When life sends you into a tailspin, tell the tales.
I’m worried as they wheel me into the ambulance for the hour and fifteen minute ride to St. Francis in Peoria.. What if part of the blood clot breaks lose and makes a mad dash for my heart, lungs, or brain? I’ll be a goner.
“Can I use my cell phone?” I ask the EMTs.
“Sure,” they said. “We don’t have anything on board that it’ll interfere with.” I felt like a free man because I could use my cell phone without sneaking.
I called my parents first. I thought of starting off cheerily, “Hey, I’m calling from the back of an ambulance.” But that didn’t seem like a good idea. At 81 and 77 they’ve had enough shocks in life. I reminded Dad that I had told him about my sore leg the day before and then told them about the blood clot. We were several minutes into the call before I communicated that I was calling from the back of an ambulance.
“It’s a good thing you are strong, Richard,” Mom said. Wow. Mom thinks I’m strong. I never knew that.
The head of the stretcher could be tilted up. Good thing or my back would have been screaming by the time we got to Peoria. The tilt also helped me look out the back window. Once stopped at a red light a young man pulled up right behind us. I wondered if he could see me. I thought of waving to him to see if he would wave back.
After talking to my parents I called my daughters Hannah and Heidi and my son Jon. Once in awhile my anxiety would begin to rise like a muddy creek in a rain storm. To keep at bay the worries that the rough ride was going to shake lose a blood clot and kill me, I concentrated on the conversation of the moment,
When I talked with Heidi she was in a motel in Atlanta writing an outline for her master thesis study. Her Ethiopian husband was a mile away enjoying watching a soccer match between two Ethiopian teams.
A nurse practitioner student, she would like to do a study on why pregnant women at risk of acquiring AIDS refuse to get AIDS testing. I knew she’d eventually like to work with AIDS patients in Ethiopia.
“Design the study for Ethiopia,” I said. “It’ll be a challenge to find someone to collect the data for you but that’s where your heart is so go for it. It’ll be a challenge but if you work your connections I bet you can pull it off.”
She’s done the literature search and she knows of a similar study in Los Angeles and one other county but none in Ethiopia.
I had one other suggestion. Design the study to uncover the reasons pregnant women in Ethiopia choose to be tested or to not be.
Heidi immediately recognized the value. Such a study could teach health workers how to encourage more at risk pregnant women in Ethiopia to be tested for AIDS.
After talking with my kids I called Lynn Reha at Plow Creek to make the final arrangements for hosting another Mennonite church the next day. “Don’t worry,” she said. “We’ll pull it off.” It was like she was singing to my soul.
Talking with Lynn and each of my family was much more fun than thinking about a bit of my blood clot breaking loose and making a mad dash for my heart, lungs, or brain.
I am a blessed man.
Saturday, July 16, 2005
Hospital tales 2: And denial comes tumbling down
When life sends you into a tailspin, tell the tales.
A week ago today I laid in the hospital bed with a blood clot in my left leg and read my patient rights in a classy folder handed to me by the nurse. That brought back memories of the last time I had been in the hospital and the first time I had tried to exercise my rights as a patient.
In the mid 1970s Congress passed a law on patients’ rights. As I understood it I could now see my chart. Having spent lots of time in a rehab hospital starting in 1968, I was eager to read my chart. I asked to see it.
The next thing I know I get a visit in my room from the assistant administrator. He was as smooth as a knife cutting through butter as he chatted me up. After a bit he gently let it slip that I had a good relationship with the medical director and that he was sure I didn’t want to do anything to jeopardize that relationship by asking to see my chart.
Needless to say my patient rights melted like butter on a hot griddle.
Thirty years later, early in the afternoon I met Dr. Norris, the young on-call doctor, who had ordered the ultrasound that revealed the blood clot and who had put me in the hospital.
She did a great job of keeping my denial in place, saying that if my insurance approved Lovenox, a new blood thinner, for home use, then Sarah could inject the Lovenox at home and I could probably go home the next day. In the hospital one day and out the next. Piece of cake, I thought.
I called the insurance company and left a message (they were closed for the weekend) asking for approval of Lovenox at home.
A bit later Dr. Norris returned and said she’d like to consult with a vascular surgeon from Peoria. Wow, what a conscientious doctor I have, I thought.
Next thing I know she’s back explaining that she and the Peoria doc think that I’m a good candidate for lysing, a procedure where they inject a chemical directly into the vein to break up the clot in hopes of saving the valves in the vein which work very poorly if the clot stays in there too long.
Then sweet Dr. Norris took two swings at my denial with a sledge hammer. “IVCH doesn’t do lysing except in the emergency room when people are having a heart attack,” she said, “so if you decide to have the lysing we’ll transfer you to St. Francis in Peoria by ambulance or by air.” Then she let it slip that Dr. Debord said that I’m a “high morbidity risk.”
Uffda.
Around here patients who are about to die get shipped off to Peoria. And high morbidity risk? Fancy way of telling me I could die at any moment.
Dr. Norris left the room to allow Sarah and me time alone to decide about being transferred to St. Francis.
My denial tumbles down like a ragged old pair of pajamas. I’m tearing up. I’m choking up. “I’m not ready to die,” I tell Sarah. “I mean, I’m ready to see Jesus but I don’t want to leave you all alone. I don’t want to disappear on you. I’m sorry, Sarah, for putting you through this. I know it’s crazy to say I’m sorry--I didn’t choose this--but I’m sorry to put you through this misery.”
Sarah, the love of my life, lost her father before she was born and a step-father when she was 18-months old. I don’t want to be another loss in her life.
Sarah lowered the bed railing and sat on the bed. We hugged. We kept looking in each others eyes, Sarah looked away, trying to control her emotions. We held each other and when we parted she had tears in her eyes. “I’m trying to keep my emotions from taking over,” she said. If she went down her trail of losses she’d be too sad to think straight.
Poor Hannah, our eldest daughter, calls then and I choke up on the phone with her.
Sarah and I decided--lysing in Peoria it is. Staff tells us that the transfer will be by ambulance within an hour. Sarah heads out to bring a few things home and pack in order to stay the night with me at St. Francis.
A week ago today I laid in the hospital bed with a blood clot in my left leg and read my patient rights in a classy folder handed to me by the nurse. That brought back memories of the last time I had been in the hospital and the first time I had tried to exercise my rights as a patient.
In the mid 1970s Congress passed a law on patients’ rights. As I understood it I could now see my chart. Having spent lots of time in a rehab hospital starting in 1968, I was eager to read my chart. I asked to see it.
The next thing I know I get a visit in my room from the assistant administrator. He was as smooth as a knife cutting through butter as he chatted me up. After a bit he gently let it slip that I had a good relationship with the medical director and that he was sure I didn’t want to do anything to jeopardize that relationship by asking to see my chart.
Needless to say my patient rights melted like butter on a hot griddle.
Thirty years later, early in the afternoon I met Dr. Norris, the young on-call doctor, who had ordered the ultrasound that revealed the blood clot and who had put me in the hospital.
She did a great job of keeping my denial in place, saying that if my insurance approved Lovenox, a new blood thinner, for home use, then Sarah could inject the Lovenox at home and I could probably go home the next day. In the hospital one day and out the next. Piece of cake, I thought.
I called the insurance company and left a message (they were closed for the weekend) asking for approval of Lovenox at home.
A bit later Dr. Norris returned and said she’d like to consult with a vascular surgeon from Peoria. Wow, what a conscientious doctor I have, I thought.
Next thing I know she’s back explaining that she and the Peoria doc think that I’m a good candidate for lysing, a procedure where they inject a chemical directly into the vein to break up the clot in hopes of saving the valves in the vein which work very poorly if the clot stays in there too long.
Then sweet Dr. Norris took two swings at my denial with a sledge hammer. “IVCH doesn’t do lysing except in the emergency room when people are having a heart attack,” she said, “so if you decide to have the lysing we’ll transfer you to St. Francis in Peoria by ambulance or by air.” Then she let it slip that Dr. Debord said that I’m a “high morbidity risk.”
Uffda.
Around here patients who are about to die get shipped off to Peoria. And high morbidity risk? Fancy way of telling me I could die at any moment.
Dr. Norris left the room to allow Sarah and me time alone to decide about being transferred to St. Francis.
My denial tumbles down like a ragged old pair of pajamas. I’m tearing up. I’m choking up. “I’m not ready to die,” I tell Sarah. “I mean, I’m ready to see Jesus but I don’t want to leave you all alone. I don’t want to disappear on you. I’m sorry, Sarah, for putting you through this. I know it’s crazy to say I’m sorry--I didn’t choose this--but I’m sorry to put you through this misery.”
Sarah, the love of my life, lost her father before she was born and a step-father when she was 18-months old. I don’t want to be another loss in her life.
Sarah lowered the bed railing and sat on the bed. We hugged. We kept looking in each others eyes, Sarah looked away, trying to control her emotions. We held each other and when we parted she had tears in her eyes. “I’m trying to keep my emotions from taking over,” she said. If she went down her trail of losses she’d be too sad to think straight.
Poor Hannah, our eldest daughter, calls then and I choke up on the phone with her.
Sarah and I decided--lysing in Peoria it is. Staff tells us that the transfer will be by ambulance within an hour. Sarah heads out to bring a few things home and pack in order to stay the night with me at St. Francis.
