“People are work, brother. A lot of work. Too much work.” So said Detective Frank Keller (Al Pacino) a New York City detective in the 1989 movie Sea of Love. Keller had just solved an emotionally draining, life threatening, relationship changing investigation of a serial killer. In the movie, Keller falls in love with Helen Cruger (Ellen Barkin) who happens to be a main suspect in the case and doesn’t know that Keller is an undercover detective. They begin a serious relationship, but she rejects Keller, who had just saved her life, because she felt deceived by him. The “people are work” quote comes close to the end of the movie, when Keller is venting his frustration in a bar to his friend and fellow detective Sherman Touhey, played by John Goodman.
On occasion I have echoed the Pacino quote. I can identify with the minister in the cartoon that shows him arriving home late for supper. When his wife asks him why he is an hour late, he replies, with a tired, bewildered look on his face, “I asked Mrs. Jones how she was doing.”
People can be work indeed. And some people are as Pacino observed, “a lot of work.” We all know those special folks who try our patience, push our buttons, and unravel our day. As Mme. de Stael said, “The more I see of man, the more I like dogs.”
I recall my dad, a dentist, shaking his head late one Saturday night after a patient called him. Seems this man had a real emergency, a toothache that was unbearable. “And how long has it been bothering you?” Dad asked. “All week,” the man replied. “But I just didn’t have time to make an appointment earlier in the week, and now, I can’t stand it, Doc. Can I meet you at your office now and get it pulled?” “Now,” happened to be midnight.
People are work. The problem is, unless you are a hermit or a solitary scientist in a think tank somewhere, people are an unavoidable part of work. Without people, we have no work. That reminds me of the burned out school teacher who confessed, “I love teaching; it’s just the students I can’t stand.”
So, what to do with those few---those ones who are “a lot of work,” the minority whose voices cackle with the loudness of a majority, the small ones who can gulp huge portions of our time and attention?
Psychologists recommend sharing your frustration with someone you totally trust. That’s what Pacino was doing. If you have no such person, get alone and shout it out. Let off some steam. And, as much as possible, don’t take it personally. Conflicted people bring conflict. And even though you have to stand your ground, don’t fight back. The Psalmist said, “Seek peace and work to maintain it.” A dear elderly lady used to say to me, a young, inexperienced pastor, “Just rise above it.” That’s not bad advice, regardless of your profession. Within that, remember, maintaining boundaries is essential because some people will dominate you, sucking the joy from your life, draining you of the energy you need for the ones who matter most.
And sometimes people surprise us. In my first full time pastorate, I didn’t mow the lawn of the church parsonage. Soon after I had I arrived, one of the church members grumbled to me, “Our former pastor mowed the lawn.” I responded, tongue in cheek, “Well, I called him and he doesn’t want to come back and mow it.” The disgruntled church member wasn’t amused with my stab at humor.
But in time, my grumpity critic invited me to join him and some others on a mission trip to help build a church in Indiana. And I hesitatingly agreed. Maybe it happened on the road trip, or perhaps it was in working side by side, but somewhere in the process, he ceased to be “a lot of work” and became a friend. He requested that I preside at his funeral. And years later, I did.
Sometimes, not often, but sometimes, those “a lot of work” people enlighten our eyes to new and fascinating vistas of life. After all, in that movie, Sea of Love, Helen Kruger forgave Frank Keller (Al Pacino), and if they got married, she would have become Helen Keller.
People are work, but sometimes they can help us see that even in darkness, there is light.
Life Matters is written by David B.Whitlock, Ph.D. David’s email is drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com and his website is DavidBWhitlock.com
Thursday, February 17, 2011
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
This Valentine's Day: Send a Love Letter
Gimme a ticket for an aeroplane,
Ain't got time to take a fast train.
Lonely days are gone, I'm a-goin' home,
'Cause my baby just a-wrote me a letter.
---“The Letter,” The Box Tops, 1967
My heart beat faster as I slowly opened the mail box. Was it there? Did she write? Three weeks of anticipation was wearing on me, three weeks of fumbling through the mail, three weeks of mumbling, “That’s not it, not that one, nope, not that one either,” three weeks of closing the mail box, sighing to myself and then hoping for tomorrow. I was about to break under the pressure.
And then it arrived: the letter.
And so began a flurry of love letters between Lori and me. Well, at first they couldn’t be classified as love letters. We weren’t “there” yet. But we would move in that direction. And soon I would write her weekly love letters. I even vowed to continue my practice of writing weekly love letters after we were married.
And I did for a while. But gradually, the weekly flow of love letters trickled into one a month and then dribbled into an occasional note. The Don Juan of love letters collapsed into the reticence of Briscoe Darling’s boys.
It happens. There are kids to raise, bills to pay, laundry to wash, a house to clean, meals to cook---not to mention responsibilities of the day job. And in the midst of all that, Lori and I got connected to the internet, and we learned to text.
With life as busy as it is, it’s so much easier and quicker to text a, “Love you,” or email an, “I was just thinking of you when I read this article I’ve enclosed.” It’s not necessarily that romance has waned, it’s simply more convenient to tweet your sweet, to communicate by email rather than by snail mail, to send an instant message rather that find paper and pen, and struggle with hand writing.
But yet, there is something about getting that handwritten letter and seeing love words written in that color of ink on that particular stationary. Lori still has a letter I wrote her from Bangalore, India over thirty years ago. I can read the writing just now (even then I didn’t properly cross my t’s), and she cherishes a card and letter I sent her when I was a lovesick freshman at Baylor University. How much nicer and neater I wrote back then. Was it because I took more time?
Time, that’s it. It takes time to write love letters. Time---something we seem short on. The express lane of life moves too quickly to slow down for romance.
