Glory! How blessed I am that where I last left off is not the rest of the story. How incredibly thankful I am that the redemption and restoration of the crucified, resurrected and ascended Lover of my soul is having the last word! Not to go off like some raving evangelical religious guy, but Praise God he has some more for me!
I have told of the day I was shaving and got smitten with this delayed conviction of what I had unleashed. That was nothing less than the day that Jesus waded into my fetid swamp, knocked me out, slung me over his shoulder and started to carry me on the journey out. And a short journey it was not....
So much of those days during the two-year separation and following the divorce are like lost time. The healing and recovery that was underway was way too imperceptible to bring any kind of visceral relief. No, the noise and chaos of just trying to survive, keep my job, find a way to continue to be a father to my precious daughters and not drown in the dark tank of depression that dogged me resulted in an overall numbness that defied description.
Initially my struggles were to find housing that would be appropriate to bring my girls into for weekends together. That took a while. In one twelve month span, I moved at least eight times, sometimes in places that were safe for two girls aged 6 and 7, other times not so much.
For instance, there was the "season" I moved into one of those "rooms for rent" within a private home. Sounded good, scoped out the place in a drive by...nice, suburban split level in Maplewood. Met the lady, toured the place and signed up. Things got decidedly more dicey, however, within days of move in. When I would go down to watch TV in the communal family room there was always a cast of unsavory characters that would seem to perpetually be there and others that would endlessly drop by with their Dobermans. A normal evening was like a clip from one of those Discovery channel programs: "Inside Folsom Prison". I noticed, in checking for my mail, that the pile almost always had a number of envelopes addressed to a wide variety of people with return addresses like: State Dept. of Corrections, Parole Office, Ramsey County Courthouse etc. So much for bringing my girls over....I lived there for three weeks, broke my rental agreement and literally backed out of the house with my paltry belongings and their vicious threats that I would not be getting away with this.
Fortunately, things did eventually start to get better. After living in a friend's apartment that was paid up for five more weeks, trying another "rental in a private home" deal, house sitting out in Afton for the winter, I eventually got an apartment in the ghetto of Woodbury (yes, despite it's well-known affluence, there is one and if you come with me I will show you). This was my new base camp which provided some welcomed stability and a home near my girls that would accommodate frequent visits. Those frequent visits were a major thumbprint of God's redemptive work in my circumstances.
The two years leading up to our marriage dissolution could not have been more acrimonious. For a time, it seriously appeared as though the girl's mother would be taking them and moving back to her hometown in Idaho. I had absolutely no recourse in the matter. Those were the darkest of days, anticipating that separation, feeling helpless to prevent it and getting schooled in the non-rights of fathers in such situations. (Source of some frustration: How do the courts expect to foster fathering in children's lives when all that is most commonly offered is "visitation rights".....how do you effectively parent with just "visitation" rights?) I began to gain some understanding of what must sometimes be behind some of the abductions we endlessly hear/read about. Yet, very soon after signing the final papers things started to turn decidedly less caustic. It was as if a major point had been made, some justice had been served, a penalty had been exacted and now there was room for the entrance of at least minimum levels of cordiality and some additonal leeway in making more accommodating visitation arrangements.
Now living within 14 miles of the girls, every other weekend began to morph into the addition of 1 or 2 weeknights as well. I would drive the girls to their schools the next morning. This felt so good, to be more dynamically in J&J's everyday life. Those were the days learning the rules of Mom's House, Dad's House (a book that was helpful at the time). My highest priority was my daughters. The end of our marriage was the beginning of me becoming an infinitely more dedicated father. Within a couple of years, I was able to buy a townhouse in Woodbury which offered even greater feelings of permanency and increased stability.
Every other weekend and a couple of weeknights with my kids gave me hope that perhaps I could protect them from the worst effects of "a broken home". I heard myself often saying, "You have a full time Mom who loves you and a full time Dad who loves you, just not under the same roof". Sounds better than it really is, kind of skirts around and ignores the true impact of it all but certainly a distant consolation prize. To this day(and with no thoughts of ever stopping), I continue to be concerned and vigilant for the fallout of this trauma upon their fragile lives. (It's just that now, at 23 and 24, they are outside of so much of my grasp but for prayer, thank you God for prayer!)
Meanwhile, I spent post traumatic years in a charismatic Lutheran church (now there's a juxtaposition for ya', kind of like the Lord slipped the Scandinavians a spiritual mickey) that many had come to over the years to find a place of healing. But healing did not come quickly...I spent more than a year merely attending the "blue haired ladies service" doing little more than just staring at the cross and trying to hear from God. I made no effort to meet anyone or to participate...I simply came to present myself to God and pray for forgiveness and for my girls. After several years, I tentatively stepped out and became involved in altar prayer and some men's ministries. And then, five years ago, my time at that church came to an abrupt end, not by my efforts but through direct intervention from Kingdom emissaries. The time came when I couldn't get one thing from a service, it was as if the church had turned to brass for me, even though everyone else seemed to be having no problems. Every inquiry of mine to Jesus was met simply with "Your time here is over", but with no direction for any alternative/Plan B.
Which more or less brings me to the present. After coming to WH as a casual visitor a couple of times (because my girls were going there and liked it) I ended up discovering that this was to become my new church body. And over the last five years there has been a marked crescendoing of healing, outfitting for ministry, clarity of identity and generally growing a bit more comfortable in my own skin. I expect I have returned to where I could have been some 15 or 20 years ago if I hadn't taken some very wrong turns.
Describing all this has been pure work. As a rookie in blogging (twelve posts and counting), I have experienced some deep satisfaction and even some fun in birthing some posts. This has not been like that but still seemed necessary. I liken it to those corporate websites that always have little sections you can click on like Product, Contact, About Us. Yes, this has been About Me, it provides some background and some historical perspective on who I am today and how I got here. Tentatively, I plan on coming back to post about....ahhh, never mind.... This 500'Flyby has nothing to do with my plans. I just hope to be back soon with more of who knows what.
James, you have worked hard...come over here and rest under the Big Pine...cease striving and know that I am your Lord and go before you in all you do.
Sunday, April 20, 2008
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
Who's your worst enemy?
(WARNING: NOT TO BE READ WHILE EATING)
I guess my intent is not to spend the next umpteen posts telling endless stories of wounds incurred in the war zone of life. No one gets through life without taking hits, no one. And really, it's not the hits themselves that impact one's life so much...it's the message of the wound that has the lasting power. It's the vows we make around the wound, often in the interests of self-protection to avoid future repeats. We also make agreements with ourselves fueled by anger, hatred, utter terror and a host of other stout emotions in the aftermath of woundings that drive us to make those "I will never again", "From now on, whenever....", "I can see that I'm not....", "My life will always/never be...." etc, etc, painfully etc.
But for me to go on in this blog-o-mine requires me to take an unpleasant tour through the worst wound of all. Yes that one, the "mother of all wounds". To say that I have not been looking forward to this is the mother of all understatements. Matter of fact, I am tapping out this post mere days after my last one which, for me, is an unusually short interim. Why? Because today, my birthday, in my devotion time I felt the Lord release me to go and at least start this dreaded post. The picture that describes my angst about this comes from when I was a tyke and was sick to my stomach. My Mom would keep telling me that I needed to just throw up and get it over with. Well, I hated that process so much that I would put it off and put it off until finally (mercifully) nature just had it's way and I went through the brief trauma but gained relief as a result. So, excuse me in advance, I have to throw up....!
From where I sit, the worst wounds of all are the self-inflicted ones. After all, those coming from other people and other sources normally just couldn't be avoided. We get hit, we reel, hopefully we heal well and we move on. But those heart gashes we brutally slice on our own are a diabolical self-betrayal, a turning of our self against our self. Where do you turn when you can't trust yourself to do right by you? What can be worse than becoming your own worst enemy? How are you supposed to get up in the morning of a new day and look forward to a day of blessing when you yourself have become the enemy camp?
