Dennis Lynn
The jewelry I wear
Tiny pieces of stone and metal melded together have meaning. Sometimes the jewelry we wear simply reflects something we like, an accessory that aligns with our personal style. But often, the jewelry choices we make are nonverbal vehicles of communication, symbolic signals of who we are, statements of our priorities, or perhaps commitments we have made.
At the beginning of this new term, as a way to know me better, I want to tell you about the three items of jewelry I wear: a ring on my finger, a pendant around my neck, and a bracelet on my arm.
The ring on my left hand is the right place to start. Some days I may not wear the necklace or bracelet, but the ring remains. My beloved and I met on the day she was moving into her college dorm room in 1975. After a year of dating other people who weren’t nearly as much fun to be around, we began dating only each other and we married in 1978.
I will resist the temptation of unrealistically romanticizing an authentic relationship. There are multitudes of beautiful memories, each of them made more meaningful because we shared them together. There have also been times of turbulence, seasons of stress and distress. Ours is a love that has been tried and tested. I have been irresponsibly responsible for many of those trying times; and regarding the tests, I did not always earn high marks. Just as my heart swells with gratitude for the moments when I have contributed to her joy and delight, my heart breaks with regret for moments when I was the source of her suffering.
It makes sense that imperfect people will create imperfect relationships. Though not perfect, in a marriage spanning over four decades, we have found that, in many ways, we are perfect for each other. Sometimes she likes me to sing the song by John Denver that includes the lines, “Come let me love you, let me give my life to you. Let me drown in your laughter, let me die in your arms.” It is not unrealistically romantic when I declare that as I release my last breath, I want to die in her arms, seeing her face, safe in her embrace. So, yeh, the ring is important to me.
I also wear a bracelet made with tiger’s eye stones and a four-sided silver bar with the word “LOVE” engraved on each side. No matter how the bracelet turns, when I look at it, I am reminded to love. I know of no greater need in the world and I know I greatly need the reminder to be a loving presence wherever I am and with all who are there.
Finally, I wear a carved bear totem on a cord around my neck. Symbolically, the bear typically represents a grounding force and protective strength. But there is another significant meaning that expresses my intention when we are together on this university campus. Through time, the bear has also come to symbolize “a healing teacher.” That’s the kind of teacher I want to be. My deepest longing is to be more than a dispenser of facts and figures, theories and concepts, research and application. I aspire in all settings to bring hopeful words and helpful actions and a healing touch. My job description never uses the phrase “healing teacher.” But I don’t want to settle for less than that. Everyone has wounds and everyone deserves to be cared for with kindness.
A ring, a bracelet and a pendant. The jewelry I wear on the outside reminds me of who I want to be on the inside.
Everybody stumbles
There aren’t many things more humbling than demolishing your dignity as you fall flat on your face. I remember a particular sidewalk splat that would have received high marks had it been an Olympic event. We were living in York, Nebraska, where I was teaching at a small private college. I was in Lincoln one time participating in a day-long workshop on…assertiveness. (You know the material: don’t be passive, don’t be aggressive, just be appropriately, confidently, courteously assertive. Don’t be a doormat, don’t be a bulldozer, just be a person who takes care of themselves without harming others, etc.)
At the lunch break, the participants were all leaving the crowded conference center lobby to go find nearby restaurants. As I exited the building with head held high, overflowing with abundant assertiveness, I tripped, big time. Flat down. Fast down. Face down. There was no way that this rapid descent and sudden stop went unnoticed by my fellow assertiveness trainees. I recall thinking, almost in mid-fall, as the sidewalk was approaching fast, “Oh this is just great. I am smashing into the pavement with a thud that is likely registering on the Richter scale, right in the middle of an assertiveness training workshop. What do I do now?”
Fortunately, I knew enough to know that I should get back up (as assertively as I could), brush myself off, warn others about the uneven place in the sidewalk, and simply keep moving. We are all, at any given time, one misstep away from taking an unexpected tumble. No one’s step is so secure, no one’s way so smooth, that they never get tripped up in life. I wish I had more thoughtfully embraced the important truth we warned each other about on the recess playground, when we chanted, “Ring-a-round the rosies, A pocket full of posies, Ashes! Ashes! We all fall down.” We all fall down.
So…let us gather in a circle of truth around the world and confirm our common condition. I’ll start: “I’m Dennis and sometimes I stumble.” Let us each fully accept the truth of our tendency to trip and just as fully engage those experiences and learn from them. In my life, I have stumbled more often and more painfully than that sudden sidewalk sprawl. Some of those stumbles left scars—on me and others. Sometimes the worst in us happens to the best of us. But the truth remains that it is all part of us. We stand. We fall. We stand back up again.
Let that be the learning legacy we leave behind. When you fall, remember to get back up. Just like when you were first learning to walk, when you lose your balance and you take a tumble, check yourself, make sure you’re okay, and then get back on your feet. Don’t stay down in a crumpled heap of humiliation or hurt. For the sake of yourself and others, find the strength to stand back up. And when you stand again, more aware of yourself and your surroundings, don’t forget to point to the place that tripped you up and say to those around you, “Watch your step here. This one will get you if you’re not careful. Slow down. Keep your eyes open. Steady your step. And if you need a little extra support, I will come alongside for a while and walk with you.”
