Now that Christmas has come and gone, what’s left but to take down all those decorations? It’s a task most of us dread. I suppose that’s why some people leave them up until spring. And a few never take them down.
In my family, we (“we” being my dad, myself and brothers) would have them down by January 1, in accordance with the Book of the Law of my mom, who decorated the interior of our home. Many people contend it’s appropriate to keep them up until January 6, Epiphany. Leaving them up beyond that date becomes borderline tacky, some say.
In any case, taking down decorations makes me wonder why I put them up anyway. Why do that? We did it, I suppose, because it had become a family tradition. Dad would get them out shortly after Thanksgiving, and I, being the youngest and smallest, would be ordered to shimmy up there or crawl over here to hang them. But my talents were limited; I was and am something of a mechanical incompetent.
You’d think, as much time as I spent helping dad put up Christmas lights, I would be a stickler for carrying on that tradition with my own household. I did for years but somewhere wandered away, and far from home, with my own brood up and gone, conveniently forgot this family ritual. Perhaps it’s because I am such a mechanical disaster; beyond the simple task of changing a light bulb, when it comes to anything electrical, I can be dangerous. When putting up the lights, I would usually have visions of Chevy Chase in National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation, where he can’t get his 25, 000 lights turned on and when he does, momentarily compromises the city’s electrical power.
Or maybe the reason I dropped the tradition was that I was indelibly scarred by memories of taking those decorations down, boxing them up, and carrying them to the attic year after year. I love Christmas traditions: the decorated tree, the mistletoe, even chestnuts roasting over an open fire---but I’ve managed to avoid the aisle in the store where Christmas lights can be found.
That’s why I was so surprised when I found my son, Dave, home on his first day of Christmas break from Centre College, rummaging through the garage on Sunday afternoon a couple of weeks ago. “What are you doing?” I queried.
“Just getting out the nativity scene.” He was referring to the outdoor nativity scene we used to put in the front lawn. I felt a bit shabby for letting Mary, Joseph, the baby Jesus, the camels, sheep, shepherds, and wise men lie neglected in the corner of the garage during Christmas. “And while I’m at it, I think I’ll get that wreath down too,” he continued. I felt a slight twinge of guilt; Lori, who was out of town, had mentioned the wreath to me, but her hint had fallen on my dull ears.
“Need any help?” I hesitatingly asked Dave.
“No,” he responded “I can get it, but I’ll holler at you if I do.”
He didn’t.
What’s an outdoor nativity scene without lights? A trip to the store for floodlights and a timer for them, wire to hang the wreath, and a few hours later Dave had our nativity scene looking alive. And my lone contribution was holding the ladder.
Whether Dave knew I was overwhelmed with work in my study, or whether he simply wanted to protect himself from a dad’s mechanical ineptitude, I don’t know and won’t ask. I do know he made Lori smile. “I love the lights!” she excitedly exclaimed the next day when she returned.
“That’s Dave’s gift to you,” I informed her.
Later that night, I reminded Dave how much Lori liked the lights. “But let me ask you,” I inquired, “why did you do that? Why did you go through all the trouble of putting up the nativity, the lights, the wreath?”
He paused a moment, smiled, and said, “Just carrying on an old family tradition, Dad, just carrying on an old family tradition.”
Life Matters is written by David B.Whitlock, Ph.D. His email address is drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com David’s website is DavidBWhitlock.com
Thursday, December 30, 2010
Friday, December 24, 2010
Have a Merry Life This Christmas
“We are so happy to be alive. Life means a lot more today than yesterday,” said Panama City, Florida School Board member, Jerry Register, the day after deranged gunman, Clay Duke, opened fire on the School Board and the School Superintendant, William Husfelt.
Looking into the barrel of a handgun has an interesting way of bringing life into focus. For Register and the others who endured what must have seemed to them at the time to be the longest school board meeting ever, life would, could never be the same--- at least that’s what they said in the days following their harrowing experience. The threat of losing life can give deeper meaning to life, once it’s returned.
In an effort to calm Duke, the School Superintendant spoke of his wife and family, and how he wanted to live and enjoy his loved ones. Later, in an interview with Anderson Cooper, Husfelt said, “I do not have a death wish. I know if I were to die today, I know where I’m going and I was fine with that, but I did not want everyone in that room killed.”
People who have had close encounters with death often talk about how important family, friends, and eternity become in that moment of suspense between life and death, that moment of transition from death in the third person, “People die,” to death in the first person, “I’m about to die.” One’s “to-do” list gets pared down rather quickly.
And what about the gunman, Clay Duke? Did he have similar thoughts of family, friends, and eternity before he placed his gun to his own head? Or was he incapable, in that moment, of thinking such rational thoughts? "The economy and the world just got the better of him. And, along with his bi-polar, it just set him up for this horrible event," his wife said.
Is it coincidental that this shocking event happened during Christmas season? Christmas---the season of joy, of anticipation, of holiday fun--- glides precariously above of the turbulent surface of other emotions: despair, doom, depression, anger, and hate. And sometimes, those emotions invade Christmas, upending it in abrupt ways.
What is it about the Christmas season that brings this out in people? Is it the shopping, the shoppers, the cards, the decorations, the gifts, the parties, and the greed that cause the impatience, the frustration, the anger, the hatred that is expressed in the rudeness, the meanness, the threats, the cursing and even the violence? It’s Christmas season: nerves are on edge; finances are stretched; emotions are frayed; people explode.
But for a few, like Mr. Duke, it goes beyond that. It spirals downward into hatred and violent actions.
Whether Christmas stress was a catalyst for Duke’s actions is something we will probably never know. His story will soon be lost for most people, another faded news item for all except those directly involved in the sad event. And that in itself is sad because the story can remind us during this season that savoring the gift of life in each moment can quell the despair, the anger, and hatred that accompany a season that is supposed to proclaim joy, hope, and peace. And it might even cure the sickness of a desperate soul like Clay Duke, who could be your neighbor, or co-worker, or friend, or family member, or you.
Somehow, it’s comforting to know life was really no different that night Christ was born: no room in the inn; taxes to be paid; dirty, irritating people everywhere; a menacing government demanding more; trouble and sorrow on every corner.
And there---in that small little corner of nowhere, a place where it was said, no good thing could possibly come, where the poor were oppressed and the rich gloated---he was born: “Peace on earth, and mercy mild; God and sinner reconciled.” And yes, by the way: life for all who come to him--- a life more meaningful today than yesterday. Everyday.
You can write David B.Whitlock, Ph.D, at drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com and visit his website, davidbwhitlock.com.
Looking into the barrel of a handgun has an interesting way of bringing life into focus. For Register and the others who endured what must have seemed to them at the time to be the longest school board meeting ever, life would, could never be the same--- at least that’s what they said in the days following their harrowing experience. The threat of losing life can give deeper meaning to life, once it’s returned.
In an effort to calm Duke, the School Superintendant spoke of his wife and family, and how he wanted to live and enjoy his loved ones. Later, in an interview with Anderson Cooper, Husfelt said, “I do not have a death wish. I know if I were to die today, I know where I’m going and I was fine with that, but I did not want everyone in that room killed.”
People who have had close encounters with death often talk about how important family, friends, and eternity become in that moment of suspense between life and death, that moment of transition from death in the third person, “People die,” to death in the first person, “I’m about to die.” One’s “to-do” list gets pared down rather quickly.
And what about the gunman, Clay Duke? Did he have similar thoughts of family, friends, and eternity before he placed his gun to his own head? Or was he incapable, in that moment, of thinking such rational thoughts? "The economy and the world just got the better of him. And, along with his bi-polar, it just set him up for this horrible event," his wife said.
Is it coincidental that this shocking event happened during Christmas season? Christmas---the season of joy, of anticipation, of holiday fun--- glides precariously above of the turbulent surface of other emotions: despair, doom, depression, anger, and hate. And sometimes, those emotions invade Christmas, upending it in abrupt ways.
What is it about the Christmas season that brings this out in people? Is it the shopping, the shoppers, the cards, the decorations, the gifts, the parties, and the greed that cause the impatience, the frustration, the anger, the hatred that is expressed in the rudeness, the meanness, the threats, the cursing and even the violence? It’s Christmas season: nerves are on edge; finances are stretched; emotions are frayed; people explode.
But for a few, like Mr. Duke, it goes beyond that. It spirals downward into hatred and violent actions.
Whether Christmas stress was a catalyst for Duke’s actions is something we will probably never know. His story will soon be lost for most people, another faded news item for all except those directly involved in the sad event. And that in itself is sad because the story can remind us during this season that savoring the gift of life in each moment can quell the despair, the anger, and hatred that accompany a season that is supposed to proclaim joy, hope, and peace. And it might even cure the sickness of a desperate soul like Clay Duke, who could be your neighbor, or co-worker, or friend, or family member, or you.
Somehow, it’s comforting to know life was really no different that night Christ was born: no room in the inn; taxes to be paid; dirty, irritating people everywhere; a menacing government demanding more; trouble and sorrow on every corner.
And there---in that small little corner of nowhere, a place where it was said, no good thing could possibly come, where the poor were oppressed and the rich gloated---he was born: “Peace on earth, and mercy mild; God and sinner reconciled.” And yes, by the way: life for all who come to him--- a life more meaningful today than yesterday. Everyday.
You can write David B.Whitlock, Ph.D, at drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com and visit his website, davidbwhitlock.com.
Saturday, December 18, 2010
Doubting Christmas?
“Who gave you permission to tell Charlie there was no Santa Claus? I think if we're going to destroy our son's delusions, I should be a part of it.”
---Scott Calvin, (played by actor Tim Allen in the movie, The Santa Claus, 1994).
“Some of the kids at school say Santa’s not real, but I don’t believe them. Santa is real. I just know it.” My sister-in-law, Lisa Suriano, was quoting her 8 year old son, Cooper. “What do you think I should do?” Lisa asked me. “Should I tell him?”
I didn’t need to ask, “Tell him what?” I knew exactly what she meant: the truth about Santa Claus.
Should parents tell their kids that Santa Claus is not real? Or is it okay to “play along,” and enjoy a child’s season of magical thinking with Santa at Christmas?
For some parents this is a big issue, and they are quite intense in their conviction: participating in the Santa tradition is tantamount to deceiving children, setting up a situation that can cause a child to doubt the trustworthiness of the parent.
But for others, it’s a healthy way of experiencing the joy and anticipation of receiving gifts. And, in those homes where the Santa tradition is welcomed, he is enjoyed for a while until the kids discover he is a myth. For some, as with our daughter Mary-Elizabeth and son Harrison, it comes when they see mom and dad, or an uncle or aunt, putting out the Santa gifts; for others, as with our son, Dave, it’s another sibling who breaks the news about Santa’s demise; and then for some, like our daughter, Madi, it’s schoolmates who are the informants about Santa’s fictional identity.
I don’t think any of these children, although they may have been disappointed at the time, experienced emotional trauma at the discovery that Santa doesn’t exist .Nor did it lead them to doubt their parents on larger life issues.
But, still, I have a concern here about how this plays out: a distinction should be made somewhere in the conversation with children between what is true about religion and morality and what is simply playful make-believe. I fear we may undermine the reality of the religious event we celebrate. We may inadvertently communicate to our children that it’s all just a story, nothing more than a myth: the birth of Jesus and Santa; Christ’s resurrection and the Easter Bunny--- both melt into the same fictional genre: simply children’s fairy tale stories we outgrow.
But Santa Claus does have a history, although it’s embedded in tradition. His story grew from St. Nicholas, who was a bishop in a region of what is now Turkey. According to tradition, he was known for his love for his church and for the plight of poor children. St. Nicholas was reputed to have secretly delivered three bags of gold down a chimney to a poor family to provide a dowry for three unmarried sisters. From this developed the tradition of Santa Claus, a Dutch version of St. Nicholas.
Perhaps, by telling about St. Nicholas and how the story of Santa came from him, those who want to keep the Santa tradition can uphold the spiritual aspect of this season and still let Santa come down the chimney. Maybe they could say to their children something like, “Santa Claus is a wonderful story about a person who gave gifts and loved and cared for people. The main thing we need to remember is that Santa reminds us that God is the greatest gift-giver of all, and that’s what Christmas is really all about.”
What parents do with Santa is a personal matter; each family must come to terms with their own family traditions. But no matter what we do with Santa, it is unlikely we will shield our children from the possibility of doubt---and that includes the “real” Christmas. After all, Jesus’ own cousin, John the Baptist, had his doubts. In prison, he found himself knee deep in confusion. “Is it true? Is it him? Is he just another self-proclaimed messiah? Should we wait for another? Is it just another story?”
So John asked. And Jesus answered, “Go back to John and tell him what you have heard and seen—the blind see, the lame walk, the lepers are cured, the deaf hear, the dead are raised to life, and the Good News is being preached to the poor. And tell him, ‘God blesses those who do not turn away because of me.’”
Notice, if you will, Jesus never said, “I’m the Messiah, for certain; without a doubt, I’m the one.” He only pointed to the evidence. He answered, but his answer still left room for the necessity of faith. For without faith, Christmas wouldn’t be Christmas, would it?
No doubt.
Life Matters is written by David B. Whitlock, Ph.D. His email is drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com. David’s website is davidbwhitlock.com.
---Scott Calvin, (played by actor Tim Allen in the movie, The Santa Claus, 1994).
“Some of the kids at school say Santa’s not real, but I don’t believe them. Santa is real. I just know it.” My sister-in-law, Lisa Suriano, was quoting her 8 year old son, Cooper. “What do you think I should do?” Lisa asked me. “Should I tell him?”
I didn’t need to ask, “Tell him what?” I knew exactly what she meant: the truth about Santa Claus.
Should parents tell their kids that Santa Claus is not real? Or is it okay to “play along,” and enjoy a child’s season of magical thinking with Santa at Christmas?
For some parents this is a big issue, and they are quite intense in their conviction: participating in the Santa tradition is tantamount to deceiving children, setting up a situation that can cause a child to doubt the trustworthiness of the parent.
But for others, it’s a healthy way of experiencing the joy and anticipation of receiving gifts. And, in those homes where the Santa tradition is welcomed, he is enjoyed for a while until the kids discover he is a myth. For some, as with our daughter Mary-Elizabeth and son Harrison, it comes when they see mom and dad, or an uncle or aunt, putting out the Santa gifts; for others, as with our son, Dave, it’s another sibling who breaks the news about Santa’s demise; and then for some, like our daughter, Madi, it’s schoolmates who are the informants about Santa’s fictional identity.
I don’t think any of these children, although they may have been disappointed at the time, experienced emotional trauma at the discovery that Santa doesn’t exist .Nor did it lead them to doubt their parents on larger life issues.
But, still, I have a concern here about how this plays out: a distinction should be made somewhere in the conversation with children between what is true about religion and morality and what is simply playful make-believe. I fear we may undermine the reality of the religious event we celebrate. We may inadvertently communicate to our children that it’s all just a story, nothing more than a myth: the birth of Jesus and Santa; Christ’s resurrection and the Easter Bunny--- both melt into the same fictional genre: simply children’s fairy tale stories we outgrow.
But Santa Claus does have a history, although it’s embedded in tradition. His story grew from St. Nicholas, who was a bishop in a region of what is now Turkey. According to tradition, he was known for his love for his church and for the plight of poor children. St. Nicholas was reputed to have secretly delivered three bags of gold down a chimney to a poor family to provide a dowry for three unmarried sisters. From this developed the tradition of Santa Claus, a Dutch version of St. Nicholas.
Perhaps, by telling about St. Nicholas and how the story of Santa came from him, those who want to keep the Santa tradition can uphold the spiritual aspect of this season and still let Santa come down the chimney. Maybe they could say to their children something like, “Santa Claus is a wonderful story about a person who gave gifts and loved and cared for people. The main thing we need to remember is that Santa reminds us that God is the greatest gift-giver of all, and that’s what Christmas is really all about.”
What parents do with Santa is a personal matter; each family must come to terms with their own family traditions. But no matter what we do with Santa, it is unlikely we will shield our children from the possibility of doubt---and that includes the “real” Christmas. After all, Jesus’ own cousin, John the Baptist, had his doubts. In prison, he found himself knee deep in confusion. “Is it true? Is it him? Is he just another self-proclaimed messiah? Should we wait for another? Is it just another story?”
So John asked. And Jesus answered, “Go back to John and tell him what you have heard and seen—the blind see, the lame walk, the lepers are cured, the deaf hear, the dead are raised to life, and the Good News is being preached to the poor. And tell him, ‘God blesses those who do not turn away because of me.’”
Notice, if you will, Jesus never said, “I’m the Messiah, for certain; without a doubt, I’m the one.” He only pointed to the evidence. He answered, but his answer still left room for the necessity of faith. For without faith, Christmas wouldn’t be Christmas, would it?
No doubt.
Life Matters is written by David B. Whitlock, Ph.D. His email is drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com. David’s website is davidbwhitlock.com.
Thursday, December 2, 2010
A Glimmer of Hope
It’s been a tough week for world peace. Tensions between North and South Korea are severely strained after North Korea launched a deadly artillery attack last week; the war in Afghanistan drags on as U.S. leaders ponder the duration of our presence there; a strategic arms pact with Russia appears to be on hold, at least for now; a new English-language web magazine produced by Al Qaeda entices alienated American Muslims to “attack the enemy (America) with smaller but more frequent operations” that will “bleed the enemy by a thousand cuts;” a 19 year old American-Somali man, Mohamed Osman Mohamud, was accused of trying to blow up a van full of explosives during Portland, Oregon’s Christmas tree lighting ceremony; and we have yet to see the full impact on national security that the newly released WickiLeak documents will have.
Meanwhile, millions of us barreled past Black Friday and then with grand élan, having taken a breather over the weekend, millions more enjoyed the convenience of shopping online for Cyber Monday. And somewhere in all this---oh yes, Sunday--- the first day of Advent lie hidden in the corner of the church house, quiet as a mouse.
If we aren’t intentional, amidst all the crises of our world and the cries from retailers beckoning us to catch the next best buy, we will miss the true celebration around the manger. That’s what Advent is about: taking the time to prepare for Christ. Taken from the Latin word adventus, meaning coming, Advent is observed by many Christians in the West as a way of preparing for the celebration of Christ’s birth 2,000 years ago. Even churches that don’t formally observe Advent have different ways of anticipating the celebration of Jesus’ birth.
The time to do that is now, not December 24th. And that requires something most of us are short on: patience. We do not like waiting on Christ, nor preparing for him. We prefer him to catch up with us. The French philosopher and Christian mystic, Simone Weil, said, “Waiting patiently in expectation is the foundation of the spiritual life.” Expectant waiting takes place most often in the quiet, in the secret place of a heart yearning for more than the world can offer. It’s heard in the strained voice of one crying in the wilderness, “Prepare the way of the Lord.”
Some eight centuries before the birth of Jesus Christ, when a foreign military superpower, Assyria, threatened tiny Judah’s national security, the prophet Isaiah proclaimed hope in the midst of despair. It may have only been a glimmer, but that was all the hope necessary to give words to his vision of a better day, a time when the nations would “hammer their swords into plowshares and their spears into pruning hooks.” In a day of fear and intimidation, distraction and disarray, dishonesty and corruption, Isaiah, waiting patiently, caught a glint of hope--- eight centuries yet away. But he saw it. And he wouldn’t let it go.
Sometimes small glimmers of hope are all that is necessary to birth a new tomorrow, even when that tomorrow seems an eternity away.
Tempted to despair this Christmas season? Small wonder. It’s the way of our world; the world we know, the world of anxiety, anger, and ultimately annihilation. It’s only in looking away from it that we can gaze into another world, the world within the Word---a strange and mysterious world where miracles happen, where a virgin gives birth to a Savior, where good news announces freedom to captives, hope for the despondent, and light for those dwelling in darkness---the world you’ve longed for, where the songless choir is given the rhythm of joy by which it rejoices with heaven and nature, singing: “Joy to the world, the Lord is come!”
