markmat1957

A couple of irregular Joes

2011-11-22T12:59:00.000-08:00

As I get ready to celebrate my 55^th Christmas, I’m drawn to the story about Joseph, Jesus’ earthly father. Or, more precisely, I’m drawn to the lack of stories about him. Hardly anything is known about this man, a simple carpenter and laborer in first century Nazareth.

There was a movie released a few years ago, “The Nativity Story” which attempted to paint a fuller picture of Joseph, a man betrothed to another man’s young daughter, Mary. While the Biblical accuracy, like nearly every movie Hollywood has made based on Scripture, is questionable, the humanity of Joseph – his shock at learning Mary was pregnant, his revelation of the truth from the angel and his ultimate devotion to Mary and soon-to-be born son – comes shining through. This celluloid Joseph comes across as resilient, making the best of his circumstances and maintaining a strong faith in God.

I also am reminded of another “Joe,” not very well known by his family when he was younger but who had a life-altering experience in middle age. He’s well into his senior years now, ready to celebrate his 87^th birthday three days before Christmas. Joe has been tested by circumstances beyond his control: the death of his mother, father, brothers, first wife and a daughter-in-law. Joe’s mid-life decision to trust and worship God was not an easy one. Often, he struggled to see the light of the world. But he persevered and, with help, became a better person, Christian, husband and father.

The cobwebs of vascular dementia now tie his mind, but enough of who Joe is and how far he has come are evident for all. When I visit him, I think of how our roles have essentially reversed: I, along with my brother and sisters, am now the parent and he is the child. But, like that other “Joe” of 2,000 years ago, Dad’s faith in God is resilient. The candle may grow short, but the light shines before everyone. Let us praise our fathers here, and our Father in heaven.

Funny Grandpa Joe

2010-08-08T15:29:00.000-07:00

My son started to laugh at the gas station. That’s kind of an odd place to get a case of the giggles, but there the 10-year-old was in the backseat of the minivan having a hard time containing himself. It started before I stopped at that pump to fill up the car, it continued when he got out to clean the windshields, and it didn’t stop for another five minutes.

“What are you laughing at?” I asked with a smile.

“Oh, nothing,” he said.

“He’s got a case of the sillies,” said my 85-year-old father.

“Boy, you got that right,” I said.

Robby and I had arrived in Nashville to visit Dad who has been battling aging issues since November. School starts in another week or so, and it was my turn to visit Dad. So Robby and I made the 350-mile trip to see him and Momma.

As usual, one of the first subjects after we greeted one another was “What’s for dinner?” The tradition, if a nine-month habit can be called a tradition, was to take Dad out for lunch and dinner each day. It was great for him to get out of the assisted living facility in Nashville, but it wreaks havoc on our waistlines.

“I got a taste for seafood,” Dad said. So the Red Lobster in suburban Cool Springs was our destination. Dad went for the whole hog, in this case lobster, Robby had one of the combo plates, and I settled for salmon.

It was after dinner that we pulled into the gas station. I stopped the car, looked out the window and realized I had picked the diesel pump. “Whoops. That’s diesel,” I said. “Damn diesel,” Dad said.

When you’re 85 and you have some mild vascular dementia, your leash is pretty long. You can say and do things and get away with them that other people cannot. Such was the case with the “Damn diesel” comment.

But 10-year-old boys senses of humor are tickled by bodily functions and swear words. Robby just lost it when Dad said, “Damn diesel.”

Robby revealed this to me the next day. “Grandpa is just so funny,” Robby said.

That “bond” only strengthened in the coming days. My son is not exactly noted for his work ethic, just like almost every other 10-year-old American boy. But a change came over him when he was around “Grandpa Joe” as he calls Dad.

He didn’t have to be told to get Grandpa Joe’s walker. Robby just got it.

He didn’t have to be asked to help his Grandpa Joe out of the car. Robby was there putting his little hand in the middle of a massive back to get Grandpa Joe going.

He didn’t have to be told to escort Grandad up to his room. Robby just did it.