Not all who wonder are lost
There was a time in my life when wondering and questioning were not simply discouraged, they were simply not done. Wondering about topics that were believed to have already been decided was not just regarded as a massive waste of time or a momentary weakness, it was considered by some to be wrong. I recall being taught that a “double-minded” man is unstable, like a wave of the sea, he is blown and tossed by the wind. Similarly, I remember hearing a cautious phrase of folksy counsel, “remember that the most dangerous place to be is in the middle of the road.”
Clearly, some people worry that there are potential perils associated with wondering. There are alleged to be some terrible outcomes associated with being able to see more than one side of an issue or to ponder new possibilities. What terrible things might happen if you begin to question answers you memorized as a child before you even understood the meaning of the answers or the questions?
As has already been noted, some suggest that you might become roadkill while you are wondering near the center, rather than hugging the far left or far right side. Here is another possibility: you might learn something very important or feel something profoundly deep and meaningful. And for those who do not want you to push and prod and poke at what they believe to be unassailably true, what you discover may be the most dangerous outcome of all.
As suggested by the title of this reflection, I no longer believe that wondering about life and death and everything that happens between those marker moments and beyond is risky business. I think it is good business, a wise and thoughtful approach that fully engages our open minds and open hearts. As I continue to advance in age, my list of wonderings also continues to grow. I find myself wanting to embrace the humility of honest inquiry rather than frantically grasping at fragile assumptions and false assertions posing as unquestionable certainty.
Not all who wonder are lost. We simply wonder. And in the process of wondering, we sometimes find ourselves and other precious treasures. I should note that the process of discovering new insights might feel a bit like an upheaval, a shaking of what we previously believed to be unshakable. It can be unsettling…until things settle again.
Even though some believe that the middle of the road is a dangerous place to find yourself, I really don’t think you will have to dodge much traffic. Yes, some may harshly honk at you when they fear their right of way may not be the only right way, but generally the path of those who wonder is not a well-traveled road.
Take your candle, go light your world
I remember a time when my beloved and I were in Berkeley, California, near the UC Berkeley campus. Our peaceful stroll was suddenly peaceful no more when our ears were assaulted by a street preacher with a megaphone. More precisely, he was a bully with a bullhorn. He flung words of eternal damnation our way, hoping we might somehow be scorched to the soul, or at least singed, by the threats of hellfire and brimstone. I wished he would have respected the common space of the area and confined his condemnation to a less public place, like a closet…maybe a closet made with soundproof walls or a closet with just enough oxygen to breathe, but not to shout.
He was a fired-up man on a mission, with seemingly little concern for how his reviling message might be received. His job was to confront and convict the crowds, to scare the hell out of us. However, as I observed the sidewalk traffic flow, it appeared that his hostile tone and harsh judgments only moved most people to go a block out of their way so they wouldn’t get blown away.
The tactics of this born-again believer were not unlike the approach of newborn babies who don’t know any better. Babies learn early that to get attention you must whimper a bit, fuss a while, and then cry it out. If that doesn’t work, then kick in full lung capacity and scream with a fervor that cannot go unnoticed. Evidently, little babies and big street preachers each know how to emphatically scream to high heaven.
Thankfully, there are other ways, quieter ways, more effective ways, to change the world for good. I heard a song recently by Chris Rice with the words, “Carry your candle, run to the darkness. Seek out the hopeless, confused and torn. Hold out your candle for all to see it. Take your candle, and go light your world.” To all who want to illuminate the world with love and joy and peace (rather than eliminate it with hateful words and actions), may we be reminded that we don’t always need to raise our voice to bring about change. Sometimes, we need only to raise our candle and brighten the corner where we are.
Zen master, Pai-Chang, said, “Shut your mouth, close your lips, and say something.” May the wattage of our enlightenment be most clearly seen, not through our open mouths, but through our open hearts and open arms. Be the candle. Go light your world.
Life is a Potluck
Aah, memories of potlucks at church or work or neighborhood block parties waft over me with aromas of questionable casseroles, mystery meat loaf, and jello salad creations (which really shouldn’t even have an aroma). I remember, as a young boy, standing in line glancing with nervous anticipation at the long tables packed with food sort-of-sorted into categories of meat dishes, vegetables, salads and desserts. As I recall, there were always some offerings scattered throughout the tables that seemed to never quite fit the traditional food categories. I suspect they would have suffered a similar fate trying to find a place on the USDA’s food guide pyramid.
I have discovered that one of the variables influencing the outcome of what comes out at a potluck is how people approach their preparation. Some creative culinary types cook up their best offerings or work diligently to proudly prepare a new recipe. Others quickly scan the kitchen cabinets or refrigerator to throw something together to make a meal. For others, it’s just easier to stop on the way to the potluck and pick up a pizza, a bag of chips or a box of cookies. Everybody approaches what they bring to a potluck in their own way.
And that is why life is a potluck. We each bring what we have to offer…or what we choose to offer. What we collectively bring to the table is a rich and varied mixture of backgrounds, beliefs, experiences and insights. Some have prepared long and hard. Some have time-tested recipes for life, they have figured out the essential ingredients. Some are still shopping, seeking, and searching as they move through life. We bring ourselves and the individual ingredients of our diverse lives to this feast. It takes all of us to make the bountiful meal we are uniquely equipped to create together.
