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.
Friday, September 24, 2010
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
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
Ripe for the Picking
I tightened the lid on the 24th jar of tomatoes I had canned. Don’t ask me why I do this. I still have 6 jars left from the thirty-something I canned last year. And that doesn’t include a refrigerator full of quart, pint, and half-pint jars of salsa.
Maybe the novelty of “putting up maters” hasn’t worn off yet, this being only the second year I’ve indulged in this little project. (I still had to ask a friend for instructions on how to can tomatoes. “Now how did I do that last year?”) According to my normally patient wife, it’s no longer a “little project,” especially since I’ve added the salsa to my tomato-preserving repertoire. Elbow deep in tomatoes, I offered my best defense: “I’m a victim,” I explained. “I have all these ripe tomatoes. How can I watch them die without a home---either on the table, in the jar, or in the salsa?”
Maybe it all goes back to Mom. Can I blame her? “Son, don’t waste your food. Eat what’s on your plate.” Wouldn’t ripe tomatoes fall into the category of, “what’s on your plate?” Who am I to disobey Momma’s rules?
So, how did I adopt so many tomatoes? I became the proud owner of a trunk load of tomatoes because of the prolific garden and generous heart of one, Bernard Sandusky. His brother, Glen, called me the other day. “Bernard wants to know if you want some maters.” Without hesitating, I said, “Sure. Do you want me to pick them up, or do you want to bring them to town on your next trip?” Glen related my query to Bernard.
“Well, I sure ain’t gonna pick any more.” I could hear Bernard chuckling in the background.
The next morning, Bernard walked me to his garden, and what I saw made my eyes widen, my mouth water, and my heart palpitate. I was admiring the tomato garden of all tomato gardens, the veritable Taj Mahal of tomato gardens, overflowing with tomatoes--- juicy, red, plumb tomatoes, ripe for picking, from small to hamburger patty size, tomatoes upon tomatoes, some hanging on the vine, most on the ground, sprawling across what seemed like a half-acre of hay-covered dirt.
“Preacher, pick as many as you want. My wife told me not to dare bring anymore in the house. She’s canned all she’s gonna can.”
Pointing with his cane, Bernard gave me instructions: “Start on this side of the garden, work your way up and then back down the other side.” I thought I heard a suppressed laugh when he said, “Work your way back down the other side.” It was a daunting task, but one any tomato-lover would relish.
I was on my hands and knees, crawling like a mole through the garden, first picking this beauty, then that treasure. And all the while, the Godfather of Gardeners was urging me on. By the time I got to the back side of the garden I already had more tomatoes than I ever dreamed of bagging.
With sweat now burning my eyes, I squinted as I looked up at Bernard. Maybe it was the heat, maybe it was my blurred vision, but he looked vaguely familiar, towering over me in his jeans, faded, plaid, short-sleeve shirt, suspenders, and that cane, pointing to yet another prize tomato. Ah, yes, it was The Captain, the tyrannical warden in Cool Hand Luke, “What we have here is a failure to communicate.” I obediently reached for that tomato, fearful that The Captain might rap my knuckles with his cane.
But then I quickly came to my senses; there was Bernard himself by my side, gathering tomatoes, practically giggling with delight each time he picked a piece of that luscious fruit.
Days later I was handing Bernard and his wife, Sandra, a sample of my salsa, made with their tomatoes. “I’m glad you made good use of those tomatoes, cause I’d had enough,” Sandra quipped. “I told Bernard, ‘Don’t you bring any more in the house. They may have been ripe for picking, but I’d worn myself out canning ‘em.”
I smiled in agreement. I knew what she meant. Precisely.
Life Matters, is written by David B. Whitlock, Ph.D. David’s email is drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com. You can also visit his website at www.davidbwhitlock.com
Maybe the novelty of “putting up maters” hasn’t worn off yet, this being only the second year I’ve indulged in this little project. (I still had to ask a friend for instructions on how to can tomatoes. “Now how did I do that last year?”) According to my normally patient wife, it’s no longer a “little project,” especially since I’ve added the salsa to my tomato-preserving repertoire. Elbow deep in tomatoes, I offered my best defense: “I’m a victim,” I explained. “I have all these ripe tomatoes. How can I watch them die without a home---either on the table, in the jar, or in the salsa?”