When I was home several months ago, I read love letters my dad wrote my mom when he was stationed with a medical unit in Korea during that war. Dad filled lonely nights---no television, no internet, no cell phones--- with writing letters to Mom. Those love letters are now sixty something years old, but the faded ink still shines with passion and drips with the longing Dad had for Mom. I carefully handled the fragile, military issued stationary and imagined what kind of pen Dad used when he wrote those letters in some M*A*S*H* like tent on some cold winter’s night, warmed as he must have been by the flame of love.
But it didn’t end in Korea. I also read a more recent love letter of his. “I am so glad we met at the tennis courts some 66 years ago,” Dad wrote. “You still look cute and beautiful to me. And you still have that quality of life that inspires and excites me!!!”
I read where, according to a survey, 2/3 of women ages 18-70, said their most cherished gift on Valentine’s Day wouldn’t be that diamond, that luxurious dinner at a five-star restaurant, that trip to an exotic resort, nor a dozen roses. It would be a letter, a letter!----a signed letter, handwritten by their lover, sealed and delivered by mail.
Did you get that?
So here’s my challenge: Mark out some time, maybe thirty minutes to an hour between now and Valentine’s, get a pen and some paper, go to a place where you can have the quiet to write, and simply tell your lover how much you love him or her. Be specific. Give examples of what your lover does that you admire, and what your lover is and means to you. Make it personal. Write from your heart. The main thing is to do it.
That’s exactly what I am going to do this Valentine’s. I’m going back to the good old fashioned handwritten love letter. Then I’m putting a stamp on it and mailing it.
But please don’t tell Lori. I want to surprise her.
Life Matters is written by David B. Whitlock, Ph.D. His email is drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com and his website is Davidbwhitlock.com.
Ain't got time to take a fast train.
Lonely days are gone, I'm a-goin' home,
'Cause my baby just a-wrote me a letter.
---“The Letter,” The Box Tops, 1967
My heart beat faster as I slowly opened the mail box. Was it there? Did she write? Three weeks of anticipation was wearing on me, three weeks of fumbling through the mail, three weeks of mumbling, “That’s not it, not that one, nope, not that one either,” three weeks of closing the mail box, sighing to myself and then hoping for tomorrow. I was about to break under the pressure.
And then it arrived: the letter.
And so began a flurry of love letters between Lori and me. Well, at first they couldn’t be classified as love letters. We weren’t “there” yet. But we would move in that direction. And soon I would write her weekly love letters. I even vowed to continue my practice of writing weekly love letters after we were married.
And I did for a while. But gradually, the weekly flow of love letters trickled into one a month and then dribbled into an occasional note. The Don Juan of love letters collapsed into the reticence of Briscoe Darling’s boys.
It happens. There are kids to raise, bills to pay, laundry to wash, a house to clean, meals to cook---not to mention responsibilities of the day job. And in the midst of all that, Lori and I got connected to the internet, and we learned to text.
With life as busy as it is, it’s so much easier and quicker to text a, “Love you,” or email an, “I was just thinking of you when I read this article I’ve enclosed.” It’s not necessarily that romance has waned, it’s simply more convenient to tweet your sweet, to communicate by email rather than by snail mail, to send an instant message rather that find paper and pen, and struggle with hand writing.
But yet, there is something about getting that handwritten letter and seeing love words written in that color of ink on that particular stationary. Lori still has a letter I wrote her from Bangalore, India over thirty years ago. I can read the writing just now (even then I didn’t properly cross my t’s), and she cherishes a card and letter I sent her when I was a lovesick freshman at Baylor University. How much nicer and neater I wrote back then. Was it because I took more time?
Time, that’s it. It takes time to write love letters. Time---something we seem short on. The express lane of life moves too quickly to slow down for romance.
When I was home several months ago, I read love letters my dad wrote my mom when he was stationed with a medical unit in Korea during that war. Dad filled lonely nights---no television, no internet, no cell phones--- with writing letters to Mom. Those love letters are now sixty something years old, but the faded ink still shines with passion and drips with the longing Dad had for Mom. I carefully handled the fragile, military issued stationary and imagined what kind of pen Dad used when he wrote those letters in some M*A*S*H* like tent on some cold winter’s night, warmed as he must have been by the flame of love.
But it didn’t end in Korea. I also read a more recent love letter of his. “I am so glad we met at the tennis courts some 66 years ago,” Dad wrote. “You still look cute and beautiful to me. And you still have that quality of life that inspires and excites me!!!”
I read where, according to a survey, 2/3 of women ages 18-70, said their most cherished gift on Valentine’s Day wouldn’t be that diamond, that luxurious dinner at a five-star restaurant, that trip to an exotic resort, nor a dozen roses. It would be a letter, a letter!----a signed letter, handwritten by their lover, sealed and delivered by mail.
Did you get that?
So here’s my challenge: Mark out some time, maybe thirty minutes to an hour between now and Valentine’s, get a pen and some paper, go to a place where you can have the quiet to write, and simply tell your lover how much you love him or her. Be specific. Give examples of what your lover does that you admire, and what your lover is and means to you. Make it personal. Write from your heart. The main thing is to do it.
That’s exactly what I am going to do this Valentine’s. I’m going back to the good old fashioned handwritten love letter. Then I’m putting a stamp on it and mailing it.
But please don’t tell Lori. I want to surprise her.
Life Matters is written by David B. Whitlock, Ph.D. His email is drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com and his website is Davidbwhitlock.com.
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
Just One Word
All it took for Doris Troy was, “Just One Look,” in the words of the hit song she wrote and sang to the top of the charts in 1963. “Just one look/ That's all it took, yeah /Just one look.” Good and right for her.
But sometimes, in other situations, all it takes is just one word--- one word to change a life forever.
