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.

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.

If the shoe fits . . .

Last night, a new acquaintance began telling me about his recent experience buying sandles. He walked into a store last week, found a pair that he liked, and then asked the clerk to bring him a size 10-and-a-half and a size 11. He explained that his shoe size was 11 but that his experience with sandles was that they are often a little bigger than the size professes.

The clerk returned with two pair — sizes 10 and 11. “We don’t have half-sizes,” he reported. My new friend tried on the 10 “just because it was there” and was amazed when it fit perfectly. Curious, when the clerk left to ring up his purchase, he grabbed the contraption that gauges feet and found, indeed, his foot measured a size 10.

“I have a closet full of size 11 shoes,” he told me, “and now I’ve discovered that I’ve been buying the wrong size — most of my life!”

While I found the story interesting, I didn’t have a clue of his rationale for telling it. Until he added, “I’ve learned a lot through this experience. It seems that I’m quite capable of limping through life with the assistance of things that don’t really work. Now, I’m on the lookout for things that fit me and giving things a chance that I’ve refused to even consider. The future seems much brighter now.”

Openness to doing things differently — thinking, talking, listening — does tend to brighten up the future. Try on a different size shoe today. Particularly if its well-worn by someone else. You might discover some new possibilities.

Diving for Pearls

Recent life experience is taking me places. All sorts of places. Frankly, if you had told me two months ago about the journey I was about to take, I would have canceled my ticket.

Now that I’m down the road a bit, I have a different view. I have been enriched by the things I’ve seen, the emotions I’ve felt, and the words I’ve heard. All of those good things sprout from a central source — the people I’ve met.

Two months ago, I would have avoided most of these individuals. Nothing personal. I just thought I had no need to know them and no real curiosity about who they might be, where they might live, or how much we might have in common.

Last week, sitting in a crowded room with total strangers, I begin to see how their lives threaded through mine. My eyes were opened.

Amazing things happen when we begin to see the value of someone else, regardless their circumstance.

Faith

This has been a difficult year in many ways. I didn’t write a Christmas letter to slip in with the cards that Nancy faithfully selects, writes personal notes in, and stays up all hours to hand address. Come to think about it, I didn’t write a Christmas letter last year either. Twelve months ago, it was a mixture of fatigue, laziness, and a lack of time that drained the creative juices and stopped the project.

This year was just too difficult. In one of the Christmas cards to a dear, but distant friend, I wrote that this had been a year of blessings with a heavy dose of tragedy and a sprinkling of comedy. After further thought, I realized that was a pretty good summary statement. And it’s a statement that works not only for us, but for so many others around us.

For whatever reason, I have been fixated on how different things are becoming for us. And, in so doing, I think I’ve lost the broader view of what life is. Life is something different every day. Death is day after day with no change.

I have to admit I’m weary of some of the different that’s coming our way. Yet, I remind myself of what I learned from my good friend, Preacher Eddie. He was telling the story of Jesus calming the storm with that powerful order — “Peace, be still!”

As Preacher Eddie preached on, he asked us to consider the point of that story. I have to admit that I centered on the power of God, the Creator, and the awesome might of His mere words. And, as Eddie reminded, that is part of the story.

What I missed was what happened next. Jesus turned to his disciples and basically said, “So, what were you worried about? Did you forget that I’m right here in the boat with you?”

So, even though I can’t bring myself to writing a Christmas letter this year, I want you to know that the whole story of Christmas is this:

Jesus is in the boat. Whatever the change that comes, whatever the tragedy, God is next to us. Spreading blessings, sprinkling comedy.

Isn’t life great? When the waves grow a little threatening and wind howls around us, Nancy and I just turn to each other and say, “Remember, Jesus is in the boat.”

Merry Christmas. . .

Feedback

“Hey, I’ve got an idea for you!”

“Have you ever thought about . . . ?”

“I don’t understand why you do this like you do. . .”

Sixty-nine students. Six instructors. Two support staff. Five days. Almost 40 hours. Five hundred bottled waters and sodas. Pop-Tarts and granola bars. Countless Power Point slides. A couple of handfuls of role plays. Videos. Fishbowl mediation. Debriefing sessions. Discussions. Hallway conversations. Lunch table talk. Emails at night.

Oh, and a requested evaluation form at the end.

We were blessed a few weeks ago to have our online conflict resolution students with us for Residency Session. We had folks from around the world and from all walks of life – human resource professionals, ministers, teachers, fitness instructors, paralegals, attorneys, insurance executives, police chaplains, customer service representatives, accountants, nurses, higher education administrators, non-profit organization executives. Oh, and our best known local personality, our NBC television news anchor. The group was simply incredible.

They worked together well. They helped each other – for the most part. The measure of the week was in its good spirit.

By the time the closing ceremonies ended, our faculty and staff was exhausted and ready to move on. Yet, we all felt profoundly enriched by getting to be with these marvelous people.

