“Do you want to hear a dirty joke?” My grandpa asked me this. My dad was in the room. I was six-years-old.
My dad and his father-in-law had just interrupted their own conversation—one that I had been ignoring until now—for this event. As a six year old, I was aware of the following things:
My dad was in the room, so the joke couldn’t be too dirty.
Dirty jokes of any kind were not encouraged.
They were expecting a certain reaction from me.
When kids in 1st grade ask, “Do you want to hear a dirty joke?” the other kids in the vicinity have an instant attraction to the comedian. It’s not a moth-to-the-flame kind of attraction it’s more like super-electromagnet-to-little-metal-shavings attraction. It’s instant and unwavering. So, that’s what I figured was expected of me and I gave it to them. I spun away from the toy cars with which I was playing, scooted in a crab-crawling sort of way to the feet of my grandpa while exclaiming, “Yeah!”
“A pig fell in the mud,” Grandpa said.
I waited.
“Do you want to hear a clean joke?” Grandpa asked.
”OK.”
“He took a bath.”
They were chuckling. I felt embarrassed. I’m sure to the people in the room, I appeared to be merely disappointed, but that wasn’t it. In a six-year-old way, I felt like I had sold off some of my character, but there was no payoff. I had behaved in a way that I normally would not have only to fulfill what I thought was an expectation for my behavior. It turns out that what I thought was an expectation was really a little test.
I went back to my toys. I continued to be embarrassed and began to feel angry, but I don’t think anybody knew that. Dad and Grandpa went back to their conversation.
It is interesting to watch little kids. There is so much more going on in their heads than they let on. They are not simply playing and reacting. They are thinking, learning, assessing, and hypothesizing, too. Sometimes, I think we sell kids short on emotions, too. Lacking the vocabulary to define what they are feeling and thinking has no bearing on the internal reality.
The dirty joke incident was not in vain, though. I remember deciding that I would not do things just because other people wanted me to do them. I would do what I would do. Of course, I have failed that promise billions of times in the last couple decades, and never without consequence. I’m not a people-pleaser as much as I am attempted-people-pleaser. I want to make people happy and I want conflicts resolved, but that rarely happens. (In fact, if I try to make you happy and you don’t get happy in the next five seconds, I’ll probably do something to make you angrier out of pure frustration, but that’s another posting for another day.)
A couple weeks ago, Clara Grace—our two-year-old—was fooling around with her food. To her, it was a funny game. To me, it was a mess to clean up. I told her to stop it, but she didn’t. So I got close to her face, looked her in the eye, and told her “no” as firmly as I could, and I packed it with my irritation and exhaustion for extra measure. She cried, but it wasn’t the cry of a two-year-old that was forbidden to play or a cry of defiance or of frustration. It was embarrassment. She put one hand over her mouth and another on her forehead. When I looked at her, she slid the hand on her forehead over her eyes. I was so surprised; I didn’t realize two-year-olds could be embarrassed. Aren’t they the most uninhibited people in the world?
I picked her up out of the high chair and held her and told her how much I liked her. At the moment, it seemed to be an inadequate consolation.
It made me wonder how often I diagnose her emotions correctly and how often I will inflict an unnecessary embarrassment on her in the years to come.
Clara Grace has a little farm set now and it came with a pig that is permanently muddy. She carries it around saying, “Pig in the mud. Pig in the mud.” I wish she would stop telling dirty jokes.
Saturday, December 23, 2006
Wednesday, December 20, 2006
The Clothes Make the Man
I noticed a little while ago that I behave a little better if I am wearing nice clothes. If I am donning a button up shirt, slacks, and a tie, my patience and professionalism go up, my confidence is boosted, and I do believe my voice takes on a slightly lower, manlier tone. I even fell a mite taller. I drive a little slower and am more gracious to other drivers and pedestrians. And on the days I tie a Double-Windsor around my neck, well!—I could be positively civil to Aunt Sponge, Aunt Spiker, the Queen of Hearts, the Wicked Witch of the West, every fairytale stepmother and step sister, and Rachel Lynde.*
Do clothes make the man?
Conversely, if I wear those clothes to the auto parts store, I don’t feel quite as confident or adept as when I sport old jeans and a greasy t-shirt. And, my driving isn’t so polite. (“Out of my way, ye peasants, for 'tis I, Toad the Traffic-queller, Toad the Mighty, Toad the Scorcher!")**
In fact, Kenneth Grahame’s Toad is a perfect example of this. Whenever Toad takes up a new, eccentric, and expensive hobby, he must have the clothes to go with it. His friends Rat, Mole, and Badger know this, and when they take it upon themselves to cure Toad of his addiction to automobiles, the first thing they do is tell Toad to take his driving togs off. Here; read as Badger begins the process:
“Now then!” he said to the Toad, when the four of them stood together in the Hall, “first of all, take those ridiculous things off!”
`Shan't!” replied Toad, with great spirit. “What is the meaning of this gross outrage? I demand an instant explanation.”
“Take them off him, then, you two,” ordered the Badger briefly.
[Rat and Mole] had to lay Toad out on the floor, kicking and calling all sorts of names, before they could get to work properly. Then the Rat sat on him, and the Mole got his motor-clothes off him bit by bit, and they stood him up on his legs again. A good deal of his blustering spirit seemed to have evaporated with the removal of his fine panoply. Now that he was merely Toad, and no longer the Terror of the Highway, he giggled feebly and looked from one to the other appealingly, seeming quite to understand the situation.
See? I think Toad and I may be a bit of the same mettle. Toad does carry it a bit far, though—farther than me, I’m sure. I mean, his personality being affected by his clothing is so strong it nearly prevents him from escaping jail. The jailor’s daughter has a plan that will benefit toad and her poor aunt.
“Toad,” she said presently, “just listen, please. I have an aunt who is a washerwoman.”
“There, there,” said Toad, graciously and affably, “never mind; think no more about it. I have several aunts who ought to be washerwomen.”
“Do be quiet a minute, Toad,” said the girl. “You talk too much, that's your chief fault, and I'm trying to think, and you hurt my head. As I said, I have an aunt who is a washerwoman…I think if she were properly approached…you could come to some arrangement by which she would let you have her dress and bonnet and so on, and you could escape from the castle as the official washerwoman. You're very alike in many respects--particularly about the figure.”
“We're not,” said the Toad in a huff. “I have a very elegant figure--for what I am.”
“So has my aunt,” replied the girl, “for what she is. But have it your own way. You horrid, proud, ungrateful animal, when I'm sorry for you, and trying to help you!”
“Yes, yes, that's all right; thank you very much indeed,” said the Toad hurriedly. “But look here! You wouldn't surely have Mr. Toad of Toad Hall, going about the country disguised as a washerwoman!”
And then Toad, dressed as a washerwoman, realizes he has no money to board a train. But, with his new clothes, his new role is no trouble at all.
“O, sir!” said Toad, crying afresh, “I am a poor unhappy washerwoman, and I've lost all my money, and can't pay for a ticket, and I must get home to-night somehow, and whatever I am to do I don't know. O dear, O dear!”
“That's a bad business, indeed,” said the engine-driver reflectively. “Lost your money--and can't get home--and got some kids, too, waiting for you, I dare say?”
“Any amount of 'em,” sobbed Toad. “And they'll be hungry--and playing with matches--and upsetting lamps, the little innocents!--and quarrelling, and going on generally. O dear, O dear!”
Well, anyway, how is it that clothing can hold such sway over some of us? I suppose the first step in solving such a problem is admitting it, but it may also mean that I’ll have to stop selecting clothes on the basis of price alone. Generally I’ll ignore size if it’s somewhat close and color if it’s not too offensive and cut or style if it means saving $30. But, I might be selling my character short here; I may be putting myself in moral danger!
I have been aware of this, I think, for quite some time in some sort of semi-conscious way, but then I discovered how L. M. Montgomery articulated it so well through her character, Anne of Green Gables. She said, “It is so much easier being good when one is wearing fashionable clothing.”
Well. What else can I say? Nothing, except that it appears we can give people fine clothing to wear. I don’t mean clothing of threads and buttons, but character clothing—a clothing of expectation. Margery Sharp’s Miss Bianca said it so well when she mused that “People told they are generous and open-minded often discover that they really are, so that flattery of the right kind…does nothing but good.”
* I noticed immediately that my haphazard list of children’s books’ antagonists were all women. That wasn’t intentional; they were just the ones that came to mind. Who are the really evil male antagonists of children’s literature? Surely there are some.
** Read The Wind in the Willows online!
Do clothes make the man?
Conversely, if I wear those clothes to the auto parts store, I don’t feel quite as confident or adept as when I sport old jeans and a greasy t-shirt. And, my driving isn’t so polite. (“Out of my way, ye peasants, for 'tis I, Toad the Traffic-queller, Toad the Mighty, Toad the Scorcher!")**
In fact, Kenneth Grahame’s Toad is a perfect example of this. Whenever Toad takes up a new, eccentric, and expensive hobby, he must have the clothes to go with it. His friends Rat, Mole, and Badger know this, and when they take it upon themselves to cure Toad of his addiction to automobiles, the first thing they do is tell Toad to take his driving togs off. Here; read as Badger begins the process:
“Now then!” he said to the Toad, when the four of them stood together in the Hall, “first of all, take those ridiculous things off!”
`Shan't!” replied Toad, with great spirit. “What is the meaning of this gross outrage? I demand an instant explanation.”
“Take them off him, then, you two,” ordered the Badger briefly.
[Rat and Mole] had to lay Toad out on the floor, kicking and calling all sorts of names, before they could get to work properly. Then the Rat sat on him, and the Mole got his motor-clothes off him bit by bit, and they stood him up on his legs again. A good deal of his blustering spirit seemed to have evaporated with the removal of his fine panoply. Now that he was merely Toad, and no longer the Terror of the Highway, he giggled feebly and looked from one to the other appealingly, seeming quite to understand the situation.
See? I think Toad and I may be a bit of the same mettle. Toad does carry it a bit far, though—farther than me, I’m sure. I mean, his personality being affected by his clothing is so strong it nearly prevents him from escaping jail. The jailor’s daughter has a plan that will benefit toad and her poor aunt.
“Toad,” she said presently, “just listen, please. I have an aunt who is a washerwoman.”
“There, there,” said Toad, graciously and affably, “never mind; think no more about it. I have several aunts who ought to be washerwomen.”
“Do be quiet a minute, Toad,” said the girl. “You talk too much, that's your chief fault, and I'm trying to think, and you hurt my head. As I said, I have an aunt who is a washerwoman…I think if she were properly approached…you could come to some arrangement by which she would let you have her dress and bonnet and so on, and you could escape from the castle as the official washerwoman. You're very alike in many respects--particularly about the figure.”
“We're not,” said the Toad in a huff. “I have a very elegant figure--for what I am.”
“So has my aunt,” replied the girl, “for what she is. But have it your own way. You horrid, proud, ungrateful animal, when I'm sorry for you, and trying to help you!”
“Yes, yes, that's all right; thank you very much indeed,” said the Toad hurriedly. “But look here! You wouldn't surely have Mr. Toad of Toad Hall, going about the country disguised as a washerwoman!”
And then Toad, dressed as a washerwoman, realizes he has no money to board a train. But, with his new clothes, his new role is no trouble at all.
“O, sir!” said Toad, crying afresh, “I am a poor unhappy washerwoman, and I've lost all my money, and can't pay for a ticket, and I must get home to-night somehow, and whatever I am to do I don't know. O dear, O dear!”
“That's a bad business, indeed,” said the engine-driver reflectively. “Lost your money--and can't get home--and got some kids, too, waiting for you, I dare say?”
“Any amount of 'em,” sobbed Toad. “And they'll be hungry--and playing with matches--and upsetting lamps, the little innocents!--and quarrelling, and going on generally. O dear, O dear!”
Well, anyway, how is it that clothing can hold such sway over some of us? I suppose the first step in solving such a problem is admitting it, but it may also mean that I’ll have to stop selecting clothes on the basis of price alone. Generally I’ll ignore size if it’s somewhat close and color if it’s not too offensive and cut or style if it means saving $30. But, I might be selling my character short here; I may be putting myself in moral danger!
I have been aware of this, I think, for quite some time in some sort of semi-conscious way, but then I discovered how L. M. Montgomery articulated it so well through her character, Anne of Green Gables. She said, “It is so much easier being good when one is wearing fashionable clothing.”
Well. What else can I say? Nothing, except that it appears we can give people fine clothing to wear. I don’t mean clothing of threads and buttons, but character clothing—a clothing of expectation. Margery Sharp’s Miss Bianca said it so well when she mused that “People told they are generous and open-minded often discover that they really are, so that flattery of the right kind…does nothing but good.”
* I noticed immediately that my haphazard list of children’s books’ antagonists were all women. That wasn’t intentional; they were just the ones that came to mind. Who are the really evil male antagonists of children’s literature? Surely there are some.
** Read The Wind in the Willows online!
Friday, December 15, 2006
Vicarious Pleasures
Clara Grace barely plays with her toys. Well, she plays with them about 5 percent of the time. The rest of the time she is playing with boxes of Macaroni-and-Cheese from the kitchen shelf, pots and pans, digital cameras that she extracts from camera bags, chargers, phones, doors, CDs, and toilet paper (thank goodness not the toilet.) She even slides chairs up to a light switch and will spend several minutes turning the light on or off. “Light on!” she announces, and then, “Light off!” Over and over again.
But when kids come over, she inevitably follows the guests into the nursery. The visitors start playing with her toys, usually with vigor. She will stand there and watch, suddenly desirous of this toy that has been in her nursery for six months or more. Sometimes I think, “Why don’t you go play with the light switch? That’s what you really want to do.” As soon as the guest moves on to a new toy, Clara Grace rediscovers the recently abandoned one. As she plays with it, I watch to see if she wonders why she hasn’t been enjoying this thing everyday. It seems to be her new favorite pastime.
There is something, isn’t there, to watching a person thoroughly enjoy something? When a person is completely passionate about an object or a hobby that I had previously ignored, I see it in a new light. It’s the reason why I ever tried to pick up the game of golf. Another example: in Peter Shaffer’s Amadeus, the fictionalized Antonio Salieri lusts after Mozart’s seemingly divine skill in composing. Shaffer—through Salieri—describes Mozart’s music in the most enticing terms. It’s not just that the musical portraiture is poetic--it’s authentic. Suddenly I hear Mozart like I never did before and wonder why I have not been listening to Mozart everyday.
But anyway, one reason Clara Grace watches these children play with her nearly-forgotten toys is that we have worked diligently with her in teaching her to share. She’s not perfect at it, but she does pretty well. When she begins to get antsy about wanting something—say a stuffed horse—that someone else is using, she’ll chant, “Share. Share the horse. Share. Share the horse.”
Jut before Halloween, we decided to teach Clara Grace how to trick-or-treat. She still doesn’t quite have the concept down, but she’s farther along then the last two years. On her first try, she knocked on the door and said “Trick-or-Treat” when we opened it, as instructed. We dropped candy in her bucket to activate Pavlovian learning. Then, keeping in mind our manners lessons, we said, “What do you say?”
“More candy,” she replied.
“No,” we laughed, “what do you say?”
“More candy…please,” she tried.
“Say, ‘thank you’”, we prompted.
“Morecandymorecandymorecandy!” The volume was rising.
“Say, ‘thank you’”, we urged.
Then she remembered her reasoning skills. ”Share! Share the candy,” she said.
She ate the candy and she thoroughly enjoyed it. I watched her suck on
this cheap treat, saturated with drool and pleasure. She reveled in it so much, it made me want to try it. I like salty snacks, not sweets--and especially not cheap sweets. But, maybe I had missed some sublte joy.
