Forgotten Things Remembered

Forgotten Things Remembered

I hadn’t seen or touched it in almost 49 years. It was a homemade schoolbook satchel before the days of book bags. It belonged to my older brother, Doug. He carried it home the last day of school, 1961. Having completed the first grade that day, he skipped home from Washington Elementary School, proud of his report card and happy to be officially a 2nd grader. And I, being one grade behind him, was as usual anxiously waiting for him to get home so we could play. And that was the last day I touched that satchel or saw my brother. That’s because that was the day my brother died.

Now, almost 49 years later I was back home, helping mom go through boxes and boxes of things long forgotten. And we had only scratched the surface.

That’s when I found myself holding a white satchel with “Douglas” neatly written in big, red block letters across the top of the bag. Drawings of sports cars had been sewn on the front of the bag. It was a bit soiled--- definitely a boy’s bag, a tough survivor of the first school year.

The satchel was just as it was the day he dropped it in our room to go out and play with me. It even had his writing tablet and the “Crayola Crayons,” still inside. And tucked to one side, his report card, signed by Mrs. L.D.Whitlock every six weeks, with the lonely exception of that last six weeks, the one left to be signed, left blank forever.

Mom had buried all this in that box, entombing it in a crypt of memories, leaving it there these many years until I--- reverently holding it in my hands as if it were an urn containing sacred artifacts of a historical memory---flashed back to that day 49 years ago, to that emergency room where the two of us---brothers, playmates, friends---were being treated after a car accident, and where I heard him speak his last words to me, “Am I gonna die?” And I didn’t know what to tell him.

When asked the question, “How long does it take to get over a death?” grief therapist, Dr. Harold Ivan Smith, says, “As long as it takes.” Sometimes, perhaps especially with the death of a child, it doesn’t necessarily get better, it just gets different. In his book, Grievers Ask, Smith tells about Izzy, Dwight D.Eisenhower’s three year old son, who died in 1921. Eisnehower, a WWII general and two-term president, said of his son’s death, “It was the greatest disappointment and disaster in my life…the one I have never been able to forget completely.”

Holding my brother’s 1st grade school satchel in my hands, choking down a golf ball size lump in my throat, and seeing the tears in my mother’s eyes, I would have to agree with Mr. Eisenhower. And folding up that book bag, not knowing exactly what I would do with it, I realized as I carried it home, that in its burial, it had become much more than just a bag: it was a satchel full of memories, a bag full of grief, a receptacle of sorrows, the opening of which released images long forgotten, surreal-like as they rose to life, floating before my eyes like moving scenes on an 8 mm family film, portraying a little boy laughing his way home from school, wrestling his little brother in playful fun, chasing his dachshund to the car, edging his way in front of his little brother into the front seat, crashing onto the hood of the car, lying lifelessly with his brother in shattered windshield glass, crying in his brother’s arms on the way to the hospital, asking little brother that final, most ultimate question, and not receiving an answer.

Memories have a way of apprehending us when we least expect it. Pain is the price we pay for having loved, and grief is the residue of memories long forgotten but always remembered.

Overstuffed with Stuff

I have too much stuff. I know I do.

But on second thought, do I? How do we know when we have too much stuff? Who is the judge of that?

My guess is, I’m not alone in thinking I have too much stuff; most Americans would join me in the “I’ve got too much stuff” confessional. In our consumer driven society, owners of speciality stores make money helping us find ways to store more of our stuff so they buy more stuff for themselves.

In your estimation, my stuff may be worthless, while in my eyes, it may be precious. And to me, that stuff you’ve saved for years might be junk. We all have our special stuff.

Take books, for example. I love books, not only for the story they tell or the information they convey. I love to hold a new book, open it and smell the new pages. And I can tell you when, where and why I purchased most of my books. Superstar author Stephen King sees the advantages of e-books, but he still loves physical books. “I have thousands of books in my house,” he recently admitted in a Wall Street Journal interview. “In a weird way, it’s embarrassing…it’s crazy, but there are people who collect stamps,” he rationalized. I started getting rid some of my books. Then just the other day, I recalled a section from one of my books I read years ago. It was apropos for a class I am teaching. I raced into my library to pick it up. Gone. I growled as I remembered its location: Half –Price Books.

My wife and I need only a few coffee mugs Thanks to me, we have way more than we need. But, each one has a memory of the time I got it, or the people I’ve enjoyed coffee with while sipping from that mug. Many times I’ve started to toss them, but then I balk.

