Dancing with a Limp

“You will lose someone you can’t live without,

and your heart will be badly broken, and the bad news is

that you never completely get over the loss of your beloved.

But this is also the good news.

They live forever in your broken heart that doesn’t seal back up.

And you come through. It’s like having a broken leg that never heals perfectly—that still hurts when the weather gets cold, but you learn to dance with the limp.”

(Anne Lamott)

In a sense, the social media on the Internet makes for strange bedfellows . . . you never know who will up being someone you care for . . . someone who touches your life . . . someone who becomes a relationship in your life . . . people, who, in a million years, you never imagined would be a part of your existence.  As an introvert who appreciates and protects his privacy zone around his heart, I never imagined that I would be touched by the life another person who I have never personally met . . . who lives many, many miles away . . . and, is much older than I am.  But, it happens.

It started awhile back when I received a comment on one of the writings I posted on my blog . . . kind of a humorous, backhanded compliment . . . a note from another introvert who happened to like what I wrote.  Kind of made me feel good . . . especially when this individual eventually asked me to “friend” him on Facebook.  Suddenly I was wondering if this was one of those strange stalking types . . . but, it turned out to be a nice old guy in Michigan with a wickedly dry sense of humor that made me smile (and, at times, laugh) who had once lived in Montana.  Turns out . . . he wasn’t so bad.

Our relationship as so-called “friends” was pretty much lived on the pages of social media found on the Internet.  If I wrote something that tickled his funny bone or made him think . . . I got a quick comment and a thumbs up.  I looked forward to those moments when they appeared.  I looked forward to seeing his name or picture show up on either my blog or Facebook page.  He made my day and validated my efforts at either humor or wisdom.  Unbeknownest to either of us, we actually were starting to care for one another even though we had never met face-to-face.  Would this fellow be someone I ever sought out as a friend?  Probably not . . . but, as I stated, social media on the Internet makes for some strange bedfellows.

It was not until early this morning that I came to the knowledge of how much of a relationship there really was between the two of us.  It was just a quick short note . . . not to anyone in particular, but to all who were his “friends” on Facebook: “Midge passed away early this morning. There will be no service. That's not a religious or philosophical statement about anything, just a personal preference that we agreed on much earlier. And thanks for understanding my personal need to spend much time alone and quiet.”  Words spoken like a true introvert—which my friend is.  My unseen friend had suffered the death of someone significant in his life . . . his wife.  My heart was broken.

Brokenness seems to be a big part of grief . . . the heart is broken, sometimes shattered, when someone whom we have greatly loved dies.  And, as hard as we try we can never get the shattered pieces back together again as they once were . . . no matter how long we try, we can never get our hearts back to what they once were.  There is always a piece missing . . . especially when that love is deep and long.  As a minister I have witnessed this over and over again when dealing with death with people within the congregations I have served.  As a son who has had both his parents die . . . I can speak to this.  And, in one of the greatest losses in my life—as silly as it may sound, when my beloved Boxer died . . . my heart was shattered.  The hurt is sharp and it echoes . . . yes, echoes . . . through the whole body to the root of our souls.  Grief is not for the faint-hearted . . . and, because this is the case, I ached for my friend and the pain he must be feeling.

Also, as a minister, the expectation is that I will know what words to say to those who grieve . . . but, in all honesty, I do not know.  It is a crap shoot, and those who grieve will tell you that sometimes they just wish the minister would just shut up.  So, I have learned that there is not a whole bunch that needs to be said.  Sometimes there are no words that could ever express the emotions and feelings of someone who has experienced a death in his or her life.  Sometimes the best thing and only thing that could ever happen is to just be there . . . be there in silence . . . be there to listen . . . be there to embrace . . . be there to take the anger and beating . . . to just be there.  To be there no matter how long it takes because it will always be there.

Much time alone and quiet . . . again, spoken like the true introvert he is, my friend has shared his needs.  It is not selfish, it is not cold and aloof . . . it is a time for remembering, for laughter, for tears . . . time for anger, a time for letting go, a time for healing . . . a time for learning how to dance with a limp.  Life has suddenly changed for my friend . . . it will never be the same, the love of his life has died . . . my heart cracked a bit too, for my friend.