“I like helping Grandpa,” Robby said.

“I like seeing you help him, son,” I replied.

“He really is a good boy. He is so helpful,” Grandpa Joe said.

A bond between a grandfather and grandchild is one of the most precious things we witness in our lives. I had that a little bit with my maternal grandfather, but these moments I get to cherish between “Grandpa Joe” and Robby remind me of what I missed … and what someday I will witness again, maybe with my own grandson.

Jane Wall's horn

2010-03-16T11:59:00.001-07:00

The horn always sounded at the same times every weekday. At 8 a.m. and 3 p.m., the white passenger van would pull up across the street in front of Bill and Jane’s house and the driver would give a long blast on the horn.

After the horn sounded in the morning, the front door to Bill and Jane’s house would open and out would come Jane pushing her adult, wheelchair-bound daughter, Jane Wall, out to the street. The driver would carefully place Jane Wall in her wheelchair onto the motorized lift, and Jane would say goodbye, tenderly caressing Jane Wall’s face or shoulders. When the horn sounded in the afternoon, Jane – eternally smiling – would come out to welcome Jane Wall from a day at a center for physically and mentally disabled people.

Jane and Bill’s daughter contracted Reye’s Syndrome 30 years ago when she was about 3. A smiling, healthy and energetic child, Jane Wall’s condition left her with immense physical and mental disabilities. The easy way out would’ve been to simply institutionalize Jane Wall, and then Bill and Jane could sink their energy into raising their son.

But Jane and Bill are not cut from that cloth; there’s nothing in their makeup that would allow them to “give up” in such a fashion. I talked to Jane about that a number of years ago, and Jane simply replied, “Well, she was our baby. We couldn’t do that to her.”

So Bill and Jane raised Jane Wall with as much love, devotion and care as anyone. It was awe-inspiring when they would bring her to neighborhood parties, and everyone would be making a fuss over the brown-haired woman with the crooked smile. Jane Wall never said a word, simply looking at people and smiling. On occasion, she would laugh or show her displeasure, but she spent every night in her parents’ house, safe and secure from a world that too often seems cold and cruel.

Last week, Jane Wall contracted pneumonia. Delicate as a rare flower, Jane Wall put up a brave struggle for survival, but in the end she was called to a higher purpose. She departed Monday morning, surrounded by the family who loved her so much. What Jane and Bill may not know is how much of an inspiration they are to friends and neighbors; how their simple grace under pressure for three decades inspired generations fortunate enough to know them and love them.

Mornings and afternoons still will come each day in our neighborhood, but the missing sound of a horn from a white passenger van will signal a void in our lives. But if you open your heart and listen closely, you can hear the clarion call of heavenly horns heralding the arrival of Jane Wall.

Happy Valentine's Day, Kathy, Part 2

2010-02-10T14:41:00.000-08:00

Last time, I wrote about the wonderful qualities of my wife, Kathy. Her joy of life and tenderness of spirit has brightened the lives of innumerable people, most notably myself, our son and our daughter. She often reads with our son, Robby, as part of his daily homework, but she’d want to do it regardless of whether it was an assignment. When she spends time with him, or any of us, her whole world seems brighter.

That innate ability to connect with people has served her so well in her profession: medical oncology. As the picture I have painted shows, Kathy is so much more than just a physician. But the branch of medicine she chose suits her gifts impeccably.

A few weeks after Kathy and I became engaged (after just two months of dating), a lunchtime question from a colleague came out of the blue. The question hung in the air for a moment as I pondered what my colleague asked: “How does Kathy stop from getting close to her patients?”

The question said something about how an outsider looking in sometimes doesn’t understand what good cancer doctors are really all about. They are not simply mechanics who provide necessary medicines then collect a fee. Oncologists also are cheerleaders, pathfinders, advocates, healers, handholders, psychologists and parents all rolled into one. Many is the time I’ve told Kathy, “I have no idea how you do what you do.” Good oncologists are a special breed. They can do their job perfectly – prescribe the right medicine, follow every step, make every diagnosis – and they can still “fail.” How many professions are there like that?