Life is a potluck. With each other and because of each other, we have sampled parts of life we may have never tasted before. However, it is rare indeed that everybody likes everything at a potluck. We still tend to trust the most familiar dishes, the ones with which we have history and memories and comfort. But what a missed opportunity to experience the diverse dimensions of sustenance if we always only eat what we brought. That’s not a potluck. That’s a table for one (one person or one family or one culture) set with a boring, predictable, monotonous meal. And if life is a potluck, then that approach makes for a meager and malnourished life too.
What is your Middle C?
In Michelle Obama’s book, “Becoming”, she writes about learning to play piano at about the age of four years old. Her piano teacher was her Aunt Robbie, who lived on the floor below her family’s rented apartment. She writes, “At my first lesson, my legs dangled from the piano bench, too short to reach the floor. Robbie gave me my own elementary music workbook, which I was thrilled about, and showed me how to position my hands properly over the keys. ‘All right, pay attention,’ she said, scolding me before we’d even begun. ‘Find middle C.’ When you’re little, a piano can look like it has a thousand keys. You’re staring at an expanse of black and white that stretches farther than two small arms can reach. Middle C, I soon learned, was the anchoring point. It was the territorial line where the right hand and the left hand traveled, between the treble and the bass clefs. If you could lay your thumb on middle C, everything else automatically fell into place.”
On the keyboard, middle C anchors and grounds the pianist. It is the foundational position, the stable setting from which everything else flows. On the keyboard of life, we each have our own “middle C.” There is a basic beginning point, a fundamental and centering place from which we launch. The movements of our lives, the decisions we make, and the actions we pursue all emanate from our personal middle C. For some, middle C is their faith system or guiding principles or basic worldview. For others, middle C may be their family or their personal character or passionate convictions. I don’t know what your middle C is, but I hope you do.
In her book, Michelle Obama also recalls her first childhood piano recital, when she sat at a beautiful baby grand piano for the first time. It looked nothing at all like the imperfect upright practice piano with the yellow keys and the conveniently chipped, flawed, and familiar, middle C. Suddenly, she did not know where to place her fingers on this shiny, majestic, perfect piano. As she sat there, frozen with fear, her Aunt Robbie, silently walked on stage, and leaned in next to her. She gently laid Michelle’s finger on middle C, so she would know where to start, and then walked away, so she could play her song.
When we don’t know where to start or we hit the wrong notes, we can also become disoriented or discordant. Sometimes our lives seem more like a middle finger than middle C. If your life ever feels more like a major mess than a major chord, begin again by finding your middle C, whatever it is. And if you can’t find your way back to middle C by yourself, I hope you have someone close by who will come and place your hands or your heart on the home key for you. Sometimes you need someone else to remind you of your middle C.
One last note: Never settle for someone else’s middle C. It will never seem or sound quite right. It shouldn’t, it’s off-key for you. May your awareness of your middle C be so solid and secure that everything else falls automatically into place. And may the beautiful melody of your life bring harmony to you and others.
If you stop by to say goodbye, here are some things I hope you will say
When a campus is in a growth mode, there are many faculty search committees working to help the administration hire great teachers. Typically, the final candidates for a particular position visit campus, have many face-to-face meetings, and make a classroom presentation followed by a question and answer session. One question I often like to pose is, “If, after many years of teaching, you decide to retire, what do you want your former students to say at your retirement party? What words will be most meaningful to you?”
I have seen prospective faculty members squirm when asked this question. Though they have given a wonderful presentation, fielded probing inquiries about their research or teaching strategies with ease, this question seems to catch them off guard. I remember one flustered finalist say, “I have never thought about this. My retirement feels a long way off.” Though I understand their perspective and accompanying uncertainty, I wish I had thought about this question earlier in my career. It is an important question because the answer influences actions. Future aspirations fuel present priorities.
As I write these words, I am keenly aware that there are more years behind me than ahead of me. Though I don’t think there is one right answer to be voiced by all teachers, as I have aged, my personal answers to the question give me direction and freedom. As I envision past and present students gathering around to share the gift of their words, there are a few things I hope to hear. Beyond a greater understanding of theories and research, beyond a more skillful application of principles to serve others, I hope they will remember, embrace and embody a few basic messages.
First, I hope they recall that I encouraged them to be themselves, to honor their unique strengths and struggles, to honor their powerful lives. Perhaps they will remember the message on one of my “Tuesday t-shirts”: Be yourself, everyone else is taken. Joseph Campbell encouraged all of us to believe that “the privilege of a lifetime is being who you are.” Oh, how I hope every student who has ever been in a classroom with me recognizes and celebrates their individual beauty and worth.
Second, I hope they remember that “in a world where you can be anything, be kind.” In a world that sometimes seems to be desperately deficient in compassion and concern for others, world-changers are those who choose kindness in attitude, words and behaviors. I hope my students will remember the appropriate emphasis of Henry James, ““Three things in human life are important: the first is to be kind; the second is to be kind; and the third is to be kind.”
Third, I hope they will know that I loved them. Faculty members don’t often or easily express our feelings of appreciation and affection for our students. I feel a great sense of freedom in letting students know how much I cherish them and how grateful I am for them. Like most enduring aspects of life, the heart of the matter often involves matters of the heart. So I am resolved to engage students with an open heart. Being a student is just a role, one part of an overall identity. Students are not just students. Students are people. And people should be loved. And people who are loved should be told they are loved.
I hope the students who might return to bid me farewell might remember that (1) their highest calling is to be themselves, (2) that no matter what happens may kindness happen, and (3) I hope they know that they were and are loved.