The week after still spun slowly in the afterglow. But there was that insidious evaluation form to review and tabulate. All in all, the feedback was fair and well-balanced. The students recognized some of the same weaknesses we had spotted. They praised the week heavily for the most part.

But we had to ask the question that must be asked – “What could be done to improve the Residency?” The answers ranged widely from choice of breakfast food to too much review material to too little review material to too many role plays to not enough role plays. We received criticism for making the schedule too long and making it too short.

We first reviewed the evaluation form at our staff meeting. Despite the praise, all we could focus on was the minority report. Instead of feeling pleased that our students and our friends were honoring us with their openness, we became initially defensive.

Feedback. We seek feedback. Yet, when we receive feedback we almost always look on our critics with astonishment. As if to say, “Yes, I asked you for your opinion, but I really didn’t expect you to give it to me.”

And now, a few days later, a few of those negative comments still sting. But more and more we have begun to see the beauty of welcoming conversation – even when it points out our deficiencies.

When we bring people to our peace tables and we urge them to be honest with each other, why are we surprised when well-intentioned feedback breeds defensiveness and spurs escalation of the conflict? It’s at those times that we should remind those sitting with us – and ourselves – that honest opinion and well-meaning intent should be treasured as gifts.

Even the best of us tire of feedback occasionally. Challenge yourself and those in conflict who you assist to seek feedback, to listen for meaning, to test for grace, and to respond in kindness. For without feedback, deep relationships will not be fed.

And we all desire and need deep relationships.

Positively Notorious

In a recent continuing legal education conference, I sat listening to a lecture that would impact my area of practice very little. I no longer work in the court room on a regular basis and the topic of cross-examination really held little interest for me.

Yet, I sat dutifully and listened. The presenter, a seasoned trial lawyer, was what I expected him to be. Smooth. Great communicator. An accomplished story teller. So, even though I told myself that I had little motivation for listening, I couldn’t help myself. Thinking of preparation and strategy in working with a witness, I found myself recapturing the excitement of law school and my few years as a commercial litigator. In practice, most of my work with witnesses were in depositions. But it was an exciting part of my job.

I also found myself thinking of great attorneys I’ve known and remembering things that I had learned from them. One particular person rose to the top of those memories. I couldn’t help but think about my association with him. I realized that I had never really seen him in the court room or in deposition. I did share office space with him — sort of. He flew into Abilene every Thursday night and occupied the office next to mine on Fridays (when he wasn’t in trial). Yet, I knew he was a great lawyer — by reputation and by the way he handled himself in daily life.

He was greatly feared by large insurance companies, railroads, and other major businesses — and their lawyers. Not because of his domineering style in the courtroom, but because of his intellect and the fact that he had a knack of getting everyone in a room to listen and, to some degree, like him.

I was startled from my memories as the presenter in this particular course summed up his points by telling the story of a famous cross-examination in the famous case of Exxon v. Lloyd’s of London. As he set the scene, I thought, “How interesting! The lawyer in the case was Don Bowen, my hero and friend.”

Suddenly, I became anxious. What if, I thought, Don’s performance in the cross-examination was an example of bad technique? Our presenter had just revealed one of Abraham Lincoln’s blunders on cross. Would Don be similarly maligned?

As the story unfolded, the audience was swept into a wonderful dialog of how a kind, yet brilliant lawyer, gently led an opposing party through testimony that persuaded the jury.

Don Bowen passed away several years ago. I’m sure there were times he made mistakes. I’m aware of some of his personal failings that occurred long before I came to know him. I remember a few times when he disagreed with me on some things. I don’t remember the details of those times, though. The details are blurred by the way he treated me. With respect.

Outstanding experience. To hear a stranger talk about a common friend. And to hear the same theme in his description of a man that I would use. That a person can be strong and commanding while treating those around him with respect.

We should all be so positively notorious.

Man Stuff

The paragraph in the church bulletin promised nothing beyond pancakes and wild hog sausage. No mention of special activities except that it would be a morning for the men of the congregation.

There was much more. I went to see who would show up at a men’s breakfast. Obviously, men – although we did have one woman come with her uncle. And being the open fellowship we are, she was made welcome and stayed for not only pancakes and wild hog sausage, but bacon and orange juice and milk and coffee that smacked slightly of that indistinct odor of blue jeans worn out in the wilderness.

A program was in the offing. An introduction and singing and an introduction of the speaker and the speaker and a prayer. The leader of the music portion was right when he said that men worshiping in song was glorious. Okay, maybe he didn’t say glorious. But there is something strangely moving when deep voices sing and sing loudly.

Looking around the room, there weren’t a lot of young men except for the teens that showed up with their fathers. Mainly forties and above and I wondered where the younger guys were. Probably at home with young moms and small children who look forward to that one morning of the week when dad is home and not in a hurry to be somewhere else.