Knowing when we have too much stuff is not always easy, and having too much can be a hazard. Like most everything else there is a disorder for this. It’s a compulsive disorder called “hoarding.” Hoarders are people who accumulate far too much stuff and are unable to throw anything away. Their houses are so filled with stuff they can barely move around in them. According the American Journal of Psychiatry, “Compulsive hoarding is most commonly driven by obsessional fears of losing important items that the patient believes will be needed later, distorted beliefs about the importance of possessions, excessive acquisition, and exaggerated emotional attachments to possessions." Uhh, hmm.

Years ago, comedian George Carlin developed a routine around the concept of stuff. “That’s the whole meaning of life,” he joked, “trying to find a place to keep your stuff.” I suppose that’s when our stuff becomes dangerous: when accumulating it truly does become the meaning or purpose of life. You don’t have to be afflicted with hording syndrome to live a life for the sole purpose of acquiring more stuff. The stuff we own then owns us. We essentially become the stuff we’ve accumulated. That’s when we’re overstuffed with stuff.

Surely life has a higher purpose than storing up things only for ourselves or our own family.

Jesus warned us about this when he told a story about a man who tore down his barns to build bigger barns so he could store more of his stuff. And that very day, his soul was required of him. Jesus’ story hits home with most of us. After all, I’ve never presided over a funeral where the hearse had a U-Haul behind it.

Getting rid of my unnecessary stuff reminds me of what is really important; it gives me a sense of inner peace that frees me for the most worthy things in life. I realize that.

But I’m still going to sit down with a good book and some java in one of my favorite coffee mugs.

Life Matters is written by David B.Whitlock, Ph.D. David’s email is drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com. His website is, DavidBWhitlock.com

The Bully in You

It seems bullying is epidemic these days. The cruel facts reveal that 23% of elementary students report being bullied one to three times in the last month; 77% of students report having been bullied; and each day 160,000 kids stay home from school for fear of being bullied.

I remember being bullied. It happened in my own front yard. I was in third grade, maybe fourth. We were playing football when some kids in junior high invited themselves to our game. Being bigger than us, they quickly took the game away. Then it got ugly. They began to call us names, “Punks,” “Wimps,” “Sissy’s.” Abusive language for the 1960s. The name calling escalated into pushing and shoving. We were intimidated by these older, bigger kids.

And then, from nowhere, or so it seemed, my older brother, Mark, showed up. Somehow he had seen what was happening. Mark was a stand-out football player for the Altus High School Bulldogs. He walked into our humiliating situation, took the football in his grip and zinged it at one of the bullies. It stung the kid, slipping through his hands and bouncing off his chest. “What’s wrong? Can’t take a ball thrown that fast?” Mark challenged. “Well, if you can’t play with the big boys, why are you picking on these little kids who are younger and smaller than you?”

That’s all it took. They lowered their heads and sulked away. Mark tossed the ball back to us and left without saying another word. Nothing more needed to be said. Case closed.

But what happens when no older brother or friend or parent shows up? What happens when our protectors are no longer there? Therein is the problem.

Experts tell us to communicate with others if we are bullied. Tell a parent or some authority. Also, stay in a group, and if possible, stand up to the bully, but don’t fight back.

People bully for many reasons. In one survey, 1 in 5 students admitted to having been a bully or bullying others at some point. Perhaps the root cause for bullying is a sense of insecurity on the part of the bully which expresses itself in a feeling of superiority over someone whose character the bully despises. Unfortunately, gayness has been an object for bullying. In the month of September, 2010, alone, nine young people, gay or suspected of being gay, took their lives after being bullied.

So, what’s the solution? Maybe the best place to start is for everyone to take a look within and ask, “Is there a bully in me?”

All of us have voices from the present and past that haunt us and cause us to engage in less than admirable behaviors. Sometimes the bully within whispers in our ear, “You’re a loser; you’re not worth it; you can’t.” And so, in frustration, we speak words of condemnation to the child in our home, or our spouse, or that different girl or guy at work or school. And we think somehow the negative feelings we receive from the bully within us will be abated by putting another down. Hurting others will make us feel better, we think. But it’s an illusion. It only reinforces negativity; we become less authentically human as a result.

Perhaps the key is to address that bully within. To say, “I am better than that,” is not to exalt oneself above others but to acknowledge God’s positive plan for us. We can live with others who are different--- with red and yellow, black and white, gay and straight, for they are precious in his sight. God loves people. Period. To bully one of God’s creatures is an affront to the God who made them. We don’t have to bully others to prove who we are. We just have to embrace the “Yes,” from the One who loves us always, just as we are, so we can love others just like they are. And then enjoy a life lived with that forever, “Yes.”