It’s a world worth waiting for, and as we listen, ever so intently, we can almost see it, faintly, obscurely, dimly, but undeniably there---peeking over the morning horizon: a glimmer of hope. Do you see it?
Life Matters is written by David B. Whitlock, Ph.D. His email is drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com. David’s website is davidbwhitlock.com.
Meanwhile, millions of us barreled past Black Friday and then with grand élan, having taken a breather over the weekend, millions more enjoyed the convenience of shopping online for Cyber Monday. And somewhere in all this---oh yes, Sunday--- the first day of Advent lie hidden in the corner of the church house, quiet as a mouse.
If we aren’t intentional, amidst all the crises of our world and the cries from retailers beckoning us to catch the next best buy, we will miss the true celebration around the manger. That’s what Advent is about: taking the time to prepare for Christ. Taken from the Latin word adventus, meaning coming, Advent is observed by many Christians in the West as a way of preparing for the celebration of Christ’s birth 2,000 years ago. Even churches that don’t formally observe Advent have different ways of anticipating the celebration of Jesus’ birth.
The time to do that is now, not December 24th. And that requires something most of us are short on: patience. We do not like waiting on Christ, nor preparing for him. We prefer him to catch up with us. The French philosopher and Christian mystic, Simone Weil, said, “Waiting patiently in expectation is the foundation of the spiritual life.” Expectant waiting takes place most often in the quiet, in the secret place of a heart yearning for more than the world can offer. It’s heard in the strained voice of one crying in the wilderness, “Prepare the way of the Lord.”
Some eight centuries before the birth of Jesus Christ, when a foreign military superpower, Assyria, threatened tiny Judah’s national security, the prophet Isaiah proclaimed hope in the midst of despair. It may have only been a glimmer, but that was all the hope necessary to give words to his vision of a better day, a time when the nations would “hammer their swords into plowshares and their spears into pruning hooks.” In a day of fear and intimidation, distraction and disarray, dishonesty and corruption, Isaiah, waiting patiently, caught a glint of hope--- eight centuries yet away. But he saw it. And he wouldn’t let it go.
Sometimes small glimmers of hope are all that is necessary to birth a new tomorrow, even when that tomorrow seems an eternity away.
Tempted to despair this Christmas season? Small wonder. It’s the way of our world; the world we know, the world of anxiety, anger, and ultimately annihilation. It’s only in looking away from it that we can gaze into another world, the world within the Word---a strange and mysterious world where miracles happen, where a virgin gives birth to a Savior, where good news announces freedom to captives, hope for the despondent, and light for those dwelling in darkness---the world you’ve longed for, where the songless choir is given the rhythm of joy by which it rejoices with heaven and nature, singing: “Joy to the world, the Lord is come!”
It’s a world worth waiting for, and as we listen, ever so intently, we can almost see it, faintly, obscurely, dimly, but undeniably there---peeking over the morning horizon: a glimmer of hope. Do you see it?
Life Matters is written by David B. Whitlock, Ph.D. His email is drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com. David’s website is davidbwhitlock.com.
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
Skipping Thanksgiving
Have you noticed how easily we pass from Halloween to Christmas, from October to December, from “Trick or Treat,” to “Here Comes Santa Claus”?
And Thanksgiving gets bypassed once again. Only now it happens with greater celerity and casualness. We’re beyond feeling any guilt about it.
I understand. I feel it, too. Thanksgiving’s absence matches the seasons: October is filled with fall foliage, arresting in its brilliant colors of orange, yellow, amber, and red as the maple, ash, oak, and hickory trees reach the peak of their autumn display; December, with the Christmas decorations of green wreaths, red and white candy canes, shiny silver tinsel over boughs, is a month of anticipation: the possibility, the hope, for a blanket of white snow on Christmas Eve, the jolly St. Nick Christmas stockings in red, white, and green, hanging over the warm glow of the fire place, awaiting the descent of Santa down the chimney in his contrasting uniform of red and white with black boots and belt.
But Thanksgiving falls in November, when the fall leaves have disappeared and have to be raked, the tree limbs are starkly naked, the sun sets before you get home from work, and a gray drabness seems to permeate the universe with a dismal somberness. Thanksgiving, set in between the ghosts and goblins of Halloween and the Santa and elves of Christmas, doesn’t stand a chance with its hapless turkey marked down on special at the local grocery store. Thanksgiving is in-between, and like the insecure middle child, seems uncomfortably out of place, having to fight for attention and recognition.
But it goes deeper than merely the differences in seasons. We Americans identify ourselves, the United States, as a consumer nation, and we do so with good reason: with only 5% of the world’s population we consume 25% of the world’s energy resources. We accumulate stuff and rent spaces to store the stuff we’ve bought on credit. And our lifestyle has come to roost on Wall Street with a financial debacle, in our environment with compromised resources, and in our health with overstressed bodies. We take and take, and stretch and stretch, for more and more, until we have made ourselves sick with Halloween candy and driven ourselves in debt with Christmas gifts.
And there sits that lonely turkey in the middle of the table. We barely have time anymore to pause, and sit, and share stories with family about life, and memories, and journeys, so busy we are with our rushing, and work, and previous commitments.
We would do well, this Thanksgiving Day, to reflect on our thanksgiving roots, remembering that the first Thanksgiving was born out of adversity: a few pilgrims and Native Americans, having survived the harsh winter of 1620, gathered to give thanks for the harvest of 1621. Grateful for the basics of life---God, family, and friends---they shared some food, laughed, talked, and rejoiced amidst their grim circumstances. It wasn’t until 1863 that the thanksgiving tradition became an official holiday. President Abraham Lincoln, spurred by journalist Sara Josepha Hale, declared the last Thursday of November a national day of Thanksgiving. You’ll recall Lincoln’s situation was less than ideal: the future of a United States was in serious question, the carnage of thousands of young men at Fredericksburg, Antietam, and Gettysburg was fresh on his mind as he called for all Americans to pause and give thanks for, “the gracious gifts of the Most High God, who, while dealing with us in anger for our sins, hath nevertheless remembered mercy.”
Instead of skipping Thanksgiving perhaps we would do well to draw on the spirit of thanksgiving past, pulling up a place and a time where not so long ago, amidst trying circumstances, people propped their chairs back, talked and listened to one another, reflected on life, and thanked God for it.
Life Matters is written by David B.Whitlock, Ph.D. David’s email is drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com, and his website is DavidBWhitlock.com
And Thanksgiving gets bypassed once again. Only now it happens with greater celerity and casualness. We’re beyond feeling any guilt about it.
I understand. I feel it, too. Thanksgiving’s absence matches the seasons: October is filled with fall foliage, arresting in its brilliant colors of orange, yellow, amber, and red as the maple, ash, oak, and hickory trees reach the peak of their autumn display; December, with the Christmas decorations of green wreaths, red and white candy canes, shiny silver tinsel over boughs, is a month of anticipation: the possibility, the hope, for a blanket of white snow on Christmas Eve, the jolly St. Nick Christmas stockings in red, white, and green, hanging over the warm glow of the fire place, awaiting the descent of Santa down the chimney in his contrasting uniform of red and white with black boots and belt.
But Thanksgiving falls in November, when the fall leaves have disappeared and have to be raked, the tree limbs are starkly naked, the sun sets before you get home from work, and a gray drabness seems to permeate the universe with a dismal somberness. Thanksgiving, set in between the ghosts and goblins of Halloween and the Santa and elves of Christmas, doesn’t stand a chance with its hapless turkey marked down on special at the local grocery store. Thanksgiving is in-between, and like the insecure middle child, seems uncomfortably out of place, having to fight for attention and recognition.
But it goes deeper than merely the differences in seasons. We Americans identify ourselves, the United States, as a consumer nation, and we do so with good reason: with only 5% of the world’s population we consume 25% of the world’s energy resources. We accumulate stuff and rent spaces to store the stuff we’ve bought on credit. And our lifestyle has come to roost on Wall Street with a financial debacle, in our environment with compromised resources, and in our health with overstressed bodies. We take and take, and stretch and stretch, for more and more, until we have made ourselves sick with Halloween candy and driven ourselves in debt with Christmas gifts.
And there sits that lonely turkey in the middle of the table. We barely have time anymore to pause, and sit, and share stories with family about life, and memories, and journeys, so busy we are with our rushing, and work, and previous commitments.
We would do well, this Thanksgiving Day, to reflect on our thanksgiving roots, remembering that the first Thanksgiving was born out of adversity: a few pilgrims and Native Americans, having survived the harsh winter of 1620, gathered to give thanks for the harvest of 1621. Grateful for the basics of life---God, family, and friends---they shared some food, laughed, talked, and rejoiced amidst their grim circumstances. It wasn’t until 1863 that the thanksgiving tradition became an official holiday. President Abraham Lincoln, spurred by journalist Sara Josepha Hale, declared the last Thursday of November a national day of Thanksgiving. You’ll recall Lincoln’s situation was less than ideal: the future of a United States was in serious question, the carnage of thousands of young men at Fredericksburg, Antietam, and Gettysburg was fresh on his mind as he called for all Americans to pause and give thanks for, “the gracious gifts of the Most High God, who, while dealing with us in anger for our sins, hath nevertheless remembered mercy.”
Instead of skipping Thanksgiving perhaps we would do well to draw on the spirit of thanksgiving past, pulling up a place and a time where not so long ago, amidst trying circumstances, people propped their chairs back, talked and listened to one another, reflected on life, and thanked God for it.
Life Matters is written by David B.Whitlock, Ph.D. David’s email is drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com, and his website is DavidBWhitlock.com
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
Forgotten Things Remembered
Forgotten Things Remembered
I hadn’t seen or touched it in almost 49 years. It was a homemade schoolbook satchel before the days of book bags. It belonged to my older brother, Doug. He carried it home the last day of school, 1961. Having completed the first grade that day, he skipped home from Washington Elementary School, proud of his report card and happy to be officially a 2nd grader. And I, being one grade behind him, was as usual anxiously waiting for him to get home so we could play. And that was the last day I touched that satchel or saw my brother. That’s because that was the day my brother died.
Now, almost 49 years later I was back home, helping mom go through boxes and boxes of things long forgotten. And we had only scratched the surface.
That’s when I found myself holding a white satchel with “Douglas” neatly written in big, red block letters across the top of the bag. Drawings of sports cars had been sewn on the front of the bag. It was a bit soiled--- definitely a boy’s bag, a tough survivor of the first school year.
The satchel was just as it was the day he dropped it in our room to go out and play with me. It even had his writing tablet and the “Crayola Crayons,” still inside. And tucked to one side, his report card, signed by Mrs. L.D.Whitlock every six weeks, with the lonely exception of that last six weeks, the one left to be signed, left blank forever.
Mom had buried all this in that box, entombing it in a crypt of memories, leaving it there these many years until I--- reverently holding it in my hands as if it were an urn containing sacred artifacts of a historical memory---flashed back to that day 49 years ago, to that emergency room where the two of us---brothers, playmates, friends---were being treated after a car accident, and where I heard him speak his last words to me, “Am I gonna die?” And I didn’t know what to tell him.
When asked the question, “How long does it take to get over a death?” grief therapist, Dr. Harold Ivan Smith, says, “As long as it takes.” Sometimes, perhaps especially with the death of a child, it doesn’t necessarily get better, it just gets different. In his book, Grievers Ask, Smith tells about Izzy, Dwight D.Eisenhower’s three year old son, who died in 1921. Eisnehower, a WWII general and two-term president, said of his son’s death, “It was the greatest disappointment and disaster in my life…the one I have never been able to forget completely.”
Holding my brother’s 1st grade school satchel in my hands, choking down a golf ball size lump in my throat, and seeing the tears in my mother’s eyes, I would have to agree with Mr. Eisenhower. And folding up that book bag, not knowing exactly what I would do with it, I realized as I carried it home, that in its burial, it had become much more than just a bag: it was a satchel full of memories, a bag full of grief, a receptacle of sorrows, the opening of which released images long forgotten, surreal-like as they rose to life, floating before my eyes like moving scenes on an 8 mm family film, portraying a little boy laughing his way home from school, wrestling his little brother in playful fun, chasing his dachshund to the car, edging his way in front of his little brother into the front seat, crashing onto the hood of the car, lying lifelessly with his brother in shattered windshield glass, crying in his brother’s arms on the way to the hospital, asking little brother that final, most ultimate question, and not receiving an answer.
Memories have a way of apprehending us when we least expect it. Pain is the price we pay for having loved, and grief is the residue of memories long forgotten but always remembered.
I hadn’t seen or touched it in almost 49 years. It was a homemade schoolbook satchel before the days of book bags. It belonged to my older brother, Doug. He carried it home the last day of school, 1961. Having completed the first grade that day, he skipped home from Washington Elementary School, proud of his report card and happy to be officially a 2nd grader. And I, being one grade behind him, was as usual anxiously waiting for him to get home so we could play. And that was the last day I touched that satchel or saw my brother. That’s because that was the day my brother died.
Now, almost 49 years later I was back home, helping mom go through boxes and boxes of things long forgotten. And we had only scratched the surface.
That’s when I found myself holding a white satchel with “Douglas” neatly written in big, red block letters across the top of the bag. Drawings of sports cars had been sewn on the front of the bag. It was a bit soiled--- definitely a boy’s bag, a tough survivor of the first school year.
The satchel was just as it was the day he dropped it in our room to go out and play with me. It even had his writing tablet and the “Crayola Crayons,” still inside. And tucked to one side, his report card, signed by Mrs. L.D.Whitlock every six weeks, with the lonely exception of that last six weeks, the one left to be signed, left blank forever.
Mom had buried all this in that box, entombing it in a crypt of memories, leaving it there these many years until I--- reverently holding it in my hands as if it were an urn containing sacred artifacts of a historical memory---flashed back to that day 49 years ago, to that emergency room where the two of us---brothers, playmates, friends---were being treated after a car accident, and where I heard him speak his last words to me, “Am I gonna die?” And I didn’t know what to tell him.
When asked the question, “How long does it take to get over a death?” grief therapist, Dr. Harold Ivan Smith, says, “As long as it takes.” Sometimes, perhaps especially with the death of a child, it doesn’t necessarily get better, it just gets different. In his book, Grievers Ask, Smith tells about Izzy, Dwight D.Eisenhower’s three year old son, who died in 1921. Eisnehower, a WWII general and two-term president, said of his son’s death, “It was the greatest disappointment and disaster in my life…the one I have never been able to forget completely.”
Holding my brother’s 1st grade school satchel in my hands, choking down a golf ball size lump in my throat, and seeing the tears in my mother’s eyes, I would have to agree with Mr. Eisenhower. And folding up that book bag, not knowing exactly what I would do with it, I realized as I carried it home, that in its burial, it had become much more than just a bag: it was a satchel full of memories, a bag full of grief, a receptacle of sorrows, the opening of which released images long forgotten, surreal-like as they rose to life, floating before my eyes like moving scenes on an 8 mm family film, portraying a little boy laughing his way home from school, wrestling his little brother in playful fun, chasing his dachshund to the car, edging his way in front of his little brother into the front seat, crashing onto the hood of the car, lying lifelessly with his brother in shattered windshield glass, crying in his brother’s arms on the way to the hospital, asking little brother that final, most ultimate question, and not receiving an answer.
Memories have a way of apprehending us when we least expect it. Pain is the price we pay for having loved, and grief is the residue of memories long forgotten but always remembered.
Monday, November 15, 2010
Overstuffed with Stuff
I have too much stuff. I know I do.
But on second thought, do I? How do we know when we have too much stuff? Who is the judge of that?
My guess is, I’m not alone in thinking I have too much stuff; most Americans would join me in the “I’ve got too much stuff” confessional. In our consumer driven society, owners of speciality stores make money helping us find ways to store more of our stuff so they buy more stuff for themselves.
In your estimation, my stuff may be worthless, while in my eyes, it may be precious. And to me, that stuff you’ve saved for years might be junk. We all have our special stuff.
Take books, for example. I love books, not only for the story they tell or the information they convey. I love to hold a new book, open it and smell the new pages. And I can tell you when, where and why I purchased most of my books. Superstar author Stephen King sees the advantages of e-books, but he still loves physical books. “I have thousands of books in my house,” he recently admitted in a Wall Street Journal interview. “In a weird way, it’s embarrassing…it’s crazy, but there are people who collect stamps,” he rationalized. I started getting rid some of my books. Then just the other day, I recalled a section from one of my books I read years ago. It was apropos for a class I am teaching. I raced into my library to pick it up. Gone. I growled as I remembered its location: Half –Price Books.
My wife and I need only a few coffee mugs Thanks to me, we have way more than we need. But, each one has a memory of the time I got it, or the people I’ve enjoyed coffee with while sipping from that mug. Many times I’ve started to toss them, but then I balk.
Knowing when we have too much stuff is not always easy, and having too much can be a hazard. Like most everything else there is a disorder for this. It’s a compulsive disorder called “hoarding.” Hoarders are people who accumulate far too much stuff and are unable to throw anything away. Their houses are so filled with stuff they can barely move around in them. According the American Journal of Psychiatry, “Compulsive hoarding is most commonly driven by obsessional fears of losing important items that the patient believes will be needed later, distorted beliefs about the importance of possessions, excessive acquisition, and exaggerated emotional attachments to possessions." Uhh, hmm.
Years ago, comedian George Carlin developed a routine around the concept of stuff. “That’s the whole meaning of life,” he joked, “trying to find a place to keep your stuff.” I suppose that’s when our stuff becomes dangerous: when accumulating it truly does become the meaning or purpose of life. You don’t have to be afflicted with hording syndrome to live a life for the sole purpose of acquiring more stuff. The stuff we own then owns us. We essentially become the stuff we’ve accumulated. That’s when we’re overstuffed with stuff.
Surely life has a higher purpose than storing up things only for ourselves or our own family.
Jesus warned us about this when he told a story about a man who tore down his barns to build bigger barns so he could store more of his stuff. And that very day, his soul was required of him. Jesus’ story hits home with most of us. After all, I’ve never presided over a funeral where the hearse had a U-Haul behind it.
Getting rid of my unnecessary stuff reminds me of what is really important; it gives me a sense of inner peace that frees me for the most worthy things in life. I realize that.
But I’m still going to sit down with a good book and some java in one of my favorite coffee mugs.
Life Matters is written by David B.Whitlock, Ph.D. David’s email is drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com. His website is, DavidBWhitlock.com
But on second thought, do I? How do we know when we have too much stuff? Who is the judge of that?
My guess is, I’m not alone in thinking I have too much stuff; most Americans would join me in the “I’ve got too much stuff” confessional. In our consumer driven society, owners of speciality stores make money helping us find ways to store more of our stuff so they buy more stuff for themselves.
In your estimation, my stuff may be worthless, while in my eyes, it may be precious. And to me, that stuff you’ve saved for years might be junk. We all have our special stuff.
Take books, for example. I love books, not only for the story they tell or the information they convey. I love to hold a new book, open it and smell the new pages. And I can tell you when, where and why I purchased most of my books. Superstar author Stephen King sees the advantages of e-books, but he still loves physical books. “I have thousands of books in my house,” he recently admitted in a Wall Street Journal interview. “In a weird way, it’s embarrassing…it’s crazy, but there are people who collect stamps,” he rationalized. I started getting rid some of my books. Then just the other day, I recalled a section from one of my books I read years ago. It was apropos for a class I am teaching. I raced into my library to pick it up. Gone. I growled as I remembered its location: Half –Price Books.
My wife and I need only a few coffee mugs Thanks to me, we have way more than we need. But, each one has a memory of the time I got it, or the people I’ve enjoyed coffee with while sipping from that mug. Many times I’ve started to toss them, but then I balk.
Knowing when we have too much stuff is not always easy, and having too much can be a hazard. Like most everything else there is a disorder for this. It’s a compulsive disorder called “hoarding.” Hoarders are people who accumulate far too much stuff and are unable to throw anything away. Their houses are so filled with stuff they can barely move around in them. According the American Journal of Psychiatry, “Compulsive hoarding is most commonly driven by obsessional fears of losing important items that the patient believes will be needed later, distorted beliefs about the importance of possessions, excessive acquisition, and exaggerated emotional attachments to possessions." Uhh, hmm.