The answer I gave to my colleague’s question – “How does she stop from getting close to her patients?” – cut to the heart of who Kathy is as a person, and it was a simple answer: “She doesn’t,” I said. “She does get close to them. She shares their fears, their hopes, their sorrows, their joys. She has to. They have to know that she’s in the fight to stay.”

That’s why I fell in love with Kathy in the spring of 1998. Her heart radiates faith, love and hope. Her first instinct – to trust and empathize – is a remarkably refreshing approach, be it with family, friends, patients or strangers.

Kathy has asked me before how she has made a difference in my life. I’ve not been able to answer that because the question is so big. But I’d have to say that her faith in God has opened my eyes wider to all the wonders around us; her belief in the goodness of people has opened my heart; and her trust has allowed me to love as fully as I ever have.

Happy Valentine’s Day, Kathy

Happy Valentine's Day, Kathy, Part 1

2010-02-09T11:02:00.000-08:00

We’ve started a new tradition in our house, and it was the brainchild of my wife. The three of us – myself, my wife, Kathy, and our son, Robby – hold hands and say a prayer at the beginning of each workday/school day. We ask God to bless us in our many tasks, asking that we keep in mind His word and His example to us through His son, Jesus.

Now, many Christians talk a good game when it comes to prayer, but in practice, well … let’s just say some are left wanting. I try to pray each night, but admittedly, I sometimes sign in but forget to sign out. We’ve been praying together each morning for a couple of months now and not only is it helpful, it really speaks to who my wife is as a Christian, a person and a woman.

If one’s approach to life is measured either with an arrow pointed up or an arrow pointed down, my wife’s arrow is most assuredly pointed up. Kathy always tries to find the positive in just about any situation, and more importantly, in just about any person. She constantly encourages our son to share his smile with others and find the right way to solve problems. I do not hear her speak ill of anyone; if someone has not treated her well, Kathy will say, “Well, maybe they were having a bad day.” She is quick to forgive.

Sometimes she takes the bright outlook to an interesting level: anytime we’re watching a football game and some pushing or shoving breaks out, Kathy says, “Guys, guys. Be nice to each other.”

Kathy loves to laugh. Many a time we’ve been in a movie theater, and she bursts out laughing at a particularly funny scene. She surprises herself when she does this, because she’ll cover her mouth thinking it’s too loud. I just smile when she does that.

Kathy also is moved easily to tears. A dear friend of mine once said of herself, “Oh, I cry at supermarket openings.” That’s Kathy, too. If something moves her, she’ll tear up, be it a passage from a book, some personal encounter or a movie. It’s one of her most endearing qualities. “Don’t ever change,” I say to her.

It’s her zest for life that makes her so special and what drew me to her 12 years ago. I was introduced to Kathy as I was rebuilding my life after my first wife passed away. It was a very rough year, trying to balance the needs of – first – my grade-school daughter, then a house, my career and working through the process of mourning and grief. By the time I met Kathy, I had steadied the ship, but its heading was uncertain. Enter a 36-year-old whose energetic way, tender heart and devotion to God got me back on course.

After being introduced, Kathy and I had our first date in February 1998. It was a remarkable evening. Neither of us was nervous because we talked for two hours BEFORE we went to dinner. She made me feel so at ease, so comfortable. It was her giving nature that first drew me to her, that and her dynamite smile, an amazing combination of warmth and enamel!

After dinner, she invited me in for coffee. I immediately accepted, even though I was not a coffee drinker. A chance to spend a few more minutes with her was perfect. We said our good-byes a short time later, and as I walked down the steps, I felt something I hadn’t in such a long time. I looked back at her, went back up the steps and kissed her good night again. I then realized that my heart, closed off for months, was actually beating again.

Up next: Part 2

Happy birthday, Elaine

2010-01-31T17:25:00.000-08:00

February 1, 1958 does not occupy a particularly significant spot in history. On that date Egypt and Syria merged into the United Arab Republic (it lasted only three years), and the U.S. satellite Explorer 1 was launched.

