Black Birds

My grandmother taught me to appreciate birds. In the broad expanse of her San Angelo backyard, we sat quietly and watched the blue jays and cardinals.

Mockingbirds, as the official state bird of Texas, brought special deference. I listened to the remarkably varied calls of this brown and white creature. Secretly, I also loved it when the mockingbirds would dive-bomb my grandmother’s cats. I’m not sure that contact was ever made. But it was great fun to see the felines stroll pompously across the lawn and then pop several feet in the area in a violent — yet comical — reaction to the sudden rush of wings and feathers and beak.

Being from Lubbock in a time that trees were few, birds were a scarce commodity. That’s no longer true. The black birds are in Lubbock and Abilene and San Angelo and I suppose anywhere else there is air. Now, there are many variety of black birds. Around here their most frequent label is “nuisance.”

This morning, as I sat in my car in the bank drive-through, I observed two of these birds strutting on the lawn. Being spring, a young bird’s fancy was turned to . . . well, other young birds. Squawking, preening, rustling feather, shaking wings, the peculiar head-tilt toward the stars — the couple had eyes only for each other.

But then two smaller brown birds arrived to check out the morning fare of bugs and worms in that particular green belt. The black birds were incensed. Wings outstretched, they rushed towards their smaller cousins, screeching and shaking. I expected to see the new arrivals take flight. Instead, they merely turned their backs and ignored the offended.

Enraged, the black birds circled and charged from the other side. The brown birds turned again. Finally, in a last-ditch effort to remove the intruders from their private courting area, the black birds hopped skyward and flew toward the brown birds.

In a move that would have been envied on “Dancing with the Stars,” the little brown birds turned in unison and leaped skyward directly toward the black birds. The larger fowl were startled and literally fell to the ground in a heap of feathers and embarrassment.

With that, the brown birds returned to the lawn and resumed their feeding. The black birds stood awkwardly and appeared to whisper to each other. Moments later, one of the brown birds chirped and, as if hearing an invitation, the two black birds hopped forward and joined the smaller couple in breakfast.

I work with people in conflict for a living. It seems to me that we could all learn something from the patience of the brown birds. And we could really benefit by being willing to adapt like the black birds. The truth is — we really can all get along.

Seeing-Eye Son

The last two years have been an adventure. My son, Jeremy, and I went into business together. We’ve had good times and we’ve tried to remember that all the gurus say that it takes 2 to 3 years to get a business off the ground.

We believe that. We just wish it wasn’t subterranean.

Not being en experienced businessman, I tend to over think things and over react to things and over state things. I was thinking about my over-ness today and realized that it is a type of blindness. If it wasn’t for Jeremy stopping to point things out to me, I would be stewing over this and that most of my waking hours.

I hope I outgrow this lack of seeing. Or at least learn that little things are really little things. Until then, I’ll rely on Jeremy. He’s become my seeing-eye son.

A Little Side-Trip

I just had this feeling.

Maybe it was because I had been here before. Or perhaps it was because a heightened sense of awareness accompanies any situation where I find myself wrapped in a paper toga and wearing little else. But probably it was from the way Nurse Linda was acting.

As it happens in these semi-regular skin cancer screenings, she had been moving rapidly through her survey routine, calling out information about various moles and aberrations. Occasionally stopping to measure this or that, her pace was consistent, her actions methodical.

But when she walked around the examining table and pulled the drape away from my back, I just had this feeling. She didn’t touch the area in question at first. Yet I could feel her gaze. In a moment, she gently rubbed across it.

“We’ll do a biopsy on this one,” she announced. Shortly thereafter, the other nurse had injected a local. Nurse Linda disappeared for a few minutes. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the biopsy kit spread out on the table. Nurse Linda reappeared, washed at the sink and donned rubber gloves.

“You’ll probably feel me moving around back here,” she said, “Maybe a little tug or two.”

Several tugs later, a bandage was applied and instructions were pushed my direction on the care for the wound. “We’ll call in a week or two and let you know what we found.”

I already knew. I just had this feeling. This one would come back positive — malignant. And it would be like the rest. Basal cell carcinoma. The least invasive and dangerous. Easily treated.

It was . . . and it will be. I count it a blessing that my skin cancer, the most serious of my ailments to date, is such a minimal intrusion on my life. Especially when I know others who live daily with illness or pain that would incapacitate someone like me.

Wouldn’t it be wonderful if all the world’s problems were like the growth on my back? Easy to diagnose and treat. Serious, but well within our problem-solving ability. Wouldn’t it be nice if we could just take side-trips that returned us neatly to the main path?

Suspicion

I had a blind date yesterday.

No, it wasn’t the typical blind date. Nancy, my wife, would really frown on that. This was a get-to-know you meeting that held some potential for our work in conflict resolution.

I traveled several hours to meet with an individual I did not know. And the meeting was arranged by a very recent acquaintance. And I don’t know him very well. As I drove through big-town traffic, I wondered if this was a good use of my time.

Just a few miles before the freeway exit that would take me to the rendezvous, it occurred to me that the man I was meeting with might be asking the same questions about why he had been talked into this appointment.

The meeting was very productive. My new friend was extremely cordial and his explanation of his life’s work was fascinating. I was delighted to be in his company. And, the best I could tell, he found benefit in the meeting, as well.

As I drove home, I couldn’t help but think about my earlier doubts and thank God that He leads me — sometimes over my suspicions — into moments of tremendous opportunity.

Convenience by Any Other Name

If you’re old enough, you’ll remember that Kleenex brand tissues became the article of choice because of its unique dispensing capability. That’s right! Kleenex was Kleenex because of an innovation that caused each individual tissue to pop-up one at a time.