We---my wife Lori and I--- waited for that one word, having been told we would receive the results of Lori’s biopsy between 2 p.m. and 4 p.m., Thursday last week. Actually we had been waiting for over a week, including the time for the scheduling of the biopsy itself and the determination of the results.
Waiting can be an unnerving experience: the human mind is capable of a thousand possibilities, mostly negative, creating one more worst case scenario, allowing our ever imaginative thoughts to wander, recalling people we’ve known somewhere---that one where it so suddenly happened to her, or the other one where he went so fast, or the one where she fought so bravely for so long, and the one that so heavily weighs on you just now, the one you await---yours: “What will the one word be: Benign? Malignant?”
It’s just one word; but what a difference one word can make.
Cancer kills more than 1,500 Americans a day and costs over $200 billion a year in medical bills and lost productivity. In Lori’s case the particular biopsy was for breast cancer, a cancer which about 1 in 8 women will develop in the course of their lifetime. Almost 40,000 women were expected to die from breast cancer in 2010. Only one other cancer, lung cancer, claims the lives of more women in the U.S. You are probably thinking of people’s names as your read those statistics. Maybe they died this last year or perhaps they are battling cancer today. Maybe the name you are thinking of is your own because you are struggling with this disease.
And so Lori and I waited for that word: benign or malignant.
“The word ‘benign’ has to be the most beautiful word in the English language,” one of my friends later declared.
“Then ‘malignant’ has to be the ugliest,” a second quipped.
I know something of that. My first wife, Katri, died of breast cancer after a six year fight with that formidable foe. In her unfortunate case the news came like a terrorist bomb on a peaceful parade, exploding on us as we hypothesized the cause for her mysterious symptoms, scratching our heads, all of us, including doctors---experts looking in the wrong direction, searching for the cause of her pain, examining relentlessly--- until the disease, with a Jared Lee Loughner smirk, proudly exposed its sinister self, and snickering at our surprise, “ha!” went on to announce with warped glee, “Breast cancer it is, fourth stage, metastasized to the bones.” And that was the cause for her pain, a pain among many that would dominate the remaining 6 years of her young life.
And now this day, Lori and I anxiously awaited her test results:
2:30 p.m., “I’m good, how ‘bout you?” I tried to exude confidence.
3’clock: “Half way there, they should call any time now.” I was still attempting to console.
3:30 p.m., “It’s okay, but what’s taking them?” I tried to remain upbeat.
3:45 p.m.: “Maybe you should call and see if they forgot.” Now I was getting aggravated.
3:55 p.m.: “For goodness sakes, what‘s wrong? Just call!” Frustration had found a parking place in my soul.
3:59 p.m.: Finally, the phone rings, Lori answers. My ears are attuned. Life hangs in the balance, “Okay, Yes… Yes…Yes. Thank you. Oh, thank you for the good news!”
“Benign.”
I sigh with relief.
Just one word. A wonderful word. Not malignant. Benign. Praise God!
“The Lord giveth.”
“The Lord taketh away.”
In just one word.
For now, I’ll rejoice in the “giveth” and in that one word: “benign”--- at that moment the most beautiful word I could have heard.
Until it’s time for another test.
But that’s another day.
Life Matters is written by David B.Whitlock, Ph.D. David email is drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com. His website is davidbwhitlock.com
But sometimes, in other situations, all it takes is just one word--- one word to change a life forever.
We---my wife Lori and I--- waited for that one word, having been told we would receive the results of Lori’s biopsy between 2 p.m. and 4 p.m., Thursday last week. Actually we had been waiting for over a week, including the time for the scheduling of the biopsy itself and the determination of the results.
Waiting can be an unnerving experience: the human mind is capable of a thousand possibilities, mostly negative, creating one more worst case scenario, allowing our ever imaginative thoughts to wander, recalling people we’ve known somewhere---that one where it so suddenly happened to her, or the other one where he went so fast, or the one where she fought so bravely for so long, and the one that so heavily weighs on you just now, the one you await---yours: “What will the one word be: Benign? Malignant?”
It’s just one word; but what a difference one word can make.
Cancer kills more than 1,500 Americans a day and costs over $200 billion a year in medical bills and lost productivity. In Lori’s case the particular biopsy was for breast cancer, a cancer which about 1 in 8 women will develop in the course of their lifetime. Almost 40,000 women were expected to die from breast cancer in 2010. Only one other cancer, lung cancer, claims the lives of more women in the U.S. You are probably thinking of people’s names as your read those statistics. Maybe they died this last year or perhaps they are battling cancer today. Maybe the name you are thinking of is your own because you are struggling with this disease.
And so Lori and I waited for that word: benign or malignant.
“The word ‘benign’ has to be the most beautiful word in the English language,” one of my friends later declared.
“Then ‘malignant’ has to be the ugliest,” a second quipped.
I know something of that. My first wife, Katri, died of breast cancer after a six year fight with that formidable foe. In her unfortunate case the news came like a terrorist bomb on a peaceful parade, exploding on us as we hypothesized the cause for her mysterious symptoms, scratching our heads, all of us, including doctors---experts looking in the wrong direction, searching for the cause of her pain, examining relentlessly--- until the disease, with a Jared Lee Loughner smirk, proudly exposed its sinister self, and snickering at our surprise, “ha!” went on to announce with warped glee, “Breast cancer it is, fourth stage, metastasized to the bones.” And that was the cause for her pain, a pain among many that would dominate the remaining 6 years of her young life.
And now this day, Lori and I anxiously awaited her test results:
2:30 p.m., “I’m good, how ‘bout you?” I tried to exude confidence.
3’clock: “Half way there, they should call any time now.” I was still attempting to console.
3:30 p.m., “It’s okay, but what’s taking them?” I tried to remain upbeat.