These words, as empty as they might be . . . are all I can offer to my friend.  But, if I were there, I would hug my friend (as much as it would make him flinch in true introvert fashion), and then just sit with him in the still quietness of his grief.  I would let him know that I, too, dance with a limp . . . a limp that seems to get more and more pronounced the older I get.  For my friend who is far, far away . . . known, but unmet . . . I offer you my prayers, my thoughts, and my presence.  In the end, when you are ready, we will dance with a limp in celebration of a life well lived and shared.  God be with you, my friend . . . Clif.

‘Tis the Season

Whether you call it Thanksgiving, Hanukkah, Thanksgivukkah, Advent, Christmas, Kwanzaa, Winter Solstice, New Year’s Day . . . they are all holidays . . . and, we are in the thick of the holiday celebrations.  Feels like we have been celebrating them since the day after Halloween when all the stores started putting out their holiday decorations . . . it has been a blur, a confusing blur at that . . . and, I am tired of it already.  Yeah, I know . . . but you are a minister!  Well, bah humbug!  I did not sign up for what society now practices as the “holidays” . . . a commercial, gluttonous festival of celebration of anything and everything that smells of good cheer.  I need a break and we are still nearly three weeks away from the BIG DAY!

I live in a family where the female side love to celebrate holidays . . . especially the daughter who has a natural calendar marking the days between each and every holiday known to humanity . . . and, a wife who cannot start the Christmas celebration soon enough each year.  Luckily the daughter got married and is no longer a problem . . . but, the wife, that is another story.  Thankfully, after over thirty years of marriage, we do have some ground rules about the holidays—especially Christmas.  For the most part the wife honors these boundaries . . . she does not decorate until the day after Thanksgiving, nor does she play any Christmas music—non-stop, I might add—until Thanksgiving dinner is done.  She honors those boundaries, but has gotten sneaky . . . instead of playing all of her Christmas CDs, she hums . . . she hums all of the Christmas classics for days before Thanksgiving; but, as she reminds me, she is not playing Christmas music!

Which brings me to my gripe about the holidays . . . traditions that drive me crazy!  Non-stop Christmas music . . . everywhere and anywhere a person goes, there is non-stop Christmas music.  I feel like I am stuck in some low budget movie of my life with a soundtrack of Christmas music . . . and, it is not the good Christmas music.  No, the music I get bombarded with is seems to be all the cheesy music . . . Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer . . . All I want for Christmas is My Front Two Teeth . . . I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus . . . or a bunch of dog barking Jingle Bells.  There are moments in my life when Christmas music just does not fit my mood during the holidays . . . there are times I need a little rock and roll or even a little heavy metal . . . anything but rap . . . to get me through the day.  Sure, Christmas music serves as a prompt to remind me of the season, but I don’t need to be reminded endlessly.

Next on the list of complaints is the annual holiday letters.  Now, unlike some people, I do not mind receiving these literary classics each year . . . mainly because it is about the only time I ever heard from those people.  I can put up with the over-exaggerated writing about the writer and his or her family . . . at least it is not some boring slide show I have to sit through.  I don’t mind receiving these holiday letters.  What I do not like is having to write them . . . oh, I write some really good holiday letters . . . I can exaggerate with the best of them.  But, they rarely change from year to year since the kids have become adults; plus, they should be doing their own letters.  But, I have toyed with the idea of doing a holiday letter that is like one of those books that you can pick your endings . . . you know, at the end of the paragraph you pick one, two, or three with each part taking the letter in a different direction depending upon the reader’s mood.  I think this would put the zing back in holiday letters, and remove the dread of receiving them each year like the plague.

I am also not too hot on premature decorations.  They make everyone else look bad.  No one likes over-achievers.  We have one neighbor who whips everyone by at least two weeks . . . always made me jealous.  Then I found out that they weren’t overzealous . . . they were just lazy.  They never take down their decorations and leave them up all year round.  Hopefully this year they will climb up on the roof and change the “Happy New Year 2001” lights to “2014”!  Also, I am not too thrilled with those blow up holiday characters . . . kind of creepy . . . the way that they sway in the wind . . . the way that they are huge during the night and then just a big pile of material in the morning.  Over-decorating is a bit too much too.  Keeping it simple is the most beautiful . . . so, at the Keener Homestead we have white lights on the roof and a lit-up, mechanical moose (the wife’s choice) . . . the roof lights are buried under a foot of snow, but they make the snow glow . . . and, the moose is only half lit up.  It only has lights working in its torso area with a lightless rear end and head . . . kind of our tribute to the Headless Horseman of Halloween. My advice is . . . keep it simple.