OK Santiago, approach the white porcelain confessional and get it out! It was the late 80's, I was married and Jessica and Jenna were (and are) the most precious daughters on the face of this earth. Trust me, this is a true statement!! They would and still do melt my heart and send me quickly to my knees in both gratefulness for getting to be their dad and for protection and blessing upon their lives. I was at the time a troubled man. Having made Jesus my Lord May 19, 1975, married in October of 1977, we had gone 7 or 8 years to a great church that ultimately fell completely apart. A couple years of co-pastoring a home church and I was fast taking on water as my ship headed for the dangerous rocks and ultimate shipwreck. I was in a position of power in my career, had a VP title, company car, successful....
However, at home I was esteemed not. I just couldn't seem to please or get it right and domestically it was a continual eggshell walk.(Caveat: I blame no one but myself for this wounding. I take full responsibility for my actions and I am 110% accountable. No part of this post is meant to be offered as an excuse or even a viable or understandable explanation. All that follows is nothing but the reaping of a black harvest from black seeds regretfully sown by me.) A typical weekend took the form of me saying or doing something offensive on Friday which precipitated a long lasting anger response that would tank most weekends.
In stark contrast, at work I was kind of 'the man'. I had been instrumental in rolling out a particular program that was dramatically turning around our companies financial picture. I was getting lots of kudos, I was in demand for the 'work hard, play hard' after work get-togethers at the local 494 clubs. Oh at first I resisted mightily. As a believer, that wasn't for me. But the erosion of this position went pretty fast and within several months of saying no, one night I went. I was virtually an instant hit and was crowned king of the party and expected to become a permanent fixture by my peers. And what about those work peers? How dangerous can the group become with whom you spend, at that time, 50 hours a week? They become not only like a family...they can become in some ways even closer as you share all the emotional ups and downs of fast-paced business dealings. Fox hole buddies.....
Well, you have undoubtedly seen this coming....
I also found myself getting lots of attention from some of the females at work. After work there was no shortage of letting down your hair and dancing and laughing. I am ashamed, eternally regretful to have to confess that I succumbed. I let it happen. No need here for gory, tabloid-quality details. Suffice it to say that I did adulterous things with several women. No affairs with any of them, never slept with any of them but, regardless, I did adulterous things that would not stand the light of day much less the light of the Truth. I betrayed my wife, my daughters and myself. I may as well have plunged a cold blade of steel into their hearts and into mine. I ripped asunder, shredded, the gossamer fabric of trust.
This ilicit behavior occurred within a 6-8 mos time frame. That time passed and life went on for about a year and I lived with basically little to no conviction of wrongdoing. I realize this sounds all wrong and sick but this delayed reaction to my sin was how it actually happened. One morning I was shaving, seeing myself in the mirror and it's like a light bulb snapped on inside me and I was overwhelmed with "Oh my God, what have I done? Who have I become" (I am now very sick about regurgitating this horror. I intend to make a final dash to the end so pardon any abruptness.)
Suffice it to say that eventually I ended up confessing the truth. Oh, not in a brave way...no, I have no credit coming. It was pulled out of me bit by bit by someone who, (bless her heart this is a talent of hers, not a weakness), could make a KGB agent look like a rank amateur. Finally it was all out, I lived in the house for a little while longer but that soon came to an end. We were separated for 2 yrs, there were several aborted attempts at reconciliation/restoration. But I had betrayed someone who Meyers-Briggs described as being closest in makeup to the historical character of Joan of Arc. What followed were 2 of the darkest, most depressing, lost years of my life and I owe it all to me and the enemy who must grin even now as it is retold.
We were officially divorced July of 1992. I will not be like one of those Hollywood characters who, on their death bed, report that they have no regrets. I have many and my heart is full of scars. I say this not to eilicit sympathy, that would be ludicrous. No, only to set the record straight on what was the source of the worst of my wounds...it was me.
Yes, there is restoration to be discussed. But, as before, I am going to leave this stinking mass of putrid slop just lie there. My South African friends, Dean and Lorna, have offered their hot sun and so yes, I put it out under that scorching, African sun for now to quiver along with the other arrows.
J, if you ever come across this I can only say once again how very sorry I am for all that I brought down on you. Know that it has exacted much of my life from me and to this day I walk with a limp.....not that that would bring any consolation.)
Happy Birthday Hoppy
I guess my intent is not to spend the next umpteen posts telling endless stories of wounds incurred in the war zone of life. No one gets through life without taking hits, no one. And really, it's not the hits themselves that impact one's life so much...it's the message of the wound that has the lasting power. It's the vows we make around the wound, often in the interests of self-protection to avoid future repeats. We also make agreements with ourselves fueled by anger, hatred, utter terror and a host of other stout emotions in the aftermath of woundings that drive us to make those "I will never again", "From now on, whenever....", "I can see that I'm not....", "My life will always/never be...." etc, etc, painfully etc.
But for me to go on in this blog-o-mine requires me to take an unpleasant tour through the worst wound of all. Yes that one, the "mother of all wounds". To say that I have not been looking forward to this is the mother of all understatements. Matter of fact, I am tapping out this post mere days after my last one which, for me, is an unusually short interim. Why? Because today, my birthday, in my devotion time I felt the Lord release me to go and at least start this dreaded post. The picture that describes my angst about this comes from when I was a tyke and was sick to my stomach. My Mom would keep telling me that I needed to just throw up and get it over with. Well, I hated that process so much that I would put it off and put it off until finally (mercifully) nature just had it's way and I went through the brief trauma but gained relief as a result. So, excuse me in advance, I have to throw up....!
From where I sit, the worst wounds of all are the self-inflicted ones. After all, those coming from other people and other sources normally just couldn't be avoided. We get hit, we reel, hopefully we heal well and we move on. But those heart gashes we brutally slice on our own are a diabolical self-betrayal, a turning of our self against our self. Where do you turn when you can't trust yourself to do right by you? What can be worse than becoming your own worst enemy? How are you supposed to get up in the morning of a new day and look forward to a day of blessing when you yourself have become the enemy camp?
OK Santiago, approach the white porcelain confessional and get it out! It was the late 80's, I was married and Jessica and Jenna were (and are) the most precious daughters on the face of this earth. Trust me, this is a true statement!! They would and still do melt my heart and send me quickly to my knees in both gratefulness for getting to be their dad and for protection and blessing upon their lives. I was at the time a troubled man. Having made Jesus my Lord May 19, 1975, married in October of 1977, we had gone 7 or 8 years to a great church that ultimately fell completely apart. A couple years of co-pastoring a home church and I was fast taking on water as my ship headed for the dangerous rocks and ultimate shipwreck. I was in a position of power in my career, had a VP title, company car, successful....
However, at home I was esteemed not. I just couldn't seem to please or get it right and domestically it was a continual eggshell walk.(Caveat: I blame no one but myself for this wounding. I take full responsibility for my actions and I am 110% accountable. No part of this post is meant to be offered as an excuse or even a viable or understandable explanation. All that follows is nothing but the reaping of a black harvest from black seeds regretfully sown by me.) A typical weekend took the form of me saying or doing something offensive on Friday which precipitated a long lasting anger response that would tank most weekends.
In stark contrast, at work I was kind of 'the man'. I had been instrumental in rolling out a particular program that was dramatically turning around our companies financial picture. I was getting lots of kudos, I was in demand for the 'work hard, play hard' after work get-togethers at the local 494 clubs. Oh at first I resisted mightily. As a believer, that wasn't for me. But the erosion of this position went pretty fast and within several months of saying no, one night I went. I was virtually an instant hit and was crowned king of the party and expected to become a permanent fixture by my peers. And what about those work peers? How dangerous can the group become with whom you spend, at that time, 50 hours a week? They become not only like a family...they can become in some ways even closer as you share all the emotional ups and downs of fast-paced business dealings. Fox hole buddies.....
Well, you have undoubtedly seen this coming....
I also found myself getting lots of attention from some of the females at work. After work there was no shortage of letting down your hair and dancing and laughing. I am ashamed, eternally regretful to have to confess that I succumbed. I let it happen. No need here for gory, tabloid-quality details. Suffice it to say that I did adulterous things with several women. No affairs with any of them, never slept with any of them but, regardless, I did adulterous things that would not stand the light of day much less the light of the Truth. I betrayed my wife, my daughters and myself. I may as well have plunged a cold blade of steel into their hearts and into mine. I ripped asunder, shredded, the gossamer fabric of trust.
