As Big as a House

“Some day you’ll own a home

That’s as big as a house”

(It’s a Big Old Goofy World by John Prine)

I am 56 years old.  I was born in Wareham, Massachusetts.  By the time I graduated from high school I had gone to at least ten different schools.  I have lived in thirteen different states since I was born . . . which means I have spent an average of a little over four years in any one of the states I have lived in.  I guess that is to be expected of one who grew up as a military brat and a minister . . . both have a tendency to move around a lot.  If a person asks me where my “roots” are, I usually answer them that my “roots” are wherever I happen to be at the moment.  I have spent a lifetime being a nomad.

My wife, on the other hand, grew up in the same house and town until she graduated high school.  She attended one school.  She never moved until she went off to college . . . seventeen miles down the road.  She had never lived farther than twenty miles from where she grew up until we moved to southern Indiana to serve our first parish . . . it was ninety miles from her home . . . and, there was heartbreak on her part.  It just about killed her when we moved to central Nebraska two years later . . . you would have thought I took her to the ends of the earth.  She grew up with roots . . . with a place that she called home.  Whenever she is asked where her “roots” are . . . where “home” is . . . she always answers, “Paris, Kentucky.”

I have always been envious of those who have “roots” . . . who have a place to call “home”.  I have never had that experience.  Wherever I have lived I have always been that stranger passing through.  Military families have a tendency to move a lot . . . so do the families of pastors.  True, they make a lot of friends and acquaintances . . . but rarely are they remembered as being a part of the “real community”.  They have no “roots” . . . eventually they just become footnotes to those who remember them.  That has been my life story . . . just a stranger passing through.

I think as an adult I have spent a lot of my life trying to get back “home” . . . trying to get back to those old familiar haunts that bring comfort, safety, and that warm fuzzy feeling you get when you reconnect with what you once remembered.  The problem is . . . well, the problem is that none of those places exist for me anymore.  Too much time has passed by in those places where I really didn’t spend a whole lot of time to begin with . . . no one remembers me . . . they were just weigh stations in the journey of life.  It is not like that for my wife.  She goes “home” and people remember her, tell stories, laugh, and catch up . . . there is still family there . . . old friends and classmates.  She walks by buildings and she remembers.  When you are a stranger passing through all the buildings begin to look the same . . . and, you long.  You long for that familiar place . . . a place to call “home”.

Montana was the one place I longed to live since I was a little kid.  Its beauty and splendor is captivating and awesome.  The population is just right for an introvert . . . about six people or less for every square mile.  It was the place I dreamed of . . . a place where I could finally put down my “roots” and call it “home”.  But, that was a fallacy.  Despite buying a house and living in it for over six years now . . . by the way, it is the first house the wife and I have ever owned . . . this is not the place of “roots” . . . not the where my children will come back to and feel the comfortableness of “home”.  They will not find it because this is not their “roots” . . . not their “home”.  The homestead will not be a place that will be passed on from generation to generation . . . it will be a place where the wife and I lived for a time.

Now, don’t get me wrong.  Montana is the place I have chosen to spend my dying days.  I cannot promise that it will be in this exact house because I would move in a heartbeat if I ever find a nice piece of property outside of the town limits.  Neither the wife nor I want to move anywhere else . . . though there are times that the wife hints at it . . . we have made a commitment to this beautiful place.  In a sense, this is where we have chosen to make a “home” for ourselves.  The problem is that the location is never going to be “home” in the same sense it is for a lot of other people.

Despite this deep desire to get back “home” again . . . to establish “roots” in a place . . . I think that I have known for a long, long time that “home” is not in a place, but that it is in the heart.  Home is where the heart is . . . as trite as that might sound, it is true.

The comfortableness does not come from the physical surroundings, but from the people that fill that space.  After I left home to begin college my parents moved at least three times before I graduated . . . in none of those places did I have a room that was considered mine . . . but, I always felt as if I was going “home”.  I was going “home” because of the people who inhabited that space . . . my parents, my siblings . . . the people that I loved.  So it has been with all the moves that the wife and I have made over the years . . . the space has been different, but the people have always been the same . . . it is filled with the people we love.  It is the same experience that our children talk about now as adults and when they come “home”.  It is the familiar faces . . . the teasing and joking around . . . the laughter and the tears . . . it is the embrace that is warm and familiar no matter where it is given . . . it is a “fit” that never goes away. 