Fruitcake . . . nice doorstops.  Do people really eat this stuff?  Too sweet for me . . . too hard to eat . . . and has green cherries—who ever heard of green cherries.  Fruitcake seems to be the one Christmas gift that keeps on giving . . . you can’t destroy it.  Our Dachshund, Dora, who eats anything and everything, will not eat fruitcake.  Now, my mother’s Jam Cake—where you take all the jam and jelly jars that are half filled, mix them up in cake batter, and bake a cake—I can handle that.  Especially since she soaks a tea towel in bourbon, wraps the cake in it, and lets it age when she sends it to us.  Yes, the cake is as sweet as fruitcake, but the bourbon kills the taste.  Kind of puts me in the Christmas spirit after a couple of slices.

Secret Santas . . . whoever came up with this punishment for those of us who work with others to make a living, out to be made to eat a whole fruitcake.  I have a tough time choosing gifts for the people I love, how in the world am I ever going to get a gift for someone I get paid to work with?  Thankfully, the wife makes bourbon balls every year as my gift to my fellow workers.  After a couple of bourbon balls, everyone loves everyone else!  Sure beats the heck out of having to buy a gift for someone in my office . . . I am the only male in the office of nine people.  Most of my co-workers do not care for a six-pack of beer . . . but, they really, really like the bourbon balls.

Charitable giving . . . from the Salvation Army ringing their bells on every street corner to the mail campaigns that rival an election year, ‘tis the season for hitting up the masses when they are feeling good.  It is blatant manipulation at its best.  I especially do not like when I am told that I am a “Grinch” when I walk by without throwing a couple of hundred in the pot.  I believe in charitable giving, and I am quite disciplined in giving to many causes throughout the year . . . I don’t have to make it all up at one time!  Where are these people the rest of the year?  Where are they when I get my credit card bill from the holiday season in mid-January and could use a little relief?

Christmas lights . . . anyone who has ever dealt with Christmas lights know what I am referring to . . . who invented these torturous strands of mini-lights in which one bulb—out of five hundred—burns out and takes out all of the other lights with it leaving me to have to test each and every one of them until I find the burnt out culprit.  It is cheaper and less time consuming to go out and buy new ones . . . unless it is one of those trees like we have that already have the lights in them.  We have a row out at the top of the tree that is not making the wife happy.  When the wife ain’t happy, I don’t get to be happy.  I have changed the bulbs, changed the fuses, plugged them in every conceivable manner, and the top row still won’t light up.  I am thinking going treeless next year . . . or getting a spot light for the tree . . . or giving the wife a really dark set of sunglasses for Christmas that she has to wear every year.

I don’t like dressing up the dogs in cure holiday costumes.  I don’t like egg nog.  I don’t like turkey for the big Christmas dinner . . . we did that number at Thanksgiving . . . let the bird rest!  I don’t care about dressing warmly, hopping in the car, and going to look at Christmas light while listening to Christmas music.  I don’t want to sit in front of the television and watch all those Christmas specials that never seem to end just like corny Christmas music.  I don’t want to wear a Santa hat.  I don’t want to go to the mall and go Christmas shopping.  I am tired and there are still three weeks to go!

Christmas starts way too soon for me.  I want to be traditional.  My favorite Christmas begins with the Christmas Eve service at church.  Then it is back home where I slip into something comfortable before we sit at the table for some chili and snacks while we wait for everyone to gather.  Then it is opening the Christmas presents . . . each of taking a turn.  There is a lot of kidding and laughter as we go around the room opening presents.  Then it is quiet conversation once the fury is over before everyone hits the sack for the night.  Then, on Christmas morning, it is a big breakfast, lounging around, and then the big meal . . . naps in the afternoon . . . and, more time with family.  It is simple and gets the job done.