This ilicit behavior occurred within a 6-8 mos time frame. That time passed and life went on for about a year and I lived with basically little to no conviction of wrongdoing. I realize this sounds all wrong and sick but this delayed reaction to my sin was how it actually happened. One morning I was shaving, seeing myself in the mirror and it's like a light bulb snapped on inside me and I was overwhelmed with "Oh my God, what have I done? Who have I become" (I am now very sick about regurgitating this horror. I intend to make a final dash to the end so pardon any abruptness.)
Suffice it to say that eventually I ended up confessing the truth. Oh, not in a brave way...no, I have no credit coming. It was pulled out of me bit by bit by someone who, (bless her heart this is a talent of hers, not a weakness), could make a KGB agent look like a rank amateur. Finally it was all out, I lived in the house for a little while longer but that soon came to an end. We were separated for 2 yrs, there were several aborted attempts at reconciliation/restoration. But I had betrayed someone who Meyers-Briggs described as being closest in makeup to the historical character of Joan of Arc. What followed were 2 of the darkest, most depressing, lost years of my life and I owe it all to me and the enemy who must grin even now as it is retold.
We were officially divorced July of 1992. I will not be like one of those Hollywood characters who, on their death bed, report that they have no regrets. I have many and my heart is full of scars. I say this not to eilicit sympathy, that would be ludicrous. No, only to set the record straight on what was the source of the worst of my wounds...it was me.
Yes, there is restoration to be discussed. But, as before, I am going to leave this stinking mass of putrid slop just lie there. My South African friends, Dean and Lorna, have offered their hot sun and so yes, I put it out under that scorching, African sun for now to quiver along with the other arrows.
J, if you ever come across this I can only say once again how very sorry I am for all that I brought down on you. Know that it has exacted much of my life from me and to this day I walk with a limp.....not that that would bring any consolation.)
Happy Birthday Hoppy
Saturday, April 12, 2008
A tale of Two Scenes
One of the more liberating things over the last 5 or so years of my life has been to be honest and acknowledge my woundedness and to revisit various crime scenes in my life. I grieve a bit over how long this has taken me but am thankful that it has arrived nonetheless.
I wonder, Why so long? You know, I write that off in part to the craziness of how I have done maleness. It has been shaped by lots of things...mainly by my unique, learned biases along with my interpretations and homemade remedies to life's events. (Caveat: Of course, my journey as a guy is certainly not going to be universally applicable to all men. Today's blog is simply submitted as a hunk of catharsis intended for me and my life processing).
Never let them see you sweat! I confess that has been operative in my life, born out of the fierce competition on/in fields, rinks, classrooms, social mazes and the ultimate battleground of corporate America. Oh yes, no chink must be shown less you provide an advantage for the many opponents, visible and invisible, that are ever close by.
For whatever reason, that bucket is done carrying water for me. Maybe the timing of this recalibration is just part of getting physically older or gaining more spiritual maturity or just the effect of a lifetime of loving Cheetos...I don't know and for now it's not pertinent.
There are two scenes that I am going to drag out of closeted darkness and into the searing white light of day and fresh perspective. (Passing observation: Although willing to do this, I'm aware of a significant level of hesitancy at actually doing so.)
MURDER BY KETCHUP:
I was about 11 and we were on a family summer vacation heading up to Duluth and the North Shore. Very exciting for me, loved it up there with all the rock climbing a boy could want, the mystery of the largest freshwater lake in the entire world, the fancy white tablecloths of the Pickwick and their delectable, hot, Popovers and the funky little cabins of the North Shore low-tech "resorts". It was heaven I tell you!
We were riding in my Dad's shiny new 1957 Chevy with 3 on the tree and a Blueflame 6 banger power plant. Man he was proud of that car! Turns out it was the first brand new car he had ever purchased thus his pride was so very understandable. I still remember that on these kinds of vacations, my Mom would always seem to get my brother (4yrs younger) and me brand new bluejeans. They were the dark blue variety which, I believe, were really the only style around then. The main reason I think of those jeans is how incredibly stiff and uncomfortable they were. Like strapping two planks on your legs complete with that scratchy unbroken-in denim to boot. They also invariably were too long and I ended up with 4" or 5" cuffs which would eventually fill with acorns, twigs and other assorted detritus. But I digress on this Levis rabbit trail.....
So we pull into a little drive-in along Hwy 61, the only real route then available up North (way pre-35W). Ah yes, time for an all-American lunch of burgers and fries, the best meal ever invented in my 11 year estimation. At last the carhop brings the tray, connects it to the partially rolled-up driver's side door window and Dad distributes the goods. But then things turned decidedly ugly....
My brother and I sat in the back and started fighting over who got to use the red plastic squeeze bottle of ketchup first. In the ensuing battle we squeezed the bottle hard and ketchup squirted all over the ceiling and seats of this brand spanking new 1957 Chevy. My Dad went directly over the edge into a rage that had to have been pent up over a million things for a very long time because when it was released it rivaled the fierceness of Vesuvius!
He grabbed the ketchup bottle from us, shook for a second with unbridled anger and then proceeded to point the bottle at me while unloading it's entire contents all over my face, my chest, my arms.... In addition to the ketchup it was the hatred in his eyes that ultimately devastated me to my core. My reaction of hurt and unbelief quickly turned to anger. I bolted out of the car, dripping with ketchup, eyes stinging from tomatoes and tears, and headed out to Hwy 61 to walk the 60 or 70 miles home. Eventually, Dad pulled up alongside of my determined, angry walk down the shoulder of the road yelling at me to get back into the #^%$&% car! I ignored him totally and set my eyes like flint toward the south and away from my murderer. I was determined and intended to never get back into that car again! I had been shot and killed by my own Dad!
ORDER OF THE ARROW:
I loved Boy Scouts, especially the camping. Summers always included a number of weekend camping trips to Willow River, Rum River and O'Brien State Park complete with tinfoil dinners, campfires, hikes and scary stories at night. But the mother of all camping experiences was Camp Tomahawk. One full week of camping bliss with aquatic merit badge opportunities, freedom, the great food of the dining hall, freedom, all kinds of contests and sleeping in big tents with cots. Man it was the Ritz!
Every year the week culminated with a sacred Indian-type bonfire ceremony. The counselors morphed into Indian braves with bare chests, leather loin clothes, moccasins and war paint. This was guaranteed to get the heart of any 1950's-era boy racing.
The ultimate moment came at these culminating ceremonies where the "braves" would go into the audience (seated on logs circling the 10' high fire), roughly grab a scout and forceably drag him from the crowd and throw him to the ground by the fire. This would be repeated several times until there were maybe 15-20 guys. They would then be solemnly initiated into the Order of the Arrow as part of an elite team of scouts who had been secretly elected by their peers. The evening would end with those new initiates being loaded into trucks, taken out deep into the woods and one by one, thrown off into the mosquito-infested forest to spend the night alone with no food, water or flashlight. Then, the next day, they would be assigned to work on very difficult projects out in the hot sun under a covenant of complete silence. I tell ya, that was legendary stuff, highly esteemed and I could only dream that one day that could be me.
Well, one year it appeared that my time had finally arrived. After the secret ballots were counted, I had several of my 'insider' buddies tell me that I was the guy and this was my year! That night at the sacred ceremony my heart was racing with the anticipation of being dragged down to the fire, made to kneel, then being hit hard on each shoulder with the 'sacred stick' and whisked away into the inky darkness, alone in the woods. Me, about to become part of the lore I had observed over the years. Fantastic!
In waded the braves with their angry demeanor looking for the anointed ones. More and more boys were grabbed as I waited with baited breath. And then that part of the ceremony was over and I was still sitting on my log, unidentified and uninitiated. Subsequent tries at joining the group at the trucks were sharply rebuffed..."You must have already been intitiated at the fire in order to proceed on the journey...no exceptions! And all because of a scoutmaster who didn't understand that it was his job to stand up behind the elected boy and point him out to the roving braves. An opportunity for masculine initiation forever lost....
Of course there is vulnerability that comes along with throwing out two such examples of wounds in my life. I can just hear that accuser in my mind:
"You call those wounds? Hell, that ain't nothin'. What a pussy!"