3:45 p.m.: “Maybe you should call and see if they forgot.” Now I was getting aggravated.
3:55 p.m.: “For goodness sakes, what‘s wrong? Just call!” Frustration had found a parking place in my soul.
3:59 p.m.: Finally, the phone rings, Lori answers. My ears are attuned. Life hangs in the balance, “Okay, Yes… Yes…Yes. Thank you. Oh, thank you for the good news!”
“Benign.”
I sigh with relief.
Just one word. A wonderful word. Not malignant. Benign. Praise God!
“The Lord giveth.”
“The Lord taketh away.”
In just one word.
For now, I’ll rejoice in the “giveth” and in that one word: “benign”--- at that moment the most beautiful word I could have heard.
Until it’s time for another test.
But that’s another day.
Life Matters is written by David B.Whitlock, Ph.D. David email is drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com. His website is davidbwhitlock.com
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
Questions Women Ask
“Do you remember the color of that sweater I gave you when I was a sophomore in high school?” my wife nonchalantly asked me. “You remember, don’t you? It was the first real gift I ever gave a guy. I was so proud of that.” We had been admiring the sweater our daughter had given me for Christmas. I stroked the sweater as my mind raced back 30 plus years, trying to remember and think of a proper response to her question. I could hear Ulysses Everett McGill (George Clooney) whispering in my ear the same words he spoke to his endangered companions in the film, O Brother Where Art Thou, “We’re in a tight spot!”
Trying to avoid hurting her feelings and at the same time wanting to appear as her romantic repository of cherished memories, I struggled between confessing my ignorance and rolling the dice to guess the color. The color of the sweater our daughter had given me was brown; perhaps the odds were in favor of brown for the sophomore sweater. But then again, maybe it was the crew neck collar that reminded Lori of her love gift.
Fumbling for the right words, I sputtered; I stalled; I stammered: “It had a crew neck just like this one, didn’t it?” I asked, still holding the new Christmas sweater in my hands and hoping my question would spin our conversation in another direction. No such luck was mine. “Oh, yeah, it did,” she responded. “But you don’t remember the color, do you?”
Now her cards were on the table. But it was possible I could recover with a royal flush by coolly expressing my surprise at her question. “Of course I remember, you silly,” I could say. “It was brown, just like this one I got for Christmas. Do you really think I would forget the first gift you ever gave me? C’mon now!”
But if it weren’t brown---be it any other color--- my bluff would be called, the truth would out and my royal flush would morph into a pair of clubs. And I would be emotionally indebted for days, weeks, months, who knows---maybe years.
And so there I was--- the cowardly gambler, beads of sweat forming on my brow, my lips quivering, all the time thinking, Lord, why do women ask such questions? Why does it matter to them? And, how do they remember these things?
Men---we are different. John Gray underscored what most of us knew in his best seller, Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus. “Without an understanding that men and women are supposed to be different, it is such a temptation to think that men shouldn’t be ‘that way’ or women shouldn’t react ‘that way,’” Gray wrote in the introduction of his book. Since then, Walt Larimore, M.D., and his wife Barb, have co-authored, His Brain, Her Brain, that documents their thesis that, “there is ample scientific evidence that supports the fact that many of the dramatic differences between his brain and her brain are inborn.” In other words, there is no unisex brain. We are wired differently in areas that include sight, hearing, taste, smell, and touch. So, there was a difference in how we saw that sweater. “Rod-shaped cells (rods) on the retina are photoreceptors for black and white, while cone-shaped cells (cones) handle color. Women have a greater proportion of cones than men. So women can see colors better than men,” the Larimore’s point out. No wonder Lori could recall the color of that brown sweater when I couldn’t!
But the biology didn’t matter in that moment. I couldn’t say, “Oh, Lori, you remember the color of that sweater because you have more rod-shaped cells on your retina and poor pitiful me, I have fewer to act as photoreceptors on my retina, and therefore, compared to you, I virtually see in black and white. Silly girl, did you really expect me to remember the color of that sweater?”
No, even if science were on my side, I had to come clean, and so I folded, “I’m trying to pull that up, but I just can’t recall. Tell me about it.”
And she joyfully did. It was from the Surrey Shop, where I used to work in high school. And yes, it was a brown crew neck.
And to think my hunch had been right all along.
“And by the way,” she continued, “you do remember what you gave me that Christmas, don’t you?”
Okay, Ulysses Everett McGill: time for your line again, “We’re in a tight spot!”
Life Matters is written by David B. Whitlock, Ph.D. David’s email is drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com, and his website is DavidBWhitlock.com.
Trying to avoid hurting her feelings and at the same time wanting to appear as her romantic repository of cherished memories, I struggled between confessing my ignorance and rolling the dice to guess the color. The color of the sweater our daughter had given me was brown; perhaps the odds were in favor of brown for the sophomore sweater. But then again, maybe it was the crew neck collar that reminded Lori of her love gift.
Fumbling for the right words, I sputtered; I stalled; I stammered: “It had a crew neck just like this one, didn’t it?” I asked, still holding the new Christmas sweater in my hands and hoping my question would spin our conversation in another direction. No such luck was mine. “Oh, yeah, it did,” she responded. “But you don’t remember the color, do you?”
Now her cards were on the table. But it was possible I could recover with a royal flush by coolly expressing my surprise at her question. “Of course I remember, you silly,” I could say. “It was brown, just like this one I got for Christmas. Do you really think I would forget the first gift you ever gave me? C’mon now!”
But if it weren’t brown---be it any other color--- my bluff would be called, the truth would out and my royal flush would morph into a pair of clubs. And I would be emotionally indebted for days, weeks, months, who knows---maybe years.
