Wednesday, August 16, 2023

Proud of You, Son

Ben.

Benjamin.

Benjamin Bunny.

What do you say when your little baby is on the brink of moving out of the house?

I guess I assumed there would be some linear series of thoughts and conversations that built up steadily to the big moment. But in reality, it's just been more of a scramble of everything, everywhere, all at once, as the days move steadily along, with now just hours to go before you drive away to Ohio.

Over the last few months, I have felt so many things.

Excitement for you, pride in your accomplishments, dread of your departure, worries whether you will be OK, confidence that you'll do great, uncertainty over all the uncertainties, random memories flashing through my mind, the normal, busy distractions of every summer as a principal, which in a way, have kept me from savoring this time as much as I wanted to, but also in a way, perhaps, have kept things moving and spared me some anguish.

Most interesting to me has been the increasing realization that this time and place is not where you can remain. This in-between period, which I've recently learned is called "liminal space" is not permanent. As much as it turns my world upside-down, you have arrived at a moment when you have to make a move. 

It's not that I wouldn't love for you to stay here a little longer; it's just that this moment, this window, is temporary, and the chance for you to step forward into this new stage of growth is not something to miss.

Yes, you could stay in our house, keep working part-time, and just do college online, at least the first two years.

But...no.

I don't believe that's what you need. I don't think that would be good for you. I think the chance to strike out on your own and have a new adventure is a priceless opportunity, and you should jump into it with your whole heart. 

It's time to leave your comfort zone, create a new comfort zone, and then come to see this time and place and all these previous years through new eyes.

First, and I know you have heard this countless times: I love you, and I am immensely proud of you.

There is nothing you need to do to ensure these two facts remain. They have always been, since before your birth, and will always be. Nothing about this next stage of your life is about securing these two facts, but I hope these two facts will help move you forward, and will comfort you in lonely moments when you might wonder what on earth you are doing so far from home.

I also want to express to you that I accept and affirm you for who you are. You are you, and I love that about you. I do not expect or desire for you to be me, or Mom, or Jonathan, or anyone else. There is a fine line between trying your best to guide your child with good advice, vs trying to force your child to do what you think you would do, and I suppose every parent has to struggle with where exactly that line is. I hope I have been a good judge of that throughout your life, and I am sorry for the times when I haven't been, as I'm sure there have been many. I hope you will remain open with me and Mom and Jonathan about the joys and challenges of your life, and the decisions you face. We will all do our best to help you, always.

I was so happy to see the handmade card you received from one of your managers at work, to celebrate you on your last day. One of the things I have wanted for you for many years is for you to understand how fondly people feel about you, and for this love to ease your insecurity. I know how much peace you miss due to feeling insecure about yourself, and I know I can't fix that. Probably nothing or no one can, other than the gift of time. But I hope you can see and feel how much genuine fond feeling there is for you among all who know you. And I hope this can work to erode your anxiety over time as you continue to grow up.

That right there..."continue to grow up"...remember you're not done yet. You are on a journey, and really still just setting out on it. Give yourself time and grace to continue learning how life works, even who you are and how you work, knowing that you're going to keep changing.

I still remember you disappearing for a time during my grandfather's visitation at the funeral home in Pecos. Later, you did a 5th grade career project on being a mortician. Later still, you and Mom researched Cincinnati College of Mortuary Science, and all this became a real path for you. Only later did we learn that when I lost track of you that evening at the funeral home, you were actually walking around with my Dad, who was showing you around and explaining to you what all happened at a funeral home. Apparently, this is where the seed was planted for what may be a great career path.

I'll offer two things here: Yes, absolutely finish your degree path, but no, don't feel like you must choose an entire life's journey in one moment and never deviate from it.

Being a mortician is a great career, and I would love to see it work out for you. But if it doesn't, you have a lifetime to try other things, and that's OK. We are with you for the ride. But one step at a time. Complete this step that you're on, see how it shakes out, and go from there. Yes, getting a degree is a process, and some steps along the way can feel pointless. But...it's still worth it to finish it, even if you end up doing something else later on.

One of the things that amazes me the most about you is your work ethic. You have been a diligent worker all your life, and everyone who knows you celebrates this, from your teachers to your supervisors, to your aunt, uncle, cousins and grandmother, who observed you running the counter at Game X Change. Ever since you were little, you have been a person who is willing to stick with the task until it is done, and this mindset will make you stand out as an adult. 

Keep it up.

Not everything has come easily for you. In fact, many of your milestones have been achieved through struggle, perhaps even some degree of suffering.

Mom and I were always committed to helping you stretch beyond your comfort zone, and sometimes this has been really hard. There have been chapters of your life in which anxiety and fear seemed to be winning, but we have always had faith in you that you could work through whatever is in front of you.

This is just as true today as it was when you were little. Don't ever give up or think the effort isn't worth it. It is, and it will eventually pay off.

Another area in which you have made me so proud is your commitment to be real when it comes to your faith. You have challenged me to be real with you, and I hope I have done so. Faith is another area of life that hasn't come easily for you, but your honesty about this struggle will be more than worth the pain of the struggle. 

