Happy No Matter What

“So, what if the impending tests from the Large Hadron Collider prove my theories to be wrong?” asked theoretical physicist Garrett Lisi. “Then I will simply lean on the non-professional pieces of my life. The only way to be happy is to live a balanced life.”

Lisi’s statement is pretty monumental. Although I used quotes above, I didn’t capture his exact words. But I think I covered his thoughts. They came at the end of a 15 minute presentation of his theories of the existence of comprehensive “E8″ structure. With beautiful graphics and well-chosen words, he guided the scientifically-inadequate of us through a wonderful explanation of what he believes will appear when that big apparatus under the Swiss and France border accelerates minuscule particles into a head-on collision. The ten-story “camera” will record what happens. And in a fraction of a section, years of thought and mathematical calculations will be verified or trashed. Or, more likely, remain unproven and trigger years more of ponderance and supposition.

Yet Garrett Lisi says that his reaction even to the worst of results will be simply to go back to the two other things in his life that occupy his time — his girlfriend and surfing. And it’s not that he plans to abandon physics. It’s just that he sees the value of placing bits of his sanity in various baskets.

In recent months, I have experienced setbacks of sorts. Nothing cataclysmic, but certainly events that have shaken me. No one of these was enough to send me to my knees. But collectively, their burden took a toll. And suddenly I was looking in the mirror at someone who was clueless about what to do next. For a person like me, one who prides himself in being in control, it was a frightening sight.

So, for several days, I peered from a single basket and was tired and hopeless. “What else can go wrong?” I railed against the rafters. Anxiety increased. And just about the time I was ready to give in to full-time mourning, I looked around and saw some other baskets scattered around me.

It was when I began to peek in them, that I realized how blessed I was. As the covers came off, I saw the friendly faces of friends and family. In some, the neighborly waves of complete strangers gave me great pleasure.

I then saw that God is in control of my baskets. From time to time, some are upset and become empty. I’m left with the difficult task of picking up pieces and returning them to the basket. And sometimes, when a particular basket not only topples over but rolls away from me in a cosmic wind, I realize that’s not my basket to fill.

In fact, as I take a closer look at all of “my” baskets, I learn that I have filled none of them on my own. They’re not even “my” baskets!

Do you remember the story of Jesus feeding more than 5,000 people with a little boy’s borrowed lunch? Everyone was fed to satisfaction from five loaves and two fishes. That’s amazing. But the true miracle was that there were twelve baskets of leftovers collected that day.

I think it’s possible that all of my baskets are filled with God’s leftovers — and, yet, everything there is infinitely more wonderful than anything I could create or collect or borrow.

And so, I’m beginning to see that I can always be happy — no matter what. For, if one of my baskets is kicked over, God has filled others.

The Question Marks by Juror 77

“Out of town?” the pleasant female voice repeated. “Oh, if you’re going to be out of town, just write that on the summons and mail it back to us.”

I followed that direction not knowing that my travel plans would change and that my conscience would require that I show up unexpected. The courthouse personnel were surprised — but pleasantly it seemed. I filled out the card reserved for those who had lost their summons and filed into the room.

This was a “special” panel of prospective jurors. We were called to be considered for only one case. And that only meant one thing. This was going to be a tough case. We were ushered into the jury room, given preliminary instructions and asked to return for jury selection in three days.

The next Thursday morning, the bailiff labored through the list of names and moved us into our assigned seats. I was to be known as Juror 77. The prosecutor went through his round of questions and nothing I responded to required that I be identified to the court reporter and further questioned.

That changed somewhat when the defense counsel took over. On three separate occasions he called on me. “Mr. Cope, number 77.”

First he was concerned because I was a lawyer. Wasn’t it true that I knew other lawyers who made their living as prosecutors? And wouldn’t that make it impossible for me to be fair and impartial to the defense? I answered “no.” He hesitated. “I’ve got to tell you,” he said flatly, “I’ve got a BIG question mark by your name. I’ll be watching you.”

My fellow rowmates seemed to lean away from me a little at that announcement. I wanted to tell them it was okay and I was not disturbed by that. But the judge was watching and I surfaced a feeling not felt since I was caught talking in class in fourth grade. I stayed quiet.

In the next round of questioning, he went row by row and asked each juror if they knew anyone else on the panel. By the time he got to the last row, I was the clear leader in terms of recognition. When he got to me, he asked, “Mr. Cope, juror number 77, is there anybody here whom you know who hasn’t already spoken up?” In fact there was one more. When I pointed that out, counselor for the defense turned to the whole group and announced, “Can you see the problems that can come up if you have a bunch of buddies on the same jury? How can anyone act independently? Mr. Cope, are you telling me that you don’t see a problem with that?”

My quick answer of “no, sir” wasn’t a comfort. He hesitated again. Then looked around the room at the rest of the jurors. I thought a heard my neighbor’s chair scrape slowly on the carpet as he moved sideward. The attorney looked at me and wagged his head from side to side. Big, exaggerated marks flowed from his pen to his pad.

He didn’t become any warmer to me later when I identified one of the expert witnesses as a friend from church. “Mr. Cope, number 77. Based on your earlier responses, let me guess. You wouldn’t give your friend the benefit of the doubt if he testified in this case?”

