mother has dementia. Her mother does too, and so she just opened up.

Character: I picked up a local homeless lady who was hitchhiking. She is in her 70s and living rough. She asked me to drive her to a hamlet 5 miles out of town. Turns out that she is an artist. She keeps her work in a storage locker in the hamlet. As we drove past a roadside bar she mentioned casually that years before she had opened up a guy’s belly there with a corkscrew after he hit a woman. “I was wild in my younger days”, she mused, “But don’t worry sonny. Now I just paint”.

[If you know others who might enjoy a lighthearted story to begin their week, kindly forward them WordsfortheWeary. The more the merrier.]

[Image Credit: The Raven at genesiseightseven.blogspot.com]