And to those voices I say just 4 words, 3 of which are printable "Shut the @&$% up!"
Somebody else may have experienced these very things and it may well have run off like water off the proverbial duck's back. For me, they carried messages that I accommodated. I believed their lies wholeheartedly. I swallowed their poison. These combined with other woundings and ministered this to me....
"You were a pain to your Dad. You were nothing special and you certainly don't have what it takes. Things available to other guys aren't going to be for you. Your yearning for initiation and inclusion into the fellowship of men is just not meant to be. You will perpetually be a day late and a dollar short. You have been weighed and found lacking in worth. Best you can do is just fake it cause you sure don't have it. Good luck Bub, you're going to need it!"
Allow me to speak of healing and resolution another time...for now I'm just going to pluck out some arrows that found their mark and leave them to quiver in the heat of the noonday sun.
You didn't really see this kind of blog comin' did you Santiago? Couldn't have or you would have never shown up in the first place....
I wonder, Why so long? You know, I write that off in part to the craziness of how I have done maleness. It has been shaped by lots of things...mainly by my unique, learned biases along with my interpretations and homemade remedies to life's events. (Caveat: Of course, my journey as a guy is certainly not going to be universally applicable to all men. Today's blog is simply submitted as a hunk of catharsis intended for me and my life processing).
Never let them see you sweat! I confess that has been operative in my life, born out of the fierce competition on/in fields, rinks, classrooms, social mazes and the ultimate battleground of corporate America. Oh yes, no chink must be shown less you provide an advantage for the many opponents, visible and invisible, that are ever close by.
For whatever reason, that bucket is done carrying water for me. Maybe the timing of this recalibration is just part of getting physically older or gaining more spiritual maturity or just the effect of a lifetime of loving Cheetos...I don't know and for now it's not pertinent.
There are two scenes that I am going to drag out of closeted darkness and into the searing white light of day and fresh perspective. (Passing observation: Although willing to do this, I'm aware of a significant level of hesitancy at actually doing so.)
MURDER BY KETCHUP:
I was about 11 and we were on a family summer vacation heading up to Duluth and the North Shore. Very exciting for me, loved it up there with all the rock climbing a boy could want, the mystery of the largest freshwater lake in the entire world, the fancy white tablecloths of the Pickwick and their delectable, hot, Popovers and the funky little cabins of the North Shore low-tech "resorts". It was heaven I tell you!
We were riding in my Dad's shiny new 1957 Chevy with 3 on the tree and a Blueflame 6 banger power plant. Man he was proud of that car! Turns out it was the first brand new car he had ever purchased thus his pride was so very understandable. I still remember that on these kinds of vacations, my Mom would always seem to get my brother (4yrs younger) and me brand new bluejeans. They were the dark blue variety which, I believe, were really the only style around then. The main reason I think of those jeans is how incredibly stiff and uncomfortable they were. Like strapping two planks on your legs complete with that scratchy unbroken-in denim to boot. They also invariably were too long and I ended up with 4" or 5" cuffs which would eventually fill with acorns, twigs and other assorted detritus. But I digress on this Levis rabbit trail.....
So we pull into a little drive-in along Hwy 61, the only real route then available up North (way pre-35W). Ah yes, time for an all-American lunch of burgers and fries, the best meal ever invented in my 11 year estimation. At last the carhop brings the tray, connects it to the partially rolled-up driver's side door window and Dad distributes the goods. But then things turned decidedly ugly....
My brother and I sat in the back and started fighting over who got to use the red plastic squeeze bottle of ketchup first. In the ensuing battle we squeezed the bottle hard and ketchup squirted all over the ceiling and seats of this brand spanking new 1957 Chevy. My Dad went directly over the edge into a rage that had to have been pent up over a million things for a very long time because when it was released it rivaled the fierceness of Vesuvius!
He grabbed the ketchup bottle from us, shook for a second with unbridled anger and then proceeded to point the bottle at me while unloading it's entire contents all over my face, my chest, my arms.... In addition to the ketchup it was the hatred in his eyes that ultimately devastated me to my core. My reaction of hurt and unbelief quickly turned to anger. I bolted out of the car, dripping with ketchup, eyes stinging from tomatoes and tears, and headed out to Hwy 61 to walk the 60 or 70 miles home. Eventually, Dad pulled up alongside of my determined, angry walk down the shoulder of the road yelling at me to get back into the #^%$&% car! I ignored him totally and set my eyes like flint toward the south and away from my murderer. I was determined and intended to never get back into that car again! I had been shot and killed by my own Dad!
ORDER OF THE ARROW:
I loved Boy Scouts, especially the camping. Summers always included a number of weekend camping trips to Willow River, Rum River and O'Brien State Park complete with tinfoil dinners, campfires, hikes and scary stories at night. But the mother of all camping experiences was Camp Tomahawk. One full week of camping bliss with aquatic merit badge opportunities, freedom, the great food of the dining hall, freedom, all kinds of contests and sleeping in big tents with cots. Man it was the Ritz!
Every year the week culminated with a sacred Indian-type bonfire ceremony. The counselors morphed into Indian braves with bare chests, leather loin clothes, moccasins and war paint. This was guaranteed to get the heart of any 1950's-era boy racing.
The ultimate moment came at these culminating ceremonies where the "braves" would go into the audience (seated on logs circling the 10' high fire), roughly grab a scout and forceably drag him from the crowd and throw him to the ground by the fire. This would be repeated several times until there were maybe 15-20 guys. They would then be solemnly initiated into the Order of the Arrow as part of an elite team of scouts who had been secretly elected by their peers. The evening would end with those new initiates being loaded into trucks, taken out deep into the woods and one by one, thrown off into the mosquito-infested forest to spend the night alone with no food, water or flashlight. Then, the next day, they would be assigned to work on very difficult projects out in the hot sun under a covenant of complete silence. I tell ya, that was legendary stuff, highly esteemed and I could only dream that one day that could be me.
Well, one year it appeared that my time had finally arrived. After the secret ballots were counted, I had several of my 'insider' buddies tell me that I was the guy and this was my year! That night at the sacred ceremony my heart was racing with the anticipation of being dragged down to the fire, made to kneel, then being hit hard on each shoulder with the 'sacred stick' and whisked away into the inky darkness, alone in the woods. Me, about to become part of the lore I had observed over the years. Fantastic!
In waded the braves with their angry demeanor looking for the anointed ones. More and more boys were grabbed as I waited with baited breath. And then that part of the ceremony was over and I was still sitting on my log, unidentified and uninitiated. Subsequent tries at joining the group at the trucks were sharply rebuffed..."You must have already been intitiated at the fire in order to proceed on the journey...no exceptions! And all because of a scoutmaster who didn't understand that it was his job to stand up behind the elected boy and point him out to the roving braves. An opportunity for masculine initiation forever lost....
Of course there is vulnerability that comes along with throwing out two such examples of wounds in my life. I can just hear that accuser in my mind:
"You call those wounds? Hell, that ain't nothin'. What a pussy!"
And to those voices I say just 4 words, 3 of which are printable "Shut the @&$% up!"
Somebody else may have experienced these very things and it may well have run off like water off the proverbial duck's back. For me, they carried messages that I accommodated. I believed their lies wholeheartedly. I swallowed their poison. These combined with other woundings and ministered this to me....
"You were a pain to your Dad. You were nothing special and you certainly don't have what it takes. Things available to other guys aren't going to be for you. Your yearning for initiation and inclusion into the fellowship of men is just not meant to be. You will perpetually be a day late and a dollar short. You have been weighed and found lacking in worth. Best you can do is just fake it cause you sure don't have it. Good luck Bub, you're going to need it!"
Allow me to speak of healing and resolution another time...for now I'm just going to pluck out some arrows that found their mark and leave them to quiver in the heat of the noonday sun.
You didn't really see this kind of blog comin' did you Santiago? Couldn't have or you would have never shown up in the first place....
Thursday, April 3, 2008
The Kadunce
Good to be back. It's also good to let the blogging thing go for awhile and exercise letting myself feel, yet not accept,pressure to add something fresh for those few friends who may drop by only to see cobwebs hanging from my last post. I have determined that to truly make this my own, I have to eradicate visualizing visitors, to eradicate all feelings of needing to somehow be like a polite host who feels responsible for attending to my guests.