Maybe it all goes back to Mom. Can I blame her? “Son, don’t waste your food. Eat what’s on your plate.” Wouldn’t ripe tomatoes fall into the category of, “what’s on your plate?” Who am I to disobey Momma’s rules?
So, how did I adopt so many tomatoes? I became the proud owner of a trunk load of tomatoes because of the prolific garden and generous heart of one, Bernard Sandusky. His brother, Glen, called me the other day. “Bernard wants to know if you want some maters.” Without hesitating, I said, “Sure. Do you want me to pick them up, or do you want to bring them to town on your next trip?” Glen related my query to Bernard.
“Well, I sure ain’t gonna pick any more.” I could hear Bernard chuckling in the background.
The next morning, Bernard walked me to his garden, and what I saw made my eyes widen, my mouth water, and my heart palpitate. I was admiring the tomato garden of all tomato gardens, the veritable Taj Mahal of tomato gardens, overflowing with tomatoes--- juicy, red, plumb tomatoes, ripe for picking, from small to hamburger patty size, tomatoes upon tomatoes, some hanging on the vine, most on the ground, sprawling across what seemed like a half-acre of hay-covered dirt.
“Preacher, pick as many as you want. My wife told me not to dare bring anymore in the house. She’s canned all she’s gonna can.”
Pointing with his cane, Bernard gave me instructions: “Start on this side of the garden, work your way up and then back down the other side.” I thought I heard a suppressed laugh when he said, “Work your way back down the other side.” It was a daunting task, but one any tomato-lover would relish.
I was on my hands and knees, crawling like a mole through the garden, first picking this beauty, then that treasure. And all the while, the Godfather of Gardeners was urging me on. By the time I got to the back side of the garden I already had more tomatoes than I ever dreamed of bagging.
With sweat now burning my eyes, I squinted as I looked up at Bernard. Maybe it was the heat, maybe it was my blurred vision, but he looked vaguely familiar, towering over me in his jeans, faded, plaid, short-sleeve shirt, suspenders, and that cane, pointing to yet another prize tomato. Ah, yes, it was The Captain, the tyrannical warden in Cool Hand Luke, “What we have here is a failure to communicate.” I obediently reached for that tomato, fearful that The Captain might rap my knuckles with his cane.
But then I quickly came to my senses; there was Bernard himself by my side, gathering tomatoes, practically giggling with delight each time he picked a piece of that luscious fruit.
Days later I was handing Bernard and his wife, Sandra, a sample of my salsa, made with their tomatoes. “I’m glad you made good use of those tomatoes, cause I’d had enough,” Sandra quipped. “I told Bernard, ‘Don’t you bring any more in the house. They may have been ripe for picking, but I’d worn myself out canning ‘em.”
I smiled in agreement. I knew what she meant. Precisely.
Life Matters, is written by David B. Whitlock, Ph.D. David’s email is drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com. You can also visit his website at www.davidbwhitlock.com
Friday, August 20, 2010
“Checking Out can lead to Crossing Over”
Unresolved anger, planted in the soul, eventually gives rise to resentment, which when unchecked, produces the fruit of retaliation.
By now you’ve heard the story: Jet Blue flight attendant Steven Slater had a bad day, maybe a string of bad days, 28 long years of being polite to rude passengers. Finally he had enough. Whether the passenger provoked Slater by cursing him when he asked her not to stand up to retrieve her bags while the plane was taxiing, or whether Slater himself had been edgy and snarly to passengers from the beginning of the flight is a matter of perspective and opinion. What is clear is that Slater had enough. Maybe he was channeling the character Howard Beale, whose rant in the 1976 film Network, galvanized the nation with the words “I’m mad as hell, and I’m not going to take this anymore.” What is clear is that Slater cursed the passengers over the plane’s intercom, and then checked out on his job, sliding down the plane’s emergency chute, a beer in each hand.
And now he has become a cultural hero. In fact, t-shirts are for sale that say, “I wish my job had an emergency exit.” This message of escape resonates with thousands who have felt like checking out and jumping down the chute.
Americans are agitated with life as it is in our country. A Wall Street Journal/NBC poll inferred that Slater’s actions reflected a broad public anger, a resentment that in November will fire the politicians now in office. A “Jet Blue Nation” has had enough; it’s “mad as hell” and is “not going to take this anymore.”
