Tag Archives: Loss

The Helped

I find myself spending too much time thinking about the world I will leave to my 13 year-old, Rachel. There seems to be a whole lot of bad news some days. Recently, the attacks in Belgium just seem to be latest senseless act of a growing set of desperate people who feel they are not being heard. The mayhem always has the violence porn industry in tow. I wonder if there is an antidote to the hopelessness, fear and impending doom Rachel sees every day.

Then I remember Fred.

Fred Rogers, that’s Mister Rogers to you and me, seemed to be the world’s ambassador to children. He delicately explained the world to us in all it’s wonder and all it’s chaos. He seemed to instinctively know what we needed. That sweater and those sneakers were our symbols of certainty, sanity and safety before we even knew what those words meant. He spoke our language in a steady voice which never stooped to condescension. I guess Mister Rogers learned well the story of Job in seminary because his patience seemed to be unlimited.

Do you remember how he told us we could think about a disaster?

He told us the story of his mom’s advice about how he could think about disaster and violence porn. She told him simply, “look for the helpers.” In our language, he told us faith and hope would be found in the “helpers.” He felt so strongly about his mom’s helper concept that he urged the violence porn industry not to edit those helpers from their porn.

Did you watch Mister Roger’s Neighborhood as a child?

I look for the helpers today. I find great solace in them today. I think Jesus would have been a helper. In spite of personal danger, these people run toward the fire. Many have no skills to bring to bear once they make it to the breach. They might be bricklayers, garbage men and window washers but, they try to help anyway. Knowing their only contribution might be human kindness, they are willing to give it. Their split-second decision is to love.

Do you know people like this?

In my recent spiritual spring cleaning, I have made a decision to look for the helpers. I have made a conscious decision to reduce the influence in my life of people who seem to take pleasure in violence porn. I want to replace those people with helpers as influences in my life. This is an endeavor for me and not a transformation. I have however found peace in the journey. It is not my nature to run toward the fires of this life but, there is peace there. I have to be honest here. It is not my nature to serve those I don’t feel worthy. I feel that there are people in my life who build fires in their’s every day. My nature is not to run toward those self-made fires.

Have you had your feet washed in a figurative or literal sense lately.

I think back to all those who washed my feet. There were times I did not deserve it. There were times I would not have washed my own feet. Helpers have been everywhere in my life. Those helpers came exactly when I needed them. Fortunately for me, they didn’t ask questions. Perhaps some of them once had the same done for them. Perhaps they washed out of gratitude. Perhaps they washed out of a longing for peace. Regardless, the affect on my life has been profound and lasting. I am grateful for the helpers, the foot-washers. They are the perfect antidote for the darkness which visits all of us. I pray that there are lots of helpers in Brussels. I pray that the children of Belgium get to see plenty of those helpers in action.

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Our Better Angels

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Maybe I should change the Sunday Morning Sermon to the Late Sunday,,,err,,,Mondayish Sermon.

Antonin Gregory Scalia died yesterday. He leaves his wife, Maureen and nine children. He leaves many friends including Ruth Ginsburg and others. He was a man I can imagine wearing his house slippers and sitting in his recliner. I can imagine he was a granddad, doting and bouncing the grandbabies on his knee. With his rich intellect, I would have loved to have been a fly on the wall as he read or told stories to his grandbabies. Today, someone is explaining to those grandbabies how he won’t be around to read those stories anymore. I don’t know his pet name around the house but, I bet that name will be uttered with a tinge of pain today.

I bet you have memories of a jolly old grandpa.

I also bet you are hearing less about grandpa and more about “but” today. The but you have been hearing is the dehumanizing but. But, Senator McConnell won’t confirm the President’s appointee…But, liberals will now run the court…But, Citizens United will be surely struck down…But, this presidential candidate said this and that presidential candidate said that.

I am not sure if he was Jesus or a monster but, the way people are talking, he surely wasn’t a granddaddy who would be missed.

We seem to have reached a point where we won’t even wait till the body is cold. We especially can’t wait when it comes to politics. First, we dehumanize those who disagree with us. They are insane, unpatriotic, evil and my favorite, a Fascist. In case you have been sleeping for the last 60 years, Fascist is code for Nazis and Hitler. That code, I believe, is used today as nonchalantly as we empty the litter box. We compare those unspeakable acts 60 years ago to, well, anything we can’t like. I can tell you for sure, the people who are capable of that kind of unspeakable act do not have grandbabies and will never be missed.

Have you ever dehumanized someone you disagree with? I know I have.

Antonin did everything society asked of him and when called to serve, he obliged. To be sure, I disagreed with him on almost everything. Instead of hating his sin however, I should hate my own. I should hate the sin which allows me to justify any means to his marginalized end. At his end, he was a public servant who did the best job he could. His decisions were informed by a life experience which is not mine to validate. His character, family or legacy should never have to suffer assassination for his supposed transgressions. This good man, grandpa and public servant’s memory should only be met with my gratitude.

How many people wont serve us because we can’t agreeably disagree?