“My friend is a noted psychologist. He is obviously an expert witness in this case because he has earned that designation through his reputation. When I was in law school, I was taught that we were to hire expert witnesses because they should be given the benefit of the doubt. Isn’t that the point? And if your expert seems wiser or better prepared wouldn’t I transfer that benefit of the doubt to him?”

It was such a great response. But the words were still glued to those cartoon-thought-balloons that circled my head. I started to unleash them. But I could see Mr. Defense already sliding another question mark by my name.

“I would listen to all of the evidence and make a decision based on my best judgment as a juror in this case.”

A couple of hours later, I was released from the selection process. The question marks never mattered. Twelve suitable jurors were readily found from the rows ahead of me.

Walking out, another jury candidate slowed to exit with me. “Did it bother you when that lawyer kept putting question marks by your name?”

“No,” I asserted, “because I answered honestly and never questioned myself. Those question marks were his problems, not mine.”

As I drove home, I thought about that statement and I wondered . . .

Sometimes You Just Know Better

As I pressed “End Call” on my iPhone I just couldn’t hold back any longer.

And so, I laughed. Loud and hard and long. And as I thought about what others would think about my mirth in a time like this, I laughed even louder and harder and, yes, longer.

Soaked to the skin and standing ankle-deep in water, my only function — other than laughing — was to try to divert as much of the stream of water bursting through the hole above the bathtub down and into the tub where it could drain away safely. I was having some success, although I could tell by the way the water level was rising outside the tub that the cascade was finding another path.

My son, Jeremy, was on his way to assist as a result of my phone call. He arrived minutes later. Before he could ask me the natural questions that arise at times like this, I was already into the story.

It seems that the bath faucet handle had been broken in the guest bathroom. Since we had gone through this with a handle in the back bedroom shower, I had already decided that no plumber would be called on this day. Too expensive. I sauntered off to a nationwide home improvement center, confronted a plumbing “expert” with my problem and the broken pieces, and was pointed to the small package of parts that I would need.

My last question to this person wearing an apron or a vest or something that just shouldn’t be worn unless cooking was, “Now, I need to turn the water off to the house before I replace this, right?”

“No, no,” he said. “You’re just replacing an extension stem. Just pull the old one out and slip this one in. You’ll be all set.”

“You’re sure?” I queried. “I would think that you would turn off the water anytime you’re working on a faucet.”

“Positive. Just call me if you have a question.”

Armed with his name and the store’s number, I headed home. I had taken off work for the day to carve away at a rather large to-do list. Since this small repair wasn’t even on the list, my plan was to handle it early and quickly and then move on.

Standing in the bathtub in question, I pulled the trim off the faucet and attempted to pull the stem off in the easy manner described by the expert. No luck. It was easy to see that the stem was housed in a chrome socket that needed to be unscrewed. Memories of Three Stooges’ movies filled my brain. Immediately, I pulled out my phone and called my expert.

A couple of minutes later, assured by him that we weren’t “going deep enough” to worry about turning off the water, I was slowly turning the socket with my channel-lock pliers. I remember thinking, “This just doesn’t seem right.” About that moment, the chrome socket, the broken stem, and some other important plumbing pieces shot past by my head at a speed just slightly shy of the speed of light. That parade of parts was followed quickly by a surge of water not seen in our part of dry, West Texas since the Columbus Day Flood of the early ’80s.

My immediate response was . . . “Wow!” Then . . . “Oh, no!” Then a dash to the front yard to turn off the water. Then . . . “Oh, no! I didn’t bring a wrench to turn off the water!” Then quick ingress to the house toward the garage to get a wrench. In midpath, I noticed that water was going everywhere. That’s when I decided to try to divert the water while I called for help.

And so, I stood and laughed as water exited the wall at high velocity and I realized that my attempt at diversion was, at best, only a slight distraction for the water. And I laughed harder. There was nothing else to do for the moment.

You know the feeling though, don’t you? You find yourself in the middle of a growing debacle — one that could have been easily prevented. And you knew better than to do what you did. But some well-meaning person (or perhaps criminally deranged and negligent person, as in my case) gives you different advice. Advice that just doesn’t sound right, doesn’t fit. And now it becomes apparent that it doesn’t work.

Laughter is rarely the response we have in those circumstances. Saying “I knew better” over and over again doesn’t make things feel any better. And then, there’s the aftermath of clean-up and assessing the damage caused because we knew better but didn’t honor the feeling.

I accomplished nothing on my to-do list this day. Instead, I soaked up water and learned the finer eccentricities of my wet-dry vacuum which, until this afternoon, had known only dry work. I also received a lesson in faucets from the plumber who came a few hours later. Seems I would have done fine — if only I’d turned the water off.

The biggest problem, of course, wasn’t the water. It was the pressure of the water — there was just a lot of it in a short amount of time.

Often times, when we deal with others we don’t agree with, it’s not the disagreement that holds the greatest potential for damage. The emotion and the pressure are the dangerous elements — not the substance of the conversation.

Just as I learned in my plumbing lesson, sometimes it is better to create a little space and relieve the pressure. It doesn’t guarantee that the problem will be fixed. But it certainly allows for a more relaxed discussion.

In those difficult moments, honor your feelings and do the right thing. Take time to honor the relationship and relieve the emotional pressure. Despite the advice of talk show hosts and politicians, it’s more important to do the right thing than it is to be right. After all, you know better.