Life Matters is written by David B. Whitlock, Ph.D. His email address is drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com. His website is davidbwhitlock.com

Political Ads Gone Wild

Note: This should have been posted two weeks ago. Sorry for not having it in earlier


Mama always said, “Not all attention is good.”

Whew, we’ve seen the truism of mama’s dictum in political ads this campaign year. Politicians, Republican and Democrat, conservative and liberal, have in an effort to draw attention to the flaws of their opponents, used attack ads, and more often than not, drawn negative attention to themselves.

Take, for example, “The Ad,” in what is now being described as the ugliest campaign in the country, the campaign for the Kentucky U.S. Senate race between Kentucky Attorney General Jack Conway and Dr. Rand Paul. Conway’s ad draws attention to Rand Paul’s involvement in a secret society while an undergraduate at Baylor University. I do recall as an undergraduate at Baylor in the late 1970s, the group to which Paul would later belong. Known for their pranks and satirical writing, they were not taken seriously; they did not take themselves seriously. “What will they do next?” we would ask. Unfortunately for them, Baylor President Abner McCall did take them seriously, especially when some of them streaked across campus, a popular activity back then. McCall booted them and their running attire or lack thereof, off campus.

Now, Conway has used Paul’s involvement in that organization not, presumably, to attack Paul’s religion, but to expose him as part of a lunatic fringe, unfit for office. But in the process, everyone gets hurt, not just those involved in this particular political race.

Indeed the ad got attention on all the major television networks and landed Conway interviews with Matt Lauer (NBC Morning Show) and MSNBC’s “Hardball,” with Chris Mathews. Speaking of the ad, Mathews said, “I think it questions his faith.” And Lauer cited Jonathan Chait’s statement in the New Republic---which Lauer characterized as a “fairly liberal publication,”---that “This (Conway’s ad) is the ugliest, most illiberal political ad of the year.”

“That’s not exactly an award you want to win,” Lauer quipped.

The tragedy of negative ads, of which Conway’s is only the latest example, is that it brings everyone down: I wince every time I see the commercial, “Did Paul really do that?” Then I wince even more, “Did Conway really run that ad?” Stuart Rothenberg correctly dubbed the ad a “thermonuclear bomb.”

It hurts not only both candidates, but all of us, although Conway may not realize that yet. Supposing it does work, and he pulls it off, what does it say about the emerging trend in the political process?

It says to anyone with future political aspirations: “If you’ve ever, done anything inappropriate or perhaps even borderline inappropriate, it can and will be used against you.” The danger here is that we will lose qualified, effective leaders who could help America revive from a punishing recession, change the bleak economic forecast, compete with countries and their growing economies, and more effectively face the unknown challenges beyond the current horizon. We lose potential leaders’ wisdom; we lose their acumen; we lose their abilities. We all lose. Why? Because we have allowed an environment to thrive that few wish to enter. After all, who wants to put themselves or their families through political hazing? Columnist Peggy Noonan, no newcomer to American politics, recently wrote in her Wall Street Journal column about speaking with an entrepreneur, an effective leader with fresh ideas that could help our country. When Noonan urged him to enter politics, his response was, “I’ve lived an imperfect life. They’d kill me.” And they would.

Attack ads have another devastating effect: they spawn cynicism, fuel frustration, and create skepticism among the electorate. People are angry with politicians whom they no longer trust and find increasingly harder to believe. In an interview on Fox News, democratic strategist Richard Socarides defended Conway’s ad: “When the stakes are high you have to use extreme measures.” Who, then, defines, “extreme measures”? Each politician? Having wallowed into the gutter of politics, it’s difficult to shake its stench. And politicians seem surprised with an aggravated electorate.

Conway is by no means the only politician to use “extreme measures.” His ad simply happens to have the attention at the moment. And that’s the problem: Just as water flows naturally to the lowest level, so do we, unless we determine to seek higher ground. And unless we do, the political process will only get sleazier and slimier, as it slips and slides in its descent into chaos. In so doing, we all suffer; it injures all of us. And then, as we look askance at the mayhem in the political arena, which to a large degree determines our national future, we will perhaps with a tinge of sadness be reminded of that other parental warning: “Mama told me not to come.”


Life Matters is written by David B. Whitlock, Ph.D. His email is drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com, and his website is davidbwhitlock.com

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.

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.

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.