(Also, someday soon, I want to begin a post without an opening bit about my thoughts re: blogging. Just blog man! Blog at will! Let er' rip Santiago!)
Put Sandi on a plane today- along with 400 other women she is off to Frontier Ranch for Captivating and a long weekend of inviting God to speak directly to her heart and to bring his light and life and to personally meet with her amidst the Rockies. I'm so blessed by her!! Today I was truly smitten by the grace of God upon my life. Driving back from the airport this morning, I felt somehow transported to a place where I could get more of a 30,000 foot view of my life and the hand print of God was all over the picture that came into focus. So if anyone saw a silver-haired man crying while driving on westbound 494 at 7:30AM, I must take the rap!
Married just over 7 years, we are really an unlikely couple in so many ways. Sandi's conservative, Swedish reserve, her more refined tastes in general, her artistic sensitivities, and normally favoring a sense of decorum and order. And then there is moi, with a propensity for shooting from the hip, lover of organic realism and quick to dive right in the middle of all that is broken or limping with a directness that is most often not all that cuddly toward any response smelling of avoidance.
Yet, God brought us together, even taking me aside at one point and making it vividly clear that Sandi is for me and the only one who is going to get in the way would be me. Yikes! What's a fella to do?
I'll tell you what he did. He asked her to come up North to Naniboujou lodge and on a hot day in August, 2000, I took Sandi to the Kadunce river. We put on old tennis shoes and walked up the middle of the river (more of a creek actually) and let me tell you, it is a glorious thing to do. You never leave the creek, walking right smack down the middle of it. Flat open spaces gradually grow rock walls on each side which just get higher as you proceed. Soon, you are where no one else can see you unless they too were in the creek. Eventually we came to a small waterfall and a rock grotto with sheer rock walls that ascended above our heads maybe 40', even turning in towards each other at the top leaving only about a 3' or 4' opening to let in the light of the clear blue sky.
And so it was there, in that grotto, full of sharp rock shards underfoot, with only the sound of the waterfall, with filtered light streaming in from the restricted opening overhead, that I searched for 2 flat rocks. Once found, I laid them amongst the shards, got down on my knees, reached into the small fanny pack that I had brought along to pack-in the diamond ring, opened the box and asked this dear woman to marry me. And she was silent. In the background, the waterfall made it's quintessential waterfall noises and time seemed to stand still.....to stand oh, so still...standing still.... Oh my gosh! She wasn't going to say Yes! Finally, after about a minute posing as an hour, she smiled and agreed and I was transported into a blended-family adventure that percolates along even as I write. (Sandi has since stated,on more than one occasion, that the time of silence was her way of just taking in the moment and burning it into her memory.)
Getting married to another "mature" (code word for older) person with children is about giving each other lots of space, not having preconceived notions or assumptions about necessary changes or obvious new priorities,ie. who is going to stop or start doing what and whens. One of the more difficult areas was the church thing. Both of us were pre-involved in different local bodies and neither of our choices resonated with the other. In a sort of unspoken fashion, we made room for the differences with no power play attempts to convert the other. Despite the eye rolls that we often felt coming from others("You're not fellowshipping together? Ewhhh!), Sunday mornings took us down a forked road.
All this to say that Sandi getting on that plane today put a bit of a magnifying glass on all that Jesus has done in merging us increasingly into one flesh without our overtly trying to make it happen. We now enjoy worshipping God together in the same church, ministering together every Sunday morning by praying for/with others. Somehow, things just came together and the Spirit of God went behind the scenes where no mere man can go. He slowly rewired us and has increasingly made the manifestation of the spiritual truth "the two shall become one" into a beautifully unfolding see/touch reality.
Driving to work today from the airport, I could clearly see the tapestry that he has been weaving, but this time from enough distance to better appreciate the incredible depth and saturated colors of the threads that are now beginning to form such an intricate design. And I just wanted to blog tonight to say Thank You Father for what you are doing! I want to brag on you Lord! Your ways truly aren't our ways and forgive me for all the times I lack trust in you. You don't deserve such fickleness and I don't deserve your involvement in my life. I exalt You Lord for your unmerited favor upon this vessel of clay. Thank you Holy Spirit for your unceasing pursuit of my heart and the profound gift of Sandi in my life. You, Lord, are the hero of this story and I belong to you! Let me shout it again from my housetop...."Who is this King of glory? The Lord of hosts, he is the King of glory! Selah!
(Also, someday soon, I want to begin a post without an opening bit about my thoughts re: blogging. Just blog man! Blog at will! Let er' rip Santiago!)
Put Sandi on a plane today- along with 400 other women she is off to Frontier Ranch for Captivating and a long weekend of inviting God to speak directly to her heart and to bring his light and life and to personally meet with her amidst the Rockies. I'm so blessed by her!! Today I was truly smitten by the grace of God upon my life. Driving back from the airport this morning, I felt somehow transported to a place where I could get more of a 30,000 foot view of my life and the hand print of God was all over the picture that came into focus. So if anyone saw a silver-haired man crying while driving on westbound 494 at 7:30AM, I must take the rap!
Married just over 7 years, we are really an unlikely couple in so many ways. Sandi's conservative, Swedish reserve, her more refined tastes in general, her artistic sensitivities, and normally favoring a sense of decorum and order. And then there is moi, with a propensity for shooting from the hip, lover of organic realism and quick to dive right in the middle of all that is broken or limping with a directness that is most often not all that cuddly toward any response smelling of avoidance.
Yet, God brought us together, even taking me aside at one point and making it vividly clear that Sandi is for me and the only one who is going to get in the way would be me. Yikes! What's a fella to do?
I'll tell you what he did. He asked her to come up North to Naniboujou lodge and on a hot day in August, 2000, I took Sandi to the Kadunce river. We put on old tennis shoes and walked up the middle of the river (more of a creek actually) and let me tell you, it is a glorious thing to do. You never leave the creek, walking right smack down the middle of it. Flat open spaces gradually grow rock walls on each side which just get higher as you proceed. Soon, you are where no one else can see you unless they too were in the creek. Eventually we came to a small waterfall and a rock grotto with sheer rock walls that ascended above our heads maybe 40', even turning in towards each other at the top leaving only about a 3' or 4' opening to let in the light of the clear blue sky.
And so it was there, in that grotto, full of sharp rock shards underfoot, with only the sound of the waterfall, with filtered light streaming in from the restricted opening overhead, that I searched for 2 flat rocks. Once found, I laid them amongst the shards, got down on my knees, reached into the small fanny pack that I had brought along to pack-in the diamond ring, opened the box and asked this dear woman to marry me. And she was silent. In the background, the waterfall made it's quintessential waterfall noises and time seemed to stand still.....to stand oh, so still...standing still.... Oh my gosh! She wasn't going to say Yes! Finally, after about a minute posing as an hour, she smiled and agreed and I was transported into a blended-family adventure that percolates along even as I write. (Sandi has since stated,on more than one occasion, that the time of silence was her way of just taking in the moment and burning it into her memory.)
Getting married to another "mature" (code word for older) person with children is about giving each other lots of space, not having preconceived notions or assumptions about necessary changes or obvious new priorities,ie. who is going to stop or start doing what and whens. One of the more difficult areas was the church thing. Both of us were pre-involved in different local bodies and neither of our choices resonated with the other. In a sort of unspoken fashion, we made room for the differences with no power play attempts to convert the other. Despite the eye rolls that we often felt coming from others("You're not fellowshipping together? Ewhhh!), Sunday mornings took us down a forked road.
All this to say that Sandi getting on that plane today put a bit of a magnifying glass on all that Jesus has done in merging us increasingly into one flesh without our overtly trying to make it happen. We now enjoy worshipping God together in the same church, ministering together every Sunday morning by praying for/with others. Somehow, things just came together and the Spirit of God went behind the scenes where no mere man can go. He slowly rewired us and has increasingly made the manifestation of the spiritual truth "the two shall become one" into a beautifully unfolding see/touch reality.