“Some day you will own a home that is as big as a house.”  That is the reality of what I am really shooting for now in my life . . . that I own a “home” that is as big as a house.  That “home” is not a place, but in my heart.  It is in my heart because that is where I keep those people that make me comfortable . . . that love me . . . that trust me . . . that accept me for who I am.  Despite my wisecracking ways, when I say that “home” is where I am, there is a truth to that statement. 

The wife and I do not plan on moving any time soon . . . if ever.  Home is wherever we are whether we have the traditional “roots” or not.  Home is that knowing glance in the eyes of those that I love . . . that acknowledge me . . . that love me . . .

If I keep working at it that “home” I will own won’t be the size of a house . . . it will be a mansion.  Home is found in the love that is shared . . . and, we all know, love has no limits.  Gee, but it is great to be “home”.

Tradition

Tradition, tradition!  Tradition!

Tradition, tradition!  Tradition!

(Tradition Chorus, Fiddle on the Roof)

In the beginning of the musical, Fiddler on the Roof, Teyve provides a singing monologue about “tradition”.  He speaks of “tradition” as the mortar that has kept the small village of Anatevka . . . that has given the village and the people “balance”.  The musical story deals with the pressure of the outside world encroaching upon Teyve’s and the village’s “traditions” . . . three daughters who go against the customs and traditions of the faith and community to choose their own husbands . . . the Russian Tsar that evicts the people from the village that they call home as political unrest shakes Russia.  The musical and the story begins with “tradition”.

Teyve preaches: “Because of our traditions, we’ve kept our balance for many, many years.  Here in Anatevka, we have traditions for everything.  How to sleep.  How to eat.  How to work.  How to wear clothes.  For instance, we always keep our heads covered, and always wear a little prayer shawl.  This shows our constant devotion to God.  You may ask, how did this tradition get started?  I’ll tell you.  I don’t know.  But it’s a tradition.  And because of our traditions, every one of us knows who he is and what God expects him to do.”  In the mind and heart of Teyve traditions provide the “roots” . . . the mortar . . . and the balance for life . . . and, as long as everything keeps its rightful place, life is good.  Little does Teyve know at the start of the musical and story that life is about to throw him and everyone else in his world . . . in Anatevka . . . a curve ball that severely challenges the balance and understanding of “tradition”.

Fiddler on the Roof has been one of my favorite musicals since I was a kid.  I love the music . . . I love the story.  As I have grown older, I have loved the way it has made me stop and think about “tradition” . . . about being a parent . . . about being family . . . community . . . and, what God expects from me in the world that seems to be constantly changing and challenging that which brings “balance” in life. Fiddler on the Roof is a classic that reaches across the generations urging us to pause and consider the changing world in which we live . . . to consider our “traditions” . . . to consider whether or not they are “set in stone”.

On Facebook recently a friend posted that he needed tradition.  He stated: “Why I need tradition: It makes me feel good. It is not a dirty word. How cold and dull the world would be without it. I do not equate tradition with absolute truth. I don't care if it's incorrect historically, ideologically or any other way. Give me a turkey and a Christmas tree.”  Kind of reminded me of Teyve when trying to explain how “tradition” started . . . “I don’t know”, but you get the feeling that it sure made him feel good . . . to know that he had “roots” . . . that he had an anchor in the storms of life . . . that there was balance in the world and life was good.  And, I don’t disagree with either Teyve or my friend . . . “tradition” is a central part of who we are as individuals, families, communities, and as the children of God. 

But . . .

. . . what are we to do when the world around us begins to challenge our “traditions” . . . begins to encroach on our “traditions” . . . begins to upset our “balance” . . . our world as we have known it.  When I read my friend’s statement about the need for tradition . . . in particular a turkey for Thanksgiving and a tree for Christmas . . . it got me to thinking . . . got me a little uncomfortable . . . made me stop and consider my own “traditions” in the shadow of change.

When it comes to Thanksgiving . . . well, I am not a big traditionalist.  Thanks to the wife going on a health kick and pushing chicken and turkey as the food to keep us alive . . . I cannot tolerate either unless they are deep fat fried with the skin on and dripping with grease . . . or smothered in lots (and, I mean LOTS) of gravy.  I shudder when I think about turkey for Thanksgiving.  Give me a nice medium rare steak and I can think of a hundred reasons why I am thankful.  Turkey . . . well, it’s for the birds.  I whole-heartedly agree with the president’s annual pardon for the turkey.  So, if turkey is a “tradition” that makes Thanksgiving . . . Thanksgiving . . . then I am not much of a traditionalist.  Same goes for pumpkin pie, sweet potatoes, yams, and corn bread dressing (or stuffing depending on which part of the country you are living in).  Thank goodness . . . and, thank God . . . for wine.  It makes the “traditional” Thanksgiving meal we will devour go down a whole lot smoother.  In the Keener household, the non-traditionalist loses out year after year after year.