And so, here we are: unresolved anger, planted in the soul, gives rise to resentment, which when unchecked, produces the fruit of retaliation. And retaliation, we all know, can get ugly. When widespread, it can unleash forces that tear apart the fabric holding a nation together.
Most of us have indulged in fantasies of retaliation, and that is not necessarily a bad thing. They can actually help us process our anger and douse the potential fires of revenge. It’s when our visions of addressing those who have wronged us become primarily violent in nature and predominant in our thinking that professional help should be sought.
It’s all about relationships. And relationships can be difficult. That’s because we can’t control what people do to us. All we can truly control is our attitude. As pioneer psychologist William James said, “Whenever you're in conflict with someone, there is one factor that can make the difference between damaging your relationship and deepening it. That factor is attitude.”
We have all been hurt. Whether it’s someone’s insensitive behavior on an airplane, or a spouse’s vindictive words in the home, or child’s temper tantrum in the grocery store, or a boss’ verbal abuse in front of peers, or a friend’s cutthroat betrayals at the office water cooler, we all have grounds for reprisal.
And, sometimes, particularly in harmful situations, we have no other option than to check out, exit the scene, slide down the chute, and start over.
Even within that, especially within that, there is hope. Perhaps that’s why Elizabeth Gilbert’s bestselling book Eat, Pray, Love, now made into a movie starring Julia Roberts, has connected with so many people. Despite the less than favorable movie reviews, it grossed $23,700,000 last weekend, second to The Expendables. For some reason people identify with Gilbert, who has experienced a bitter divorce, a confusing rebound relationship, and a frightening depression. She sets out on a journey, financed by an advance on the book (Gilbert is a writer, by profession), to Italy, India, and Indonesia--- to find, among other things, who she is, to feel life again, and discover how she can live in balance.
In one scene from the movie, Julia Roberts (playing Gilbert) is engaged in conversation with friends. The question is asked, “What word describes who you are?” Roberts isn’t sure how to answer but responds with, “Writer.” A friend reminds her that her word is a description of what she does, not who she is. By the end of the movie (and book), she has her word. She finds it as she receives the wisdom of her spiritual guru, Ketut, "To lose balance sometimes for love is part of living a balanced life." She then declares her word to her lover, Felipe, whom she has decided to love, truly. Her word is the Italian word, “attraversiamo.” It means, “Let’s cross over.”
For some it’s magical thinking in fantasy land. And to a degree it is. But it’s better than drowning in anger, or being isolated by rage, or destroyed by grief.
Journey together. Grow together. Heal each other’s wounds. Soothe each other’s pain. Fight each other’s fears. Together.
A fantasy? Perhaps. But let’s try, anyway.
Let’s cross over. Together.
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
By now you’ve heard the story: Jet Blue flight attendant Steven Slater had a bad day, maybe a string of bad days, 28 long years of being polite to rude passengers. Finally he had enough. Whether the passenger provoked Slater by cursing him when he asked her not to stand up to retrieve her bags while the plane was taxiing, or whether Slater himself had been edgy and snarly to passengers from the beginning of the flight is a matter of perspective and opinion. What is clear is that Slater had enough. Maybe he was channeling the character Howard Beale, whose rant in the 1976 film Network, galvanized the nation with the words “I’m mad as hell, and I’m not going to take this anymore.” What is clear is that Slater cursed the passengers over the plane’s intercom, and then checked out on his job, sliding down the plane’s emergency chute, a beer in each hand.
And now he has become a cultural hero. In fact, t-shirts are for sale that say, “I wish my job had an emergency exit.” This message of escape resonates with thousands who have felt like checking out and jumping down the chute.
Americans are agitated with life as it is in our country. A Wall Street Journal/NBC poll inferred that Slater’s actions reflected a broad public anger, a resentment that in November will fire the politicians now in office. A “Jet Blue Nation” has had enough; it’s “mad as hell” and is “not going to take this anymore.”
And so, here we are: unresolved anger, planted in the soul, gives rise to resentment, which when unchecked, produces the fruit of retaliation. And retaliation, we all know, can get ugly. When widespread, it can unleash forces that tear apart the fabric holding a nation together.
Most of us have indulged in fantasies of retaliation, and that is not necessarily a bad thing. They can actually help us process our anger and douse the potential fires of revenge. It’s when our visions of addressing those who have wronged us become primarily violent in nature and predominant in our thinking that professional help should be sought.