I assure you with everything I have that God is real, that He knows and loves you, and has been with you this entire time. He will be with you in Ohio, and with you wherever you go. He understands your anxiety, your struggles with belief, your questions about why life can't just make sense and work like it should, if He is really there and loves us. He doesn't mind that you have these questions; in fact, I believe He loves how these questions influence your relationship with him, just like we are all more at ease with someone who is real with us than we are with someone who is fake.

There is nothing fake about you, my son, and I admire you so much for that.

Keep talking to God and make room for Him to talk to you. He understands when you don't understand, and He loves that you acknowledge where you don't understand Him.

And I believe one of the evidences of His love is the connection you have with the people at St. Joseph's. Keep that connection strong, and forge new connections up at St. Paul's in Fremont.

I do hope the right "someone" comes along in your life at the right time. Despite your doubts, I think you will make a great husband and father someday, if you choose that path.

I know this is no comfort right now, but I really do think these things happen when we least expect them, and they find us when we're not chasing them. At least, that's how it has happened for me in my life, and that's how you came to be, so hang in there. I really do believe the right relationship will be there when you're ready, and when that person is ready. Try to be patient, and focus on being the kind of person someone else will find a comforting presence in their life.

Yes, having a family is a lot. But believe me, it's more than worth it.

Speaking of family, I want to put in a good word for your brother. Not everyone is fortunate enough to have a sibling, and not everyone with siblings is fortunate enough to see them a lot. Make a point of keeping Jonathan in your space, even when it's not absolutely necessary. Don't let space grow between you. You don't have to have lots in common to be good brothers. Support him, keep track of what he's up to, be acquainted with his friends without overstepping into his space, celebrate his successes, and heaven forbid, when he is struggling, you be the first name he sees pop up on his phone.

Mom and I are counting on you guys taking care of each other after we're gone.

Thinking of family members who are no longer here, please be sure to keep Al & Marian Pawlik with you in your mind, your heart, and your life. You were blessed to have two of the most wonderful grandparents a person could have, and Mom and I frequently lament the fact that they were not here to see you graduate from high school and begin this journey. They were so proud of you, so invested in your life, and proved it in so many big and small ways. Keep a picture of them in your space always.

And, more than any other person, I want to praise your sweet Mom. I still remember the pure joy on her face and in her voice the moment she saw the pregnancy test and learned we were having a baby. I remember how she received you in her arms at the moment of your birth, and just said your name, over and over. I remember how she made connections, enlisted help, and drove all over creation to find the therapists you needed in your earliest childhood, which got you on solid footing to start school. I remember how she made every occasion so special. I always say, "There's nothing like your kid's birthday", and I learned that largely from your Mom.

Of course, you're grown now, and the mother-son relationship must evolve, but this woman...I pray you keep her in your mind and treasure her. She has been the most devoted mother a person could have. Truly, if all the world had a Mom like yours, a whole lot of things would work out better.

Stay close to her, receive her love in the way she expresses it, continue to grow up and create your own adult boundaries, but also recognize how much she has allowed your relationship to evolve as well, and appreciate that. 

As I said, my mind is popping with memories, random and sweet.

One of them really hits home right now.

You were four years old, we lived at the Killeen house, and you were learning to ride your bike without training wheels. I took great pride in doing the Dad thing, running alongside you with my left hand on your left handlebar, and my right hand on the back of your seat. We would go down the sidewalk to Don's house next door, up Don's driveway and back down to the sidewalk again. Slowly but surely, you were getting better and better at it, and less and less fearful.

I hope I never forget what you said on one particular trip up Don's driveway:

"Daddy, you just have to let go."

Now, that's a lot of wisdom for a four year-old. Letting go isn't easy, and sometimes you need someone to tell you it's time.

It's funny when I think of the progression of your independence:

*Watching you ride your bike around the perimeter of Timber Ridge Elementary, and praying so earnestly for you during the 30 seconds or so when you were out of my sight, knowing I could never forgive myself if something happened to you during that brief interval, yet how much that brief interval meant for you and your growth.

*Watching you ride your bike away from our house, suspecting you might be riding all the way to Market Heights, even though you knew Mom was not comfortable with you going that far. But of course, this was another important level of independence, not to mention an opportunity to name sections of the shopping center after NYC boroughs.

*Seeing how seriously you took safety while learning to drive, and how suddenly you shifted from still needing my help while driving to finding my coaching a nuisance. It all happened so fast.

*How proud I was of your prioritizing low mileage over bells & whistles when making the commitment to take on a used car payment.

*How much I treasured the picture Mom took of you reporting to class for the first day of Kindergarten, with flowers in your hand for Mrs. Weatherford.

*How you poked fun at that same picture when you were coming to the end of 5th grade, calling that previous version of you a "pip-squeak". :-)

*How you said, "Liberty Hill is my home!" at Meet the Teacher Night as you got ready for middle school to begin. :-)

*How nervous I was about you coming to Ellison. How aware I was that your arrival meant Ellison wasn't just mine anymore; someone else in our household had just as much claim to those hallowed halls as I did. And yes, I still remember your very first day of 9th Grade, 1st period in the portable with Ms. Strovers. I still remember announcing the Band for the hundredth time, but feeling very different knowing you were out there marching. How comforting it was to me on Bus Duty in the afternoons knowing you were out there on that practice marching pad. Seeing you zip past me in the hallways during passing periods at my downstairs elevator spot, and sometimes trying to snap a secret photo of you in the crowd. Laughing along with Mrs. Espada as she would tell me about trying to startle you in the halls. Seeing your excellent grades, report card after report card, as the academic load of high school became routine for you, and the occasional struggles of middle school faded away. Watching you steadily rise in class rank year by year. Seeing you join Tech Theater late in your career, and loving your Instagram post about "the best seat in the house"...