How closing the piano lid opened up Johnny Cash
Lavanda Mae Fielder lived in Lepanto, Arkansas, about eight miles away from Johnny Cash’s hometown of Dyess. Johnny’s mother wanted her painfully shy son to have singing lessons, so she hired Miss Fielder and paid her $3.00 for weekly lessons. Her student (who was known as J.R. at the time) was not excited but agreed to give the lessons a try.
In Robert Hilburn’s biography of Johnny Cash, he writes that Miss Fielder tried using songs, including Irish ballads, which she believed were good vocal exercises…but they were not enthusiastically embraced by the teenage boy whose voice had only recently deepened. After three lessons, the music teacher became frustrated with the pace of his progress and decided to try a new approach. She asked Johnny to pick a song that he wanted to sing. His choice was a song by Hank Williams called “Lovesick Blues,” and his chance to sing a song he knew and enjoyed made all the difference. Hilburn writes, “The chance to sing one of his favorite new songs freed J.R., and his voice was so engaging, the teacher closed the lid on the piano and told him the lessons were over. He shouldn’t ever let anyone change his style, ‘ever,’ she repeated forcefully.”
I love this story for several reasons. The main reason is because the young teacher, Lavanda Mae Fielder, was my mother. She died when I was six weeks old, so I cling to stories like this one that give me a glimpse into her life. But in addition to the cherished family connection, I appreciate this teaching moment that allows me to be her student too, offering me a couple of lessons. These are not singing lessons, these are life lessons.
First, may we always remember the “power of one.” Lavanda Mae Fielder was not the only one to help Johnny Cash find his voice, but as she dramatically closed the lid on the piano she dynamically emphasized his unique gift to the world. I can only imagine that the man in black would look back and fondly recall the forceful message that boosted his confidence and helped him raise his voice and share his songs. You never know when you may be the one who can help another one to find their path and perhaps, their purpose.
Second, I am so grateful for the earnest affirmation she gave Johnny Cash…just be you! Don’t let anyone change you or your style or your potentially powerful influence in the world. Joseph Campbell said it this way, “The privilege of a lifetime is being who you are.” May we all hear this same message and believe it. Be yourself and celebrate yourself and share the gift of yourself, just as you are, with others.
May we realize the power of one in declaring the distinctive uniqueness of a life. And may we fervently speak that message first to the one who looks back at us in the mirror. Just be you. You are enough. You are incalculably more than enough.
Come, let us spoon
For the past few years I have taught a course called “Families and Poverty.” Though I am sure the students are spellbound by my captivating lectures and engaging stories, they typically refer to the 20-hour service learning requirement as the most meaningful aspect of the course. I initially thought the phrase “service learning” aptly captured the powerful insights gained from leaving the classroom and entering the community. When we set aside the textbooks and roll up our sleeves to serve, we learn important lessons about ourselves and others. But more than that, I have also come to believe that service learning helps us learn how to serve. Albert Schweitzer said, “I don’t know what your destiny will be, but one thing I know: the only ones among you who will be really happy are those who have sought and found how to serve.”
Acts of service, large or small, can be enduringly beneficial for those who give and those who receive. What we do is important. How we do what we do is also important. I remember reading a story about a little girl who entertained herself while setting the dining room table by interacting with the silverware as if the utensils were alive. She was especially drawn to the spoons, saying, “If I had to choose, I’d prefer to be a spoon. Forks are grabby and stabby. Knives are scary, they cut things quickly and sharply. But spoons just scoop up lots of stuff and pass it around. They are nice and smooth and they like to share.” The little girl pondered the tableware traits and decided she would rather be a spoon.
We often talk about service with a smile. Perhaps we should also talk about service with a spoon. Let us recall the servant spoons among us. You know who they are. You know how you feel when you are around them. They don’t grate or serrate against you. Their edges, even their rough ones, are not sharp or jagged. They can make a point without piercing you. They are careful to not stick their tines where they don’t belong.
What do spoons do? Spoons serve. They serve up generous portions around tables where family and friends are gathered. They fill the empty stomachs of those in a long soup kitchen line. They serve precise measurements of medicine to heal the sick. Spoons serve everyone in every circumstance and at every stage of life. They serve the baby girl her first bite of applesauce as her eyes brighten with delight. They serve the dying man his last bite of applesauce. With dimmed eyes and a contented smile, he savors the taste of a life well loved. Spoons serve simply. Spoons simply serve. Come, let us serve. Come, let us spoon.
A perfect storm does not lead to perfect outcomes
One truism of ancient Greek wisdom was profoundly captured in two simple words, “know thyself.” Socrates expanded on the adage with his observation that “the unexamined life is not worth living.” In the scientific literature related to violent behavior in relationships, there is an “I-cubed model” (related to the “perfect storm theory”) which attempts to explain the interplay of three specific influences on the likelihood of aggressive behavior. I think the three “I’s” in the theory also have application to other choices we make. Specifically, this model underscores the importance of knowing yourself. When we better understand ourselves, we can steer clear of the storm.
The three I’s are: instigating, impelling and inhibiting. First, an instigating trigger happens in a relationship. The instigating incident, whatever it may be, is accompanied by the experience of anger or frustration or irritability. You will likely not have to think long or hard to recall a time, perhaps brought on by fatigue or stress or pressure, when something was said or done that generated aggravation and annoyance. We can all recall those moments when something happened that caused one or both parties to be on edge, but not quite over the edge yet. That is where the other two “I’s” enter the picture.