It’s all about relationships. And relationships can be difficult. That’s because we can’t control what people do to us. All we can truly control is our attitude. As pioneer psychologist William James said, “Whenever you're in conflict with someone, there is one factor that can make the difference between damaging your relationship and deepening it. That factor is attitude.”
We have all been hurt. Whether it’s someone’s insensitive behavior on an airplane, or a spouse’s vindictive words in the home, or child’s temper tantrum in the grocery store, or a boss’ verbal abuse in front of peers, or a friend’s cutthroat betrayals at the office water cooler, we all have grounds for reprisal.
And, sometimes, particularly in harmful situations, we have no other option than to check out, exit the scene, slide down the chute, and start over.
Even within that, especially within that, there is hope. Perhaps that’s why Elizabeth Gilbert’s bestselling book Eat, Pray, Love, now made into a movie starring Julia Roberts, has connected with so many people. Despite the less than favorable movie reviews, it grossed $23,700,000 last weekend, second to The Expendables. For some reason people identify with Gilbert, who has experienced a bitter divorce, a confusing rebound relationship, and a frightening depression. She sets out on a journey, financed by an advance on the book (Gilbert is a writer, by profession), to Italy, India, and Indonesia--- to find, among other things, who she is, to feel life again, and discover how she can live in balance.
In one scene from the movie, Julia Roberts (playing Gilbert) is engaged in conversation with friends. The question is asked, “What word describes who you are?” Roberts isn’t sure how to answer but responds with, “Writer.” A friend reminds her that her word is a description of what she does, not who she is. By the end of the movie (and book), she has her word. She finds it as she receives the wisdom of her spiritual guru, Ketut, "To lose balance sometimes for love is part of living a balanced life." She then declares her word to her lover, Felipe, whom she has decided to love, truly. Her word is the Italian word, “attraversiamo.” It means, “Let’s cross over.”
For some it’s magical thinking in fantasy land. And to a degree it is. But it’s better than drowning in anger, or being isolated by rage, or destroyed by grief.
Journey together. Grow together. Heal each other’s wounds. Soothe each other’s pain. Fight each other’s fears. Together.
A fantasy? Perhaps. But let’s try, anyway.
Let’s cross over. Together.
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, August 13, 2010
Letting Them Fly
“I’m doing better this time,” my wife Lori said as I answered the phone, “I’m not crying…at least not much.”
She was leaving our youngest daughter’s apartment. No, they hadn’t had a mother daughter spat; nothing negative had prompted Lori’s emotions. She was saying “bye” to Madison… for the second time. We had moved her to Lexington, KY., where she will soon start school. Lori informed me it was necessary for her to return the next day, “to help get Madi settled.” That was true, but I knew more: finally letting go is difficult for parents, especially when you are the mother and the child is the youngest daughter.
We have had all four of our children, in this blended family of ours, fly to different places: we felt a lump in our throats when Mary-Elizabeth flew to New York City; we longed for laughter after Dave moved to Danville, KY., and we carried a heavy heart when Harrison left for Campbellsville, KY. But when that last one leaves the nest, it makes all the children’s absences seem even more permanent. Now, when we returned home, only Baylor and Max, our two miniature Schnauzers, awaited us.
The next day, as I walked through the house in the early morning hour, an eerie silence reverberated through the walls, echoing the children’s giggles, booming their music, resounding with the clamor for help with homework, resonating with the cry for answers to life’s ultimate questions, like “When will supper be ready, finally?” and “Why can’t I stay out later?”
But I’ve noticed several positives to this empty nest situation: I have more room in my driveway, making it easier to buzz in and out of the garage; I can rattle around the upstairs of our two story house in the wee hours of the morning and wake no one; I have acquired, in the past four years--- three empty bedrooms, giving me a morning, afternoon, and evening study--- whichever I so desire; instead of planning weekly meals, Lori can ask me at 6 p.m., “What do you want for supper?” and I can respond, “I dunno,” and that’s okay; I no longer walk through the house at curfew, making sure the kids are in, checking the locks on the doors, and turning off lights; and I don’t have to rush to get in the shower before the kids deplete the hot water supply.
