Posted on

So Much Waiting

Last week the folks over at Deeper Church were kind enough to post something that I wrote about how my grandma died and then Maile started miscarrying that day. Here is an excerpt:

I spend three solid days and nights there, waiting for her to die. I go home only because I need to shower and, besides, I feel bad for my wife, pregnant and watching the four kids by herself. But she shushes my apologies and says, “Grandma won’t be here much longer.”

And all eight of my aunts and uncles return to Pennsylvania, and nearly all of the grandchildren and great-grandchildren show their face from time to time. Usually there are thirty or forty of us there at night, all sitting in the largest room our aunt’s house has to offer. Some sit on the floor, others sprawl on the folding chairs. My grandmother sits in her armchair, eyes open, barely breathing. This atmosphere, being surrounded by her family, the singing: it’s as close to heaven as she’s ever been.

Songs spring up out of the silent spaces, old hymns and gospel songs, and I realize that somehow I know the words even though I can’t remember the last time I sang them.

What will it be when we get over yonder
And join the throng upon the glassy sea?
To greet our loved ones and crown Christ forever,
Oh, this is just what Heaven means to me.

But eventually I realize I cannot spend my entire life waiting for someone to die, no matter how much I wish I could be there when she leaves, so I look in on her one last time and then I get on with my life. I text my dad to see how things are going. I stop by a few times each day, peek my head in to make sure.

Seventy-two hours later, two in the morning, my phone buzzes on the side table.

To read the rest of the post, head over to Deeper Church.

Posted on

One of My Goals For Advent

So, recently I’ve been the one to put our youngest two children to bed. The process begins with unbelieving faces that sort of morph into childlike versions of Edvard Munch’s “The Scream”, with open mouths supported by gripping hands. Their swirling cries take the place of loud color.

My request that they “please use the potty” is met with collapsing on to the floor and tears of disappointment, but the reminder that there will be books helps to raise spirits. We accomplish the rest (the changing into pajamas, the brushing of the teeth, the crawling into mommy and daddy’s bed for story time) through the thick air of resignation and lost hope.

The books help to bring it down several notches. The books serve as an end stop to a sentence of uncertainty. When the books come out, they know there is no going back.

Then the fluffing of the pillows and last call and we might as well be down at the tavern for all the begging and pleading for one last drink. But the lights are out and the fan is on and I’m in bed between these two little people.

Sam plants his forehead against my shoulder, clutching his yellow blanket and sucking his thumb. He is asleep in three minutes.

Abra moves into her bed, and I get down beside her. She has this remarkable talent of manipulating your arms and turning her body in such a way that before you know it, you are hugging her, and you didn’t even mean to be. And she giggles, because she knows that once again she is being hugged, and that is her favorite thing of all.

“Good night, Abra,” I whisper and then I get my computer and sit on the chair in the room, in the dark. Sammy snores occasionally. Abra chats to herself or sings or does whatever it is that she is doing. My computer screen glows. Light comes in from the hall.

Soon Cade and Lucy creep into the room to get their pajamas on and to say good night. I smile at them, so grown up now, but they cannot see my face in the dark. So many things seem lost between me and my children, and sometimes they are things that I desperately want them to know or feel, and other times I let those things be lost, and I am okay with it.

Then, eventually, Abra is still. I carry Sam to his small bed and he pulls his knees up to his chest and I lay a huge blanket over him. And I walk out of the room, and another bed time is finished, and I realize it was one of the few times all day where I sat in the silence. One of the few times when I let stillness rest on my skin without pushing it away.

That is one of my goals this Advent season: savor the stillness.

Posted on

An “Unintended Free Birth in Our Building’s Parking Garage”

Here are a few posts that caught my attention in the last week:

* * * * *

Joe was an unintended free birth in our building’s parking garage while we were on our way to the hospital. We were alone – no midwife, no doctor, not even in our own home with a clean floor but instead a garage filled with gasoline and tire smells.

* * * * *

…what if we looked at some simple teachings about generosity and contentment and tried a few things out this year? What if we took a few steps toward a different understanding of contentment this year and laid a foundation we can build on?

* * * * *

When the words “It’s mine, not yours,” rise so easily, so reflexively, and in such contrast to the mercy and joy and grace of the moment, I want to notice them, to sit awhile and consider their source, to notice the cost they bring to bear on my own soul and the souls of those around me.