And so there I was--- the cowardly gambler, beads of sweat forming on my brow, my lips quivering, all the time thinking, Lord, why do women ask such questions? Why does it matter to them? And, how do they remember these things?
Men---we are different. John Gray underscored what most of us knew in his best seller, Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus. “Without an understanding that men and women are supposed to be different, it is such a temptation to think that men shouldn’t be ‘that way’ or women shouldn’t react ‘that way,’” Gray wrote in the introduction of his book. Since then, Walt Larimore, M.D., and his wife Barb, have co-authored, His Brain, Her Brain, that documents their thesis that, “there is ample scientific evidence that supports the fact that many of the dramatic differences between his brain and her brain are inborn.” In other words, there is no unisex brain. We are wired differently in areas that include sight, hearing, taste, smell, and touch. So, there was a difference in how we saw that sweater. “Rod-shaped cells (rods) on the retina are photoreceptors for black and white, while cone-shaped cells (cones) handle color. Women have a greater proportion of cones than men. So women can see colors better than men,” the Larimore’s point out. No wonder Lori could recall the color of that brown sweater when I couldn’t!
But the biology didn’t matter in that moment. I couldn’t say, “Oh, Lori, you remember the color of that sweater because you have more rod-shaped cells on your retina and poor pitiful me, I have fewer to act as photoreceptors on my retina, and therefore, compared to you, I virtually see in black and white. Silly girl, did you really expect me to remember the color of that sweater?”
No, even if science were on my side, I had to come clean, and so I folded, “I’m trying to pull that up, but I just can’t recall. Tell me about it.”
And she joyfully did. It was from the Surrey Shop, where I used to work in high school. And yes, it was a brown crew neck.
And to think my hunch had been right all along.
“And by the way,” she continued, “you do remember what you gave me that Christmas, don’t you?”
Okay, Ulysses Everett McGill: time for your line again, “We’re in a tight spot!”
Life Matters is written by David B. Whitlock, Ph.D. David’s email is drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com, and his website is DavidBWhitlock.com.
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
Triumph Over Tragedy in Tucson
The stories of the heroes who stepped up to help and in some cases save the victims of the Tucson tragedy keep rolling in. The first and most prominent was Representative Gabrielle Giffords’ college intern, Daniel Hernandez, the young man who helped her after she was shot. While many people call him a hero, Hernandez insists he is not one: “I think… anyone would have done the same thing for anyone, because it's a human being, and you need to make sure that you help those in need.”
Then there is Patricia Maisch, the 61 year old lady who managed to grab the shooter’s magazine and keep him from reloading. What does she remember about the events that happened so quickly? “That tiny, tiny space between the first shot and the rest of the shots, just in my head. And then deciding to drop to the ground instead of running, expecting to be shot because the woman next to me was the last one to get shot.” She doesn’t see herself as a hero, but if people persist in calling her one, then she insists on calling the man who saved her life a “superhero,”---Col. Bill Badger (Ret.), who wrestled alleged gunman Jared Lee Loughner to the ground. But Badger too shies away from the hero’s honor: “I did what anybody else would do. And I'm just so glad that I had the opportunity to do what I did…”
Then there is Dr.David Bowman, the physician who was shopping in the Safeway when the killings took place and quickly rushed into the fray to help treat victims. Neither does he consider himself a hero: "I think that there were maybe heroic things done by normal people.”
And then there is Anna Ballis, who was, that fateful Saturday, simply going shopping and then went to Rep. Giffords’ event to see what was going on. Giffords' district director, Ron Barber, owes his life to Ballis, who applied pressure to his wounds. If given the choice between being dubbed an angel or hero, Ballis prefers angel.
Extraordinary actions performed by seemingly ordinary people---some intended to attend the event; others were on their way to someplace else---responding to tragedy in the only way they knew how: instantly, compassionately, courageously.
We wonder how we would react in a similar situation. Would we be an Anna Ballis, a David Bowman, a Bill Badger, a Patricia Maisch, a Daniel Hernandez? Would we respond with similar acts of heroism?
Or would we, God forbid, be a George Constanza---the character in Seinfeld--- who, in the episode, “The Fire,” runs out, abandoning the helpless and handicapped. No one is hurt, but George’s cowardice is exposed. The fireman asks him, “How do you live with yourself?” And George’s only explanation is, “It’s not easy.”
Funny, yes, but in real life we yearn for better. We wish for and anticipate within ourselves and others a heroic response, even as we hope that test never comes. We vicariously identify with the heroes at tragic events, whether it be a Ground Zero, a Virginia Tech campus, or a Tucson.
And isn’t that at least something of the reason for the resounding response to the President’s memorial service speech in Tucson? Over 14,000 gathered at the University of Arizona arena to say, “We mourn for the victims; we hate the evil; we celebrate the heroes because they represent the better part of ourselves---that part of ourselves that empowers the triumph of good over evil, of love over hate, of courage over cowardice.” And they interrupted the President’s 30 minute speech 50 times, often with thunderous applause, occasionally with laughter, and in the end with a standing ovation.
By living that better part of ourselves and seeing it in others, by speaking kinder, gentler words that heal rather than hurt, by living for Something beyond ourselves, we can in these daily actions nurture the hero within as we honor the fallen by helping the living.
True heroes do not aspire to be heroes. They are most often ordinary people who care about others. When we in those daily, ordinary, mundane occasions care, truly care about others, then in that unexpected moment---“that tiny, tiny space between the first shot and the rest of the shots”--- the true hero within emerges. And even if that moment never comes, and we pray to God it doesn’t, as we quietly, anonymously, methodically do the right thing in obscure places, we ordinary people join the heroes of Tucson, Virginia Tech, Columbine, and Ground Zero--- in the triumph of good over evil.
