In Spite of Myself . . . I’m Okay

At some point I must have passed some imaginary line which precipitated a change in my appearance and the way that others perceive me.  I’m not sure when it happened.  There were no flashing lights.  No blaring horns.  No ringing bells.  Confetti did not fall from the sky.  There wasn’t even a band.  People just treat me differently.  It wasn’t a religious thing . . . a dark night of the soul gig . . . no wandering around in the wilderness . . . no heavenly choir or descending dove.  It was not an epiphany of some sort.

Apparently, it just happened.  I’ve been baffled ever since.

 

I noticed it last week while the wife and I were up north visiting our grandchildren and their parents.  My children were treating me differently.  Showing concern.  Dropping subtle hints.  There was an air of empathy.  The first time it happened was when I attempted to stand up from the couch.  It wasn’t a pretty sight.  I must have groaned as I stood.  I was asked, “Are you okay?”  Well, yeah!  Considering that all the furniture that my children have equipped their homes with is that modern stuff that sits low to the ground.  Whenever I sit on one of their couches my caboose is lower to the ground than my knees.  The human body was not designed to be dragging butt.  It is not easy getting up and out of those couches.  It takes some finagling . . . some superhuman effort, and yes, a little groaning.

 

Yes, I am fine!

 

Over the several days I was up north I got asked that question numerous times each day.  “Are you okay?”  For the most part I let it roll off my shoulders.  Ignored it.  After a while . . . well, it started to irritate me.  Grind on me.  While the wife and I were in the backyard of one of our children’s homes playing with the dogs . . . I snapped.  Tripping over a clump of grass my wife asked, “Are you okay?”  Something inside of me snapped and exploded releasing an avalanche of words: “Dammit!  Yes, I’m okay.  If I get asked that one more time, I’m going to scream!”

 

Oops!  I guess I blew that.  But enough was enough.  The wife placed the stick on the camel’s back that broke it.

 

Since them I have been wondering when I crossed over that imaginary line of decrepitude.  I just don’t remember crossing it.  Seems everyone else has recognized it.  I missed the memo.  I guess everyone has decided to let me know.  So, I ponder . . . what the hell is going on?

 

Okay, I will admit that for some reaching the age I have reached is grounds for having crossed that imaginary line of discrepancy.  Yes, I have aged.  We all do.  I can accept that and all that comes with it.  It’s all there . . . greying hair (of what hair is left), failing eyesight, a Dunlop over the belt, slower reaction time, selective hearing loss, achy bones, sore joints, drooping butt.  Yes, it is all there.  And, if I allow myself to see it there can be no denying it is there.  Yet when I look in the mirror the inner me doesn’t see the aging old fart.  Nope!  I still see Brad Pitt.  Maybe delusion is a part of aging.  But even Brad Pitt is aging.  Despite it all . . . I’m okay!

 

Maybe it is the word “retirement”.  I guess people see that as a sort of “being put out to pasture before heading off to that heavenly meat packing plant”.  A person hits retirement and people treat you differently.  They call you “sir”.  When opening a door you are told, “Let me get that for you, old fellow.”  You get senior discounts and restaurants give you “senior portions”.  You’re encouraged to play pickle ball.  Gifts of books are in large print.  People remind you that Lawrence Welk is on PBS every Saturday evening.  You get spoken to louder because everyone knows that once you hit 40 you’re hard of hearing.

 

“Retirement” is not a death sentence . . . not even a conviction of “old age”.  It is just a cairn marking a place on the journey of life.  And, yes, I’m okay!

 

I am okay.  There is no need to have an ambulance on speed dial.  There is no need to have a hotline to the doctor.  My AARP membership is good for another five years.  I have not been put on the endangered species list.  My orthopedic shoes are in a box, on a shelf, in the closet.  I don’t need hearing aids—at my age if it is worth listening to, I hear it.  I can still tie my own shoes, button my shirts, and wipe my butt.  I mow my yard. I shovel the snow.  I can have coherent conversations.  I can play with my grandchildren.  I tease with the best of them.  And I eventually even remember why I came into a room.  Sure, I moan and groan once in a while, but my pains let me know that I am still alive.

 

Despite my inner self lagging several decades behind my outer reality. I’m still here.  It is okay if the world can’t see Brad Pitt when they see me.  People don’t see me when they look at Brad Pitt.  It is their loss, not mine.  I am not delusional.  I’m way past the mid-life crisis point in my life . . . at least I hope I am because I cannot imagine living life at 132 years old.  I still have the love and affection for my wife that I first had when we fell in love.  I love my children, though they wear me out with the constant “Are you okay?”  My grandchildren are the best and I can throw frisbee all day for my dogs.  And none of the food I eat has been put through the blender.  I still have my own teeth.  I’m still here!  I’m okay!