And then, somehow, I remember you coming toward me on the graduation stage...

How can it already be time for a change?

I don't know how it can possibly be that time, but here it is...

My son, it's time for a change, a pretty big one, and it brings me great joy and pride to know that you are ready for it. (But am I ready for it?!? LOL, we'll see...)

But the best part is: This isn't really the end at all, just a shift to a new chapter, and one that I'm really excited to see unfold.

I don't know how else to say it: I'm just really proud of you, really excited for you, even as I feel emotional about my morning routine being changed, likely forever, and marked by your absence rather than your presence.

But I'll adjust, and I'll be thinking of you every day. I'll be ready for any and every text from you, any and every Instagram post or story, just to make sure you are OK.

I can't wait to see what you do with this chapter in your life.

I know it's going to be good.

I love you, son, and I'm so proud of you.

Thursday, June 16, 2022

Go, Ms. Marvel!

 A month or so ago, I enjoyed one of my favorite days of every school year as a high school principal: 

Scholarship interviews for outstanding seniors!

Imagine a day spent hearing the stories of young people who have overcome and achieved, whose journeys have taken them all over, who have earned accolades while carrying heavy loads, whose smiles outshine the sorrows of life, and whose dreams make you dream again.

If you're imagining being inspired, uplifted, sharing laughter and shedding tears, then yes, you've got it. 

It's an amazing day, and a privilege to be a part of.

Our most recent round of scholarship interviews included one of our Theater all-stars, whose record spoke for itself. This is someone you would readily hire for any job in any organization, and someone I'm confident we will see on the stage or screen someday.

But the thing I remember most from her interview was her comment about the series Falcon & the Winter Soldier.

Our committee was so accustomed to seeing this student command the stage with confidence, that it was surprising to hear that she had grown up wondering whether there could be a future in acting for her, because she didn't see people who looked like her on TV or in movies.

But then she saw Falcon & the Winter Soldier, and there was actor Erin Kellyman on the screen in a major role, and suddenly this high school Theater star in central Texas saw her dream in a different way, as something that can really happen, and something she must and will pursue.

All because of seeing one actor in one show.

My family has enjoyed the first two episodes of Ms. Marvel, and we really wish the whole season had dropped at once so we could just binge it. :-)

Our younger son shared with us that there has been some online criticism of Ms. Marvel, claims that its Muslim protagonist and her family are merely representation for representation's sake, just some kind of disingenuous gesture to score some kind of diversity points.

I have zero sense of how to judge the quality of a TV production, but here's what I will say about this criticism:

The first thing I thought of when I heard it was our scholarship winner's comment about the impact it made on her to see someone who looked like her cast in a serious role in a major production.

It was so important, it made it into a short conversation with a scholarship interview panel.

It meant everything to her.

And it's not like we're in the 1950's anymore. It's 2022, and it still matters.

I grew up watching Sesame Street and integrated sports, and it still matters. (Though I'm old enough to remember it being rare to see a black NFL quarterback...)

I refuse to be swayed by cynical responses to expanding representation of people in popular media.

To me, it comes down to the fact that since every example of representation matters a great deal to someone, it deserves our most open-minded, good-faith reception, even if it's not an example of representation we had ever thought about before, even if we don't like the show, and even if, perhaps especially if, we hear voices casting doubt on the sincerity or validity or appropriateness of the representation in question.

Lack of representation has never been a point of hurt for me; I've seen people like me in popular culture my entire life, and have never doubted that I belong in this society. It didn't come naturally to understand that there are lots of people who don't share that experience, and it's past time to embrace the need for every person to share that fundamental feeling of belonging that often comes through seeing people who look like you accepted and featured in popular culture and positions of leadership.

Go, Ms. Marvel!


Sunday, May 29, 2022

It's the Culture

I've always been haunted by the statement made by Clint Eastwood's character in the movie Unforgiven: "It's a hell of a thing, killin' a man..."

I still remember a sermon Dad preached sometime back in the mid-80's.

The main idea of the sermon is gone now, but there is a line that stands out. I can still hear it in Dad's voice:

"...and I'm sure if someone came into this assembly today with a gun, telling us we would die if we didn't turn our backs on Jesus Christ, there's not a person here who wouldn't say, 'Fire away'..."

This was in the days before, but not long before, American gun culture and American evangelicalism became so intertwined as to become more or less one and the same. I'm not sure if my delayed awareness of gun culture was a regional thing as a Southern California kid, but we were not quite up with the speed of the move toward people thinking everyone should be able to carry a gun with them everywhere they go. 

(I still remember the first time I ever heard this idea, as a freshman in college in Texas in 1991, and I was so shocked I questioned the professor in front of the class, certain I must have heard him wrong.)