Life Matters is written by David B. Whitlock, Ph.D. David’s email is drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com, and his website is davidbwhitlock.com.
Then there is Patricia Maisch, the 61 year old lady who managed to grab the shooter’s magazine and keep him from reloading. What does she remember about the events that happened so quickly? “That tiny, tiny space between the first shot and the rest of the shots, just in my head. And then deciding to drop to the ground instead of running, expecting to be shot because the woman next to me was the last one to get shot.” She doesn’t see herself as a hero, but if people persist in calling her one, then she insists on calling the man who saved her life a “superhero,”---Col. Bill Badger (Ret.), who wrestled alleged gunman Jared Lee Loughner to the ground. But Badger too shies away from the hero’s honor: “I did what anybody else would do. And I'm just so glad that I had the opportunity to do what I did…”
Then there is Dr.David Bowman, the physician who was shopping in the Safeway when the killings took place and quickly rushed into the fray to help treat victims. Neither does he consider himself a hero: "I think that there were maybe heroic things done by normal people.”
And then there is Anna Ballis, who was, that fateful Saturday, simply going shopping and then went to Rep. Giffords’ event to see what was going on. Giffords' district director, Ron Barber, owes his life to Ballis, who applied pressure to his wounds. If given the choice between being dubbed an angel or hero, Ballis prefers angel.
Extraordinary actions performed by seemingly ordinary people---some intended to attend the event; others were on their way to someplace else---responding to tragedy in the only way they knew how: instantly, compassionately, courageously.
We wonder how we would react in a similar situation. Would we be an Anna Ballis, a David Bowman, a Bill Badger, a Patricia Maisch, a Daniel Hernandez? Would we respond with similar acts of heroism?
Or would we, God forbid, be a George Constanza---the character in Seinfeld--- who, in the episode, “The Fire,” runs out, abandoning the helpless and handicapped. No one is hurt, but George’s cowardice is exposed. The fireman asks him, “How do you live with yourself?” And George’s only explanation is, “It’s not easy.”
Funny, yes, but in real life we yearn for better. We wish for and anticipate within ourselves and others a heroic response, even as we hope that test never comes. We vicariously identify with the heroes at tragic events, whether it be a Ground Zero, a Virginia Tech campus, or a Tucson.
And isn’t that at least something of the reason for the resounding response to the President’s memorial service speech in Tucson? Over 14,000 gathered at the University of Arizona arena to say, “We mourn for the victims; we hate the evil; we celebrate the heroes because they represent the better part of ourselves---that part of ourselves that empowers the triumph of good over evil, of love over hate, of courage over cowardice.” And they interrupted the President’s 30 minute speech 50 times, often with thunderous applause, occasionally with laughter, and in the end with a standing ovation.
By living that better part of ourselves and seeing it in others, by speaking kinder, gentler words that heal rather than hurt, by living for Something beyond ourselves, we can in these daily actions nurture the hero within as we honor the fallen by helping the living.
True heroes do not aspire to be heroes. They are most often ordinary people who care about others. When we in those daily, ordinary, mundane occasions care, truly care about others, then in that unexpected moment---“that tiny, tiny space between the first shot and the rest of the shots”--- the true hero within emerges. And even if that moment never comes, and we pray to God it doesn’t, as we quietly, anonymously, methodically do the right thing in obscure places, we ordinary people join the heroes of Tucson, Virginia Tech, Columbine, and Ground Zero--- in the triumph of good over evil.
Life Matters is written by David B. Whitlock, Ph.D. David’s email is drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com, and his website is davidbwhitlock.com.
Friday, January 14, 2011
Faces of Hope in the Tears of Tucson
You see their faces splashed on television: the victims of that horrible crime, the murders in Tucson. For just a moment we had been enjoying the cheerful news of good fortune in the life of Ted Williams---the once homeless man whose golden voice captured the internet and who now is inundated with golden offers, including a five second appearance in a Super Bowl commercial----when suddenly the images of Ted’s smile were replaced by pictures of tears in Tucson. The sad irony of the Tucson tragedy is that so many faces of hope---smiling, optimistic, and buoyant faces---were instantly, maliciously attacked by the face of despair and the hand of hate.
And in that second it takes for a tear to fall, life can change forever.
By now you know of the youngest victim: nine year old Christina-Taylor Green. Christina-Taylor, with her big brown eyes, long brown hair, and innocent smile, arrived at the parking lot of Safeway in hopes of meeting one of her heroes, U.S. Representative Gabrielle Giffords. Christina-Taylor never got the chance. Ironically, Christina-Taylor’s life was framed by tragedy: she was born on a tragic day---September 11, 2001---and died on another tragic day, January 8, 2011. Christina-Taylor was one of the 50 children featured in the book, Faces of Hope, representing babies born on 9/11. And a face of hope she was, even on 1-08-11.
Another victim, U.S. District Judge John Roll, was a widely respected federal judge and public servant. He was also a grandfather who was simply shopping at the Safeway where the shooting took place and walked to speak a kind word to Giffords. He owned a tender and gentle smile that evoked a sense of confidence and trust from others. John Roll---another face of hope in the tears of Tucson.
Rep. Giffords was meeting with voters outside the grocery store. “It’s not surprising that today Gabby was doing what she always does, listening to the hopes and concerns of her neighbors,” President Obama said of her. Her smile exudes optimism, courage, and strength coupled with humility. Her warm and inviting smile is yet another face of hope in the tears of Tucson.
And the alleged gunman who went after Giffords, the mentally unstable college drop-out, Jared Lee Loughner, had a smile… but not one of hope. Steven Rayle, a former ER doctor, was there. He had come to meet Giffords. What did he see in Loughner? A young man with a blank expression on his face. “I looked up and saw a man with a gun shoot her (Giffords) in the head and then continue firing, rapid-fire, with just point blank at everybody who was in the area.”