But it was on that date at a hospital in Greenwood, S.C., that a 37-year-old mother of two gave birth to her first daughter. For the next 14,143 days, this infant/toddler/girl/woman brought light to all the lives she touched. Her name was Elaine Russell.

She grew up in the little mill village of Ware Shoals, S.C., lovingly attended to by her mother, Rachel, and her father, William Delbert Russell. She was also loved – as much as siblings can love – by her two older brothers and, later, a kid sister.

What she brought to this world was a mix of compassion, tolerance, faith in God, intelligence, humor and love that drew you to her. People congregated toward Elaine because once she was your friend, that was it: you were her friend for life. She didn’t pit people against each other; rather, she brought people together, making them feel welcome no matter the circumstance. Many a time people would be visiting and announce that they’d have to leave, only to have Elaine say, “Oh, stay on a while.” Those invitations were sincere.

Elaine fell in love when she was 27, and married a fellow newspaper person when she was 28. If there is such a thing as “marrying up” in life, then her husband surely did that. It was she who brought joy and richness to their union, lifting a man who had been lonely and searching for that one, special someone for a long time. They were in love and devoted to each other, a true doubleheader of life.

Life continued to bless them with their daughter, Rachel, less than three years after they married. Elaine’s daughter was the light of her life, and Elaine was the center of Rachel’s existence. They loved reading together, playing games, entertaining friends and simply being with each other.

Elaine found time to become a free-lance writer, get involved with their church and become a Brownie troop leader.

But this is no fairy tale; it’s a study in the human condition. Humans are, in the final analysis, frail creatures, subject to the randomness and vagaries of life. A pulmonary disease descended with terrible swiftness and claimed this woman on Oct. 30, 1996.

But even as her body betrayed her, Elaine’s mind and spirit wouldn’t succumb to self pity. Her husband found this short essay about a month after she died, written in one of the notebooks she kept.

"Why me?
Why can't I breathe well? Why I am virtually housebound hooked to an oxygen machine? Why have I had three major illnesses in my lifetime when some people breeze through the years without setting foot in a hospital?
Believe it or not, these are questions I have NOT asked myself as I've struggled with my most recent bout with sickness.
A more appropriate question might be 'Why not me?'
In times of frustration, despair or indecision, it's easy to look to the heavens and ask God 'Why me?'
But if I ask that question in troubled times, shouldn't I ask it when things are their sunniest, when life is easy, when everything is going my way?
Why was I born into a wonderful, caring family when so many children are unwanted and unloved?
Why have I been blessed with many friends in many places over the years?
Why did a find a wonderful man to marry and, with him, have a beautiful daughter?
Why do I live in a comfortable home and have plenty to eat while the world is filled with homeless and hungry people?
Why me? What have I ever done to deserve even one of the blessings I've known?"

That last question is one asked by all who knew Elaine Russell in the 38 years, 8 months and 29 days she was with us. None of us deserve the blessings we receive, but maybe we can ask for the wisdom to acknowledge them.

So today, 52 years after she was born, we acknowledge the blessing that was Elaine Russell. Happy birthday, Elaine.

Full Reversal, Part 4

2009-11-12T07:06:00.000-08:00

This vulnerable man I write of was, obviously, not always this way. Quite the contrary, Dad was on the other end of the spectrum when I was growing up and even into my college years.

We were raised in an Epsicopal household. That is, my mother took us to church on Sundays. We also would have an advent wreath that we would gather around at Christmastime. But that was about it. I remember seeing my father in worship when I was little, but after we moved a couple of times, the memories of my father being in a church were almost non-existent. Also never brought up with Dad were conversations dealing with Jesus, God or faith. My father’s spirit was so lost that he got up right after I had been confirmed, choosing to leave the sanctuary before the rest of the service concluded. My father viewed most people who went to church as “pagan.”

But then Mom died of lung cancer in the spring of 1979. It was a crushing blow to our family, and it nearly killed my then 54-year-old father. He shook his fists in anger at God and swore he’d show Him a thing or two. Well, guess who won that smackdown?