It's like "Three Dog Night." It's childish, unrefined, and simple, but I like it. Whenever I listen to "Never Been to Spain", I feel a little silly, like I am relishing cheap candy. So, I tried the cheap candy again. Apparently, not all similes can be extended in reality. And, I guess that's why I don't golf anymore, either.
But when kids come over, she inevitably follows the guests into the nursery. The visitors start playing with her toys, usually with vigor. She will stand there and watch, suddenly desirous of this toy that has been in her nursery for six months or more. Sometimes I think, “Why don’t you go play with the light switch? That’s what you really want to do.” As soon as the guest moves on to a new toy, Clara Grace rediscovers the recently abandoned one. As she plays with it, I watch to see if she wonders why she hasn’t been enjoying this thing everyday. It seems to be her new favorite pastime.
There is something, isn’t there, to watching a person thoroughly enjoy something? When a person is completely passionate about an object or a hobby that I had previously ignored, I see it in a new light. It’s the reason why I ever tried to pick up the game of golf. Another example: in Peter Shaffer’s Amadeus, the fictionalized Antonio Salieri lusts after Mozart’s seemingly divine skill in composing. Shaffer—through Salieri—describes Mozart’s music in the most enticing terms. It’s not just that the musical portraiture is poetic--it’s authentic. Suddenly I hear Mozart like I never did before and wonder why I have not been listening to Mozart everyday.
But anyway, one reason Clara Grace watches these children play with her nearly-forgotten toys is that we have worked diligently with her in teaching her to share. She’s not perfect at it, but she does pretty well. When she begins to get antsy about wanting something—say a stuffed horse—that someone else is using, she’ll chant, “Share. Share the horse. Share. Share the horse.”
Jut before Halloween, we decided to teach Clara Grace how to trick-or-treat. She still doesn’t quite have the concept down, but she’s farther along then the last two years. On her first try, she knocked on the door and said “Trick-or-Treat” when we opened it, as instructed. We dropped candy in her bucket to activate Pavlovian learning. Then, keeping in mind our manners lessons, we said, “What do you say?”
“More candy,” she replied.
“No,” we laughed, “what do you say?”
“More candy…please,” she tried.
“Say, ‘thank you’”, we prompted.
“Morecandymorecandymorecandy!” The volume was rising.
“Say, ‘thank you’”, we urged.
Then she remembered her reasoning skills. ”Share! Share the candy,” she said.
She ate the candy and she thoroughly enjoyed it. I watched her suck on
this cheap treat, saturated with drool and pleasure. She reveled in it so much, it made me want to try it. I like salty snacks, not sweets--and especially not cheap sweets. But, maybe I had missed some sublte joy.It's like "Three Dog Night." It's childish, unrefined, and simple, but I like it. Whenever I listen to "Never Been to Spain", I feel a little silly, like I am relishing cheap candy. So, I tried the cheap candy again. Apparently, not all similes can be extended in reality. And, I guess that's why I don't golf anymore, either.
Friday, December 08, 2006
Embarrassment
My greatest embarrassment this year happened on Thursday, and it started when I gave my class hot chocolate. It was a cold, blustery day, and I was feeling the holiday spirits drifting in. We were preparing for that night’s Holiday Sing in which all the third and fourth graders would perform with voice, kazoo, and percussive instruments for a multitude of parents and one senator. The kids had practiced since October and they really sounded good.
Last week, a parent had a brilliant idea for the Holiday Sing. She asked each kid to bring in a holiday picture of him or herself. Her intention was to scan all the pictures in and make a huge digital slideshow to display while the children sang. The only problem was, she didn’t follow through. The pictures came in, but she did not collect them and assemble the slideshow. I guilted myself into not only collecting the pictures and creating a slideshow, but also into purchasing material to build large symmetric screens on either side of the stage. And considering the performance was only a few hours away, I was beginning to feel panicky. This is my flimsy excuse for what happened next.
I wanted to get the screens raised. Fifteen minutes was all I needed, and I asked the class to work in their Reading Workbook. It was intelligent work that we were ready to do anyway, and it was review. I thought, “Why not give the kids hot chocolate while they work?” I cracked the windows open to let some of the winter in and broke out the hot chocolate.
In hindsight, I guess their reaction was predictable. I asked them to be calm, to be mature, to work quietly in their seats for fifteen minutes. But it wasn't happening.
“What if we have to go to the bathroom?” one student asked.
“Wait,” I replied. “Wait fifteen minutes. Don’t leave your seats for any reason; I’ll be right back.” And as extra precaution, I detailed my expectations for how the class should look and sound and what they should be doing.
They were antsy and squirrelly. It took ten minutes before I felt they were calm and focused. Then I went to work on the screens.
I came back sooner than expected. Mrs. Ferguson, the teacher next door, told me what happened. The kids had all come running and screaming into the hall while some teachers were administering assessments in the hallway. Apparently, after I’d left, some kids started talking and laughing, and other kids took it upon themselves to be the quiet police and wrote messages on the blackboard such as “Be quite pepole!” Then one boy ran up to the blackboard to add his two cents, but he spilled his hot chocolate everywhere. He had taken his lid off. The spilled hot chocolate triggered the mass hysteria.
Mrs. Ferguson came in and tried to quell the tide of children flowing in the swell of noise and bedlam. Then Parker knocked his drink over.
I was angry that the children had behaved this way, and embarrassed that other teachers knew about it and became involved. To have a teacher tell me all the gruesome details of my class’s behavior was humiliating.
I went into the classroom. The kids seemed oblivious to their own behavior. So, I took ten minutes to tell the children how frustrated, embarrassed, and disappointed I was. They knew what I expected of them, and they completely missed the mark. During my very stern lecture, one boy kept raising his hand. I kept telling him to put it down. Eventually, I asked, “Do you have a comment?”
“No,” he said.
“Do you have something to say in your defense?”
“No,” he said. “I have a question.”
“What is it?” I asked.
“Can we have extra recess?”
I couldn’t believe it. “Did you hear anything I just said?”
He looked confused. “Yeah,” he said, as if to ask who could not have heard what I just said. It was more like he was saying, “Yes, but you are completely irrelevant.”
“No,” I said. “No, you will not have extra recess. You will lose five minutes of your recess for asking that question.”
He looked like a contestant in a game that had just broken a secret rule that no one could know about, and he was trying to figure it out.
I spent the rest of the day being angry.
And then I found a toy on the floor. Toys are not allowed at school, so this made me just a little more upset. I picked it up. It was a spin-off of the classic nun toy boxing puppet, except it was a clown. When I held it and squeezed the triggers, it’s puny arms flailed out comically. It looked ridiculous. When I let it punch the palm of my hand, it felt weak and ineffective. It was exactly how I felt--ridiculous and impotent.
Later, in the middle of the night, it occurred to me that I am often on the other side of this scene. God has given me explicit expectations concerning my behavior and I often choose not to fulfill them. Then, an accuser comes to Him pointing his finger at me and tells God everything I am doing wrong, as if God didn’t know. “Look!” he says, “Look at him! He claims to be a follower of You, yet he commits the same offences over and over again! He is taking the breath You gave him and uses it to speak unkind words and to do evil things.” And the accuser does not have to make anything up because he has enough material to work with. How humiliating that must be for God!
And in that position, what do I crave? I desperately need grace and mercy. My life depends on it, really.
And what does God do? He gives me a job I love, a great family, a big backyard, and a car that hasn’t broken down for over three years.
Friday, the kids came into class quietly. They knew I was probably still frustrated about the previous day’s behavior, and I was. But I had also decided something. I wrote the morning directions on the blackboard and added at the bottom, “You will learn the most important lesson of the year today.”
After the morning had progressed a little, I asked the kids if they knew what the words "grace" or "mercy" meant. After a few guesses, the class realized they did not know the meanings of these two words—words they had heard and used themselves. I used the definitions I learned when I was a child. Grace is getting something you don’t deserve. Mercy is not getting what you do deserve. As an example of mercy, I told a story from my own class. Someone had stolen something of mine and I had caught her. She deserved a suspension, according to school policy. Yet, I did not suspend her. That was mercy.
I asked for an example of grace.
“If Meghan dumped out my desk and I didn’t tell on her,” a girl asked, "that would be grace?"
“If you didn’t tell on her,” I replied, “that would be mercy. If you cleaned it up and then tidied up Meghan’s desk, that would be grace.” I could see the idea was shocking. The kids looked around with their mouths open.
“But,” a boy said, “that wouldn’t be fair!”
“Grace is never fair,” I said. “That's the point. It’s about treating people better than they deserve to be treated. It’s something you need to practice because sometimes you are going to mess up and want someone to treat you better than you deserve.”
Bethany figured it out. “So if you gave us hot chocolate today, that would be grace.”
“Yes,” I said. “Yes, it would. And what if I gave you hot chocolate and candy bars?” I pulled out the hot chocolate packets and the candy bars. “Do you deserve these?”
The kids did not answer. They didn’t want to jeopardize any chances they had left.
“I am giving these to you today as a picture of grace,” I said. “Can you treat each other like this? If someone is mean to you, can you still be kind to him?”
“I don’t deserve hot chocolate,” said the boy who had spilled his cup while running in the room.
“No, you don’t,” I agreed, “but you’re getting some anyway.”
Last week, a parent had a brilliant idea for the Holiday Sing. She asked each kid to bring in a holiday picture of him or herself. Her intention was to scan all the pictures in and make a huge digital slideshow to display while the children sang. The only problem was, she didn’t follow through. The pictures came in, but she did not collect them and assemble the slideshow. I guilted myself into not only collecting the pictures and creating a slideshow, but also into purchasing material to build large symmetric screens on either side of the stage. And considering the performance was only a few hours away, I was beginning to feel panicky. This is my flimsy excuse for what happened next.
I wanted to get the screens raised. Fifteen minutes was all I needed, and I asked the class to work in their Reading Workbook. It was intelligent work that we were ready to do anyway, and it was review. I thought, “Why not give the kids hot chocolate while they work?” I cracked the windows open to let some of the winter in and broke out the hot chocolate.
In hindsight, I guess their reaction was predictable. I asked them to be calm, to be mature, to work quietly in their seats for fifteen minutes. But it wasn't happening.
“What if we have to go to the bathroom?” one student asked.
“Wait,” I replied. “Wait fifteen minutes. Don’t leave your seats for any reason; I’ll be right back.” And as extra precaution, I detailed my expectations for how the class should look and sound and what they should be doing.
They were antsy and squirrelly. It took ten minutes before I felt they were calm and focused. Then I went to work on the screens.
I came back sooner than expected. Mrs. Ferguson, the teacher next door, told me what happened. The kids had all come running and screaming into the hall while some teachers were administering assessments in the hallway. Apparently, after I’d left, some kids started talking and laughing, and other kids took it upon themselves to be the quiet police and wrote messages on the blackboard such as “Be quite pepole!” Then one boy ran up to the blackboard to add his two cents, but he spilled his hot chocolate everywhere. He had taken his lid off. The spilled hot chocolate triggered the mass hysteria.
Mrs. Ferguson came in and tried to quell the tide of children flowing in the swell of noise and bedlam. Then Parker knocked his drink over.
I was angry that the children had behaved this way, and embarrassed that other teachers knew about it and became involved. To have a teacher tell me all the gruesome details of my class’s behavior was humiliating.
I went into the classroom. The kids seemed oblivious to their own behavior. So, I took ten minutes to tell the children how frustrated, embarrassed, and disappointed I was. They knew what I expected of them, and they completely missed the mark. During my very stern lecture, one boy kept raising his hand. I kept telling him to put it down. Eventually, I asked, “Do you have a comment?”
“No,” he said.
“Do you have something to say in your defense?”
“No,” he said. “I have a question.”
“What is it?” I asked.
“Can we have extra recess?”
I couldn’t believe it. “Did you hear anything I just said?”He looked confused. “Yeah,” he said, as if to ask who could not have heard what I just said. It was more like he was saying, “Yes, but you are completely irrelevant.”
“No,” I said. “No, you will not have extra recess. You will lose five minutes of your recess for asking that question.”
He looked like a contestant in a game that had just broken a secret rule that no one could know about, and he was trying to figure it out.
I spent the rest of the day being angry.
And then I found a toy on the floor. Toys are not allowed at school, so this made me just a little more upset. I picked it up. It was a spin-off of the classic nun toy boxing puppet, except it was a clown. When I held it and squeezed the triggers, it’s puny arms flailed out comically. It looked ridiculous. When I let it punch the palm of my hand, it felt weak and ineffective. It was exactly how I felt--ridiculous and impotent.
Later, in the middle of the night, it occurred to me that I am often on the other side of this scene. God has given me explicit expectations concerning my behavior and I often choose not to fulfill them. Then, an accuser comes to Him pointing his finger at me and tells God everything I am doing wrong, as if God didn’t know. “Look!” he says, “Look at him! He claims to be a follower of You, yet he commits the same offences over and over again! He is taking the breath You gave him and uses it to speak unkind words and to do evil things.” And the accuser does not have to make anything up because he has enough material to work with. How humiliating that must be for God!
And in that position, what do I crave? I desperately need grace and mercy. My life depends on it, really.
And what does God do? He gives me a job I love, a great family, a big backyard, and a car that hasn’t broken down for over three years.
Friday, the kids came into class quietly. They knew I was probably still frustrated about the previous day’s behavior, and I was. But I had also decided something. I wrote the morning directions on the blackboard and added at the bottom, “You will learn the most important lesson of the year today.”
After the morning had progressed a little, I asked the kids if they knew what the words "grace" or "mercy" meant. After a few guesses, the class realized they did not know the meanings of these two words—words they had heard and used themselves. I used the definitions I learned when I was a child. Grace is getting something you don’t deserve. Mercy is not getting what you do deserve. As an example of mercy, I told a story from my own class. Someone had stolen something of mine and I had caught her. She deserved a suspension, according to school policy. Yet, I did not suspend her. That was mercy.
I asked for an example of grace.
“If Meghan dumped out my desk and I didn’t tell on her,” a girl asked, "that would be grace?"
“If you didn’t tell on her,” I replied, “that would be mercy. If you cleaned it up and then tidied up Meghan’s desk, that would be grace.” I could see the idea was shocking. The kids looked around with their mouths open.
“But,” a boy said, “that wouldn’t be fair!”
“Grace is never fair,” I said. “That's the point. It’s about treating people better than they deserve to be treated. It’s something you need to practice because sometimes you are going to mess up and want someone to treat you better than you deserve.”
Bethany figured it out. “So if you gave us hot chocolate today, that would be grace.”
“Yes,” I said. “Yes, it would. And what if I gave you hot chocolate and candy bars?” I pulled out the hot chocolate packets and the candy bars. “Do you deserve these?”
The kids did not answer. They didn’t want to jeopardize any chances they had left.
“I am giving these to you today as a picture of grace,” I said. “Can you treat each other like this? If someone is mean to you, can you still be kind to him?”
“I don’t deserve hot chocolate,” said the boy who had spilled his cup while running in the room.
“No, you don’t,” I agreed, “but you’re getting some anyway.”
Friday, November 24, 2006
Black Friday
“Honey, you’ve never done this before, have you?”
This was more of a statement than a question, and it was uttered the day before Thanksgiving by a Wal-Mart greeter in response to my wife’s questions about shopping strategies for the big sales on Friday morning. We have never shopped on the Friday after Thanksgiving before, and I suppose I have always felt a little bit of pride about that.
