In need of a hug?

She sits among several of her fellow residents at the long term care facility I visit, ensconced in her wheel chair, sometimes napping, sometimes staring. I suppose I've walked past her dozens of times, greeting her with a casual “Hello” or “How are you?” I can’t say I've taken the time to wait for a response. I've felt her tired eyes following me as I've quickly disappeared around the corner and down the hallway.

But this day, she stopped me cold in my tracks.

She seemed to cock her head slightly to the right, squinting in my direction, and before I could pass by, she declared in a gruff voice I heard for the first time: “You’re good looking.”

Suppressing a smile and glancing around to see if anyone else had heard, I thanked her.

“Well, you are,” she said, as if to preempt any disavowal on my part.

I shook my head from side to side, chuckling to myself as I walked down the hall. Then later, having made my visits, I returned to exit from the same place I had entered.

She was still guarding the hallway.

“Well,” I said grinning at her, “Am I?”

“Are you what?” she rejoined matter of factly.

“Am I still good looking?” I jokingly asked, but also testing her memory.

“Oh yeah,” she said with no expression, “You’re good looking.”

“I think I’m going to tell my wife what you said, just in case she’s forgotten or disagrees,” I teased.

“What’s her name?”

“Lori.”

“Well, she’ll agree,” she affirmed.

That evening, Lori enjoyed hearing about my new friend at the long term care facility.

The next week, when I visited the facility, she was in her usual place.

“How are you?” This time I waited long enough for her answer.

She wasn’t feeling well. “Probably a cold,” she told me.

Having made my visits, I spoke to her on my way out.

“Do you love me?” she asked.

Her words halted my speedy exit.

“Well, yes,” I answered, “I love you.”

“Then prove it,” she demanded.

I hesitated  before asking  with some degree of trepidation, “How?”

“Hug me,” was her simple answer.

That was it, a hug. That’s what she really wanted from someone.

Now picture this: Germaphobe that I am, I bend down and try pulling her towards me from her wheel chair so I can wrap my arms around the dear soul. And just as I get up close and personal, she begins coughing uncontrollably. Too late to retreat, I absorb it.

Then, with arms around her, I squeeze for just a moment.

“Did I prove it?” I ask.

“You did,” she said, apparently satisfied.

I've read where we need at least eight hugs a day to maintain emotional well-being. And I suppose there is truth in that. Maybe mine was just one among her eight for the day, but guessing by her reaction, it seemed like her only one.

You don’t have to be in a long term care facility to be there, in that lonely place, uncertain if anyone cares enough to reach down and extend a hand of grace.  And in your ache, your request remains buried deep within, for you fear you might receive the answer you dread hearing and so you endure the prolonged angst anticipating no response at all. You blend into the furniture you inhabit and fade into the walls surrounding you. You feel yourself melting into the floor beneath you.

Even as you still long for a rescue.

I suppose she had many hugs in her past--- but having come to this day in this place, an occupant in what is likely her last residence on earth---she needed that particular one. Life, when it comes to that point, is something of a bittersweet symphony: Having put so much in, we only want in return something beautiful, even if it is a tiny thing--- an embrace, a touch, or an acknowledgement that we exist. Even when we are beyond articulating it in sophisticated ways, we secretly hope some kind words we attempted might one day bear fruit in those to whom we have given them and that we in turn might reap some good in our time of need.

Even if it’s only a hug from a stranger.

Kind people along the road

Granddad Whitlock, whom we affectionately called Pappy, liked to say the people in Texas were among the friendliest folks on earth. Pappy was born in Texas, in the tiny town of Osage. Although he spent most of his adult years in Oklahoma, he was always proud to be a native Texan.

“I was driving back home, still in Texas, when I had a flat tire just north of Denton,” he would tell. “Wouldn’t you know it? Within five minutes someone stopped to help me.” And then Pappy would pause, like a lawyer making the closing argument in court and say: “And that’s Texas for you, son.”