Slightly more than a year after Mom died, Dad met Sally, a divorcee who was devout in her faith in Jesus and active in her Southern Baptist congregation in Memphis. It was through her example of strong faith that God opened my father’s eyes. I recently told Sally that, with God’s help, she had saved Dad, just as if she had pulled him from a burning house or a raging sea. “Really?” she said. “Oh yes,” I told her. He would’ve been dead a long time ago, consumed by all the bitterness and anger he had inside.

I still remember Dad calling me at my first job out of college to say he had started going to church and truly believed in Jesus’ life, ministry, resurrection and promise. I pulled the phone away from my ear, looked at it and thought, “OK, where is my father and what have you done with him?”

To think that Dad could come to believe, truly believe, in God, Jesus and the promise of salvation is, well, humbling. As Jesus told the no-longer-possessed man, “Return home and tell how much God has done for you.” As my father joyfully says today, God did much for Dad, and his spirit was transformed through God’s grace.

As my family enters this new phase with Dad, all of us pray that God’s grace will see us through. I know many people are praying for him, and all of us are grateful for that. But praying is as much for the person asking for God’s help as it is for whom the help is sought. Be mindful that God truly does answer prayers, but the outcome is not always the answer we think it should be. Whenever I pray, I always ask, finally, that whatever the outcome, please help me find the strength to deal with the final result.

Full Reversal, Part 3

2009-11-11T07:31:00.000-08:00

One of my Dad’s characteristics when we were growing up was his emotional distance. Sure, we’d see him laugh and, oh boy, get annoyed or angry. But the first time I saw my father cry was when I was 21, and he told us that Mom’s lung cancer surgery did not go well. I remember how shocked I was that he was even capable of crying. He always seemed to have those spigots disconnected. Maybe he didn’t have tear ducts, I thought, thinking he was impossible to read.

Now, more than 30 years later, staying in that assisted living/nursing home facility, my Dad is an open book.

My first full day there with him, I saw my father cry more than in the previous 52 years of my life. Dad cried when my step-sister and I finally got him to realize he didn’t have to have a job. Dad cried when he talked to my brother. Dad cried when Sally and another step-sister, Sara, came to see him.

Dad confessed that when he saw his father cry a lot near the end of his life, he didn’t think much of it. “I thought it was so weak,” Dad said. “No, Dad,” I said. “It’s a sign of strength that you can let your emotions go. You have to let 'em go.”

The letting go was important because it showed everyone a side of him they doubt existed. Before she left for home, my sister Barb had told him, “You’ve been like a pineapple. All prickly and rough on the outside, but real sweet on the inside.” I kept driving home the importance of people seeing that sweet side a lot more than the prickly side. Anne and Sara both said they had never seen this tender side of him. “He’s like a lost little boy,” said Sara with tears in her eyes.

I think it goes back to my father’s childhood. He grew up in rural Arkansas during the Great Depression and had two parents who were not the warmest people in the world. His father – 44 when Dad was born – lost, then gained back, all he had three times in his life. His mother was a school teacher and principal who didn’t show him a lot of affection. Dad was shipped off to a school in Memphis when he was 13 by parents who wanted to give him a good education, but forgot about the emotional needs of an adolescent. Consequently, Dad formed an emotional wall around himself, rarely letting anyone in. Of course my mother, then Sally were able to scale that wall, and while he didn’t show it a lot, my siblings and I knew we were allowed inside the wall, too. But no one was inside the wall all the time; not us, not Mom and not Sally.

Now with the walls down, Dad is vulnerable to all that surrounds him. Like Sara said, he truly is like a lost little boy, one who needs his parents. Those parents are younger than he is, but they love him dearly and will help guide him through uncharted waters.

Full Reversal, Part 2

2009-11-10T06:23:00.000-08:00

Big sister Barb had greeted me as I walked into the assisted living/nursing home facility. She had been there nearly a week already, watching Dad slip between lucidity and la-la land. It had taken a toll on her. “It’s just so hard,” she had confessed. “I’m worn out.”

