Welcoming the Stranger

I had the house to myself.  The football game was a plausible excuse to be doing nothing.  The sun had just pulled below the western horizon and the Christmas lights had responded on cue from the timer whirring on the front porch.

I heard a car door shut in front of the house and moments later the door bell rang.  The visit surprised me.  We have only a few drop-in-unannounced visitors — and it was a little early in the season for friends to be on holiday baking delivery runs.

As I swung the door open, I saw a young woman.  She was probably a college student, although my ability to gauge ages has diminished with each passing year.  When my eyes met hers, she smiled broadly.  “Hi!” I offered.  “Hi! she responded as she moved past me into the front hallway.

“Who is this?” I thought.  She was now in our living room.  The lights from the Christmas tree offered a silhouette, but I still wasn’t able to identify her.  She looked vaguely familiar, but, as with age discernment, my powers of recognition are fading as well.  Perhaps she is a co-worker of Nancy’s down at the store, I reasoned.  Maybe Nancy knows she is coming by and she’ll be home any minute.

About that time, the young woman turned with a puzzled look on her face.  At the edges of that look, fear was beginning to paint a more solemn mask.  I decided I should blatantly reveal my confusion over the purpose of her visit.

“And who was it you came to see?” I asked.  Her eyes showed mixed feelings — relief that I was aware of a problem and apprehension over what was to come.

“Professor Morris,” she said.

“Oh, the Morrises live next door — both of them professors,” I stated.  “You missed them by one house.”

She must have known I was wondering why she so willingly crossed the threshold of a home where a stranger opened the door.  “I am so sorry,” she said.  “When I talked to Professor Morris, she said it would be okay to come over — and that her parents might be visiting.  I thought you must be her dad!”

With that explanation and a half-dozen more apologies from her, I ushered her out and assured her that her visit had not been an intrusion.  As I made my way back to my recliner, I chuckled.  She thought I was Heidi’s father!  How preposterous!

As I watched my team continue to make mistakes that would eventually cost them the game, I felt my spirits sink, as well.  From this day forward, I would be known as an old man — someone old enough to be mistaken as the father of a college professor.  For half an hour, I sat and wondered where my life had gone and questioned whether or not I had met my purpose for existence.

Nancy came in a little later.  Reluctantly, I told her of the encounter.  I bravely spun the story as a funny one.  She didn’t laugh.  She just looked at me.  “Well, you are old enough to be Heidi’s father, after all.”

The truth of that stung a bit.  It was true, of course.  My earlier consideration of life and purpose and meaning surfaced again.  What was it all about?

A little later, while penning a letter to my son, I realized — my life and my purpose and all of its meaning were wrapped up in that special moment when I opened the door.  For that moment, all that mattered was welcoming the stranger.  This wasn’t a dramatic episode.  No, in fact, it was only one of those benign opportunities we have to gently grace another person.  Kindness, even with confusion, fills in the gaps and answers the questions that haunt us.  And a pleasant meeting is merely practice for those more difficult times.

Not all of our encounters with strangers will be as comfortable and safe as mine was last night.  Yet, every such moment presents a very real opportunity to realize our potential and to embrace the essence of a higher power.

A rather trivial trip to the front door was all God needed to remind me that my well-being is woven in intricate patterns in the lives of those around me — even the strangers.

Waiting at Tables

For some time now, Nancy and I have frequented a little pizza place here in Abilene.  I know everyone’s tastes differ when it comes to pizza.  Some like New York style, some Chicago, and some Roma, I suppose.  I’m not sure what style this small establishment claims, but I’d say it’s my style.  Sure, I like the variety of pies my friend, Jonathan, dishes out from his Domino’s, too.  But this is my favorite restaurant pizza.

We also like the people who work in this place.  We’ve been impressed with every server who has come our way.  Dining there is a relaxing enjoyable time.

