There, all the time

My grandson, Eli, like a lot of children his age (3 years) is fascinated with dump trucks. Actually he loves trucks of any kind, but he loves dump trucks because several dump trucks park not far from where we live.

Whenever he visits us, I know what he wants me to do when he says, “Go see the dump trucks, PopPop.”

We get in the car and visit the dump trucks.

So, for his birthday this past September, we got him a motorized, battery operated truck. The decal on the side says, “Ford F-150,” but whenever he wants it to be a dump truck, we call it a dump truck.

The little guy travels all over our front and back yard in his truck. The other day, he was putting rocks in the “bed” of his truck.

“Where ya hauling those rocks, Eli?” I asked him.

“Nana’s,” he told me, referring to his paternal grandmother.

At once, he put it in gear and sped toward our back yard, glancing back at me as he turned the corner of our house, making sure I was still watching him.

I was.

And so I accepted his silent invitation to follow. But I had another motive in tailing him: I wanted to make sure he was safe.

Having successfully arrived in the back, he asserted his independence. “Now go back PopPop. I want to go by myself.”

I hid behind the corner of the house and spied on him.

Eli turned to see if I had gone and caught me peeking at him.

“No, PopPop,” he giggled, amused by my sneakiness.

So we played the game: He would beg, “No, PopPop. I wanna go by myself.” Then he would turn back around to drive his truck, look in my direction and catch me peeking. Each time he saw me, he giggled uncontrollably, like he does when I tickle his ribs.

We played that way for several minutes, until I decided to let him have his way, sort of. I hid behind the corner, only this time I did retreat.

But not completely.

I raced around the front of the house to the opposite side, hid behind a bush, and watched to see what Eli would do without me there.

What I saw was Eli’s little rear-end as he was peering around the corner, looking for his PopPop. Assured of my absence, he dashed back to his truck, hopped in, but instead of driving further away, he reversed course and started driving back to the front where I had been.

I ran back to the front as fast as I could, arriving just as he was driving around the corner.

“Wow, Eli,” I said, hoping he wouldn’t notice that I was winded, “you drove all that way by yourself.”

“Yep,” he beamed, as if he had just passed his first driver’s test.

Later, I couldn’t help but think of God, my heavenly Father.

In my zeal to explore the world, to test my capabilities, to cross boundaries, he hasn’t held me back. And when I with healthy fear knew it was time to fall back, he didn’t shame me.

He has kept me safe in ways I likely will never know, at least this side of eternity. He has been there, around the corner, behind the bush, his eye on me, one of his beloved children, enjoying life with me, even (dare I say it?) laughing with me, maybe placing just the right person in my path at just the right time to direct me, perhaps sending an angel here and there to guide me.

And always when I arrived at my destination, having achieved a dream or returned to where I started the journey, he would be there to whisper in my ear, “Well done, David, look at what you did.”

And I could smile, because I knew it was him.

He was there.

All the time.

Becoming who you are

After watching clips of Tracy Morgan’s successful return to comedy as host of “Saturday Night Live,” I thought of something he said several months ago in an interview with “Today Show” host, Matt Lauer. It’s now been more than a year since Morgan’s near fatal car crash, but the interview took place only a few months after the collision.

“I love comedy,” Morgan said, “and I wonder how I’m gonna be funny again. Remembering my identity, what do I do?”

So much of who we are, or perceive ourselves to be, is attached to what we do. Morgan expressed his apprehension about being funny again. Making people laugh is for him a great part of “remembering” his identity.

We become the particular role we play, and failing to live up to the expectations others have of us in that role can be shameful to us.

But is being a comedian who Tracy Morgan really is? For any of us, is what we do who we are, really? Should your capacity for doing what you do suddenly be taken away, as Morgan feared it might be for him, would you still be you?

Who are you, really?

I’m a husband, a son, a brother, a father, a grandfather, a pastor, a writer, but who am I at my core?

Who is that “someone” you really are, beyond what people see while you work or go about fulfilling any number of roles you have in life?

It’s a question worth pondering.

And worth even more in answering.

Or else the person you are becoming may not really be “you.”

You might know that Marilyn Monroe was not Marilyn Monroe’s given name. She was actually born, Norma Jean Mortenson.

But who was she, really?