When I asked my wife and others, “Why?”  I never receive an answer that really answers the question.  At least Teyve is honest when he says, “I don’t know.”  Usually what I get is . . . because.  Because we have always done it that way.  Remember the family that had the “tradition” of cutting the ends off the ham before cooking it.  When the daughter hosting the feast asked her mother why they did it that way, the mother answered, “I don’t know, but that is what your grandmother always did.  Ask her.” She then asks her grandmother, who basically says that is what her mother did . . . but, the great-grandmother is still alive—in a nursing home . . . ask her.  And, so she does.

Great-grandmother goes on to explain: “When your great-grandfather and I first got married we did not have much.  We bought a ham but it was too big for the pan . . . so we cut the ends off so that it would fit into the pan.”  Tradition!

Makes you think.

Years ago . . . and, probably not even that long ago . . . the great political ploy during the elections was “family values”.  It seemed that every politician was running on the platform of “family values” . . . they all promised that if they were elected they would bring back “family values”.  It sounded wonderful and the people got excited . . . who doesn’t believe in “family values”?  It sounded good, but no one was asking . . . whose “family values”?  Looking at the lives of a lot of the politicians running for office, I sure did not want their “family values”.  So, whose “family values”?  Yours?  Mine?  Theirs?  I think that it is the same when it comes to “traditions”.

Makes you think.

Makes me feel like Teyve in Fiddler on the Roof.  I guess that is why I like the musical and story so much . . . I can identify with Teyve as he faces the changes and challenges to those things that give to him root and balance.  Life is not stagnant . . . life is growing . . . growth means change.  Who among us likes change?  We are all Teyve when it comes to change in that which we believe to be the core essence of who we are . . . an essence often defined by our “traditions”.

Around the “traditions” that we observe in the celebrations and milestones of our lives we believe that there is a thread that runs through all of us and when pulled it brings us together . . . together as family, community, and even nation.  Yet, I am not sure any more.  I am not sure that it is the “tradition” that draws us together . . . none of us celebrates Thanksgiving in quite the same way . . . some eat turkey, some eat ham, some prefer steak, and others are vegetarians . . . some say grace as the family gathers around an elaborately decorated table, others sit in front of the television—meals on tv trays . . . no two celebrations are the same.  Yet, we are all observing and celebrating the giving of thanks . . . Thanksgiving.  If all of our “traditions” are different, then what is it that draws us together.

For a while the wife and I observed the “traditions” of our separate families . . . attempted to combine them in order to honor our heritage and families . . . and, eventually we gave up and started our own “traditions”.  Our parents did the same thing . . . and, now our children are doing the same.  They are creating their own “traditions” around the holidays and the way that they do things.  And, it is okay.  It is okay because it is not the “tradition” that brings us together . . . it is not the “tradition” that defines us as a family . . . it is not the “tradition” that brings to us our roots or balance.  Towards the end of the musical and story, Teyve learns this . . . he learns that the thread that keeps it all together—despite the changes and challenges—is rooted in love.  At the threat of losing his daughters for forever he lets “tradition” go out the window.  He acknowledges that it is love that keeps them together.

As I gather with my family for Thanksgiving it will not be the dreaded turkey that brings me to the table or the presence of my wife and children . . . it will be the fact that I love each and every one of them.  As we each give witness to that which we are thankful it will not be words of blessing for the food (though we are thankful for it) . . . but it will be love . . . true love that goes beyond the good and the bad within each of us . . . love that loves despite . . . For this love I am thankful.

I do not know or understand why I or anyone else celebrates the “traditions” that we do, but I do understand that it is in the gathering of those I love that I find the greatest joy . . . the greatest satisfaction . . . and, the root of all that makes me who I am . . . and, who you are.  It is the people that makes the “tradition” . . . the foundation of all that Jesus taught came down to love . . . love the Lord . . . love your neighbor.  For that I am thankful.  That is one “tradition” I can wrap my heart and life around no matter how much the world wants me to change . . . love.  For that I am thankful.  TRADITION! 

What’s in a Name?

I think about names.  Names can be pretty powerful stuff.  Stuff that reveals to others who a person is . . . what a person is made of . . . the pure essence of understanding another.  Names are supposed to mean something about us as individuals . . . about us as families.  Names are pretty important; so, every-so-often, I think about names.