It is long past time we quit listening to those drunk with power who appeal to our lesser angels. We know when the ends justify the means, we only really lose ourselves. The man or woman demonized, dehumanized in this political parlor game is in the mirror. I should deny those lesser angels because they are mine. When I subscribe to the us and them culture it may be immediately gratifying but, it is not working. Good people with a heart for public service are suffering. In my silence, they suffer at my hands. I, we, are better than that.

By Supreme_Court_US_2009.jpg: Steve Petteway, 
Staff Photographer of the Supreme Court 
(evidence that he took it is here 
(LinkedIn profile here U.S. Federal Government. 
Supreme Court archivist's office confirms 
that this is photo number 2009-03882 and that a 
permanent catalog number will be assigned.derivative work: 
Wehwalt (talk) - Supreme_Court_US_2009.jpg, 
Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=9771037

Making My Mark

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Just as you cross into Alabama from Mississippi on US-72 after the welcome sign, brought to you by the governor, there is an interesting monument. It, too, was brought to you by former Governor Dixon and, of course, Director Shaddock. Apparently, in the early forties, the Highway Director and the Governor decided to commemorate Alabama statehood, whose centennial had arrived back in 1919, with a monument. Since you can’t sling a dead cat in most places without hitting a monument of some kind, they didn’t exactly hit on an original idea. Did I really write that thing about the cats?

If you are a cat lover, I want to formally apologize right now.

It is actually a pretty stretch of road and a nice place for a Sunday drive. If you are ever around these parts I would highly recommend the side trip. A little over four miles into Alabama, just before the Buzzard’s Roost Bridges, on the same road, is our locally famous “Shoe Tree.” For a reason I can’t exactly describe, I find the Shoe Tree, well, creepy. The Shoe Tree is a converted Sycamore tree in an impressive limestone rock cut. Some people write messages on their shoes before they tie the laces and fling them on the tree. I am sure this is also, not an original idea.

Can you tell where this column is heading?

We were never sure when a shoe had done its job and become litter at the Tuscumbia District. We also really never knew what to do with the granite monument. Is pressure washing enough? Should we honor, err, statehood with Daisies or is Creeping Juniper ok? How many people, exactly, stop and look at it anyway? It would take a very good set of binoculars and real talent to read it at cruising speed.

I have a few pairs of old shoes. Should I write a note and fling them at the Shoe Tree? Will the monument my family buys to plant me under suffice or should I make arrangements for something else?

How will I make my mark?

When I read the obits in the paper, I usually look for someone I know. Age is a dead giveaway…let me rephrase, in finding people I know, age is a very good place to start. In the south we must then sort by funeral attendance, or not, by funeral visitation, or not, by flower arrangements, or not…I usually make my determination using the niceness quotient. Was he nice to me? Was someone in her family who was nice to me taking the death pretty hard? Like any good engineer, I have data and a test for most of life’s mysteries.

Do you have a rule for funeral attendance?

So, I guess part of my mark will be constantly working on my niceness quotient. As for the other things, I think they will take care of themselves if my niceness quotient is sufficiently high. Truth is, most of the things we do for our legacy are fleeting. Shoes rot and monuments fall down. Our actions are what make people show up to help plant us. If someone misses me, I am pretty sure my mark will be made.

Bub’s Light

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They still make fun of me today. I sat on his couch in his living room and rubbed my hands together while I watched them intently. It was like I concerned that they would spontaneously combust or something. I looked at the floor, walls, hands, anywhere but his eyes. I couldn’t look at the eyes of the man whom I was asking for his daughter’s hand. As beads of sweat formed on my forehead which, by the way, was much shorter at the time, he only smiled.

His smile was a service because, you would have probably laughed out loud at this spectacle.

He smiled because by this time it was really no secret. By this time, Jennifer and I were spending most of our non-working time together. By this time, I ate at his table almost every night. By this time, I was his helper on his various projects. By this time, I was his Walmart wingman. By this time he had already introduced me around at the hunting camp. By this time, I was already his third son. By this time, he knew all we lacked was a ring and a vow.

I wish you could have known him.

You would have liked Bubba because everybody else did. Going anywhere with Bub took longer because he knew EVERYBODY and each and every one of them liked him. He greeted everyone warmly even the strangers who were apparently visiting from another planet. He introduced me like I was some kind of royalty. He was so proud of me for reasons which continue to escape me now. With Bub, I always felt like a wealthy Widget mogul when we both knew I counted my Tom’s Chip coins in his basement.

Like my own dad, I learned service from Bub. He constantly provided his electrician skills to anyone who needed help. He would get old air conditioners and refrigerators for his service. He knew the value of service and the dignity of a widow-woman’s two Mites. Today we still use a stove Bub got in trade. He allowed me to help when I could. He loved the stories people told and few people knew that a little conversation and coffee after a job was all the payment he needed.

He left us almost a year ago now. There is darkness in this life but, Bub was full of light. Toward the end Bub had a Cardinal visit him from time to time on the Dogwood tree outside his window. There is a Cardinal that sings as I sit on the cinderblock steps in my front yard most mornings. I use that time, just as the sun comes up, to pray and meditate. Maybe its Bub’s Cardinal because I sometimes feel Bub’s presence as his Cardinal sings. Maybe Bub just asks God to send the Cardinal because he knows I miss him.