Part of the problem was CAT scans had revealed that Dad had had a series of mini-strokes over the last several years. Taken individually, these strokes were barely noticeable, easily dismissed as the effects of aging on a man in his 80s. But cumulatively, they had sapped Dad of physical and emotional energy and dulled his sharp mind.

Add that to his episode of dizziness and nausea nearly two weeks earlier, and the result is an 84-year-old man getting up in the middle of the night, wandering the hospital halls in his birthday suit, trying to tell the nurses that people were stealing things from the hospital and putting them in their cars; or that he was seeing whales swim by his bed; or that he was in Minneapolis, when actually he was in Nashville.

Still, he had improved enough in those first few days to be transferred from the hospital to the assisted living/nursing home facility. After seeing Dad in his room, Barb and I took him outside to enjoy the beautiful autumn afternoon in middle Tennessee. Dad’s conversation with us was clear and funny as we reminisced about the past.

But then he looked at me and said, in a very serious tone, “Mark, I’ve got to find a new job. I lost my job last week, and I need to find work.” Dad had retired 15 years ago, but he was worried about his dear wife, Sally, having to sleep on the street.

My sister and I exchanged glances as if to say, “Here we go again.” We let him ramble for a while, then changed the subject. It’s odd how a past anxiety can mix with current stress and uncertainty to produce a very real, but ungrounded, fear.

That anxiety crept up again the next day, when my step-sister, Anne, was visiting. God bless her because Anne listened to that for a minute, then told Dad, “You’re going down one of those little bunny trails again.” It was a perfect response, and I followed that by telling Dad that he had been retired for quite a while, and he had a nice home and plenty of money.

“But what about that house in Little Rock that has all that furniture? We need to get that out of there,” Dad said. Anne and I patiently explained to him that he didn’t have a house in Little Rock, that he and Sally had moved from another city in Arkansas six years ago. Any extra furniture had been sold, so everything was fine. “Really?” he said. “Sure enough,” I answered.

Once again, the children became the parents and the parent the child.

Full Reversal, Part 1

2009-11-09T07:52:00.000-08:00

My dad and I share a common bond, one that has, inexplicably, run through my family for the last 100 years. My father, his half brother, his father and I all lost our first wives at an early age. Some may call it a curse, but I consider it a source of strength in times of trouble. Certainly, it has drawn my father and I closer through the knowledge of a journey into the fires of mourning and grief.

He hugged me tight 13 years ago as my wife lay dying at Duke University Medical Center and said, choking back tears, “I sure wish I could take this blow for you.” I gazed at him and said, “Sorry, Dad. It just doesn’t work that way.”

Since that time, there has been an unshakable link between us. We know the depths of each other’s heart, realizing that a monumental loss can be followed by cataclysmic personal change which leads to a new, fulfilling chapter of life. While that link is strong, our roles were always familiar: He was the father, I was the son.

But now, that has changed. It’s changed for my sisters and brother, too, as we watch Dad, 84, begin to slip into the wisps of old age and fog of infirmity.

This came to a head in the past two weeks as Dad was hospitalized with severe nausea and vertigo. He began to hallucinate and dream, the walls crumbling between imagination and reality. It appears as if he had been taking his medicines only sporadically, if at all, and this probably had caused his spiral downward.

As I walked in to visit him in the assisted living/nursing home facility last week, I was greeted not by the strong, somewhat emotionally distant figure I had grown up with, but by a man who had been stripped of his emotional armor. From his bed, he burst into tears as he greeted me. “Well, hey big guy.” Dad said. “I’ve really had a big fall.”

It was as if my son had scraped his knee and had come running to me in tears. “I know you’ve had, Dad,” I said as I hugged him and gently kissed him on the forehead. “It’s OK. Everything will be OK.”