We have all become complacent in our expectations of product performance. Lately, I’ve noticed that on occasion — usually twice in the life of a box of tissues — the pop-up fails. And these failures come at time-sensitive moments.

The first is at the opening of the package. A sneeze is imminent. You have just discovered the previous box empty and you’ve been digging under the sink or in the cabinet for the back-up. New box in hand, you strip off the tab and slide your fingers through the narrow opening. But instead of the edge of a single sheet, you grasp only large clumps of tissue paper. Wanting to do things right, you continue to discern that one Kleenex — the one that will lead the others to the light.

The sneeze is not so patient. And as the forces of nature bear down on your sinuses, you grab desperately and pull. Thirty-two tissues now await your bidding. And now you’re faced with a moral decision: Do I try to replace the errant Kleenexes? Or do I leave them in a sullen pile for the next user to deal with?

The second failure in each box of Kleenex is more of a random occurrence. Because of improper stacking or a separation of tissues as they were placed in the box, the pop-up sequence fails. The result is somewhat the same as what occurs at the opening of the package. (See description above.)

My true concern with all of this is not with the fact that a large corporation is plotting to frustrate my life. Or even that some of their employees may be sabotaging products knowing that it would evoke great anxiety in people like me.

No, I’m more concerned that I’m frustrated and worried over the orderly departure of tissues from a box. When all around us, the world creaks and groans with injustice and poverty and despair, my emotion is focused on structures of cardboard stuffed with soft paper. When my indignation ought to be centered on how people treat other people, my anger is aimed at things that have almost no value.

In working with people in conflict, I can see I’m not alone. Too often we concentrate on the peripheral problems when the greatest opportunity for reconciliation looms in welcome. Do me a favor, if it looks like I’m thinking about Kleenex, remind me there are more wondrous things to occupy my thoughts and actions.

Grace

A special bond exists between my wife, Nancy, and my granddaughter, Landrye.

That’s how it should be. After all, Nancy has invested hours and hours in Landrye. Trips to school and Bible class, board games, zoo and museum trips, pretend games, books read, songs sung, and those indescribable moments that come only when one person is just there for someone else.

And so these two very important people in my life share a relationship that gladdens me and delights me. I am a spectator to a wondrous glimpse of God — seen in the way they brighten in each other’s presence.

I’m not in that special grandmother-granddaughter club. Yet, Landrye’s love overflows to me through small things. Like this morning when she took my hand on the way into church and chose a seat by me.

And in her insistence that I ride in the back seat with her as Nancy chauffeured us to the pizza parlor. And when she looked to me as a mythical champion of arcade games — a reputation earned by the lucky punch of a button that landed a jackpot of 250 tickets. And the way she says “Grampa” and giggles at my silliness.

That overflow washes over me constantly. And it matters little whether I have earned Landrye’s attention. She gladly lavishes it on me.

I’ve spent a lifetime trying to grasp the concept of God’s grace. Could it be that I am finally gaining my best understanding through the smile and the hugs of a five-year old angel?

A Visit Over Coffee

She stood behind me in line at the counter of our local coffee merchant — the one tucked into the corner of the neighborhood grocery.

I had noticed her a few minutes before as she stood in line to buy a few groceries a couple dozen feet away.  It could have been the smile on her face that caused me to notice.  But more likely it was the scarf over her head. 

Picking a small booth at the window, I carefully placed my coffee to the right.  I opened the spiral notebook and thumbed through the book.  It’s the same book I’ve been reading in about this same spot for the last two weeks.  At a rate of only 4 to 5 pages a day, progress is only gradual.

The book is about running a small business.  I’ve read it before and I have to tell you, it contains some of the best advice I’ve ever seen.  And that was my opinion when I read it the first time.  Yet, I never acted on it.  Sure, I talked about it and I recommended the book to others.  But nothing was ever done.

As I sat and read and made notes this morning, I heard a voice from the next booth.  A woman’s voice, I didn’t turn to see who it was.  The conversation became quite lively at times.  It was then that I noticed that there was only one voice.

As I headed for a refill on my house-blend, I glanced in the neighboring booth.  There was the woman with the scarf, her small bag of groceries on the seat across from her and a small cup of coffee resting on the table between her outstretched hands.  Her eyes were focused on her groceries and she was vividly describing her plans for her day. 

From the corner of my eye, I noticed other coffee patrons beginning to pick up their cups and move to tables further away.  As I passed by her table again, I looked for evidence of a cell phone.  I saw nothing.  Her conversation was continuing.

As I slid back into my booth, I ignored my book for a while, sipped my coffee and concentrated on her voice.  Eavesdropping?  I suppose.  Yet, she talked loudly and showed no intent for confidentiality.

Within a minute, I discovered that the woman in the scarf was talking with her mother.  And it seems that after she had gone over her calendar for the day that her mother had said something disagreeable.  Thus, the argument.

Of course, her mother wasn’t there.  It wasn’t a one-sided argument, though.  It was obvious when her mother began talking.  The tone was different.  Finally the woman in the scarf told her mother to mind her own business.  And the conversation came to an end.

I glanced at my watch, gathered my book and notebook, and stood to leave.  I felt the need to speak to the woman in the scarf — to make sure that she had at least one more conversation today.  But when I turned, she was gone.

Opportunity lost.  Good intentions never acted on.  A visit over coffee wasted.

I encourage people to engage others.  That’s what a community is all about.  Sometime today, I truly plan to follow my own advice.