When did this young man lose hope and turn to violence? We may never know. But he was not, at least at one time, beyond feeling the pain of isolation. In an interview with Clarence Williams of the Washington Post, Loughner’s friend Timothy Cheves recalled a conversation with Loughner in which Cheves encouraged him to get his life on the right track. “I was telling him about God and all that. And he broke down, crying, and he gave me a big ol’ hug, and said, ‘Thank you, you’re one of the only ones that ever listened to me.’”
And then, it happened. In the second it takes for a tear to fall, life can change forever. And beautiful faces, full of hope, are no more.
We want an explanation for the unexplainable; we want to find meaning in the senseless; we seek reasons in unreasonableness. And it’s not there.
Sometimes all there is to do is let the tears fall. And enjoy the bit of life we are given, recalling those faces of hope that have graced our journey. And in the remembrance of them, be one, too, because in the second it takes for a tear to fall, life can change forever.
Life Matters is written by David B. Whitlock, Ph.D. His email is drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com.
And in that second it takes for a tear to fall, life can change forever.
By now you know of the youngest victim: nine year old Christina-Taylor Green. Christina-Taylor, with her big brown eyes, long brown hair, and innocent smile, arrived at the parking lot of Safeway in hopes of meeting one of her heroes, U.S. Representative Gabrielle Giffords. Christina-Taylor never got the chance. Ironically, Christina-Taylor’s life was framed by tragedy: she was born on a tragic day---September 11, 2001---and died on another tragic day, January 8, 2011. Christina-Taylor was one of the 50 children featured in the book, Faces of Hope, representing babies born on 9/11. And a face of hope she was, even on 1-08-11.
Another victim, U.S. District Judge John Roll, was a widely respected federal judge and public servant. He was also a grandfather who was simply shopping at the Safeway where the shooting took place and walked to speak a kind word to Giffords. He owned a tender and gentle smile that evoked a sense of confidence and trust from others. John Roll---another face of hope in the tears of Tucson.
Rep. Giffords was meeting with voters outside the grocery store. “It’s not surprising that today Gabby was doing what she always does, listening to the hopes and concerns of her neighbors,” President Obama said of her. Her smile exudes optimism, courage, and strength coupled with humility. Her warm and inviting smile is yet another face of hope in the tears of Tucson.
And the alleged gunman who went after Giffords, the mentally unstable college drop-out, Jared Lee Loughner, had a smile… but not one of hope. Steven Rayle, a former ER doctor, was there. He had come to meet Giffords. What did he see in Loughner? A young man with a blank expression on his face. “I looked up and saw a man with a gun shoot her (Giffords) in the head and then continue firing, rapid-fire, with just point blank at everybody who was in the area.”
When did this young man lose hope and turn to violence? We may never know. But he was not, at least at one time, beyond feeling the pain of isolation. In an interview with Clarence Williams of the Washington Post, Loughner’s friend Timothy Cheves recalled a conversation with Loughner in which Cheves encouraged him to get his life on the right track. “I was telling him about God and all that. And he broke down, crying, and he gave me a big ol’ hug, and said, ‘Thank you, you’re one of the only ones that ever listened to me.’”
And then, it happened. In the second it takes for a tear to fall, life can change forever. And beautiful faces, full of hope, are no more.
We want an explanation for the unexplainable; we want to find meaning in the senseless; we seek reasons in unreasonableness. And it’s not there.
Sometimes all there is to do is let the tears fall. And enjoy the bit of life we are given, recalling those faces of hope that have graced our journey. And in the remembrance of them, be one, too, because in the second it takes for a tear to fall, life can change forever.
Life Matters is written by David B. Whitlock, Ph.D. His email is drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com.
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
Resolution Revolution
I resolve to stage a revolt against making New Year’s resolutions. I’ve had it with them; they don’t work for me. The New Year is still in infancy, and I’ve already broken 75% of my resolutions.
It’s not that I didn’t try; I just forgot: the pressure of the moment distracted my attention from keeping the resolution.
Take my first resolution, for example. I read that being impatient can lead to hypertension. I tend to be impatient, and I don’t want hypertension. ”Patience,” I said to myself as I stood in line at the grocery store a couple of days before New Year’s, tapping my foot as I wondered if the next line was moving faster, “patience is something I could work on.” Thus, resolution number one: be more patient; don’t sweat the small stuff. Since Lori and I had already planned to be away during New Year’s, I would have a nice, relaxed atmosphere to begin my first resolution. On the morning of January I, I took my time as Lori and I casually walked to the breakfast buffet. I was silently complimenting myself on how well I was doing on resolution number one when Lori informed me she had forgotten the breakfast coupons---part of the weekend package with our hotel. “You forgot the coupons?” I grimaced. That initial, suppressed grimace was followed by a bigger, more obvious one when the hostess told me there was a 45 minute waiting list and that I would have to check at the front desk about the possibility of reclaiming the breakfast vouchers. Glancing at the long line at the hotel registration desk, I grumbled to Lori, “I’ll wait in line while you see if you can remember where you put the breakfast coupons.” When Lori couldn’t find them, I decided to conduct a thorough and proper search myself, and voila, I found them…in the cabinet on my side of the bed. “Oops.” I kinda forgot I put them there.
So much for resolution number one.
Getting the proper amount of sleep, I have been told, is essential to our health. My 5-6 hours of sleep a night isn’t adequate, I concluded. Thus, resolution number two: get more sleep. I proudly announced to Lori on New Year’s Day---after apologizing for breaking resolution number one, of course--- “I’m going to bed early tonight.” That was a bold statement for me, and one I had to promptly retract when I remembered that my OU Sooners played in the Fiesta Bowl that very night and that the broadcast didn’t begin until 8:30 p.m. (EST) So, there I was whooping and hollering my team to victory at 12:30 a.m. And preachers can’t sleep in on Sunday mornings, you know.