Hospital tales 1: I’ll just keep on working
When life sends you into a tailspin, tell the tales.
“What can I do for my leg?” I questioned the Lord in my journal on July 9.
Admittedly, asking the Lord a direct question is a dangerous practice because I might hear wrong, but that doesn’t keep me from trying.
“Swim and sit in the Jacuzzi and let healing time pass," I thought I heard.
“Okay.”
“Baby it with hot packs and cold packs. Ask Sarah.”
A few days later Sarah, my beloved, read my journal while I was lying in the hospital. “You sure didn’t do a very good job of hearing the Lord,” she said with a laugh.
“That’s true,” I said, “the only thing I got right was asking you.”
When I asked Sarah, a nurse, if I should use hot pack or cold packs under my sore knee she asked to look at it. “There’s a reddened area above your knee and it’s hot to touch,” she reported. “That could be a blood clot above the back of your knee. You better call your doctor.”
Now denial is a wonderful thing. It keeps us from spending too much time thinking about the fact that we can die at any moment.
I vaguely knew that blood clots in the leg can break off and be deadly but I didn’t spend time worrying about that. I called the doctor who ordered an ultrasound. “If it is a clot,” she said, “I’ll have to put you in the hospital.” I felt my denial slip a bit but I quickly pulled it back up.
In radiology at the local hospital I watched beautiful, color, abstract patterns on a screen while the tech pressed the ultrasound by my groin. “What’s that?” asked Sarah.
“That’s a clot,” the tech said. My denial was very good. I wondered how she could see the clot beneath my knee from by my groin. Only later did I realize the clot went from below my knee to my groin.
True to her word the doctor put me in the hospital.
I wasn’t supposed to use my cell phone because it would mess up the telemetry, the nurse said. I sneaked and used my cell phone a few times to complete arrangements for hosting a sister church the next day at Plow Creek.
My denial firmly in place, I kept working in the hospital, making phone calls and studying The Top Ten Mistakes Leaders Make by Hans Finzel.
“What can I do for my leg?” I questioned the Lord in my journal on July 9.
Admittedly, asking the Lord a direct question is a dangerous practice because I might hear wrong, but that doesn’t keep me from trying.
“Swim and sit in the Jacuzzi and let healing time pass," I thought I heard.
“Okay.”
“Baby it with hot packs and cold packs. Ask Sarah.”
A few days later Sarah, my beloved, read my journal while I was lying in the hospital. “You sure didn’t do a very good job of hearing the Lord,” she said with a laugh.
“That’s true,” I said, “the only thing I got right was asking you.”
When I asked Sarah, a nurse, if I should use hot pack or cold packs under my sore knee she asked to look at it. “There’s a reddened area above your knee and it’s hot to touch,” she reported. “That could be a blood clot above the back of your knee. You better call your doctor.”
Now denial is a wonderful thing. It keeps us from spending too much time thinking about the fact that we can die at any moment.
I vaguely knew that blood clots in the leg can break off and be deadly but I didn’t spend time worrying about that. I called the doctor who ordered an ultrasound. “If it is a clot,” she said, “I’ll have to put you in the hospital.” I felt my denial slip a bit but I quickly pulled it back up.
In radiology at the local hospital I watched beautiful, color, abstract patterns on a screen while the tech pressed the ultrasound by my groin. “What’s that?” asked Sarah.
“That’s a clot,” the tech said. My denial was very good. I wondered how she could see the clot beneath my knee from by my groin. Only later did I realize the clot went from below my knee to my groin.
True to her word the doctor put me in the hospital.
I wasn’t supposed to use my cell phone because it would mess up the telemetry, the nurse said. I sneaked and used my cell phone a few times to complete arrangements for hosting a sister church the next day at Plow Creek.
My denial firmly in place, I kept working in the hospital, making phone calls and studying The Top Ten Mistakes Leaders Make by Hans Finzel.
Monday, July 04, 2005
Trusting a man who makes no secret of his brokennness
On this last day of my vacation I continue to ponder trust. The people of Plow Creek are used to me pairing "trust and openness" as if they were a couple of nesting mallards.
Coca Cola and KFC are two companies who are famous for guarding their secret recipes for soft drinks and fried chicken respectively.
They clearly believe that a well-kept secret is the path to power. Not trust and openness.
I wasn't always "the world's most open man", a comment by my wife. I grew up in a tough Scandinavian clan who knew how to suffer in silence. When my body began to fall apart at age 17 with the onset of rheumatoid arthritis I kicked suffering in silence into high gear.
When hit with humiliation after humiliation I toughed it out.
By the time I was 21, after my seventh surgery in four years, I was so depressed that I thought I might end up on the psych ward. Being a strong, silent Scandinavian didn't seem to be working very well.
I sought out a Christian professor on campus and poured out about 15% of my woes. That proved to be helpful. Especially when I managed to put into words that I was quite sure God didn't want me to get married. After all, he didn't seem to mind me becoming disabled; he probably wanted me to see me suffer more by dashing my dream of being married.
When you suffer in silence long enough it's amazing the thoughts your brain comes up with.
The professor didn't try to correct my thinking. He simply asked if I had asked God about marriage. I hadn't. Although I continued to cling to a belief in God like a man clinging to the debris of a sinking ship, I wasn't too sure that at any moment he might step on the fingers.
Since he hadn't answered my desperate pleas to be healed...
But the professor seemed to think it was okay to ask God about getting married. To me his suggestion was as hopeful as dew forming during a night in the desert. I asked.
Sure enough one morning a few months later I woke and while lying in bed praying I sensed God telling me that it was okay to get married.
That answer gave me the confidence I needed to do my part in the summer of '73--Rich and Sarah fall in love. Maybe there was a better way than suffering in silence.
That wild idea was confirmed for me in 1981, three and a half years into my sojourn at Plow Creek. I found myself telling my sharing group my story of becoming disabled. I'd shared it all with Sarah during our courtship but this was the first time I ventured to trust a group of people, a bunch of God's people, no less.
The first time I shared I shared maybe 20% of the humiliations and I thought I was all done. When I was done someone in the group said they'd be glad to hear me share more. Hmmm, I thought, maybe there is more.
A few weeks later I went deeper into the story. They listened so kindly--Margaret even cried with me. For the first time I began to discover some meaning to the humiliations. For instance, I grew up in a Pentecostal church and I answered many altar calls, asking for healing. At first, I fully expected to be healed. I would head to the front of the church, eager for the laying on of hands, eager to be healed. But after answering repeated altar calls and not being healed, I found myself limping back to my pew in utter desolation.
"You were the scape goat," said one of the men in my sharing group. When I didn't know what he was talking about he pointed me to the Old Testament where I discovered my story. The people of Israel had a ritual of laying their hands on a goat to place their sins on the goat, and then the goat was drivien into the wilderness.
My dear Pentecostal people laid hands on me in faith at first. But eventually as I was not healed they kept laying hands on me in, what I suspect, was anxiety.
No one in my church talked to me about me not being healed. I answered altar calls, they laid hands on me and prayed fervently, and then, like the scapegoat of old, I wandered off into the wilderness.
Eventually I stopped answering altar calls. God can heal me, I declared to myself, but he obviously isn't doing it through altar calls. Then a few years later I drifted away from the Pentecostal church.
I could have kept guarding myself, not exposing my humiliations, keeping my shame a secret and climbed to the top of some organization on talent and endurance, making sure that I would never be weak and humiliated again.
But suffering in silence would have kept me wandering the desert. In a deep sense, in that Plow Creek sharing group, I came home. After losing my Pentecostal people I found a new people.
A few weeks later Plow Creek asked me to become a pastoral elder, in part, I suspect because on some level they knew needed an elder who was comfortable with his own weakness. They could trust a man with power who makes no secret of his brokenness.
Trust and openness is a path that leads home.
Coca Cola and KFC are two companies who are famous for guarding their secret recipes for soft drinks and fried chicken respectively.
They clearly believe that a well-kept secret is the path to power. Not trust and openness.
I wasn't always "the world's most open man", a comment by my wife. I grew up in a tough Scandinavian clan who knew how to suffer in silence. When my body began to fall apart at age 17 with the onset of rheumatoid arthritis I kicked suffering in silence into high gear.
When hit with humiliation after humiliation I toughed it out.
By the time I was 21, after my seventh surgery in four years, I was so depressed that I thought I might end up on the psych ward. Being a strong, silent Scandinavian didn't seem to be working very well.
I sought out a Christian professor on campus and poured out about 15% of my woes. That proved to be helpful. Especially when I managed to put into words that I was quite sure God didn't want me to get married. After all, he didn't seem to mind me becoming disabled; he probably wanted me to see me suffer more by dashing my dream of being married.
When you suffer in silence long enough it's amazing the thoughts your brain comes up with.
The professor didn't try to correct my thinking. He simply asked if I had asked God about marriage. I hadn't. Although I continued to cling to a belief in God like a man clinging to the debris of a sinking ship, I wasn't too sure that at any moment he might step on the fingers.
Since he hadn't answered my desperate pleas to be healed...
But the professor seemed to think it was okay to ask God about getting married. To me his suggestion was as hopeful as dew forming during a night in the desert. I asked.