First, I guess I should explain my fascination with names.  It all began with Moses.  You know Moses . . . the guy in the Old Testament who was left by the Nile River by his mother when the Pharaoh had declared a decree against all the male babies born to the captive Israelites . . . the guy who was raised by Pharaoh’s family after Pharaoh’s daughter found him floating on the Nile River . . . the guy who flees Egypt after killing an Egyptian for beating on an Israelite . . . the guy who runs off to become a shepherd for his future father-in-law . . . and, the guy called upon by God to return to Egypt to free the Israelites—God’s people—from their bondage . . . the guy who leads the Israelites through the wilderness for forty years and never gets the opportunity to enter into the Promised Land of God despite being within spitting distance of it.  You remember Moses.

Well, Moses was not stupid.  He knew the power of names.  When he encounters God one day at a burning bush he pushes God to the limit to give him information so that the people would believe that God had actually spoken to him.  The information he wants from God is a name . . . what is God’s name?  Moses understood the power of names and how they described the essence of the person or deity.  A name gave another all the information that he or she needed to be known.  So, Moses wanted God to give him a name that he could tell the people.

The only problem is that God was smarter than Moses.  Finally God concedes to Moses and give him a name.  God tells Moses that the name that God goes by is YHWH (or YahWeh).  YHWH means “I am who I am.”  That was God’s name . . . YHWH . . . I am who I am.  Of course, this floors Moses . . . what in the world is that supposed to mean . . . I am who I am?  Unfortunately for Moses, God did not pull any punches and laid it out there for Moses . . . God is who God is . . . God can be whatever God needs to be . . . God is God.  YHWH says it all while saying nothing at all.  Moses was floored when God trumps him with God’s name.

Names have power.  Names tell us about people.  Tells us characteristics about people.  Tells us who they are.  Gives us the essence of their identity.  For example, take the name of Moses.  Moses, in Hebrew (which he was), can mean “deliver” or to “draw out”.  That was the role of Moses in the Exodus story.  Moses was the one who would deliver God’s children to the Promised Land . . . he was the one who “drew out” the people of God from their captivity.  Pretty impressive that his mother named him that without knowing what the future would hold for him.  So, names have power to describe us to others.

The other day I had business at one of the schools near Crow Agency.  Crow Agency is the main community of the Crow Reservation.  I had to go to a nearby school and do hearing rescreens for the Montana Hearing Conservation Project.  While there I was given a list of kids that I needed to test their hearing.  Fifty-eight of the last names of these children were what many would classify as being “Native”.  These names were wonderful . . . lyrical . . . beautiful in their description . . . and, revealing as they described the child and their family ancestry.  To say the least, as I went down the list and met the kids, I was in awe of the power of their names . . . actually, I was jealous.

Jealous because they had these wonderful names.  Names like: Otter Robe; Old Horn; Bad Moccasin; Elk Shoulder; Rides the Bear; Not Afraid; Old Coyote; Yellow Robe; Pretty on Top; Walks Over Ice; Pretty Weasel;  Bear Cloud; Rides the Horse; Spotted Eagle; Takes Enemy; Hugs; Old Crow; and, Little Light.  Of course, these were last names . . . for the most part their first names were pretty common.  But those last names got the imagination going and stirred up a little jealousy on my part . . . I wanted a cool last name.  A name that would explain to everyone who I am . . . that would share the essence of who I am.  Keener just doesn’t seem to quite hack it when it comes the names of these Native American kids.

Keener means “a person who is extremely eager, zealous, or enthusiastic”.  It also means a person who displays this eagerness, zeal, or enthusiasm with social inadequacy, sycophancy, or natural ability.  I am pretty sure that this does not describe me.  No one would ever vouch for me as being “eager, zealous, or enthusiastic.”  That is not me.  I am not the first to raise his hand in class . . . not the first to volunteer . . . not the first to lead an uprising.  Nope . . . no one is going to describe with those words.  But . . . and, this is a big but . . . there are a lot of folks would say that I am inadequate when it comes to social skills.  On the end of the Urban Dictionary’s definition of “keener”—which they refer to a “keener” as in the same classification as a nerd, geek, brown-noser, or smarty pants—there are many would probably agree.  This is not the way that I envision myself as a person . . . nor is it the way that I want people to think of me.  I think my name is way off base.