But back when Dad preached this sermon, his assumption was, like mine, and like that of everyone in the congregation that day, that if someone entered an assembly threatening the people with a gun, it would be for some discernible ideological reason, (renounce Jesus or die), and that the victims would be more or less at the mercy of the shooter.

I'd like to think that if such a thing had happened, we would not have just sat there and been shot, that people would have at least tried to subdue the attacker, risking being hurt or killed in the process. It seems like that would have been the normal human reaction, rather than a dramatic, conversational scene playing out according to the attacker's script, as Dad presented in his sermon.

Of course, I'm glad we never had to find out.

But how the world has changed since that time.

A few years ago, a congregation from the same denomination in which Dad once preached, nearly had a mass shooting in their assembly, but the shooter's attempt was snuffed out when several church members pulled their concealed handguns and shot to kill.

As American gun culture became our very heartbeat, and mass shootings became so common we can't remember most of them, it makes sense that this scenario went from an obviously fictitious hypothetical in a mid-80's sermon, to a very real part of life. It's no wonder a church would go from never contemplating this at all, to having an actual plan for what to do when this happens.

I guess I shouldn't have been surprised, but part of me wonders: Did we even realize we had made this move? Did we talk about this? Did we discuss a shift away from saying "Fire away" if we were ever threatened for our faith, to saying instead that if anyone comes in here with a gun, we'll send them to meet the Maker we happen to be worshipping right now?

I don't recall any evolution here, just suddenly being in a different reality than we were before. Again, I guess I shouldn't be surprised, but I do find it...I don't know...it's something...that we made this shift, from not contemplating the taking of a human life, perhaps even the assumption that we never would take a human life, to the other end of the spectrum, an automatic assumption that we will kill without hesitation and not be much bothered about it.

What I've said so far is already enough for some to cast me aside as a fool, and I get it.

No, I'm not saying that it would have been better if the would-be shooter had had free reign to conduct a massacre. I am greatly relieved the worshippers were spared.

I'm asking whether we have wrestled with what this transition means, and why we made it.

I understand that to even question being ready to kill someone nowadays is laughable to many, but...there's still something here that I just can't shake.

In the denomination in which I was raised, in which Dad preached, and in which the would-be mass shooter was put down, we fervently believed that we were under constant pressure, if not outright assault, by "the culture", "the world", the "winds of doctrine" that threatened to blow us about and fracture our foundation. The world out there was not anchored in Scripture, but was constantly evolving with the self-seeking whims of man, as people drifted further away from the truth and further into the darkness of their own thinking.

We cautioned constantly about the mindset of the Israelites in the Old Testament, who turned to idol worship while Moses was on the mountain, then later wanted a king like all their neighbors, then later, when they had no king, did whatever they all saw fit, all of which were mindsets we recognized in everyone around us, from our neighbors next door, to every wrong-party politician, to many celebrities, to much of society's popular entertainment, and especially in so-called Christians who allowed themselves and their churches to cave and conform to the culture.

In my experience and upbringing, this always meant that some group of believers had gone liberal.

Yet here we are, like frogs realizing the water has already boiled us, having made a 180 on a matter of life and death without anything like the kind of scriptural and theological deliberation we have applied to so many doctrinal disputes that we can't even remember them all, and may not even be sure anymore which ones we've divided ourselves over.

The conviction that we are entitled to shoot to kill, even in what we believe to be self-defense, is not something we arrived at through careful scrutiny of Scripture, open debate among believers, or consultation with the older and wiser among us.

It is a conviction we adopted from the culture around us.

It is culture, pure culture.

It is culture, just as much as every worship innovation, scriptural translation, clothing style, family dynamic, popular song lyric or movie script we ever agonized over, as much culture as anything we ever told ourselves we'd better resist for the sake of our children and the future of our faith.

Just because it's Dirty Harry instead of Harry Potter, doesn't mean it's any less "culture" or any less of a "worldly" influence on us, on our thinking, on our faith and our practice.

In fact, it's even more "culture" than all those things, as it has greater potential to define us in the eyes of our neighbors, who are supposed to know we are Christians by our love.

Is our call still to resist "the culture"? If so, what does that mean? Do we think it means resisting only the cultural influences we happen to find offensive at our moment in history, while conforming to the cultural forces that turn us on?

It's interesting to me that since American gun culture became one and the same with American evangelical culture, I don't see the old 90's "What Would Jesus Do?" wristbands much anymore.

I really don't even hear that phrase anymore.

No matter how we rationalize it, I can't see Jesus pointing a gun at anyone. 

Monday, January 17, 2022

A Year

 Dad,

Over the last few weeks, I thought a lot about today, the first anniversary of your passing.

I woke up from a dream shortly before 4 am today, and couldn't go back to sleep.

In my dream, I heard your voice in a voicemail message, but I can't remember now what it was you were saying. It was random, as dreams are, nothing coherent or of consequence. But still, it was nice to hear your voice at such a time, and the dream prompted me to look up your blog and listen to one of your sermons this morning. I found one from about five years ago, and it's really nice to hear you.