Last Sunday lunch began in a way that could have challenged my 5-star review.  We ordered soft drinks — in paper cups, please.  The server shook her head and told us that the soft drink dispenser was on the blink.  In fact, it was spewing carbonated water on the dining room floor as we spoke.  Sure enough, I looked past her to see two other employees busily mopping, trying to stem the flow.

I ordered tea and Nancy asked for water.  She was determined to hold out hope for that Dr Pepper.  The server apologized, took our pizza and salad order.  Actually, it was Nancy’s salad order — I don’t waste time on greens and such when pizza is close by.  As I stirred my tea and Nancy looked forlornly into her water, I started to apologize.  After all, it had fallen my lot to pick the restaurant today.

About that time, the owner came in the back door.  He grabbed a flashlight and dove under the cabinet.  The fizzy water continued to pour.  He came out once for tools and I suppose for air and then went back in — all the way in.  Within minutes, the machine was repaired, the moppers won their battle against the tide, and soft drinks began flowing.

When our order came, Nancy’s half-salad was extra big, Dr Peppers were before us, and the pizza was the best I have ever had.  Our server was wonderful, too.  So, when she brought the check, I gave her a 35% tip.  She wouldn’t be able to retire on it, but I felt really good about doing it.

I paid with a debit card.  The following day I was checking my account and I noticed that the charge for the meal was posted, but that the tip — my generous tip — was not there.  I glanced up and down the listed transactions thinking perhaps it was handled separately.  Nothing.

All of my good feelings began to dissipate.  Not only had my good deed misfired, but now I felt branded.  How could I face the good pizza people again?  How did getting stiffed on a tip make that server feel?

We all know how it feels, don’t we?  We measure these things in terms of the respect we absorb — or the absence of it.  Nothing destroys relationships more than the absence of respect.

Notice today who is waiting at your table.  Show them some respect.  In fact, go out of your way to honor someone who serves you in any way, small or large.  As for me, I’m thinking I may go back for pizza today — or, if Nancy’s reading, for the salad.  And I’ll be taking two extra big tips . . . in cash.

Pushing for Peace

I’ve been thinking about peace a lot lately.  Personal peace.  Relational peace. Political peace.  World peace.

So it wouldn’t be surprising that I stopped what I was doing to watch a short news clip this morning that featured an “anti-war mom” out with a megaphone in front of a military installation.  I had the sound down during the first part of the story so I couldn’t hear what she was saying.  Apparently though, the real news value wasn’t her protest.

An old gentleman, a sergeant who served many years ago, walked up in the remnants of his dress uniform and began talking with her.  Perhaps he was yelling at her, I couldn’t tell.  In seconds, the demonstrator turned her megaphone directly at him.  When he came very close, she put the instrument directly in his face and, for whatever reason, bumped him with it.

Appearing startled, the man pushed the megaphone away from his face and kept talking.  Other protesters jumped in.  The news person reported that military police had to step in to stop the “shoving” match.

My perception is that no one truly emerged as a victor in that episode.  Sarge was jostled around, even though the news footage didn’t show him ever raise his hands from his side except to push the megaphone away from his face.  The peace folks did quite a bit of shoving.  I find that almost comical — except it isn’t really funny.  True, I didn’t hear what the older gentleman was saying.  And he was quite bold in pushing his way to the epicenter of the demonstration.  Perhaps he was disrespectful.  Perhaps these women felt threatened by him.  I really don’t know all the details.  But I know what it looked like.

Whatever was happening, the whole episode was embarrassing for those of us in the peace business.

And by the way, we’re all in the “peace business.”

From our military personnel in harm’s way to the mother who believes that her calling is to attract attention to armed action she has deemed wrong, every single one of us has been called to peace.  As with most important things, we are called to different roles, however.

We need less shouting and more quiet talking.  We need less pushing to the middle of someone’s space and a more ordered presence close by — available to talk and even to serve those with whom we disagree.  We need fewer megaphones and more cups of cold water.  In short, we need more respect.