So much for resolution number two.
Resolution number three: maintain a more healthy diet, went down with the New Year’s breakfast buffet, as did resolution number four, cut back on my caffeine consumption. (Free refills came with the buffet, what was I to do?) I’m managing to chase resolution number five: read through the Bible again this year, although I’m already 8 chapters behind. Resolution number six: cash instead of credit---good, except for the gas card. Resolution number seven, journal each day---already days behind, although I have at least located my journal; resolution number eight: have a book proposal ready by March 1---I’m working on it. And number nine, read at least one hour a day---I’m on it. Resolution number ten---stop the nervous habit of picking my fingernails---was lost in the excitement of the OU game.
There you have it: as far as I can figure, I’m only hitting 250-300% on my resolutions.
But wait a minute: Isn’t the highest career professional baseball batting average Ty Cobb’s? And isn’t his record a “mere” .366? That means that almost 60% of the time, when he stepped up to the plate, he didn’t get a hit. And that’s the best career average EVER.
So maybe I don’t need to start a resolution revolution after all. Maybe the revolution I need is a continuation of the good in what I have resolved, not a cessation of the goal itself. As John Norcross, psychology professor at the University of Scranton in Pennsylvania said recently in The Wall Street Journal, “Keeping a resolution isn’t a 100-yard dash. It’s a marathon.”
That’s it: a marathon. In a marathon, I can get bumped to the side and even trip and fall and still get back up and finish the race in respectable fashion. And somehow in the running of the race, I can feel like a revolutionary, a revolutionary because I resolved to persevere, and even though I may finish with a limp, I nonetheless can cross the finish line, aiming for a goal far beyond 2011.
Life Matters is written by David B. Whitlock, Ph.D. David’s email is drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com and his website is davidbwhitlock.com
It’s not that I didn’t try; I just forgot: the pressure of the moment distracted my attention from keeping the resolution.
Take my first resolution, for example. I read that being impatient can lead to hypertension. I tend to be impatient, and I don’t want hypertension. ”Patience,” I said to myself as I stood in line at the grocery store a couple of days before New Year’s, tapping my foot as I wondered if the next line was moving faster, “patience is something I could work on.” Thus, resolution number one: be more patient; don’t sweat the small stuff. Since Lori and I had already planned to be away during New Year’s, I would have a nice, relaxed atmosphere to begin my first resolution. On the morning of January I, I took my time as Lori and I casually walked to the breakfast buffet. I was silently complimenting myself on how well I was doing on resolution number one when Lori informed me she had forgotten the breakfast coupons---part of the weekend package with our hotel. “You forgot the coupons?” I grimaced. That initial, suppressed grimace was followed by a bigger, more obvious one when the hostess told me there was a 45 minute waiting list and that I would have to check at the front desk about the possibility of reclaiming the breakfast vouchers. Glancing at the long line at the hotel registration desk, I grumbled to Lori, “I’ll wait in line while you see if you can remember where you put the breakfast coupons.” When Lori couldn’t find them, I decided to conduct a thorough and proper search myself, and voila, I found them…in the cabinet on my side of the bed. “Oops.” I kinda forgot I put them there.
So much for resolution number one.
Getting the proper amount of sleep, I have been told, is essential to our health. My 5-6 hours of sleep a night isn’t adequate, I concluded. Thus, resolution number two: get more sleep. I proudly announced to Lori on New Year’s Day---after apologizing for breaking resolution number one, of course--- “I’m going to bed early tonight.” That was a bold statement for me, and one I had to promptly retract when I remembered that my OU Sooners played in the Fiesta Bowl that very night and that the broadcast didn’t begin until 8:30 p.m. (EST) So, there I was whooping and hollering my team to victory at 12:30 a.m. And preachers can’t sleep in on Sunday mornings, you know.
So much for resolution number two.
Resolution number three: maintain a more healthy diet, went down with the New Year’s breakfast buffet, as did resolution number four, cut back on my caffeine consumption. (Free refills came with the buffet, what was I to do?) I’m managing to chase resolution number five: read through the Bible again this year, although I’m already 8 chapters behind. Resolution number six: cash instead of credit---good, except for the gas card. Resolution number seven, journal each day---already days behind, although I have at least located my journal; resolution number eight: have a book proposal ready by March 1---I’m working on it. And number nine, read at least one hour a day---I’m on it. Resolution number ten---stop the nervous habit of picking my fingernails---was lost in the excitement of the OU game.
There you have it: as far as I can figure, I’m only hitting 250-300% on my resolutions.
But wait a minute: Isn’t the highest career professional baseball batting average Ty Cobb’s? And isn’t his record a “mere” .366? That means that almost 60% of the time, when he stepped up to the plate, he didn’t get a hit. And that’s the best career average EVER.
So maybe I don’t need to start a resolution revolution after all. Maybe the revolution I need is a continuation of the good in what I have resolved, not a cessation of the goal itself. As John Norcross, psychology professor at the University of Scranton in Pennsylvania said recently in The Wall Street Journal, “Keeping a resolution isn’t a 100-yard dash. It’s a marathon.”
That’s it: a marathon. In a marathon, I can get bumped to the side and even trip and fall and still get back up and finish the race in respectable fashion. And somehow in the running of the race, I can feel like a revolutionary, a revolutionary because I resolved to persevere, and even though I may finish with a limp, I nonetheless can cross the finish line, aiming for a goal far beyond 2011.
Life Matters is written by David B. Whitlock, Ph.D. David’s email is drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com and his website is davidbwhitlock.com
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