I didn’t totally share my Pappy’s convictions about Texas hospitality. Being “Sooner born and Sooner breed,” I grew up with an automatic dislike for most anything south of the Red River, especially the university located in Austin, a school we adolescent Okies were certain was populated by arrogant ruffians, though none of us had ever actually met one.  All it took was a glance at their burnt orange team colors and that Longhorn insignia on their football helmets to agitate us like a bull seeing the wave of the matador’s cape.

The football rivalry between my hometown, Altus, Oklahoma and Vernon, Texas, (in our minds a mini-Cotton Bowl) confirmed my prejudice against Texas, for I had firsthand experience---complete with a black eye and five stiches in my chin---to prove that the boys across the state line played dirty ball. Four years of peace at Baylor University in Waco and three in seminary at Ft. Worth may have tempered my qualms with Texas but didn’t completely dissolve my misgivings about Pappy’s advocacy for Texas cordiality.

Then we, my wife, Lori, and son, Dave, recently went on the road, a portion of which traversed the distance from Texarkana to Lubbock, almost stretching from one end of Texas to the other.

The lady at the hotel in Texarkana greeted us with a warm smile and cheery hello, even though it was close to midnight and the end of her shift. “I’m the one you talked to several hours ago,” she told me, referring to my phone call for a reservation when I had expressed my concern that if we didn’t make it that far, we would be charged for the room.  “No worries,” she had assured me. “Just call and you won’t be billed.”  

I could hear Pappy’s voice, “That’s Texas for you, son.”

The next day we motored into Wichita Falls, stopping for a burger. The waitress at the counter meticulously took Lori’s rather unusual request for a cherry limeade sour soda with extra ice.

Handing the drink to Lori, the waitress asked, “Is that the way you wanted it, ma’am?”

“Perfect,” Lori affirmed.

“Hope y’all enjoy traveling in Texas,” she grinned.

Again I could hear Pappy’s voice, “That’s Texas for you, son.”

Having arrived in Lubbock, we checked into the hotel. My brother, Mark, and his wife, Joy, were already there.

“Welcome to Lubbock, Whitlocks,” Omar greeted us from the front desk. “We know your family, and any friend of a Whitlock is a friend of mine,” he beamed.

“I know, Pappy,” I muttered to myself as I shuffled across the lobby, “‘that’s Texas for you.”’

All along the road it was like that. The waiters at the banquet for my dad’s 90^th birthday made sure we were satisfied with the service.  “Enjoy your stay in Lubbock,” Aaron and Nathan chimed.

Traveling back to Oklahoma, Lori inadvertently left her cell phone on the counter at a convenience store in Amarillo, Texas.

“Ma’am,” the attendant called out to her, “you left you cell phone here. I kept it safe for you.”

“Well, don’t be surprised,” I said to Lori as we drove away, “that’s Texas for you.”

By the time we crossed the border into Oklahoma, I’d mellowed about Texas. They do have a lot of friendly folks there.

But then again, come to think of it, Texas is a mighty big state with more opportunity for kindness. After all, I reminded myself, it was just outside of Hope, Arkansas that the nice lady at the gas station gave us free coffee. “It’s on me,” she said. “That old coffee has been sitting there since morning and ain’t fit to drink. Enjoy a free cup of the fresh.”

And Ajla, the receptionist at the hotel in Missouri, upgraded Lori’s and my room to deluxe after Lori told her our stay was part of our upcoming ten year wedding anniversary. When we arrived back in the room after dinner, we discovered Ajla had left us two pieces of delicious chocolate cake with a personal note congratulating us on our anniversary.

Those kind people had been there all along. I just had to take time to notice them. And they await you too; they are there, from Kentucky to Texas and back, and beyond.

And that’s America for you.
 

When the glass crackles

He described it as “one of the craziest feeling(s) of my life.” It happened last week as Alejandro Garibay was standing on one of the glass boxes that extend out about four feet from the observation floor in the Willis Tower (formerly the Sears Tower) 103 stories above Chicago.

Garibay was posing for pictures with his brother and two of his cousins when the protective coating on the floor shattered, and the deck appeared to be cracking.

The spectacular view of the “Windy City” suddenly seemed life threatening.