Kind of reminds me of that first Christmas . . . it was simple.  A child was born . . . a gift . . . shared in love . . . unwrapped for all to see . . . there was joy . . . there was laughter . . . it was holy.  That is the sort of Christmas I get into . . . it is the one that touches my heart the deepest and keeps on giving.  Yeah, let’s keep it simple.  Bah humbug to this other Christmas . . . bring on the real Christmas!

Justice: Just a Perspective?

David Whitley of FOX Sports wrote an interesting opinion piece about the announcement by Florida State Attorney Willie Meggs that Jameis Winston--quarterback of the top ranked Flordia State University football team hoping to play for the national championship, leading Heisman Trophy candidate, and future millionaire National Football League player—would not be charged with sexual assault.  This freed up Winston to continue his football playing through the Atlantic Coast Conference championship and possible national championship games.  Whitley stated that he wasn’t sure that “justice” had been served, and that it all depended upon individual perspectives of the whole sordid affair.  Whitley quoted the state attorney, when asked that question (more or less), as saying: “The folks want to look for conclusions.  They’ll have to draw their own.”  Never, in the opinion piece, does Whitley offer an answer as to whether or not justice was served . . . he pretty much avoids answering the question.

Instead, Whitley, basically states that it all depends upon where the individual’s loyalties are . . . if you are a big Florida State Seminole fan, then justice was served, Winston was falsely accused, and everything is back on track towards the Heisman and national championship.  If you are a person who believed the woman and should have her day in court . . . then this all screams of favoritism in a football town, bumbling law enforcement, and a general circus atmosphere where illusions rule the day while the facts will never be heard.  Or, if you are a person who is totally confused as to what you believe . . . well, the whole situation still remains as clear as mud.  As Whitley states, it is all a matter of perspective.

For several years, I worked on a federal grant in the state of Montana that dealt with domestic and sexual violence . . . in particular as it affected women, children, and families.  True, not all domestic violence happens to women—men are also the victims of domestic violence, but the overwhelming majority of domestic violence cases happen to women.  Happens all of the time.  Rape falls under this umbrella of domestic and sexual violence . . . at a rate of 1.3 rapes a minute in the United States according to the federal government.  What I learned and heard in those two years influenced my perspective on the issue . . . and, from that perspective I can honestly say that “justice” was not served in this situation . . . in fact, it never had its day in court.

Earlier in the week, I was not surprised upon learning that the state attorney for Florida was going to have a press conference to announce what his office was going to do with the Winston case . . . at that very moment I knew that Winston was not going to be charged.  If the man was going to be charged, the authorities would have gone and arrested him in as quietly of a manner as they could of—sans all of the publicity.  Nope, that was not going to happen . . . Winston was going to walk free of the accusations.  I saw no reason to even watch the big press conference . . . “justice” wasn’t going to get its fair chance.

When it comes to sexual assault—especially rape—that justice is served . . . at least for the person who has been assaulted or raped.  I stand in awe of what I am witnessing when it comes to these cases and trials as victims are attacked, raked over the coals, and made to be the “bad guys” as their attackers sit there and watch.  Isn’t that what happened when a Billings judge sentenced a guilty teacher to a little over a month in jail for raping one of his students . . . didn’t the judge make references to the fact that he thought the 14 year old looked and acted much older than her actual age . . . that this played a role in the teacher’s actions?  Unfortunately or fortunately, the 14 year old avoid this smear having committed suicide before the case ever came up for trial.  Was she a victim?  Yeah, I think so. Was “justice” served in this case?  No, and now the state of Montana is scrambling like crazy to fix the situation and sentence the teacher to a minimum of four years for the rape of this 14 year old . . . unfortunately, the girl will never know . . . she’s dead.