On the night Marilyn Monroe died, she turned on a tape recorder. Some of her last hours of life were recorded on tape. A reporter discovered the original recording and was puzzled by something he heard her saying. In the closing moments of her life, Marilyn Monroe could be heard repeating again and again, “Tony, Tony, oh Tony, where are you?”

Who was Tony? The reporter dug here and scratched there but continually came up clueless.

After more than a year of searching for Tony, the reporter was visiting a recording shop where Marilyn Monroe worked before she became a star. He talked to a store clerk who had actually worked with Monroe. And during the interview the clerk responded to a question the reporter asked with, “Tony would have liked that!”

The reporter was shocked. “Who is Tony?” the he asked.  The clerk explained that “Tony” had been Marilyn Monroe’s nickname for many years. Tony was in fact Marilyn Monroe herself.

On the night of her death she asked over and over again, “Tony, where are you?”

Did Marilyn Monroe, like so many people, die looking for her True Self?

So, how do you find that someone you really are?

The Franciscan monk and founder of the Center for Action and Contemplation, Richard Rohr, quotes Oscar Wilde, “Be yourself; everyone else is taken.”

For Rohr, your True Self is what makes you, you. It’s “who you are in God and who God is in you.” You began your life with a “divine DNA, an inner destiny…that knows the truth about you…an Imago Dei that begs to be allowed, to be fulfilled, and to show itself.”

It’s the mystery of Christ within you. It’s the Holy Spirit who finally chases you down, embraces you in love, and walks with you along the journey of life, pointing you heavenward while at one and the same time allowing you to reflect his presence in yourself, and thereby, along the walk, awakening within yourself the “you” you really are as you find yourself in God.

The Apostle Paul spoke of his “old self” being crucified with Christ. “It is no longer I who live,” he proclaimed,  “but Christ lives in me” (Galatians 2:20). Having died to the old self, the False Self, you are freed to let Christ live in you as you become the person you are meant to be, your True Self.

Rather than tragically dying trying to find that person, you are free to let your True Self shine in all its fullness.

And there is no fear or shame in that.

Make someone happy today

I stepped into the elevator with a sense of dread. This wasn’t the place I wanted to be, even though not far from my location were some of the most beautiful beaches on the Florida coast, not to mention other attractions like the unique shops along Atlantic Avenue, boat tours, and the Japanese Gardens.

None of those things were of even passing interest to me, for my wife and I didn’t think of ourselves as being on vacation. We were there to help our son, Harrison, who is in the process of working on sobriety at a rehabilitation center in the area.

“How ya doing?” I managed to greet the hotel maintenance workers already on board the elevator.

“Doin’ great,” one of them, a short, stout, Hispanic man, responded with a cheery voice and halted English. “What floor?” he asked, offering to push the floor number button on the elevator.

Maybe it was the lift in his voice that made me look at him again.  I guessed that his weatherworn face added years to his actual age.  There was a flicker in his tired eyes, which carried bags beneath them. I wondered, does he work two jobs? Had life been hard on him?  What burdens does he carry? His trimmed mustache and clean-shaven face told me he took pride in his appearance. It would be easy in his work to let it go, but his maintenance clothes were crisp and neatly ironed and his shirttail tightly tucked in. Did his wife stay up late last night and press his clothes for him? Or does he live alone? How long has he lived in the United States? What would this day hold for him? What’s his story?

I felt a bit ashamed for my inner turmoil, my aggravation, even borderline resentment for needing to make this trip.

“You gonna make someone happy today,” he confidently announced, glancing at me sideways with a smile as he and his co-worker exited the elevator.

His words jolted me. Suddenly the maintenance worker had turned into a prophet. Had he somehow sensed my apprehensions as I stepped into the elevator? Did he know I was being tempted to succumb to the mind’s negative side, dangerously drifting near the waters of that dreadful swampland of stinkin’ thinkin’?

I stepped out of the elevator and turned down the hallway to our room, but I also made a U-turn in my attitude. Instead of dreading this day, I was now determined to make somebody happy, as the maintenance man told me I would.

I started, as any man in his right mind would, with my wife: “Breakfast from the buffet? Let me bring that to you while you get ready,” I offered.

“I hope you have a splendid day,” I declared to the hotel desk clerk on my way to the restaurant.

And the case workers and counselors we met later in the day would be my friends, upon whom I would smile, speak words of affirmation, and do my best to encourage.