 

If there was some imaginary line, I crossed over that warranted a change in how people see and treat me . . . well, I missed it.  I apologize to those of you that are offended that I’m living up to some unseen expectations.  It just ain’t going to happen.  You get what you get.  I am who I am.  Better or worse (ask the wife).  That is all there is.

 

Maybe John Prine said it best in his song, In Spite of Ourselves:

 

In spite of ourselves

We’ll end up sittin’ on a rainbow

Against all odds

Honey, were the big door prize

 

Yup, I’ve come to accept myself for who I am, where I am, and who I will always be.  I’m the big door prize no matter what anyone else thinks.

 

I’m okay!

 

Traveling Mercies

At least I can say that I survived.

I survived the brief period of respite in the busy lives of my family as they all gathered at the homestead for the observance of Christmas.  They were all here . . . all ten of us, plus three dogs . . . crowded around the kitchen table, telling stories, laughing, arguing, stuffing their faces, and having a grand ol’ time reconnecting and being family.  And, I survived.

The youngest son, our daughter-in-law, and granddog made the long trek north from Salt Lake City the Friday before Christmas to spend some time with their Montana family . . . brothers and sister, brother-in-law, nieces, and of course the wife and I.  They made their base camp at the homestead where we all gathered multiple times throughout the week to break bread, have a few brews, a few bottles of wine, and make a lot of noise.  It was a blast having them and the rest of the family gathered . . . and, I survived.

This morning the youngest and his spouse packed up and headed south to beat the incoming storm . . . headed south to return where they work and play . . . to where they call “home”.  The weather forecast was predicting a storm coming from the northwest . . . pretty much over the route that they were going to be driving to get home.  Out the door they went as the sun was rising to beat the storm on roads still recovering from the previous winter’s blast of two days ago . . . one that left their route less than desirable for travel.  The kids and granddog said their goodbyes, loaded up, and headed down the road.

As they drove down the street . . . the quietness returned . . . the stillness returned . . . and, it was over.  The Christmas celebration and reunion was over.  Everyone had begun their journey back to reality . . . back to so-called normalness . . . and, I had survived much to the chagrin of the rest of the family.

In the quietness of the day I have caught myself wandering around the stillness of the house.  The Christmas music is still playing . . . the lights are still shining brightly from the free . . . the snow has provided a blanket of beauty across the yard where Morris the Moose shines on in the approaching darkness . . . and, yet, there is a restlessness that stirs me to wander in the quiet stillness of the house . . . I am thinking of my family—near and far.  Isn’t that what happens when the noise of the celebration ceases and the quietness descends . . . we contemplate, we think, we wonder, and we offer a prayer.

The informal belief in our family is that “family is all that we have”, and because it is all that we have we have to love and support one another in the journey of life . . . for better or worse.  As a family we succeed fairly well for the most part even though there are some parts that we still need to work on . . . a few relationships that need to be mended and re-established . . . a little more grace and a little less animosity . . . and, I imagine that in time it will come or I will die—whichever comes first.  But, for the most part we do a good job of being a family . . . about as good as anyone.  Yet it is in this belief that we cling tightly to one another . . . in the good times and in the bad times . . . to love and support one another despite the fact that each of us is on our own journeys to be who God created us to be . . . to be ourselves in a world that would rather we all be carbon copies of one another.  Thus we cling and hold on tightly to one another because we care . . . because we love one another.

With the crunching of the car’s tires going down the street, the children left.  Quietness descended . . . and the immensity of the whole thing overwhelmed me . . . what an awesome responsibility any of us has when we are a part of a family.  Despite enjoying the quiet stillness of the homestead after the Christmas tsunami, I miss them all.  Our Christmas gathering was a wonderful respite in the journeys that each of us are on . . . a wonderful break from all the noise of the world around us . . . a joyful occasion to break bread, drink a little wine, tells stories, to laugh, and to bask in the warmth of a family’s love. 

But, life must go on.  We all must pack up our belongings from the respite of family gathering and head back into the reality of our own journeys.  There are jobs to be done.  Children to be raised.  Relationships to be worked on.  Dreams to dream.  Doctor’s appointments.  Bills to be paid.  Choices to make.  Each of our journeys takes us down the paths of life--some well-traveled, some not even blazed—in different directions.  Some will draw us closer, but others will draw us further apart.  Some will be easy, some quite difficult.  There will be victories and defeats.  These are journeys that we have to make in order to discover who we are . . . what our purpose is . . . and, to dream the big dreams.  Often we must make them alone.  We all have to go back to the journey.

I am amazed at the journeys of the members of my family . . . amazed at the resilience of each and every one of them.  Amazed that they have rejoiced in the good times and ridden the waves of the difficult times.  I stand in awe of them each carving out their own paths through life.  Amazed at their dreams . . . and, honored that they allow the wife and I to be a part of the stories that are being lived and written. 