But the rest of us were there. Thirty or forty strong, with our fill of pancakes and breakfast meats and still wondering why, exactly, the coffee tasted like it did.

During one part of the program, we were given a list of questions and were encouraged to use a few of them with someone we wanted to get to know.

One of the questions was “What would you like to be doing the moment Jesus comes again?” Before the group leader could move beyond that one, a voice from the side of the room spoke up, “I know where Terry wants to be.”

And as Terry, the group leader, paused, his friend turned to the rest of us and continued, “He wants to be baptizing his son!”

Incredible answer. In the instant when all heaven breaks loose, Terry was focused on making a relationship whole — restoring his own flesh and blood to God. The activity in the room slowed as the full meaning spread over us. And then, expressions of agreement and approval.

This was man stuff. The sharing of a simple but everlastingly important hope. You could sense every one in the room moving deeper as we saw and prayed for those special elements that distinguish just men from God’s men.

Standing Room Only

Growing up in West Texas, I had a pretty well-developed system for knowing who my friends were. Friends were the guys — and occasionally the girls — you spent time with. Looking back, I’m not sure that the great majority of that time was very productive. But, even today, it seems like quality time. We played ball and pretended we were people we would never be. We shared dreams and schemes and, on occasion, the blame for schemes gone bad. In simplest terms, we were there for each other.

Eventually, of course, I found my best friend, Nancy. And I’ve poured most of my friend energy into that relationship. I’m not certain that she would say that all of that effort on my part has had happy results — or even that there has been all that much investment at times. Thankfully, our love and friendship has grown because of her enormous capacity for others.

I know that similar cues that determine friendship exist in today’s relationships. Perhaps the activities are less strenuous. And now the dreams shared are sometimes those lying broken around us. The happy times are no less happy, though. However, with the pressure of life as an adult, there seems to be less quality time for friends.

Or so I thought. A friend of mine recently went through a period of crisis. I was one of a number of folks who went to his side. Part of our function was to simply be there and absorb the moment with him. If you’ve ministered to people who are sick or who are grieving the death of someone close, you’ve probably heard this activity described as “sitting with” the suffering person.

Years ago, I was mentored in “sitting” by a long-time minister at our church, Brother Horace. A good brother at the congregation had died suddenly. I was dropping off some things at the church office that day as Brother Horace was making his way to visit the family of the deceased. “Why don’t you come with me?” he asked.

I was in my early twenties and, other than family, I had never gone to visit a bereaved family. Reluctantly, I said yes. But in the car on the way to their home, I became nervous. “Brother Horace,” I questioned, “What will I do when I get there? What will I say?”

“Simple. Say what seems right. And if you have nothing to say, just sit. Through the years, I’ve never had any one recall what I had to say, but almost every one remembered I was there. Being there is the key.”

And so it is with friendship. In my friend’s crisis, I came to realize that there was no place for me to “sit.” Those spots were taken by individuals who had been there more often. No, my place was just inside the door. Standing just a bit to the side.

I just happened to run into this friend downtown, recently. And even though my perception was that my involvement was very slight, he was effusive in his greeting. He thanked me over and over for what I had done.

The expression on my face must have been one of puzzlement. He paused as I stuttered, “I really wasn’t that much help.”

He moved closer and whispered, “But you were there!”

Friendship and love can grow in even the shallowest soil. And so I’m called back to Brother Horace’s sage advice. Say what seems right. And if you have nothing to say, just sit. And to that wisdom, I add this corollary. When there is no place to sit, just stand.

Leading a Double Life

It’s been going on for a while now. Little bits of news flowing through the ether. A glimpse of something here. A telling piece of evidence there. I wonder how long it will be before I’m found out.

Of course, that’s the beauty of it all. I won’t be found out. Because the “Joey Cope” whose answer to the Facebook question, “What are you doing right now?” is “Joey Cope is loving life!” isn’t really me.

No, it’s a young, active Joey Cope who attends university in another state. I suppose he searched Facebook using our name and found me. Then he invited me to be one of his friends. So, I have been — sort of.

I mean, I’ve been here or there or wherever you are in cyberspace. I haven’t written on the other Joey’s wall (that’s like leaving a note on his apartment door). I haven’t emailed him or invited him to be a part of a Facebook group.

But I’ve enjoyed the thrill of reading on my Facebook that Joey Cope has done this or that or something else — even though I knew it wasn’t me. And it was fun to see that someone with my name was young, active, and, from all appearances on Facebook, a very devoted follower of Jesus.

Perhaps I’m leading multiple lives as I see others around me, of all ages, behave in young, active, and very Christ-like ways while I watch with wonder.

I’m thinking a younger (acting), more active, and more Christ-like Joey Cope — the one who lives in my house — might be a life truly worth doubling.