Years ago, comedian George Carlin developed a routine around the concept of stuff. “That’s the whole meaning of life,” he joked, “trying to find a place to keep your stuff.” I suppose that’s when our stuff becomes dangerous: when accumulating it truly does become the meaning or purpose of life. You don’t have to be afflicted with hording syndrome to live a life for the sole purpose of acquiring more stuff. The stuff we own then owns us. We essentially become the stuff we’ve accumulated. That’s when we’re overstuffed with stuff.
Surely life has a higher purpose than storing up things only for ourselves or our own family.
Jesus warned us about this when he told a story about a man who tore down his barns to build bigger barns so he could store more of his stuff. And that very day, his soul was required of him. Jesus’ story hits home with most of us. After all, I’ve never presided over a funeral where the hearse had a U-Haul behind it.
Getting rid of my unnecessary stuff reminds me of what is really important; it gives me a sense of inner peace that frees me for the most worthy things in life. I realize that.
But I’m still going to sit down with a good book and some java in one of my favorite coffee mugs.
Life Matters is written by David B.Whitlock, Ph.D. David’s email is drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com. His website is, DavidBWhitlock.com
Thursday, November 11, 2010
The Bully in You
It seems bullying is epidemic these days. The cruel facts reveal that 23% of elementary students report being bullied one to three times in the last month; 77% of students report having been bullied; and each day 160,000 kids stay home from school for fear of being bullied.
I remember being bullied. It happened in my own front yard. I was in third grade, maybe fourth. We were playing football when some kids in junior high invited themselves to our game. Being bigger than us, they quickly took the game away. Then it got ugly. They began to call us names, “Punks,” “Wimps,” “Sissy’s.” Abusive language for the 1960s. The name calling escalated into pushing and shoving. We were intimidated by these older, bigger kids.
And then, from nowhere, or so it seemed, my older brother, Mark, showed up. Somehow he had seen what was happening. Mark was a stand-out football player for the Altus High School Bulldogs. He walked into our humiliating situation, took the football in his grip and zinged it at one of the bullies. It stung the kid, slipping through his hands and bouncing off his chest. “What’s wrong? Can’t take a ball thrown that fast?” Mark challenged. “Well, if you can’t play with the big boys, why are you picking on these little kids who are younger and smaller than you?”
That’s all it took. They lowered their heads and sulked away. Mark tossed the ball back to us and left without saying another word. Nothing more needed to be said. Case closed.
But what happens when no older brother or friend or parent shows up? What happens when our protectors are no longer there? Therein is the problem.
Experts tell us to communicate with others if we are bullied. Tell a parent or some authority. Also, stay in a group, and if possible, stand up to the bully, but don’t fight back.
People bully for many reasons. In one survey, 1 in 5 students admitted to having been a bully or bullying others at some point. Perhaps the root cause for bullying is a sense of insecurity on the part of the bully which expresses itself in a feeling of superiority over someone whose character the bully despises. Unfortunately, gayness has been an object for bullying. In the month of September, 2010, alone, nine young people, gay or suspected of being gay, took their lives after being bullied.
So, what’s the solution? Maybe the best place to start is for everyone to take a look within and ask, “Is there a bully in me?”
All of us have voices from the present and past that haunt us and cause us to engage in less than admirable behaviors. Sometimes the bully within whispers in our ear, “You’re a loser; you’re not worth it; you can’t.” And so, in frustration, we speak words of condemnation to the child in our home, or our spouse, or that different girl or guy at work or school. And we think somehow the negative feelings we receive from the bully within us will be abated by putting another down. Hurting others will make us feel better, we think. But it’s an illusion. It only reinforces negativity; we become less authentically human as a result.
Perhaps the key is to address that bully within. To say, “I am better than that,” is not to exalt oneself above others but to acknowledge God’s positive plan for us. We can live with others who are different--- with red and yellow, black and white, gay and straight, for they are precious in his sight. God loves people. Period. To bully one of God’s creatures is an affront to the God who made them. We don’t have to bully others to prove who we are. We just have to embrace the “Yes,” from the One who loves us always, just as we are, so we can love others just like they are. And then enjoy a life lived with that forever, “Yes.”
Life Matters is written by David B. Whitlock, Ph.D. His email address is drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com. His website is davidbwhitlock.com
I remember being bullied. It happened in my own front yard. I was in third grade, maybe fourth. We were playing football when some kids in junior high invited themselves to our game. Being bigger than us, they quickly took the game away. Then it got ugly. They began to call us names, “Punks,” “Wimps,” “Sissy’s.” Abusive language for the 1960s. The name calling escalated into pushing and shoving. We were intimidated by these older, bigger kids.
And then, from nowhere, or so it seemed, my older brother, Mark, showed up. Somehow he had seen what was happening. Mark was a stand-out football player for the Altus High School Bulldogs. He walked into our humiliating situation, took the football in his grip and zinged it at one of the bullies. It stung the kid, slipping through his hands and bouncing off his chest. “What’s wrong? Can’t take a ball thrown that fast?” Mark challenged. “Well, if you can’t play with the big boys, why are you picking on these little kids who are younger and smaller than you?”
That’s all it took. They lowered their heads and sulked away. Mark tossed the ball back to us and left without saying another word. Nothing more needed to be said. Case closed.
But what happens when no older brother or friend or parent shows up? What happens when our protectors are no longer there? Therein is the problem.
Experts tell us to communicate with others if we are bullied. Tell a parent or some authority. Also, stay in a group, and if possible, stand up to the bully, but don’t fight back.
People bully for many reasons. In one survey, 1 in 5 students admitted to having been a bully or bullying others at some point. Perhaps the root cause for bullying is a sense of insecurity on the part of the bully which expresses itself in a feeling of superiority over someone whose character the bully despises. Unfortunately, gayness has been an object for bullying. In the month of September, 2010, alone, nine young people, gay or suspected of being gay, took their lives after being bullied.
So, what’s the solution? Maybe the best place to start is for everyone to take a look within and ask, “Is there a bully in me?”
All of us have voices from the present and past that haunt us and cause us to engage in less than admirable behaviors. Sometimes the bully within whispers in our ear, “You’re a loser; you’re not worth it; you can’t.” And so, in frustration, we speak words of condemnation to the child in our home, or our spouse, or that different girl or guy at work or school. And we think somehow the negative feelings we receive from the bully within us will be abated by putting another down. Hurting others will make us feel better, we think. But it’s an illusion. It only reinforces negativity; we become less authentically human as a result.
Perhaps the key is to address that bully within. To say, “I am better than that,” is not to exalt oneself above others but to acknowledge God’s positive plan for us. We can live with others who are different--- with red and yellow, black and white, gay and straight, for they are precious in his sight. God loves people. Period. To bully one of God’s creatures is an affront to the God who made them. We don’t have to bully others to prove who we are. We just have to embrace the “Yes,” from the One who loves us always, just as we are, so we can love others just like they are. And then enjoy a life lived with that forever, “Yes.”
Life Matters is written by David B. Whitlock, Ph.D. His email address is drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com. His website is davidbwhitlock.com
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
Political Ads Gone Wild
Note: This should have been posted two weeks ago. Sorry for not having it in earlier
Mama always said, “Not all attention is good.”
Whew, we’ve seen the truism of mama’s dictum in political ads this campaign year. Politicians, Republican and Democrat, conservative and liberal, have in an effort to draw attention to the flaws of their opponents, used attack ads, and more often than not, drawn negative attention to themselves.
Take, for example, “The Ad,” in what is now being described as the ugliest campaign in the country, the campaign for the Kentucky U.S. Senate race between Kentucky Attorney General Jack Conway and Dr. Rand Paul. Conway’s ad draws attention to Rand Paul’s involvement in a secret society while an undergraduate at Baylor University. I do recall as an undergraduate at Baylor in the late 1970s, the group to which Paul would later belong. Known for their pranks and satirical writing, they were not taken seriously; they did not take themselves seriously. “What will they do next?” we would ask. Unfortunately for them, Baylor President Abner McCall did take them seriously, especially when some of them streaked across campus, a popular activity back then. McCall booted them and their running attire or lack thereof, off campus.
Now, Conway has used Paul’s involvement in that organization not, presumably, to attack Paul’s religion, but to expose him as part of a lunatic fringe, unfit for office. But in the process, everyone gets hurt, not just those involved in this particular political race.
Indeed the ad got attention on all the major television networks and landed Conway interviews with Matt Lauer (NBC Morning Show) and MSNBC’s “Hardball,” with Chris Mathews. Speaking of the ad, Mathews said, “I think it questions his faith.” And Lauer cited Jonathan Chait’s statement in the New Republic---which Lauer characterized as a “fairly liberal publication,”---that “This (Conway’s ad) is the ugliest, most illiberal political ad of the year.”
“That’s not exactly an award you want to win,” Lauer quipped.
The tragedy of negative ads, of which Conway’s is only the latest example, is that it brings everyone down: I wince every time I see the commercial, “Did Paul really do that?” Then I wince even more, “Did Conway really run that ad?” Stuart Rothenberg correctly dubbed the ad a “thermonuclear bomb.”
It hurts not only both candidates, but all of us, although Conway may not realize that yet. Supposing it does work, and he pulls it off, what does it say about the emerging trend in the political process?
It says to anyone with future political aspirations: “If you’ve ever, done anything inappropriate or perhaps even borderline inappropriate, it can and will be used against you.” The danger here is that we will lose qualified, effective leaders who could help America revive from a punishing recession, change the bleak economic forecast, compete with countries and their growing economies, and more effectively face the unknown challenges beyond the current horizon. We lose potential leaders’ wisdom; we lose their acumen; we lose their abilities. We all lose. Why? Because we have allowed an environment to thrive that few wish to enter. After all, who wants to put themselves or their families through political hazing? Columnist Peggy Noonan, no newcomer to American politics, recently wrote in her Wall Street Journal column about speaking with an entrepreneur, an effective leader with fresh ideas that could help our country. When Noonan urged him to enter politics, his response was, “I’ve lived an imperfect life. They’d kill me.” And they would.
Attack ads have another devastating effect: they spawn cynicism, fuel frustration, and create skepticism among the electorate. People are angry with politicians whom they no longer trust and find increasingly harder to believe. In an interview on Fox News, democratic strategist Richard Socarides defended Conway’s ad: “When the stakes are high you have to use extreme measures.” Who, then, defines, “extreme measures”? Each politician? Having wallowed into the gutter of politics, it’s difficult to shake its stench. And politicians seem surprised with an aggravated electorate.
Conway is by no means the only politician to use “extreme measures.” His ad simply happens to have the attention at the moment. And that’s the problem: Just as water flows naturally to the lowest level, so do we, unless we determine to seek higher ground. And unless we do, the political process will only get sleazier and slimier, as it slips and slides in its descent into chaos. In so doing, we all suffer; it injures all of us. And then, as we look askance at the mayhem in the political arena, which to a large degree determines our national future, we will perhaps with a tinge of sadness be reminded of that other parental warning: “Mama told me not to come.”
Life Matters is written by David B. Whitlock, Ph.D. His email is drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com, and his website is davidbwhitlock.com
Mama always said, “Not all attention is good.”
Whew, we’ve seen the truism of mama’s dictum in political ads this campaign year. Politicians, Republican and Democrat, conservative and liberal, have in an effort to draw attention to the flaws of their opponents, used attack ads, and more often than not, drawn negative attention to themselves.
Take, for example, “The Ad,” in what is now being described as the ugliest campaign in the country, the campaign for the Kentucky U.S. Senate race between Kentucky Attorney General Jack Conway and Dr. Rand Paul. Conway’s ad draws attention to Rand Paul’s involvement in a secret society while an undergraduate at Baylor University. I do recall as an undergraduate at Baylor in the late 1970s, the group to which Paul would later belong. Known for their pranks and satirical writing, they were not taken seriously; they did not take themselves seriously. “What will they do next?” we would ask. Unfortunately for them, Baylor President Abner McCall did take them seriously, especially when some of them streaked across campus, a popular activity back then. McCall booted them and their running attire or lack thereof, off campus.
Now, Conway has used Paul’s involvement in that organization not, presumably, to attack Paul’s religion, but to expose him as part of a lunatic fringe, unfit for office. But in the process, everyone gets hurt, not just those involved in this particular political race.
Indeed the ad got attention on all the major television networks and landed Conway interviews with Matt Lauer (NBC Morning Show) and MSNBC’s “Hardball,” with Chris Mathews. Speaking of the ad, Mathews said, “I think it questions his faith.” And Lauer cited Jonathan Chait’s statement in the New Republic---which Lauer characterized as a “fairly liberal publication,”---that “This (Conway’s ad) is the ugliest, most illiberal political ad of the year.”
“That’s not exactly an award you want to win,” Lauer quipped.
The tragedy of negative ads, of which Conway’s is only the latest example, is that it brings everyone down: I wince every time I see the commercial, “Did Paul really do that?” Then I wince even more, “Did Conway really run that ad?” Stuart Rothenberg correctly dubbed the ad a “thermonuclear bomb.”
It hurts not only both candidates, but all of us, although Conway may not realize that yet. Supposing it does work, and he pulls it off, what does it say about the emerging trend in the political process?
It says to anyone with future political aspirations: “If you’ve ever, done anything inappropriate or perhaps even borderline inappropriate, it can and will be used against you.” The danger here is that we will lose qualified, effective leaders who could help America revive from a punishing recession, change the bleak economic forecast, compete with countries and their growing economies, and more effectively face the unknown challenges beyond the current horizon. We lose potential leaders’ wisdom; we lose their acumen; we lose their abilities. We all lose. Why? Because we have allowed an environment to thrive that few wish to enter. After all, who wants to put themselves or their families through political hazing? Columnist Peggy Noonan, no newcomer to American politics, recently wrote in her Wall Street Journal column about speaking with an entrepreneur, an effective leader with fresh ideas that could help our country. When Noonan urged him to enter politics, his response was, “I’ve lived an imperfect life. They’d kill me.” And they would.
Attack ads have another devastating effect: they spawn cynicism, fuel frustration, and create skepticism among the electorate. People are angry with politicians whom they no longer trust and find increasingly harder to believe. In an interview on Fox News, democratic strategist Richard Socarides defended Conway’s ad: “When the stakes are high you have to use extreme measures.” Who, then, defines, “extreme measures”? Each politician? Having wallowed into the gutter of politics, it’s difficult to shake its stench. And politicians seem surprised with an aggravated electorate.
Conway is by no means the only politician to use “extreme measures.” His ad simply happens to have the attention at the moment. And that’s the problem: Just as water flows naturally to the lowest level, so do we, unless we determine to seek higher ground. And unless we do, the political process will only get sleazier and slimier, as it slips and slides in its descent into chaos. In so doing, we all suffer; it injures all of us. And then, as we look askance at the mayhem in the political arena, which to a large degree determines our national future, we will perhaps with a tinge of sadness be reminded of that other parental warning: “Mama told me not to come.”
Life Matters is written by David B. Whitlock, Ph.D. His email is drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com, and his website is davidbwhitlock.com
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
What’s Going on with Those Monks?
The pick-up truck was barreling straight towards me, oblivious to the fact that I was prayer-walking, blind to my existence, ignorant of my conversation with God. Glancing at his menacing headlights, I scooted across the road, tucking my tail like one of my Schnauzers when scared, and gasping for breath as I reached the entrance of Gethsemane Abby, I was grateful that I was secure on the other side of the road, a side where I longed for and found, time and time again: calm, peace, tranquility. And once having crossed the road, I realized how easily the world crashes into our spiritual safety zones.
Gethsemane Abby in Gethsemane, Kentucky, has been that for me: a quiet room for my soul to rest and refresh, an area where my cell phone has no service, a spiritual compass redirecting my life, a frequency retuning my spiritual ears to God’s voice, a time zone resetting my spiritual clock to God’s timeless and eternal one. It’s holy ground for me, a place where I remove my shoes, as Moses did before the burning bush, and listen to the still, quiet, but all powerful voice of God.
Having been raised an umpteenth generation Protestant of the Southern Baptist flavor--- and a preacher at that, I remember having no clue what to expect on my first visit to Gethsemane. Would I have to wear one of those long robes and don a pair of sandals? Upon the suggestion of one of my colleagues at Campbellsville University, I had scheduled a four day retreat.
That was three years ago. I have learned that these Cistercian monks are very integrated people who simply, quite simply, operate in another realm where life revolves around prayer---seven times a day, beginning at 3:15 a.m. and not concluding until 7:30 p.m. ---a slow reading of the Scriptures, called lectio divina, work, and leisure. And I, a man in love with his wife and four children, embraced that monastic vision. It’s affected more than my prayer life, too. St. Benedict encouraged work with hands. So, I took his advice and planted a garden. Thanks to St. Benedict, and the coaching of some good ol’ Southern Baptist farmers, I enjoy vegetables from my own backyard. St. Benedict considered work in God’s presence part of our prayer life, too.
For the last three weeks I had scheduled a long overdue personal day at my spiritual resting place, Gethsemane Abby. And every week that pick-up truck of the world kept careening into my plans, piling first one thing and then another into my life. That’s life, as we know it. It is like that. That’s why it’s essential for us to get to a place where life is not like we know it.
It felt right to get back into the monastic liturgy that day. And having prayed with the monks at 5:45 a.m. and through the day, I walked, and prayed, and prayed and walked, until I found myself on the other side of the road, where the truck had a bead on my soul, jerking me back into a reality I knew too well, that world of a Day-Timer filled with meetings to attend, deadlines to make, bills to pay, people to meet. And so, I ran, finding safety, at least momentarily, across the road, in the arms of God, there at Gethsemane.
Just a few hours later I was in my car, heading home. The radio was already on as I started the engine, tuned to a pre-programmed station, playing the The Black Eyed Peas, “Let’s Get it Started in Here.” Smiling to myself, I turned it off, having the distinct impression that the monks already had it going on.
Life Matters is written by David B. Whitlock, Ph.D. David’s email is drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com. His website is DavidBWhitlock.com.
Gethsemane Abby in Gethsemane, Kentucky, has been that for me: a quiet room for my soul to rest and refresh, an area where my cell phone has no service, a spiritual compass redirecting my life, a frequency retuning my spiritual ears to God’s voice, a time zone resetting my spiritual clock to God’s timeless and eternal one. It’s holy ground for me, a place where I remove my shoes, as Moses did before the burning bush, and listen to the still, quiet, but all powerful voice of God.
Having been raised an umpteenth generation Protestant of the Southern Baptist flavor--- and a preacher at that, I remember having no clue what to expect on my first visit to Gethsemane. Would I have to wear one of those long robes and don a pair of sandals? Upon the suggestion of one of my colleagues at Campbellsville University, I had scheduled a four day retreat.
That was three years ago. I have learned that these Cistercian monks are very integrated people who simply, quite simply, operate in another realm where life revolves around prayer---seven times a day, beginning at 3:15 a.m. and not concluding until 7:30 p.m. ---a slow reading of the Scriptures, called lectio divina, work, and leisure. And I, a man in love with his wife and four children, embraced that monastic vision. It’s affected more than my prayer life, too. St. Benedict encouraged work with hands. So, I took his advice and planted a garden. Thanks to St. Benedict, and the coaching of some good ol’ Southern Baptist farmers, I enjoy vegetables from my own backyard. St. Benedict considered work in God’s presence part of our prayer life, too.
For the last three weeks I had scheduled a long overdue personal day at my spiritual resting place, Gethsemane Abby. And every week that pick-up truck of the world kept careening into my plans, piling first one thing and then another into my life. That’s life, as we know it. It is like that. That’s why it’s essential for us to get to a place where life is not like we know it.
It felt right to get back into the monastic liturgy that day. And having prayed with the monks at 5:45 a.m. and through the day, I walked, and prayed, and prayed and walked, until I found myself on the other side of the road, where the truck had a bead on my soul, jerking me back into a reality I knew too well, that world of a Day-Timer filled with meetings to attend, deadlines to make, bills to pay, people to meet. And so, I ran, finding safety, at least momentarily, across the road, in the arms of God, there at Gethsemane.