The accuser of Winston was put on trial before the investigation was even started . . . before it even got a shot at being tried in court. She was attacked, bullied, dragged through the mud, and warned . . . warned by one of the Tallahassee police officers that she might reconsider pressing for rape charges as “Tallahassee is a big football town” and the person she was accusing was the star player.  But, she pressed on despite the smear campaign against her.  The young woman reported the rape the night it happened. This means that she probably went through all of the steps . . . telling her story to the police (in her case, not once, but twice—once to the campus police who referred her to the Tallahassee police because the incident took place off-campus and she had to tell the story a second time) . . . going to the hospital to undergo a procedure using a “rape kit” and having to tell the story for a third time . . . in fact, she probably ended up telling the story of what happened more times than any of us could count.  And, each time she told the story, she had to relive the trauma of it all.  Physical evidence was found proving that Winston was the one who she said raped her.  She stuck by her story . . . even after Winston stated that it was consensual sex . . . she called it rape.

It became a big “he said/she said” debate.  He proclaimed innocence, she claimed rape.  Lines were drawn in the sand, sides were taken . . . and, in the end, some would say that it was a tie when it was all said and done.  I am not too sure about that.  In the end the young woman had to drop out of school because the scrutiny was too much for her.  Her reputation was dragged through the muck of public opinion, a reputation that will never leave her.  She has been traumatized over and over again with the nightmare of something that she did not want to happen.  She believes what happened to her will make others not want to report rape.  She was rightly termed the “victim” in this case.  I don’t think she felt like it was a tie . . . or anything close to a tie.  I think she would say that she got stomped . . . unfairly stomped in what she believed would be a “just” system and process.

Neither do I think that the individual she accused feels as if it were a tie.  He did not have to drop out of school, sit out a football game, give up his pursuit of a national championship, give up his pursuit of a Heisman trophy, or a future big-time paycheck in the National Football League.  His name was not dragged through the mud and muck . . . far from it.  Instead we witnessed the attack against the victim . . . the lame excuse that “boys will be boys” . . . and, that he has such a bright future ahead.  He lawyer stated that it would be difficult for him to clean up his reputation . . . who is he kidding!  I do not see Jameis Winston hiding from the public eyes.  I think he would tell all of us . . . he won.

In this whole mess, Jameis Winston is probably the only winner.  Everyone else lost.  The victim lost.  The public lost.  And, the biggest loser of all . . . “justice”.  Remember that Florida’s state attorney did not say that nothing happened . . . he just stated that in his opinion—according to what the state using as a measurement for such cases—that this case would have been too difficult to try and win.  In other words, something happened and it is up to everyone to form his or her own opinion.  I say that the matter should have been given its day in court . . . that “justice” be given an opportunity to settle things once and for all.  To level the playing field and see what happens.  That is all that anyone who plays a sport wants . . . a level playing field and an opportunity to play the game.  That is all that any of us wants . . . a level playing field to share our stories and allow the chips to fall where they may.  “Justice” did not get a fair deal . . . and, probably never will.

I think that is what upset me the most by Whitley’s opinion piece . . . he chickened out . . . he didn’t take a stand . . . he didn’t stand up for “justice”.   I don’t know if the story of victim is true or not . . . I don’t know whether or not Winston is telling the truth . . . but, I think that if both of them believe that they are telling the truth, let “justice” settle the issue.  But, I forget . . . opinions are opinions, not facts . . . at least that is my opinion.  In the court of opinion, no one wins.  I say, give “justice” a chance.  What we do in our society to victims of sexual assault, rape, and domestic violence is a bigger crime than the actual crime itself . . . we deny them their humanness . . . and, we deny them “justice”.

Was “justice” served?  You tell me.

Zecoldephobia

Like Spiderman, my “senses” began to tingle over the weekend . . . something was up . . . something bad.  Now I consider myself to be a fairly average person . . . at least as normal as most of the standards put out by the American Psychological Association’s Diagnostic and Statistical Manual 5; but, something was up . . . and it was driving my super-human senses crazy.  I could feel that whatever was going to happen was going to be bad.

For several days, over the weekend, I read with fascination the National Weather Service’s webpage as warnings were starting to be issued for an impending storm and arctic front were to hit our area come late Monday afternoon.  The prognosticators couldn’t make up their minds . . . first we were supposed to get between four and six inches between Monday night and Wednesday afternoon, but be very, very cold . . . then it was changed to about an inch a day and very, very cold . . . then it was pretty much thrown out the window as none of them even came close to the reality.  Back and forth they toyed with my emotions and senses.  In the end, my worst fears were realized . . . nearly a foot of snow, ice, and really, really cold (frigid) temperatures.