I didn't really have the opportunity to be alone with you at your funeral, but I did have the chance to tell you, silently, with people all around, how sorry I am that I hurt you.

In fact, that's when I finally broke down.

It's not just imaginary or sympathetic; I know firsthand how I made you feel when I left the fold, and I know there was nothing anyone could have done to make it better or easier. I know what I did was unthinkable, too taboo for discussion, and that all we could do for the last decade of your life was step around the broken glass and pretend the wound wasn't there.

I know those were just the realities, and you couldn't change them any more than I could.

I wish that could have been different.

I longed to share my spiritual journey with you, and would have loved to spend hours, years, comparing our lives and perspectives, sharing where the Spirit was leading each of us and why our paths were so different, yet so much the same.

This right here is why the resurrection means so much to me.

It's no longer just about "seeing" my loved ones who have gone before. Now, it's about having the conversations you and I were never able to have. 

Part of me is confident we never could have been real with each other, no matter how long each of us had lived in this life. But then, part of me wonders if maybe it could have happened, if maybe it was in there somewhere, and you just couldn't open that door for some reason. 

I don't know.

But I know this: If the resurrection is real, and I believe it is, when I see you again, all that inhibition and barrier will be gone, and we will finally be able to be real with each other. (That is, unless you're right, and I'm lost, and we won't see each other again at all, but my chips are all in that you're wrong about that.)

I promise you this: Being real with me will be worth it, and we will both wish we had put our shields down long ago. And I think being real with you will be worth it for me, too.

As I remember Samuel's text that day, telling me you were gone, it's ironic to me that I'm currently holed up in a room, isolating from my family because I have the same virus that took you away. Only, for me, instead of shredding my lungs and leaving me without hope of survival, it's just been like having a cold.

My experience with this plague has been totally different from yours, mainly because I had the protection of a vaccine that was still a few months away when you got sick. I imagine it would have saved your life if it had come in time, and this makes me sad.

And I wonder if my experience with life, especially with spiritual things, is different from yours because of protections I have had that perhaps you didn't have. And how ironic that you were one of the main providers of those protections and benefits that shielded me and then equipped me to go in a new direction, even a direction you couldn't contemplate.

There's a great lyric in a song that goes, "I know I took the path that you would never want for me..." and I have always thought of you when I heard that song. And even as I continue on this path that you were certain was folly, going even further than you feared, I know I owe you a debt I can never repay:

Thank you for your love for the Word of God. I know you think I turned my back on it, but I promise you I didn't. Your esteem for the Word was imprinted upon me at the earliest age, and it will never cease to be a part of my DNA. I wonder how different this was for you. Your love for the Word was something you learned from others outside your childhood home and came to through your own devotion. I don't mean "works" in that way, lest anyone should boast, but this is something you worked for, not something you inherited, as it was for me. It's something you built, and then I grew up in, and growing up in something will always be different from building it.

Thank you for you and Mom's marriage. Life was good in our home. There was never a day when I didn't know where I was going, and where I was coming home to. There was never an awkward moment at school when I wasn't comforted by the knowledge that I would soon be home again where I belonged and where everything would be fine. There was never a meal missed, never an occasion uncelebrated, often a cause for laughter, always a routine that was life-giving, always hope that the future was bright. No, every moment was not pleasant. Your temper and brooding were difficult, often scary. I often assured myself I would not be that way when I grew up, even as I copied most of those behaviors. A lot was never said that needed to be said, for fear of you, and it has taken most of my adult life to unlearn the inhibition that was often needed to stay out of your way. But as hard as that was, it was mold in a house that kept us safe and warm, and that's not the same thing as losing it all in a fire, or never having a safe home at all. We were never without recourse or hope, and I confess I have little idea what all it took for you and Mom to provide this for us. I am grateful.

Thank you for our church life. No, I didn't stay there, I know. But a church family is a necessity in my life because of you and Mom, and again, this mindset is something you built and I grew up with. So many people made loving imprints on my life through church, and I am grateful.

Thank you for cheering on your favorite childhood teams when I was a kid, and making room for me in your bleacher seats. I know this was not nearly as important to you later in life, but it still was when I was young, and I am so glad it was. My childhood trips to Dodger Stadium are right up there with Disneyland in my mind, and I am so grateful. You got to see both the Dodgers and the Lakers win another championship before you got sick, and you even got a Cameo video from Dave Roberts! :-) You were never as into the Rams coming back to LA as I was, and that was sad to me, but it's OK. After you were gone, I got myself a USC shirt for the college football season, and I plan to keep an eye on them for you for years to come. I know sports don't really matter, but like the guy in City Slickers said about talking baseball with his Dad, "that was real", and I am grateful.

Thank you for taking us up to Big Bear, up to Sequoia, out to Arizona, up to Oregon. Man, for people on a limited budget, somehow we traveled! I wish I could have taken you to NYC and shown you how to ride the subway. You and Mom made it real to go see unfamiliar places, and I am grateful.