Just a few hours later I was in my car, heading home. The radio was already on as I started the engine, tuned to a pre-programmed station, playing the The Black Eyed Peas, “Let’s Get it Started in Here.” Smiling to myself, I turned it off, having the distinct impression that the monks already had it going on.
Life Matters is written by David B. Whitlock, Ph.D. David’s email is drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com. His website is DavidBWhitlock.com.
Friday, October 8, 2010
It's More Than Just a Game
The program stands upright, encased in plastic, holding a prominent place on a bookshelf in my office. “Kansas City Chiefs vs. Boston Patriots, Municipal Stadium, November 20, 1966, 50 cents (including tax),” is written in bold letters, displayed on the front of the program. Beneath that announcement, a black and white picture shows Chiefs’ quarterback Len Dawson rolling out, behind the block of fullback Curtis McClinton.
It’s the program for a game I never got to attend.
My Uncle Don, Don Krouse, lived next door to Jack Steadman at the time. I was eleven years old. Jack Steadman was for four decades chairman, president, and general manager of the Chiefs football organization. Knowing how I, as a young boy, practically idolized college and pro football players, Don, with the help of Stedman, made some things happen for me. For beginners, Don took me to watch the Chiefs practice. Then, I was allowed into the Chiefs locker room where Head Coach Hank Stram smiled at me, shook my hand, told me to grow a little, and come play for the Chiefs. And, to this day I have a football signed by members of the Chiefs team that played the Green Bay Packers in Super Bowl I. I cried when the Pack beat the Chiefs.
But I didn’t give up on the Chiefs; I stayed with the sport because of something I learned from Uncle Don. It was a small thing, and he probably forgot about it, but I never did. It happened on one of our visits to Kansas City. Don had done it again; this time we were to sit with Lamar Hunt in the owner’s suite. And after the game, Don told me, I might actually have the opportunity to meet some of the players.
Unfortunately for me, as soon as we arrived I got sick and missed the game.
But the lesson was learned after that game I didn’t see. Uncle Don tapped on the door of my sick room. “How ya doin’ kid?” he inquired in his raspy smoker’s voice, now even more hoarse from yelling at the game. “Thought you might like this.” It was a program from the game, with autographs of Len Dawson, Jerry Mays, Bobby Bell, Chris Buford, and Jim Tyrer. Forgotten now to most sports fans, they were my heroes then. And along with that autographed program, Don handed me a play by play synopsis of the game. I watched the replay of the game the next day and had fun “predicting” what would happen with each play. Uncle Don had helped a disappointed youngster feel better, and more significantly, in the process he taught me a valuable lesson.
Football is football most of the time. But on occasion it becomes something more than just a game. Whether or not you know what a first down is, you can understand human compassion, expressed most often in small ways, in little actions, like giving a dejected kid an autographed program, a play by play summary, and a tender smile. As important as it is to make every effort to win, the relationships formed as one person cares genuinely for another trump the won-loss record.
I thought about that just the other day as I hung up the phone, having received the news of my Uncle Don’s death. Staring at that program in my office, I recalled that moment with him when I missed the game but learned a lesson. And for the life of me, I couldn’t remember who won the game.
It’s the program for a game I never got to attend.
My Uncle Don, Don Krouse, lived next door to Jack Steadman at the time. I was eleven years old. Jack Steadman was for four decades chairman, president, and general manager of the Chiefs football organization. Knowing how I, as a young boy, practically idolized college and pro football players, Don, with the help of Stedman, made some things happen for me. For beginners, Don took me to watch the Chiefs practice. Then, I was allowed into the Chiefs locker room where Head Coach Hank Stram smiled at me, shook my hand, told me to grow a little, and come play for the Chiefs. And, to this day I have a football signed by members of the Chiefs team that played the Green Bay Packers in Super Bowl I. I cried when the Pack beat the Chiefs.
But I didn’t give up on the Chiefs; I stayed with the sport because of something I learned from Uncle Don. It was a small thing, and he probably forgot about it, but I never did. It happened on one of our visits to Kansas City. Don had done it again; this time we were to sit with Lamar Hunt in the owner’s suite. And after the game, Don told me, I might actually have the opportunity to meet some of the players.
Unfortunately for me, as soon as we arrived I got sick and missed the game.
But the lesson was learned after that game I didn’t see. Uncle Don tapped on the door of my sick room. “How ya doin’ kid?” he inquired in his raspy smoker’s voice, now even more hoarse from yelling at the game. “Thought you might like this.” It was a program from the game, with autographs of Len Dawson, Jerry Mays, Bobby Bell, Chris Buford, and Jim Tyrer. Forgotten now to most sports fans, they were my heroes then. And along with that autographed program, Don handed me a play by play synopsis of the game. I watched the replay of the game the next day and had fun “predicting” what would happen with each play. Uncle Don had helped a disappointed youngster feel better, and more significantly, in the process he taught me a valuable lesson.
Football is football most of the time. But on occasion it becomes something more than just a game. Whether or not you know what a first down is, you can understand human compassion, expressed most often in small ways, in little actions, like giving a dejected kid an autographed program, a play by play summary, and a tender smile. As important as it is to make every effort to win, the relationships formed as one person cares genuinely for another trump the won-loss record.
I thought about that just the other day as I hung up the phone, having received the news of my Uncle Don’s death. Staring at that program in my office, I recalled that moment with him when I missed the game but learned a lesson. And for the life of me, I couldn’t remember who won the game.
Friday, October 1, 2010
Just a Little More
Perhaps the most quoted line from the blockbuster movie, “Wall Street: Money Never Sleeps,” (It was the top money maker last weekend, grossing over $19 million, underscoring the truth in its title, “Money Never Sleeps.”) will be the line where Gordon Gekko (Michael Douglas) ---having served eight years in prison for insider trading--- speaks before a standing room only crowd of mesmerized listeners. Gekko says, “Someone reminded me I once said, 'Greed is good.' Now it seems it's legal."
But the line that stayed with me was not Gekko’s; it came from his antagonist: the equally greedy and ruthless Bretton James (Josh Brolin). It’s a classic one liner that comes in answer to the question of the younger, up and coming Wall Street trader, Jake Moore, played by Shia LaBoef. It’s a question about what amount of money it would take for James to be satisfied. Moore asks what that financial figure is. James looks puzzled until Moore explains. Everyone has a figure; everyone has an amount of what it will take to leave with the satisfaction having made enough. James answers with a wry grin, “More.”
More indeed. The character Bretton James is not the first and won’t be the last to want just a little more.
That, it seems, is the essence of greed; it’s the insatiable desire for more. Legend has it that John D. Rockefeller was once asked, “How much money is enough?” Rockefeller is supposed to have replied, “Just a little more than what you have.”
Gekko, who describes America’s lust for more as a cancer, is himself a victim of the disease he warns against. Has he come out of it? Has he experienced a spiritual transformation, or is he simply a snake who has shed another skin? One thing is sure: eluding greed is not easy. For the alcoholic, liquor is a necessity and not a delight; for the sex addict, sex is mechanical and not meaningful; but for the greedy, the addiction of which seems to encompass the former two vices as well, enough is always elusive and never satisfactorily attained. More is never enough, no matter what the particular desire.
Is there a financial figure at which most people can find satisfaction?
According to a recent Princeton University survey the answer is, yes. The magic number, the study concludes, is $75,000 a year. Why that figure? It allows us to pay our basic expenses and have some left over for some enjoyment; but more than that seems to clutter our life with so many extra responsibilities and stress factors that we forfeit our emotional stability and quality of family life.
And to think I’ve asked the Lord that if I’m going to be tempted--- at least one time--- let me be tempted with having too much. Now I know, at least according to this study what “too much” is.
Or do I? “Too much” will be defined by the values each person has adopted for one’s own life. Some of the most satisfied people I know on this earth are those who own nothing: the Cistercians at the Abby of Gethsemane, monks who have taken vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience. The walk away figure for them was a life of prayer.
Leo Tolstoy wrote a story about a peasant farmer who had acquired more land and yet complained that he still didn’t have enough land to satisfy him. He says, “If I had plenty of land, I shouldn't fear the Devil himself!" Then the peasant received an unusual offer. For 1,000 rubles he could buy all the land he could walk around in one day. The only catch: he had to be back at his starting place by the end of the day. He began at day break and walked as fast as he could, all the time thinking of how he would build more wealth on the land he paced. As the sun was beginning to set, people could see him at a distance. He began to run with everything he had, desperately trying to make it back before the sun set on him. Gasping for breath, clutching his chest, he staggered across the mark where he had started earlier that day. And then he collapsed. As the people gathered around him, they bent over to find him unconscious, with blood oozing from his mouth. In a few moments he was dead. His servants dug a grave the dimensions of which were roughly, 6 feet by 3 feet.
The title of Tolstoy’s story? How Much Land Does a Man Need?
Finally, when life is done, about all we need is 6 feet by 3 feet. Unless of course our walk away figure included an investment in eternity. Then, a little more includes forever.
Life Matters, is written by David B. Whitlock, Ph.D. David’s email is drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com. You can visit his website at davidbwhitlock.com.
But the line that stayed with me was not Gekko’s; it came from his antagonist: the equally greedy and ruthless Bretton James (Josh Brolin). It’s a classic one liner that comes in answer to the question of the younger, up and coming Wall Street trader, Jake Moore, played by Shia LaBoef. It’s a question about what amount of money it would take for James to be satisfied. Moore asks what that financial figure is. James looks puzzled until Moore explains. Everyone has a figure; everyone has an amount of what it will take to leave with the satisfaction having made enough. James answers with a wry grin, “More.”
More indeed. The character Bretton James is not the first and won’t be the last to want just a little more.
That, it seems, is the essence of greed; it’s the insatiable desire for more. Legend has it that John D. Rockefeller was once asked, “How much money is enough?” Rockefeller is supposed to have replied, “Just a little more than what you have.”
Gekko, who describes America’s lust for more as a cancer, is himself a victim of the disease he warns against. Has he come out of it? Has he experienced a spiritual transformation, or is he simply a snake who has shed another skin? One thing is sure: eluding greed is not easy. For the alcoholic, liquor is a necessity and not a delight; for the sex addict, sex is mechanical and not meaningful; but for the greedy, the addiction of which seems to encompass the former two vices as well, enough is always elusive and never satisfactorily attained. More is never enough, no matter what the particular desire.
Is there a financial figure at which most people can find satisfaction?
According to a recent Princeton University survey the answer is, yes. The magic number, the study concludes, is $75,000 a year. Why that figure? It allows us to pay our basic expenses and have some left over for some enjoyment; but more than that seems to clutter our life with so many extra responsibilities and stress factors that we forfeit our emotional stability and quality of family life.
And to think I’ve asked the Lord that if I’m going to be tempted--- at least one time--- let me be tempted with having too much. Now I know, at least according to this study what “too much” is.
Or do I? “Too much” will be defined by the values each person has adopted for one’s own life. Some of the most satisfied people I know on this earth are those who own nothing: the Cistercians at the Abby of Gethsemane, monks who have taken vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience. The walk away figure for them was a life of prayer.
Leo Tolstoy wrote a story about a peasant farmer who had acquired more land and yet complained that he still didn’t have enough land to satisfy him. He says, “If I had plenty of land, I shouldn't fear the Devil himself!" Then the peasant received an unusual offer. For 1,000 rubles he could buy all the land he could walk around in one day. The only catch: he had to be back at his starting place by the end of the day. He began at day break and walked as fast as he could, all the time thinking of how he would build more wealth on the land he paced. As the sun was beginning to set, people could see him at a distance. He began to run with everything he had, desperately trying to make it back before the sun set on him. Gasping for breath, clutching his chest, he staggered across the mark where he had started earlier that day. And then he collapsed. As the people gathered around him, they bent over to find him unconscious, with blood oozing from his mouth. In a few moments he was dead. His servants dug a grave the dimensions of which were roughly, 6 feet by 3 feet.
The title of Tolstoy’s story? How Much Land Does a Man Need?
Finally, when life is done, about all we need is 6 feet by 3 feet. Unless of course our walk away figure included an investment in eternity. Then, a little more includes forever.
Life Matters, is written by David B. Whitlock, Ph.D. David’s email is drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com. You can visit his website at davidbwhitlock.com.
Friday, September 24, 2010
You Say “Goodbye,” God says, “Hello”
Last week while waiting to pick up our oldest daughter at the airport, I noticed that the security area for departures was only several yards from the arrivals area. I witnessed a young soldier’s brave good-byes as he held back tears, giving his wife one last hug---and then one more--- while she, teary eyed, finally let go even as she held hands with her sister or close female friend, slowly walking away, repeatedly looking back over her shoulder toward her husband, leaning with her every step on her companion. Almost simultaneously, only several feet from them, I witnessed a middle-aged couple greeting with open arms what appeared to be their teenage granddaughter. They embraced as if they hadn’t seen each other for a long time. All three were smiling broadly, interlocking arms as they walked away together. “Do you feel like getting a bite to eat?” I heard the grandmother ask the granddaughter, who coyly replied, “Sure.” The three floated on wings of joy.
Although they are only a few yards apart, the departure and arrival areas are separated by two worlds: hello and goodbye. As I anxiously anticipated seeing my daughter, I thought, “Next week I’ll be there on the departure side. My time of sadness will come.” Then in an instant I saw my daughter smiling (I nicknamed her “Smiles,” long ago) as she reached out to me for a welcome home hug.
Although I have no concrete evidence to prove it, I contend that the space between life and death---this side and the other side--- is a closer distance than that separating the departure and arrival sites at Louisville’s International Airport. And although we may not all be living dangerously, we are living on the edge, never knowing when our time of departure here will announce our arrival there.
Heaven may be closer than you or I think. While the New Testament Scriptures speak of heaven as a place, it is not limited to boundaries as we know them. For all we know, heaven could be in another realm of time and space, adjacent to us at this very moment, here where only this life separates us from that other place, that different dimension.
One passes through the departure area; another walks past the arrival gate. We say, “Goodbye,” Someone else says, “Hello.” Only a few steps and eternity separates the two worlds. A thin veneer of life appears to our time and space limited minds as a veritably indomitable wall, a barrier blocking us from a life we don’t know and often fear.
Five days later it was my time. Instead of being the happy greeter to a welcome home party, I was saying “Goodbye” to the daughter I would not see again until…until who knows? As my wife and I hugged and then waved bye, we had a longing for security in our hearts. We were saying “Goodbye,” but who would say “Hello?”
As I glanced back at the departure security check adjacent to the arrival area where people were leaving and arriving simultaneously, people oblivious to the others side’s presence, I was reminded that the God who is at our departure and arrival is also most aware of where we are at every point and moment in between, even when we can’t, and sometimes don’t want, to see it. The One who is waiting for us on the Other Side to welcome us home assures us of our safe arrival. In the instant we say, “Goodbye,” He is already there, saying, “Hello.”
Starting our car to leave the airport, I found a familiar and comforting security in that. I had heard it before, “I am with you always, even unto the end of the age.” We say “Goodbye,” even as He is saying, “Hello.”
That’s true for here and for there. For now and for then. Forever and for always.
Life Matters is written by David B.Whitlock, Ph.D. David’s email is drdavid@davidbwhitock.com. His website is DavidBWhitlock.com.
Although they are only a few yards apart, the departure and arrival areas are separated by two worlds: hello and goodbye. As I anxiously anticipated seeing my daughter, I thought, “Next week I’ll be there on the departure side. My time of sadness will come.” Then in an instant I saw my daughter smiling (I nicknamed her “Smiles,” long ago) as she reached out to me for a welcome home hug.
Although I have no concrete evidence to prove it, I contend that the space between life and death---this side and the other side--- is a closer distance than that separating the departure and arrival sites at Louisville’s International Airport. And although we may not all be living dangerously, we are living on the edge, never knowing when our time of departure here will announce our arrival there.
Heaven may be closer than you or I think. While the New Testament Scriptures speak of heaven as a place, it is not limited to boundaries as we know them. For all we know, heaven could be in another realm of time and space, adjacent to us at this very moment, here where only this life separates us from that other place, that different dimension.
One passes through the departure area; another walks past the arrival gate. We say, “Goodbye,” Someone else says, “Hello.” Only a few steps and eternity separates the two worlds. A thin veneer of life appears to our time and space limited minds as a veritably indomitable wall, a barrier blocking us from a life we don’t know and often fear.
Five days later it was my time. Instead of being the happy greeter to a welcome home party, I was saying “Goodbye” to the daughter I would not see again until…until who knows? As my wife and I hugged and then waved bye, we had a longing for security in our hearts. We were saying “Goodbye,” but who would say “Hello?”
As I glanced back at the departure security check adjacent to the arrival area where people were leaving and arriving simultaneously, people oblivious to the others side’s presence, I was reminded that the God who is at our departure and arrival is also most aware of where we are at every point and moment in between, even when we can’t, and sometimes don’t want, to see it. The One who is waiting for us on the Other Side to welcome us home assures us of our safe arrival. In the instant we say, “Goodbye,” He is already there, saying, “Hello.”
Starting our car to leave the airport, I found a familiar and comforting security in that. I had heard it before, “I am with you always, even unto the end of the age.” We say “Goodbye,” even as He is saying, “Hello.”
That’s true for here and for there. For now and for then. Forever and for always.
Life Matters is written by David B.Whitlock, Ph.D. David’s email is drdavid@davidbwhitock.com. His website is DavidBWhitlock.com.
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Is it Time to "Get Low"?
I’ve thought about preaching my own funeral. Really. I’m serious. Oh, I would pawn the obituary on a previously selected person, preferably someone who knew me, as opposed to startling some hapless soul who happens to arrive early at the funeral, “Hey, would you mind reading this?” But the sermon, prerecorded of course, I prefer to reserve for myself, rather than depending on some distracted preacher in a hurry to get the thing done and not miss tee time, or fishing, a ball game, or a soap opera.
When I shared this with my wife, her response, after making sure I hadn’t received a bad report from my physician, was, “That’s just plain weird, especially the part about a prerecorded funeral sermon.”
“But they play prerecord music at funerals all the time,” I protested.
“Not music of the deceased!”
I suppose she has a point. Unlike music, a funeral sermon is not something we necessarily enjoy hearing. “Don’t you think today is a good day for a funeral sermon, dear?”
“No.”
I had dismissed the idea of showing up for my own funeral until last week when I saw the movie, “Get Low,” starring Robert Duvall, with Bill Murray and Sissy Spacek. Duvall plays the character, Felix Bush, a self-imposed hermit who has lived alone in the woods for 40 years. The movie gets it title from the first conversation Duvall has with the financially troubled funeral director, played by grim Bill Murray, who is thrilled at the monetary prospects of a funeral. “It’s about time for me to get low,” Duvall says as he states his intentions to plan his own funeral.
The laconic Duvall has determined to show up for his own mock funeral where people will tell stories about what a strange and mysterious person he is. The film is based loosely on the story of a man in Tennessee named Felix “Bush” Breaseale, who threw his own funeral party back in the 1930s. Over 12,000 people showed up, creating something of a national sensation: the event was covered by the AP and Life magazine.
In “Get Low,” Bush has a secret that he needs and wants to tell, but isn’t sure he can. It’s the reason he has imprisoned himself in his woods. “Getting low,” takes on a deeper meaning than simply preplanning a funeral. It connotes the humility that comes with sharing something painful about our past, something that has shamed us, burdened us, driven us into a hermitage of our own choosing--- an isolation than allows us to live in denial of who we are meant to be, disconnected from those who could benefit from our mistakes. In that secret hiding place deep within our soul, we bury the thing that needs telling, supposing it will go to the grave with us, even as we intuitively sense that as we live, that thing of our past creates a false self, not the one we were meant to be.
Forgiving others is not always easy, and forgiving ourselves can be even harder still. Voices of the past lock us in a prison of our own making, haunting us with the verdict: “Unforgiven.”