We were researching. Marcy had found some Black Friday ads, and we were checking out the stores, looking at the products, and noting their locations inside the acres of textiles. From the way the Wal-Mart greeter told it, customers would arrive during the night and patrol the store like unblinking sharks waiting for 5:00am to roll around. If we waited until 5:00 to show up, there would be nothing but desolation left.
Friday morning, I got up at 4:00. Neither my wife nor I were wildly revved up about this, but we had seen some good deals. If we scored, it would be nice. If not, we would be no worse for the wear. At least we hoped. While Marcy stayed home with the sleeping children, I ventured to the stores. Feeling fairly certain I would not be able to get my hands on anything from our list, I decided my primary objective would be to observe the people and a situation that was entirely new to me.
We had planned our strategy together: Best Buy first at 5:00, followed by Wal-Mart immediately after, Target at 6:00, and Wal-Greens on the way home. I pulled into Best Buy at 4:20, cup of coffee in hand. The line was about 5 people wide and extended from Best Buy’s front door past Clumpies, past Petsmart, past the several other shops along the sidewalk, and on around the corner. I sauntered up to the line sipping my coffee and ready to observe American culture in action. I was hoping not to see the stereotype drawn by the Wal-Mart greeter. Certainly there would be good and decent people in line. It wouldn’t be pure animal behavior, would it? After all, I was here, right?
I was by turns pleasantly surprised and undeniably disgusted throughout the morning. At the front of the line a scaled-down high-school football team of five strapping boys sat in nylon camp chairs watching portable DVD players, eating snacks, and quaffing hot drinks. As I approached, two mini-vans pulled up with sliding doors opening; mom’s poured out refilling drinks and snacks, taking chairs and electronics as the boys prepared for the impending consumerism. Someone arriving behind me laughed and asked when the boys had arrived. 11:00 last night, they said. It was clearly an adventure, maybe even a tradition. The latecomers trekked on towards the end of the line with well-wishes from the frontlines. After estimating that there were easily over 1,000 people standing in line, I decided to abandon the initial strategy and head to Wal-Mart first.
Two things struck me immediately as the automatic doors whooshed open. First was the absolute silence. Second was the absence of all carts. During the night, Wal-Mart employees had wheeled out pallets of goods; the pallets were pre-wrapped in brown paper. Customers had torn little holes in the paper in order to see what was where before they staked their claim. According to Wednesday’s greeter, Wal-Mart employees would rip off the paper at 5:00. The aisles were jam-packed with empty carts and silent customers. There was no room to move. One of the employees asked his manager, “How are we going to get in there and pull the paper off?”
“You’ll just have to work your way in,” the manager shrugged.
“You really think that’ll work?” the employee returned.
It turned out to be a moot point. At precisely 4:54 I heard the sound of ripping paper. An employee began waving his arms and trying to weave through the carts. “Step away from the pallets!” he yelled. Customers were digging in. The middle-aged women looked up from their prey like lions over a zebra to assess the potential threat. Did he have a gun? Could he even get to them? A furtive glance was all the assurance they needed before they returned to their task. It was as if someone shouted, “GO!” Paper went flying in shreds. Managers could barely be heard on the PA system yelling for customers step away from the pallets. It was havoc; it was spectacle; it was animal. It reminded me of a soda that had been shook and then opened by an unsuspecting victim.
There were collisions. There were tears. There were different strategies in play. One pair of women had obviously arrived early in the morning and camped near pallets. One grabbed two TVs while at the opposite end her partner grabbed two DVD players. They passed for a minute, congratulating each other on the attainments before continuing the feeding frenzy. A minute later, I saw the woman with the DVD players yelling at her partner. Apparently, she had left her cart for a second and someone else snatched the TVs. Although I had scored a cart just before the paper shredding, I felt comfortable leaving it here and there as I was not out for big purchases. The coolest thing I was shopping for today was a toaster oven. Not exactly a hot item it seems.
By 5:11 I was checking out and by 5:19 I was back at Best Buy. Best Buy was calmer. Everyone waited outside. Every time eight customers left the store, they let eight more in. The conversation was amicable and light-hearted in line. Everyone seemed convinced they would not get what they were shopping for. The elderly couple behind me kept saying, “Well, it’s nothing we need. Just toys for grandparents.” They must have concluded two-dozen paragraphs with that preemptive consolation. “I wonder where in the store we’ll find the DVD players? I wonder if there are any left. Oh well, it’s nothing we need. Just toys for grandparents.”
“Why do they call it Black Friday?” someone asked. I had been wondering the same thing. Was it an oblique and symbolic acknowledgment of our own excessive culture? Was it because everyone had been up well before the crack of dawn?
“It’s when businesses go back in the black,” a woman answered. “Didn’t you know that?” Well, we're all just here doing our civic duty then.
Best Buy employees began walking down the line at 5:47. “What are you shopping for?" they’d ask. The answer was almost always laptops, computers, or LCD TVs. When they came to me I replied, “A TV.” Ours has no picture, and it has been that way for months. Literally no picture. It projects a black screen with an intensely bright white line crossing its midsection. And the sound is going, too.
"What kind of TV?” asked the employee.
“20-inch Insignia for $54,” I quoted the ad.
“You can go in,” the employee said. Apparently not a hot item either.
The couple in front of me congratulated me on my access. “Thank you,” I said. “See you soon,” I added. We had already exchanged Thanksgiving stories and brief family histories. I felt like I knew them.
The last 40 yards to the doors held more surprises. On the sidewalk lay abandoned sleeping bags, discarded playing card decks, a scattered UNO game, banana peels, bananas, hundreds of coffee cups, some spilled coffee, hand-warmer packs, pop-tarts, oatmeal packets, a thermos, plastic spoons, Styrofoam bowls, batteries (I assumed dead), a broken CD, and local news reporters.
As I walked into the store, I made room for a team of employees aiding a happy customer with his purchases: a box measuring approximately six feet long, four feet high, and about a foot deep containing a wall-mount plasma television. The successful bargain hunter and the workers wrestled his massive kill into the back of his $60,000 pick-up truck with other big purchases: a desktop computer, monitor, scanner-printer, a desk for it all, and big speakers. With his trophies strapped down, the urban hunter headed off into the predawn morning.
Before I walked in, I glanced down at Target. Another huge crowd waited for the doors that would be open in 13 minutes.
This was more of a statement than a question, and it was uttered the day before Thanksgiving by a Wal-Mart greeter in response to my wife’s questions about shopping strategies for the big sales on Friday morning. We have never shopped on the Friday after Thanksgiving before, and I suppose I have always felt a little bit of pride about that.
We were researching. Marcy had found some Black Friday ads, and we were checking out the stores, looking at the products, and noting their locations inside the acres of textiles. From the way the Wal-Mart greeter told it, customers would arrive during the night and patrol the store like unblinking sharks waiting for 5:00am to roll around. If we waited until 5:00 to show up, there would be nothing but desolation left.
Friday morning, I got up at 4:00. Neither my wife nor I were wildly revved up about this, but we had seen some good deals. If we scored, it would be nice. If not, we would be no worse for the wear. At least we hoped. While Marcy stayed home with the sleeping children, I ventured to the stores. Feeling fairly certain I would not be able to get my hands on anything from our list, I decided my primary objective would be to observe the people and a situation that was entirely new to me.
We had planned our strategy together: Best Buy first at 5:00, followed by Wal-Mart immediately after, Target at 6:00, and Wal-Greens on the way home. I pulled into Best Buy at 4:20, cup of coffee in hand. The line was about 5 people wide and extended from Best Buy’s front door past Clumpies, past Petsmart, past the several other shops along the sidewalk, and on around the corner. I sauntered up to the line sipping my coffee and ready to observe American culture in action. I was hoping not to see the stereotype drawn by the Wal-Mart greeter. Certainly there would be good and decent people in line. It wouldn’t be pure animal behavior, would it? After all, I was here, right?
I was by turns pleasantly surprised and undeniably disgusted throughout the morning. At the front of the line a scaled-down high-school football team of five strapping boys sat in nylon camp chairs watching portable DVD players, eating snacks, and quaffing hot drinks. As I approached, two mini-vans pulled up with sliding doors opening; mom’s poured out refilling drinks and snacks, taking chairs and electronics as the boys prepared for the impending consumerism. Someone arriving behind me laughed and asked when the boys had arrived. 11:00 last night, they said. It was clearly an adventure, maybe even a tradition. The latecomers trekked on towards the end of the line with well-wishes from the frontlines. After estimating that there were easily over 1,000 people standing in line, I decided to abandon the initial strategy and head to Wal-Mart first.
Two things struck me immediately as the automatic doors whooshed open. First was the absolute silence. Second was the absence of all carts. During the night, Wal-Mart employees had wheeled out pallets of goods; the pallets were pre-wrapped in brown paper. Customers had torn little holes in the paper in order to see what was where before they staked their claim. According to Wednesday’s greeter, Wal-Mart employees would rip off the paper at 5:00. The aisles were jam-packed with empty carts and silent customers. There was no room to move. One of the employees asked his manager, “How are we going to get in there and pull the paper off?”
“You’ll just have to work your way in,” the manager shrugged.
“You really think that’ll work?” the employee returned.
It turned out to be a moot point. At precisely 4:54 I heard the sound of ripping paper. An employee began waving his arms and trying to weave through the carts. “Step away from the pallets!” he yelled. Customers were digging in. The middle-aged women looked up from their prey like lions over a zebra to assess the potential threat. Did he have a gun? Could he even get to them? A furtive glance was all the assurance they needed before they returned to their task. It was as if someone shouted, “GO!” Paper went flying in shreds. Managers could barely be heard on the PA system yelling for customers step away from the pallets. It was havoc; it was spectacle; it was animal. It reminded me of a soda that had been shook and then opened by an unsuspecting victim.
There were collisions. There were tears. There were different strategies in play. One pair of women had obviously arrived early in the morning and camped near pallets. One grabbed two TVs while at the opposite end her partner grabbed two DVD players. They passed for a minute, congratulating each other on the attainments before continuing the feeding frenzy. A minute later, I saw the woman with the DVD players yelling at her partner. Apparently, she had left her cart for a second and someone else snatched the TVs. Although I had scored a cart just before the paper shredding, I felt comfortable leaving it here and there as I was not out for big purchases. The coolest thing I was shopping for today was a toaster oven. Not exactly a hot item it seems.
By 5:11 I was checking out and by 5:19 I was back at Best Buy. Best Buy was calmer. Everyone waited outside. Every time eight customers left the store, they let eight more in. The conversation was amicable and light-hearted in line. Everyone seemed convinced they would not get what they were shopping for. The elderly couple behind me kept saying, “Well, it’s nothing we need. Just toys for grandparents.” They must have concluded two-dozen paragraphs with that preemptive consolation. “I wonder where in the store we’ll find the DVD players? I wonder if there are any left. Oh well, it’s nothing we need. Just toys for grandparents.”
“Why do they call it Black Friday?” someone asked. I had been wondering the same thing. Was it an oblique and symbolic acknowledgment of our own excessive culture? Was it because everyone had been up well before the crack of dawn?
“It’s when businesses go back in the black,” a woman answered. “Didn’t you know that?” Well, we're all just here doing our civic duty then.
Best Buy employees began walking down the line at 5:47. “What are you shopping for?" they’d ask. The answer was almost always laptops, computers, or LCD TVs. When they came to me I replied, “A TV.” Ours has no picture, and it has been that way for months. Literally no picture. It projects a black screen with an intensely bright white line crossing its midsection. And the sound is going, too.
"What kind of TV?” asked the employee.
“20-inch Insignia for $54,” I quoted the ad.
“You can go in,” the employee said. Apparently not a hot item either.
The couple in front of me congratulated me on my access. “Thank you,” I said. “See you soon,” I added. We had already exchanged Thanksgiving stories and brief family histories. I felt like I knew them.
The last 40 yards to the doors held more surprises. On the sidewalk lay abandoned sleeping bags, discarded playing card decks, a scattered UNO game, banana peels, bananas, hundreds of coffee cups, some spilled coffee, hand-warmer packs, pop-tarts, oatmeal packets, a thermos, plastic spoons, Styrofoam bowls, batteries (I assumed dead), a broken CD, and local news reporters.
As I walked into the store, I made room for a team of employees aiding a happy customer with his purchases: a box measuring approximately six feet long, four feet high, and about a foot deep containing a wall-mount plasma television. The successful bargain hunter and the workers wrestled his massive kill into the back of his $60,000 pick-up truck with other big purchases: a desktop computer, monitor, scanner-printer, a desk for it all, and big speakers. With his trophies strapped down, the urban hunter headed off into the predawn morning.
Before I walked in, I glanced down at Target. Another huge crowd waited for the doors that would be open in 13 minutes.
Wednesday, November 22, 2006
What? No Warranty?
When each of our children were born, the hospital gave us a booklet titled, “Caring for Your Newborn”. It was about the same size, shape, and weight as our car manual. The chapters were similar, too. The car manual has a section on fluids and amounts, so does the baby manual. The car manual has a section on its sound system; the baby manual details what infants should be able to hear at different developmental levels and how they should be responding to noises. They both have a maintenance schedule included.
It reminds me of a congratulations card I received from one of my students. On the front it says, “Congratulations on your baby boy!” and on the inside it reads, “What are you going to do with it?” When I read that to my dad, he wryly replied, “Good question.” That, of course, reminded me of the Sunday School series we attended a while ago about raising boys to have an identity in Christ, to be masculine, to treat women well, and to be holy.
The baby manual didn’t address any of that.
One thing I try to teach my third graders is to have a healthy others-esteem. I started this several years ago after learning that the strongest self-esteems in history belonged to Hitler, Stalin, and the like. When you think about it, it makes sense. I stress to my students the importance of valuing and respecting other people. So I have two class rules. The first is “Respect”. The second is “Remember Rule Number 1.” Of course we spend hours throughout the year talking about what respect looks like, feels like, and sounds like. We parse the littlest situations with respect lenses.
When I taught at a Christian school, I had two rules posted. “Love the Lord your God with all your heart, all your soul, and all your mind. The second is like it: love your neighbor as yourself.”
I like this version better. It is easy for us to love God with our heart and soul, but I think we sometimes forget to love God with our mind. Also, loving your neighbor as yourself implies that you have a healthy (if not overly strong) self-respect.
It all boils down to humility and grace, really. If your definitions on those two are a little rusty, let me offer you these. Grace is basically treating other people better than they deserve. Think about exercising grace in the grocery store or on the freeway. Humility is not thinking poorly of yourself. It’s not being falsely bashful when given compliments. Humility is simply not thinking of yourself, but thinking of others first.
Some people think being gracious with humility means being a doormat. That’s not true. It’s a way of treating people and a way of behaving. It’s an imitation of Christ. It’s easier to do if you know Christ personally and then know who you are in Christ.
So, my wife and I will do our best to change the baby every 3 hours, log the developmental benchmarks, make the appropriate doctor visits, teach literacy skills, feed them healthy food, and give them the right kind of milk. But, I hope to teach through daily example how to live with grace and humility and respect.
Jer. 9:23-24
This is what the LORD says:
"Let not the wise man boast of his wisdom
or the strong man boast of his strength
or the rich man boast of his riches,
but let him who boasts boast about this:
that he understands and knows me,
that I am the LORD, who exercises kindness,
justice and righteousness on earth,
for in these I delight,"
declares the LORD.
It reminds me of a congratulations card I received from one of my students. On the front it says, “Congratulations on your baby boy!” and on the inside it reads, “What are you going to do with it?” When I read that to my dad, he wryly replied, “Good question.” That, of course, reminded me of the Sunday School series we attended a while ago about raising boys to have an identity in Christ, to be masculine, to treat women well, and to be holy.