But, you don’t have to be standing on crackling glass 103 stories above Chicago to have “one of the craziest feelings,” of your life, that foreboding sensation that life as you know it is in jeopardy.

Have you ever felt the protective coating of your existence shattering? Has the floor providing the steadiness for life’s journey ever appeared to be disintegrating?

If you have lived very many years, you know the feeling that particular fear brings.

It begins with tightness in the upper part of your abdomen, the solar plexus, and quickly moves to your heart, which begins beating more rapidly. Then you start breathing faster and your throat feels like someone is squeezing it with their fist.

You can be standing on a struggling marriage, or shaky finances, or an unstable job, or a conflicted relationship. And suddenly it happens.

We often try and hide our fear that the glass is shattering, for we think admitting it is itself an acknowledgement of failure, and we fear that too. Being known for who we really are frightens us, and so we play the cover-up game. “We all seem to keep a squirming bag of amorphous fears and dreads hidden in the attics of our lives,” observed health and fitness advocate, Jared Fogle.

I once left one ministry for a position in another. Although I was blessed with a comfortable salary, I knew within a short time the job wasn't right for me. Then I discovered there was a serious leadership crisis within the organization that threatened its financial stability. I believed the organization would collapse within 6 months to a year (which it did).  Before that happened, I left that ministry to begin my own. My wife had fourth stage breast cancer, and I needed to give her and my children as much security as possible. I started substitute teaching, and I worked in a direct marketing organization as well, so I could keep the boat afloat while at the same time beginning the other ministry. I can assure you, it felt like the protective coating in my life was cracking on a fairly regular basis.

Here’s what I've learned about surviving when you find yourself thinking you are standing on crackling glass.

Keep your eye on the goal while doing the task at hand. When you feel overwhelmed, go back to your goals. (If you don’t have any goals, stating them is your first goal.) With your goals in focus, do what you have to do one day at a time. Bringing all your future “I have to” lists into your present will give you an acute case of the “I can’ts.” You risk the danger of locking up, hyperventilating emotionally.

So, secondly, tell yourself you can. Feeling like you have no control is depressing and immobilizing. Tell yourself (and I mean vocally, saying it with confidence), “I can do it.” I add the Scripture, “I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me” (Philippians 4:13).

And thirdly, remember that most of our fears exist only in the mind. I like this acrostic for fear: False Evidence Appearing Real. In reality, Mr. Garibay saw the protective coating on the glass breaking and not the glass itself. That’s a classic case of false evidence appearing real. As author Christian Bovee said, “Half our fears are baseless; the other half discreditable.”

Alejandro Garibay made it safely back into the observation floor. Building spokesman Bill Utter said the coating protects the glass so visitors have a clear view 1,353 feet to the ground. “At no time was the integrity of the Ledge in doubt.”

Tourists were back on the Ledge the next morning. And they got to see the view.

Getting back on the ledge of life can be frightening, but just as you have to go out on a limb to get the fruit, you won’t grow without venturing back onto the ledge.

Seeing the protective coating crackle doesn't mean you have to crumble.

Celebrating the Mystery of Faith

Christianity is a religion of paradox because without faith, there is no true Christianity. Think about it: A paradox is defined as “a statement that seems contradictory, unbelievable, or absurd but that may be true in fact.”

Christians are a people of paradox because they believe to be true what appears in the natural to be unbelievable or absurd.

Bible scholar A.W. Pink wrote that “there are many paradoxes in the Christian life, which are quite unintelligible to the wise of this world. That man has to become a fool in order to be wise (1 Cor. 3:18), that he has to become a pauper in order to be made rich (Matt. 5:3), that he has to be made weak in order to become strong (2 Cor. 12:10), are enigmas that proud philosophers cannot elucidate.”

Several weeks ago, Christians celebrated the ultimate in paradox: God became fully human that by his death and resurrection they might live forever with him.

On Sunday, June 1, the church celebrates another paradox: The Ascension of the Lord.

Jesus told his disciples it would be better for them that he leave them. I can imagine them looking squint-eyed at Jesus and saying, “What?!”