Let’s go with the perfectly bad storm scenario first. Enter impelling influences. The role of an impelling influence is to quickly accelerate a mildly cloudy day to a full-blown thunder-boomer with darkened skies and jagged lightning. These driving forces that move things from bad to worse may be related to negative past experiences, our general disposition (sour, grouchy, grumpy, demanding, and the other dysfunctional dwarfs whose names I can’t recall), intoxication, or even exceedingly uncomfortable temperatures or loud surroundings. Whatever the specific impelling forces may be, if left unchecked, they gain momentum and exacerbate the initial incident to a much more serious situation.
Thankfully, there is a third “I” (and interestingly, it is a bit similar to “the third eye” in some spiritual traditions that provides perception beyond ordinary sight). The third “I” in the “I-cubed model” represents inhibiting influences. If impelling influences push the accelerator, moving us quickly toward a painful collision or conclusion, then inhibiting influences help us to tap the brake and urge us to slow down, be careful, think about the big picture, and arrive at the destination safely and still together. Inhibiting influences may stem from our deeply held positive values and beliefs, they may reflect our ability to exercise self-control, our satisfaction with the relationship or our commitment to effective problem-solving (sometimes the simplest way to stop a severe storm from brewing is to simply and calmly clear the air).
The “I-cubed” model suggests that if the instigating trigger and the impelling influences are strong and the inhibiting influences are weak, people may find themselves in a place of tempestuous turbulence and perhaps even violent trauma. If, however, the instigating trigger and the impelling influences are weak and the inhibiting influences are strong, then there is a low risk of inappropriate, unhealthy and aggressive behavior.
We’re a few paragraphs away from the opening words of this reflection, but let’s recall the basic admonition again: know yourself. Know what triggers you. Know what aspects of your past or your personality might lead you to want to blow the top off of a volcanic mountain, though it really was just a molehill. And know yourself so well that you are keenly aware of your deep desire to bring about peace, overriding your impulse to blow someone to pieces. Know yourself so that you can be your best self during the stormy times of life.
Lessons from the road
There have been a few studies over the years about intentional animal and vehicle collisions. One study in Brazil involved placing rubber snakes on the road, sometimes on the center stripe of the road and sometimes closer to the side of the road. Wherever their placement, a certain percentage of drivers would intentionally run their tires over the fake snakes. A research effort in Canada also studied wildlife road mortality. Using fake snakes and turtles, the investigators discovered that the decoys were run over intentionally in many cases. (One encouraging part of this study was the number of people who stopped to rescue the reptile decoys. Canadians really are the nicest people.) Our friends down under conducted a study with similar outcomes using fake snakes and frogs. Crikey! Not a g’day for the little fellows. (By the way, these studies often included a control object, such as a disposable cup, rubber hose, or a leaf, all of which typically had a higher survival rate.) Studies in locations throughout the Unites States have yielded similar results. We may just have a general road rage for reptiles. If one is anywhere near the road we seem to have an inclination to intentionally run over it.
One intriguing aspect of intentional roadkill is the motivation behind it. What is driving the driver to go out of the way to take out a being that is, in most cases, not even in the way? The scientific summary suggests that intentional road-killing of target species, such as snakes, is associated primarily with fear and contempt by the drivers. There’s the moving violation motivation: fear and contempt. Perhaps the motivation is not so surprising, but is it legitimate? 85% of the more than 3000 species of snakes worldwide are not dangerous to humans. I am sorry that I could not locate the data identifying what number of the 15% are able to successfully attack, disable, and destroy automotive vehicles roaring down the highway. And don’t get me started on why we should be especially fearful and contemptuous of turtles. There is a good reason why I can’t count the number of times they have startled me as they hustle across the highway with almost hypersonic speed.
Fear and contempt. The deadly duo of intentional road kill. Let’s leave the asphalt and see if we can see any of our fault as we recklessly travel on the road of life. I have a suspicion that these motivations are transferable to human interactions as we journey together. We speed along every day in our hectic, hurried lives. Sometimes we see others who are different from us and we perceive that difference as threatening to us, so we rev our engines and prepare to run them over. When we label a person or group of persons, whom we likely don’t even know, as fearful or contemptuous, the accelerator of our anxiety feels the pressure and we may find ourselves wounding them with words or other dangerous devices we have at our disposal.
Though an extreme situation, in August 2017, a peaceful group of people protesting against a white supremacist rally in Charlottesville, Virginia were intentionally run over by a car, resulting in the death of a 32-year old legal assistant. I do not know what provoked the young driver to plow through the crowd and kill Heather Heyer, but I wonder if fear and contempt were passengers provoking him in the car that day.
Thankfully, I recall another traveler on the road. She was a different kind of road warrior who went by the name of Peace Pilgrim. From 1953 until 1981 she walked more than 25,000 miles proclaiming the power and priority of peace in our world. These are her words: “No one walks so safely as one who walks humbly and harmlessly with great love and great faith. For such a person gets through to the good in others (and there is good in everyone), and therefore cannot be harmed. This works between individuals, it works between groups and it would work between nations if nations had the courage to try it.”
Just recently, I saw another roadside interaction. Two men, one black and one white, were holding a sign that declared, “Love your neighbor who doesn’t look like you, think like you, love like you, speak like you, pray like you, or vote like you. Love your neighbor. No exceptions.” Fear and contempt lead to harm and heartache and sometimes death. Humility, acceptance, and peace lead to life. May love be the driving force as we travel on our journey. Love. No exceptions.