* * * * *

The NFL isn’t the only part of American society that doesn’t give a pause for death.  Death is simply too much of an inconvenience for us.  We’re so set on building our gods … building ourselves into a god, that we remove anything that reminds us of our humanity.  The NFL is a microcosm of American life.  We’re so intent on building the dream, that we like to ignore reality.

* * * * *

There are times in life when the sight of one beautiful red leaf in the middle of a rain-soaked sidewalk is enough to carry you through all kinds of puddles ahead.

* * * * *

Go fail. And then fail again. Non-profit failure is too rare, which means that non-profit innovation is too rare as well. Innovators understand that their job is to fail, repeatedly, until they don’t.

Posted on

Are You a Non-Writer?

The other day I tweeted the following quote by Anne Lamott, from one of her recent Facebook posts. It got a lot of traction with folks and was re-tweeted and shared quite a few times:

“No writer waits for inspiration. That’s just another excuse not to get that day’s work done.”

My friend Jason McCarty then posted this as a follow-up question on Facebook: “What are writers called like me who wait for inspiration? Non-writers? : )”

What do you think of Lamott’s statement? What do you think of Jason’s question?

* * * * *

Check out my Facebook page – I’ll be giving away one copy of “How to Use a Runaway Truck Ramp” each night this week.

Posted on

Forget the Path Behind You – It Leads Back to Mediocrity

It’s a strange place to be, this particular spot in life where we’re too committed to the current path to even consider going back. Do you know what I mean? Have you ever reached that point?

Before this, there was the beginning. The starting out. The hemming and hawing and difficult decisions and the voices – oh, the voices! – protesting and arguing and whining. There was that sense that our feet were far too tender for the path we were called to travel. A lonely path. A path few understood.

Then, when we finally started off down this narrow way, there were the (many) places where it was hard not to look back, and while looking back, hard not to turn back. That was the place of second guesses and curious road blocks. That was the place where the launching point was still in view, still attainable, still turn-back-and-findable.

But the last six months have been a machete slicing its way through undergrowth. The path, once felt so defined, vanished, but the place at which it melted away became its own launching point, and with all the slashing and breaking, the stinging and stooping, we completely lost all sight of where we’d come from. We stopped and we looked around and we marveled at the silence. The peace. The unrecognizable.

When that realization hits, that the way back is no easier than the way forward, the first sense is panic. How did we so easily lose our lifeline to that place of safety? What now? Where do we turn? There is, at that point, no greater temptation than to sit down and cry a river of tears and hope you can somehow drown yourself in their shallow stream.

But we did none of those things. We kept moving forward. And we learned something rather shocking.

There is a remarkable peace to be found when the way back to mediocrity has been erased. There is a remarkable excitement when the way forward has nothing to offer but calamitous failure or life lived to the fullest.

And who is to say that one is not found in the other?

Posted on

Democrats and Republicans Finally Agree On Something

In a last ditch effort to avoid driving the nation over the quickly approaching “fiscal cliff,” Democrats and Republicans finally agreed on something and called in two high-end consultants: Wile E. Coyote and Roadrunner. It was a brief show of solidarity emerging after weeks of name-calling and insults.

Earlier reports remained full of uncertainty as to the exact identification of the consultants, but it was soon confirmed when multiple wooden crates (labeled “Acme”) were discovered floating in the Potomac. Various explosions and an annoying “beep! beep!” also emerged from the White House from time to time.

One Senator (who wished to remain anonymous due to security issues surrounding the negotiations) was asked why these two were chosen over other, more experienced financial heavyweights like Warren Buffet or the Chairman of the Federal Reserve.

“It’s business as usual,” the Senator muttered, pushing past the microphones. “They’re looney tunes in there. Someone got fixated on that “fiscal cliff” term and argued that Roadrunner always avoided the drop-off. But Wile E. Coyote keeps interrupting with his British accent. It’s throwing everyone off their game.”

Sources say no meaningful concessions were made by either side. As frustration increased, Democrats began calling for Roadrunner’s IRS returns, wondering if perhaps they were dealing with another wealthy individual trying to avoid higher taxes. Republicans, meanwhile, questioned the status of both consultants’ nationality and began processing deportation papers.

Neither consultant was available for comment.

It would appear the government is trying to save face tonight as box after box of Acme products have been removed from the Congressional buildings. These include, but are not limited to, an anvil, multiple detonation devices, and rocket-powered roller skates.