Here’s another paradox: By leaving them, Jesus could be more available to them. Now, because of Pentecost, which Christians celebrate on June 8, Jesus would be with and in them. True transformation could take place because of Jesus’ absence.

It’s all about paradox and faith, isn't it?

If committed Christians appear a bit strange, even out of place in this world, could it be because they are living this paradoxical faith in earnest? They are joyful because they mourn, free because they are bound, peaceful because they have been broken.

But make no mistake about it, living this faith has its dangers.

An ancient letter describes the paradoxical lives of early Christians: “They live in their own countries as though they were only passing through. They play their full role as citizens, but labor under all the disabilities of aliens…They live in the flesh, but they are not governed by the desires of the flesh…They pass their days on earth, but they are citizens of heaven…Condemned because they are not understood, they are put to death, but raised to life again.”

Anyone who lives this faith full on will tell you that though it’s an exhilarating life, it is also peppered with trials and tribulations. That’s because it’s a life lived on the boundary between this world and the next. Walking that line is an act of faith.

Ponder how the Danish theologian and philosopher Soren Kierkegaard summarized this mystery that is inherent in Christianity: “The paradox in Christian truth is invariably due to the fact that it is the truth that exists for God. The standard of measure and the end is superhuman; and there is only one relationship possible: faith.”

For Christians looking to Ascension Sunday and Pentecost, embracing the paradox requires walking by faith in a life that celebrates the mystery, even though it’s surrounded by many “dangers, toils, and snares.”

It’s no longer a question of if: Climate change is here

During summer breaks my last two years in college, I sold cemetery property door to door in Houston, Texas. One of my favorite sales pitches was the line, “It’s not a matter of if, but when and where and under what circumstances you will need cemetery property.”

I am not a salesperson trying to convince people that global warming (the very words make some people bristle) is “out there,” like death awaiting us someday in the future. In fact, it’s not a matter of “if” you will experience it in your lifetime. That’s because the “when” has arrived. And unless we respond in appropriate ways, the “circumstances” will only get worse for us and Mother Earth.

That’s essentially the message the latest National Climate Assessment made public earlier this month. Most climate reports, relying heavily on projections, try and cast predictions for the future. This 1,300 page document, the result of some 300 scientists over four years, focused on changes already underway.

From farmers in the Midwest planting earlier because of shorter winters to extreme drought and fires in the Southwest to torrential rains and flooding in the Southeast, the report assesses changes already affecting every region of the United States.

The state where I live, Kentucky, has fared better than other parts of the nation, like where I grew up, Oklahoma, which has experienced drought and water shortages in some areas. But every region has in some way been affected.

Less than a week after this jolt of realism, two new scientific studies, in the journals Science and Geophysical Research Letters, reported that the retreat of ice in major glaciers that are part of the West Antarctic ice sheet appear to be unstoppable with the result that sea levels will rise one more meter worldwide. What’s more, the shrinking of these glaciers could trigger the collapse of the rest of the West Antarctic ice sheet raising sea levels another three to five meters.  It all may take a couple of centuries, but the demise of West Antarctica’s sea sector appears inevitable.

“It’s not a matter of if…” I thought as I heard these alarming reports.

Our options are not pleasant: We can ignore the scientific evidence, but to so would involve buying into a conspiracy theory that thousands of scientists from around the world are in collusion to intentionally misrepresent what they know to be false.

We can agree that there is something called climate change but that it is not human-made, that God or Mother Nature will correct the problem, and therefore we should do nothing.

But, as Los Angeles Times columnist Doyle McManus observes, “Noah’s flood wasn't man-made, but he still spent the money (or at least the timber) to build an ark.”

Or we can face the sobering truth:  Carbon emissions have resulted in catastrophic damage to our climate. Consider that 97 percent of climatologists who are active in research agree that humans have played a role in climate change.

I may feel small and helpless in all this. All my recycling, growing an organic garden, composting, conserving energy seem to be of no avail. Even if I rode a bike to work, what difference would it make?