And we don’t just need respect out on the picket lines.  What happened to cause these protesters to gather?  What conversations were neglected?  What questiones went unanswered?  And, perhaps, what answers went unheard?

So, you’re a peacemaker.  I want to invite you to push for peace today.  Not with physical force and ugly words.  Push past boundaries you’ve never crossed.  Offer comfort to someone in need.  Be kind.  You’ll be energizing a force far more powerful than any shove you can muster.

 

Escaping Orbit

As I gaze out the window of my oft-times harried life, it seems to me that I often see the same landscapes.  Over and over again.  And planted in those larger scenes are the faces I’ve seen before with voices echoing the same messages I’ve heard before.

Face pressed against the window pane of my existence, I marvel, perhaps even delight, in seeing the replay of my most frustrating moments.  I see the anger and injustice that I perceive grows from others.  And I, almost unknowingly, reach over to hit the rewind button.  I feel justified in my own anger and malice toward those who do things to complicate my life.

I now realize that when I act this way, I have chosen to orbit the challenges and problems.  For whatever reason, I have chosen to keep them close.  I have chosen my misery.

“Chosen” is a convicting word.  Some who are in a similar circumstance may wince a bit at its use.  Why, we all ask, would we choose to do what is painful?

I believe we choose to act this way because, deep down, we think we have the power to make a difference . . . to bring about change.  Actually, we do have some capacity for that.  Yet, when we target change to happen in others, we lock into a circular path that leads nowhere.  In doing so, we orbit.  We spin around.  We turn the problems over and over again in our hands like some sort of a puzzle.  While in the force of that recurring nightmare and our attempts to stabilize everything about us, we rarely find the key to unlock the puzzle’s secret.

The problem with orbiting is that over time our energy begins to wane and we begin a spiral down into the problem itself.  We want to own the situation and manipulate it.  Without fail, that sort of fixation allows gravity to pull us into the central mass of negativity and pain.

I’m discovering (but have not mastered) the concept of letting go.  By releasing those things I truly have no control over, I am freed to go on with my life without the constant reruns of my bitterness, helplessness, and hopelessness.  Indeed, I am freed to navigate to where I need to be and want to be — almost at will.  Or, if I’m not totally successful in releasing, I gain the blessing of a wider orbit, one that includes greater experiences and relationships.

The key is in deciding what I am truly responsible for and what is outside my realm.  I am responsible for me.  I am responsible for how I interact with others.  I am responsible for my relationship with One who is greater than me.  And while that is a tremendous set of responsibilities, it’s a burden that each one of us is totally capable of bearing.

Let go.  Share heavy things with others.  Escape your orbit around the negative things that can capture your heart, mind, and soul.

Open Mind, Dark Pit

I’m studying this week.  Not my usual book readings and journaling. I’m studying in an “immersion” week.  Intensive sessions.  Homework at night. A diversity of classmates.

The subject matter is fascinating.  Theories from the sciences reinforce things we believed but never really knew.  Emerging research adds to the weight.  This particular line of thinking has been articulated in some form or fashion for half a century.  Its handlers continue to gently unfold it.  Showing too much, too soon would be too troublesome they say.

My professor is a man of God.  He has very much reconciled the concepts to his personal journey.  In fact, much about the teaching seems to lift us to a place where every one of us walks a closer walk with God.

Yet, the projections of where this takes us is frightening.  According to the theory, humans are emerging into a state of being where we will end our belief in God.  We can already point to the myriad of ways that mankind has pulled away from the Creator.  This one is akin to those.  It seems that we, as a people, will think our way past God.  Our intellect will be so great, that we will leave Him and all “other superstitions” behind.

I take solace in the fact that mere mortals have tried to muscle around God before.  And we never quite get there.  True, less people go to church than once did.  The reason we are told is that church is for the unenlightened and the less developed.  As the world touches on enlightenment and development, however, the problems and the solutions seem no less dark or attainable.