Driving to work today from the airport, I could clearly see the tapestry that he has been weaving, but this time from enough distance to better appreciate the incredible depth and saturated colors of the threads that are now beginning to form such an intricate design. And I just wanted to blog tonight to say Thank You Father for what you are doing! I want to brag on you Lord! Your ways truly aren't our ways and forgive me for all the times I lack trust in you. You don't deserve such fickleness and I don't deserve your involvement in my life. I exalt You Lord for your unmerited favor upon this vessel of clay. Thank you Holy Spirit for your unceasing pursuit of my heart and the profound gift of Sandi in my life. You, Lord, are the hero of this story and I belong to you! Let me shout it again from my housetop...."Who is this King of glory? The Lord of hosts, he is the King of glory! Selah!
Sunday, March 23, 2008
Blogging bump in the road
So it's been a while since posting and I am struck by some of the unexpected oddness of blogging that I hadn't anticipated. Matter of fact, it has dampened my initial enthusiasm and caused me serious pause. Turns out there is your blogging public out there who have their thoughts, expectations, feelings etc.. In reading other blogs it's not uncommon to hear the author apologize for being gone too long, maybe offer up some feelings or circumstances that are behind their absence. They are conscious of having some regular readers/commenter's, supporters, even fans who they are conscious of and intentional towards. For many, even most, this is probably just a Duh? but it somehow sets me back on my heels a bit. Why?
I'm embarrassed really to have a dilemma I sense is not particularly common....on one hand I value reading comments and admit to being warmed and uplifted by the kindness of visitors. On the other hand, I find 2 difficulties that really give me the yips...
The first is relatively minor I suppose - in the school of just get over it. That is the maintenance angle of responding to responders. My knee jerk issue is the time it takes to respond but that is false....simple fact is that a quick acknowledgement and comment to a responder just doesn't require much in the way of raw minutes. No, the bigger issue to me is that in order to be intentional about those kind enough to comment requires one to sort of keep track/to be deliberately conscious of a post's comments (..."let's see, did that post have 2 comments last time I checked or was it 3?") to see if anyone new has weighed in lest you unintentionally ignore someone and perhaps add to their life's struggle of diminishment or invisibility or just come off as a rude, unappreciative dolt.
The second and really core issue for me is just the awareness of others, of an audience. And not just some amorphous, non-descript audience. They have names and personalities and profiles and styles and unsurpassable worth and somehow the fact they are there just seems to trip me up a bit. I am aware of a certain editing going on in my head, a kind of a governor on my writing engine. So, if transparency is a goal of mine, I guess this is my way of confessing to the encroachment of that dreaded disease of "people-pleasing", of "not wanting to offend", of "wanting to be liked". Yuk! How did I end up here? Where's the freakin' couch and the Valium when you need it? Medic!!!
My potential solutions range from just setting up this blog so it can receive no comments (not sure you can do this but I've heard you can) to learning to not let this be an issue and just bull full steam ahead and damn the torpedoes! Or, to just blogging without entering the 'community' as a participating member. To forgo being a new applicant for 'community' citizenship. Do I just electronically, unilaterally journal in a public forum or do I attempt to contribute to the community as a bilaterally participating member??
The blogging community I have been made aware of (mainly through the lists that appear on DK and TC's sites) has been amazing and rich. As a non-commenting lurker, I have been blessed by reading such talented writers and their pulling back of the veil that often makes me laugh and cry and sometimes just blush by being present as they offer their transparency. I find myself thinking, "Is it OK for me even being here and reading this?" It many times seems so private and personal. As I expressed to one of you, I'm scared I may be turning into a woman! DC, help! Where are the sticks and balls? Bring em' quick!
All this blabbering on to say that please bear with me. (Who are you talking to here Santiago?) Well, to both myself and any who happen to trip on into this little cup of murky reflection. It's like a little stone in my blogging shoe and it needs to come out so the journey can continue....
I'm embarrassed really to have a dilemma I sense is not particularly common....on one hand I value reading comments and admit to being warmed and uplifted by the kindness of visitors. On the other hand, I find 2 difficulties that really give me the yips...
The first is relatively minor I suppose - in the school of just get over it. That is the maintenance angle of responding to responders. My knee jerk issue is the time it takes to respond but that is false....simple fact is that a quick acknowledgement and comment to a responder just doesn't require much in the way of raw minutes. No, the bigger issue to me is that in order to be intentional about those kind enough to comment requires one to sort of keep track/to be deliberately conscious of a post's comments (..."let's see, did that post have 2 comments last time I checked or was it 3?") to see if anyone new has weighed in lest you unintentionally ignore someone and perhaps add to their life's struggle of diminishment or invisibility or just come off as a rude, unappreciative dolt.
The second and really core issue for me is just the awareness of others, of an audience. And not just some amorphous, non-descript audience. They have names and personalities and profiles and styles and unsurpassable worth and somehow the fact they are there just seems to trip me up a bit. I am aware of a certain editing going on in my head, a kind of a governor on my writing engine. So, if transparency is a goal of mine, I guess this is my way of confessing to the encroachment of that dreaded disease of "people-pleasing", of "not wanting to offend", of "wanting to be liked". Yuk! How did I end up here? Where's the freakin' couch and the Valium when you need it? Medic!!!
My potential solutions range from just setting up this blog so it can receive no comments (not sure you can do this but I've heard you can) to learning to not let this be an issue and just bull full steam ahead and damn the torpedoes! Or, to just blogging without entering the 'community' as a participating member. To forgo being a new applicant for 'community' citizenship. Do I just electronically, unilaterally journal in a public forum or do I attempt to contribute to the community as a bilaterally participating member??
The blogging community I have been made aware of (mainly through the lists that appear on DK and TC's sites) has been amazing and rich. As a non-commenting lurker, I have been blessed by reading such talented writers and their pulling back of the veil that often makes me laugh and cry and sometimes just blush by being present as they offer their transparency. I find myself thinking, "Is it OK for me even being here and reading this?" It many times seems so private and personal. As I expressed to one of you, I'm scared I may be turning into a woman! DC, help! Where are the sticks and balls? Bring em' quick!
All this blabbering on to say that please bear with me. (Who are you talking to here Santiago?) Well, to both myself and any who happen to trip on into this little cup of murky reflection. It's like a little stone in my blogging shoe and it needs to come out so the journey can continue....
Really, this is embarrassing.....but it's there....
Saturday, March 15, 2008
The Blob
Worked from home yesterday. Even though there was nothing unauthorized about it, I have a tough time shaking this background feeling of doing something illicit or cheating. It reminds me of feelings from the past experienced when I was a kid home sick from school. If I watched TV I would sit there thinking, "I shouldn't be seeing this program...I should be in school." The vague sense of guilt and illegitimacy would rob me of any enjoyment. Later, as a teen when I could drive, I sometimes pulled into a parking lot and just sat in the car instead of going to church like I was supposed to be doing. I would keep track of the time and would turn the radio to some religious broadcasting in an attempt to assuage the guilt. I would always wince when I came home and had to respond to the inevitable "How was church?" Unfortunately, it would help develop my skills of lying and subterfuge.
Anyway, I had a full day of being by myself, doing some work but also working on our taxes. Didn't choose to pay Dave this year...why spend $270 when you figure you will owe. Another one of those signposts that pop up on the highway of life...we have no more dependents. On a purely mathematical level that means that $6800 that was there last year to reduce income is no longer there. Yep, sure enough, turned out to owe the feds $222 and the state $38 and hey, Jake, don't be late. My fiscal-headed friends might say, "Way to go, that's perfect...you didn't give the government an interest-free loan this year." Whatever, I'm just glad to be done but I'm not quite. Let my work stew overnight and figure I'll giver er' one more look over to see if I am missing anything. But one thing I know, we are at least $270 ahead of where I would be if would have let Dave be the one who figured this out. (Notwithstanding that Sandi is bound to feel like he would have been able to find a pot of secret deduction stuff that only the Rosicrucian's and the cult of CPA's know about!)
Day took an abrupt turn around 5:30PM...Sandi called to report she was at her folks and Dad wasn't doing well...blood sugar of only 40, unresponsive, sweating profusely. Called back in 5 minutes, "I'm scared, would you come over". Hop in the car, there in 12 minutes. Diabetes, scary thing when it seems to have a mind of it's own and sugar levels bounce around despite best efforts to monitor and control with diet and drugs. Such a bite to be 83, have a number of health issues and then end up with the overlay of diabetes as some kind of diabolical parting gift (as Don Pardo used to say).