Thank you for something I overheard you say to Mom: 1983, all five of us walking out to the driveway, getting into the car to go see Return of the Jedi. You turned to Mom and said, "Don't worry, we'll take it out of the savings." I wasn't supposed to hear that, and I only understood it years later. You didn't really have the money for this outing, but we were going anyway, because you knew how important it was to us. My friends and I had been sharing rumors for months about the movie, and how we had heard that Darth Vader's helmet was going to come off. (How did rumors like that spread before the internet?) I have never forgotten how you somehow made this important moment happen for us when it wasn't easy to do, and I am grateful.

Dad, I wish the cultural winds of the last 30+ years had not pushed us so far off into the political ocean. For a very long time, I was right there with you, adjusting the sails of our ships for maximum wind. And I know you were proud. And I know you didn't think our politics and our faith got too intertwined or became indistinguishable.

But...I became convinced they did. I became convinced of a lot of things.

As I caught a different wind and changed course, I'm sure it broke your heart as much as it did mine that our courses kept growing further and further apart. Some parents and kids find each other again in later life, in their 60's and 40's, after having grown apart earlier. We were the opposite, it seemed. The times of the world post-2010 just seemed to become more polarized than ever, and by then, we weren't seeing the world much the same way at all, and weren't talking about these things at all, either. There wasn't much "common ground"-finding going on, and finding common ground that didn't readily present itself was never one of our strengths.

I'm sorry we couldn't resolve this while you were here. If we had tried, I don't know that it would have been possible. But I do wish we could have tried.

Since you've been gone, I have found myself dwelling more on a younger version of you, a version I was just old enough back then to remember now. A version of you that still had most of life ahead, that was convinced ministry was the way, and was determined to pursue it, even though that meant leaving behind a military life in which you thrived.

I treasure this young man's smile and laugh, his Gospel preaching that was simple and unencumbered with partisanship, his Snoopy tie pin, his left-handed softball swing, his mustache, his handwriting, his '78 Chevette, his hair part that he imparted to me, with neither of us ever imagining I would go bald.

Dad, I know I don't know what all went into making you the person you were, especially the things that were difficult, but I have thought about you every single day for the past year, and in all of it, what turns up the most is that I am grateful.

If you have awareness of me now, and when you have awareness of me again later, I pray our wound will be healed. Not gone as if it never happened, but your heart left stronger for having been broken by a son, and then healed again by a Father. 

May God's rest continue to be upon you, dear one.


Friday, December 24, 2021

Are You Sure You Want to Come Here?

It's Christmas Eve, Lord, and I want to ask you:

"Are you really sure you want to come here?"

His eyes meet mine without judgment, drawing honesty out of me:

"More than ever before, I look around and see doors closed to you. We love our wealth and our weapons. We're not willing to sacrifice for one another. We won't work together, not even to save people's lives. We celebrate killers, liars, and con artists. We scorn 'outsiders'. We just want power, and we'll burn up every good thing we have in order to get it...Where do you even fit in here?"

He listens as always, absorbs my heartbreak as always, unflappable as always:

"Sorry, I lost track...are we talking about 2021 in the USA, first century Judea, 1930's Germany...some other verse of the Rolling Stones song? Seriously, where's this coming from? Of course I don't fit in here. Of course there aren't doors open for me. I'm used to that; I don't need much of a gap to squeeze through, don't worry. I always find a way in, the last place anyone would expect."

He senses I'm still sulking: 

"You really think I haven't seen all this a thousand times before? You really think I don't know what I'm getting into?"

His hand is strong on my shoulder, but somehow not heavy.

"You really think you're the only person who thinks my mission is doomed? The only person here who gets it? The last one left? Eh, 'Elijah'?"

This breaks me into a short laugh. His smile reassures me, even though nothing has changed.

Then, dead serious:

"If you had any idea the number of hearts inclined to me all over this world...people who are free and who freely love, who have nothing here to keep them from me...people you'll know someday with me on the other side...oh, my friend, my brother...if you could see them, you would look right into the face of all this ugliness and not despair. In fact, you would love all those you are despising right now."

The gentleness of this piercing...

His love for me...his love for all those I'll never know here...his love for those I thought made his arrival here a hopeless cause...

Yes, Lord, please do come into this mess.

This mess that I would call "God-forsaken", except somehow you never forsake it.

I'll never understand why.

And I'll never stop being thankful.

Monday, October 11, 2021

I Still Can't Believe He Said That

"...how else is the son to continue living if he must not also forget—that no matter how hard we try we can never entirely know our fathers.”  -- Hisham Matar, The Return: Fathers, Sons, and the Land in Between

************

Sometime in my late teens or early twenties, I ran across a story about a controversy that happened with The Beatles in the 1960's, something about being more popular than Jesus, and church-going people being offended to the point of protesting and burning records.

I am a lifelong Beatles fan, but I was a late arrival to the party, born three years after they split up.

But Dad, though...he was legit.

He was a young teen during the British Invasion, collecting new music on vinyl, both singles and albums, relics he kept the rest of his life.

I must have asked Dad about this story of people protesting The Beatles, because I remember him telling me that John Lennon had replied to an interview question by making an observation about young people's church attendance compared to their devotion to The Beatles, followed by the poorly worded comment about being more popular than Jesus.