Sure enough one morning a few months later I woke and while lying in bed praying I sensed God telling me that it was okay to get married.
That answer gave me the confidence I needed to do my part in the summer of '73--Rich and Sarah fall in love. Maybe there was a better way than suffering in silence.
That wild idea was confirmed for me in 1981, three and a half years into my sojourn at Plow Creek. I found myself telling my sharing group my story of becoming disabled. I'd shared it all with Sarah during our courtship but this was the first time I ventured to trust a group of people, a bunch of God's people, no less.
The first time I shared I shared maybe 20% of the humiliations and I thought I was all done. When I was done someone in the group said they'd be glad to hear me share more. Hmmm, I thought, maybe there is more.
A few weeks later I went deeper into the story. They listened so kindly--Margaret even cried with me. For the first time I began to discover some meaning to the humiliations. For instance, I grew up in a Pentecostal church and I answered many altar calls, asking for healing. At first, I fully expected to be healed. I would head to the front of the church, eager for the laying on of hands, eager to be healed. But after answering repeated altar calls and not being healed, I found myself limping back to my pew in utter desolation.
"You were the scape goat," said one of the men in my sharing group. When I didn't know what he was talking about he pointed me to the Old Testament where I discovered my story. The people of Israel had a ritual of laying their hands on a goat to place their sins on the goat, and then the goat was drivien into the wilderness.
My dear Pentecostal people laid hands on me in faith at first. But eventually as I was not healed they kept laying hands on me in, what I suspect, was anxiety.
No one in my church talked to me about me not being healed. I answered altar calls, they laid hands on me and prayed fervently, and then, like the scapegoat of old, I wandered off into the wilderness.
Eventually I stopped answering altar calls. God can heal me, I declared to myself, but he obviously isn't doing it through altar calls. Then a few years later I drifted away from the Pentecostal church.
I could have kept guarding myself, not exposing my humiliations, keeping my shame a secret and climbed to the top of some organization on talent and endurance, making sure that I would never be weak and humiliated again.
But suffering in silence would have kept me wandering the desert. In a deep sense, in that Plow Creek sharing group, I came home. After losing my Pentecostal people I found a new people.
A few weeks later Plow Creek asked me to become a pastoral elder, in part, I suspect because on some level they knew needed an elder who was comfortable with his own weakness. They could trust a man with power who makes no secret of his brokenness.
Trust and openness is a path that leads home.
What Sarah thinks about my musing on sex and trust
Note before I wander back to thinking about trust: This is my 100th post. For those of you reading this at Thriving Groups you can see the complete archives at Rich Remarks, a dulicate of Thriving Groups.
You may wonder what Sarah, my beloved, thinks of my recent posts on sex and trust. When I wrote the line at the end of my last post--"Now here's a man I can trust"--I kind of gulped and wondered the same thing.
As Sarah has been known to say, "I am the most open person in the world she knows."
Earlier in our vacation I had told her I was blogging about sex and trust but she hadn't read them. She's not the writer in the family and finds other parts of life more enjoyable than spending much time on the internet.
After the last post I printed out the last five entries. When I gave them to her I assured her that I could go back and edit them if need be.
"You mean the whole world hasn't seen them already."
"Not the whole world. A few people probably have but I can make any changes you deem necessary and that's how they'll be from now on."
Ah, what a relief. She deemed them good. I still have her trust even as I wander along thinking about sex and trust.
You may wonder what Sarah, my beloved, thinks of my recent posts on sex and trust. When I wrote the line at the end of my last post--"Now here's a man I can trust"--I kind of gulped and wondered the same thing.
As Sarah has been known to say, "I am the most open person in the world she knows."
Earlier in our vacation I had told her I was blogging about sex and trust but she hadn't read them. She's not the writer in the family and finds other parts of life more enjoyable than spending much time on the internet.
After the last post I printed out the last five entries. When I gave them to her I assured her that I could go back and edit them if need be.
"You mean the whole world hasn't seen them already."
"Not the whole world. A few people probably have but I can make any changes you deem necessary and that's how they'll be from now on."
Ah, what a relief. She deemed them good. I still have her trust even as I wander along thinking about sex and trust.
Saturday, July 02, 2005
Now here's a man I can trust
One day when I was in my early teens I came across a magazine ad featuring a nightlight that said, "Tonight's the night."
I had never thought about that before. How do couples know when to do it?
Sex was such a mystery. I could hardly wait to get married and solve the mystery.
When Sarah and I married in our early twenties, we had a great time laughing and exploring the mysteries.
But one part of the mystery completely escaped me. I was following in the footsteps of a violent step father-in-law.
"The leading cause of injury among American women is being beaten at home--by a husband, boyfriend, ex-husband or ex-boyfriend," says Colman McCarthy, author of I'd Rather Teach Peace.
Sarah told me the stories but it completely escaped me that meant that on some deep level she could not trust me. After all I was a man. The first man in her life had disappeared before she was born when he was shot and killed. The second man in her life died of polio three weeks after her mother married him when Sarah was eighteen months old. The third man in her life stayed around but he was an alcoholic prone to bouts of violence.
If I would have been smart when I we married I would have cried out, "Lord, help me earn this woman's trust."
But I was young and in love and an eternal optimist. As could have been predicted, a few years into our marriage her ardor waned and mine did not.
Being disabled I was finely tuned to rejection. "She's cutting me off," I wrote angrily in my journal, feeling every bit as hurt and powerless as a dandelion run over by a mower. "I need..." I would write in my journal.
What I thought I needed was sex. A wiser, older friend suggested that I needed love and that God might be a good source of love.
I thought God was a poor substitute for sex. Sarah wasn't too keen on being close to this angry man she had married. She didn't like my demands.
One summer vacation I sat in the car by myself, agonizing in my journal about my misery. ''Make a commitment to Sarah to stop making demands'' I thought I heard the God of the universe say.
"How can I do that?"
"Look to me for the love you need."
I wrote out my commitment in my journal and told Sarah. She didn't believe me. But my commitment wasn't dependent on her believing me. I stopped making demands and each time I was tempted to be demanding I asked God to love me.
I know it sounds kind of nuts but it worked. Slowly my frustration was replaced with a sense of being loved by the God of the universe.
Slowly Sarah began to trust me. About a year later she said she'd like me to take some initiation. At first I wondered how I could do that without making demands but I soon discovered that I could.
Now I look back on it and I realize how smart God is. I was a young, clueless husband who did not know he had to build trust with this most beautiful woman. She needed more than my eyes lighting up like a nightlight saying, "Tonight's the night."
By making the commitment to stop making demands and keeping that commitment, I became the first man in Sarah's life that she could depend on.
I still shake my head in amazement. By God's utter grace I became like a nightlight that says, "Now here's a man I can trust."
I had never thought about that before. How do couples know when to do it?
Sex was such a mystery. I could hardly wait to get married and solve the mystery.
When Sarah and I married in our early twenties, we had a great time laughing and exploring the mysteries.
But one part of the mystery completely escaped me. I was following in the footsteps of a violent step father-in-law.
"The leading cause of injury among American women is being beaten at home--by a husband, boyfriend, ex-husband or ex-boyfriend," says Colman McCarthy, author of I'd Rather Teach Peace.
Sarah told me the stories but it completely escaped me that meant that on some deep level she could not trust me. After all I was a man. The first man in her life had disappeared before she was born when he was shot and killed. The second man in her life died of polio three weeks after her mother married him when Sarah was eighteen months old. The third man in her life stayed around but he was an alcoholic prone to bouts of violence.
If I would have been smart when I we married I would have cried out, "Lord, help me earn this woman's trust."
But I was young and in love and an eternal optimist. As could have been predicted, a few years into our marriage her ardor waned and mine did not.
Being disabled I was finely tuned to rejection. "She's cutting me off," I wrote angrily in my journal, feeling every bit as hurt and powerless as a dandelion run over by a mower. "I need..." I would write in my journal.
What I thought I needed was sex. A wiser, older friend suggested that I needed love and that God might be a good source of love.
I thought God was a poor substitute for sex. Sarah wasn't too keen on being close to this angry man she had married. She didn't like my demands.
One summer vacation I sat in the car by myself, agonizing in my journal about my misery. ''Make a commitment to Sarah to stop making demands'' I thought I heard the God of the universe say.
"How can I do that?"
"Look to me for the love you need."
I wrote out my commitment in my journal and told Sarah. She didn't believe me. But my commitment wasn't dependent on her believing me. I stopped making demands and each time I was tempted to be demanding I asked God to love me.
I know it sounds kind of nuts but it worked. Slowly my frustration was replaced with a sense of being loved by the God of the universe.
Slowly Sarah began to trust me. About a year later she said she'd like me to take some initiation. At first I wondered how I could do that without making demands but I soon discovered that I could.
Now I look back on it and I realize how smart God is. I was a young, clueless husband who did not know he had to build trust with this most beautiful woman. She needed more than my eyes lighting up like a nightlight saying, "Tonight's the night."
By making the commitment to stop making demands and keeping that commitment, I became the first man in Sarah's life that she could depend on.
I still shake my head in amazement. By God's utter grace I became like a nightlight that says, "Now here's a man I can trust."
Thursday, June 30, 2005
When it's better to be a lamb
"If you can't be strong, be clever and make peace with someone who's strong. But always better to be strong yourself. Always," Illinois Senator Barack Obama's step-father told him when he was a boy.