And as for our son, well, life is too short to hang disappointments around someone’s neck like an ugly necklace that carries a bad memory. Instead, I decided we would celebrate his progress in sobriety with a seafood dinner and then frolic on the beach like kids who get to experience the thrill of catching a wave for the first time.

As author and pioneer in integrative medicine, Rachel Naomi Remen, M.D., has observed, “Few people know that they have the power to bless life. We bless the life in each other far more than we realize. Many simple, ordinary things that we do can affect those around us in profound ways.”

So, thank you, Mr. Hotel Maintenance Worker, I take my hat off and bow to you, and pledge to do my best to fulfill your prediction, passing along your blessing to whomever I can, wherever I can, whenever I can, doing the little things I can to make others’ lives a little happier each day.

Angel Smiles

Even as I drove to the long-term care facility I debated whether this was really necessary.

A little voice inside my head whispered, “You’ve got too much on your plate today, this can wait until another week.”

Then a bigger Voice countered, “What about that personal commitment you made to do this at least three times a month? How can you know these people if you don’t visit them on a regular basis? It may not be glamorous, but remember, hot shot, you can make a difference in their day…even if they don’t remember it.”

“All right, already,” I told that bigger Voice. “But I don’t have time to visit very long. Okay?”

I was on my way out of the facility, less than an hour later, when I caught myself.

I had forgotten one person.

“I’ll visit her next week when I have more time,” I murmured.

“Ahumm…” I heard the Voice questioning my rationale.

So, I reversed course, scurried past the nurse’s station, careened around the corner, came within inches of colliding with a lady making an unsuspected U-turn in her wheel chair, and almost out of breath, found myself in my parishioner’s room.

She was asleep.

This is not unusual for her. I usually tap her gently on her shoulder, visit for a few minutes, and then ALWAYS ask her the same question before I exit.

“Do you know what I have to have before I leave?” is my standard question.

She knows the answer.

Her broad grin is inevitably followed by a joyous laugh that engulfs her room and sometimes catches the attention of a nurse or two.

“That’s right,” I join her laughter,  “I’ve got to have my angel smile.”

Her once placid face beams because she loves the play on words with her name, Jane Angel.

When she was well enough to attend church, some years ago, I would see her sitting next to another godly soul, Lucy Pearl. As I would pass by them before the worship service on Sunday morning, I would stop, act like I was studying them, and then pretend to sigh with relief. “All is well,” I would say, “I can preach now because I see my Pearl and my Angel sitting together.”

They would suppress their chuckles, covering them with a hand over their mouth, because after all, it was almost worship time. 

Lucy has been gone for over a year now.

And there I stood that day in Ms. Angel’s room, there only because I had lost the debate with the Voice.

I reached over to tap her lightly on her shoulder, make my brief visit, and ask my weekly question.

But I didn’t.

Something, (the Voice?) told me not to.

How many times have I overruled that Voice and done what I’d already made up my mind to do anyway, or at least unthinkingly repeated my same routine?

But today, the Voice told me to stop, be still, and watch her sleep.

And pray for her.

And so I did.

I can’t tell you how long I stood there in the silence of her room and prayed. It probably wasn’t more than five minutes. But I reflected, as the Voice seemed to direct me, on what I knew of her life: her devotion as a wife and mother, her work on the farm, her career as a social worker, the ease at which she could prepare a meal for a large family. I thought about the day I baptized her when she united with our church from another denomination. She smiled her angel smile that day as her son and I lifted her from the baptismal waters.

And I thanked the Lord for her faithfulness, her love, and yes, her smile.

Content to get my angel smile next week, I left my card so she would know I had been there.

And I promptly forgot about that visit.

Until the next day when I learned she had rather suddenly died less than 12 hours after my prayer for her in her room.

Then I knew why the Voice spoke so emphatically that day.

I was supposed to pray for her, for it was her day.

Her day to take her angel smile to her home in heaven.

Please pray for me

I usually perceive general requests for prayer, “Please pray for me,” as an indication that the person asking has some specific need they’ve yet to articulate, perhaps it’s an illness, maybe a fear, a potential danger, or a challenge---like an athletic event or an exam.

It’s like the little boy who was misbehaving in church. Finally the little tyke’s dad has had enough of the son’s shenanigans, so Dad picks him up, puts him on his shoulder and proceeds to carry the disobedient lad outside for some good ol’ fashioned discipline.  As everyone turns to watch them exit, the little boy pleads with the audience, “Please pray for me.”