And I thought a funeral party would be more fun than the sermon. But as Felix Bush experienced, “getting low,” is not that easy; like Bush, we have something that needs to be told, but we aren’t sure we can say it; it’s like having a dream where we’re urgently trying to shout for help but can’t utter a word. Fearful that we might die choking on the words, we silence what we need to share.
I think I’ll let the only One who can truly say it, do it for me: “Thy sins are forgiven. Thy faith has made thee whole.”
That’s a good thing to hear if you plan on showing up at your own funeral; that’s a good thing to receive before you get there, before it’s too late to “get low.”
“Life Matters,” is written by David B. Whitlock, Ph.D. His email is drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com. Dr. Whitlock’s website is davidbwhitlock.com.
When I shared this with my wife, her response, after making sure I hadn’t received a bad report from my physician, was, “That’s just plain weird, especially the part about a prerecorded funeral sermon.”
“But they play prerecord music at funerals all the time,” I protested.
“Not music of the deceased!”
I suppose she has a point. Unlike music, a funeral sermon is not something we necessarily enjoy hearing. “Don’t you think today is a good day for a funeral sermon, dear?”
“No.”
I had dismissed the idea of showing up for my own funeral until last week when I saw the movie, “Get Low,” starring Robert Duvall, with Bill Murray and Sissy Spacek. Duvall plays the character, Felix Bush, a self-imposed hermit who has lived alone in the woods for 40 years. The movie gets it title from the first conversation Duvall has with the financially troubled funeral director, played by grim Bill Murray, who is thrilled at the monetary prospects of a funeral. “It’s about time for me to get low,” Duvall says as he states his intentions to plan his own funeral.
The laconic Duvall has determined to show up for his own mock funeral where people will tell stories about what a strange and mysterious person he is. The film is based loosely on the story of a man in Tennessee named Felix “Bush” Breaseale, who threw his own funeral party back in the 1930s. Over 12,000 people showed up, creating something of a national sensation: the event was covered by the AP and Life magazine.
In “Get Low,” Bush has a secret that he needs and wants to tell, but isn’t sure he can. It’s the reason he has imprisoned himself in his woods. “Getting low,” takes on a deeper meaning than simply preplanning a funeral. It connotes the humility that comes with sharing something painful about our past, something that has shamed us, burdened us, driven us into a hermitage of our own choosing--- an isolation than allows us to live in denial of who we are meant to be, disconnected from those who could benefit from our mistakes. In that secret hiding place deep within our soul, we bury the thing that needs telling, supposing it will go to the grave with us, even as we intuitively sense that as we live, that thing of our past creates a false self, not the one we were meant to be.
Forgiving others is not always easy, and forgiving ourselves can be even harder still. Voices of the past lock us in a prison of our own making, haunting us with the verdict: “Unforgiven.”
And I thought a funeral party would be more fun than the sermon. But as Felix Bush experienced, “getting low,” is not that easy; like Bush, we have something that needs to be told, but we aren’t sure we can say it; it’s like having a dream where we’re urgently trying to shout for help but can’t utter a word. Fearful that we might die choking on the words, we silence what we need to share.
I think I’ll let the only One who can truly say it, do it for me: “Thy sins are forgiven. Thy faith has made thee whole.”
That’s a good thing to hear if you plan on showing up at your own funeral; that’s a good thing to receive before you get there, before it’s too late to “get low.”
“Life Matters,” is written by David B. Whitlock, Ph.D. His email is drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com. Dr. Whitlock’s website is davidbwhitlock.com.
Thursday, September 2, 2010
The Dream is Bigger Than the Game
It had taken us three years to accomplish our goal, but we did it, last weekend.
Three years ago my oldest son, Dave, and I talked about our wish list for the baseball parks we wanted to visit. That included some of the oldest and most prestigious stadiums in professional baseball: Fenway in Boston, Yankee Stadium (now the new Yankee Stadium, not the one we dreamed of) in New York City, and Wrigley Field in Chicago. Of course, the new Busch Stadium, home of our favorite team, the St. Louis Cardinals, was a must. Dodger Stadium was high on our list too, as was the Great American Ball Park, home of the Cincinnati Reds.
But time---I do have three other kids, plus Dave and I didn’t want to be away for more than a day---and money, we didn’t have much, forced us to narrow our list to the ballparks within a day’s drive that wouldn’t require an overnight stay. That left three ballparks: Bush Stadium (St. Louis), Wrigley Field (Chicago), and the Great American Ball Park (Cincinnati).
We started in Chicago three years ago (Wrigley turned out to be my favorite ballpark, although it doesn’t host my favorite team) where we watched the Cubbies defeat our Cards, moved last year to St. Louis where our Redbirds beat the Orioles, and just last weekend we ended up in Cincinnati where we witnessed the Reds pounding of the Cubs.
As we were driving back after the Cincinnati game, we thought of making another run of it, a new three year plan: why not the new Yankee Stadium, the Oriole Park at Camden Yards in Baltimore, and Nationals Park in D.C.? How about an East Coast Baseball Dream? “Yeah,” I said, “that would be awesome,” even as I was thinking of the time and money, mainly the money.
After leaving Dave at Centre College in Danville, KY., I drove on alone to Lebanon, KY., and deep in my thoughts, wondered what was so important about those games. The atmosphere of the ballpark is great, but it’s more than that. You couldn’t pay me to go to a ball game and sit by myself. Then I reflected on the movie, Field of Dreams, and the words of “Terrence Mann,” played by James Earl Jones, who said, in that luxurious voice of his: “People will come Ray. They'll come to Iowa for reasons they can't even fathom…And they'll watch the game and it'll be as if they dipped themselves in magic waters. The memories will be so thick they'll have to brush them away from their faces. People will come Ray. This field, this game: it's a part of our past, Ray. It reminds of us of all that once was good and it could be again.”
I got it. We went to Wrigley, and Busch, and the Great American Ball Park, not to study stadium architecture, but to relive baseball moments of former days: summer evenings at the Astrodome in Houston, TX., a blistering afternoon at the Ball Park in Arlington, TX., many a sweltering practice at the Prien Lake Little League Park in Lake Charles, LA., and our own imaginary games (our team always managed to win) in our front yard everywhere we’ve lived. And with every ball park we enter, those memories are resurrected; they’re embedded in our psyche, drawn forth with the aroma of fresh, roasted peanuts, the echo of the crowd in the stadium’s corridors, and the shout of the umpire, “Batter Up!” Ghost ballparks come alive too, like the old Sportsman’s Park, predecessor of Busch Stadium, where in 1963, I sat enthralled, watching Stan the Man Musial in his last year of play, thinking to myself as I scanned the stadium while chomping down on a hot dog as big as myself, “I’m in a real baseball stadium.”
I don’t know where we will be next year---maybe we’ll revisit one of the ballparks, but wherever we are, I want to be all there, living a dream--- completely alive in that moment.
“Thanks for taking me, Dad, we did it.”
‘You’re welcome, Dave, but we’re not done yet. Keep dreaming.”
Life Matters is written by David B. Whitlock, Ph.D. His email is drdavid@davidbwhitock.com. You can also visit David’s website, www.davidbwhitlock.com
It had taken us three years to accomplish our goal, but we did it, last weekend.
Three years ago my oldest son, Dave, and I talked about our wish list for the baseball parks we wanted to visit. That included some of the oldest and most prestigious stadiums in professional baseball: Fenway in Boston, Yankee Stadium (now the new Yankee Stadium, not the one we dreamed of) in New York City, and Wrigley Field in Chicago. Of course, the new Busch Stadium, home of our favorite team, the St. Louis Cardinals, was a must. Dodger Stadium was high on our list too, as was the Great American Ball Park, home of the Cincinnati Reds.
But time---I do have three other kids, plus Dave and I didn’t want to be away for more than a day---and money, we didn’t have much, forced us to narrow our list to the ballparks within a day’s drive that wouldn’t require an overnight stay. That left three ballparks: Bush Stadium (St. Louis), Wrigley Field (Chicago), and the Great American Ball Park (Cincinnati).
We started in Chicago three years ago (Wrigley turned out to be my favorite ballpark, although it doesn’t host my favorite team) where we watched the Cubbies defeat our Cards, moved last year to St. Louis where our Redbirds beat the Orioles, and just last weekend we ended up in Cincinnati where we witnessed the Reds pounding of the Cubs.
As we were driving back after the Cincinnati game, we thought of making another run of it, a new three year plan: why not the new Yankee Stadium, the Oriole Park at Camden Yards in Baltimore, and Nationals Park in D.C.? How about an East Coast Baseball Dream? “Yeah,” I said, “that would be awesome,” even as I was thinking of the time and money, mainly the money.
After leaving Dave at Centre College in Danville, KY., I drove on alone to Lebanon, KY., and deep in my thoughts, wondered what was so important about those games. The atmosphere of the ballpark is great, but it’s more than that. You couldn’t pay me to go to a ball game and sit by myself. Then I reflected on the movie, Field of Dreams, and the words of “Terrence Mann,” played by James Earl Jones, who said, in that luxurious voice of his: “People will come Ray. They'll come to Iowa for reasons they can't even fathom…And they'll watch the game and it'll be as if they dipped themselves in magic waters. The memories will be so thick they'll have to brush them away from their faces. People will come Ray. This field, this game: it's a part of our past, Ray. It reminds of us of all that once was good and it could be again.”
I got it. We went to Wrigley, and Busch, and the Great American Ball Park, not to study stadium architecture, but to relive baseball moments of former days: summer evenings at the Astrodome in Houston, TX., a blistering afternoon at the Ball Park in Arlington, TX., many a sweltering practice at the Prien Lake Little League Park in Lake Charles, LA., and our own imaginary games (our team always managed to win) in our front yard everywhere we’ve lived. And with every ball park we enter, those memories are resurrected; they’re embedded in our psyche, drawn forth with the aroma of fresh, roasted peanuts, the echo of the crowd in the stadium’s corridors, and the shout of the umpire, “Batter Up!” Ghost ballparks come alive too, like the old Sportsman’s Park, predecessor of Busch Stadium, where in 1963, I sat enthralled, watching Stan the Man Musial in his last year of play, thinking to myself as I scanned the stadium while chomping down on a hot dog as big as myself, “I’m in a real baseball stadium.”
I don’t know where we will be next year---maybe we’ll revisit one of the ballparks, but wherever we are, I want to be all there, living a dream--- completely alive in that moment.
“Thanks for taking me, Dad, we did it.”
‘You’re welcome, Dave, but we’re not done yet. Keep dreaming.”
Life Matters is written by David B. Whitlock, Ph.D. His email is drdavid@davidbwhitock.com. You can also visit David’s website, www.davidbwhitlock.com
“The Dream is Bigger than the Game”
David B. Whitlock, Ph.D.
It had taken us three years to accomplish our goal, but we did it, last weekend.
Three years ago my oldest son, Dave, and I talked about our wish list for the baseball parks we wanted to visit. That included some of the oldest and most prestigious stadiums in professional baseball: Fenway in Boston, Yankee Stadium (now the new Yankee Stadium, not the one we dreamed of) in New York City, and Wrigley Field in Chicago. Of course, the new Busch Stadium, home of our favorite team, the St. Louis Cardinals, was a must. Dodger Stadium was high on our list too, as was the Great American Ball Park, home of the Cincinnati Reds.
But time---I do have three other kids, plus Dave and I didn’t want to be away for more than a day---and money, we didn’t have much, forced us to narrow our list to the ballparks within a day’s drive that wouldn’t require an overnight stay. That left three ballparks: Bush Stadium (St. Louis), Wrigley Field (Chicago), and the Great American Ball Park (Cincinnati).
We started in Chicago three years ago (Wrigley turned out to be my favorite ballpark, although it doesn’t host my favorite team) where we watched the Cubbies defeat our Cards, moved last year to St. Louis where our Redbirds beat the Orioles, and just last weekend we ended up in Cincinnati where we witnessed the Reds pounding of the Cubs.
As we were driving back after the Cincinnati game, we thought of making another run of it, a new three year plan: why not the new Yankee Stadium, the Oriole Park at Camden Yards in Baltimore, and Nationals Park in D.C.? How about an East Coast Baseball Dream? “Yeah,” I said, “that would be awesome,” even as I was thinking of the time and money, mainly the money.
After leaving Dave at Centre College in Danville, KY., I drove on alone to Lebanon, KY., and deep in my thoughts, wondered what was so important about those games. The atmosphere of the ballpark is great, but it’s more than that. You couldn’t pay me to go to a ball game and sit by myself. Then I reflected on the movie, Field of Dreams, and the words of “Terrence Mann,” played by James Earl Jones, who said, in that luxurious voice of his: “People will come Ray. They'll come to Iowa for reasons they can't even fathom…And they'll watch the game and it'll be as if they dipped themselves in magic waters. The memories will be so thick they'll have to brush them away from their faces. People will come Ray. This field, this game: it's a part of our past, Ray. It reminds of us of all that once was good and it could be again.”
I got it. We went to Wrigley, and Busch, and the Great American Ball Park, not to study stadium architecture, but to relive baseball moments of former days: summer evenings at the Astrodome in Houston, TX., a blistering afternoon at the Ball Park in Arlington, TX., many a sweltering practice at the Prien Lake Little League Park in Lake Charles, LA., and our own imaginary games (our team always managed to win) in our front yard everywhere we’ve lived. And with every ball park we enter, those memories are resurrected; they’re embedded in our psyche, drawn forth with the aroma of fresh, roasted peanuts, the echo of the crowd in the stadium’s corridors, and the shout of the umpire, “Batter Up!” Ghost ballparks come alive too, like the old Sportsman’s Park, predecessor of Busch Stadium, where in 1963, I sat enthralled, watching Stan the Man Musial in his last year of play, thinking to myself as I scanned the stadium while chomping down on a hot dog as big as myself, “I’m in a real baseball stadium.”
I don’t know where we will be next year---maybe we’ll revisit one of the ballparks, but wherever we are, I want to be all there, living a dream--- completely alive in that moment.
“Thanks for taking me, Dad, we did it.”
‘You’re welcome, Dave, but we’re not done yet. Keep dreaming.”
Life Matters is written by David B. Whitlock, Ph.D. His email is drdavid@davidbwhitock.com. You can also visit David’s website, www.davidbwhitlock.com
Three years ago my oldest son, Dave, and I talked about our wish list for the baseball parks we wanted to visit. That included some of the oldest and most prestigious stadiums in professional baseball: Fenway in Boston, Yankee Stadium (now the new Yankee Stadium, not the one we dreamed of) in New York City, and Wrigley Field in Chicago. Of course, the new Busch Stadium, home of our favorite team, the St. Louis Cardinals, was a must. Dodger Stadium was high on our list too, as was the Great American Ball Park, home of the Cincinnati Reds.
But time---I do have three other kids, plus Dave and I didn’t want to be away for more than a day---and money, we didn’t have much, forced us to narrow our list to the ballparks within a day’s drive that wouldn’t require an overnight stay. That left three ballparks: Bush Stadium (St. Louis), Wrigley Field (Chicago), and the Great American Ball Park (Cincinnati).
We started in Chicago three years ago (Wrigley turned out to be my favorite ballpark, although it doesn’t host my favorite team) where we watched the Cubbies defeat our Cards, moved last year to St. Louis where our Redbirds beat the Orioles, and just last weekend we ended up in Cincinnati where we witnessed the Reds pounding of the Cubs.
As we were driving back after the Cincinnati game, we thought of making another run of it, a new three year plan: why not the new Yankee Stadium, the Oriole Park at Camden Yards in Baltimore, and Nationals Park in D.C.? How about an East Coast Baseball Dream? “Yeah,” I said, “that would be awesome,” even as I was thinking of the time and money, mainly the money.
After leaving Dave at Centre College in Danville, KY., I drove on alone to Lebanon, KY., and deep in my thoughts, wondered what was so important about those games. The atmosphere of the ballpark is great, but it’s more than that. You couldn’t pay me to go to a ball game and sit by myself. Then I reflected on the movie, Field of Dreams, and the words of “Terrence Mann,” played by James Earl Jones, who said, in that luxurious voice of his: “People will come Ray. They'll come to Iowa for reasons they can't even fathom…And they'll watch the game and it'll be as if they dipped themselves in magic waters. The memories will be so thick they'll have to brush them away from their faces. People will come Ray. This field, this game: it's a part of our past, Ray. It reminds of us of all that once was good and it could be again.”
I got it. We went to Wrigley, and Busch, and the Great American Ball Park, not to study stadium architecture, but to relive baseball moments of former days: summer evenings at the Astrodome in Houston, TX., a blistering afternoon at the Ball Park in Arlington, TX., many a sweltering practice at the Prien Lake Little League Park in Lake Charles, LA., and our own imaginary games (our team always managed to win) in our front yard everywhere we’ve lived. And with every ball park we enter, those memories are resurrected; they’re embedded in our psyche, drawn forth with the aroma of fresh, roasted peanuts, the echo of the crowd in the stadium’s corridors, and the shout of the umpire, “Batter Up!” Ghost ballparks come alive too, like the old Sportsman’s Park, predecessor of Busch Stadium, where in 1963, I sat enthralled, watching Stan the Man Musial in his last year of play, thinking to myself as I scanned the stadium while chomping down on a hot dog as big as myself, “I’m in a real baseball stadium.”
I don’t know where we will be next year---maybe we’ll revisit one of the ballparks, but wherever we are, I want to be all there, living a dream--- completely alive in that moment.
“Thanks for taking me, Dad, we did it.”
‘You’re welcome, Dave, but we’re not done yet. Keep dreaming.”
Life Matters is written by David B. Whitlock, Ph.D. His email is drdavid@davidbwhitock.com. You can also visit David’s website, www.davidbwhitlock.com
It had taken us three years to accomplish our goal, but we did it, last weekend.
Three years ago my oldest son, Dave, and I talked about our wish list for the baseball parks we wanted to visit. That included some of the oldest and most prestigious stadiums in professional baseball: Fenway in Boston, Yankee Stadium (now the new Yankee Stadium, not the one we dreamed of) in New York City, and Wrigley Field in Chicago. Of course, the new Busch Stadium, home of our favorite team, the St. Louis Cardinals, was a must. Dodger Stadium was high on our list too, as was the Great American Ball Park, home of the Cincinnati Reds.
But time---I do have three other kids, plus Dave and I didn’t want to be away for more than a day---and money, we didn’t have much, forced us to narrow our list to the ballparks within a day’s drive that wouldn’t require an overnight stay. That left three ballparks: Bush Stadium (St. Louis), Wrigley Field (Chicago), and the Great American Ball Park (Cincinnati).
We started in Chicago three years ago (Wrigley turned out to be my favorite ballpark, although it doesn’t host my favorite team) where we watched the Cubbies defeat our Cards, moved last year to St. Louis where our Redbirds beat the Orioles, and just last weekend we ended up in Cincinnati where we witnessed the Reds pounding of the Cubs.
As we were driving back after the Cincinnati game, we thought of making another run of it, a new three year plan: why not the new Yankee Stadium, the Oriole Park at Camden Yards in Baltimore, and Nationals Park in D.C.? How about an East Coast Baseball Dream? “Yeah,” I said, “that would be awesome,” even as I was thinking of the time and money, mainly the money.
After leaving Dave at Centre College in Danville, KY., I drove on alone to Lebanon, KY., and deep in my thoughts, wondered what was so important about those games. The atmosphere of the ballpark is great, but it’s more than that. You couldn’t pay me to go to a ball game and sit by myself. Then I reflected on the movie, Field of Dreams, and the words of “Terrence Mann,” played by James Earl Jones, who said, in that luxurious voice of his: “People will come Ray. They'll come to Iowa for reasons they can't even fathom…And they'll watch the game and it'll be as if they dipped themselves in magic waters. The memories will be so thick they'll have to brush them away from their faces. People will come Ray. This field, this game: it's a part of our past, Ray. It reminds of us of all that once was good and it could be again.”