Dad was no wilting lily when it came to a defense of his faith, but it was clear to me in this conversation that he felt the unfortunate comment had been taken out of context and overblown by people looking to be offended. Of course, he himself was an ardent Beatles fan when this comment was made, so he wasn't exactly an unbiased observer of the controversy. Who knows whether his response would have been as moderated if this type of remark had come from a celebrity he wasn't a fan of, or perhaps even some entertainer whose work he really did find threatening.

But the part of this conversation I remember the best was something Dad said that shocked me. Nearly 30 years later, I still don't know what to make of it.

Dad's story about the John Lennon quote came to a head with his response to all the hullabaloo at the time, which apparently stirred up his own church and his parents. He didn't say how pointed this issue became in his household, but he did tell me that he told his parents, "You guys aren't throwing away my stuff."

(First of all: "You guys" is exact and correct. This was ages before he ever dreamed of living in Texas, and he would never have said "y'all" at that stage of his life.)

But what he said to his parents stunned me. I didn't react at all, just listened, let him finish his story, and I guess moved on to other things. I don't remember ever speaking of this again.

But that statement: "You guys aren't throwing away my stuff."

I still can't believe it.

I can assure you, without the slightest exaggeration, I have never, in childhood, adolescence, or adulthood, ever addressed my parents in this way.

Oh, don't get me wrong. I guess I gave my parents as much bad attitude as any other kid, but openly directing them that they would not have their way in a situation taking place under their roof while I was a child under their authority? 

Never, literally never. 

When Dad told me he had said this to his parents, my immediate sense was how unthinkable it would have been for me to ever say such a thing to him. Had I ever addressed him in this way, I am confident he would have lost control. It would have been an absolute scene. And, without painting an unfair picture, I would say that I'm not even sure he would have been able to control himself physically if I had made such a statement to him.

At least that's what I thought, and I was never willing to test it. And yet, Dad shared this story with me, apparently without the slightest sense of irony, seemingly without noticing the clash between the way he had related to his parents and the way I related to him. 

The very first thing that came to my mind never seemed to occur to him at all. 

When it came to his responsibility and authority as a parent, Dad was not one to entertain challenges to the order of things as he saw them, at least while we were children in his home. He did shift to adult boundaries for his authority when we kids grew up and moved out, but there was still never a sense of his having "chilled out" about this kind of thing.

Most of us mellow over time, and it's true that the older version of Dad was more laid back than his younger self had been, in the years when people are climbing and conquering, trying to prove themselves in this world and fearing that any false move could spell doom for the future. Most of us would do some things differently if we were changing our children's diapers again, with the perspective we have after our kids no longer need us for everything.

So, yes, Dad and I did have a more relaxed relationship later on, with some of my anxiety about displeasing him having dissipated in the mix of my own marriage, parenthood, and career. And yet, this was still a conversation I never returned to, a subject I was never willing to broach with him. It was something I felt I deserved an answer to, but I was never willing to seek it. 

To have borne the strain of being afraid to tell him off a few key times when I really wanted to, and then to realize he had taken this liberty himself when he was a teen, only to make clear a generation later that this same freedom was not available to me was...embittering.

Our family was always big on movie quotes, and one of Dad's favorites was from The Princess Bride:

"Get used to disappointment."

I suppose I made peace some time ago with never really having a clear answer to my questions about this conversation: "Why was I obligated to grant to you a level of deference you did not extend to your parents? Why did the needle have to swing so far the other way when it came to me? It wasn't easy to respect such a difficult boundary, and that burden was not limited to my childhood."

On another vein, is it possible I misread Dad to some degree? Is it possible the kind of pushback he gave his parents, and I could never muster up to give him, might have actually been a good thing in our relationship? Could it be that there was more room for rebellion than I thought, and I just couldn't see it, and he didn't know how to show me, or just never thought he had to tell me? Was I wrong to think he wouldn't have been able to process it?

No answers to these questions are likely to ever come, and I'm old enough now that it's OK.

Along with those questions would have to come the follow-up questions: How much defiance can authority absorb before it is no longer authoritative? How much can a child be allowed to push back before they have breached a barrier that will put their own character at risk?

I suppose humanity will wrestle with those questions forever, and I'm sure I will wrestle with them from now on, whenever I think about Dad.

But as I continue to process my 47 years with Dad, another movie quote comes to mind, but not from a movie Dad ever saw: The Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood, a story of a woman who is wrestling with her relationship with her aging mother.

Toward the end of the movie, one of the older ladies says, referring to Sandra Bullock's character, "She doesn't know sh*t, and what she does know she's making the worst of." This quote has been a salvation for me since I first heard it, a bookend against Dad's mysteries, giving me at least some reassurance that I probably have little idea of everything that went into making him who he was, and I might very well be making the worst of what little I know or imagine.

Yes, the perfect resolution at the end of this movie is idealistic, and probably unrealistic for many, including me and Dad, who never had the kind of full-disclosure conversation that filled in all the blanks, made sense of everything, and ended in a parade with everyone smiling and embracing. But still, unrealistic doesn't have to mean undesirable, uninspiring, or unworthy of being fantasized over. 

I think I will always imagine that conversation in which this gap is bridged, all is made well, all tension is dissolved, and I never feel afraid about anything again with Dad.

"...we look for the resurrection of the dead and the life of the world to come." 