“But always better to be strong. Always.”
Let's go back to the sexual harassment that I recounted in yesterday’s blog. The next day I went to church and prayed desperately. I didn’t know what to pray and my prayers seemed like rain falling on granite. The event became one more in a series of humiliations that were part of becoming disabled.
The immediate shame of each event dried and crusted and I went on with the task of surviving as one of the weak of the earth.
In the same way that I brought to our marriage gritty joints that were prone to sudden flares of pain, I also brought humiliations.
“Men take advantage of weakness in other men.”
Of course, part of me was strong. At the end of my freshmen year I was elected president of my university’s Inter-Varsity chapter. I remember my shock. What did the other students see in me?
One of the reasons Sarah was attracted to me was that she could take care of me. She’s a nurse and part of her loves being a care taker. When we had our first child Sarah suddenly had someone else who needed her care even more than I did. We had a rough stretch as I figured out how to handle physical tasks that she had been so willing to do before--like washing my hair.
So I entered our marriage as a leader and someone others felt free to take advantage of.
One Christmas after our second daughter was born I decided it was time to revisit the shame of the dorm. It had always been hard to talk about. Molested by a man? And I wasn’t even sure it had happened, since I was asleep. That Christmas, something in me said that it was time to stop running away from the shame.
I began writing about it in my journal. Soon I was furious at God. Weak, I had allied myself with God and yet he hadn’t protected me. What good is God if not for protection? And all semester long I had tried to stay pure. I had thrown away the picture of the naked woman they put in my King James Bible. I had said no to the drunk co-ed who wanted to get in bed with me. Once they had blocked me from entering my room to get my suitcase to go home. When I got back from home they asked me what I thought of the porno magazines. But there was no porn in my suitcase when I got home. They swore they had put it in there. I was sure God had evaporated the porn to protect me.
Then they got me while I was sleeping.
I raged in my journal. Eventually I wrote what I had concluded about the event: I was ruined for life.
Those words rang like the distant tolling of a church bell at a funeral. Ruined for life. Journal in hand I looked at those words. They were exactly what I had concluded. Ruined for life. Then a little voice inside me asked: Was I really ruined for life?
I was married. I had children. Not exactly ruined for life. I was living the life I had longed for ever since I was a little boy. Then I remembered another phrase, this one from a song we sing at Plow Creek: The lamb who was slain has begun his reign.
I wrote that phrase in my journal--the lamb who was slain has begun his reign--and it set off a geyser of joy.
Yes, that was it exactly. I was like a lamb in the dorm, an innocent lamb that was molested. But that was not the end of the story. I knew the original story, Jesus of Nazareth going through a day of humiliations ending in his death. He too was molested but his story didn’t end there.
It isn’t always better to be strong. Sometimes it’s better to the lamb who was slain who has begun his reign.
“But always better to be strong. Always.”
Let's go back to the sexual harassment that I recounted in yesterday’s blog. The next day I went to church and prayed desperately. I didn’t know what to pray and my prayers seemed like rain falling on granite. The event became one more in a series of humiliations that were part of becoming disabled.
The immediate shame of each event dried and crusted and I went on with the task of surviving as one of the weak of the earth.
In the same way that I brought to our marriage gritty joints that were prone to sudden flares of pain, I also brought humiliations.
“Men take advantage of weakness in other men.”
Of course, part of me was strong. At the end of my freshmen year I was elected president of my university’s Inter-Varsity chapter. I remember my shock. What did the other students see in me?
One of the reasons Sarah was attracted to me was that she could take care of me. She’s a nurse and part of her loves being a care taker. When we had our first child Sarah suddenly had someone else who needed her care even more than I did. We had a rough stretch as I figured out how to handle physical tasks that she had been so willing to do before--like washing my hair.
So I entered our marriage as a leader and someone others felt free to take advantage of.
One Christmas after our second daughter was born I decided it was time to revisit the shame of the dorm. It had always been hard to talk about. Molested by a man? And I wasn’t even sure it had happened, since I was asleep. That Christmas, something in me said that it was time to stop running away from the shame.
I began writing about it in my journal. Soon I was furious at God. Weak, I had allied myself with God and yet he hadn’t protected me. What good is God if not for protection? And all semester long I had tried to stay pure. I had thrown away the picture of the naked woman they put in my King James Bible. I had said no to the drunk co-ed who wanted to get in bed with me. Once they had blocked me from entering my room to get my suitcase to go home. When I got back from home they asked me what I thought of the porno magazines. But there was no porn in my suitcase when I got home. They swore they had put it in there. I was sure God had evaporated the porn to protect me.
Then they got me while I was sleeping.
I raged in my journal. Eventually I wrote what I had concluded about the event: I was ruined for life.
Those words rang like the distant tolling of a church bell at a funeral. Ruined for life. Journal in hand I looked at those words. They were exactly what I had concluded. Ruined for life. Then a little voice inside me asked: Was I really ruined for life?
I was married. I had children. Not exactly ruined for life. I was living the life I had longed for ever since I was a little boy. Then I remembered another phrase, this one from a song we sing at Plow Creek: The lamb who was slain has begun his reign.
I wrote that phrase in my journal--the lamb who was slain has begun his reign--and it set off a geyser of joy.
Yes, that was it exactly. I was like a lamb in the dorm, an innocent lamb that was molested. But that was not the end of the story. I knew the original story, Jesus of Nazareth going through a day of humiliations ending in his death. He too was molested but his story didn’t end there.
It isn’t always better to be strong. Sometimes it’s better to the lamb who was slain who has begun his reign.
Wednesday, June 29, 2005
A cripple and an orphan
Sarah married a cripple and I married an orphan.
As I wander through this vacation blog thinking about sex and trust "cripple" and "orphan" have been floating through my thinking like a pine cone caught in the current of a stream.
I guess you can't talk about trust without talking about weakness. Sarah and I have built trust on a foundation of weakness.
"Men take advantage of weakness in other men," Barack Obama's Indonesian step-father, Lolo, said. "They're just like countries in that way. The strong man takes the weak man's land. He makes the weak man work in his fields. If the weak man's woman is pretty, the strong man will take her."
The above quotes are from Obama's memoir about growing up with a white mother and an African father who returned to Africa when Obama was age two.
Growing up African-American is an exercise in coming to terms with weakness. My son-in-law is reluctant to hold my daughter's hand in public because he could be shot.
When I became disabled at 17, I became deeply acquainted with weakness. Other men took advantage of my weakness.
Not only was I disabled but I was religious and sexually naive. When I was a freshmen at a university the other men on my dorm delighted in explaining sex in all it's variations to me whether I wanted them to tutor me on the topic or not. One day one of them asked what I'd do if a woman wanted to get in bed with me. "Think about it then," I said.
That night they smuggled a drunk co-ed into my room (this was long before co-ed dorms), woke me up, and hooted and hollered as she asked to get in bed with me. I kept refusing her request.
My weakness was like a scab that had to be picked by others in the dorm. Another night I woke briefly from a deep sleep, dimly aware there were men in the room. I slid back into exhausted sleep.
The next day I heard two men talking, one obviously ashamed about something. "You should have stopped me," he said to the other.
Suddenly I realized they were discussing something that involved me. "What are you talking about?" I asked.
"You don't remember?" one asked in disbelief.
"No, I don't know what you are talking about."
"Boy, you must have a Freudian block."
I will never forget the shame that flooded me as I realized that I had likely been molested while asleep. I was too ashamed to press them for the facts.
Men take advantage of weakness in other men.
A few years later I graduated with a Master's degree and I was hired to be a human resources director for a nonprofit that provided services for people with disabilities. Given my disability I had a hard time finding a job and the director took advantage of my weakness, starting me out at $3.50 an hour.
"If the weak man's woman is pretty, the strong man will take her," was another bit of wisdom from Obama's step-father. The strong get the prettiest girl. Imagine my surprise when Sarah, the prettiest, sweetest girl chose me, the cripple.
What I didn't know at first was that she was an orphan with a violent step-father. She too was acquainted with weakness.
Lolo went on to tell Barack, "If you can't be strong, be clever and make peace with someone's who's strong. But always better to be strong yourself. Always."
I would have preferred to be strong, not to be the scab of Walsh Hall that kept being picked in the fall of 1969. But Lolo was missing something in his stark assessment of the role of power in the human community. He assumed that power comes through strength. Power through strength has a limited shelf life.
There's better path to sex and that's through weakness and trust.
Speaking of power, my battery power is about the run out on my lap top. More tomorrow, Lord willing, and the creek don't rise.
As I wander through this vacation blog thinking about sex and trust "cripple" and "orphan" have been floating through my thinking like a pine cone caught in the current of a stream.
I guess you can't talk about trust without talking about weakness. Sarah and I have built trust on a foundation of weakness.
"Men take advantage of weakness in other men," Barack Obama's Indonesian step-father, Lolo, said. "They're just like countries in that way. The strong man takes the weak man's land. He makes the weak man work in his fields. If the weak man's woman is pretty, the strong man will take her."
The above quotes are from Obama's memoir about growing up with a white mother and an African father who returned to Africa when Obama was age two.
Growing up African-American is an exercise in coming to terms with weakness. My son-in-law is reluctant to hold my daughter's hand in public because he could be shot.