I’m uncomfortable studying such things.  But I know that God does give us everything for our good.  Often the view from the edge of the cliff is the most beautiful and revealing.  It’s danger is evident.

The greatest danger, however, is not climbing the mountains and not staring down into that dark pit.  For without the pit, we cannot grasp the wonder of the mountaintop.

I’ll continue to study and think – and perhaps gain a little of that enlightenment.  As I look down into that pit and try to penetrate that darkness, I think I’ll just slip my hand in God’s.  Just in case.

What if we weren’t wrong . . .

I’m spending time with a group of individuals who are asking questions.  Not the demanding, investigative-type of questions.  More of the shades of wonder-type questions.

I’ve been in other groups (though not for very long) that have asked questions, too.  Invariably, their questions center on the mistakes of the past.  “Why didn’t we see that we were so wrong?”  I’ve stood by in horror as these people, acting in typical mob fashion, have castigated their predecessors — and occasionally themselves.

The constant messages ring out . . .

“We have arrived . . . We have attained a level of wisdom never before seen  . . . We have been lifted from our previous stupor of ignorance . . . We are begotten of fools and ignorant people.”

But what if, in those not too distant moments when we or others believed or thought or felt differently, we weren’t wrong?  What if we or our parents or previous administrations were right for the moment?  What if our state of being was a result of the best we could do or think or feel at that time?

The group I’m now in asks questions that have no room for blame.  Only capacity for gain.  What should we be doing?  Where should we be going? How is the best way to get there?  Who could come with us?  When should we take our next step?

The conversation that follows moves quickly.  By not having to tread and retread the slick pavement of fault, we gain traction in things of importance.  We move more rapidly towards making a difference.

Wait, you say.  What if you or your predecessors were wrong?  What then?  What if you were wrong. . .

Then, I have to believe that a power greater than us will influence the current decision.  I’m convinced that life is not marked by right answers, only best answers for the moment.  And, if that’s true, we can stop worrying about being wrong and invest instead in doing what we hope and pray is best.

Wisdom, in the final setting, is not about being right.  Wisdom is being open to what is right.

On drawing lines

“I’ve just about had enough.”

A phrase most often coupled by parents with “Don’t make me come back there.”

Some how, some way, we all want to set boundaries on what we can live with.  And often, we want to back that up with some promise of force or other action if any one is so bold as to cross that line.  After all, don’t people need to know that invading boundaries invokes consequences?

I’m a boundary-loving person — but not big on consequences.  That’s not to say that I don’t impose consequences.  I’m just not thrilled about it.

Yet, consequences are a natural . . . well, uh . . . consequence of life.  Any action I take or word I speak holds tremendous potential for ripples.  And when the boundaries are the right ones, then the attendant, well-reasoned consequences serve a noble purpose — even if the consequences are difficult.

But what happens if my “line in the sand” is misplaced?

Perhaps because of my distaste for imposing consequences, I’m fairly even-handed in dealing them out.  My difficulty, it seems, comes in staking out the wrong boundaries or sometimes the right boundaries for the wrong reasons.  That’s not to say that the lines I draw aren’t close to the right vicinity.  However, if I can’t explain why they’re there, do I dare defend them?

William Ury in his book, The Power of a Positive No, addresses this problem with his concept of packaging a “No” as three answers.  The first answer is a “Yes!” to yourself and your own values.  The second is a firm “No.” to the person or persons making demands or asking you to shift your boundaries.  The final answer is a “Yes?” that can spur further conversation.

Even though I violated all sorts of writing styles in including them, the punctuation on those answers is important.  The exclamation point on the first “Yes!” shows the enthusiasm and positive energy we should feel in recognizing where our own interests are.  The period on the “No.” makes it a calm, flat statement.  A negative answer is often delivered with anxiety and in a way that provokes argument or, even worse, ends all conversation.  A healthy, well-meaning “No” leaves room for continued dialog.  The question mark on the final “Yes?” invites others into a discussion of what could be.  In other words, “Yes?” says, “Your position or request is outside of my current boundaries.  Could we talk about our common interests and see if there is some place we could agree?  Who knows?  Perhaps our boundaries could use adjustment.”

