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
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
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
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