Yet, that is what I have to deal with.  And, over the years, people have run with it.  The greatest pun play on my last name growing up was, “Keener Weiner”.  Or the tiresome, “Who you keener than?”  That was when people would accept the fact that “Keener” was really my last name . . . others thought it was a nickname.  There is nothing cool about being named “Keener”.  As a kid there were days l longed for a different last name . . . something cool . . . something like the names of those Native American kids I met.

I guess I should be thankful that my first name is a little cooler when it comes to meaning.  “John” is a biblical name derived from Hebrew that means “the grace or mercy of the Lord.”  One description of the names states that those who are named “John” have a deep inner desire for a stable, loving family or community, and a need to work with others and to be appreciated.  That is pretty cool . . . I guess.  Yet, at the same time, “John” is a another name for a toilet . . . a crapper.  The truth is that I was named after my father.  I will admit that there are parts of me that are regular old chips off the block that was my father . . . some good, some bad . . . but, none the less indicators of who I am.  There was really nothing special about being named “John”.  I still caught all of the toilet jokes . . . still got all the “Dear John letters” . . . and, put up with the “John-boy” references.  Not quite the same as Knows Gun or bear Cloud or Little Light.

Same goes for my middle name . . . Martin.  Shoot for the first fifteen years of my life I couldn’t even spell my middle name correctly . . . kept spelling it “Martian” . . . yeah, I was a strange kid growing up.  Turns out, when looking up its meaning, that I was probably pretty close to its meaning when I couldn’t spell it right.  Martin means, in English, “warrior of Mars”.  In Spanish it means “warring”.  Same with the American meaning.  People with this name have a deep inner desire to use their abilities in leadership, and to have personal independence.  They would rather focus on large, important issues, and delegate the details.  They are creative and excellent at expressing themselves.  They are drawn to the arts, and often enjoy life immensely. Like attention.  Enjoy careers that put themselves in the limelight.  Tend to get involved in many different activities, and are sometimes reckless with both their energies and with money.

I have to admit that Martin has points where it fits.  Yet, Martin does not strike fear in people; nor does it render itself to easy interpretation.  The only “warrior from Mars” I am even aware of is Marvin the Martian from Warner Brother’s Looney Tunes cartoons.  I am not green.  I am not from outer space.  And, I am far from being a warrior.

Nothing about my name is impressive . . . John Martin Keener.  Sounds like some geeky religious person . . . hey, that is what some people truly think I am since I am a minister.  This is getting scary.  Hitting close to home.  Yet, it still is not some cool name that describes me without a whole lot of thinking.  I really want a cool Native American name that would let people know the essence of me without having to scour the Internet or pulling out the Oxford English Dictionary.  I want a name that people get a visual image that describes me.  “Keener” just does not hack it . . . geek, nerd, brown-noser, or smarty pants.

If I could choose my own name, what would it be?

Well, I imagine would say something along the lines of “Old Balding Man” . . . that is descriptive of me since I am getting old and am folicly challenged.  I have been called “Four Eyes” because I wear glasses, but a more accurate name might be “Four Eyes to the Third Power” since I wear trifocals.  Some would probably vote for the name of “Smart Ass” since I like to kid so much.  Others might cast a vote for “Spreads in the Middle” as everything seems to have gone south on my body.  I imagine that as I get older there will be those who might refer to me as “Breaking Wind”.  I guess if I asked some of my Native American friends they would probably tell me that “Silly White Man” would fit. 

That is the problem.  Names mean something.  Surprisingly . . . with dumb luck or karma . . . most of our names fit us as individuals.  When I look at the names of all of my children, the wife and I are amazed at how much the names we chose for our children fit them.  Shoot, despite not wanting to admit it, even the names that I have fit me to a certain extent . . . whether I can spell them or not.  If someone was to take the time and actually look up my name I can picture them shaking their heads, saying, “Yeah, I can see that.”  And, they should know.

My name might not be cool . . . but, it does describe me to a point.  My name might not be as powerful as other names . . . but, that is the name people know me by.  My name might not sound as cool as other names . . . but it is my name.  I have taken a lifetime to learn how to spell it and I am used to it by now.  That’s how God knows me . . . at least it is how I hope God knows me . . . and, that is good enough for me.  Oh, sure, there will be those moments when I wish I had been named something else; but in the end, I am John Martin Keener . . . “grace of God” . . . “warrior from Mars” . . . and, somewhat “eager, enthusiastic, and zealous”.  What more could I be known for?  There’s power in that name . . . at least, there will be when I find it. If it worked for Moses, it can work for me.