And yet I refuse to lose hope that small efforts can make a difference. Though we may have to suffer consequences for how we have abused God’s creation, reversals can be made. We can help repair the Giving Tree we have so carelessly ravaged.

But it won’t happen if we ignore the scientific facts that won’t go away. We must do what we can where we can with all we can.

William Wilberforce, who fought in the late 18^th century for the abolition of slavery in Great Britain, faced seemingly insurmountable odds. The economics of slavery were so entrenched that only a handful of people thought anything could be done about it. Yet even though he was defeated time and time again, his efforts led to the Slavery Abolition Act in 1833, which abolished slavery in most of the British Empire.

It was Wilberforce who said, “You may choose to look the other way but you can never say again that you did not know.” 

That’s where we are in regard to climate change. Whatever we choose to do, we can never tell our grandchildren we did not know.

“This dream was not for sale”

Even if you’re not a horse racing fan, you've got to love the story of how this year’s Kentucky Derby winner, California Chrome, fulfilled the dream of his owners, Steve Coburn and Perry Martin. It’s a story that inspires us to dream big and take the necessary steps to give dreams a chance of being realized.

After the Derby victory, Coburn couldn’t stop staring at the replay of the race. When a reporter asked him what he was thinking about, Coburn simply said, “Our dream child doing exactly what we thought he could do when he was a baby.”

Maybe by now you’ve read about the story that explains his comment. Several years ago Coburn was thinking about buying an air plane as a tax write-off. But that was a bit too expensive for his relative modest means. So Coburn’s wife decided they should buy a horse instead. For $8,000 they purchased a mare named Love the Chase and for $2,500 bred her with a stallion named Lucky Pulpit. From that union California Chrome was born.

Three weeks before Love the Chase gave birth to California Chrome, Coburn had a dream. He could see what the horse would look like and even how he would act.

Coburn believed his dream child was destined to win the Kentucky Derby. Before the race, he told reporters, “I know in my heart that this horse is just as good, if not better, than any horse out there today.”

One measure of how serious a person is in seeing a dream fulfilled is to find what it would take to give up on it.

Shortly after the March 8 San Felipe Stakes, Coburn and Martin were offered $6 million for 51 percent of California Chrome.  That’s more than just a chunk of change to most people, including Coburn and Martin. Indeed, they had sunk their life savings and retirement in getting California Chrome to the races.

But if they took the offer, they would have had to change the horse’s silks and replace the 77 year old trainer, Art Sherman (now the oldest trainer to win the Kentucky Derby).

And in their minds, California Chrome would no longer have been their “dream baby.”

When asked why they wouldn't sell, Coburn’s answer was simple: “Because this is our dream.” (Coburn elaborated to reporters that he told those making the offer, “Not only no, but hell no.”)

It was Olympic athlete Jesse Owens who said, “We all have dreams. But in order to make dreams come into reality, it takes an awful lot of determination, dedication, self-discipline, and effort.”

Co-owners Coburn and Martin and trainer Sherman didn’t just dream, they believed it, they saw it, they planned it, and they worked it.

And they wouldn't allow their dream to wear a “for sale” sign.

Jack Canfield (Chicken Soup for the Soul) tells the story of Monty, the son of an itinerant horse trainer. Monty dreamed of owning his own horse ranch. For his writing project during his senior year in high school, Monty wrote about his dream. His seven page paper described his 200 acre ranch in precise detail, complete with a diagram of the ranch and a floor plan for his 4,000 square foot ranch house.

The teacher scribbled an “F” on the paper. 

Monty went to the teacher and asked why the paper had received a failing mark. The grammar and syntax were fine, the teacher acknowledged. But he told Monty the dream itself was unrealistic. Then, he explained to Monty why the dream was impossible and offered to re-grade the paper if Monty would write another one with a more realistic dream. 

After thinking about it for a week, Monty turned the same paper back to the teacher and told him: “You can keep the F, and I’ll keep my dream.”

The true story ends years later with this same teacher taking his students on a field trip to a 200 acre ranch with a 4,000 square foot house owned by a now grown and successful Monty.