The most rewarding and satisfying benefit of letting them go is the influence those young ones can have in the world. Children, after all, are meant to grow up, leave, and make a difference. As painful as it is to let them go, it’s more hurtful to keep them home when it’s time for them to fly to freedom. Granted, circumstances sometimes necessitate a longer stay with mom and dad, yet even within those situations, parents can release children to new expressions of freedoms and the gradual acceptance of more adult responsibilities. Even when the children do leave, whether it’s sooner or later, until they are completely independent, they most often return---some more than others--- if not for a home cooked meal, at least to do their laundry.
Yet, when it’s time, it’s time. Good-byes may not be forever, but they are steps along the road to maturity. And ultimately, a child leaving the security of home for a dream, risky though it may be, is better than one who stays for fear of failure.
As I glanced in my review mirror at Madi waving bye, I was reminded of that episode from Andy Griffith, “Opie, the Birdman,” where Opie Taylor has accidentally killed a mother bird with his new slingshot. Opie then raises the baby birds to maturity. But then, when it’s time to let them go, Opie has trouble. Andy Taylor convinces his son, “to let’em go; let’em be on their own; let’em be free like they was intended.” And Opie does. Each bird flies to freedom. Then, Opie looks at the bird cage. To him it looks “awful empty.”
And Andy, the wise, sage of comedy, agrees but then adds, “But don’t the trees seem nice and full?”
Having raised them as best we can, we let them go. And instead of looking at the empty nest, we do well to look at the trees---the possibilities that lie ahead for them, the fullness they can bring to others’ lives--- and with a sigh of satisfaction, say with the good Sherriff of Mayberry, “My, but don’t the trees seem nice and full?”
Yes, indeed.
David’s email is drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com.
She was leaving our youngest daughter’s apartment. No, they hadn’t had a mother daughter spat; nothing negative had prompted Lori’s emotions. She was saying “bye” to Madison… for the second time. We had moved her to Lexington, KY., where she will soon start school. Lori informed me it was necessary for her to return the next day, “to help get Madi settled.” That was true, but I knew more: finally letting go is difficult for parents, especially when you are the mother and the child is the youngest daughter.
We have had all four of our children, in this blended family of ours, fly to different places: we felt a lump in our throats when Mary-Elizabeth flew to New York City; we longed for laughter after Dave moved to Danville, KY., and we carried a heavy heart when Harrison left for Campbellsville, KY. But when that last one leaves the nest, it makes all the children’s absences seem even more permanent. Now, when we returned home, only Baylor and Max, our two miniature Schnauzers, awaited us.
The next day, as I walked through the house in the early morning hour, an eerie silence reverberated through the walls, echoing the children’s giggles, booming their music, resounding with the clamor for help with homework, resonating with the cry for answers to life’s ultimate questions, like “When will supper be ready, finally?” and “Why can’t I stay out later?”
But I’ve noticed several positives to this empty nest situation: I have more room in my driveway, making it easier to buzz in and out of the garage; I can rattle around the upstairs of our two story house in the wee hours of the morning and wake no one; I have acquired, in the past four years--- three empty bedrooms, giving me a morning, afternoon, and evening study--- whichever I so desire; instead of planning weekly meals, Lori can ask me at 6 p.m., “What do you want for supper?” and I can respond, “I dunno,” and that’s okay; I no longer walk through the house at curfew, making sure the kids are in, checking the locks on the doors, and turning off lights; and I don’t have to rush to get in the shower before the kids deplete the hot water supply.
The most rewarding and satisfying benefit of letting them go is the influence those young ones can have in the world. Children, after all, are meant to grow up, leave, and make a difference. As painful as it is to let them go, it’s more hurtful to keep them home when it’s time for them to fly to freedom. Granted, circumstances sometimes necessitate a longer stay with mom and dad, yet even within those situations, parents can release children to new expressions of freedoms and the gradual acceptance of more adult responsibilities. Even when the children do leave, whether it’s sooner or later, until they are completely independent, they most often return---some more than others--- if not for a home cooked meal, at least to do their laundry.
Yet, when it’s time, it’s time. Good-byes may not be forever, but they are steps along the road to maturity. And ultimately, a child leaving the security of home for a dream, risky though it may be, is better than one who stays for fear of failure.
As I glanced in my review mirror at Madi waving bye, I was reminded of that episode from Andy Griffith, “Opie, the Birdman,” where Opie Taylor has accidentally killed a mother bird with his new slingshot. Opie then raises the baby birds to maturity. But then, when it’s time to let them go, Opie has trouble. Andy Taylor convinces his son, “to let’em go; let’em be on their own; let’em be free like they was intended.” And Opie does. Each bird flies to freedom. Then, Opie looks at the bird cage. To him it looks “awful empty.”