The baby manual didn’t address any of that.
One thing I try to teach my third graders is to have a healthy others-esteem. I started this several years ago after learning that the strongest self-esteems in history belonged to Hitler, Stalin, and the like. When you think about it, it makes sense. I stress to my students the importance of valuing and respecting other people. So I have two class rules. The first is “Respect”. The second is “Remember Rule Number 1.” Of course we spend hours throughout the year talking about what respect looks like, feels like, and sounds like. We parse the littlest situations with respect lenses.
When I taught at a Christian school, I had two rules posted. “Love the Lord your God with all your heart, all your soul, and all your mind. The second is like it: love your neighbor as yourself.”
I like this version better. It is easy for us to love God with our heart and soul, but I think we sometimes forget to love God with our mind. Also, loving your neighbor as yourself implies that you have a healthy (if not overly strong) self-respect.
It all boils down to humility and grace, really. If your definitions on those two are a little rusty, let me offer you these. Grace is basically treating other people better than they deserve. Think about exercising grace in the grocery store or on the freeway. Humility is not thinking poorly of yourself. It’s not being falsely bashful when given compliments. Humility is simply not thinking of yourself, but thinking of others first.
Some people think being gracious with humility means being a doormat. That’s not true. It’s a way of treating people and a way of behaving. It’s an imitation of Christ. It’s easier to do if you know Christ personally and then know who you are in Christ.
So, my wife and I will do our best to change the baby every 3 hours, log the developmental benchmarks, make the appropriate doctor visits, teach literacy skills, feed them healthy food, and give them the right kind of milk. But, I hope to teach through daily example how to live with grace and humility and respect.
Jer. 9:23-24
This is what the LORD says:
"Let not the wise man boast of his wisdom
or the strong man boast of his strength
or the rich man boast of his riches,
but let him who boasts boast about this:
that he understands and knows me,
that I am the LORD, who exercises kindness,
justice and righteousness on earth,
for in these I delight,"
declares the LORD.
Friday, November 03, 2006
Catapulted
The pilot seemed to enjoy himself on takeoff. There was a little more thrust involved than I remember from this past summer’s flights. I feel like I am being catapulted from Chattanooga to Cincinnati in a giant arc. I suppose it’s not much different from being catapulted, except that someone is steering the load.
Sometimes when I leave my work—located on the beautiful Signal Mountain—and drive down to my house nestled in its shadow, I have a similar feeling. With the car in third and fourth, I can navigate the entire descent without touching the brake or gas pedals. It feels like I am riding down the mountain on a glorified roller skate. It’s not a giant leap of imagination. First, you get a giant roller skate. Sit in the heel and add a seat belt, airbag, and a steering wheel. If you want to upgrade just a little, put in some leather seats with built-in heaters and a sound system that rivals the one in your house. Then, scooch up to the edge a mountain and push off. If you happen to have a brake, you might want to keep it handy until after the first corner. That’s where the rightfully zealous Signal Mountain Police check to see if you are traveling 41 miles per hour instead of 40. (Seriously.)
As the small jet leaps into the air, the city spreads out before me, ever diminishing, an inverse pointillist drawing of lights in blackness. The first thing that stands out is the wide, curving, dark swath of the Tennessee River cutting through the clustery mass of city lights and the tangled sinuous streets. The second thing is the very definite border of the city, defined by the base of Walden’s Ridge, of which Signal Mountain is a part. Then I see a bridge crossing the river and deduce that it is the one on Highway 153. “If that’s true,” I think, “then there should be another bridge just down river.” Oriented, I begin to label the town. Hixson, very bright. Downtown—a grid and a stadium.
I begin to look for my house. I know I won’t be able to see my porch light, but I wonder how close I’ll be able to pinpoint its location. Between Hixson and downtown I look for something familiar. I look for the streetlights on Dayton Boulevard. They are new, but they look old, and they are very bright. They caused some controversy for a while; someone told us they made Dayton Boulevard look like a runway. “Well, I should be able to find it, then,” I think.
But I don’t see anything like a runway. Highway 27 becomes apparent to me—a double ribbon unlit save for the fluid drops of cars flowing in opposing directions. From there I find Mountain Creek road, running along the base of the mountain, Morrison Springs Road intersecting it at the bright lights of the high school athletic fields, connecting to Dayton Boulevard at our new, well-lit Bi-Lo. And there are the streetlights; not a virtual runway, but brighter than the other streets. The lights begin at Morrison Springs Road and my eyes travel one mile south, connecting the dots, to the very last bright spot. That last light, as I well know, is on the corner of my street; one inch to the right is my house.
I really wish I were there.
It’s 7:00. Dinner is over, but it’s not quite bath time. Nothing good is on TV. They are reading board books, doing dishes, or getting a Flintstone vitamin.
I am flying to St. Louis to meet with people from the U. S. Department of Education, a research group, and a select number of other teachers that also present professional development sessions during the summer. I will sleep in a huge and comfortable bed, eat $50 steaks with a glass of merlot, and get a week’s pay to do it.
I am amazed at how quickly we are over Walden’s Ridge—barely a stumbling block—and passing the Sequatchie Valley. Probably less than a minute. I bet the pilot can already see the lights of Cincinnati from up here.
I’m sure my wife cannot understand my mixed feelings for going to St. Louis this weekend. She would give anything, I bet, to experience the weekend I just described. And I am going to enjoy it, but the pleasure is rolled in some guilt at leaving her with two young children and a sadness at not being with her. The trips last summer were the same way: the presenting was thrilling; eating dinner with DoE personnel while discussing everything from educational issues to family pets was surreal; the hotels are so luxurious—more than I could afford on a family trip. But the travel is so unpleasant, the time away from my family so distasteful. I felt like I was flung from one end of the summer to the other, and the landing was a little harsh. At least it was only three trips, I mused. That was manageable. Then, at the end of last summer, all of us teachers were asked to create at least one more presentation, which would mean more speaking opportunities. Plus, we were asked to come to this weekend meeting in early November. It’s like a tar baby, but at least it tastes like caramel.
Well, the landing in Cincinnati was just as graceless as the takeoff, although seemingly more unintentional. A new pilot is taking us to St. Louis now, and now I’m more certain that the first pilot used excessive thrust in takeoff. I hope he enjoyed himself.
Sometimes—and this usually happens in fall—I feel like my life is on a train that is ever-increasing its speed and heading towards a car stalled on the tracks. The first few chug-chugs 30 years ago were slow as it crept out of the station. When I was eight, I remember thinking that I wouldn’t have my driver’s license for another whole lifetime. When I was twelve, it seemed a little different. I could remember four years before; I tried to imagine that distance in time ahead of me. It no longer seemed an eternity, but it was still too far to see. It wasn’t until I was seventeen with no real plans for the future, two classmates dead, and my friends’ parents getting divorces that I felt a bit unprepared for the speed life was taking. Earlier this year I mentioned a book that I read 15 years ago. 15 years ago, I was reading books like To Kill a Mockingbird. I almost hadn't realized I'd been alive that long.
Most of the year, I’m OK with the swift current of life—I feel like I have my priorities right and I am enjoying every moment with my wife and my children. But in fall, life feels like sand slipping through my fingers. It’s a bad time of year to fly to St. Louis inbetween work weeks.
It’s amazing how far you can see up here. The curve of the earth is distinct in the daytime, but even at night, the electric lights of civilization belie it. It’s also amazing how many lights there are, even outside of the cities. There are enough lights that the Tennessee, Ohio, and Mississippi rivers are very defined by the absence of light. In some ways that is impressive and sad.
I can tell we’ve passed the top of the arc between Cincinnati and St. Louis; we’re in a slight descent now. In a matter of minutes, the pilot will tell us to turn off the electric devices.
Back home, the kids have been in bed for two hours now. I will be in one in about 90 minutes, at which point Marcy will be getting up to change a diaper.
I will call her then.
Sometimes when I leave my work—located on the beautiful Signal Mountain—and drive down to my house nestled in its shadow, I have a similar feeling. With the car in third and fourth, I can navigate the entire descent without touching the brake or gas pedals. It feels like I am riding down the mountain on a glorified roller skate. It’s not a giant leap of imagination. First, you get a giant roller skate. Sit in the heel and add a seat belt, airbag, and a steering wheel. If you want to upgrade just a little, put in some leather seats with built-in heaters and a sound system that rivals the one in your house. Then, scooch up to the edge a mountain and push off. If you happen to have a brake, you might want to keep it handy until after the first corner. That’s where the rightfully zealous Signal Mountain Police check to see if you are traveling 41 miles per hour instead of 40. (Seriously.)
As the small jet leaps into the air, the city spreads out before me, ever diminishing, an inverse pointillist drawing of lights in blackness. The first thing that stands out is the wide, curving, dark swath of the Tennessee River cutting through the clustery mass of city lights and the tangled sinuous streets. The second thing is the very definite border of the city, defined by the base of Walden’s Ridge, of which Signal Mountain is a part. Then I see a bridge crossing the river and deduce that it is the one on Highway 153. “If that’s true,” I think, “then there should be another bridge just down river.” Oriented, I begin to label the town. Hixson, very bright. Downtown—a grid and a stadium.
I begin to look for my house. I know I won’t be able to see my porch light, but I wonder how close I’ll be able to pinpoint its location. Between Hixson and downtown I look for something familiar. I look for the streetlights on Dayton Boulevard. They are new, but they look old, and they are very bright. They caused some controversy for a while; someone told us they made Dayton Boulevard look like a runway. “Well, I should be able to find it, then,” I think.
But I don’t see anything like a runway. Highway 27 becomes apparent to me—a double ribbon unlit save for the fluid drops of cars flowing in opposing directions. From there I find Mountain Creek road, running along the base of the mountain, Morrison Springs Road intersecting it at the bright lights of the high school athletic fields, connecting to Dayton Boulevard at our new, well-lit Bi-Lo. And there are the streetlights; not a virtual runway, but brighter than the other streets. The lights begin at Morrison Springs Road and my eyes travel one mile south, connecting the dots, to the very last bright spot. That last light, as I well know, is on the corner of my street; one inch to the right is my house.
I really wish I were there.
It’s 7:00. Dinner is over, but it’s not quite bath time. Nothing good is on TV. They are reading board books, doing dishes, or getting a Flintstone vitamin.
I am flying to St. Louis to meet with people from the U. S. Department of Education, a research group, and a select number of other teachers that also present professional development sessions during the summer. I will sleep in a huge and comfortable bed, eat $50 steaks with a glass of merlot, and get a week’s pay to do it.
I am amazed at how quickly we are over Walden’s Ridge—barely a stumbling block—and passing the Sequatchie Valley. Probably less than a minute. I bet the pilot can already see the lights of Cincinnati from up here.
I’m sure my wife cannot understand my mixed feelings for going to St. Louis this weekend. She would give anything, I bet, to experience the weekend I just described. And I am going to enjoy it, but the pleasure is rolled in some guilt at leaving her with two young children and a sadness at not being with her. The trips last summer were the same way: the presenting was thrilling; eating dinner with DoE personnel while discussing everything from educational issues to family pets was surreal; the hotels are so luxurious—more than I could afford on a family trip. But the travel is so unpleasant, the time away from my family so distasteful. I felt like I was flung from one end of the summer to the other, and the landing was a little harsh. At least it was only three trips, I mused. That was manageable. Then, at the end of last summer, all of us teachers were asked to create at least one more presentation, which would mean more speaking opportunities. Plus, we were asked to come to this weekend meeting in early November. It’s like a tar baby, but at least it tastes like caramel.
Well, the landing in Cincinnati was just as graceless as the takeoff, although seemingly more unintentional. A new pilot is taking us to St. Louis now, and now I’m more certain that the first pilot used excessive thrust in takeoff. I hope he enjoyed himself.
Sometimes—and this usually happens in fall—I feel like my life is on a train that is ever-increasing its speed and heading towards a car stalled on the tracks. The first few chug-chugs 30 years ago were slow as it crept out of the station. When I was eight, I remember thinking that I wouldn’t have my driver’s license for another whole lifetime. When I was twelve, it seemed a little different. I could remember four years before; I tried to imagine that distance in time ahead of me. It no longer seemed an eternity, but it was still too far to see. It wasn’t until I was seventeen with no real plans for the future, two classmates dead, and my friends’ parents getting divorces that I felt a bit unprepared for the speed life was taking. Earlier this year I mentioned a book that I read 15 years ago. 15 years ago, I was reading books like To Kill a Mockingbird. I almost hadn't realized I'd been alive that long.
Most of the year, I’m OK with the swift current of life—I feel like I have my priorities right and I am enjoying every moment with my wife and my children. But in fall, life feels like sand slipping through my fingers. It’s a bad time of year to fly to St. Louis inbetween work weeks.
It’s amazing how far you can see up here. The curve of the earth is distinct in the daytime, but even at night, the electric lights of civilization belie it. It’s also amazing how many lights there are, even outside of the cities. There are enough lights that the Tennessee, Ohio, and Mississippi rivers are very defined by the absence of light. In some ways that is impressive and sad.
I can tell we’ve passed the top of the arc between Cincinnati and St. Louis; we’re in a slight descent now. In a matter of minutes, the pilot will tell us to turn off the electric devices.
Back home, the kids have been in bed for two hours now. I will be in one in about 90 minutes, at which point Marcy will be getting up to change a diaper.
I will call her then.
Thursday, October 26, 2006
An Absurd Post ...or...Preempting Happiness
I live 860 miles away from my parents. It’s about a 14-hour drive, although Dad made it in about 12 hours once. With one young child, it takes around 16 hours. I have no idea how long it will take now that we have a very new second child.
Sometimes when we show up on my parents porch and my parents are hugging us and telling us how glad they are to see us, Mom will also mention in those first few moments how sad she is that we will be leaving in a few days or weeks. And I think, why bring that up now? This is the time to be happy because our togetherness is just beginning. It is all in front of us; it is a wealth of moments ready for the spending.
But I don’t blame her, because really I am exactly the same way. If something wonderful is happening, my first thought is just how finite the wonderfulness is. It will be over soon. Sometimes, if things are going really, really well, I think about some potential tragedy that is coming. I don’t think you can blame me, either, because it happens that way all too often. Once, my wife and I were having a spectacular weekend. I remember telling her how rich I felt even though we did not have but a few dollars in the bank—we have a big back yard in a beautiful town, the car was running well, the weather was perfect, the garage was clean, I had just installed a new mailbox with a flower box. On Monday we received a property tax bill in the mail; it was so far out of our ability to pay that I felt deep despair. It occurred to me that the tax had been mailed to us the previous week. I imagined some lackey in a fluorescent-lit office stuffing the beige envelope with the tax, affixing the address label, printing the postage, putting the envelope in the mail bin, and the mailmen picking up the mail, sorting it, and delivering it to us all while I reveled in blissful ignorance. I should have known something was coming, right?
Of course, that was before I understood what escrow was, but I was steeped in panic and dread for a full four days. (Don’t bother rolling your eyes at me…I know how pathetic and perverse that is, and I’m not defending it. I’m only attempting to explain how it is.)
Sometimes when we show up on my parents porch and my parents are hugging us and telling us how glad they are to see us, Mom will also mention in those first few moments how sad she is that we will be leaving in a few days or weeks. And I think, why bring that up now? This is the time to be happy because our togetherness is just beginning. It is all in front of us; it is a wealth of moments ready for the spending.