No one knows, of course, if the Kentucky Derby will be the last victory for California Chrome or if it’s his first win toward winning the Triple Crown.

But one thing is for sure: He has already made believers out of doubters because his owners were willing to risk it all and tell potential buyers: “You can keep the money; we’ll keep our dream.”

The victory of staying with it

The year was 1965. We---my mother, dad, and older brother, Mark--- had just finished supper.

That’s when Eric called to speak to Mark.

Just a few hours before, I had been playing football on the sandlot team Mark had formed after I had hounded him to do so. The sandlot team was my only hope of playing, since I was still too young for Washington Elementary School’s football team.  Eric was even younger than I was. Mark was the perfect coach for our team. After all, he played football for the mighty Bulldogs of Altus High. He coached us up, and even scheduled a game with another team that one of his football buddies had formed.

Then Eric called.

I perked up and tried to hear what he was saying.

Eric had a slight speech impediment and couldn’t pronounce his “r’s.” Besides that, his voice sounded nervous, like he was afraid to say whatever it was he was going to say. He could barely get a word out, as if he were chewing on each letter, stretching Mark’s one syllable name into three.

 “Ma-a-k,” Eric stammered.

“Yes, Eric,” Mark said.

“Ma-a-k,” Eric repeated.

“Yes, Eric,” Mark said again.

“Ma-a-k,” Eric said a third time.

“Yes, Eric, what is it you are trying to say?”

And then all at once, so quickly I almost missed it, in a rapid fire response Eric spit out the words, finally stating the reason for his call: “I wanna quit.”

That was it, not good news, for we would have to find another kid for Eric’s position, and our game was just a few days away. We wondered, should we give it up and disband the team? Quitting seemed easier than finding a replacement for Eric.

Quitting is almost always easier than enduring.

I heard a story about a prominent pastor who abruptly resigned. He wasn’t leaving for another church: He was leaving the ministry altogether.

His congregation was shocked. It was a good church; he was well liked; his salary was sufficient.  

When they asked him why, he simply said, “The relentless return of Sunday.”

For you it may be the relentless return of Monday. Or the deafening sound of silence at the dinner table, where you meet each evening with that person you no longer seem to know or care for. Or maybe it’s the daily screech of the rusty medicine cabinet door, reminding you that your illness is not going away, that your life is grinding down.

True, sometimes walking away is the best thing to do; it can even be more courageous than staying.

Some relationships need to die; it’s best to leave some jobs; and we outgrow some hobbies.

There is a time to quit.

But not often. Or easily.

Quitting can become a way of life, if we let it.

When Seinfeld’s George Costanza (Jason Alexander) managed to get fired from his volunteer job at the retirement home, he encouraged Jerry and Elaine to quit and join him:  "Yeah, I'm a great quitter: It's one of the few things I do well. ... I come from a long line of quitters. My father was a quitter, my grandfather was a quitter. ... I was raised to give up."

The world most of us live in doesn’t permit us to do only what we want and give up the rest.

Jay Kesler, President Emeritus of Taylor University, wrote that his experience in life suggests that maybe 15 percent of our time is spent doing the things we love, and about 15 percent of the time we do the things we hate but are required to do.

 “The remaining majority of the time,” he observed, “is spent just doggedly getting your work done, going through the routine, fulfilling obligations, and keeping promises.”

Not every Sunday is Easter Sunday: Crowds come and go, but the call to obedience remains.

And with it comes joy, when we refuse to give up.

Maybe quitting our team was the right thing for young Eric to do. Football may not have been his sport.

But it was meant for us to persevere and play the cross-town rival on a crisp Saturday in late September. Eddie Carder did suffer a dislocated thumb; I took a shot on the chin; Jimmy Coker scraped a knee; and thanks to a girl, Kelly Copeland, who much to our surprise could play with the best of the guys, we found a fine replacement for Eric.

And yes, we won the game.

But the lesson I learned in the process was much larger than winning a sandlot football game.

The option of quitting may look like sweet relief.

But staying with it is a victory regardless of the scoreboard