I got it. We went to Wrigley, and Busch, and the Great American Ball Park, not to study stadium architecture, but to relive baseball moments of former days: summer evenings at the Astrodome in Houston, TX., a blistering afternoon at the Ball Park in Arlington, TX., many a sweltering practice at the Prien Lake Little League Park in Lake Charles, LA., and our own imaginary games (our team always managed to win) in our front yard everywhere we’ve lived. And with every ball park we enter, those memories are resurrected; they’re embedded in our psyche, drawn forth with the aroma of fresh, roasted peanuts, the echo of the crowd in the stadium’s corridors, and the shout of the umpire, “Batter Up!” Ghost ballparks come alive too, like the old Sportsman’s Park, predecessor of Busch Stadium, where in 1963, I sat enthralled, watching Stan the Man Musial in his last year of play, thinking to myself as I scanned the stadium while chomping down on a hot dog as big as myself, “I’m in a real baseball stadium.”
I don’t know where we will be next year---maybe we’ll revisit one of the ballparks, but wherever we are, I want to be all there, living a dream--- completely alive in that moment.
“Thanks for taking me, Dad, we did it.”
‘You’re welcome, Dave, but we’re not done yet. Keep dreaming.”
Life Matters is written by David B. Whitlock, Ph.D. His email is drdavid@davidbwhitock.com. You can also visit David’s website, www.davidbwhitlock.com
“The Dream is Bigger than the Game”
David B. Whitlock, Ph.D.
It had taken us three years to accomplish our goal, but we did it, last weekend.
Three years ago my oldest son, Dave, and I talked about our wish list for the baseball parks we wanted to visit. That included some of the oldest and most prestigious stadiums in professional baseball: Fenway in Boston, Yankee Stadium (now the new Yankee Stadium, not the one we dreamed of) in New York City, and Wrigley Field in Chicago. Of course, the new Busch Stadium, home of our favorite team, the St. Louis Cardinals, was a must. Dodger Stadium was high on our list too, as was the Great American Ball Park, home of the Cincinnati Reds.
But time---I do have three other kids, plus Dave and I didn’t want to be away for more than a day---and money, we didn’t have much, forced us to narrow our list to the ballparks within a day’s drive that wouldn’t require an overnight stay. That left three ballparks: Bush Stadium (St. Louis), Wrigley Field (Chicago), and the Great American Ball Park (Cincinnati).
We started in Chicago three years ago (Wrigley turned out to be my favorite ballpark, although it doesn’t host my favorite team) where we watched the Cubbies defeat our Cards, moved last year to St. Louis where our Redbirds beat the Orioles, and just last weekend we ended up in Cincinnati where we witnessed the Reds pounding of the Cubs.
As we were driving back after the Cincinnati game, we thought of making another run of it, a new three year plan: why not the new Yankee Stadium, the Oriole Park at Camden Yards in Baltimore, and Nationals Park in D.C.? How about an East Coast Baseball Dream? “Yeah,” I said, “that would be awesome,” even as I was thinking of the time and money, mainly the money.
After leaving Dave at Centre College in Danville, KY., I drove on alone to Lebanon, KY., and deep in my thoughts, wondered what was so important about those games. The atmosphere of the ballpark is great, but it’s more than that. You couldn’t pay me to go to a ball game and sit by myself. Then I reflected on the movie, Field of Dreams, and the words of “Terrence Mann,” played by James Earl Jones, who said, in that luxurious voice of his: “People will come Ray. They'll come to Iowa for reasons they can't even fathom…And they'll watch the game and it'll be as if they dipped themselves in magic waters. The memories will be so thick they'll have to brush them away from their faces. People will come Ray. This field, this game: it's a part of our past, Ray. It reminds of us of all that once was good and it could be again.”
I got it. We went to Wrigley, and Busch, and the Great American Ball Park, not to study stadium architecture, but to relive baseball moments of former days: summer evenings at the Astrodome in Houston, TX., a blistering afternoon at the Ball Park in Arlington, TX., many a sweltering practice at the Prien Lake Little League Park in Lake Charles, LA., and our own imaginary games (our team always managed to win) in our front yard everywhere we’ve lived. And with every ball park we enter, those memories are resurrected; they’re embedded in our psyche, drawn forth with the aroma of fresh, roasted peanuts, the echo of the crowd in the stadium’s corridors, and the shout of the umpire, “Batter Up!” Ghost ballparks come alive too, like the old Sportsman’s Park, predecessor of Busch Stadium, where in 1963, I sat enthralled, watching Stan the Man Musial in his last year of play, thinking to myself as I scanned the stadium while chomping down on a hot dog as big as myself, “I’m in a real baseball stadium.”
I don’t know where we will be next year---maybe we’ll revisit one of the ballparks, but wherever we are, I want to be all there, living a dream--- completely alive in that moment.
“Thanks for taking me, Dad, we did it.”
‘You’re welcome, Dave, but we’re not done yet. Keep dreaming.”
Life Matters is written by David B. Whitlock, Ph.D. His email is drdavid@davidbwhitock.com. You can also visit David’s website, www.davidbwhitlock.com
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
Ripe for the Picking
I tightened the lid on the 24th jar of tomatoes I had canned. Don’t ask me why I do this. I still have 6 jars left from the thirty-something I canned last year. And that doesn’t include a refrigerator full of quart, pint, and half-pint jars of salsa.
Maybe the novelty of “putting up maters” hasn’t worn off yet, this being only the second year I’ve indulged in this little project. (I still had to ask a friend for instructions on how to can tomatoes. “Now how did I do that last year?”) According to my normally patient wife, it’s no longer a “little project,” especially since I’ve added the salsa to my tomato-preserving repertoire. Elbow deep in tomatoes, I offered my best defense: “I’m a victim,” I explained. “I have all these ripe tomatoes. How can I watch them die without a home---either on the table, in the jar, or in the salsa?”
Maybe it all goes back to Mom. Can I blame her? “Son, don’t waste your food. Eat what’s on your plate.” Wouldn’t ripe tomatoes fall into the category of, “what’s on your plate?” Who am I to disobey Momma’s rules?
So, how did I adopt so many tomatoes? I became the proud owner of a trunk load of tomatoes because of the prolific garden and generous heart of one, Bernard Sandusky. His brother, Glen, called me the other day. “Bernard wants to know if you want some maters.” Without hesitating, I said, “Sure. Do you want me to pick them up, or do you want to bring them to town on your next trip?” Glen related my query to Bernard.
“Well, I sure ain’t gonna pick any more.” I could hear Bernard chuckling in the background.
The next morning, Bernard walked me to his garden, and what I saw made my eyes widen, my mouth water, and my heart palpitate. I was admiring the tomato garden of all tomato gardens, the veritable Taj Mahal of tomato gardens, overflowing with tomatoes--- juicy, red, plumb tomatoes, ripe for picking, from small to hamburger patty size, tomatoes upon tomatoes, some hanging on the vine, most on the ground, sprawling across what seemed like a half-acre of hay-covered dirt.
“Preacher, pick as many as you want. My wife told me not to dare bring anymore in the house. She’s canned all she’s gonna can.”
Pointing with his cane, Bernard gave me instructions: “Start on this side of the garden, work your way up and then back down the other side.” I thought I heard a suppressed laugh when he said, “Work your way back down the other side.” It was a daunting task, but one any tomato-lover would relish.
I was on my hands and knees, crawling like a mole through the garden, first picking this beauty, then that treasure. And all the while, the Godfather of Gardeners was urging me on. By the time I got to the back side of the garden I already had more tomatoes than I ever dreamed of bagging.
With sweat now burning my eyes, I squinted as I looked up at Bernard. Maybe it was the heat, maybe it was my blurred vision, but he looked vaguely familiar, towering over me in his jeans, faded, plaid, short-sleeve shirt, suspenders, and that cane, pointing to yet another prize tomato. Ah, yes, it was The Captain, the tyrannical warden in Cool Hand Luke, “What we have here is a failure to communicate.” I obediently reached for that tomato, fearful that The Captain might rap my knuckles with his cane.
But then I quickly came to my senses; there was Bernard himself by my side, gathering tomatoes, practically giggling with delight each time he picked a piece of that luscious fruit.
Days later I was handing Bernard and his wife, Sandra, a sample of my salsa, made with their tomatoes. “I’m glad you made good use of those tomatoes, cause I’d had enough,” Sandra quipped. “I told Bernard, ‘Don’t you bring any more in the house. They may have been ripe for picking, but I’d worn myself out canning ‘em.”
I smiled in agreement. I knew what she meant. Precisely.
Life Matters, is written by David B. Whitlock, Ph.D. David’s email is drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com. You can also visit his website at www.davidbwhitlock.com
Maybe the novelty of “putting up maters” hasn’t worn off yet, this being only the second year I’ve indulged in this little project. (I still had to ask a friend for instructions on how to can tomatoes. “Now how did I do that last year?”) According to my normally patient wife, it’s no longer a “little project,” especially since I’ve added the salsa to my tomato-preserving repertoire. Elbow deep in tomatoes, I offered my best defense: “I’m a victim,” I explained. “I have all these ripe tomatoes. How can I watch them die without a home---either on the table, in the jar, or in the salsa?”
Maybe it all goes back to Mom. Can I blame her? “Son, don’t waste your food. Eat what’s on your plate.” Wouldn’t ripe tomatoes fall into the category of, “what’s on your plate?” Who am I to disobey Momma’s rules?
So, how did I adopt so many tomatoes? I became the proud owner of a trunk load of tomatoes because of the prolific garden and generous heart of one, Bernard Sandusky. His brother, Glen, called me the other day. “Bernard wants to know if you want some maters.” Without hesitating, I said, “Sure. Do you want me to pick them up, or do you want to bring them to town on your next trip?” Glen related my query to Bernard.
“Well, I sure ain’t gonna pick any more.” I could hear Bernard chuckling in the background.
The next morning, Bernard walked me to his garden, and what I saw made my eyes widen, my mouth water, and my heart palpitate. I was admiring the tomato garden of all tomato gardens, the veritable Taj Mahal of tomato gardens, overflowing with tomatoes--- juicy, red, plumb tomatoes, ripe for picking, from small to hamburger patty size, tomatoes upon tomatoes, some hanging on the vine, most on the ground, sprawling across what seemed like a half-acre of hay-covered dirt.
“Preacher, pick as many as you want. My wife told me not to dare bring anymore in the house. She’s canned all she’s gonna can.”
Pointing with his cane, Bernard gave me instructions: “Start on this side of the garden, work your way up and then back down the other side.” I thought I heard a suppressed laugh when he said, “Work your way back down the other side.” It was a daunting task, but one any tomato-lover would relish.
I was on my hands and knees, crawling like a mole through the garden, first picking this beauty, then that treasure. And all the while, the Godfather of Gardeners was urging me on. By the time I got to the back side of the garden I already had more tomatoes than I ever dreamed of bagging.
With sweat now burning my eyes, I squinted as I looked up at Bernard. Maybe it was the heat, maybe it was my blurred vision, but he looked vaguely familiar, towering over me in his jeans, faded, plaid, short-sleeve shirt, suspenders, and that cane, pointing to yet another prize tomato. Ah, yes, it was The Captain, the tyrannical warden in Cool Hand Luke, “What we have here is a failure to communicate.” I obediently reached for that tomato, fearful that The Captain might rap my knuckles with his cane.
But then I quickly came to my senses; there was Bernard himself by my side, gathering tomatoes, practically giggling with delight each time he picked a piece of that luscious fruit.
Days later I was handing Bernard and his wife, Sandra, a sample of my salsa, made with their tomatoes. “I’m glad you made good use of those tomatoes, cause I’d had enough,” Sandra quipped. “I told Bernard, ‘Don’t you bring any more in the house. They may have been ripe for picking, but I’d worn myself out canning ‘em.”
I smiled in agreement. I knew what she meant. Precisely.
Life Matters, is written by David B. Whitlock, Ph.D. David’s email is drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com. You can also visit his website at www.davidbwhitlock.com
Friday, August 20, 2010
“Checking Out can lead to Crossing Over”
Unresolved anger, planted in the soul, eventually gives rise to resentment, which when unchecked, produces the fruit of retaliation.
By now you’ve heard the story: Jet Blue flight attendant Steven Slater had a bad day, maybe a string of bad days, 28 long years of being polite to rude passengers. Finally he had enough. Whether the passenger provoked Slater by cursing him when he asked her not to stand up to retrieve her bags while the plane was taxiing, or whether Slater himself had been edgy and snarly to passengers from the beginning of the flight is a matter of perspective and opinion. What is clear is that Slater had enough. Maybe he was channeling the character Howard Beale, whose rant in the 1976 film Network, galvanized the nation with the words “I’m mad as hell, and I’m not going to take this anymore.” What is clear is that Slater cursed the passengers over the plane’s intercom, and then checked out on his job, sliding down the plane’s emergency chute, a beer in each hand.
And now he has become a cultural hero. In fact, t-shirts are for sale that say, “I wish my job had an emergency exit.” This message of escape resonates with thousands who have felt like checking out and jumping down the chute.
Americans are agitated with life as it is in our country. A Wall Street Journal/NBC poll inferred that Slater’s actions reflected a broad public anger, a resentment that in November will fire the politicians now in office. A “Jet Blue Nation” has had enough; it’s “mad as hell” and is “not going to take this anymore.”
And so, here we are: unresolved anger, planted in the soul, gives rise to resentment, which when unchecked, produces the fruit of retaliation. And retaliation, we all know, can get ugly. When widespread, it can unleash forces that tear apart the fabric holding a nation together.
Most of us have indulged in fantasies of retaliation, and that is not necessarily a bad thing. They can actually help us process our anger and douse the potential fires of revenge. It’s when our visions of addressing those who have wronged us become primarily violent in nature and predominant in our thinking that professional help should be sought.
It’s all about relationships. And relationships can be difficult. That’s because we can’t control what people do to us. All we can truly control is our attitude. As pioneer psychologist William James said, “Whenever you're in conflict with someone, there is one factor that can make the difference between damaging your relationship and deepening it. That factor is attitude.”
We have all been hurt. Whether it’s someone’s insensitive behavior on an airplane, or a spouse’s vindictive words in the home, or child’s temper tantrum in the grocery store, or a boss’ verbal abuse in front of peers, or a friend’s cutthroat betrayals at the office water cooler, we all have grounds for reprisal.
And, sometimes, particularly in harmful situations, we have no other option than to check out, exit the scene, slide down the chute, and start over.
Even within that, especially within that, there is hope. Perhaps that’s why Elizabeth Gilbert’s bestselling book Eat, Pray, Love, now made into a movie starring Julia Roberts, has connected with so many people. Despite the less than favorable movie reviews, it grossed $23,700,000 last weekend, second to The Expendables. For some reason people identify with Gilbert, who has experienced a bitter divorce, a confusing rebound relationship, and a frightening depression. She sets out on a journey, financed by an advance on the book (Gilbert is a writer, by profession), to Italy, India, and Indonesia--- to find, among other things, who she is, to feel life again, and discover how she can live in balance.
In one scene from the movie, Julia Roberts (playing Gilbert) is engaged in conversation with friends. The question is asked, “What word describes who you are?” Roberts isn’t sure how to answer but responds with, “Writer.” A friend reminds her that her word is a description of what she does, not who she is. By the end of the movie (and book), she has her word. She finds it as she receives the wisdom of her spiritual guru, Ketut, "To lose balance sometimes for love is part of living a balanced life." She then declares her word to her lover, Felipe, whom she has decided to love, truly. Her word is the Italian word, “attraversiamo.” It means, “Let’s cross over.”
For some it’s magical thinking in fantasy land. And to a degree it is. But it’s better than drowning in anger, or being isolated by rage, or destroyed by grief.
Journey together. Grow together. Heal each other’s wounds. Soothe each other’s pain. Fight each other’s fears. Together.
A fantasy? Perhaps. But let’s try, anyway.
Let’s cross over. Together.
Life Matters is written by David B. Whitlock, Ph.D. David’s email is drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com. You can visit his website at davidbwhitlock.com
By now you’ve heard the story: Jet Blue flight attendant Steven Slater had a bad day, maybe a string of bad days, 28 long years of being polite to rude passengers. Finally he had enough. Whether the passenger provoked Slater by cursing him when he asked her not to stand up to retrieve her bags while the plane was taxiing, or whether Slater himself had been edgy and snarly to passengers from the beginning of the flight is a matter of perspective and opinion. What is clear is that Slater had enough. Maybe he was channeling the character Howard Beale, whose rant in the 1976 film Network, galvanized the nation with the words “I’m mad as hell, and I’m not going to take this anymore.” What is clear is that Slater cursed the passengers over the plane’s intercom, and then checked out on his job, sliding down the plane’s emergency chute, a beer in each hand.
And now he has become a cultural hero. In fact, t-shirts are for sale that say, “I wish my job had an emergency exit.” This message of escape resonates with thousands who have felt like checking out and jumping down the chute.
Americans are agitated with life as it is in our country. A Wall Street Journal/NBC poll inferred that Slater’s actions reflected a broad public anger, a resentment that in November will fire the politicians now in office. A “Jet Blue Nation” has had enough; it’s “mad as hell” and is “not going to take this anymore.”
And so, here we are: unresolved anger, planted in the soul, gives rise to resentment, which when unchecked, produces the fruit of retaliation. And retaliation, we all know, can get ugly. When widespread, it can unleash forces that tear apart the fabric holding a nation together.
Most of us have indulged in fantasies of retaliation, and that is not necessarily a bad thing. They can actually help us process our anger and douse the potential fires of revenge. It’s when our visions of addressing those who have wronged us become primarily violent in nature and predominant in our thinking that professional help should be sought.
It’s all about relationships. And relationships can be difficult. That’s because we can’t control what people do to us. All we can truly control is our attitude. As pioneer psychologist William James said, “Whenever you're in conflict with someone, there is one factor that can make the difference between damaging your relationship and deepening it. That factor is attitude.”
We have all been hurt. Whether it’s someone’s insensitive behavior on an airplane, or a spouse’s vindictive words in the home, or child’s temper tantrum in the grocery store, or a boss’ verbal abuse in front of peers, or a friend’s cutthroat betrayals at the office water cooler, we all have grounds for reprisal.
And, sometimes, particularly in harmful situations, we have no other option than to check out, exit the scene, slide down the chute, and start over.
Even within that, especially within that, there is hope. Perhaps that’s why Elizabeth Gilbert’s bestselling book Eat, Pray, Love, now made into a movie starring Julia Roberts, has connected with so many people. Despite the less than favorable movie reviews, it grossed $23,700,000 last weekend, second to The Expendables. For some reason people identify with Gilbert, who has experienced a bitter divorce, a confusing rebound relationship, and a frightening depression. She sets out on a journey, financed by an advance on the book (Gilbert is a writer, by profession), to Italy, India, and Indonesia--- to find, among other things, who she is, to feel life again, and discover how she can live in balance.
In one scene from the movie, Julia Roberts (playing Gilbert) is engaged in conversation with friends. The question is asked, “What word describes who you are?” Roberts isn’t sure how to answer but responds with, “Writer.” A friend reminds her that her word is a description of what she does, not who she is. By the end of the movie (and book), she has her word. She finds it as she receives the wisdom of her spiritual guru, Ketut, "To lose balance sometimes for love is part of living a balanced life." She then declares her word to her lover, Felipe, whom she has decided to love, truly. Her word is the Italian word, “attraversiamo.” It means, “Let’s cross over.”
For some it’s magical thinking in fantasy land. And to a degree it is. But it’s better than drowning in anger, or being isolated by rage, or destroyed by grief.
Journey together. Grow together. Heal each other’s wounds. Soothe each other’s pain. Fight each other’s fears. Together.
A fantasy? Perhaps. But let’s try, anyway.
Let’s cross over. Together.
Life Matters is written by David B. Whitlock, Ph.D. David’s email is drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com. You can visit his website at davidbwhitlock.com
Friday, August 13, 2010
Letting Them Fly
“I’m doing better this time,” my wife Lori said as I answered the phone, “I’m not crying…at least not much.”