"I'm a Ford, not a Lincoln"
I wonder if the frequent absence of civil discourse on the political landscape is due to the absence of humility in political leaders. In the halls of higher education, intellectual humility is often regarded as intellectual inadequacy, seen as a weakness, rather than a strength. And in daily interactions, our prideful arrogance creates distance, not closeness; enemies, not intimates.
Socrates said, “The only true wisdom is in knowing you know nothing.” Epictetus offered a similar observation, “It is impossible to begin to learn that which one thinks one already knows.” One of the compelling chapters in Karen Armstrong’s book on compassion is titled, “How little we know.” I am not sure that there is a more meaningful mantra then the simple self-reminder of how little we know. What a difference it might make if we remembered the reality of “how little we know” before we act as if we know more than we actually do, in our interactions with others.
I wonder if humility has been maligned because it has been misunderstood. It is unfortunate and inaccurate to equate humility with weakness. Humility comes from a secure sense of self and an inner stability that is far stronger than a boastful broken record playing the same worn-out tune of “I am right, you are wrong.”
When we live with the pressure to always be right, to possess the superior perspective, to appear to know more than we really do, we soon find ourselves in an isolated prison of our own making. There is freedom in humility. Freedom to admit imperfection. Freedom to learn new things. Freedom to be authentically human with strengths and weaknesses.
Unless you read ahead, you may have been wondering about the title of this reflection. It is a direct quote from a former president. I read recently that President Gerald Ford was known as a deeply humble man. When colleagues in Congress flattered him, he was often quick to say, “I’m a Ford, not a Lincoln.” That approach to others, those with whom you agree and those with whom you disagree, builds bridges that unite, not walls that divide. Humility invites people to draw closer, listen better, and be more open to new possibilities themselves.
A Chinese proverb reminds us to “be like the bamboo; the higher you grow, the deeper you bow.” I believe in the power of confident competence. But I wish we spent more time exploring the power of humility in succeeding at work, becoming a leader in your community, and in building relationships that are based on being grateful for the other, not being greater than the other.
A buddy raking the roof is worth two in the bush
The snow had been coming down and piling up for a few days. It started on the weekend and continued into the next week. It was the biggest February snowstorm in Bend, Oregon, in 118 years. How big was it? It was so big that the university campus was closed Monday through Thursday, finally opening on Friday before the next weekend began.
While the wintry weather continued adding feet of frozen flakes outside, I found myself inside battling what I thought was my first and worst cold of the season (later to be more precisely diagnosed by my doctor as atypical pneumonia). When my nose would quit running, my ears would catch up and begin aching; when my head stopped throbbing, my temperature seemed to start rising; when my coughing subsided, my eyes began to get inflamed; and sometimes it seemed as if my body thought it might be fun to experience everything at the same time. It wasn’t.
Let me pause here for a sympathetic side-note to sick students. In the weeks leading up to my own affliction, I received multiple emails from many students telling me about the cold that came to visit and just wouldn’t leave. You lamented that you were missing class meetings, but you felt it best to stay home and recover. I was sympathetic and somewhat sorry for your low threshold of discomfort, for your inability to handle a small little cold. I knew that if I were ever to have a similar slight case of sniffles, it would certainly not disrupt my whole life or alter my entire schedule of commitments. What I want to say now is, “I am sorry I minimized your misery. I am in deep admiration of your strength to even write me an email, notifying me of your deep distress.” But now, back to me.
As the week wore on, I forced open my eyes to look out the windows. I could see how deeply the snow was piling up on the rooftops of our neighbors. My beloved and I talked more than once about the danger of ice dams forming on our roof. Ice dams are not nice dams. An ice dam is a thick ridge of ice forming on the edge of the roof, causing melting ice to be redirected inside the walls, rather than draining off the roof. I was so concerned that I even called a contractor I had heard about who was shoveling snow off a roof a few blocks away. For a minimum of two hundred dollars (and it would probably be more), he would graciously pencil me into his schedule. I said, “No, thank you.” I meant the “no” more than the “thank you.”
And then the email from a fellow faculty member arrived. I am a Senior Instructor in the Human Development and Family Sciences program. He is an Associate Professor in Natural Resources. Most people call him Ron, but for some reason, a few years ago, we started calling each other “buddy,” as we passed in the hallways. I don’t remember how it started, but when the email arrived on Wednesday of super-snow week, I was reminded of what “buddy” can mean and why it is important.
The email subject line was brief, “Roof rake or anything,” and the text of the message wasn’t a whole lot longer. The first sentence stated that he and his wife, Jenn, had driven by and noticed that the snow on our roof hadn’t been raked off yet. They talked about it, and as good teams do, decided together to reach out and see if we needed any help. The second sentence (followed by his cell phone number) simply asked, “You guys need any help with the snow moving?” I knew it would be days before I was going to be able to exert much energy, so I called him and told him of my bout with what I thought was an uncommon cold. A few minutes later, he and Jenn arrived. He had a snow rake for the roof and she held a shovel for the driveway.
At least three things have to happen for a random act of kindness to occur: observation, intention, and action. You see a need, you are inclined to address the need, and then you actually do something about the need. That is exactly what Ron and Jenn did. They saw the need piling up on our rooftop, expressed a concerned desire to help out, and then actively got to work.
