Category: Words and Rabble

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Storyteller

I appreciate those little white styrofoam cups you’ll happen upon near the cash register of small, out of the way diners. These cups have a few dirty coins clinging to the bottom and words something like this scratched in blue ink across the front: If you need a penny, take one. If you have a penny, leave one.

I’d like to hitch a ride with one of those pennies, to discover who was generous and who was in need, who was a little short and who had a little extra. I bet I’d meet a few people worth knowing and hear stories worth hearing. I’d find reasons to laugh and reasons to cry and plenty of reasons to scratch my head at the craziness of it all.

Everybody has a story. And, I’m convinced, everybody wants to hear a story – only some of us don’t know it yet. Or we know it, but we’ve forgotten.

I’m desperate for stories because I’m hungry for life. I’m looking for mercy. I’m scratching around for hope. I’m convinced that there’s something good in you and darn it! there’s something good in me too. I think we tell things in our stories that are difficult for us to say any other way – we discover truths we hadn’t landed on just yet.

Norman Maclean shares my leaning: “A storyteller, unlike a historian, must follow compassion wherever it leads him.” When I scrawl ink on paper or push my nose in a novel, I’m sniffing out beauty. And mercy. And joy. I’m dropping in a penny. Or taking one out, whichever the case may be.

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Nothing Wasted

While writing last week, I bumped into a character I wanted to know, a man I wanted a conversation with. That’s how I met Rainie.

The conversation took shape from bits I’ve gleaned from other characters, real flesh-and-blood types. In several places recently, I’ve been reminded of our very powerful fear of failure, of making such a mess of things that nothing (or no one) could ever pull the shattered bits back together again. I see this in myself, my fear that I’m going to screw something up or squander something or get something or other irretrievably wrong. I see this obsession in others as well: on the back side of life, it can be an unrelenting regret that murders the soul and on the front side of life, it can be an unyielding drivenness that, well, murders the soul.

We are convinced that if anything is to happen with our life, we are to make it happen. We are convinced that mistakes are the grand enemy, those dementors of our best laid plans. I believe these bewitching notions are as lecherous as they are common.

However, if Scripture tells us anything, it tells us this: God, ever the creator, makes much of little. Sometimes God makes much of almost nothing. We can live foolishly by flittering our life away. We can also live foolishly by always fearing how we might be flittering our life away. I’m tempted to provide the expected caveats to this line of thinking, but I won’t. Not here. Sometimes, words need to stand alone. Sometimes we need to fret less about how we’re living and get on with actually living.

I believe this: with God, nothing is wasted or ultimately ruined. Nothing.

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Dolly Sods

All beauty in the world is either a memory of Paradise or a prophecy of the transfigured world.

{Nicholas Berdyaev}

Dolly Sods, Joseph Rossbach

Last weekend, several friends and I took a backpacking trip into Dolly Sods Wilderness, a rugged section of West Virginia’s Monongohela National Forest. The mercury peaked at 104° as we motored West. I’d be lying if I denied having second thoughts about the whole affair. I do love the mountains and the streams, the wood-quiet which is so very different from the city-quiet. I love discovering new territory. I do not, however, love to sizzle. On principle, I stand opposed to camping in the South, in the scorched God-forsaken month of July. However, this was the only date that (after great machination) worked, and our friend guiding the trip promised the mountains would grant us a cool gift. I doubted, but I swallowed my principle and my wariness and followed.

I wanted to fill my lungs and stretch my legs, tromping into the oaks and finding that odd joy that comes from carrying all the goods you’ll live by on your now-weary shoulders. There is a leisure that I know only in the wild. When I enter these hallowed spaces, I remember what I’ve missed. I welcome an old friend, and I wonder again what has kept me away so long.

On Saturday, I spent a stretch of four hours alone, under the canopy of green trees, in a hammock rocked by a cool (God, thank you) breeze. For these gentle, shaded hours, I read Vigen Guroian’s Fragrance of God, this Orthodox-theologian-gardener’s meditations on finding God amid both the human and the humus. There are those moments when text and space collide. This was such a moment.

It’s as good as it is rare for the soul whenever we move completely off the grid. Not so long ago, it was normal to disconnect from the every-way that the rest of the world can, with merely a click, track me down. Traditionally, I am a late adopter. I was a holdout until the last possible moment on cell phones. I remember the way it used to be when Miska or I travelled – we needed a calling card if we wanted to check in with anybody back home. I miss those days. It has been far too long since I was truly inaccessible.

But there I was, reading Guroian amid a world of stillness.

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Farewell to Friends

Only a handful of times in your life (and that’s if you’re lucky) will you receive the gift of encountering a person so selfless, so generous, that it cuts at all the cynicism you’ve accumulated, all the broken down ways you’ve come to expect the world works. I’ve had the good grace to have a couple such people befriend me over the years. Two of these are Stuart and Shannon Hayes.