But I don’t blame her, because really I am exactly the same way. If something wonderful is happening, my first thought is just how finite the wonderfulness is. It will be over soon. Sometimes, if things are going really, really well, I think about some potential tragedy that is coming. I don’t think you can blame me, either, because it happens that way all too often. Once, my wife and I were having a spectacular weekend. I remember telling her how rich I felt even though we did not have but a few dollars in the bank—we have a big back yard in a beautiful town, the car was running well, the weather was perfect, the garage was clean, I had just installed a new mailbox with a flower box. On Monday we received a property tax bill in the mail; it was so far out of our ability to pay that I felt deep despair. It occurred to me that the tax had been mailed to us the previous week. I imagined some lackey in a fluorescent-lit office stuffing the beige envelope with the tax, affixing the address label, printing the postage, putting the envelope in the mail bin, and the mailmen picking up the mail, sorting it, and delivering it to us all while I reveled in blissful ignorance. I should have known something was coming, right?
Of course, that was before I understood what escrow was, but I was steeped in panic and dread for a full four days. (Don’t bother rolling your eyes at me…I know how pathetic and perverse that is, and I’m not defending it. I’m only attempting to explain how it is.)
It doesn't help that I see everything as very temporary. When I was remodeling my kitchen, I could almost hear the cabinets and floor decaying--it was like time-elapsed rotting. After all, I was ripping out someone else's toil; how long would it be before my hard work was undone? Not long. So, even with happiness and sadness these days, I have a this-too-will-pass mentality, which is about the exact opposite of my wife. Every day, every moment seems to be either the absolute best or the absolute worst, and I like that about her. She's interesting.
I kissed my little boy tonight. He’s 25 days old. His cheek is cool, soft, and abundant. He doesn’t like being kissed and he protests every time I do it. I do it once a day because I love it, but no more because he would prefer I did not do it at all. Today I selfishly kissed him twice, though, because I was thinking ahead to that day when he will finally tell me that he doesn’t want to be kissed goodnight anymore. And I will say, “Well, let me kiss you one more time, and then I will hardly ever do it again.” I will not be able to enjoy that kiss, though; I will probably smile and ruffle his hair and then go to my room and cry. Just thinking about it makes me want to cry, and I think, why bring that up now? This is the time to be happy because everything is just beginning.
Thursday, October 19, 2006
Happiness on Aisle 3
I’m finding the things that excite me lately as odd. This occurred to me last week when I was in Bi-Lo, our grocery store because I was so happy to be there.
I’ve never been really happy about being in a grocery store before. Especially not as a kid. Going to the grocery store when Mom had a big list was so unappealing.
But, it wouldn’t be now.
So, I stepped into our brand new Bi-Lo, which is within walking distance of our house, and my first thought was, “I love it here” which was followed by “This place is beautiful” and then “I want to be here.” Seriously, the store is beautiful. It has a chicken wing bar, an olive bar, a hot food section, a coffee bar, bread from a reputable local bakery, and a restored 1922 Ford delivery truck with wooden spoke wheels in the produce section. There are tables and chairs in a windowed nook for dining. The ceilings are high with skylights. The interior lighting is perfect. I want to go to Bi-Lo everyday, with or without a list. Marcy said we should come here for dates, and I don’t think she was joking. Anyway, I wasn’t joking when I agreed.
I’m sure any Bi-Lo executives that read blogs are peeing their pants right now, but I don’t care.
Grocery stores are not the only surprising thing that piques my interests lately. When I was a kid I liked cars that could either corner well, get to 60 mph in an insanely short amount of time, produce a great deal of power or any combination thereof. Now, I am impressed with gas mileage, safety, and interior ergonomics. I have almost no regard for performance any more. When did that happen? In fact, I no longer view cars as entertainment or a pastime as I once did; now I see them as…ready for this?….transportation. My evaluation of a car’s ability to transport me from one place to another has nothing to do with power or top speed. As I drive through town in my woefully inefficient 24mpg car, I look at all the other gas guzzling, pollutant producing vehicles on the road—the thousands and thousands of them just in my city alone—and think, “Could we not do better than this over the course of 100 years? With all the technology we have gained, are we still making cars the same way we made 1922 Ford delivery trucks?”
In fact, the 1922 Ford delivery truck is more appealing to me right now than most cars on the market. Once cylinder, 22 horsepower (pretty close to my riding lawn mower) used to be enough to haul two people and a truckload of vegetables across town. When did we start needing 200 horsepower livingrooms on wheels?
Well, anyway, how and when did I change from craving speed and amusement parks to efficiency and gorgeous grocery stores with pumpkin donuts? The slightly haughty side of me likes to think that it happened because I chose to leave childish things behind me, but I doubt it. I think I used to like fast or powerful cars and amusement parks because they made life seem more fun. Now, enticing grocery stores within walking distance and a car that doesn’t suck my wallet dry would add more to my quality of life than any other peripheral right now.
Kudos to Bi-Lo. Now if the auto executives will just get their heads out of their tailpipes and start making desirable cars.
You know what would be even better? A really good public transportation system in Chattanooga. That could be exciting!
I’ve never been really happy about being in a grocery store before. Especially not as a kid. Going to the grocery store when Mom had a big list was so unappealing.
But, it wouldn’t be now.
So, I stepped into our brand new Bi-Lo, which is within walking distance of our house, and my first thought was, “I love it here” which was followed by “This place is beautiful” and then “I want to be here.” Seriously, the store is beautiful. It has a chicken wing bar, an olive bar, a hot food section, a coffee bar, bread from a reputable local bakery, and a restored 1922 Ford delivery truck with wooden spoke wheels in the produce section. There are tables and chairs in a windowed nook for dining. The ceilings are high with skylights. The interior lighting is perfect. I want to go to Bi-Lo everyday, with or without a list. Marcy said we should come here for dates, and I don’t think she was joking. Anyway, I wasn’t joking when I agreed.
I’m sure any Bi-Lo executives that read blogs are peeing their pants right now, but I don’t care.
Grocery stores are not the only surprising thing that piques my interests lately. When I was a kid I liked cars that could either corner well, get to 60 mph in an insanely short amount of time, produce a great deal of power or any combination thereof. Now, I am impressed with gas mileage, safety, and interior ergonomics. I have almost no regard for performance any more. When did that happen? In fact, I no longer view cars as entertainment or a pastime as I once did; now I see them as…ready for this?….transportation. My evaluation of a car’s ability to transport me from one place to another has nothing to do with power or top speed. As I drive through town in my woefully inefficient 24mpg car, I look at all the other gas guzzling, pollutant producing vehicles on the road—the thousands and thousands of them just in my city alone—and think, “Could we not do better than this over the course of 100 years? With all the technology we have gained, are we still making cars the same way we made 1922 Ford delivery trucks?”
In fact, the 1922 Ford delivery truck is more appealing to me right now than most cars on the market. Once cylinder, 22 horsepower (pretty close to my riding lawn mower) used to be enough to haul two people and a truckload of vegetables across town. When did we start needing 200 horsepower livingrooms on wheels?
Well, anyway, how and when did I change from craving speed and amusement parks to efficiency and gorgeous grocery stores with pumpkin donuts? The slightly haughty side of me likes to think that it happened because I chose to leave childish things behind me, but I doubt it. I think I used to like fast or powerful cars and amusement parks because they made life seem more fun. Now, enticing grocery stores within walking distance and a car that doesn’t suck my wallet dry would add more to my quality of life than any other peripheral right now.
Kudos to Bi-Lo. Now if the auto executives will just get their heads out of their tailpipes and start making desirable cars.
You know what would be even better? A really good public transportation system in Chattanooga. That could be exciting!
Monday, October 09, 2006
Thoughts Without Words
Our second child, Everett, was born this week. It’s intriguing to watch him think, and I do think he’s thinking. For two days after he was born, he spent his few waking moments looking around the hospital room, at Marcy and me, and at his hands. I’m not sure how profound his thoughts were, but he did seem to be studying everything. Clara Grace was that way, too, and people more objective than I told me the same sentiments.
Now, I don’t want to put words in his mouth, but when we left the hospital room I imagined him thinking, “You mean there’s more?!” Except that, I don’t think he was thinking that. At this point in life, everything is novel. The trick for infants, I believe, is finding a baseline normal.
Not only do I not want to put words in his mouth, but I’m not sure I want to put words in his head either. I have always reveled in thinking without words, and I don’t mean that in a transcendental-mindless-meditative sort of way. Wordless ponderings can be completely valid—just because the words are absent does not mean that emotions, instincts, images, memories, or nothingness necessarily fill the void. Sometimes words just aren’t enough.
Do thoughts consist entirely of words? Are words the actual substance of thinking? Or are words simply an expression of those thoughts—even if only expressed internally? And is that even syntactically possible—to express something internally? Wouldn’t that be an inpression? (See what happens when words muddle thinking?) Or are words just some sort of acknowledgement of the thoughts?
On an entirely basic level, consider an animal. We had a very clever dog for a while; she could escape from anything, and she did not always employ her sheer strength or chewing abilities to do so. Sometimes she studied a situation and simply figured it out. She could open latches, climb chain link fences, and foil me. I would watch her study a situation and then act. I don’t think she was barking thoughts to herself in her head, since a dog language is different than human language. I do think she was able to analyze and evaluate a situation, and then form a plan of action. Bloom would have been proud.
Here’s an example: Our dog, Katie—who was basically a furred debacle capped with a nose and a tail—would escape from her pen routinely. At first it was relegated to simple digging under the fence. I would come home, find Katie on the front porch (obviously pleased with herself), and put her back in the pen. Then, I would entice her to come back out. As she squeezed through her latest hole, I would retrieve tent pegs and a hammer. She would watch me seal the hole and then go in the pen and inspect the work.
Once, while performing this weekly game, I put Katie back in the pen and tried to convince her to come back out. She wouldn’t do it. I offered her all of the irresistible treats I could think of—a walk, a ball, meat. She really wanted to play with the ball and I could see she was weighing the options. Finally, she gave in and started nosing under a portion of fence. I squatted down and stared. I could not imagine how she had squeezed her 40 pounds through that hole, but I also knew she could be very determined. I pulled out the tent pegs and hammer. After I sealed the hole, I headed over to the gate to let Katie out as promised. I didn’t have to. She was sitting right behind me. She had duped me into fixing a non-hole while she sneaked out the real escape. I hate being outwitted by dogs.
There are many other Katie stories in which she demonstrated her analytical abilities, some even more than this one. And if you’ve ever read Gary Paulsen’s book, My Life in Dog Years, you know that even this level of thinking is not that impressive in the world of dogs. I only cite this as an example of thinking without words.
Don’t get me wrong; I love words. It’s just that sometimes they are inadequate.
I find myself in wordless thinking most often at night after my wife, Marcy, has gone to sleep. I can’t help it. I’ll be lying there looking at her; moonlight will filter through our seventy-year old single-pane window to end at her face. It is hard to relay here what I think during those moments, because they are deeper ideas, understandings, and emotions than I can express.
Sometimes I think I get close to understanding her, and other times I wish I could. Sometimes I want to get inside her head and just sit there, listening, because every time she has vocalized her thoughts to me, they have been fascinating. Her ideas, syntheses, calculus, and interests are uncommon and distinctive and superior. I fear losing her in some boiling tragedy, but safe in the idea that she would never choose to leave; I feel rich just to know her, let alone be married to her.
Often I meet weird, bizarre, unfortunate, complaining women of ugly character and I turn to my wife and tell her how grateful I am to be married to her. But, sometimes I meet wonderful, intelligent, clever, creative women and I am still struck by the gratitude I have for Marcy. She is so unique and remarkable as a person and so fulfilling as a wife and friend that no one else can compare with her and it makes it difficult to formulate entire syntactic thoughts about her. It seems that all the best words could only make a shell around her and still not explore the depths of her personality and character.
As Clara Grace left infancy and moved towards toddler-hood, it was interesting to watch the progression of thinking without words into the expression of those thoughts. For her, mostly, it was frustrating. To know what she wanted to express but be unable to express it was maddening for her and sometimes exasperating for us as parents. As her vocabulary grew, we would be surprised to hear what she was thinking and when. Sometimes she would wake up in the morning and tell us about the thunderstorm she heard the night before, or the about the fish painted on her wall, or a line from a story that her mommy had told her. One morning, we put her in the high chair and she began retelling the story of “When the Elephant Walks.” Out of context, it was hilarious.
But anyway, Everett has absolutely no words for his thoughts yet. He stares at his mommy for a long time and I know he’s thinking about her. I don’t know what his thoughts are; maybe he’s trying to figure out who this mommy really is, but at the very least I bet they are about safety and welcome and love.
I guess that is how I think about God sometimes. At certain times my thoughts about God are very lucid and theological and doctrinal. At other times I am certain that I will always have a very pedantic knowledge of his character, but I know that I sit in belief and wonder and love and welcome. Although, I don’t always view God as being very safe. A God who is just and is explicit about His expectations cannot be entirely safe, but a God who is love and offers infinite grace and is explicit about His expectations cannot be entirely dangerous either.
One thing I know, though, is that my mind and my vocabulary are too small to portray these thoughts adequately. All I can think of is how Everett must feel.
Now, I don’t want to put words in his mouth, but when we left the hospital room I imagined him thinking, “You mean there’s more?!” Except that, I don’t think he was thinking that. At this point in life, everything is novel. The trick for infants, I believe, is finding a baseline normal.
Not only do I not want to put words in his mouth, but I’m not sure I want to put words in his head either. I have always reveled in thinking without words, and I don’t mean that in a transcendental-mindless-meditative sort of way. Wordless ponderings can be completely valid—just because the words are absent does not mean that emotions, instincts, images, memories, or nothingness necessarily fill the void. Sometimes words just aren’t enough.
Do thoughts consist entirely of words? Are words the actual substance of thinking? Or are words simply an expression of those thoughts—even if only expressed internally? And is that even syntactically possible—to express something internally? Wouldn’t that be an inpression? (See what happens when words muddle thinking?) Or are words just some sort of acknowledgement of the thoughts?
On an entirely basic level, consider an animal. We had a very clever dog for a while; she could escape from anything, and she did not always employ her sheer strength or chewing abilities to do so. Sometimes she studied a situation and simply figured it out. She could open latches, climb chain link fences, and foil me. I would watch her study a situation and then act. I don’t think she was barking thoughts to herself in her head, since a dog language is different than human language. I do think she was able to analyze and evaluate a situation, and then form a plan of action. Bloom would have been proud.
Here’s an example: Our dog, Katie—who was basically a furred debacle capped with a nose and a tail—would escape from her pen routinely. At first it was relegated to simple digging under the fence. I would come home, find Katie on the front porch (obviously pleased with herself), and put her back in the pen. Then, I would entice her to come back out. As she squeezed through her latest hole, I would retrieve tent pegs and a hammer. She would watch me seal the hole and then go in the pen and inspect the work.
Once, while performing this weekly game, I put Katie back in the pen and tried to convince her to come back out. She wouldn’t do it. I offered her all of the irresistible treats I could think of—a walk, a ball, meat. She really wanted to play with the ball and I could see she was weighing the options. Finally, she gave in and started nosing under a portion of fence. I squatted down and stared. I could not imagine how she had squeezed her 40 pounds through that hole, but I also knew she could be very determined. I pulled out the tent pegs and hammer. After I sealed the hole, I headed over to the gate to let Katie out as promised. I didn’t have to. She was sitting right behind me. She had duped me into fixing a non-hole while she sneaked out the real escape. I hate being outwitted by dogs.
There are many other Katie stories in which she demonstrated her analytical abilities, some even more than this one. And if you’ve ever read Gary Paulsen’s book, My Life in Dog Years, you know that even this level of thinking is not that impressive in the world of dogs. I only cite this as an example of thinking without words.