When I became disabled at 17, I became deeply acquainted with weakness. Other men took advantage of my weakness.
Not only was I disabled but I was religious and sexually naive. When I was a freshmen at a university the other men on my dorm delighted in explaining sex in all it's variations to me whether I wanted them to tutor me on the topic or not. One day one of them asked what I'd do if a woman wanted to get in bed with me. "Think about it then," I said.
That night they smuggled a drunk co-ed into my room (this was long before co-ed dorms), woke me up, and hooted and hollered as she asked to get in bed with me. I kept refusing her request.
My weakness was like a scab that had to be picked by others in the dorm. Another night I woke briefly from a deep sleep, dimly aware there were men in the room. I slid back into exhausted sleep.
The next day I heard two men talking, one obviously ashamed about something. "You should have stopped me," he said to the other.
Suddenly I realized they were discussing something that involved me. "What are you talking about?" I asked.
"You don't remember?" one asked in disbelief.
"No, I don't know what you are talking about."
"Boy, you must have a Freudian block."
I will never forget the shame that flooded me as I realized that I had likely been molested while asleep. I was too ashamed to press them for the facts.
Men take advantage of weakness in other men.
A few years later I graduated with a Master's degree and I was hired to be a human resources director for a nonprofit that provided services for people with disabilities. Given my disability I had a hard time finding a job and the director took advantage of my weakness, starting me out at $3.50 an hour.
"If the weak man's woman is pretty, the strong man will take her," was another bit of wisdom from Obama's step-father. The strong get the prettiest girl. Imagine my surprise when Sarah, the prettiest, sweetest girl chose me, the cripple.
What I didn't know at first was that she was an orphan with a violent step-father. She too was acquainted with weakness.
Lolo went on to tell Barack, "If you can't be strong, be clever and make peace with someone's who's strong. But always better to be strong yourself. Always."
I would have preferred to be strong, not to be the scab of Walsh Hall that kept being picked in the fall of 1969. But Lolo was missing something in his stark assessment of the role of power in the human community. He assumed that power comes through strength. Power through strength has a limited shelf life.
There's better path to sex and that's through weakness and trust.
Speaking of power, my battery power is about the run out on my lap top. More tomorrow, Lord willing, and the creek don't rise.
Wednesday, June 22, 2005
Blueberries are like proper sex
A couple of years ago a philosopher friend, Greg Clark, said, "Every time I ask you a question, you tell me a story."
I guess that's how my brain works.
Yesterday as I wandered through my blog I began to ponder why in humans sex and trust is linked like the membrane and nuclei of a cell.
So I have a story. Actually two.
Yesterday Sarah and I visited with Sarah's 79-year-old mother, Jean, and Walton, her 85-year-old friend. Walton and Sarah's father, Ralph, were best friends in a Baptist seminary in the 1940's.
Ralph was shot and killed while serving as a missionary in Ethiopia in 1951 while Sarah was still in the womb. She's been searching for her father ever since and here was a chance to here more stories about him.
Walton told a few stories about Ralph but he kept drifting off to stories about Eunice, his wife of 53 years who died a couple years ago.
Shortly before he met Eunice, Walton had broken an engagement with another woman. Then he met Eunice at a camp and sparks flew immediately. Ralph saw what was happening and he asked Walton if he was being true to his fiance. Walton 'fessed up to Ralph that he had broken his engagement.
"That's the kind of friendship we had," Walton said.
Walton met Eunice in August, they got engaged in October, and married in December. "I never kissed her until I gave her an [engagement] ring," he said. "That's the way we were."
"Did I ever tell you about the first time Ralph kissed me?" Jean asked Sarah. "He kissed me and then a week later he apologized." She paused. "That was kind of disheartening."
"Ralph was very proper," said Walton.
I can think of another word. Trustworthy.
Contrast Jean and Walton's stories with the story Alma (not her real name) recently told me. Ten years ago Alma decided to leave, Alfred, her husband of 40 years. He was an alcoholic who periodically drank and became violent towards her. Ten years ago he was drinking again.
"I was so nervous when I left him I thought I wouldn't last a week," she said. "I thought I'd die of a heart attack."
She carefully planned her escape so that her husband would not know where she was, moving half way across the country. There she bought a .22 caliber pistol. "With planes nowadays," she said, "you can get anywhere in the country within a few hours. If Alfred showed up at the door I wanted to make sure that he wouldn't get in."
For seven years Alma kept the pistol under the liner in the waste basket in her bathroom. "I always figured I'd have a reason to go to the bathroom," she said.
Alma's story tastes bitter. I can only imagine the improprieties that led to the earthquake fissures that ended their marriage.
Now Jean's story of her courtship with Ralph and Walton's story of his courtship with Eunice have a different taste. Their stories make me think of tasty good sex blooming like blueberries in the backyard.
You know trust and blueberries will keep producing for fifty years.
I guess that's how my brain works.
Yesterday as I wandered through my blog I began to ponder why in humans sex and trust is linked like the membrane and nuclei of a cell.
So I have a story. Actually two.
Yesterday Sarah and I visited with Sarah's 79-year-old mother, Jean, and Walton, her 85-year-old friend. Walton and Sarah's father, Ralph, were best friends in a Baptist seminary in the 1940's.
Ralph was shot and killed while serving as a missionary in Ethiopia in 1951 while Sarah was still in the womb. She's been searching for her father ever since and here was a chance to here more stories about him.
Walton told a few stories about Ralph but he kept drifting off to stories about Eunice, his wife of 53 years who died a couple years ago.
Shortly before he met Eunice, Walton had broken an engagement with another woman. Then he met Eunice at a camp and sparks flew immediately. Ralph saw what was happening and he asked Walton if he was being true to his fiance. Walton 'fessed up to Ralph that he had broken his engagement.
"That's the kind of friendship we had," Walton said.
Walton met Eunice in August, they got engaged in October, and married in December. "I never kissed her until I gave her an [engagement] ring," he said. "That's the way we were."
"Did I ever tell you about the first time Ralph kissed me?" Jean asked Sarah. "He kissed me and then a week later he apologized." She paused. "That was kind of disheartening."
"Ralph was very proper," said Walton.
I can think of another word. Trustworthy.
Contrast Jean and Walton's stories with the story Alma (not her real name) recently told me. Ten years ago Alma decided to leave, Alfred, her husband of 40 years. He was an alcoholic who periodically drank and became violent towards her. Ten years ago he was drinking again.
"I was so nervous when I left him I thought I wouldn't last a week," she said. "I thought I'd die of a heart attack."
She carefully planned her escape so that her husband would not know where she was, moving half way across the country. There she bought a .22 caliber pistol. "With planes nowadays," she said, "you can get anywhere in the country within a few hours. If Alfred showed up at the door I wanted to make sure that he wouldn't get in."
For seven years Alma kept the pistol under the liner in the waste basket in her bathroom. "I always figured I'd have a reason to go to the bathroom," she said.
Alma's story tastes bitter. I can only imagine the improprieties that led to the earthquake fissures that ended their marriage.
Now Jean's story of her courtship with Ralph and Walton's story of his courtship with Eunice have a different taste. Their stories make me think of tasty good sex blooming like blueberries in the backyard.
You know trust and blueberries will keep producing for fifty years.
Tuesday, June 21, 2005
Considering pine cones and sex
This morning I sat under a pine tree in northern Minnesota considering the pine cones lying on the pavement at my feet and hanging from the branches overhead.
Pine trees put a lot of energy into reproducing.
Probably none the pine cones from this particular tree will take root and yet year after year the tree produces new pine cones and drops them hopefully to the earth.
Which gets me thinking about chastity before marriage and fidelity during marriage, two of the commitments we make to each other and our God when we join Plow Creek.
Shouldn't we be like nature and cast our seeds far in wide in hopes that a handfull will take root and reproduce?
Sitting under the pine tree this morning I read the following quote from Jim Wilder's The Complete Guide To Living With Men:
We have all been to school. Did anything happen there that would help you control your fears and desires? Does school help you stay out of an attractive person's pants? Did you ever pass a test that helped you to be calmer when in trouble? Did any grade you finished make you a noticeably better parent? Did you ever get a license that made you more generous?
Several years ago we went through a sex scandal at Plow Creek centered around one of our founders. Uffda. We are a rather egalitarian community who sit in a circle and make the decisions that shape our church and life together. Sarah decribed it best. After the "confession" she said it was like a bomb went off in members meeting and everyone looked around wondering, "Who can I trust?"
Sex and trust. As far as I can tell trust is not part of the mix when pine cones reproduce. But for some reason or other we human beings link sex and trust so deeply that when we are sexually betrayed we seem to feel it at the cellular level.
I wonder where my thinking will go next as I explore my world (God's world?) on this vacation.
It's time to go have lunch with Sarah's aunt and mother.
Pine trees put a lot of energy into reproducing.
Probably none the pine cones from this particular tree will take root and yet year after year the tree produces new pine cones and drops them hopefully to the earth.
Which gets me thinking about chastity before marriage and fidelity during marriage, two of the commitments we make to each other and our God when we join Plow Creek.
Shouldn't we be like nature and cast our seeds far in wide in hopes that a handfull will take root and reproduce?