Tattoo fatigue

2009-10-02T07:56:00.000-07:00

Let me state up front that I’m a 52-year-old white male, born into a middle-class family in the South. I have lived in some different places: the Midwest, the Northeast, and a few locations throughout the South. I am, modesty aside, a fairly open-minded person. Self-expression and the desire to get in touch with an inner self is OK with me, as long as no one is hurt and the rights of others are respected.

But, holy cow, can we please cease-and-desist with the tattoo fixation in this country? No matter where I go, I see people with tattoos. And they aren’t on some covered-up part of the body. They are blazoned on shoulders, arms, hands, feet, legs, necks, upper backs, lower backs, chests and abdomens.

The majority of these tattoos are not small: They are huge, and they are ugly. I’ve seen swirling balls of fire, dragons, flowers, skulls, footballs, nude women, nude men, college logos, names of girlfriends, names of boyfriends, glasses of beer, crucifixes, devils, you name it.

One of the more shocking developments is the number of women who have them. Many of the tattoos are like Roseanne Barr: big and loud. In the grocery a few months ago, I saw a perfectly nice young mom near the checkout line. She had her toddler in the proper spot on the cart and was getting ready to unload her groceries on the conveyor belt. Then she turned her and I saw this huge, blue-and-red tattoo of a snake creeping all over her right shoulder.

Aaaaaah! Have people lost their minds? Do they have any clue on what that thing is going to look like in say, oh about, 15 years? First, it won’t be on her shoulder, it’ll be on her lower back once age starts to works its magic. Second, it will be twice the size it is now, since people gain weight as they get older.

Here’s the big kicker: there will be buyer’s remorse. I promise you at some point, the vast majority of people who have decided to engage in so-called body art will say to themselves, “Gee, should I have done that?” The fact that they ask themselves that question means the answer is “No.”

It wasn’t always this way.

When I was a kid, I would see an adult with a tattoo, but 99.99999 percent of the time, it was a veteran who had an anchor or the Marine Corps symbol or some other military-type tattoo on a bicep or forearm. It was a point of pride for these grizzled veterans, but even then there were some regrets about having it done.

Even as recently as 10 to 15 years ago, you wouldn’t see tattoos stretching from shoulder to wrist like the sleeve on a shirt. I’m convinced that most people who have tattoos fall into one of four categories: 1) the decision was spur-of-the-moment; 2) they were egged on by friends; 3) liquor or some other substance was nearby; or 4) all of the above.

Someone once told me that getting a tattoo was a good conversation starter. Excuse me? You could also start a conversation if you had an axe in the head, but I don’t see that becoming the rage anytime soon.

How about this: next time someone you know is thinking about getting a tattoo, ask them, “Is this something you would still want on your body in 10 years?”

Piercings are also a big thing these days, but the crucial difference is piercings grow over and can go away by simply not putting in the earring, stud or whatever piece of jewelry fits in the spot. The body repairs itself.

Tattoos are forever … forever a pain and a stain.

Forgiveness

2009-09-21T08:17:00.000-07:00

I had a chance this weekend to listen, not once, but three times to a fascinating speaker at our church. His name is Miroslav Volf, a professor of theology at Yale Divinity School and the founder and director of the Yale Center for Faith and Culture.

Volf’s message was a difficult one to swallow for many in this age of vengeance and retribution. Simply put, it is forgiveness. He said forgiveness is not just an act by those wronged. It is also the acknowledgment by the “perpetrator” that wrong was done. Moreover, Volf says the forgiver must reach a level of reconciliation with the “forgiv-ee” and then a forgetting of what was done. As was written in our bulletin, without forgiveness, reconciliation and forgetting, Dr. Wolf maintains, memories of evils done to us can consume and define our lives.

We must remember that, as Christians, the fulcrum of our faith is that Christ died for our sins; that’s all of our sins, from the beginning of time to the end. Think of the billions of sins committed, the atrocities, the suffering endured in the past 2,000 years. Well, God has forgiven us all those sins through His son.