The little guy has a specific request he doesn’t have the time to detail.

So, what are we to make of Pope Francis request on his recent historic visit to the United States for people to pray for him?

It happened on at least three occasions.

While moving through the crowds outside the Apostolic Nunciature in Washington, D.C., the Pope shook hands with Fr. Scott Pilarz, who exclaimed that he was a Jesuit at Georgetown Prep. Pope Francis stopped, smiled and appealed to Fr. Pilarz, "Pray for me."

What’s interesting is the dialog that followed.

Fr. Pilarz replied, “I will.”

The Pope’s response underscored the fact that he wasn’t being flippant or superficially religious: “Really,” the Pope emphasized, “don’t forget it.”

“I promise,” Pilarz said. (What else would you say to the Pope?)

“I need it,” the Pope emphasized.

“I promise, every day,” Fr. Pilarz pledged.

The next day, while standing with political leaders, Senate Majority Leader Mitch McConnell, Vice-President Joe Biden, Speaker of the House John Boehner, and House Majority Leader Kevin McCarthy, Pope Francis again made the request: “I ask you all: please pray for me.”

After Boehner shocked the political world the next day by resigning as Speaker of the House, the first question asked during his news conference was, “Did the grace of Pope Francis lead to this decision?”

It’s an interesting question. Boehner is a devout Roman Catholic and was moved to tears the day before when the Pope addressed Congress. But the most emotional moment for an openly emotional Boehner wasn’t recorded on camera. When Boehner and Pope Francis were getting ready to exit the building, they momentarily they found themselves alone.

The Pope complimented the House Speaker for his commitment to children and education. Then Pope Francis put his hand on Boehner’s shoulder, kind of pulled him closer and earnestly pleaded with Boehner, “Please pray for me.”

As Boehner told this story, he openly admitted, “Who am I to pray for the Pope?” And then quickly added, “But I did.”

Later, the Pope spoke to students at Our Lady Queen of Angels School in Harlem. He concluded by giving them an assignment: “Pray for me,” he said. And as he left, he reminded them, “Don’t forget your homework.”

I know of religious leaders who resist the thought of asking anyone, especially their congregants, to pray for them. Asking for prayer is to reveal a weakness, some think. It might reveal a chink in the clergy’s spiritual armor.

Imagine that, spiritual leaders having to admit they are actually human.

Others shy away because they aren’t sure how someone will pray for them. In a turn on Boehner’s question, “Who am I to pray for the Pope,” some clergy would ask, “Who are you (laity) to pray for me (clergy)?”

Asking laypeople to pray for them is a risky business, some some spiritual leaders fear. What if the congregants pray that their leaders become more holy or compassionate? What if they pray for their leaders to lead? Or preach shorter more meaningful sermons? And what happens when other people hear such prayers?

What I sense in the Pope’s prayer request is a deep sense of humility, the virtue that characterizes so much of his papacy. He is transparent, revealing that he is is acutely aware of the enormity of his task and the limitations of his capabilities.

And I’m sure behind the general request, “Please pray for me,” are specific concerns too numerous to speculate.

The Pope is not alone in his openness to ask for prayer.

The Apostle Paul requested pray. “Pray for me,” he urged his readers in his letter to the Ephesians: “Ask God to give me the right words so I can boldly explain God’s mysterious plan that the Good News is for Jews and Gentiles alike” (Ephesians 6:19).

And to the Church in Rome he wrote, “Join in my struggle by praying to God for me” (Romans 15:30).

And Jesus himself, in the Garden of Gethsemane, wasn’t above asking his disciples to support him by staying awake and praying during his moment of agony: “Couldn’t you watch with me even for one hour?” (Matthew 26:40).

When someone recently asked Pulitzer-Prize winning journalist and Catholic historian, Garry Wills, why the Pope appears more popular with non-Catholics than with many Catholics, he replied, “Maybe it’s because he reminds some people of Jesus.”

Even if we don’t get it exactly right or fall asleep trying, we can at least in a spirit of humility like Pope Francis, admit our own need for others’ prayers and pray for each other…clergy and laity alike.

When we do, we find ourselves in the best of company.

Practicing the finest of virtues.