Sitting under the pine tree this morning I read the following quote from Jim Wilder's The Complete Guide To Living With Men:
We have all been to school. Did anything happen there that would help you control your fears and desires? Does school help you stay out of an attractive person's pants? Did you ever pass a test that helped you to be calmer when in trouble? Did any grade you finished make you a noticeably better parent? Did you ever get a license that made you more generous?
Several years ago we went through a sex scandal at Plow Creek centered around one of our founders. Uffda. We are a rather egalitarian community who sit in a circle and make the decisions that shape our church and life together. Sarah decribed it best. After the "confession" she said it was like a bomb went off in members meeting and everyone looked around wondering, "Who can I trust?"
Sex and trust. As far as I can tell trust is not part of the mix when pine cones reproduce. But for some reason or other we human beings link sex and trust so deeply that when we are sexually betrayed we seem to feel it at the cellular level.
I wonder where my thinking will go next as I explore my world (God's world?) on this vacation.
It's time to go have lunch with Sarah's aunt and mother.
Sunday, June 19, 2005
The world according to Gordon Foss
I first did this post for Father's Day 2005. I keep adding quotes from my Dad:
When you get to be my age you brag it because you’re still kicking
--at age 82
Mama picked herself out an outfit for the anniversary deal.
--On a trip he and my mother had taken to Thief River Falls, MN in preparation for the 60th wedding anniversary celebration coming up June 25.
The Lord gives you wisdom so you can't believe what you've done.
--On his confidence in working out the technical details as he builds a diamond willow bed frame as part of a craft business he launched at age 80.
You get a lot of compliments and that spruces you up even if you don't make a lot of sales.
--On how he enjoys working at craft shows as part of Foss Diamond Willows.
I love you, Dad.
When you get to be my age you brag it because you’re still kicking
--at age 82
Mama picked herself out an outfit for the anniversary deal.
--On a trip he and my mother had taken to Thief River Falls, MN in preparation for the 60th wedding anniversary celebration coming up June 25.
The Lord gives you wisdom so you can't believe what you've done.
--On his confidence in working out the technical details as he builds a diamond willow bed frame as part of a craft business he launched at age 80.
You get a lot of compliments and that spruces you up even if you don't make a lot of sales.
--On how he enjoys working at craft shows as part of Foss Diamond Willows.
I love you, Dad.
Friday, June 17, 2005
My people in Ethiopia
No more pastoral or Evergreen Leaders work until July 5.
I get to slow dance with time, Sarah and family.
Let my mind drift like a leaf settling gently on a brook.
In 1988 on vacation at my parents' in northern Minnesota, I began to write little parables in my journal each morning. At home I typed them up and realized--this could be a novel.
Thus was Jonas and Sally born.
Let's see what happens as my mind meanders, my body bends, and my spirit strecthes over the next couple of weeks.
Tonight I had the honor of eating dinner with my fingers, an Ethiopian tradition. My daughter Heidi's mother-in-law made ua meal consisting of several dishes with Ehtiopian names that did not stick to my brain long enough to be repeated.
As in Ethiopia we diners broke off pieces of enjara, a pliable flat bread, and used the enjara to pinch bites from eat dish. Bite by bite I ate a fine meal with my fingers.
I am ready to go to Ethiopia now, a dream I've harbored since the early 1990's. Sarah's father, Ralph Larson, an American Baptist missionary, was shot and killed in Ethiopia on November 13, 1951, five months before Sarah was born.
Ralph is buried there and no one in his family has visited his grave since his family left a day or two after he was buried.
Three years ago this summer Heidi and Woju fell in love and married a year later in a glorious Ethiopian-Plow Creek wedding.
For over fifty years our family has been bonded to Ethiopia through loss and a distant grave.
Now my people are living in Ethiopia.
I get to slow dance with time, Sarah and family.
Let my mind drift like a leaf settling gently on a brook.
In 1988 on vacation at my parents' in northern Minnesota, I began to write little parables in my journal each morning. At home I typed them up and realized--this could be a novel.
Thus was Jonas and Sally born.
Let's see what happens as my mind meanders, my body bends, and my spirit strecthes over the next couple of weeks.
Tonight I had the honor of eating dinner with my fingers, an Ethiopian tradition. My daughter Heidi's mother-in-law made ua meal consisting of several dishes with Ehtiopian names that did not stick to my brain long enough to be repeated.
As in Ethiopia we diners broke off pieces of enjara, a pliable flat bread, and used the enjara to pinch bites from eat dish. Bite by bite I ate a fine meal with my fingers.
I am ready to go to Ethiopia now, a dream I've harbored since the early 1990's. Sarah's father, Ralph Larson, an American Baptist missionary, was shot and killed in Ethiopia on November 13, 1951, five months before Sarah was born.
Ralph is buried there and no one in his family has visited his grave since his family left a day or two after he was buried.
Three years ago this summer Heidi and Woju fell in love and married a year later in a glorious Ethiopian-Plow Creek wedding.
For over fifty years our family has been bonded to Ethiopia through loss and a distant grave.
Now my people are living in Ethiopia.
Tuesday, June 07, 2005
The library of persistent listening
One day persistent listening will make it possible for Tiskilwa, my home town, to have a new, accessible library.
Four years ago the board (I'm currently president) set a goal of an cretaing an accessible library that will serve our village for the next fifty years.
We currently have a small library with a dozen steps to get to the door.
In my February 10 blog I was excited because a bank had offered to donate their Tiskilwa branch office to the library. But an architectural study showed that making the bank into a libray was going to cost us between $300,000 and $500,000. We could probably build an energy efficient new library for $400,000.
Last night the board voted to decline the gift of the bank building.
A couple weeks ago I visited with Bruce McVety, a former library board member, and he suggested approaching the village board about them village donating part of one of the parks for a new library.
This morning I phoned the mayor who's open to the idea but he wants to know exactly how much of the park we need.
Now it's time to listen to a consultant from the regional library system who will be able to give us an idea of how much of the park we will need.
When it's complete it might well be called a library of persistent listening because, as a board, we will have collected a ton of ideas in order to create a library that will serve Tiskilwa for the next fifty years.
Four years ago the board (I'm currently president) set a goal of an cretaing an accessible library that will serve our village for the next fifty years.
We currently have a small library with a dozen steps to get to the door.
In my February 10 blog I was excited because a bank had offered to donate their Tiskilwa branch office to the library. But an architectural study showed that making the bank into a libray was going to cost us between $300,000 and $500,000. We could probably build an energy efficient new library for $400,000.
Last night the board voted to decline the gift of the bank building.
A couple weeks ago I visited with Bruce McVety, a former library board member, and he suggested approaching the village board about them village donating part of one of the parks for a new library.
This morning I phoned the mayor who's open to the idea but he wants to know exactly how much of the park we need.
Now it's time to listen to a consultant from the regional library system who will be able to give us an idea of how much of the park we will need.
When it's complete it might well be called a library of persistent listening because, as a board, we will have collected a ton of ideas in order to create a library that will serve Tiskilwa for the next fifty years.
Wednesday, June 01, 2005
In praise of good helpers
Last Thursday I got caught in a whirlwind that I'm not ready to blog about. Perhaps later.
But now I have a power of praise story.
Last Wednesday I finished the Encouraging Path workshop at 3:00 for fifteen people from Gateway Services. I spend part of the workshop teaching about how praise helps groups thrive and then teach seven different ways you can use praise.
On the way home three Plow Creek boys came running up, wanting a ride on my wheelchair. I divided the ride home into three stages and each lad rode a third of the way with me.
They hung around our garage while I loaded my wheelchair into my van. When I load my wheelchair I roll a rug van over the van's bumper to protect it. After I loaded the wheelchair four year-old Chris reached over and rolled up the rug and stored it in the van.
"Thank you, Chris, that was very helpful." I said, suprised because Chris usually has his head down as he charges from one activity to the next. "Chris, you are a good helper, " I added.
"I'm a good helper," he announced with pleasure.
"I'm a good helper too," said Zach, his six-year old brother. "I help my parents carrry in groceries from the car."
"Yes, Zach, you are a good helper," I said. "when you help your parents carry in the groceries."
"I'm a good helper too," said five year-old Gabrian. "I help my parents carry in things from the car."
"Yes, Gabrian," I said, "you are a good helper when you carry in stuff from the car for your Mom and Dad. You are all good helpers."
But now I have a power of praise story.
Last Wednesday I finished the Encouraging Path workshop at 3:00 for fifteen people from Gateway Services. I spend part of the workshop teaching about how praise helps groups thrive and then teach seven different ways you can use praise.
On the way home three Plow Creek boys came running up, wanting a ride on my wheelchair. I divided the ride home into three stages and each lad rode a third of the way with me.
They hung around our garage while I loaded my wheelchair into my van. When I load my wheelchair I roll a rug van over the van's bumper to protect it. After I loaded the wheelchair four year-old Chris reached over and rolled up the rug and stored it in the van.
"Thank you, Chris, that was very helpful." I said, suprised because Chris usually has his head down as he charges from one activity to the next. "Chris, you are a good helper, " I added.
"I'm a good helper," he announced with pleasure.
"I'm a good helper too," said Zach, his six-year old brother. "I help my parents carrry in groceries from the car."
"Yes, Zach, you are a good helper," I said. "when you help your parents carry in the groceries."