And, so, it makes me contemplate in this quiet stillness . . . I think of how much I love them . . . I think about how much I want to succeed in their pursuits . . . I think about their happiness . . . I think about their safety.  Above all things I want them to be safe . . . safe, because the journey of life is not for the faint-hearted.  It can be hard and dangerous.  As the youngest and his wife pulled away . . . in the quietness of the house . . . I uttered a simple prayer: “Traveling mercies.”

I uttered it for all my family . . . wherever they might be . . . “traveling mercies.”  Yeah, I survived the family onslaught . . . the family celebration and gathering; but, thanks to the words of “traveling mercies” said for me throughout my life, I have also survived the journey thus far.  That is my desire and wishes for all my family . . . that God may surround them all in their journeys and keep them safe.

We all need a little “traveling mercy” in our lives . . . in our journeys.

Closer Than They Appear

It pays to read the fine print . . . I don’t think that most of us really take the time to read the fine print . . . even when the print occurs on the rear view mirrors of our cars.  Did you know that the rear view mirror on the passenger side had the words: “Objects in mirror are closer than they appear.”  They’re there, and judging by the number of times I get cut off by drivers merging into my lane, I don’t think too many people have read the small print that appears there as a warning.  This phrase is a required safety warning in the United States.  It is meant to protect lives.

It has only been a few days since the unexpected death of my dog, Maddie Rose, to a seizure.  It has been a tough couple of days, but they are getting easier.  They have been getting easier thanks to the love and concern of so many people who have expressed their thoughts and prayers to us—the family—concerning the death of our beloved pet.  It has been amazing to see the response each of us has received . . . it is truly good to know that we are loved and cared for.

Three days ago . . . well, three days ago, I didn’t know.  I didn’t know how much people loved and cared about any of us.  I was too wrapped up in the process of grief over losing my dog.  I was going through all of those stages of dealing with an unexpected death . . . and, there were tears.  Tears that I did not want to shed . . . tears that I fought . . . but, tears that fell nonetheless.   I was too wrapped up in surviving the shock of it all . . . too wrapped up in the grief . . . to see the outpouring of concern and love.

Rear view mirrors allow us to see behind us . . . to have hindsight.  They say that hindsight is 20/20.  I don’t know about that, but in looking back, people who cared were “closer than they appear”.  For that, I am thankful. In that feeling of being lost . . . of being alone . . . of mourning for a loved one . . . relief and comfort seemed so far off in the distance.  Yet, the reality is that it was closer than I thought.

The previous blog that I wrote about Maddie’s death had nearly a hundred views in the first 48-hours . . . I was surprised that the death of my beloved pet would be learned about by those beyond my family and friends.  I was surprised by the response my children and wife received when they shared the news on social networks . . . there was an outpouring of love and concern and prayers for them and the whole family.  I heard from individuals who were kids when I knew them and now are adults with their own families . . . heard them express their love and concern.  I heard from ex-classmates from seminary and fellow clergy from around the United States . . . heard them express their condolences and concern.  I heard from my friend—the guy who dragged me into the ministry . . . share his concern and love.  I heard from the friend who watched our dogs when we were away for too long . . . heard her concern and love, but more importantly her sorrow at having lost her friend suddenly and unexpectantly.  Heard from those I work with at the university . . . from members of the wife’s congregation . . . and, I even heard from the staff of the Partnership Ministry of Montana.  What seemed so far away was actually closer than I ever dreamed.

One of the things that occurs when any of us experiences a crisis, accident, or situation that hurts us, is that we experience “tunnel vision”.  The world in which we live and exist suddenly becomes very small . . . we are unable to get the whole picture . . . we are focusing on surviving.  We all do it, and we all need to do it . . . it is an act of survival.  Sadly, these obscures our view of the real picture of what is happening around us . . . we are unable to see those objects—those loving individuals—who are actually a lot closer than they appear in the rear view mirror.

The reality is that I, nor the rest of the family, was ever alone in the death of Maddie . . . we were surrounded by a great circle of family, friends, and individuals who cared about us and loved us.  They held us in their concern, love, and prayers . . . concern, love, and prayers that would not let us go in our time of need.  For that I am thankful.  It has made a difference.

So, to each of you who expressed your love and concern for me and the rest of the family, I say “thank you”.  You have made a difference and it is good to know that you care.  Your presence has made a difference . . . and, the sun came up the next day.  We will miss our beloved Maddie . . . my buddy, my dog . . . but, we have appreciated the love that has filled that void in our lives.  Thank you for sharing in our tears . . . may I—may we—have the opportunity to do the same for you when the time arises.  Those objects in the rear view mirror are a heck of a lot closer than they appear . . . for that I am thankful!