When Miska and I moved to Clemson, South Carolina, the Hayes invited us into their world. Though they easily could have, they didn’t guard their turf against the newcomers or hold back and let us flop around on our own. Instead, they welcomed us and began to live their life with us. With boys close in age, we shared war stories and picnics and, when we could, a night out with wine and wives.

I remember Saturday mornings when Stuart and I took our boys out on Bowman Field. Stuart coached the kids through soccer drills and I (if I remember correctly) was in charge of drinks. Stuart invited us on their annual grandpa/father/son camping trip; and though it may seem a small offer to him, I’ll be forever grateful for including us. Those things go a long way with me.

I think of Shannon as the patron saint of hospitality. She never cared when we dropped by her house, always happy to push aside laundry or adjust her plans when her friends popped in. She beams infectuous joy and watches out for the forgotten people – and has a voice that, I swear, belongs on one of those vintage folk vinyls. Shannon lives with an open door. And she loves with an open heart.

My friends have packed up their belongings and will soon pack up their family for a move to Germany. This past weekend, a large number of people who love them – and have been loved by them – gathered in Clemson to wish them farewell. I had a previous trip planned with a group of guys from our church, and I wasn’t able to make the weekend. I’ve told Shannon and Stuart how I feel about them, how much I appreciate them, but I want to say it again here. In case you haven’t had the privilege, I want you to know them too, just in time to bid them safe journeys.

And – I encourage each of you to consider those few people in your life who have loved extravagantly and lived selflessly. I encourage you to tell them that you noticed – and to tell them that every bit of it mattered.

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The Frugal Side of Me

You might not know this about me, but one of my many quirks is the delight and adrenaline rush I receive from landing a good deal. I have a bit of an economic fetish. Perhaps my psychiatrist and I should talk about this – but oh, there are so many others topics lined up in the queue. Economics was one of my favorite courses in high school (that and English). When I worked a stint in the corporate world, I was a stock broker – and I still enjoy each time Money magazine lands in my mailbox.

This penchant seems out of sync with the rest of my life and feels like that odd anomaly that counters my reaction to so many other interests and conversations, the ones that make me want to gouge an eye out (any eye, it need not be mine). Not that you care, but my suspicion is that since so much of my life is open-ended, free-flowing and so rarely shows tangible results – this is one arena where I can finish the job and immediately experience the joy of accomplishment. Save a buck. Done.

If you’ll allow me a very odd detour here, I thought I’d share two that are no-brainers for me. Perhaps one of them will help you. If you’d like to add yours below, feel free.

Schwab Bank

I worked for Schwab as a broker, and I love their corporate culture. I’ve gone round and round with banks, and Schwab really is, in my opinion, the crème de la crème. So long as you have an automated monthly deposit, they offer a free interest-bearing account with no minimum deposit required and no monthly balance requirement. You get free checks (always), free online billpay and free ATMs (anywhere). Schwab will reimburse any ATM fee you are charged, up to $9 per month (unlimited if you are also a Schwab brokerage client). And their card is fabulous for international travel. They offer the actual exchange rate for that day and charge currency conversion fee. When we were in the UK, it was cheaper to get pounds as I needed them from the ATM than using a bank. The only downside to this account has been having to mail in check deposits (though they provided postage-paid envelopes to do this). However, as of last month, they have a phone app that allows you to take images of the checks and deposit them from your couch. I’ve been using it for a month now, and it’s amazing. I receive a check in the mail, and I can have the deposit made in 5 minutes.

Blockbuster Express

Blockbuster may be dead, but Blockbuster Express is not. Like RedBox, Blockbuster Express provides kiosks with movies, $1 per night for most rentals (Blockbuster Express has a few hot releases that are $3.99 and guaranteed to be available). The best part, however, is how lavish Blockbuster Express is with their dissemination of codes for free one night rentals (hoping, of course, that you’ll keep it an extra night or two). Coupon Dad lists the current freebie codes. I can’t tell you the last time I paid for a movie at the kiosk. I almost feel guilty. Almost. If you don’t have a Blockbuster Express near you, Inside Redbox offers codes, though RedBox is not as generous.

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Fear

Fear and I have a history. We aren’t friends, but we’ve arrived at a wary detente.

These are our current arrangements: I’ll stop railing at fear, cease exerting vast energy toward banishment. In return, fear won’t take offense when, after it bushwhacks me with its best shot, I simply shrug my shoulders and tell it to piss off.

I’ve learned that fighting against fear, needling it, setting it under the microscope, reasoning with it through every shade and crevice is a waste of time. Fear is a beast asking for your energy; if we play along, the game goes on and on.