"I'm a good helper too," said five year-old Gabrian. "I help my parents carry in things from the car."
"Yes, Gabrian," I said, "you are a good helper when you carry in stuff from the car for your Mom and Dad. You are all good helpers."
Wednesday, May 18, 2005
Leading pre-schoolers
After I locked my keys in the car last evening I saw a great example of leadership by a young mother.
As soon as I locked the van door I realized my mistake. I carry a spare key in my pocket appointment book but I had taken the appointment book out and left it in the van while I was in an meeting. And I hadn't put it back in my shirt pocket. So I had not only locked my keys in the van but also my spare key.
Thankfully I had my cell phone on my belt loop. I called my true love who agreed to bring a second set of keys.
After I finished shopping I sat on a ledge at the front of the store. I was a bit irritated because I didn't even have anything to read.
But soon a young woman with two boys, ages three and four, and a girl, age two, came in.
A bit later as they approached the check out I saw that each of the boys was carrying two big bags of chips and the little girl was carrying a single big bag of cheese curls.
What a great idea, I thought. Even at that young age each child played an important role in shopping. She lifted the little girl up so that the little girl could place her bag on the check out counter.
At the check out the young woman mentioned to the clerk that they were having teen boys over. While the mother was checking out, the two boys promptly climbed a nearby railing. The mother calmly suggested they get down and didn't make a big deal of it when they took their time getting off the railing.
She did not use a shopping cart, making it necessary for each person to carry some of the groceries.
As soon as she was through the check out line she gave each boy two bags of chips and the boys hustled out the door ahead of her, each carrying their load.
She gave the little girl two bags but when that proved to be too much she took one bag back and carried it with the bottles of ketchup other items she was carrying.
Taking young children shopping is always a challenge but that young mother turned it into an opportunity for each child to play an important role.
Leaders exist to make it possible for each person in the group to have a hand in helping the whole group thrive.
That young mother was a great leader.
As soon as I locked the van door I realized my mistake. I carry a spare key in my pocket appointment book but I had taken the appointment book out and left it in the van while I was in an meeting. And I hadn't put it back in my shirt pocket. So I had not only locked my keys in the van but also my spare key.
Thankfully I had my cell phone on my belt loop. I called my true love who agreed to bring a second set of keys.
After I finished shopping I sat on a ledge at the front of the store. I was a bit irritated because I didn't even have anything to read.
But soon a young woman with two boys, ages three and four, and a girl, age two, came in.
A bit later as they approached the check out I saw that each of the boys was carrying two big bags of chips and the little girl was carrying a single big bag of cheese curls.
What a great idea, I thought. Even at that young age each child played an important role in shopping. She lifted the little girl up so that the little girl could place her bag on the check out counter.
At the check out the young woman mentioned to the clerk that they were having teen boys over. While the mother was checking out, the two boys promptly climbed a nearby railing. The mother calmly suggested they get down and didn't make a big deal of it when they took their time getting off the railing.
She did not use a shopping cart, making it necessary for each person to carry some of the groceries.
As soon as she was through the check out line she gave each boy two bags of chips and the boys hustled out the door ahead of her, each carrying their load.
She gave the little girl two bags but when that proved to be too much she took one bag back and carried it with the bottles of ketchup other items she was carrying.
Taking young children shopping is always a challenge but that young mother turned it into an opportunity for each child to play an important role.
Leaders exist to make it possible for each person in the group to have a hand in helping the whole group thrive.
That young mother was a great leader.
Saturday, May 14, 2005
On art, torture and trust
I just came from the Plow Creek common building where we are holding an art show and reception for one of our most senior members, Jim Harnish. Folks are wandering through the common room admiring a life time of pottery and ceramic pieces Jim created.
After the last Evergreen Leaders workshop a participant lent me a book he thought I'd like to read: The Blindfolds Eye: My journey from torture to truth by Sister Dianna Ortiz.
Sister Dianna was one of thousands of people who were tortured in Guatemala by the army in the 1970's and 1980's. Sister Dianna, a nun, was raped repeatedly and burned 111 times on her back during a 24-hour period at a police station before she escaped. Most of those who were tortured were killed.
Torture was used as a strategy to break trust in small groups on the left. They chose unknown people like Sister Dianna to torture in order to send shock waves through the small groups they were part of, according to the US ambassador to Guatemala at the time, Thomas Stroock. Now declassified documents clearly show that US officials were working with Guatemalan officials to cover up the torture that went on including the torturing of Sister Dianna, an American who was teaching children.
Plow Creek is a community built on trust. At the common building there are seven tables filled with a variety of ceramic and pottery pieces that Jim created over a life time. Jim is in his early 80's and in poor health but he was smiling and joking with his relatives and friends who came to the reception.
As Jim's health has deteriorated he has needed more and more help with the simple tasks of life.
This takes deep trust on his part and deep trust on the numerous Plow Creek people who each week lend a hand in caring for Jim and Donna. His wife, Donna, has been incommunicado and in need of 24-hour care since a stroke six years ago.
Torturers destroy trust and life. While too many governments were torturing people Jim Harnish was living a communal life at Plow Creek and creating art.
Artists and lovers like Jim build life and trust. I am delighted that we can honor one of our elders today, one who has given his life to building art and trust.
Now I am going to go back and rejoin the party.
After the last Evergreen Leaders workshop a participant lent me a book he thought I'd like to read: The Blindfolds Eye: My journey from torture to truth by Sister Dianna Ortiz.
Sister Dianna was one of thousands of people who were tortured in Guatemala by the army in the 1970's and 1980's. Sister Dianna, a nun, was raped repeatedly and burned 111 times on her back during a 24-hour period at a police station before she escaped. Most of those who were tortured were killed.
Torture was used as a strategy to break trust in small groups on the left. They chose unknown people like Sister Dianna to torture in order to send shock waves through the small groups they were part of, according to the US ambassador to Guatemala at the time, Thomas Stroock. Now declassified documents clearly show that US officials were working with Guatemalan officials to cover up the torture that went on including the torturing of Sister Dianna, an American who was teaching children.
Plow Creek is a community built on trust. At the common building there are seven tables filled with a variety of ceramic and pottery pieces that Jim created over a life time. Jim is in his early 80's and in poor health but he was smiling and joking with his relatives and friends who came to the reception.
As Jim's health has deteriorated he has needed more and more help with the simple tasks of life.
This takes deep trust on his part and deep trust on the numerous Plow Creek people who each week lend a hand in caring for Jim and Donna. His wife, Donna, has been incommunicado and in need of 24-hour care since a stroke six years ago.
Torturers destroy trust and life. While too many governments were torturing people Jim Harnish was living a communal life at Plow Creek and creating art.
Artists and lovers like Jim build life and trust. I am delighted that we can honor one of our elders today, one who has given his life to building art and trust.
Now I am going to go back and rejoin the party.
Saturday, May 07, 2005
The day I became a diehard Cubs fan
Friday it happened. The moment I became a die-hard Chicago Cubs fan.
On Wednesday they lost when their relief pitcher walked in the winning run in the bottom of the ninth.
On Thursday they lost in the top of the ninth when an opponent hit a blooper that the second basemen over ran.
Then on Friday in the top of the ninth with the bases loaded, Cubs ahead by one, and one out, I unloaded my wheelchair to go into the Met to swim.
I paused to listen to the next at bat. Cubs announcer, Pat Hughes: "A sharp liner back to the mound. He throws to first. Oh no, he threw it into the stands...two runs score...Philadelphia takes the lead...I think it bounced of the base runner and into the stands."
Hughes was right. When the pitcher threw to first base to complete the double play and finish the inning, the ball hit the helmet of the base runner and flew into the stands.
I sat in my wheelchair and laughed. This is art, I thought, absurd art maybe, but art nonetheless. The Cubs have turned losing into an art.
I grew up in Minnesota, a Twins fan, and moved to Illinois in 1977. Over the years the Cubs have slowly grown on me but I wouldn't have called myself a diehard Cubs fan.
But at that moment, when I could laugh, recognizing the absurd beauty of that play, one that may never again be duplicated in baseball, I knew I was a diehard Cubs fan.
When they win it's great, but when they lose like that, it's beauty.
Go Cubs.
On Wednesday they lost when their relief pitcher walked in the winning run in the bottom of the ninth.
On Thursday they lost in the top of the ninth when an opponent hit a blooper that the second basemen over ran.
Then on Friday in the top of the ninth with the bases loaded, Cubs ahead by one, and one out, I unloaded my wheelchair to go into the Met to swim.
I paused to listen to the next at bat. Cubs announcer, Pat Hughes: "A sharp liner back to the mound. He throws to first. Oh no, he threw it into the stands...two runs score...Philadelphia takes the lead...I think it bounced of the base runner and into the stands."
Hughes was right. When the pitcher threw to first base to complete the double play and finish the inning, the ball hit the helmet of the base runner and flew into the stands.
I sat in my wheelchair and laughed. This is art, I thought, absurd art maybe, but art nonetheless. The Cubs have turned losing into an art.
I grew up in Minnesota, a Twins fan, and moved to Illinois in 1977. Over the years the Cubs have slowly grown on me but I wouldn't have called myself a diehard Cubs fan.