I’m not sure that my “first yes” in all situations bears that exclamation point.  I doubt whether I’ve always invested in discovering and testing those personal boundaries. Since it’s the first piece of a positive “no,” my work is cut out for me.

I’ll be taking drawing lessons in the near future.  Who would have thought that sketching an exclamation point could present such a challenge?

Two Balloons

On her way to pick-up our granddaughter, Landrye, from KidsQuest Day Camp today, Nancy stopped and bought two balloons — a black one and a white one.

With Landrye right beside her, she made her way to the foot of the majestic and moving sculpture, Jacob’s Dream.  Towering high above, Jacob’s ladder to heaven is filled with angels — the largest known depiction of this Old Testament story in the world.  As a spot for special moments, this little bit of West Texas real estate is prime.

A guessing game ensued between grandmother and granddaughter, “What is special and black and white?”

The answers tumbled out rapidly,  “A zebra.  A panda.  A white tiger.”

“Think of one at our house.  Black and white and really special.”

“Snoopy!”

Nancy smiled as she thought of our little dog.  Mottled with black and white fur, she won hearts with her incredibly attractive face and soulful eyes.  Over fourteen years old and a sweetheart, Snoopy was technically a farm dog.  For a number of years, she had been Nancy’s dad’s companion.  Criss-crossing the half-section of farmland, she had proudly chased barn cats and occasional wild turkeys.  Primarily she was known for her tail-wagging.  Standing maybe 8 inches tall to the top of her head, she was a bundle of energy.

When we lost Nancy’s dad, Snoopy moved to her adopted home in the city.  She was a wonderful companion to our old beagle for several years until Tipi moved on to a place in our memories.  Snoopy became the center of our attention and she lavished love on us.

Early this morning, Snoopy spent her last moments with us and on this earth.  Worsening seizures and other complications of a dog whose life would be measured at almost 100 human years brought her to that point of no return.  She left us with her same spirit of sweetness.

The news of her passing was not shared with everyone.

Nancy now turned to Landrye.  “The black balloon stands for our sadness.  The white balloon reminds us of the gladness we feel when we think of God’s care for all creatures great and small.  Now, when we think of Snoopy, we see her released from the pain that her many years brought her.  In our hearts, she’s a puppy again.”

As the balloons left their hands and floated skyward, granddaughter and grandmother felt their sadness and their gladness weave together into a memory.  Landrye understood.  A friend had been lost.

We often measure the passing of someone or some thing loved by releasing only one balloon.  The dark one.  The one of questions.  The one that drains our energy.

Today, Nancy reminded Landrye and me — and now you — of that all-important, all-healing second balloon.

When life presents sadness, God provides gladness.  And that gladness never overshadows the sadness.  Instead it twists together with the threads of difficulties and misfortune to form a fabric that stretches heavenward — our bridge to a loving and caring God.

‘Taken Identity

I don’t get as many letters from credit card companies as I used to.  You see, a little over a year ago, heeding the dire warnings of those who guarantee to protect me from identity bandits, I signed up with a service that monitors my credit accounts and warns me if some dastardly persons are using my good name in a way that drains my money and ruins my reputation.  One of the side benefits is that this service also puts my name on a number of “don’t solicit” lists.

I also signed up for the “do not call me during dinner” service provided by the federal government.  I still have companies calling me — I don’t really expect a government service to be entirely effective (guess there’s still a bit of Republican hanging on) — but now we just use our caller id to screen out those nuisance calls.  Of course, some make their way through and leave messages that I have little interest in.  Mostly political calls (which are exempt from the do not call register) and usually recorded messages from our governor and congressman — both Republicans, by the way.