And Andy, the wise, sage of comedy, agrees but then adds, “But don’t the trees seem nice and full?”
Having raised them as best we can, we let them go. And instead of looking at the empty nest, we do well to look at the trees---the possibilities that lie ahead for them, the fullness they can bring to others’ lives--- and with a sigh of satisfaction, say with the good Sherriff of Mayberry, “My, but don’t the trees seem nice and full?”
Yes, indeed.
David’s email is drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com.
Friday, August 6, 2010
When Lightning Strikes
In an instant---less than a second, in the flash of lightning, life can change. And then life is never the same.
My friend Ronnie Lindsey was struck by lightning. Ronnie is an electrician and had just completed a job for his company, Lanham Refrigeration Heating and Air Conditioning. As he was leaving, the person who had needed the repairs half-jokingly warned “Be careful and don’t get struck by lightning.” It turned out to be no laughing matter.
As Ronnie was putting his tools back in the company van, he heard thunder. Glancing skyward, he started to step away from the van but before he could, he felt the lightning surge from his feet through his body. Momentarily stunned, Ronnie immediately took stock of himself and realized he had survived a lighting strike. All he could say was, “Thank you sweet Jesus for letting me live.”
Thank you indeed.
Ronnie’s chances of being struck by lightning were about 1 in 700,000. Yet, there are enough electrical storms out there to make lighting strikes one the leading causes of weather related deaths in the USA. An average of 73 people are killed by lightning each year and about 300 are injured. The fact that Ronnie had been handling metal tools increased his chances of attracting lightning. But Ronnie was partially in the van, which had rubber tires, and that may have lessened the severity of the shock. One thing is for sure: Ronnie Lindsey is grateful to be alive. Getting struck by lightning has a way of bringing life and death into focus.
In an instant--- less than a second, in the flash of lightning, life can change. And then life is never the same.
In Ronnie’s case, it’s the same but different. Even though he has the same job with the same people with the same duties in the same town with the same family, life can never be quite the same. Close encounters with death are reminders of life’s precarious nature.
Like the storms they accompany, lightning happens when we least expect it. The once intact marriage is quite suddenly broken; the financially secure retirement evaporates as quickly as you can say, “Stock market crash;” the promising job opportunities vanish, it seems, the moment you get that diploma; and the once secure job is as tenuous as the clean bill of health. In a flash, the bat of the eye, the lightning-strike-moment, it’s all gone. Everything we depended on as certain, nailed down--- is all at once up in the air, floating away, just beyond our grasp.
People, not just the weather, change: that person you’ve lived with for 25 years surprises you; the co-worker you shared your heart with turns on you; the friend you trusted takes you to court; the child you dreamed for, undoes you.
Maybe it was inspired by Linda Keith, a Rolling Stones groupie---the former girlfriend of the band’s Keith Richards--- but it is true for many of the people you know: “Goodbye Ruby Tuesday, who could hang a name on you?/ When you change with every new day/Still I’m gonna miss you.” Ahh, the people who change, the people we somehow miss. It’s sad but true: some people change with every new day. They increase the odds of you getting struck.
And then suddenly it happens--- the lightning strikes, revealing the reality of the hypocrisy, the evasiveness of the truth, the masquerade of the façade. And life is never the same for us.
In an instant---less than a second, in the flash of lightning, life can change. And then life is never the same.
Mr. Daws, in the film, The Curious Case of Benjamin Button, was struck by lightning, not once, not twice, but seven times. Like Ronnie, and many others, it happened in the ordinary activities of life. For Mr. Dawes it happened once when he was in the field just tending the cows, once when he was in his truck just minding his own business, once when he was repairing a leak on his roof, once when he was crossing the road to get the mail, once when he was walking his dog, and…and… what about the other two times, Mr. Dawes? Oh well, it doesn’t’ matter. Once you’ve been struck by lightning, you lose count. It happens to all of us, doesn’t it? It’s happened to you, hasn’t it? More times than you care to number.
You’ve been struck by lightning. And I believe you can identify with Mr. Dawes description of himself: “Blinded in one eye; can't hardly hear. I get twitches and shakes out of nowhere; always losing my line of thought. But you know what? God keeps reminding me I'm lucky to be alive. Storm's comin'.”