She was leaving our youngest daughter’s apartment. No, they hadn’t had a mother daughter spat; nothing negative had prompted Lori’s emotions. She was saying “bye” to Madison… for the second time. We had moved her to Lexington, KY., where she will soon start school. Lori informed me it was necessary for her to return the next day, “to help get Madi settled.” That was true, but I knew more: finally letting go is difficult for parents, especially when you are the mother and the child is the youngest daughter.
We have had all four of our children, in this blended family of ours, fly to different places: we felt a lump in our throats when Mary-Elizabeth flew to New York City; we longed for laughter after Dave moved to Danville, KY., and we carried a heavy heart when Harrison left for Campbellsville, KY. But when that last one leaves the nest, it makes all the children’s absences seem even more permanent. Now, when we returned home, only Baylor and Max, our two miniature Schnauzers, awaited us.
The next day, as I walked through the house in the early morning hour, an eerie silence reverberated through the walls, echoing the children’s giggles, booming their music, resounding with the clamor for help with homework, resonating with the cry for answers to life’s ultimate questions, like “When will supper be ready, finally?” and “Why can’t I stay out later?”
But I’ve noticed several positives to this empty nest situation: I have more room in my driveway, making it easier to buzz in and out of the garage; I can rattle around the upstairs of our two story house in the wee hours of the morning and wake no one; I have acquired, in the past four years--- three empty bedrooms, giving me a morning, afternoon, and evening study--- whichever I so desire; instead of planning weekly meals, Lori can ask me at 6 p.m., “What do you want for supper?” and I can respond, “I dunno,” and that’s okay; I no longer walk through the house at curfew, making sure the kids are in, checking the locks on the doors, and turning off lights; and I don’t have to rush to get in the shower before the kids deplete the hot water supply.
The most rewarding and satisfying benefit of letting them go is the influence those young ones can have in the world. Children, after all, are meant to grow up, leave, and make a difference. As painful as it is to let them go, it’s more hurtful to keep them home when it’s time for them to fly to freedom. Granted, circumstances sometimes necessitate a longer stay with mom and dad, yet even within those situations, parents can release children to new expressions of freedoms and the gradual acceptance of more adult responsibilities. Even when the children do leave, whether it’s sooner or later, until they are completely independent, they most often return---some more than others--- if not for a home cooked meal, at least to do their laundry.
Yet, when it’s time, it’s time. Good-byes may not be forever, but they are steps along the road to maturity. And ultimately, a child leaving the security of home for a dream, risky though it may be, is better than one who stays for fear of failure.
As I glanced in my review mirror at Madi waving bye, I was reminded of that episode from Andy Griffith, “Opie, the Birdman,” where Opie Taylor has accidentally killed a mother bird with his new slingshot. Opie then raises the baby birds to maturity. But then, when it’s time to let them go, Opie has trouble. Andy Taylor convinces his son, “to let’em go; let’em be on their own; let’em be free like they was intended.” And Opie does. Each bird flies to freedom. Then, Opie looks at the bird cage. To him it looks “awful empty.”
And Andy, the wise, sage of comedy, agrees but then adds, “But don’t the trees seem nice and full?”
Having raised them as best we can, we let them go. And instead of looking at the empty nest, we do well to look at the trees---the possibilities that lie ahead for them, the fullness they can bring to others’ lives--- and with a sigh of satisfaction, say with the good Sherriff of Mayberry, “My, but don’t the trees seem nice and full?”
Yes, indeed.
David’s email is drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com.
She was leaving our youngest daughter’s apartment. No, they hadn’t had a mother daughter spat; nothing negative had prompted Lori’s emotions. She was saying “bye” to Madison… for the second time. We had moved her to Lexington, KY., where she will soon start school. Lori informed me it was necessary for her to return the next day, “to help get Madi settled.” That was true, but I knew more: finally letting go is difficult for parents, especially when you are the mother and the child is the youngest daughter.
We have had all four of our children, in this blended family of ours, fly to different places: we felt a lump in our throats when Mary-Elizabeth flew to New York City; we longed for laughter after Dave moved to Danville, KY., and we carried a heavy heart when Harrison left for Campbellsville, KY. But when that last one leaves the nest, it makes all the children’s absences seem even more permanent. Now, when we returned home, only Baylor and Max, our two miniature Schnauzers, awaited us.
The next day, as I walked through the house in the early morning hour, an eerie silence reverberated through the walls, echoing the children’s giggles, booming their music, resounding with the clamor for help with homework, resonating with the cry for answers to life’s ultimate questions, like “When will supper be ready, finally?” and “Why can’t I stay out later?”
But I’ve noticed several positives to this empty nest situation: I have more room in my driveway, making it easier to buzz in and out of the garage; I can rattle around the upstairs of our two story house in the wee hours of the morning and wake no one; I have acquired, in the past four years--- three empty bedrooms, giving me a morning, afternoon, and evening study--- whichever I so desire; instead of planning weekly meals, Lori can ask me at 6 p.m., “What do you want for supper?” and I can respond, “I dunno,” and that’s okay; I no longer walk through the house at curfew, making sure the kids are in, checking the locks on the doors, and turning off lights; and I don’t have to rush to get in the shower before the kids deplete the hot water supply.
The most rewarding and satisfying benefit of letting them go is the influence those young ones can have in the world. Children, after all, are meant to grow up, leave, and make a difference. As painful as it is to let them go, it’s more hurtful to keep them home when it’s time for them to fly to freedom. Granted, circumstances sometimes necessitate a longer stay with mom and dad, yet even within those situations, parents can release children to new expressions of freedoms and the gradual acceptance of more adult responsibilities. Even when the children do leave, whether it’s sooner or later, until they are completely independent, they most often return---some more than others--- if not for a home cooked meal, at least to do their laundry.
Yet, when it’s time, it’s time. Good-byes may not be forever, but they are steps along the road to maturity. And ultimately, a child leaving the security of home for a dream, risky though it may be, is better than one who stays for fear of failure.
As I glanced in my review mirror at Madi waving bye, I was reminded of that episode from Andy Griffith, “Opie, the Birdman,” where Opie Taylor has accidentally killed a mother bird with his new slingshot. Opie then raises the baby birds to maturity. But then, when it’s time to let them go, Opie has trouble. Andy Taylor convinces his son, “to let’em go; let’em be on their own; let’em be free like they was intended.” And Opie does. Each bird flies to freedom. Then, Opie looks at the bird cage. To him it looks “awful empty.”
And Andy, the wise, sage of comedy, agrees but then adds, “But don’t the trees seem nice and full?”
Having raised them as best we can, we let them go. And instead of looking at the empty nest, we do well to look at the trees---the possibilities that lie ahead for them, the fullness they can bring to others’ lives--- and with a sigh of satisfaction, say with the good Sherriff of Mayberry, “My, but don’t the trees seem nice and full?”
Yes, indeed.
David’s email is drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com.
Friday, August 6, 2010
When Lightning Strikes
In an instant---less than a second, in the flash of lightning, life can change. And then life is never the same.
My friend Ronnie Lindsey was struck by lightning. Ronnie is an electrician and had just completed a job for his company, Lanham Refrigeration Heating and Air Conditioning. As he was leaving, the person who had needed the repairs half-jokingly warned “Be careful and don’t get struck by lightning.” It turned out to be no laughing matter.
As Ronnie was putting his tools back in the company van, he heard thunder. Glancing skyward, he started to step away from the van but before he could, he felt the lightning surge from his feet through his body. Momentarily stunned, Ronnie immediately took stock of himself and realized he had survived a lighting strike. All he could say was, “Thank you sweet Jesus for letting me live.”
Thank you indeed.
Ronnie’s chances of being struck by lightning were about 1 in 700,000. Yet, there are enough electrical storms out there to make lighting strikes one the leading causes of weather related deaths in the USA. An average of 73 people are killed by lightning each year and about 300 are injured. The fact that Ronnie had been handling metal tools increased his chances of attracting lightning. But Ronnie was partially in the van, which had rubber tires, and that may have lessened the severity of the shock. One thing is for sure: Ronnie Lindsey is grateful to be alive. Getting struck by lightning has a way of bringing life and death into focus.
In an instant--- less than a second, in the flash of lightning, life can change. And then life is never the same.
In Ronnie’s case, it’s the same but different. Even though he has the same job with the same people with the same duties in the same town with the same family, life can never be quite the same. Close encounters with death are reminders of life’s precarious nature.
Like the storms they accompany, lightning happens when we least expect it. The once intact marriage is quite suddenly broken; the financially secure retirement evaporates as quickly as you can say, “Stock market crash;” the promising job opportunities vanish, it seems, the moment you get that diploma; and the once secure job is as tenuous as the clean bill of health. In a flash, the bat of the eye, the lightning-strike-moment, it’s all gone. Everything we depended on as certain, nailed down--- is all at once up in the air, floating away, just beyond our grasp.
People, not just the weather, change: that person you’ve lived with for 25 years surprises you; the co-worker you shared your heart with turns on you; the friend you trusted takes you to court; the child you dreamed for, undoes you.
Maybe it was inspired by Linda Keith, a Rolling Stones groupie---the former girlfriend of the band’s Keith Richards--- but it is true for many of the people you know: “Goodbye Ruby Tuesday, who could hang a name on you?/ When you change with every new day/Still I’m gonna miss you.” Ahh, the people who change, the people we somehow miss. It’s sad but true: some people change with every new day. They increase the odds of you getting struck.
And then suddenly it happens--- the lightning strikes, revealing the reality of the hypocrisy, the evasiveness of the truth, the masquerade of the façade. And life is never the same for us.
In an instant---less than a second, in the flash of lightning, life can change. And then life is never the same.
Mr. Daws, in the film, The Curious Case of Benjamin Button, was struck by lightning, not once, not twice, but seven times. Like Ronnie, and many others, it happened in the ordinary activities of life. For Mr. Dawes it happened once when he was in the field just tending the cows, once when he was in his truck just minding his own business, once when he was repairing a leak on his roof, once when he was crossing the road to get the mail, once when he was walking his dog, and…and… what about the other two times, Mr. Dawes? Oh well, it doesn’t’ matter. Once you’ve been struck by lightning, you lose count. It happens to all of us, doesn’t it? It’s happened to you, hasn’t it? More times than you care to number.
You’ve been struck by lightning. And I believe you can identify with Mr. Dawes description of himself: “Blinded in one eye; can't hardly hear. I get twitches and shakes out of nowhere; always losing my line of thought. But you know what? God keeps reminding me I'm lucky to be alive. Storm's comin'.”
Yes indeed. Despite the previous hits we’ve taken, storms are still coming. And we are lucky to be alive. Aren’t we?
“Thank you, sweet Jesus, for letting me live.”
Life Matters, is written by David B. Whitlock, Ph.D. David’s email is drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com. You can also visit his website, www.DavidBWhitlock.com.
My friend Ronnie Lindsey was struck by lightning. Ronnie is an electrician and had just completed a job for his company, Lanham Refrigeration Heating and Air Conditioning. As he was leaving, the person who had needed the repairs half-jokingly warned “Be careful and don’t get struck by lightning.” It turned out to be no laughing matter.
As Ronnie was putting his tools back in the company van, he heard thunder. Glancing skyward, he started to step away from the van but before he could, he felt the lightning surge from his feet through his body. Momentarily stunned, Ronnie immediately took stock of himself and realized he had survived a lighting strike. All he could say was, “Thank you sweet Jesus for letting me live.”
Thank you indeed.
Ronnie’s chances of being struck by lightning were about 1 in 700,000. Yet, there are enough electrical storms out there to make lighting strikes one the leading causes of weather related deaths in the USA. An average of 73 people are killed by lightning each year and about 300 are injured. The fact that Ronnie had been handling metal tools increased his chances of attracting lightning. But Ronnie was partially in the van, which had rubber tires, and that may have lessened the severity of the shock. One thing is for sure: Ronnie Lindsey is grateful to be alive. Getting struck by lightning has a way of bringing life and death into focus.
In an instant--- less than a second, in the flash of lightning, life can change. And then life is never the same.
In Ronnie’s case, it’s the same but different. Even though he has the same job with the same people with the same duties in the same town with the same family, life can never be quite the same. Close encounters with death are reminders of life’s precarious nature.
Like the storms they accompany, lightning happens when we least expect it. The once intact marriage is quite suddenly broken; the financially secure retirement evaporates as quickly as you can say, “Stock market crash;” the promising job opportunities vanish, it seems, the moment you get that diploma; and the once secure job is as tenuous as the clean bill of health. In a flash, the bat of the eye, the lightning-strike-moment, it’s all gone. Everything we depended on as certain, nailed down--- is all at once up in the air, floating away, just beyond our grasp.
People, not just the weather, change: that person you’ve lived with for 25 years surprises you; the co-worker you shared your heart with turns on you; the friend you trusted takes you to court; the child you dreamed for, undoes you.
Maybe it was inspired by Linda Keith, a Rolling Stones groupie---the former girlfriend of the band’s Keith Richards--- but it is true for many of the people you know: “Goodbye Ruby Tuesday, who could hang a name on you?/ When you change with every new day/Still I’m gonna miss you.” Ahh, the people who change, the people we somehow miss. It’s sad but true: some people change with every new day. They increase the odds of you getting struck.
And then suddenly it happens--- the lightning strikes, revealing the reality of the hypocrisy, the evasiveness of the truth, the masquerade of the façade. And life is never the same for us.
In an instant---less than a second, in the flash of lightning, life can change. And then life is never the same.
Mr. Daws, in the film, The Curious Case of Benjamin Button, was struck by lightning, not once, not twice, but seven times. Like Ronnie, and many others, it happened in the ordinary activities of life. For Mr. Dawes it happened once when he was in the field just tending the cows, once when he was in his truck just minding his own business, once when he was repairing a leak on his roof, once when he was crossing the road to get the mail, once when he was walking his dog, and…and… what about the other two times, Mr. Dawes? Oh well, it doesn’t’ matter. Once you’ve been struck by lightning, you lose count. It happens to all of us, doesn’t it? It’s happened to you, hasn’t it? More times than you care to number.
You’ve been struck by lightning. And I believe you can identify with Mr. Dawes description of himself: “Blinded in one eye; can't hardly hear. I get twitches and shakes out of nowhere; always losing my line of thought. But you know what? God keeps reminding me I'm lucky to be alive. Storm's comin'.”
Yes indeed. Despite the previous hits we’ve taken, storms are still coming. And we are lucky to be alive. Aren’t we?
“Thank you, sweet Jesus, for letting me live.”
Life Matters, is written by David B. Whitlock, Ph.D. David’s email is drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com. You can also visit his website, www.DavidBWhitlock.com.
Friday, July 30, 2010
Juggling Little League, Family, and God
I had heard the complaint before in other places, at other times. “I struggle with wanting my child to participate in summer little league baseball and still have time for our family events, not to mention participation in church,” the concerned mother told me over the phone. “It just seems like we can’t do it all.” In her particular situation, baseball games were being scheduled not only on Sundays, but on Sunday mornings--- a definite conflict for Christians who want their family to worship together. As a parent, and as a pastor, I understood.
This is not an isolated, local problem. The Wall Street Journal printed an article on July 21, 2010, about the challenge parents face when involvement in organized team sports begins to overwhelm families, interfering with vacations, stealing visits from grandparents, aunts and uncles, consuming weekends, leaving no time for family leisure and outings. Although the story focused on elite youth sport teams that often requires a year-long commitment, the gist of the report was that parents are pushing back and sometimes withdrawing their kids from these programs so that the family can maintain a more balanced and healthy lifestyle.
Let’s face it; few if any of the kids who play little league sports will ever make a career of it. Even of those that play competitive sports in high school, less that 1% ever makes it to the pros. For baseball it’s 0.44%; for football, 0.08%. If becoming a pro is the dream, the odds are not in your favor.
But team sports do have a definite positive side: sports can teach young people how to cooperate with one another in attaining a common goal; they can teach basic life skills---like how to deal with conflict--- and develop athletic abilities for further participation in competitive sports. Involvement in youth sports has been traced to improved self-esteem, lower obesity rates, and improved grades in school.
So, what to do about the time constraints youth sports--- particularly summer sports--- put on families? The problem is best dealt with before the season begins. When we give other people the permission to establish our priorities, they inevitably will. If we let the city’s little league game coordinator determine our summer schedule, he/she will. And it will likely be at our expense. A clear sense of priorities is the only way I know of steering the family ship through the sea of summer frustrations.
If the goal for your child’s involvement is to make him/her a more complete and integrated person, then let the coach or little league committee know your goals from the very beginning. If your priorities are God first, family second, and summer league baseball third, then why let a summer sports scheduler reverse the order of your life purposes?
After all, just how much is that first place trophy worth, anyway? Is it worth tearing up your family’s summer schedule? Only the parent can determine that. But remember, your priorities do reflect your values.
As a parent who rarely missed one of my son’s little league games, I have observed that the problem of over emphasizing competitiveness in youth sports is more frequently driven by parents who are trying to fulfill their own dreams as athletes through their children. Kids will generally take the sport about as seriously or lightheartedly as the parents and coaches do. I recall watching a coach shout at a 4th grader in a city league football practice: “What do you think this is?” he screamed, “Fun? This is football; it’s not supposed to be fun.”
“Really?” I thought. If it’s not fun how do you expect a child to continue playing the game? I switched my son to a different team with a coach who had a sports philosophy more compatible with mine.
Parents have to remember they are ultimately in control of their children’s activities.
Here’s the bottom line: if the parents refuse to have games on Sundays, or Sunday mornings, it won’t happen, unless coaches are willing to import players from another part of the country. And if they are able to do that, some city has too much money and somebody is thinking too hard about how to waste it. Remember this: youth sports are meant to be fun. In the words of Benny Rodriguez, in the 1993 film, The Sandlot, “Man, this is baseball. You gotta stop thinking. Just have fun.”
Life Matters is written by David B. Whitlock, Ph.D. His email address is drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com. You can visit his website, DavidBWhitlock.com.
This is not an isolated, local problem. The Wall Street Journal printed an article on July 21, 2010, about the challenge parents face when involvement in organized team sports begins to overwhelm families, interfering with vacations, stealing visits from grandparents, aunts and uncles, consuming weekends, leaving no time for family leisure and outings. Although the story focused on elite youth sport teams that often requires a year-long commitment, the gist of the report was that parents are pushing back and sometimes withdrawing their kids from these programs so that the family can maintain a more balanced and healthy lifestyle.
Let’s face it; few if any of the kids who play little league sports will ever make a career of it. Even of those that play competitive sports in high school, less that 1% ever makes it to the pros. For baseball it’s 0.44%; for football, 0.08%. If becoming a pro is the dream, the odds are not in your favor.
But team sports do have a definite positive side: sports can teach young people how to cooperate with one another in attaining a common goal; they can teach basic life skills---like how to deal with conflict--- and develop athletic abilities for further participation in competitive sports. Involvement in youth sports has been traced to improved self-esteem, lower obesity rates, and improved grades in school.
So, what to do about the time constraints youth sports--- particularly summer sports--- put on families? The problem is best dealt with before the season begins. When we give other people the permission to establish our priorities, they inevitably will. If we let the city’s little league game coordinator determine our summer schedule, he/she will. And it will likely be at our expense. A clear sense of priorities is the only way I know of steering the family ship through the sea of summer frustrations.
If the goal for your child’s involvement is to make him/her a more complete and integrated person, then let the coach or little league committee know your goals from the very beginning. If your priorities are God first, family second, and summer league baseball third, then why let a summer sports scheduler reverse the order of your life purposes?
After all, just how much is that first place trophy worth, anyway? Is it worth tearing up your family’s summer schedule? Only the parent can determine that. But remember, your priorities do reflect your values.
As a parent who rarely missed one of my son’s little league games, I have observed that the problem of over emphasizing competitiveness in youth sports is more frequently driven by parents who are trying to fulfill their own dreams as athletes through their children. Kids will generally take the sport about as seriously or lightheartedly as the parents and coaches do. I recall watching a coach shout at a 4th grader in a city league football practice: “What do you think this is?” he screamed, “Fun? This is football; it’s not supposed to be fun.”