A song from the 1980’s, first sung by Rod Stewart and later by Dionne Warwick, “That’s what friends are for,” included these lines, “Keep smiling, keep shining. Knowing you can always count on me, for sure. That's what friends are for.” May Ron’s example remind us all to be friends who can be counted on, responsive, reliable, ready to help when needed. Because that’s what buddies are for.
Before I hang up, don't forget...
I loved my maternal grandparents, Nana and Granddaddy, fiercely. I loved them fiercely because that is how they loved me. My mother died when I was just a few weeks old, so my older siblings and I always had a uniquely strong and profoundly enduring connection with them. They died almost forty years ago, but their imprint is more than etched on my heart, it is irremovably embedded there. I can still see their faces filled with delight when they would see us. I feel the warmth of their hugs and sweetness of their kisses. I recall their laughter, their stories, their influence in their community, and most of all, their luminous love for each other and for each of us.
My grandfather was a minister, and he had high hopes that I would follow in his steps. Whenever we would talk on the phone, my grandfather would often conclude with the same three phrases, “God bless you. I love you. Preach the word.” Final words, in phone conversations, at airport departures, or by hospital bedsides, are important. They hold a certain meaning because they are certainly meant to communicate a personal and prioritized message. My grandfather wanted me to know that he hoped I would have a good life, that I would always know how much he loved me, and that I would reach and teach others in a way that would bring light and hope to those who might find themselves in dark despair. Before he hung up the phone, he wanted me to hear again his deepest longings for my life.
Let me now pivot with a parting paragraph or two, because at some point, we are all going to hang up (or hang it up). The breath that supported our first newly born cry, and then sustained the conversations of a lifetime, will cease. But before that inevitable and natural physical disconnection of death, don’t forget to keep a strong connection with life. Don’t hang up too soon. There are still important things to be said and done. Rumi said, “I learned that every mortal will taste death. But only some will taste life.” William Somerset Maugham echoed a similar sentiment with his words, “Nothing in the world is permanent, and we’re foolish when we ask anything to last, but surely we’re still more foolish not to take delight in it while we have it.”
Hang on for the joy of a lifetime before you hang up. Some people are so afraid of dying that they forget to live. Death will come when it comes. But it hasn’t come yet. It’s not here now. Yes, we’re going to die someday. So today, let’s live--fully, richly, deeply. Be good to yourself and all other beings. Don’t miss the moments of your life, because they combine to create a momentous life. As this term comes to a close, I want to offer my parting words for this course. Like my grandfather before me, before I hang up, hear me say one more time, “May you be blessed in this world and be a blessing to this world. May love enrich your life and may you share it extravagantly. May you tell your truth, and in the way that you tell it and live it, may you change the world for good.”
Inside every Gomer Pyle is a Jim Nabors waiting to sing
In the early 1960’s, a character named Gomer Pyle was a naïve, good-natured, optimistic auto mechanic on a TV program called “The Andy Griffith Show.” After a few seasons, the likeable, uncorrupted, wide-eyed, slack-jawed character launched a show of his own, “Gomer Pyle, USMC.” Though he appeared clueless and seemingly inept, his bungling shortcomings were often overshadowed by his kind and compassionate spirit. His second show in 1969, but those old enough to remember him, likely also remember some of his trademark expressions, such as, “Gawwwww-leeee,” “Surprise, surprise, surprise!”, “Shazam!”, and when he was disheartened, “Shame, shame, shame.”
Gomer Pyle was a character portrayed as a light-hearted, intellectual light-weight. But the actor, Jim Nabors, was much more than a comedian. Some of us still recall the first time we saw him open his mouth to sing and out came deep, rich, booming, baritone notes. We may not have exclaimed, “Surprise, surprise, surprise!”, but we certainly could have, because we certainly were. His startling professional singing voice caught us off guard. I remember a feeling of skeptical disbelief. Was this real? Was this really him singing? Was this full, vibrant, resonant sound so easily thundering out of goofy Gomer Pyle? It was initially hard to understand that this strikingly deep and mature voice came from this often misunderstood and shallowly-characterized person.
I never expected Gomer Pyle to sing like Jim Nabors, but I am so glad that he opened his mouth to let us hear his songs. (In fact, over his career, he recorded almost thirty albums, some even certified as gold or platinum.) When he sang, we came to know him more completely. Though not everyone would relate to his style of music, I wonder if almost everyone might relate to the staggering power of a song from a most surprising source. And I can’t help but wonder about so many other people in our world (often characters in their own right) who have a remarkably beautiful, profoundly meaningful, unsung song deep down inside them.
May the experience of Gomer Pyle opening his mouth so that Jim Nabors might sing, remind us that there is room in the world, even a great need in the world, for more songs to emerge in beautiful, breath-taking ways from unexpected voices. In a world of uncertainty, recall the enduring truth from the Chinese proverb, “A bird does not sing because it has an answer. It sings because it has a song.” In a world where fierce competition stills and kills too many timid voices, recall the recommendation from Henry van Dyke, “Use the talents you possess. The woods would be very silent if no birds sang except those that sang the best.” And in a world where we constantly feel undue pressure and harsh judgment, always braced for rejection, may we especially recall Rumi’s strong and liberating words, “I want to sing like the birds, not worrying about who hears or what they think.” (I understand the amount of courage required to raise our head and lift our voice, to sing a song that nobody expects us to sing, that nobody even knew was being composed inside us. Sometimes we need others to help us find our voice so we can sing our song. One of my favorite loving reminders is, “My beloved knows my song and sings it to me when I forget.”)