Don’t get me wrong; I love words. It’s just that sometimes they are inadequate.
I find myself in wordless thinking most often at night after my wife, Marcy, has gone to sleep. I can’t help it. I’ll be lying there looking at her; moonlight will filter through our seventy-year old single-pane window to end at her face. It is hard to relay here what I think during those moments, because they are deeper ideas, understandings, and emotions than I can express.
Sometimes I think I get close to understanding her, and other times I wish I could. Sometimes I want to get inside her head and just sit there, listening, because every time she has vocalized her thoughts to me, they have been fascinating. Her ideas, syntheses, calculus, and interests are uncommon and distinctive and superior. I fear losing her in some boiling tragedy, but safe in the idea that she would never choose to leave; I feel rich just to know her, let alone be married to her.
Often I meet weird, bizarre, unfortunate, complaining women of ugly character and I turn to my wife and tell her how grateful I am to be married to her. But, sometimes I meet wonderful, intelligent, clever, creative women and I am still struck by the gratitude I have for Marcy. She is so unique and remarkable as a person and so fulfilling as a wife and friend that no one else can compare with her and it makes it difficult to formulate entire syntactic thoughts about her. It seems that all the best words could only make a shell around her and still not explore the depths of her personality and character.
As Clara Grace left infancy and moved towards toddler-hood, it was interesting to watch the progression of thinking without words into the expression of those thoughts. For her, mostly, it was frustrating. To know what she wanted to express but be unable to express it was maddening for her and sometimes exasperating for us as parents. As her vocabulary grew, we would be surprised to hear what she was thinking and when. Sometimes she would wake up in the morning and tell us about the thunderstorm she heard the night before, or the about the fish painted on her wall, or a line from a story that her mommy had told her. One morning, we put her in the high chair and she began retelling the story of “When the Elephant Walks.” Out of context, it was hilarious.
But anyway, Everett has absolutely no words for his thoughts yet. He stares at his mommy for a long time and I know he’s thinking about her. I don’t know what his thoughts are; maybe he’s trying to figure out who this mommy really is, but at the very least I bet they are about safety and welcome and love.
I guess that is how I think about God sometimes. At certain times my thoughts about God are very lucid and theological and doctrinal. At other times I am certain that I will always have a very pedantic knowledge of his character, but I know that I sit in belief and wonder and love and welcome. Although, I don’t always view God as being very safe. A God who is just and is explicit about His expectations cannot be entirely safe, but a God who is love and offers infinite grace and is explicit about His expectations cannot be entirely dangerous either.
One thing I know, though, is that my mind and my vocabulary are too small to portray these thoughts adequately. All I can think of is how Everett must feel.
Saturday, October 07, 2006
Religion?
“Height?”
“Five five and a half”
A nurse was asking my wife questions from a survey while we were in the hospital.
“Allergies?”
“Cats and dust.”
“Religion?”
Here my wife paused and then made a strange sound. The noise began when the breath she was holding released. It was a guttural, phlegmy “ch” that sounded a little German, maybe…or perhaps from the Hebrew alphabet.
The nurse looked up and raised her eyebrows.
I knew what Marcy was thinking: how do you answer that question in one word?
“Evangelical Christian,” Marcy said tentatively, as if she were taking a guess on Jeopardy.
The nurse looked at an implausibly long checklist of religions. “Evangelical Christian” wasn’t on it. She marked “Christian”.
I suppose for the purpose of a medical checklist, that was sufficient.
When it comes right down to it, “Christian” is the right answer, but that word is so destroyed that it holds absolutely no meaning anymore. It seems that a whole lot of people call themselves “Christian”, but not everyone knows what it means. C. S. Lewis noted this destruction of words by citing the word “gentleman” as an example. A gentleman—as the word originally meant—was a landowner. By hearing someone referenced as a gentleman, you would know something about that person. But then people started applying the word gentleman to non-landowners, implying that some people acted in a certain way even if they did not own land. This broadened and then changed the connotative definition. Now, not all landowners are gentlemen, and not all gentlemen are landowners. The word has lost its meaning.
“Christian” meant “Christ-like” and “follower of Christ”.
So on a checklist, how do you say, “I’m a Christian, but I’m the kind of Christian who believes in God who created Heaven and Earth (both of which I believe actually exist) and mankind in his image, although we fell into sin in Adam and are now sinful both by nature and choice, but I also believe in God’s only Son, Jesus, who is both true God and true man and came to pay for our sins so that if we choose Him in faith we spend eternity with Him in Heaven and not in Hell with the devil (both of which I also believe exists) and I am currently active and not passive as a follower of Christ.”
“And more than that, I know God as one who exercise kindness, love, justice, mercy, and grace on earth, for it’s in these things He delights.”
Turn to Checklist 3B-Form 2 for questions about the Holy Spirit and Checklist 5A-Form 7 for questions about baptism.
“Five five and a half”
A nurse was asking my wife questions from a survey while we were in the hospital.
“Allergies?”
“Cats and dust.”
“Religion?”
Here my wife paused and then made a strange sound. The noise began when the breath she was holding released. It was a guttural, phlegmy “ch” that sounded a little German, maybe…or perhaps from the Hebrew alphabet.
The nurse looked up and raised her eyebrows.
I knew what Marcy was thinking: how do you answer that question in one word?
“Evangelical Christian,” Marcy said tentatively, as if she were taking a guess on Jeopardy.
The nurse looked at an implausibly long checklist of religions. “Evangelical Christian” wasn’t on it. She marked “Christian”.
I suppose for the purpose of a medical checklist, that was sufficient.
When it comes right down to it, “Christian” is the right answer, but that word is so destroyed that it holds absolutely no meaning anymore. It seems that a whole lot of people call themselves “Christian”, but not everyone knows what it means. C. S. Lewis noted this destruction of words by citing the word “gentleman” as an example. A gentleman—as the word originally meant—was a landowner. By hearing someone referenced as a gentleman, you would know something about that person. But then people started applying the word gentleman to non-landowners, implying that some people acted in a certain way even if they did not own land. This broadened and then changed the connotative definition. Now, not all landowners are gentlemen, and not all gentlemen are landowners. The word has lost its meaning.
“Christian” meant “Christ-like” and “follower of Christ”.
So on a checklist, how do you say, “I’m a Christian, but I’m the kind of Christian who believes in God who created Heaven and Earth (both of which I believe actually exist) and mankind in his image, although we fell into sin in Adam and are now sinful both by nature and choice, but I also believe in God’s only Son, Jesus, who is both true God and true man and came to pay for our sins so that if we choose Him in faith we spend eternity with Him in Heaven and not in Hell with the devil (both of which I also believe exists) and I am currently active and not passive as a follower of Christ.”
“And more than that, I know God as one who exercise kindness, love, justice, mercy, and grace on earth, for it’s in these things He delights.”
Turn to Checklist 3B-Form 2 for questions about the Holy Spirit and Checklist 5A-Form 7 for questions about baptism.
Sunday, September 24, 2006
Good Days
“It was a good day.”
This is what I say to my 23-month-old girl every night; it’s become a bedtime ritual. It changes slightly with the events of the day, but the general process is the same each night.
Usually, I begin the dialogue.
“Did you have a good day?” I ask after the lights are out and we are in the rocking chair.
“Good day,” she says, her head against my chest.
“Did you go to the park?”
“Go to the park,” she repeats.
“…and play with friends?”
“Play with friends…”
“…and play in the fountain?”
“…play in fountain…”
“…and took a nap?”
“…nap.”
“…and went for a walk?”
“…in the stroller,” she adds.
“And what else?”
“Hot dog,” she says.
“Yes, we got free hot dogs from Home Depot. Then we played in the yard.”
“Play in yard.”
“It was a good day.”
“Good day.”
Of course this omits anything unpleasant that happens during the day, and sometimes there are unpleasant things. The Crowned-African Crane pecked her in the head at the zoo once; she falls and scrapes her knees now and then; sometimes the computer-controlled fountain at the park shoots water from a new direction when she’s not ready and it freaks her out a little. And then there’s the occasional tears when she doesn’t get what she wants when she wants it, but we don’t focus on those things at bedtime.
It’s almost just the opposite of what I do when I go to bed. I think of the mistakes I made; I wonder if I’m damaging any children in my classroom and hope I’m doing a good job; I worry about the war in the Middle East; I worry that I might not have enough insurance or that I might have too much. I’ve really got to review that insurance file sometime.
There’s just something about the dark that brings out terror; conversely, morning light always seems to scatter those cobwebby fears.
Lately, I’ve been trying to apply the nursery bedtime routine over at the other side of the house. Did I have a good day? I went to a job that I love. The coffee was really good. The weather was perfect.
But that doesn’t cut it for me. I’m too old to determine if my day was good or bad based on events. The fact is the day is good, regardless. As the Psalmist wrote, “This is the day the LORD has made; let us rejoice and be glad in it.” If work was especially frustrating today and the coffee was burnt, I could still have a good day. It’s my decision; my reaction to the day is what I choose it to be.
It was a good day.
This is what I say to my 23-month-old girl every night; it’s become a bedtime ritual. It changes slightly with the events of the day, but the general process is the same each night.
Usually, I begin the dialogue.
“Did you have a good day?” I ask after the lights are out and we are in the rocking chair.
“Good day,” she says, her head against my chest.
“Did you go to the park?”
“Go to the park,” she repeats.
“…and play with friends?”
“Play with friends…”
“…and play in the fountain?”
“…play in fountain…”
“…and took a nap?”
“…nap.”
“…and went for a walk?”
“…in the stroller,” she adds.
“And what else?”
“Hot dog,” she says.
“Yes, we got free hot dogs from Home Depot. Then we played in the yard.”
“Play in yard.”
“It was a good day.”
“Good day.”
Of course this omits anything unpleasant that happens during the day, and sometimes there are unpleasant things. The Crowned-African Crane pecked her in the head at the zoo once; she falls and scrapes her knees now and then; sometimes the computer-controlled fountain at the park shoots water from a new direction when she’s not ready and it freaks her out a little. And then there’s the occasional tears when she doesn’t get what she wants when she wants it, but we don’t focus on those things at bedtime.
It’s almost just the opposite of what I do when I go to bed. I think of the mistakes I made; I wonder if I’m damaging any children in my classroom and hope I’m doing a good job; I worry about the war in the Middle East; I worry that I might not have enough insurance or that I might have too much. I’ve really got to review that insurance file sometime.
There’s just something about the dark that brings out terror; conversely, morning light always seems to scatter those cobwebby fears.
Lately, I’ve been trying to apply the nursery bedtime routine over at the other side of the house. Did I have a good day? I went to a job that I love. The coffee was really good. The weather was perfect.
But that doesn’t cut it for me. I’m too old to determine if my day was good or bad based on events. The fact is the day is good, regardless. As the Psalmist wrote, “This is the day the LORD has made; let us rejoice and be glad in it.” If work was especially frustrating today and the coffee was burnt, I could still have a good day. It’s my decision; my reaction to the day is what I choose it to be.
It was a good day.
Saturday, September 23, 2006
Time is of the Essence
“I am bionic man.”
It was three in the morning and I was thinking this because I was strapping a watch to my wrist. “I am strapping a time-keeping device to my arm,” I said, “and I’ve done it everyday for at least 15 years.” My sleeplessness was due to the fact that I was not feeling well, so I was moving my resting quarters to the futon in the music room to keep from waking my wife. The watch has an alarm built in, which would get me up in time for work. As I pushed the little metal prongs that produced lights, beeps, and a wake-up time of 5:30, I mumbled again, “I’m like 1/1000th machine.”
Hey, I realize how cliché this is to begin with, and millions of people are much closer to being classified as bionic people than I am. I mean, I don’t have an internal pacemaker in my chest or a cell phone clipped to my ear, nor can I operate a PS2 or N64 controller like it is some extension of my body. But at three in the morning, I think about the dumbest things in the weirdest way.
And I did begin to wonder about it. When did I institute watch-wearing and why? The watch I had on my wrist now is comfortable enough that I just might be able to drift back off to sleep, but as a kid my watch-wearing episodes were always thwarted by the discomfort of having it on my arm.
Mom gave me my first watch when I was in Kindergarten, probably as a way to teach me time-telling skills. It was also about the time that mom put a fat old log, a box of nails, and a 16-ounce hammer on the back porch and told us we could hit nails into the log as much as I wanted. And I wanted. I nearly gave that log a metal sheathing while unknowingly building gross-motor skills. Anyway, I loved the first watch; it had a tiny white analog face with miniscule black hands and band and silver trim. I wore it for quite a while on my right arm because I am right-handed and it made sense to me that the right arm should get all the privileges. But, it was not perfectly comfortable and I never really needed to know what time it was. I’m sure it wasn’t very long before that watch disappeared.
Throughout elementary school, though, I always wanted watches. I would use my allowance to buy a cheap, black plastic digital watch at K-Mart for around three or four dollars. I especially liked digital watches that had a timer feature. It would always last for a few weeks or months; I would forget to put it on sometimes and then the watch would disappear.
When I was ten, Dad told me that I should be wearing my watch on my left arm, which I tried and found to be uncomfortable and counter-intuitive. Dad wore his the opposite way than I did—on his left arm with the watch pressed against the inside of his wrist. He would have to turn his hand palm-up in order to see the watch’s face. There is a picture of me somewhere in my Cub Scout uniform holding a hamster, and you can read the time on my black plastic watch that is strapped to my right arm. It was a little after four in the afternoon, if I remember correctly. But I digress.
So how do people develop the habit of wearing a watch so faithfully? 100 years ago, pocket watches were primarily status symbols and wristwatches were for women only. Some men back then actually said they would wear a skirt before they wore a wristwatch. However, handy time-keeping devices were becoming increasingly useful in war tactics, so by the time World War I came around, soldiers almost universally wore wristwatches. With a little advertising work by the Rolex company, it was a short step from soldier wartime essential to everyday fashion. I guess that’s why you see camouflage in Wal-Mart and bright yellow Humvees on Main Street.
Status symbols and soldier idolatry. So now it is Saturday morning and I am surrounded by time. The computer monitor has it in the lower right corner, the phone reports it, and believe it or not my VCR is always set to the right time. Despite all this, I have already habitually strapped on my wristwatch even though I have not taken the time to put on some pants yet. It is 5:17 am.
It was three in the morning and I was thinking this because I was strapping a watch to my wrist. “I am strapping a time-keeping device to my arm,” I said, “and I’ve done it everyday for at least 15 years.” My sleeplessness was due to the fact that I was not feeling well, so I was moving my resting quarters to the futon in the music room to keep from waking my wife. The watch has an alarm built in, which would get me up in time for work. As I pushed the little metal prongs that produced lights, beeps, and a wake-up time of 5:30, I mumbled again, “I’m like 1/1000th machine.”
Hey, I realize how cliché this is to begin with, and millions of people are much closer to being classified as bionic people than I am. I mean, I don’t have an internal pacemaker in my chest or a cell phone clipped to my ear, nor can I operate a PS2 or N64 controller like it is some extension of my body. But at three in the morning, I think about the dumbest things in the weirdest way.
And I did begin to wonder about it. When did I institute watch-wearing and why? The watch I had on my wrist now is comfortable enough that I just might be able to drift back off to sleep, but as a kid my watch-wearing episodes were always thwarted by the discomfort of having it on my arm.