Zecoldephobia is not a real word.  It doesn’t exist in any dictionary and probably can only be found in one place on the Internet—on the website Move That Body which is written by some anonymous writer about exercise.  It was that unknown author who coined the word Zecoldephobia to describe the fear of winter.  Surprisingly there is no such phobia in existence despite the fact that nearly a quarter of a million people in the United States of America claim to have this fear.  Shoot, there are phobias for everything and anything, but not the fear of winter.  That is a shame because upon discovering the word, I thought I had come to the root of my super-human senses that only seem to appear at this time of year. 

Actually, I like winter.  What I don’t like is the snow and ice that accompany winter.  For that there are actual phobias.  Chionophobia is the fear of snow.  Pagophobia is the fear of ice and frost.  We got plenty of both . . . snow and ice . . . and, lots of cold.  Our temperatures for the next week are going to drop like a lead balloon with a high predicted by Saturday of a minus five degrees.  Also, with such frigid temperatures, nothing melts . . . nothing!  So, all of that snow and ice is going to stick around for a while making driving a real pain in the rear.  It has been a real joy commuting back and forth between the homestead and the big city . . . see Montana at an average speed of 35 miles an hour!  Snow and ice seems to have that effect on drivers.  Over the weekend it was Chionophobia and Pagophobia—not my super-human senses—that were at play with my mind and body.

So, here it is . . . three days into the semi-predicted mess called winter.  We got a heck of a lot more snow than the couple of inches the weather people were predicting—in fact, we shattered ancient weather records with the snow and ice.  Snow is piled up everywhere . . . including on the roads, where it seems that most counties and state entities believe that solar snow removal is the best and cheapest method of removing snow and ice.  It is cold . . . temperatures are dropping as I write this . . . dropping to unmentionable depths that are not supposed to show up until late January and early February.  Winter came knocking . . . early as usual . . . and, it is scary.  If this is the start of what is to come, what is the future going to look (more aptly, feel) like?  My mythic Zecoldephobia (bolstered by my Chionophobia and Pagophobia) is going crazy.

I can’t sleep . . . I shake whenever I am standing outside . . . I speak incoherently as my teeth chatter . . . my thinking gets incoherent . . . I refuse to go anywhere considered unsafe if it involves driving . . . all I see is white . . . Zecoldephobia!  Of course, before I discovered this descriptive word, I used to think that those were normal reactions to winter . . . especially when it snows uncontrollably like it did this week.  Fortunately, I am not the only person inflicted with this or any winter related phobias . . . there are lots of us.  Some are just smart and head south to warmer climates . . . places like Arizona or Florida where old people turn a roasted brown.  But, that is just another fear I have . . . I’ll save that for some other future rant.

Whatever anyone wants to call it . . . it doesn’t matter . . . it is real.  Winter has come, it is going to stick around for a while, and I have a real aversion to having to travel in this stuff.  I think that is my biggest fear . . . it is not the weather . . . it is not the snow . . . it is not the ice; it is having to drive in it.  And, I really don’t mind driving in it either, it is just having to drive in it with other drivers . . . idiot drivers who seem oblivious to the dangers of driving on snow and ice.  Like the guy who was weaving in and out of the cars on snowy and icy road in the big city, with one hand on the wheel and the cell phone to his ear, going fifty miles an hour while everyone else was respecting the conditions and other drivers and driving a safe twenty-five miles an hour.  The guy couldn’t even read my sign language when he zipped by, leaving me in a cloud of snow!  That is what I fear the most about winter . . . other drivers. 

I am thinking of petitioning the state to give me a special driving time before any other drivers can get on the road . . . I don’t think it is going to happen.  Last I heard, they never heard of the word Zecoldephobia . . . or Chionophobia . . . or Pagophobia.  They need to use the Internet a little more . . . everything on it is true . . . especially when it comes to defining my super-human senses that always seem to pop up at this time of year.  I am glad I have names to put with these senses . . . makes me feel normal.  Besides, I didn’t find anything about them in the DSM 5 . . . but, there is still time!  Rise up, Zecoldephobians . . . claim winter . . . it is going to be around for a while, so we might as well have some fun with it!