Yes indeed. Despite the previous hits we’ve taken, storms are still coming. And we are lucky to be alive. Aren’t we?
“Thank you, sweet Jesus, for letting me live.”
Life Matters, is written by David B. Whitlock, Ph.D. David’s email is drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com. You can also visit his website, www.DavidBWhitlock.com.
My friend Ronnie Lindsey was struck by lightning. Ronnie is an electrician and had just completed a job for his company, Lanham Refrigeration Heating and Air Conditioning. As he was leaving, the person who had needed the repairs half-jokingly warned “Be careful and don’t get struck by lightning.” It turned out to be no laughing matter.
As Ronnie was putting his tools back in the company van, he heard thunder. Glancing skyward, he started to step away from the van but before he could, he felt the lightning surge from his feet through his body. Momentarily stunned, Ronnie immediately took stock of himself and realized he had survived a lighting strike. All he could say was, “Thank you sweet Jesus for letting me live.”
Thank you indeed.
Ronnie’s chances of being struck by lightning were about 1 in 700,000. Yet, there are enough electrical storms out there to make lighting strikes one the leading causes of weather related deaths in the USA. An average of 73 people are killed by lightning each year and about 300 are injured. The fact that Ronnie had been handling metal tools increased his chances of attracting lightning. But Ronnie was partially in the van, which had rubber tires, and that may have lessened the severity of the shock. One thing is for sure: Ronnie Lindsey is grateful to be alive. Getting struck by lightning has a way of bringing life and death into focus.
In an instant--- less than a second, in the flash of lightning, life can change. And then life is never the same.
In Ronnie’s case, it’s the same but different. Even though he has the same job with the same people with the same duties in the same town with the same family, life can never be quite the same. Close encounters with death are reminders of life’s precarious nature.
Like the storms they accompany, lightning happens when we least expect it. The once intact marriage is quite suddenly broken; the financially secure retirement evaporates as quickly as you can say, “Stock market crash;” the promising job opportunities vanish, it seems, the moment you get that diploma; and the once secure job is as tenuous as the clean bill of health. In a flash, the bat of the eye, the lightning-strike-moment, it’s all gone. Everything we depended on as certain, nailed down--- is all at once up in the air, floating away, just beyond our grasp.
People, not just the weather, change: that person you’ve lived with for 25 years surprises you; the co-worker you shared your heart with turns on you; the friend you trusted takes you to court; the child you dreamed for, undoes you.
Maybe it was inspired by Linda Keith, a Rolling Stones groupie---the former girlfriend of the band’s Keith Richards--- but it is true for many of the people you know: “Goodbye Ruby Tuesday, who could hang a name on you?/ When you change with every new day/Still I’m gonna miss you.” Ahh, the people who change, the people we somehow miss. It’s sad but true: some people change with every new day. They increase the odds of you getting struck.
And then suddenly it happens--- the lightning strikes, revealing the reality of the hypocrisy, the evasiveness of the truth, the masquerade of the façade. And life is never the same for us.
In an instant---less than a second, in the flash of lightning, life can change. And then life is never the same.
Mr. Daws, in the film, The Curious Case of Benjamin Button, was struck by lightning, not once, not twice, but seven times. Like Ronnie, and many others, it happened in the ordinary activities of life. For Mr. Dawes it happened once when he was in the field just tending the cows, once when he was in his truck just minding his own business, once when he was repairing a leak on his roof, once when he was crossing the road to get the mail, once when he was walking his dog, and…and… what about the other two times, Mr. Dawes? Oh well, it doesn’t’ matter. Once you’ve been struck by lightning, you lose count. It happens to all of us, doesn’t it? It’s happened to you, hasn’t it? More times than you care to number.
You’ve been struck by lightning. And I believe you can identify with Mr. Dawes description of himself: “Blinded in one eye; can't hardly hear. I get twitches and shakes out of nowhere; always losing my line of thought. But you know what? God keeps reminding me I'm lucky to be alive. Storm's comin'.”
Yes indeed. Despite the previous hits we’ve taken, storms are still coming. And we are lucky to be alive. Aren’t we?
“Thank you, sweet Jesus, for letting me live.”
Life Matters, is written by David B. Whitlock, Ph.D. David’s email is drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com. You can also visit his website, www.DavidBWhitlock.com.
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