Mom gave me my first watch when I was in Kindergarten, probably as a way to teach me time-telling skills. It was also about the time that mom put a fat old log, a box of nails, and a 16-ounce hammer on the back porch and told us we could hit nails into the log as much as I wanted. And I wanted. I nearly gave that log a metal sheathing while unknowingly building gross-motor skills. Anyway, I loved the first watch; it had a tiny white analog face with miniscule black hands and band and silver trim. I wore it for quite a while on my right arm because I am right-handed and it made sense to me that the right arm should get all the privileges. But, it was not perfectly comfortable and I never really needed to know what time it was. I’m sure it wasn’t very long before that watch disappeared.
Throughout elementary school, though, I always wanted watches. I would use my allowance to buy a cheap, black plastic digital watch at K-Mart for around three or four dollars. I especially liked digital watches that had a timer feature. It would always last for a few weeks or months; I would forget to put it on sometimes and then the watch would disappear.
When I was ten, Dad told me that I should be wearing my watch on my left arm, which I tried and found to be uncomfortable and counter-intuitive. Dad wore his the opposite way than I did—on his left arm with the watch pressed against the inside of his wrist. He would have to turn his hand palm-up in order to see the watch’s face. There is a picture of me somewhere in my Cub Scout uniform holding a hamster, and you can read the time on my black plastic watch that is strapped to my right arm. It was a little after four in the afternoon, if I remember correctly. But I digress.
So how do people develop the habit of wearing a watch so faithfully? 100 years ago, pocket watches were primarily status symbols and wristwatches were for women only. Some men back then actually said they would wear a skirt before they wore a wristwatch. However, handy time-keeping devices were becoming increasingly useful in war tactics, so by the time World War I came around, soldiers almost universally wore wristwatches. With a little advertising work by the Rolex company, it was a short step from soldier wartime essential to everyday fashion. I guess that’s why you see camouflage in Wal-Mart and bright yellow Humvees on Main Street.
Status symbols and soldier idolatry. So now it is Saturday morning and I am surrounded by time. The computer monitor has it in the lower right corner, the phone reports it, and believe it or not my VCR is always set to the right time. Despite all this, I have already habitually strapped on my wristwatch even though I have not taken the time to put on some pants yet. It is 5:17 am.
Friday, September 22, 2006
Paint Buckets and Bucket Seats
This just cracks me up.
Sherwin-Williams has used the same logo of a blue globe actively being covered by red paint and the slogan “Cover the Earth” for over 40 years. This might be a good slogan for money-hungry executives to chant at a sales meeting, but it does not speak to any particular consumer. For many people today, it is a disgusting and offensive idea. Although the logo may have been catchy in the baby boomer era, conservation awareness and societal values have shifted enough that the logo has gone past the point of not communicating effectively—instead, it is communicating a totally different message very effectively.
Speaking of communication, Sherwin-Williams isn’t the only one who could use some coaching. This one is not so funny:
When Chrysler lost a court case involving their collapsing seats resulting in child deaths, they publicly replied that their “seats performed as designed” and they met government standards. That is not a message that sits well with an audience of consumers who transport their children. Were they designed to collapse and kill children?
I mean really.
We were in the market for a van a while ago, and Chrysler was the only company my wife and I marked off our list. At the very least, a stronger message would give more consideration to the audience in an attempt not to alienate us. For example, what if Chrysler representatives said, “The people of Chrysler grieve for the loss of these children. We have invested a great deal of money and time in research and development of safe vehicles because we care about the families who use them. Even though we have surpassed government standards, we are dedicated to improving these vehicles further so that this will not happen again.”
I could live with that. Probably. (And since when does "meets government standards" act as a reasonable defense?)
Sherwin-Williams has used the same logo of a blue globe actively being covered by red paint and the slogan “Cover the Earth” for over 40 years. This might be a good slogan for money-hungry executives to chant at a sales meeting, but it does not speak to any particular consumer. For many people today, it is a disgusting and offensive idea. Although the logo may have been catchy in the baby boomer era, conservation awareness and societal values have shifted enough that the logo has gone past the point of not communicating effectively—instead, it is communicating a totally different message very effectively.
Speaking of communication, Sherwin-Williams isn’t the only one who could use some coaching. This one is not so funny:
When Chrysler lost a court case involving their collapsing seats resulting in child deaths, they publicly replied that their “seats performed as designed” and they met government standards. That is not a message that sits well with an audience of consumers who transport their children. Were they designed to collapse and kill children?
I mean really.
We were in the market for a van a while ago, and Chrysler was the only company my wife and I marked off our list. At the very least, a stronger message would give more consideration to the audience in an attempt not to alienate us. For example, what if Chrysler representatives said, “The people of Chrysler grieve for the loss of these children. We have invested a great deal of money and time in research and development of safe vehicles because we care about the families who use them. Even though we have surpassed government standards, we are dedicated to improving these vehicles further so that this will not happen again.”
I could live with that. Probably. (And since when does "meets government standards" act as a reasonable defense?)
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
Skill
Two years ago this month, I got stuck in construction traffic on Signal Mountain Blvd. While I sat, I saw this:
A backhoe was scooping gravel out of an enormous iron bin and dumping it in a ditch. At first glance, I took no real notice, but then something caught my attention. The fluidity that this backhoe operator managed was simply outstanding. There were no jerky movements at all, but rather, it was like watching a one-armed giant slowly playing in a sandbox. The backhoe deftly swung over the bin, which was nearly three times as big as the dumpster behind the school. It was massive and solid, but next to the backhoe, it looked like a paper cup. Over the bin the backhoe came and gracefully dipped into it. The apparatus on the end of the back hoe barely fit inside the iron container, but he never scraped either side of it. As the backhoe dipped into the bin and scooped up gravel, it scooted the bin back and forth about a foot, so lightly that it looked like the wind was performing the actual movements. That is how powerful this backhoe was. Then, the operator skillfully lifted the full backhoe, dripping gravel like sand through fingers, and arched it over the ditch before letting the gravel pour out. It was a cycle, but only one continuous movement, with no stops or corrections. I could not believe it. There were many men working around the backhoe, sometimes inches from where the operator was swinging the giant, hydraulic arm. One slip from the operator, and a man certainly could be killed. Yet, no one paid him any attention as he worked, not even looking or flinching when the gravel came arching over, mere feet away.
Behind the backhoe, a crane was setting down a gargantuan cement tube, I think to be used as a underground drainage pipe. But when he set it down, and the hook on the crane came completely clear, it began to lumber towards the road and the rows of cars stuck on it. A worker on the ground saw it and shouted, followed by another worker's shout. The backhoe had just released its gravel and was making its way back to the bin, when the operator must have heard the shout. Without breaking momentum or his pace, he continued to swing the entire backhoe around, past the bin, and towards the ambling drain pipe. At the same time, he backed the whole machine up and extended the arm of the backhoe, reaching out towards the traffic. The arm reached out, human as possible, and touched the tube with its metal fingers. Then, the backhoe rolled the tube back towards itself, lifted its arm and came down behind the tube to nudge it into a safer place. Still, without breaking stride, the operator moved the whole machine forward to its previous location, the arm extending and dropping simultaneously into the bin for a new scoop of gravel.
It was like some kind of choreography or dance.
A backhoe was scooping gravel out of an enormous iron bin and dumping it in a ditch. At first glance, I took no real notice, but then something caught my attention. The fluidity that this backhoe operator managed was simply outstanding. There were no jerky movements at all, but rather, it was like watching a one-armed giant slowly playing in a sandbox. The backhoe deftly swung over the bin, which was nearly three times as big as the dumpster behind the school. It was massive and solid, but next to the backhoe, it looked like a paper cup. Over the bin the backhoe came and gracefully dipped into it. The apparatus on the end of the back hoe barely fit inside the iron container, but he never scraped either side of it. As the backhoe dipped into the bin and scooped up gravel, it scooted the bin back and forth about a foot, so lightly that it looked like the wind was performing the actual movements. That is how powerful this backhoe was. Then, the operator skillfully lifted the full backhoe, dripping gravel like sand through fingers, and arched it over the ditch before letting the gravel pour out. It was a cycle, but only one continuous movement, with no stops or corrections. I could not believe it. There were many men working around the backhoe, sometimes inches from where the operator was swinging the giant, hydraulic arm. One slip from the operator, and a man certainly could be killed. Yet, no one paid him any attention as he worked, not even looking or flinching when the gravel came arching over, mere feet away.
Behind the backhoe, a crane was setting down a gargantuan cement tube, I think to be used as a underground drainage pipe. But when he set it down, and the hook on the crane came completely clear, it began to lumber towards the road and the rows of cars stuck on it. A worker on the ground saw it and shouted, followed by another worker's shout. The backhoe had just released its gravel and was making its way back to the bin, when the operator must have heard the shout. Without breaking momentum or his pace, he continued to swing the entire backhoe around, past the bin, and towards the ambling drain pipe. At the same time, he backed the whole machine up and extended the arm of the backhoe, reaching out towards the traffic. The arm reached out, human as possible, and touched the tube with its metal fingers. Then, the backhoe rolled the tube back towards itself, lifted its arm and came down behind the tube to nudge it into a safer place. Still, without breaking stride, the operator moved the whole machine forward to its previous location, the arm extending and dropping simultaneously into the bin for a new scoop of gravel.
It was like some kind of choreography or dance.
Tuesday, September 19, 2006
Dear Diary
I should have been keeping a journal for the last 15 years. Apparently, anyone who is great in life keeps a journal.
I realized this yesterday morning at about 4:30 after I had been awake for nearly two hours. I was in the music room, if it can still be called that; it would probably be more appropriate to follow the example of a school at which I used to teach and call it the Multi-Purpose Room. It used to be a full-fledged music room, but when our baby was born it whelmed the office and library much like an amoeba eating paramecium so that we could have a nursery. Now, it’s the guest room, too, except that our guests are increasingly opting to shell out money for a hotel room.
I tossed the two down pillows that I had brought with me—just in case—on the futon and turned on the computer. There is something about the light of a monitor as sole light source that is still a little chimerical. The first time I experienced it, I was 16, and it seemed magical, futuristic, advanced, civilized. My brother and I had brought our meager resources together to build a Compaq 386 with a whopping 4 meg hard drive. We loaded it with a flight simulator for my brother and a driving simulator for me. It was kept in my room, and sometimes I would stir in the middle of the night and—instead of turning over—I’d fire up the computer. The cold, monochromatic, unidirectional light of the computer screen would wash my room in flickering gossamer. Like a television set, but somehow better. Once, I caught my reflection in the mirror as I was lit by monitor. Half of me floated out of oblivion; I could see part of my face, my ear, the white of my t-shirt and the front half of my arm. The rest of me had dissolved into obscurity. Very cool, I thought.
Now, turning on the computer in the middle of the night still seems a little otherworldly, but I have acclimated to it on some level. To a very mild degree, it is how I imagine astronauts must adapt. First, being in space literally must be otherworldly, but soon it becomes routine in a chronic way. Yet, no matter how accustomed the astronauts become to their new environment, they certainly must carry other unsorted feelings of abnormality—that this is simply not natural. That is at least how I feel, sitting in my music room, peering into this portal of the world, hunched over in a habitual position that would make my chiropractor cringe.
I should start a blog, I thought. It was only 2:45 in morning; I’d been up for fifteen minutes and this was the thought I was having. The idea of blogging has been pestering me for just over a month now. I figure this is the work of the same little muse that tried to get me journaling ten years ago. I resisted journaling back then for four reasons:
1. Starting a journal in my twenties seemed like starting a story in the middle.
2. Journaling is work and requires time.
3. Journaling is reflective, which seems dangerous to me. It might provoke unwanted changes.
4. People only read journals of famous people. Why write if no one is going to read it?
Before I could journal, I had to answer my own objections. I attempted to do so in the following ways:
1. I won’t start in the middle. I will first chronicle all of my major life events to date and then I’ll continue with the present.
2. I have no children or many obligations. So, I have time to journal.
3. I will avoid reflective journals. Instead, I will only tell stories.
4. I will probably be famous.
I did try journaling, but it fizzled out quickly. The main problem, I believe, was trying to chronicle all my life events to date. It was really boring.
And, ten years later, I’m still not famous, nor am I all that interested in fame.
But I am going to blog*. I’m starting in the middle with today. I do have children now and consequently no time. But, my wife is blogging, too, so we’re carving out blocks of time to write and read each other’s blogs. Also, I have become reflective anyway, and it has provoked changes—all of which I like.
Oddly enough, though, I did not blog in the wee hours of yesterday morning. I thought about it, but then decided it would be a waste of time. So, I edited digital video of my little 23-month-old. Editing digital video is one of those tasks that is at the same time tedious and rewarding. The idea of crafting a psuedo story with visual and audio elements is a lot of fun. The insipidness comes from the amount of video that I have to weed through. Sometimes I let the video camera run for twenty minutes with the hope of catching one or two great moments and the fear of losing something precious. And why not? 60-minute digital videotape is cheap and reusable. I can shoot a nearly infinite amount of video. Sometimes I edit out up to probably 80 percent of what I had captured, and still I find myself watching the videos and thinking that it should have been pared down further.
My dad began taking home movies with his Super 8 film movie camera when he was in his early teens. He would buy three-minute reels, take movies, edit the film, and splice together the film to make up to thirty-minute silent home movies, usually about one theme or another. He made a movie called “My Brothers and their Cars”, which was more interesting than it sounds. Other films were about watching people unawares, his siblings, or local parades. He even managed some special effects. With three minutes of film at a time, he had to shoot sparingly. I know, because when I was twelve, he let me use his old camera. By that time, three-minute reels were running almost $7 at the Ben Franklin. Hearing the rhythmic clicking of the camera’s shutter was simultaneously thrilling and depressing; shooting the movie was fun, but the finiteness of the film felt so precarious and valuable—something to be hoarded. I am so grateful to have the freedoms of digital video, but at the same time it seems like some of the value is gone. With an infinite amount of “film”, I am not discerning with how I use it. There is no effort involved, no reason for restraint or thought.
And I guess that’s part of my complaint with writing in a digital age. In the past, writing took effort and therefore thought. Writers had to contemplate each word before dipping the quill or setting a printing press. Even typewriters—which made writing faster and easier—still tempered the writing process in comparison to today’s tools. In fact, I am quite confident that if I had to use one of those antiquated tools, I would not have expended the energy to write this. It is so easy to forward meaningless e-mails to millions of people several times over, to publish on the Internet, to write, delete, revise, copy, and paste entire passages that words have become cheaper than ever. No one really has to think about what he writes because it costs nothing. It seems like most people have nothing to say, but they say it anyway.
So, this is my first blog. Really. I tentatively named this blog site Pencil Animus for lack of a better name, but also because I want this writing to have purpose. I do not want it mistaken for rants or ramblings or meanderings or digressions. It is first for me, and then for you if you care to read it.
* How many blogs are started in the middle of the night?
I realized this yesterday morning at about 4:30 after I had been awake for nearly two hours. I was in the music room, if it can still be called that; it would probably be more appropriate to follow the example of a school at which I used to teach and call it the Multi-Purpose Room. It used to be a full-fledged music room, but when our baby was born it whelmed the office and library much like an amoeba eating paramecium so that we could have a nursery. Now, it’s the guest room, too, except that our guests are increasingly opting to shell out money for a hotel room.
I tossed the two down pillows that I had brought with me—just in case—on the futon and turned on the computer. There is something about the light of a monitor as sole light source that is still a little chimerical. The first time I experienced it, I was 16, and it seemed magical, futuristic, advanced, civilized. My brother and I had brought our meager resources together to build a Compaq 386 with a whopping 4 meg hard drive. We loaded it with a flight simulator for my brother and a driving simulator for me. It was kept in my room, and sometimes I would stir in the middle of the night and—instead of turning over—I’d fire up the computer. The cold, monochromatic, unidirectional light of the computer screen would wash my room in flickering gossamer. Like a television set, but somehow better. Once, I caught my reflection in the mirror as I was lit by monitor. Half of me floated out of oblivion; I could see part of my face, my ear, the white of my t-shirt and the front half of my arm. The rest of me had dissolved into obscurity. Very cool, I thought.