If you’re thinking that I’m writing here about political affiliation, let me assure you that I’m not — and I am.  What I’m really talking about here is how we take a combination of experiences and brand people with an identity that fits our purposes.

So, if you’re a Republican, it’s easier for you to talk with me about politics if you can assign me the label of Republican or Democrat.  You may get a little edgy if I tell you I’m an Independent or a Libertarian.  I’m not, but let me confuse things even further.  I am actually a member of the “informed voter” party.  And no, that doesn’t mean that I’m really a Republican or a Democrat.  I have definite views and beliefs.  However, you can’t neatly box me in with anyone else.  I can’t vote a straight ticket.

Beyond political parties, we like branding people as liberal or conservative, moderate or progressive, capitalist or communist.  It’s just easier for us.  This spills over into other areas of life, as well.  If we perceive that a person is not as adept in our mother tongue as we are, we talk to them differently.  Have you ever listened in on your conversations with a baby or small child?  Or a foreign speaker?  Or someone with less education?  Or someone from a different race or culture?  It’s often obvious that we choose to categorize such folks rather than to talk to them (and more importantly, about them) as people.

Instead of taking someone else’s private information in order to steal money or misdirect communication, I believe that I may often be guilty of taking personal identities and changing them to what is most convenient to me.  I assign motives and characteristics.  I blame. I seek to exalt myself.

Perhaps I am an identity thief, of sorts.

For today, at least, I’m pledging to drop my labeling scheme.  For today, I will listen to each person who crosses my path as an individual who is worthy of my respect — free from bias.  For today, I promise not to steal the identities of others simply to recraft them for my gain.

Might be a good day to visit with me.

Might even make tomorrow a better day.

Sometimes the cookie has to crumble . . .

Way back in my grade school years, my family took a glorious trip to Fort Worth. It was something school-related, involving my brother Carl’s extracurricular activities. But it was a glorious trip for me because I was allowed to miss school.

Adding to the excitement was our good fortune to stay with friends of my parents who lived in Fort Worth. Their youngest daughter was one year older and I thought of her as more of a cousin. We had great times together.

On this particular trip, I remember sitting in the middle of their living room floor playing some board game. My friend’s mom was baking cookies. Normally, smelling those cookies would be true bliss for me. Unfortunately, I developed a tremendous, sickening headache. And the smell of those cookies became forever attached to memories of the pain I was feeling.

Now, I’m not sure what kind of cookies were being baked. For whatever reason, I have associated macadamia nut cookies with that ugly experience. So through the years, I have avoided macadamia nut cookies. A few years ago, in a moment of adult rationality and at the urging of others who claimed that the macadamia nut cookie was at the height of pastry evolution, I tried one. The morsel was barely in my mouth before the nightmare of memories returned. I was back in that living room, smelling those cookies . . . head throbbing, nauseated, miserable.

Earlier this year, in an effort to be healthy, I purchased a can of mixed nuts “specifically formulated” to provide high protein and great satisfaction. I grabbed the can off the shelf, seeing the almonds and the cashews. After I got to my office, however, I noticed that the third entree was the much-touted macadamia.

I avoided those little round pieces for quite a while. Inevitably, I grabbed one by mistake. It wasn’t heaven on earth, but it was pretty close to paradise. For the first time, I understood what all the macadamiaphiles had been preaching. What a glorious taste sensation! And to think that all of these years I was robbed of that because of some relatively insignificant baked dough surrounding this little jewel.

I’ve noticed that a lot of people are like macadamia nut cookies. I see the lumpy stuff that surrounds them and that often hides what is inside. And I avoid those people. Sadly, sometimes I even vilify them.

Yet, in a special moment, I’m given the opportunity to see them “outside the cookie.” And I discover the true value of them as people.

If you struggle from time to time with your feeling toward others like I do, you might want to think about brushing past the cookie to get to what’s truly inside.