Things get stabilized but close call nonetheless...didn't like his color and the labored, gurgling breathing. And of course it's a Friday, try getting a Dr on the phone. Home by 8, finish up taxes (the really suspenseful part where you load all the lines on the form and get to look back in the schedule to see the results....scary stuff). Relax a bit, trying to hydrate as a 14 miler is on my schedule, go to bed, put in the ear plugs (greatest invention for light sleepers) and lay there maybe 10 minutes. Phone rings...Dad's not doing well, need to get him to the ER.
Rush over, kind of wondering about getting him transferred into a vehicle...too weak?
Glad he called it...."Call 911". A nanosecond of family panic and with the push of just 3 phone buttons the emergency response system is ignited. Short time later the cul-de-sac is veritably flooded with red and blue lights...2 squads, firetruck and an ambulance with maybe 8 or 10 responders. Into the house like so many welcome invaders, sort out who is driving in what vehicle and off to United.
I end up alone in the 03',sprightly 260 HP, 6 cylinders, dual exhaust, rolled and pleated head gasket and suddenly a relatively perverse, tension-relieving thought enters my mind...."I'm going to beat them to the hospital".
And so, full of concern and frustration at this fallen world and what aging can become, with only flash thoughts of tickets, how I will explain if pulled over, I head out and have to admit some exhilaration at traversing the no-to-very-light traffic with some impressive rates of speed. Bingo, I beat em'! No victory dance but an interesting little vignette embedded in the midst of a mess.
He's going to be OK...pulmonary edema, drugs, treatment, admission to chase out the fluids.
But there it is in the ER, which we have been to twice in the last few months. A lobby full of waiting family members that paints a picture and depicts a health care system that is somehow supposed to be so grand by world standards but is obviously dysfunctional, broken. The crowd I see there never seems to be a representative cross section of our population. Instead, it's sharply skewed towards the more newly arrived citizenry. Are they just more accident prone? Is the white majority just more careful? Or am I just seeing what one often reads about, the ER's have become the hyper-expensive health care delivery portals of the nation's uninsured.
Well, 4 hours of sleep later, I have done what I set out...just a data dump of random stuff that one Friday in history seemed to bring...no real analysis, conclusions, editorializing, just a dump. And so it lays there, quivering in all it's randomness, as an ill-formed mass reminiscent of one of the first movies that really scared me...1958....The Blob.
14 miles is feeling elusive...take care Rafiki...come for me Aslan! Come!
Anyway, I had a full day of being by myself, doing some work but also working on our taxes. Didn't choose to pay Dave this year...why spend $270 when you figure you will owe. Another one of those signposts that pop up on the highway of life...we have no more dependents. On a purely mathematical level that means that $6800 that was there last year to reduce income is no longer there. Yep, sure enough, turned out to owe the feds $222 and the state $38 and hey, Jake, don't be late. My fiscal-headed friends might say, "Way to go, that's perfect...you didn't give the government an interest-free loan this year." Whatever, I'm just glad to be done but I'm not quite. Let my work stew overnight and figure I'll giver er' one more look over to see if I am missing anything. But one thing I know, we are at least $270 ahead of where I would be if would have let Dave be the one who figured this out. (Notwithstanding that Sandi is bound to feel like he would have been able to find a pot of secret deduction stuff that only the Rosicrucian's and the cult of CPA's know about!)
Day took an abrupt turn around 5:30PM...Sandi called to report she was at her folks and Dad wasn't doing well...blood sugar of only 40, unresponsive, sweating profusely. Called back in 5 minutes, "I'm scared, would you come over". Hop in the car, there in 12 minutes. Diabetes, scary thing when it seems to have a mind of it's own and sugar levels bounce around despite best efforts to monitor and control with diet and drugs. Such a bite to be 83, have a number of health issues and then end up with the overlay of diabetes as some kind of diabolical parting gift (as Don Pardo used to say).
Things get stabilized but close call nonetheless...didn't like his color and the labored, gurgling breathing. And of course it's a Friday, try getting a Dr on the phone. Home by 8, finish up taxes (the really suspenseful part where you load all the lines on the form and get to look back in the schedule to see the results....scary stuff). Relax a bit, trying to hydrate as a 14 miler is on my schedule, go to bed, put in the ear plugs (greatest invention for light sleepers) and lay there maybe 10 minutes. Phone rings...Dad's not doing well, need to get him to the ER.
Rush over, kind of wondering about getting him transferred into a vehicle...too weak?
Glad he called it...."Call 911". A nanosecond of family panic and with the push of just 3 phone buttons the emergency response system is ignited. Short time later the cul-de-sac is veritably flooded with red and blue lights...2 squads, firetruck and an ambulance with maybe 8 or 10 responders. Into the house like so many welcome invaders, sort out who is driving in what vehicle and off to United.
I end up alone in the 03',sprightly 260 HP, 6 cylinders, dual exhaust, rolled and pleated head gasket and suddenly a relatively perverse, tension-relieving thought enters my mind...."I'm going to beat them to the hospital".
And so, full of concern and frustration at this fallen world and what aging can become, with only flash thoughts of tickets, how I will explain if pulled over, I head out and have to admit some exhilaration at traversing the no-to-very-light traffic with some impressive rates of speed. Bingo, I beat em'! No victory dance but an interesting little vignette embedded in the midst of a mess.
He's going to be OK...pulmonary edema, drugs, treatment, admission to chase out the fluids.
But there it is in the ER, which we have been to twice in the last few months. A lobby full of waiting family members that paints a picture and depicts a health care system that is somehow supposed to be so grand by world standards but is obviously dysfunctional, broken. The crowd I see there never seems to be a representative cross section of our population. Instead, it's sharply skewed towards the more newly arrived citizenry. Are they just more accident prone? Is the white majority just more careful? Or am I just seeing what one often reads about, the ER's have become the hyper-expensive health care delivery portals of the nation's uninsured.
Well, 4 hours of sleep later, I have done what I set out...just a data dump of random stuff that one Friday in history seemed to bring...no real analysis, conclusions, editorializing, just a dump. And so it lays there, quivering in all it's randomness, as an ill-formed mass reminiscent of one of the first movies that really scared me...1958....The Blob.
14 miles is feeling elusive...take care Rafiki...come for me Aslan! Come!
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
Restless leg syndrome
I can only imagine that one day, when I am moved to actually make this blog-o-rama public, that someone is going to read my angst about blogging and just want to yell at me..."For cryin' out loud, get over it dude....it's no big deal." Alas, every time I sit down to click the keyboard "it's" there again....Why are you doing this? You figure you actually have something to say? Go back to your fortress of solitude and journal.
Anyway, to any future reader, sorry for this opening theme in most of my posts but heh, I just can't seem to relax and let it flow. Maybe it isn't meant to be....
But there seems to be a dynamic to all this that draws me back...I just can't articulate it. Something about the way I think when there is a possibility of someone reading over my shoulder that stimulates thought in a manner different than the guaranteed confidentiality of a journal entry. Heh buddy, you're the one who has always valued transparency and being transparent requires another person looking in doesn't it? (If a tree falls in a forest and nobody is there to hear it does it make a sound?)
OK, enough. This blogging angst moment brought to you by Caribou coffee, your neighborhood purveyor of black adrenaline.
So,life goes through these chapters and the chapters seem to fall into overall sections. By most anyone's measure, I'm certainly in a mature phase chronologically. I remember looking at people my present age when I was younger and thinking that I doubt much is happening in their life anymore...just in an extended wind down phase headed for that spiffy assisted living facility just down the street.
But no, that's not the way it is and I continue to wrestle with being this authentic person who lives out life in conformance with what I say I believe. And so it's like this, I get most of my heart back, get healing (or at least in process) for most of the wounds sustained earlier in life and awake once again to understanding that it is not about me. I, as a friend of Christ, (He said it so I claim it) am motivated by being somehow used in advancing the Kingdom of God. A lofty sounding goal if I've ever heard of one. But that is what makes sense to me, gives me overarching purpose to the daily grind of schlepping out the same ol',same ol'... of slugging out a living 5 days a week, making ends meet. I am an itinerant Kingdom advancer and I am getting quite restless. (The pharmaceutical companies would probably like me to be diagnosed with "restless leg syndrome", the latest disease invention that they just luckily happen to have a product for .)