Now, turning on the computer in the middle of the night still seems a little otherworldly, but I have acclimated to it on some level. To a very mild degree, it is how I imagine astronauts must adapt. First, being in space literally must be otherworldly, but soon it becomes routine in a chronic way. Yet, no matter how accustomed the astronauts become to their new environment, they certainly must carry other unsorted feelings of abnormality—that this is simply not natural. That is at least how I feel, sitting in my music room, peering into this portal of the world, hunched over in a habitual position that would make my chiropractor cringe.
I should start a blog, I thought. It was only 2:45 in morning; I’d been up for fifteen minutes and this was the thought I was having. The idea of blogging has been pestering me for just over a month now. I figure this is the work of the same little muse that tried to get me journaling ten years ago. I resisted journaling back then for four reasons:
1. Starting a journal in my twenties seemed like starting a story in the middle.
2. Journaling is work and requires time.
3. Journaling is reflective, which seems dangerous to me. It might provoke unwanted changes.
4. People only read journals of famous people. Why write if no one is going to read it?
Before I could journal, I had to answer my own objections. I attempted to do so in the following ways:
1. I won’t start in the middle. I will first chronicle all of my major life events to date and then I’ll continue with the present.
2. I have no children or many obligations. So, I have time to journal.
3. I will avoid reflective journals. Instead, I will only tell stories.
4. I will probably be famous.
I did try journaling, but it fizzled out quickly. The main problem, I believe, was trying to chronicle all my life events to date. It was really boring.
And, ten years later, I’m still not famous, nor am I all that interested in fame.
But I am going to blog*. I’m starting in the middle with today. I do have children now and consequently no time. But, my wife is blogging, too, so we’re carving out blocks of time to write and read each other’s blogs. Also, I have become reflective anyway, and it has provoked changes—all of which I like.
Oddly enough, though, I did not blog in the wee hours of yesterday morning. I thought about it, but then decided it would be a waste of time. So, I edited digital video of my little 23-month-old. Editing digital video is one of those tasks that is at the same time tedious and rewarding. The idea of crafting a psuedo story with visual and audio elements is a lot of fun. The insipidness comes from the amount of video that I have to weed through. Sometimes I let the video camera run for twenty minutes with the hope of catching one or two great moments and the fear of losing something precious. And why not? 60-minute digital videotape is cheap and reusable. I can shoot a nearly infinite amount of video. Sometimes I edit out up to probably 80 percent of what I had captured, and still I find myself watching the videos and thinking that it should have been pared down further.
My dad began taking home movies with his Super 8 film movie camera when he was in his early teens. He would buy three-minute reels, take movies, edit the film, and splice together the film to make up to thirty-minute silent home movies, usually about one theme or another. He made a movie called “My Brothers and their Cars”, which was more interesting than it sounds. Other films were about watching people unawares, his siblings, or local parades. He even managed some special effects. With three minutes of film at a time, he had to shoot sparingly. I know, because when I was twelve, he let me use his old camera. By that time, three-minute reels were running almost $7 at the Ben Franklin. Hearing the rhythmic clicking of the camera’s shutter was simultaneously thrilling and depressing; shooting the movie was fun, but the finiteness of the film felt so precarious and valuable—something to be hoarded. I am so grateful to have the freedoms of digital video, but at the same time it seems like some of the value is gone. With an infinite amount of “film”, I am not discerning with how I use it. There is no effort involved, no reason for restraint or thought.
And I guess that’s part of my complaint with writing in a digital age. In the past, writing took effort and therefore thought. Writers had to contemplate each word before dipping the quill or setting a printing press. Even typewriters—which made writing faster and easier—still tempered the writing process in comparison to today’s tools. In fact, I am quite confident that if I had to use one of those antiquated tools, I would not have expended the energy to write this. It is so easy to forward meaningless e-mails to millions of people several times over, to publish on the Internet, to write, delete, revise, copy, and paste entire passages that words have become cheaper than ever. No one really has to think about what he writes because it costs nothing. It seems like most people have nothing to say, but they say it anyway.
So, this is my first blog. Really. I tentatively named this blog site Pencil Animus for lack of a better name, but also because I want this writing to have purpose. I do not want it mistaken for rants or ramblings or meanderings or digressions. It is first for me, and then for you if you care to read it.
* How many blogs are started in the middle of the night?
The Dog
I’m sorry if I licked your hand too much;
I just wanted to say
Thank you
For the
Bone
It was delicious and good.
And if you have some time to play
In the yard with me
And my
Tennis ball
It is my favorite thing.
And I don’t know if I can do
anything for you,
but if you
get pleasure
from scratching me
behind my ears,
well I wouldn’t mind that.
Monday, January 02, 2006
This I Believe
The mind is such a curious thing. It can believe something so tenaciously and with such conviction that it can convince itself and the body in which it resides to suffer or die for that belief. And yet, it is so fickle that it may believe today the exact opposite of what it was willing to suffer for yesterday.
On a much less intense level, I was once convinced that a girl in my class had stolen a particular item off of my desk. It seems every class has its thief, so it’s not terribly shocking (although no less upsetting) to me when one is uncovered. Besides, this girl had already been caught once in such an act and had offered only excuses as compensation. Not only that, but one of her previous teachers had whispered a warning to me about her “sticky fingers”. When I realized the item was missing, it occurred to me that she had been playing with it the day before. Prior to finding the item on a bookshelf, I questioned her in general terms, searched her backpack and desk, questioned her in more specific terms, and began to cement this idea that she was an unremorseful thief. Not only did she show no compunction, I perceived her to be wholly indifferent, callous, and even smug. To my mind, such an attitude confirmed her guilt and sealed it.
Finding the item on the bookshelf made my world spin. I had been certain that I had been in command of the truth, when really I had been held sway by some erroneous notion.
I once heard a young lady respond to the question of absolute truth like this: “I carry my truths around with me. Sometimes my truths come in contact with other truths that are more true than my truths, so I trade my truths for those truths.”
It occurs to me that she is confusing truth with belief. If she were to replace the words “truths” and “true” with “beliefs” and “believable”, then she would have a denotatively accurate sentence. Belief can feel true, but it has the luxury of working independently from reality. Truth does not have that liberty.
I realize this is one side of an already overwrought conversation. The other side—if it were here right now—would say something like, “Well, it’s only true if you believe it”—as stated in a song I heard this week. But statements like that are so arrogantly wrong that they make me blink in bewilderment. We humans seem to think that we can take words and bend them into any shape and situation and purpose we desire by first stripping them of their meaning and definition and then by persistently using them incorrectly. Just because I came to believe that a particular little girl stole an item from my desk had no bearing on the truth of the matter. She did not steal it. All of the evidence I had compiled—her history, her attitude, her actions with the item the day before—did not make my belief more true; they simply made my belief more believable.
It’s like we approach truth as if it were a salad bar. We walk up to the salad bar of truth and take what we like. Then we sit down with our friends at the table and one says, “Why don’t you have any croutons?” And we say, “Croutons don’t exist.” And the friend says, “Well, sure they do. I have some right here; I got them from the salad bar.” And we look at the croutons and say, “Well, that may be true for you, but I don’t believe in croutons.” Sometimes our impatient friends try to shove croutons down our throats simply so we will acknowledge that we can design beliefs but not truth. Truth simply is.
Can we take this approach with God? God claims many things about Himself and His creation. Can we pull at the strings that disgust us and unravel only what we don’t like? It’s like saying “I don’t believe trees grow acorns because it is a pain to rake them up.” If I don’t like it, then it must not be true. The other side—if it were here—would say, “That’s not fair; you are over-simplifying it.” Is it possible to believe in God and dismiss the unfriendly parts? If we do, that causes bigger problems. If we say we will believe God concerning this and this but not that or that, then that means God was not always truthful. In fact, that would mean He was quite deceptive, which would mean that Jesus was really just a raving lunatic and Christians are the biggest fools in the world. The way I see it, we either must accept the whole package, or throw the whole package out the cosmic window.
Suspend beliefs and disbeliefs with me for just a moment. Suppose—pretend—God created the world and everything in it. Suppose He created people for the purpose of having a relationship and that the whole purpose of people is to glorify God. Suppose, as a creator, He determined a basic set of rules for people to live by. Would it be fair for Him to do so? Suppose God decided not to force people to obey Him, but to allow people to either choose or reject Him. What if He gave that choice to His angels, also? Suppose one-third of the angels rejected God and are doing their level best to persuade people to do the same? If I pick and choose what to believe, how does my belief (or lack of it) affect reality?
I would be remiss to say that believing in God is easy. I can handle the virgin birth, talking donkeys, and raising the dead to life. Miracles I can understand. However, there are some things about God that I find very distasteful and hard to understand. I’ll admit that Hell is one of them. I think, “Why doesn’t God just take everybody to Heaven regardless of belief? Isn’t He big enough to deal with that? Or—barring that—why doesn’t He let nonbelievers slip into oblivion at the end of life instead of an eternity of torture?” Can I dismiss this if I simply don’t like it, or do I have to take the whole package?
These things I have wrestled with for more than half my life. I have seriously considered full disbelief, but I cannot find the atheistic approach plausible. Even Michael Behe—a scientist who does not believe in God—dissected an eyeball and said that the eyeball alone is so complex that it seems to point towards a designer. Nature will not let me renounce God. The transcendental worldviews are too inconsistent and do not make sense to me. I find it hard to believe in God, but I find it harder not to.
There is truth and there is belief, and they are not always consistent. Once the truth is learned, belief can waver. There can be doubt. Doubt and belief do not change truth. Truth is.
I believe the truth is knowable. Throughout the Bible, God commands people to seek truth and claims to be truth. And though I struggle with it, I believe Jesus was the Son of God. And since I believe that, I have no choice but to believe He was speaking the truth when He said, “I am the way, the truth, and the life. No man comes to the Father but through me.” I have some comfort from other things Jesus said, namely, “Whosoever believes will not perish, but have everlasting life” and also Peter’s comment that God is patient, “not wanting anyone to perish”.
This I believe owing to constant seeking, and I have no choice but live according to it.
On a much less intense level, I was once convinced that a girl in my class had stolen a particular item off of my desk. It seems every class has its thief, so it’s not terribly shocking (although no less upsetting) to me when one is uncovered. Besides, this girl had already been caught once in such an act and had offered only excuses as compensation. Not only that, but one of her previous teachers had whispered a warning to me about her “sticky fingers”. When I realized the item was missing, it occurred to me that she had been playing with it the day before. Prior to finding the item on a bookshelf, I questioned her in general terms, searched her backpack and desk, questioned her in more specific terms, and began to cement this idea that she was an unremorseful thief. Not only did she show no compunction, I perceived her to be wholly indifferent, callous, and even smug. To my mind, such an attitude confirmed her guilt and sealed it.
Finding the item on the bookshelf made my world spin. I had been certain that I had been in command of the truth, when really I had been held sway by some erroneous notion.
I once heard a young lady respond to the question of absolute truth like this: “I carry my truths around with me. Sometimes my truths come in contact with other truths that are more true than my truths, so I trade my truths for those truths.”
It occurs to me that she is confusing truth with belief. If she were to replace the words “truths” and “true” with “beliefs” and “believable”, then she would have a denotatively accurate sentence. Belief can feel true, but it has the luxury of working independently from reality. Truth does not have that liberty.
I realize this is one side of an already overwrought conversation. The other side—if it were here right now—would say something like, “Well, it’s only true if you believe it”—as stated in a song I heard this week. But statements like that are so arrogantly wrong that they make me blink in bewilderment. We humans seem to think that we can take words and bend them into any shape and situation and purpose we desire by first stripping them of their meaning and definition and then by persistently using them incorrectly. Just because I came to believe that a particular little girl stole an item from my desk had no bearing on the truth of the matter. She did not steal it. All of the evidence I had compiled—her history, her attitude, her actions with the item the day before—did not make my belief more true; they simply made my belief more believable.
It’s like we approach truth as if it were a salad bar. We walk up to the salad bar of truth and take what we like. Then we sit down with our friends at the table and one says, “Why don’t you have any croutons?” And we say, “Croutons don’t exist.” And the friend says, “Well, sure they do. I have some right here; I got them from the salad bar.” And we look at the croutons and say, “Well, that may be true for you, but I don’t believe in croutons.” Sometimes our impatient friends try to shove croutons down our throats simply so we will acknowledge that we can design beliefs but not truth. Truth simply is.
Can we take this approach with God? God claims many things about Himself and His creation. Can we pull at the strings that disgust us and unravel only what we don’t like? It’s like saying “I don’t believe trees grow acorns because it is a pain to rake them up.” If I don’t like it, then it must not be true. The other side—if it were here—would say, “That’s not fair; you are over-simplifying it.” Is it possible to believe in God and dismiss the unfriendly parts? If we do, that causes bigger problems. If we say we will believe God concerning this and this but not that or that, then that means God was not always truthful. In fact, that would mean He was quite deceptive, which would mean that Jesus was really just a raving lunatic and Christians are the biggest fools in the world. The way I see it, we either must accept the whole package, or throw the whole package out the cosmic window.
Suspend beliefs and disbeliefs with me for just a moment. Suppose—pretend—God created the world and everything in it. Suppose He created people for the purpose of having a relationship and that the whole purpose of people is to glorify God. Suppose, as a creator, He determined a basic set of rules for people to live by. Would it be fair for Him to do so? Suppose God decided not to force people to obey Him, but to allow people to either choose or reject Him. What if He gave that choice to His angels, also? Suppose one-third of the angels rejected God and are doing their level best to persuade people to do the same? If I pick and choose what to believe, how does my belief (or lack of it) affect reality?
I would be remiss to say that believing in God is easy. I can handle the virgin birth, talking donkeys, and raising the dead to life. Miracles I can understand. However, there are some things about God that I find very distasteful and hard to understand. I’ll admit that Hell is one of them. I think, “Why doesn’t God just take everybody to Heaven regardless of belief? Isn’t He big enough to deal with that? Or—barring that—why doesn’t He let nonbelievers slip into oblivion at the end of life instead of an eternity of torture?” Can I dismiss this if I simply don’t like it, or do I have to take the whole package?
These things I have wrestled with for more than half my life. I have seriously considered full disbelief, but I cannot find the atheistic approach plausible. Even Michael Behe—a scientist who does not believe in God—dissected an eyeball and said that the eyeball alone is so complex that it seems to point towards a designer. Nature will not let me renounce God. The transcendental worldviews are too inconsistent and do not make sense to me. I find it hard to believe in God, but I find it harder not to.
There is truth and there is belief, and they are not always consistent. Once the truth is learned, belief can waver. There can be doubt. Doubt and belief do not change truth. Truth is.
I believe the truth is knowable. Throughout the Bible, God commands people to seek truth and claims to be truth. And though I struggle with it, I believe Jesus was the Son of God. And since I believe that, I have no choice but to believe He was speaking the truth when He said, “I am the way, the truth, and the life. No man comes to the Father but through me.” I have some comfort from other things Jesus said, namely, “Whosoever believes will not perish, but have everlasting life” and also Peter’s comment that God is patient, “not wanting anyone to perish”.
This I believe owing to constant seeking, and I have no choice but live according to it.
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