But at that moment, when I could laugh, recognizing the absurd beauty of that play, one that may never again be duplicated in baseball, I knew I was a diehard Cubs fan.
When they win it's great, but when they lose like that, it's beauty.
Go Cubs.
Wednesday, April 27, 2005
Telemarketer Grace
On Sunday at Plow Creek Rick Reha did a teaching on grace and then he had us get into small groups and tell stories about grace in our lives.
I didn't think of it then but later I thought--I have a telemarketing grace story. For the past 4-5 years I've been in charge of Plow Creek's long distance services. We have 10 lines and six toll free numbers and use account codes to divide the bills between personal, church and Plow Creek business calls.
We've had the same long distance carrier for the past four years. I've taken numerous calls from people trying to get us to switch. Most of the time they can't come close to the deal we have. In self-defense I've developed a policy of telling folks to fax me their offer in writing.
Then about four weeks ago Maria Mandic from DC Communications called. I'd never heard of the company. I did my usual bit about about faxing which she promptly did.
Usually it's me who practices grace with telemarketers. I never hang up on them. I listen and when I don't buy or donate I say, "Better luck on your next call."
But Maria practiced grace with me. No pressure. She just called back when she said she would and answered all my questions.
It took her four weeks of follow-up since I had to research our current plan (it turns out, unbeknownst to me, that our current plan had raised their rates and fees), compare it to hers, and then consult with folks at Plow Creek.
Never once did she make me feel guilty for taking so long to make the decision. Not an ounce of pressure. She simply let me tell her when to call me next and then she'd call me.
Late in our series of conversations she mentioned that she not only does sales but would be my service rep. "Wow," I thought, "I can acutally call this nice person when there's a problem?"
Yesterday we completed the deal and I had a story about telemarketing grace.
I didn't think of it then but later I thought--I have a telemarketing grace story. For the past 4-5 years I've been in charge of Plow Creek's long distance services. We have 10 lines and six toll free numbers and use account codes to divide the bills between personal, church and Plow Creek business calls.
We've had the same long distance carrier for the past four years. I've taken numerous calls from people trying to get us to switch. Most of the time they can't come close to the deal we have. In self-defense I've developed a policy of telling folks to fax me their offer in writing.
Then about four weeks ago Maria Mandic from DC Communications called. I'd never heard of the company. I did my usual bit about about faxing which she promptly did.
Usually it's me who practices grace with telemarketers. I never hang up on them. I listen and when I don't buy or donate I say, "Better luck on your next call."
But Maria practiced grace with me. No pressure. She just called back when she said she would and answered all my questions.
It took her four weeks of follow-up since I had to research our current plan (it turns out, unbeknownst to me, that our current plan had raised their rates and fees), compare it to hers, and then consult with folks at Plow Creek.
Never once did she make me feel guilty for taking so long to make the decision. Not an ounce of pressure. She simply let me tell her when to call me next and then she'd call me.
Late in our series of conversations she mentioned that she not only does sales but would be my service rep. "Wow," I thought, "I can acutally call this nice person when there's a problem?"
Yesterday we completed the deal and I had a story about telemarketing grace.
Sunday, April 24, 2005
A good conflict with my prez
Trust is built on love and conflict.
A few months back the EGL finance committee decided that, since we don’t have a lot of money, I shouldn’t spend more than $30 (other than petty cash) without the approval of the finance committee.
This created a conflict for me. In EGL workshops we teach that trust is essential to helping a group thrive and lots of rules do the opposite of building trust. I felt like the finance committee didn't trust me with EGL finances.
I knew they were trying to do a good job of being responsible for EGL finacnes but I was still hooked.
In February I tried to talk with EGL president Jason Harrison (who'se also on the finance committee) about the finance committees policy. I said that I thought the EGL finance committee should trust me and that our monthly finance statements were a good way for me to be accountable.
Jason pointed out that under the system I was proposing I would have already spent the money by the time the finance committee became aware of what I was spending it on. And he thought we ought to be having conversations about where the money was coming from and where it was going.
He didn't say it but implicit in his concern was: What’s the use of a board and a finance committee if Rich makes all the decisions?
I said that I did want to have conversations about money. I don't know if I said it but implicit in what I was feeling was: I don't want to be controlled by a set of rules that make it hard to do business in a good way.
Both of us left that meeting feeling frustrated.
This past week I spent a couple of days in Indiana, working on drumming up business for Evergreen Leaders. Also, I met with Jason.
We went over the finance discussion again, this time much more calmly, and were able to work on a plan that made sense to both of us.
This times as I listened to Jason, I realized that while I need to give the message to the board “trust me”, I also need to be open with the board about the direction I think we should be headed and that includes where the income will be coming from and where I think we should be spending money.
Trust and openness need to fit together like mashed potatoes and gravy.
We agreed it makes sense for me to do regular financial forecasts to the board--giving them a read on EGL's financial realties: here’s how much money I think will be coming in the next three months and these are the ways I think we ought to spend it.
That way we can have conversations about EGL’s fiancés without them creating rules and me fussing about the rules. When we human beings have rules imposed on us we have a natural tendency to think of ways to get around the rules.
I don’t want the board and the finance committee us to waste time dreaming up rules and me waste time dreaming ways to get around them.
At the same time I want our finances to be completely in the open so that we can trust each other as together we figure out how to make EGL be a thriving group that gives ordinary people the tools to help the workplaces, churches, and families thrive.
I walked away from this meeting grateful for growing trust with Jason.
A few months back the EGL finance committee decided that, since we don’t have a lot of money, I shouldn’t spend more than $30 (other than petty cash) without the approval of the finance committee.
This created a conflict for me. In EGL workshops we teach that trust is essential to helping a group thrive and lots of rules do the opposite of building trust. I felt like the finance committee didn't trust me with EGL finances.
I knew they were trying to do a good job of being responsible for EGL finacnes but I was still hooked.
In February I tried to talk with EGL president Jason Harrison (who'se also on the finance committee) about the finance committees policy. I said that I thought the EGL finance committee should trust me and that our monthly finance statements were a good way for me to be accountable.
Jason pointed out that under the system I was proposing I would have already spent the money by the time the finance committee became aware of what I was spending it on. And he thought we ought to be having conversations about where the money was coming from and where it was going.
He didn't say it but implicit in his concern was: What’s the use of a board and a finance committee if Rich makes all the decisions?
I said that I did want to have conversations about money. I don't know if I said it but implicit in what I was feeling was: I don't want to be controlled by a set of rules that make it hard to do business in a good way.
Both of us left that meeting feeling frustrated.
This past week I spent a couple of days in Indiana, working on drumming up business for Evergreen Leaders. Also, I met with Jason.
We went over the finance discussion again, this time much more calmly, and were able to work on a plan that made sense to both of us.
This times as I listened to Jason, I realized that while I need to give the message to the board “trust me”, I also need to be open with the board about the direction I think we should be headed and that includes where the income will be coming from and where I think we should be spending money.
Trust and openness need to fit together like mashed potatoes and gravy.
We agreed it makes sense for me to do regular financial forecasts to the board--giving them a read on EGL's financial realties: here’s how much money I think will be coming in the next three months and these are the ways I think we ought to spend it.
That way we can have conversations about EGL’s fiancés without them creating rules and me fussing about the rules. When we human beings have rules imposed on us we have a natural tendency to think of ways to get around the rules.
I don’t want the board and the finance committee us to waste time dreaming up rules and me waste time dreaming ways to get around them.
At the same time I want our finances to be completely in the open so that we can trust each other as together we figure out how to make EGL be a thriving group that gives ordinary people the tools to help the workplaces, churches, and families thrive.
I walked away from this meeting grateful for growing trust with Jason.
Random thoughts
(I wrote this post last Wednesday but forgot the version of my name I had used on this blog and couldn't post on the Goshen College computer I was using.)
I'm at Goshen College, on break between meetings with folks about Evergreen Leaders. I did a Google search for Evergreen Leades to get to the EGL site and noticed that our Evergreen Leaders tops the Google list.
*****
I'm on a trip promoting EGL workshops. Sometimes I get struck by doubts. Will EGL really make a difference in peoples lives? Will it really help groups thive? A few minutes ago I met with John Roth, a Goshen history professor. He was one of my daughters' favorite profs when they were students here. He said that Virgil Miller, CEO of Sauder Woodworking and current president of the Goshen College board, attended a Greenleaf Center for Servant Leadership program a dozen years ago and that it transformed how he operates as a CEO. My deepest longing for EGL is that in a few years people will be talking what a difference it has made in their lives and their groups.
*****
When I arrived at Goshen College this afternoon I unloaded my wheelchair and looked around for someone to direct me to Wyse Hall where John Roth has his office. At that moment I was hailed from a tree. I looked up to see Joel Gonzalez from Reba Place, the church and communal group that founded Plow Creek in 1971, and a young woman. They hopped dwon from the tree, Joel intrduced me to Kirsten, and they led me to Wyse Hall.
*****
At any one point in time I am meditating on three books of the Bible, a verse or two at a time. Many months ago I began meditating on the Gospel According to Matthew. On Easter morning I woke up and realized that I was arriving at the first verse of the resurrection story that morning. Like Mary, I've been treasuring that in my heart.
*****
I am hoping to arrive home tomorrow night in time to take Sarah on a date. I treasure her in my heart too.
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