What is your song that the world needs to hear? What is the melody within that just might bring harmony without? What are the loving lyrics from your wounded, wonderful life that might just get humanity back in tune? The question is not, “Do you have a song?” The question is, “Will you sing it?” Please, sing it.
The first family fights
There are probably as many creation stories as there are ancient cultures. The stories often contain similar features, themes, and characters (supreme beings, humans, animals, etc.). The Greek story began with chaos. Norse mythology began with a chasm. And the Biblical creation story also begins with darkness and emptiness. In all of the stories, the presence of nothing is soon filled with lots of somethings and someones.
In the creation story recounted in the book of Genesis, after a productive but exhausting first week of creating stuff, God instituted the first weekend so he could rest before dealing with humans. For a while it was like a happy nudist garden party for Adam and Eve, but then they broke a major rule that was clearly covered in the rental agreement, and they had to leave. After a while, the not-quite-as-happy couple decided to have a couple of sons, Cain and Abel (because everyone knows that the best way to deal with couple stress is to add children to the mix).
As a student of the family, I am particularly interested in the story of this first family, and I am specifically intrigued by their early interactions. If you are familiar with original Mom and Dad’s first argument, you recall that they each ranked low on taking personal responsibility and ranked high on shifting blame. One night Adam and Eve invented hide-and-seek in the garden with God, likely due to body shame issues and scratchy fig leaves. When God said, “Umm, I created you. Do you really think I can’t see you? Now tell me what happened.” Adam immediately blamed Eve and Eve just as quickly blamed the family pet reptile. (This pattern of blame-casting on partners and family pets has persisted through the generations. Just ask poor innocent Fido or Kitty or Basilisk.) Anyway, though we don’t know if the couple continued their finger-pointing blame and shame game, it was a rough start for healthy conflict resolution.
The second fight starts with sibling rivalry and ends with the first family member murder (thus the term home-icide). Cain grew up to be a farmer and Abel grew up to be a rancher. They both gave the offerings of their efforts to God, but God wasn’t wild about Cain’s present of produce. Cain felt rejected and bad. Abel probably felt accepted and good until Cain invited him for a walk and killed him. Once again, God has a brief interrogation with the beings that are giving him the most trouble in the new world. He asks, “Hey Cain, have you seen your brother?” Cain says, “Nope,” but then goes further, using the frustrating communication ploy of answering a question with a question: “Am I my brother’s keeper?”
Evidently that was a rhetorical question because God doesn’t answer it. I wish there had been an answer. I wish God would have said, “No, you are not your brother’s keeper. You are your brother’s brother and that is a much more meaningful and significant relationship.” I wish the theistic family therapist would have said, “It’s not about keeping or controlling, it’s about being a family member. It’s about taking responsibility instead of assigning blame. It’s about forgiving instead of fighting, or at least forgiving after the fighting. It’s about giving a piece of your heart rather than a piece of your mind.”
Sister Sledge sang the truth: We are family. In our individual families and in the extended family of humanity, may we remember that we have a higher calling than just “keeping” — keeping the peace, keeping things in check, keeping things the way we want them to be, keeping the upper hand. We have each other’s backs; we don’t stab each other there. Keepers keep. Families keep focused on loving and helping and supporting each other, especially when life is far from a garden party, nudist or not.
Remembering that December Day at Sandy Hook Elementary
A reflection written December 14, 2012
I cannot seem to shake this image…and it breaks my heart. Tonight, after a hellish day of unthinkable tragedy and unbelievable anguish, there will be a parent, grandparent, or some other family member in Connecticut who will sit down on the living room floor next to their child’s Christmas present that their child will never open. The lights on the tree will shine upon this scene of unspeakable sadness. Let us go and sit there, too.
Let us, as part of the extended family who, though we can find no words, still feel the terrible wrenching of a broken heart. Let us silently sit beside the brokenhearted to simply let them know that we are so sorry that their innocent, beautiful child is not sitting with them tonight. Let us gently acknowledge that it is all too much to grasp, too painful, too raw and wrong. Let us, perhaps as one parent to another, look deeply into each other’s eyes and somehow communicate the deepest longings of our heart. And let us grant that the grief-stricken may want to cradle the unopened present as if it was their child, they may want to open the gift and symbolically give it, or they may want to pick up the damn package and throw it across the room, screaming, “I want my child back!” They may want to do everything and nothing, and whatever they do is the best they are able to do. And we understand.
Let us, in our spirits across the miles, sit there and sob with them. And then, after a while, let us take our leave, for though it is good to come alongside for a while, it is also good to honor the depth of such loss by allowing solitude and private mourning. And after we have sat with them, let us return, and let us then stand. Let us stand with unwavering resolve for all things that are loving and gentle and kind. Let us stand with fierce determination against all things that bring harm and heartache. Let us acknowledge that though we are not able to protect against everything or everyone, there are surely things we can do. Let us stand together to figure out what we must do to create and cultivate a culture that trusts in love and celebrates goodness and believes in the power of peace. Perhaps tonight, when all is quiet in our homes, when our children or grandchildren are tucked sweetly into bed, we will sit in our living room floor and ponder the part we might play as we softly sing, “Let there be peace on earth and let it begin with me.”