“Really?” I thought. If it’s not fun how do you expect a child to continue playing the game? I switched my son to a different team with a coach who had a sports philosophy more compatible with mine.
Parents have to remember they are ultimately in control of their children’s activities.
Here’s the bottom line: if the parents refuse to have games on Sundays, or Sunday mornings, it won’t happen, unless coaches are willing to import players from another part of the country. And if they are able to do that, some city has too much money and somebody is thinking too hard about how to waste it. Remember this: youth sports are meant to be fun. In the words of Benny Rodriguez, in the 1993 film, The Sandlot, “Man, this is baseball. You gotta stop thinking. Just have fun.”
Life Matters is written by David B. Whitlock, Ph.D. His email address is drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com. You can visit his website, DavidBWhitlock.com.
Thursday, July 22, 2010
"Hot Town, Summer in the City"
“Hot Town, Summer in the City”
David B. Whitlock, Ph.D.
It’s hot. We are in the middle of the hottest summer since they started keeping records in 1880. And to think that only a few months ago we were complaining about the cold weather.
We tramped out of an unusually cold winter only to find ourselves trudging through a scorching summer. It has proponents on both sides of the global warming issue shouting at each other. The most convinced are the most strident.
This past winter the skeptics of global warming gloated. You recall temperatures were dropping to record lows in many places. It prompted Oklahoma Senator Jim Inhoffe to have a little fun at former Vice-President and global warming spokesman Al Gore’s expense. Inhoffe and family built an igloo with signs that read, “Al GORE’S NEW HOME,” and “HONK IF YOU LOVE GLOBAL WARMING.”
Today global warming advocates are jabbing back, “Are you warm enough yet?” “Feeling the heat?”
I’m not debating; I’m trying to cool off. I’m too tired to argue.
The heat wears us down, draining our energy, replacing our once spirited buoyancy with tired flatness. It’s got me feeling like Pete Bancini, one of the hospital patients in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, who continually declares, whether anyone is there to listen or not, “I’m tired.”
Fatigue has a close friend; they are almost inseparable: irritability. Ahh, the grumpy factor, a nasty side effect of a long, hot summer. I’m trying to confine my crotchety moments to myself. I can grumble, and then quickly shake it off when I see someone coming. But once in a while, I get an unexpected surprise from a summer heat- lover who sneaks up on me with a “doncha ya love this weather?” greeting, chuckling as he slaps my back, not giving me enough time to change my mood.
But, I’ve got a good excuse for my heat-provoked grouchiness: It’s inherited. I know it is because I can recall the moment I got it. It was a miserably hot summer, 1966. I was sitting in the back seat of my parents’ car. We were in “the city,” that is, Oklahoma City. Shopping never was one of my dad’s favorite activities, and that’s what we were doing. All day long. Because this was before the arrival of indoor shopping malls, we were in and out of one downtown store after another, getting hotter and hotter with each stop. Finally, much to my father’s relief, Mom announced we were finished, and we plopped into the car. Dad immediately flipped the air conditioner on “high” and raced away, trying to beat the afternoon traffic.
I could feel the grumpiness factor invade our automobile almost immediately after I asked Dad for the third time to turn up the volume on the radio, which was attuned to KOMA, the rock and roll AM station, playing at that very moment one of my favorite songs, “Summer in the City,” by the by the Lovin’ Spoonful. I was again about to ask for a little more volume, when Dad, mumbling about how much he hated city traffic, glared at the radio as if it were the reason for the heat, the traffic, the arduous day. “I might be able to maneuver in this traffic better if it weren’t for that blasted radio.” And with that he emphatically twisted the “on” knob to “off.”
No more Lovin’ Spoonful. But the “hot town” aggravation hung with me, and would return through the years in moments of extreme heat, erupting like a volcano letting off steam.
Sitting there in that heavy quietness, I felt---consciously for the first time, I do believe--- grumpity too.
And that’s when I was inoculated with summertime grumpiness.
I started to protest the radio ban with Dad, but I knew I’d best not.
That’s why I’m not arguing about global warming, too: I’d best not, not if I want to keep that summertime grouchiness under control. And I plan to stand firm in my resolve. At least until the first snow in winter.
David B. Whitlock is Pastor of Lebanon Baptist Church in Lebanon, KY. He also teaches in the School of Theology at Campbellsville University, Campbellsville, KY. His email address is drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com
David B. Whitlock, Ph.D.
It’s hot. We are in the middle of the hottest summer since they started keeping records in 1880. And to think that only a few months ago we were complaining about the cold weather.
We tramped out of an unusually cold winter only to find ourselves trudging through a scorching summer. It has proponents on both sides of the global warming issue shouting at each other. The most convinced are the most strident.
This past winter the skeptics of global warming gloated. You recall temperatures were dropping to record lows in many places. It prompted Oklahoma Senator Jim Inhoffe to have a little fun at former Vice-President and global warming spokesman Al Gore’s expense. Inhoffe and family built an igloo with signs that read, “Al GORE’S NEW HOME,” and “HONK IF YOU LOVE GLOBAL WARMING.”
Today global warming advocates are jabbing back, “Are you warm enough yet?” “Feeling the heat?”
I’m not debating; I’m trying to cool off. I’m too tired to argue.
The heat wears us down, draining our energy, replacing our once spirited buoyancy with tired flatness. It’s got me feeling like Pete Bancini, one of the hospital patients in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, who continually declares, whether anyone is there to listen or not, “I’m tired.”
Fatigue has a close friend; they are almost inseparable: irritability. Ahh, the grumpy factor, a nasty side effect of a long, hot summer. I’m trying to confine my crotchety moments to myself. I can grumble, and then quickly shake it off when I see someone coming. But once in a while, I get an unexpected surprise from a summer heat- lover who sneaks up on me with a “doncha ya love this weather?” greeting, chuckling as he slaps my back, not giving me enough time to change my mood.
But, I’ve got a good excuse for my heat-provoked grouchiness: It’s inherited. I know it is because I can recall the moment I got it. It was a miserably hot summer, 1966. I was sitting in the back seat of my parents’ car. We were in “the city,” that is, Oklahoma City. Shopping never was one of my dad’s favorite activities, and that’s what we were doing. All day long. Because this was before the arrival of indoor shopping malls, we were in and out of one downtown store after another, getting hotter and hotter with each stop. Finally, much to my father’s relief, Mom announced we were finished, and we plopped into the car. Dad immediately flipped the air conditioner on “high” and raced away, trying to beat the afternoon traffic.
I could feel the grumpiness factor invade our automobile almost immediately after I asked Dad for the third time to turn up the volume on the radio, which was attuned to KOMA, the rock and roll AM station, playing at that very moment one of my favorite songs, “Summer in the City,” by the by the Lovin’ Spoonful. I was again about to ask for a little more volume, when Dad, mumbling about how much he hated city traffic, glared at the radio as if it were the reason for the heat, the traffic, the arduous day. “I might be able to maneuver in this traffic better if it weren’t for that blasted radio.” And with that he emphatically twisted the “on” knob to “off.”
No more Lovin’ Spoonful. But the “hot town” aggravation hung with me, and would return through the years in moments of extreme heat, erupting like a volcano letting off steam.
Sitting there in that heavy quietness, I felt---consciously for the first time, I do believe--- grumpity too.
And that’s when I was inoculated with summertime grumpiness.
I started to protest the radio ban with Dad, but I knew I’d best not.
That’s why I’m not arguing about global warming, too: I’d best not, not if I want to keep that summertime grouchiness under control. And I plan to stand firm in my resolve. At least until the first snow in winter.
David B. Whitlock is Pastor of Lebanon Baptist Church in Lebanon, KY. He also teaches in the School of Theology at Campbellsville University, Campbellsville, KY. His email address is drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com
Saturday, July 17, 2010
“Lying to Lindsay”
What do you do with Lindsay Lohan? Lock her up and throw away the key? Laugh? Shake your head in disgust?
How about looking yourself in the mirror and making sure the person you see is the person you really are? Maybe there is more of Lindsay in us than we would like to believe.
Several weeks ago, I couldn’t have told you whether you whether Lindsay Lohan was a singer or an actress or both. Now I can’t help but know. The media has made sure of that. They’ve pounced on her and won’t let go. And Lindsay has given them no reason to back off; her outrageous antics continue. From her party-hardy lifestyle, to the Los Angeles DUI requiring her to wear an alcohol monitoring anklet, to the missed court dates, to the “f&-k you” message on her fingernail during her last court appearance, Lindsay has been on a roll.
Legal experts say she will likely only serve two weeks to a month of her 90 day sentence, due to the sheriff’s practice of releasing non-violent offenders because of overcrowding. Even so, Lindsay hasn’t given up the fight yet: she and her mother have talked with Chicago defense attorney Stuart Goldberg about helping Lindsay. She reportedly maintains that her human rights have been violated and intends to appeal her sentence.
And the saga continues.
Until what? Until she completely crashes and burns? Why this kind of behavior? Is it simply another spoiled celebrity who earned too much, too soon, and too easily? Is it just one more case of drug and alcohol abuse?
Or is there more to this? What causes people---not just celebrities---to destroy their lives? Is it a “death drive,” Freud’s theory that a force within us, pulling us down to self-destruction, rivals the upward push toward success? What compels people towards self-destroying addictions in the first place?
The 19th century psychologist and philosopher William James observed, “The sway of alcohol over mankind is unquestionably due to its power to stimulate the mystical faculties of human nature, usually crushed to earth by the cold facts and dry criticisms of the sober hour.”
The power of denial and the compulsion to anesthetize oneself from the “cold facts and dry criticisms” of life cannot be underestimated. Recovering addicts know that the first step toward healing is to admit you have a problem. But that first step is oh so difficult because the addiction hides the truth. The person you see in that mirror may not the person you truly are; lying eyes under the influence deceive.
Sheryl Crowe’s 2004 hit song, “Strong Enough,” contained the lyrics: “Lie to me/I promise I’ll believe/Lie to me/But please don’t leave.” It’s sad when such words are written for a lover; it’s sadder still when the lover is a drug.
Life Matters, by David B. Whitlock, Ph.D., is published weekly. David’s email address is drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com. You can also visit his website, www/.davidbwhitlock.com
How about looking yourself in the mirror and making sure the person you see is the person you really are? Maybe there is more of Lindsay in us than we would like to believe.
Several weeks ago, I couldn’t have told you whether you whether Lindsay Lohan was a singer or an actress or both. Now I can’t help but know. The media has made sure of that. They’ve pounced on her and won’t let go. And Lindsay has given them no reason to back off; her outrageous antics continue. From her party-hardy lifestyle, to the Los Angeles DUI requiring her to wear an alcohol monitoring anklet, to the missed court dates, to the “f&-k you” message on her fingernail during her last court appearance, Lindsay has been on a roll.
Legal experts say she will likely only serve two weeks to a month of her 90 day sentence, due to the sheriff’s practice of releasing non-violent offenders because of overcrowding. Even so, Lindsay hasn’t given up the fight yet: she and her mother have talked with Chicago defense attorney Stuart Goldberg about helping Lindsay. She reportedly maintains that her human rights have been violated and intends to appeal her sentence.
And the saga continues.
Until what? Until she completely crashes and burns? Why this kind of behavior? Is it simply another spoiled celebrity who earned too much, too soon, and too easily? Is it just one more case of drug and alcohol abuse?
Or is there more to this? What causes people---not just celebrities---to destroy their lives? Is it a “death drive,” Freud’s theory that a force within us, pulling us down to self-destruction, rivals the upward push toward success? What compels people towards self-destroying addictions in the first place?
The 19th century psychologist and philosopher William James observed, “The sway of alcohol over mankind is unquestionably due to its power to stimulate the mystical faculties of human nature, usually crushed to earth by the cold facts and dry criticisms of the sober hour.”
The power of denial and the compulsion to anesthetize oneself from the “cold facts and dry criticisms” of life cannot be underestimated. Recovering addicts know that the first step toward healing is to admit you have a problem. But that first step is oh so difficult because the addiction hides the truth. The person you see in that mirror may not the person you truly are; lying eyes under the influence deceive.
Sheryl Crowe’s 2004 hit song, “Strong Enough,” contained the lyrics: “Lie to me/I promise I’ll believe/Lie to me/But please don’t leave.” It’s sad when such words are written for a lover; it’s sadder still when the lover is a drug.
Life Matters, by David B. Whitlock, Ph.D., is published weekly. David’s email address is drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com. You can also visit his website, www/.davidbwhitlock.com
Thursday, July 1, 2010
Rogue Rosaries and Captive Crosses
Wearing rosary beads has become fashionable, among gangs. That’s right. Gangs are wearing rosaries--- beads grouped in series of tens, attached to a crucifix. For hundreds of years rosaries have been a helpful means of prayer for many Christians. But the gangs are using them for something other than prayer. “It's become part of the look,” said Victor Castro, a detective and school resource officer who leads gang awareness training in Hillsboro, Oregon. "They use it as a reminder of protection.”
Schools have for over a decade banned gang-related clothing, bandanas, and hairstyles. But no one is sure where the trend for wearing rosaries began. “One gang started it---who it was, nobody knows. Another gang saw it and thought it was cool and started using it, too,” says Robert Walker, a former head of the gang identity unit for the South Carolina Department of Corrections.
The rosary beads identify the gang. Red rosary beads are worn by the Bloods; the Crips wear blue, for example. Even the arrangement of the beads on the rosary has significance: it identifies the member’s rank within the gang.
Rosary-wearing gangs would not have created a stir had not Raymond Hosier of Oneida Middle School in Schenectady, New York, been suspended for wearing his rosary-like crucifix to school. Civil rights groups rushed to his defense, claiming the school had violated his constitutional rights. Other states---including California, Oregon, Texas, and Virginia---have a no-rosary rule, the object being to protect other students from gangs.
This is by no means the first time people have used religious symbols and paraphernalia for purposes other than that for which they were first intended. Adolph Hitler, for example, restored the use of the Iron Cross, which had been used by the Prussian army as a military decoration, to prominence. He issued it for military valor and even designed another cross, the War Merit Cross, for non-combatant military recognition. The War Merit Cross appeared on certain Nazi flags. The cross, signifying freedom in Christ’s death and resurrection, was momentarily captive to a political regime, in this case Nazism.
And, equally bizarre, Nazario Moreno Gonzalez, head of a Mexican drug cartel, La Familia Michocana, known for gunning down police and beheading and dismembering its opponents, has penned a book, filled with images of the cross and replete with admonitions to pray the rosary and read the Bible.
This should serve to remind us that what symbolizes exclusion, racism, violence, hate, and even murder to some may connote love, peace, freedom, and spirituality to others. One person wears rosary beads to identify rank and order within a certain gang; another wears them as a reminder of a spiritual presence. One person lifts the cross to condemn; another raises it for freedom. The purpose for which religious symbols are used has everything to do with the behavior that follows. As Christian author Jon M. Sweeney says, in explaining why rosary beads are part of his daily attire, “I carry the prayer beads with me every day in my pocket along with wallet, business cards, and Palm Pilot. I don’t carry them as a talisman to ward off evil or as a good luck charm. But I do keep them in my pocket precisely so that I will be reminded of them, of my prayers, and of Christ throughout the day.”
Now the question: why did Raymond Hosier wear rosary beads to school? He says he wears them in memory of his brother who died in a car accident: “When I wear the rosary beads, my brother's memory is alive." His brother, Joey Hosier, was holding the rosary when he died.
So, this has become a civil rights issue and should be considered as such by public institutions, including schools. While schools do have a right and responsibility to protect students from gangs, the best means of evaluating how religious emblems are being used is to look at the behavior of those who claim them. It’s the behavior that should be examined, not the wearing of religious pendants themselves. To do otherwise may prohibit the expression of free speech, guaranteed by the first amendment, and prevent forms of authentic prayer or at least the admirable devotion to someone or something.
What kind of personal behavior the wearing of or adherence to religious regalia produces will reveal the intent--- good or bad--- and the devotion, sacred or secular. When praying the rosary results in a spiritual person and when cherishing the old rugged cross produces love for others, the meaning behind the symbol is revealed. As Christians like to sing, “They will know we are Christians by our love.” In the meantime, let the rogue rosaries be and the captive crosses stay.
They only serve to underscore the authenticity of the real thing.
David B. Whitlock, Ph.D., is Pastor of Lebanon Baptist Church in Lebanon, KY. He also teaches in the School of Theology at Campbellsville University, in Campbellsville, KY. You can visit his website at www.davidbwhitlock.com or email him at drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com.
Schools have for over a decade banned gang-related clothing, bandanas, and hairstyles. But no one is sure where the trend for wearing rosaries began. “One gang started it---who it was, nobody knows. Another gang saw it and thought it was cool and started using it, too,” says Robert Walker, a former head of the gang identity unit for the South Carolina Department of Corrections.
The rosary beads identify the gang. Red rosary beads are worn by the Bloods; the Crips wear blue, for example. Even the arrangement of the beads on the rosary has significance: it identifies the member’s rank within the gang.
Rosary-wearing gangs would not have created a stir had not Raymond Hosier of Oneida Middle School in Schenectady, New York, been suspended for wearing his rosary-like crucifix to school. Civil rights groups rushed to his defense, claiming the school had violated his constitutional rights. Other states---including California, Oregon, Texas, and Virginia---have a no-rosary rule, the object being to protect other students from gangs.
This is by no means the first time people have used religious symbols and paraphernalia for purposes other than that for which they were first intended. Adolph Hitler, for example, restored the use of the Iron Cross, which had been used by the Prussian army as a military decoration, to prominence. He issued it for military valor and even designed another cross, the War Merit Cross, for non-combatant military recognition. The War Merit Cross appeared on certain Nazi flags. The cross, signifying freedom in Christ’s death and resurrection, was momentarily captive to a political regime, in this case Nazism.
And, equally bizarre, Nazario Moreno Gonzalez, head of a Mexican drug cartel, La Familia Michocana, known for gunning down police and beheading and dismembering its opponents, has penned a book, filled with images of the cross and replete with admonitions to pray the rosary and read the Bible.
This should serve to remind us that what symbolizes exclusion, racism, violence, hate, and even murder to some may connote love, peace, freedom, and spirituality to others. One person wears rosary beads to identify rank and order within a certain gang; another wears them as a reminder of a spiritual presence. One person lifts the cross to condemn; another raises it for freedom. The purpose for which religious symbols are used has everything to do with the behavior that follows. As Christian author Jon M. Sweeney says, in explaining why rosary beads are part of his daily attire, “I carry the prayer beads with me every day in my pocket along with wallet, business cards, and Palm Pilot. I don’t carry them as a talisman to ward off evil or as a good luck charm. But I do keep them in my pocket precisely so that I will be reminded of them, of my prayers, and of Christ throughout the day.”
Now the question: why did Raymond Hosier wear rosary beads to school? He says he wears them in memory of his brother who died in a car accident: “When I wear the rosary beads, my brother's memory is alive." His brother, Joey Hosier, was holding the rosary when he died.
So, this has become a civil rights issue and should be considered as such by public institutions, including schools. While schools do have a right and responsibility to protect students from gangs, the best means of evaluating how religious emblems are being used is to look at the behavior of those who claim them. It’s the behavior that should be examined, not the wearing of religious pendants themselves. To do otherwise may prohibit the expression of free speech, guaranteed by the first amendment, and prevent forms of authentic prayer or at least the admirable devotion to someone or something.
What kind of personal behavior the wearing of or adherence to religious regalia produces will reveal the intent--- good or bad--- and the devotion, sacred or secular. When praying the rosary results in a spiritual person and when cherishing the old rugged cross produces love for others, the meaning behind the symbol is revealed. As Christians like to sing, “They will know we are Christians by our love.” In the meantime, let the rogue rosaries be and the captive crosses stay.
They only serve to underscore the authenticity of the real thing.
David B. Whitlock, Ph.D., is Pastor of Lebanon Baptist Church in Lebanon, KY. He also teaches in the School of Theology at Campbellsville University, in Campbellsville, KY. You can visit his website at www.davidbwhitlock.com or email him at drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com.
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