This phrase in the creed often brings tears to my eyes, and I think this is why. Perhaps for the first time, there is something tangible I am banking on happening when that day comes, something that can't happen here, and was probably never going to happen here. 

When things are left unsaid and undone, there is so much more hoped for than some abstract sense of "seeing" someone again.

Or maybe a conversation won't even be needed; maybe it will all just wash away at first sight.

I want it, either way.

And then, as I write this, what comes into my ears but the beauty of the John Lennon song "In My Life" from The Beatles' Rubber Soul album, and tears come, right here in this lobby where I am waiting for my own son to come back out from his appointment.

Of these moments and memories and questions, Dad, I sing along with John, whose smart-a** comment in 1966 led you to be a smart-a** to your parents: 

"...I know I'll often stop and think about them; in my life, I love you more."

And, Dad: I still cannot believe you said that...


Saturday, September 11, 2021

Repentance on 9/11/21

Like everyone, I remember where I was and why I was there.

More importantly, I remember how I felt as I stared at the screen and watched the first tower burning, then the next, then the Pentagon, then the field in Pennsylvania, and both towers falling.

Forgive me, Lord, for you know my first feelings were anger, hatred, and vengeance, just as much as, possibly more than, grief over the lives lost, for they were strangers to me. You know I had literally never heard of the World Trade Center before that day, despite having lived in this country my whole life, yet I quickly adopted an image of those towers and all they meant to us, so that I would "Never Forget". 

And you know I practically salivated, before the sun set that very day, at what I assumed would be forthcoming military strikes by my invincible nation. You know how it took no time at all for me to shift from shock to visions of mowing down armies of enemies who had no idea who they had provoked, and stood no chance against us.

You know I took this occasion to mock our previous president, expressing relief that he was no longer in office to respond to this crisis while simultaneously pursuing his own sexual gratification. You know I held the naive view that the right things would be done simply because "my person" was in charge.

You know I thought it would be easy, like Grenada.

You know I thought it was just as simple as that, that peoples and nations and histories could be bent and redirected at our will, just because we said so.

You know I rejoiced inside that day when I saw on the news that we were dropping bombs in Afghanistan.

And now, here we are, twenty years later, finally walking away, not only with basically nothing to show for what we have done, not only with a path of destruction behind us so vast we can't even comprehend it all, not only with the possibility that we only sowed the seeds for future terrorism, but, to add insult to injury, with the very same cruel, theocratic leaders in place in Afghanistan that we overthrew twenty years ago, not just people like them, but the very same group, now with untold weapons and resources at their disposal that we left behind.

Father, it's all just sickening to me now, what I see in myself when I think of that day. 

I am sorry for the ungodly feelings and desires I nurtured on 9/11 and throughout its aftermath. I had a choice on that day to reject a spirit of vengeance and embrace peace, and I chose a spirit of vengeance instead.

Lord, it's a mystery to me how twenty years of time can so profoundly change how we view things, yet we don't always get twenty years of time. Why do some people get to live long enough to evolve, while others have this evolution cut short, and simply have to leave things where they are?

And I suppose another question is how sometimes we don't change, or even want to change, even when we do have twenty years of time.

*For the lives lost on 9/11, I pray for comfort, rest, and peace.

*For the lives lost in the twenty years since 9/11 in all the actions taken in the name of that day, I pray for comfort, rest, and peace.

*For the countless lives destroyed as collatoral damage in all this fighting, I pray for comfort, rest, and peace.

*For the wounded and haunted survivors of 9/11 and survivors of our 9/11 wars, I pray for comfort, rest, and peace.

*For the brokenhearted thousands still mourning loved ones lost on 9/11 and in the twenty years since, I pray for comfort, rest, and peace, and for protection against the despair that must come in light of the seeming fruitlessness of it all.

*For Americans, I pray for wisdom and humility, for a recognition that riches and strength do not mean we are right, nor that we understand how every corner of the world works, nor that we can have our way in any corner of the world, nor that we will always be rich and strong. Remind us we are not the only people in the world, and not the only people You love.

*For people not from the US, or not connected to the US, or not fond of the US, I pray that feelings of hostility toward the US may wane, even if miraculously and for no self-beneficial reason, that the door may be open for peace, even if the US is viewed as the opponent of peace and not its author.

*For Americans, I pray that we may stop, slow down our breathing, and be silent before You and before our own self-annihilation in progress at this moment, as we cannot even agree on what is true and what is false, and as we readily accept the deaths of thousands as a reasonable price to pay for our individual freedom to claim that reality is whatever we want it to be.

*Before I become too proud of my humility, Father, remind me of how long I have been just one more of your children who didn't know their right hand from their left. Remind me of what a blessing it is to see what I now see in my own life, even as painful and embarrassing as it sometimes feels. And remind me that I still don't even get it yet, no matter how far I have come. Keep walking with me, Father, helping me to see.

*For my children, I pray for godly instincts, for a spirit that moves first toward Jesus, flows first with the Holy Spirit, leans first toward love of the stranger rather than first toward suspicion of the enemy.

On 9/11/21, I finally repent of my personal thoughts and wishes on 9/11/01.

Lord, as St. Francis prayed, make me an instrument of Your peace.