You see, as a believer in the 'good news', I have spent an inordinate amount of time applying spiritual truths to my life, bringing the old man under the authority of my Creator, participating in sin management, patching my life back together after amazing amounts of self-absorbed idiocy including masterfully assisting in an overall family and life implosion back in 92'. Seven years of my own version of wilderness, then years of getting dusted off, sort of reclothed and regrouped, remarried and generally recalibrated and voila!, I sit here clicking away. (All, I might add, described in a rather cavalier tone which is only a fake mask to hide the soul-wrenching,self-loathing that such historical self-reflection can so easily unleash.)
So the intercessory ministry has been very rich...so good because it has so obviously been choreographed by Him...I certainly would have never even considered it, wouldn't have sought it out....you know, you just can't make this stuff up! Father, thank you for your invitation to participate. As Elizabeth Elliott said, "Next to the incarnation,I know of no more staggering truth than that a Sovereign God has ordained my participation." Thank you Father.
But I am aware of "there is more" , "there are some new next steps" and I have learned that all I really have to do is say yes, bring me into all You have for me!
Somewhere along the line, I let the disparaging term "social gospel" preempt my activist side, my outward focus. The poor, the disenfranchised, the discriminated against, they all somehow didn't seem all that pertinent to me in my personal-spiritual-quest-space.
Too much of my spirituality has been inwardly focused, just dealing with all the "incoming" and the press of circumstances. Emphases too imbalanced...personal salvation, bless me club....community, what's that? Too much focus on fast forwarding to co-reigning for all eternity with Christ on the other side of death. And for now, what about the NOW between right here and cremation? Just hangin' out? Trying to stay out of trouble, keep your nose clean,concentrate on transformation, do the right thing while biding your time til the sweet bye and bye? Little ministry in the local body, throw a few logs on the church fire while being always subtlety conformed to the system of the world? Where is the agenda for NOW! We're burnin' daylight here Hoppy....you have been transformed by enough renewing of your mind to now see that it's time to be more of a change agent for the Kingdom!
Things are really swirling around me, Shane Claiborne and Brian McLaren end up in my hands, Beyond Belief series comes into WH and pow!, it is like I am being awakened out of some kind of coma and I want to sign up for mobilization. I had previously signed up to "toe the line" in joining the invisible war against the powers and principalities...that is right and good for me and that will not be going away, only growing. But there is to be more! Yes, I am excited to find out what that is (and also am sobered at what that will cost). I want to become a more dynamic part of the solution, to resist the insanity that is the very fabric of this fallen world's system and to live in more overt rebellion, to be more active in my revolting.
And so, I am in transition....I feel an impending growth spurt (heh,it's my domain, I call it growth)coming and I want to get it right. Fortunately, there is now some measure of modest wisdom and I am not at all tempted to author this myself. No, that is something I only need to hear and see as Jesus unveils it for me, either suddenly or gradually, my role is just to say Yes at the right time. And so I am looking, I am listening... show me those next steps Abba. And so I practice my response..., "Yes Father", Yes Father" "Thank you Jesus" "Yes, of course"......
Still in process Santiago....still in process....steady as she goes mate.....deep breath....
Anyway, to any future reader, sorry for this opening theme in most of my posts but heh, I just can't seem to relax and let it flow. Maybe it isn't meant to be....
But there seems to be a dynamic to all this that draws me back...I just can't articulate it. Something about the way I think when there is a possibility of someone reading over my shoulder that stimulates thought in a manner different than the guaranteed confidentiality of a journal entry. Heh buddy, you're the one who has always valued transparency and being transparent requires another person looking in doesn't it? (If a tree falls in a forest and nobody is there to hear it does it make a sound?)
OK, enough. This blogging angst moment brought to you by Caribou coffee, your neighborhood purveyor of black adrenaline.
So,life goes through these chapters and the chapters seem to fall into overall sections. By most anyone's measure, I'm certainly in a mature phase chronologically. I remember looking at people my present age when I was younger and thinking that I doubt much is happening in their life anymore...just in an extended wind down phase headed for that spiffy assisted living facility just down the street.
But no, that's not the way it is and I continue to wrestle with being this authentic person who lives out life in conformance with what I say I believe. And so it's like this, I get most of my heart back, get healing (or at least in process) for most of the wounds sustained earlier in life and awake once again to understanding that it is not about me. I, as a friend of Christ, (He said it so I claim it) am motivated by being somehow used in advancing the Kingdom of God. A lofty sounding goal if I've ever heard of one. But that is what makes sense to me, gives me overarching purpose to the daily grind of schlepping out the same ol',same ol'... of slugging out a living 5 days a week, making ends meet. I am an itinerant Kingdom advancer and I am getting quite restless. (The pharmaceutical companies would probably like me to be diagnosed with "restless leg syndrome", the latest disease invention that they just luckily happen to have a product for .)
You see, as a believer in the 'good news', I have spent an inordinate amount of time applying spiritual truths to my life, bringing the old man under the authority of my Creator, participating in sin management, patching my life back together after amazing amounts of self-absorbed idiocy including masterfully assisting in an overall family and life implosion back in 92'. Seven years of my own version of wilderness, then years of getting dusted off, sort of reclothed and regrouped, remarried and generally recalibrated and voila!, I sit here clicking away. (All, I might add, described in a rather cavalier tone which is only a fake mask to hide the soul-wrenching,self-loathing that such historical self-reflection can so easily unleash.)
So the intercessory ministry has been very rich...so good because it has so obviously been choreographed by Him...I certainly would have never even considered it, wouldn't have sought it out....you know, you just can't make this stuff up! Father, thank you for your invitation to participate. As Elizabeth Elliott said, "Next to the incarnation,I know of no more staggering truth than that a Sovereign God has ordained my participation." Thank you Father.
But I am aware of "there is more" , "there are some new next steps" and I have learned that all I really have to do is say yes, bring me into all You have for me!
Somewhere along the line, I let the disparaging term "social gospel" preempt my activist side, my outward focus. The poor, the disenfranchised, the discriminated against, they all somehow didn't seem all that pertinent to me in my personal-spiritual-quest-space.
Too much of my spirituality has been inwardly focused, just dealing with all the "incoming" and the press of circumstances. Emphases too imbalanced...personal salvation, bless me club....community, what's that? Too much focus on fast forwarding to co-reigning for all eternity with Christ on the other side of death. And for now, what about the NOW between right here and cremation? Just hangin' out? Trying to stay out of trouble, keep your nose clean,concentrate on transformation, do the right thing while biding your time til the sweet bye and bye? Little ministry in the local body, throw a few logs on the church fire while being always subtlety conformed to the system of the world? Where is the agenda for NOW! We're burnin' daylight here Hoppy....you have been transformed by enough renewing of your mind to now see that it's time to be more of a change agent for the Kingdom!
Things are really swirling around me, Shane Claiborne and Brian McLaren end up in my hands, Beyond Belief series comes into WH and pow!, it is like I am being awakened out of some kind of coma and I want to sign up for mobilization. I had previously signed up to "toe the line" in joining the invisible war against the powers and principalities...that is right and good for me and that will not be going away, only growing. But there is to be more! Yes, I am excited to find out what that is (and also am sobered at what that will cost). I want to become a more dynamic part of the solution, to resist the insanity that is the very fabric of this fallen world's system and to live in more overt rebellion, to be more active in my revolting.
And so, I am in transition....I feel an impending growth spurt (heh,it's my domain, I call it growth)coming and I want to get it right. Fortunately, there is now some measure of modest wisdom and I am not at all tempted to author this myself. No, that is something I only need to hear and see as Jesus unveils it for me, either suddenly or gradually, my role is just to say Yes at the right time. And so I am looking, I am listening... show me those next steps Abba. And so I practice my response..., "Yes Father", Yes Father" "Thank you Jesus" "Yes, of course"......
Still in process Santiago....still in process....steady as she goes mate.....deep breath....
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