Volf -- who has written several books including “The End of Memory: Remembering Rightly in a Violent World” and “Free of Charge: Giving and Forgiving in a Culture Stripped of Grace” – says that Christianity calls on us to forgive, forgo revenge and even love evil-doers. Again, according to the flyer in our church bulletin, Volf also says that the common emphasis on “never forgetting” wrongs should be replaced with efforts toward a special kind of forgetting, a “not coming to mind.”

Powerful stuff, huh? I’ve been fortunate in my life in that I don’t remember ever “being wronged.” Have I wronged people? Unfortunately, the answer is yes, and I’ve tried to make amends, seek their forgiveness. It’s amazing what can happen when you seek out the “wronged:” a softness can come over people, an acknowledgment that forgiveness is in their hearts.

The bigger conundrum for all of us is what about the “bigger” wrongs, the ones that nations or groups do against others? Volf addresses that too, saying it is a different kettle of fish. Speaking of an act such as 9/11, he said that punishment is within the purview of nations, of course, but ultimately, in the long view, forgiveness is still the ultimate goal for Christians.

I believe that if we can begin to forgive others, seek forgiveness and forgo revenge in each of our lives, then perhaps our leaders will take that message to heart. Perhaps the love that God wishes for each of us can, eventually, lead to a world led by light.

(You can connect here, http://www.yale.edu/faith/ to learn more about Dr. Volf.)

Civility and listening: Where art thou?

2009-09-15T10:38:00.000-07:00

Being a child of the 1960s and 1970s, I grew up believing, and practicing, the creed that if you have disagreements with someone, there always should be a civil tone, a respect for someone else’s opinion.

While I have firmly held that belief, American society, specifically the media, began to veer in the 1970s, at first incrementally. Remember the old Point/Counter Point segment on “60 Minutes” with James J. Kilpatrick and Shana Alexander? There was a bit of nastiness that began to creep into that exchange. Then it was parodied on “Saturday Night Live” by Dan Aykroyd and Jane Curtin (“Jane, you ignorant slut …”).

Remember the “Tomorrow” show with Tom Snyder? There was one occasion in the show’s later years when Snyder had a “liberal” and a “conservative” guest talking about some long-forgotten topic. The conservative started to rebut the liberal argument by saying, “Madam, you wouldn’t know a fact if it bit you in the butt.” I was taken aback by that, as was Snyder, the liberal and the audience. How rude, I thought.

How quaint that reaction seems now. With the proliferation of modern media, somehow that air of civility, that feeling of respectful disagreement is as foreign to our society as grits are to New Englanders.

It’s begun to infect that formerly august body, the United States Congress. President George W. Bush was booed by Democrats during his State of the Union Speech in 2005. And everyone remembers how Rep. Joe Wilson of South Carolina shouted “It’s a lie,” at President Obama in his recent health care speech before a joint session of Congress.

Listening is a lost art, I’m afraid. There is a disturbing single-mindedness to most matters of public policy these days. Most of the time we can agree that there is a problem of some sort, but that’s where civility is lost and the namecalling begins. When these cable news shows trot out the obligatory “liberal” and “conservative” viewpoints, I’m reminded of kids arguing about the rules of a schoolyard pickup game. They want the game played their way, and the other side is a big, fat boogerhead if they don’t do it their way. Meanwhile, the clock ticks and recess is soon over.

Reasoned opinion used to rule the media landscape. Publications such as The National Review, The New Republic, the Los Angeles Times or the New York Times carried the weight they once did because they were the only sounding boards. Unfortunately, the game has changed. The writers and editors still engage in the logic and reason to formulate what they have to say and how they say it, but their influence is a mere echo from years past.

Their reason and logic is drowned out by instant analysis from all angles, reducing opinion to quantitative, not qualitative, terms. Reasoned thought is only that now, a thought, choked out by the mindless prattle of talk radio, talk TV, chat rooms, Twitter and the blogsphere (yes, I see the irony).

The result is a stratified society: Each side sees the other as the absolute villain. What’s lost are opportunities to overcome our problems. If we can weave solutions from all sides, doesn’t that strengthen the fabric of our lives? Doesn’t it draw us closer together? Doesn’t it fulfill what our Founders wished for us?