Of course, we shouldn’t banish fear even if we could. There are things to be afraid of in this world. I’ve come to believe that fear is a necessary cost for engaging the world truthfully. If we want to live with rose-colored glasses, then perhaps we will be able to arrange things delicately enough to whistle our way through the horrors. Keep walking. Don’t look around you. Certainly don’t stop. Don’t engage. Pat a back here and there, push a platitude. Press on, always on, whistling and beaming, ever louder, ever forward. We could follow that trac and perhaps keep fear at bay (perhaps). I’d say your odds are slim, but if we tried hard enough and whistled loud enough, maybe.

The question to ask is not whether or not we’ll encounter fear, but what will we do with the fear when it comes? Will we step into it? Will we risk and love in spite of it? Will we throw caution and good reason and every self-protective instinct to the wind and, fear be damned, walk into the chaos? Any sane person knows the chaos we’re afraid of is indeed something to fear. It just might pillage us. What will we do then?

To be fearless is not to not feel fear. As Stanley Hauerwas said, “The courageous have fears that cowards never know.” If we truly know no fear, we either have a disorder or are paragons of denial. To be fearless means to feel fear’s dread, the press of its stifling weight and the pinch of its fangs – and to run and to hope and to love anyway.

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Paradox

At the center of our faith stands wooden timbers and melded iron. Heckles and jeers. Arms stretched taut. Bewilderment. Utter loss. Chaos. A sobbing mother. An abandoned son. Love.

At the center of our faith stands raucous joy. The shock of relief. Grave clothes tossed. Embrace and laughter. Empty, empty. Arms stretched wide. An overwhelmed friend. The giddy delight of sweet surprise. Love.

Love is always a paradox.

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Fascinating Responsibility

When asked why his Kentucky farm – that land, that work and rhythm – was important for him, Wendell Berry replied: “The farm provides me fascination and responsibility.” It seems to me that those two words aren’t put together often enough.

Fascination speaks of the lure of a thing, the magic it offers. It’s a childish word, a word filled to the brim with joy. When you’re fascinated with something, you feel a bit lost in it, giddy even. We aren’t giddy enough in this oh-so serious world of ours.

But then there’s responsibility, an obligation. Being obliged might carry a heavy ring. It’s no good, for instance, for the soul to be obliged to another’s expectation. However, if our obligation is toward that same thing that fascinates us, that same something we can’t let loose and that (wonderful how this happens) same something that won’t let us loose, then this responsibility is noble. It’s what some people mean when they speak of a call.

We are responsible for something, somewhere – for someone. There are words we can (must) uniquely speak. Truths we must uniquely discover – and tell. There is land only we can love, children only we can father or mother.

It’s a holy thing to be fascinated by something. And it’s a holy thing to be responsible for something.

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Talk-o-Meter

The Talk-o-Meter. It’s an app that tracks who monopolizes a conversation. God help us if Miska ever got a hold of this at our house …. Thankfully, she eschews most technology and rolls her eyes at words like “app.”

Wouldn’t it be fun to just set this running at the beginning of a lunch with a friend who never lets you get a word in edgewise, who pauses only to catch their breath and lives oblivious to how they suck the air out of a room? You could simply let the lunch unfold, per the norm. Then, near the end, push the phone to the middle of the table and wait for their question…

What’s that?…

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Dance, Dance Revolution

Most everybody’s got a cause. I’ve got a few myself. But a confession: I don’t have energy for every cause, maybe not yours.

It’s true that one way to damn the world is to not give a rip. It’s also true that one way to damn yourself is to try to live someone else’s vision. If we’re living another’s life or laboring to match another’s efforts, it’s often because we fear being ostracized or being seen as ignorant or uncultured. This story does not end well.

I do believe that every speck of our world matters. I wish good for every endangered Blue-and-Orange Threadtail, and I wish not a single tree ever fell needlessly. I cringe (and when I’m too calloused to cringe, I wish I cringed) at each wave of injustice, each wrong that must be righted. What’s more, I wish to go on the record in official opposition to every disease, every environmental abuse, every political transgression, every theological travesty. However…

When we care about everything in general, it’s difficult to care about anything in particular. And there are certain people and certain places I simply must love … in particular.

Not every battle that must be fought is mine to fight. We each have our place. We each have our voice. The beauty of a life together is that I can work here while you work there, and somehow in this strange way, we’re working together for the good, for the joy.

And that’s a crucial word: joy. Joy offers a cue, signaling what our unique work must be, where our voice must speak. What gives you rich joy when you put your heart and energy to it? And conversely, what brings you piercing sorrow whenever that work is left undone? Answer those two questions, and I think you’ve hit your spot pretty near the center.

Even the revolutionary Emma Goldman recognized this. “If I can’t dance,” she said, “it’s not my revolution.”

*all protest signs are the opinion of the sign-holder and do not represent the editorial opinion of the management of this blog, it’s advertisers or global subsidiaries. To be more specific, we make no assertion that God hates ponies. We do not in fact know God’s opinion one way or the other on ponies. Other than the fact that God made ponies. God also made donuts.

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