ALPHA & OMEGA

YOU KNOW HOW WHEN YOU’RE BORN, everything that happens is your FIRST? First smile, first word, first tooth, first step…

Malachi (as in it’s Me Against The Grand-Girls; that Malachi) just had his first haircut. It’s one of those FIRSTS that seems to cause a giant step in Growing Up. Like the first day of school, first sleepover, first dance, first kiss…

All of this is a part of what I understand to be a “coming-of-age”. Some say that coming-of-age means reaching a certain milestone like getting a driver’s license, graduating from high school, being able to vote, etc. Some say it defines the process of maturity, particularly emotional maturity.

When does it end? Is there a point where we can say, “I’ve come of age!” I don’t know. Some seem to remain eternally toddler-like, spoiled brats—you know the ones that people judge as needing to grow up. Some just seem to be blessed with a youthful curiosity, and sense of wonder.

Could it be that at some point our LASTS outnumber our FIRSTS? Is that a sign that we have come-of-age? Our last day of school, our last child to leave the nest, our last day on the job, our last time to drive a car… Stopping now. This could get morbid in a hurry. But, maybe not.

Several years ago, September 2013, to be exact, I started this blog called About Pops . It was a part of a process in my life that I came to call my “second-coming-of-age”, because I’ve discovered this life is loaded with opportunities for FIRSTS and do-overs.

My Amazing-Missus and I have taken adventures in our Airstream Travel Trailer I never thought we would have. Being a Pops is fraught with FIRSTS, because we get to celebrate all of those with each of our grands. I was able to reconnect with a friend from high school days, which may not sound like a big deal, but it was for me. Somehow I found myself becoming a part of a group of young artists in New York City and then around the world—a group called International Arts Movement. I even got to serve on their board which meant making numerous trips to NYC, and then helping cultivate seeds of that arts movement back here in OKC.

So, I’m seeking FIRSTS and finding new joy in the repetitive things of life: road trips to Shawnee and Alva, Seinfeld reruns, eating “Chinese” food with Mom & Dad, going to work. When I kiss my Amazing-Missus goodnight when I go to bed and she settles in to watch the ten o’clock news, I want to do it with the passion of my 20 year-old self. Well… maybe not that passionate (there was a good deal of lust in that passion). You get the idea.

Pretend your opening a fortune cookie and inside the little paper says, “Go do something you’ve done a thousand times and enjoy it like it was the FIRST.”

Because children have abounding vitality, because they are in spirit fierce and free, therefore they want things repeated and unchanged. They always say, ‘Do it again’; and the grown-up person does it again until he is nearly dead. For grown-up people are not strong enough to exult in monotony. But perhaps God is strong enough to exult in monotony. It is possible that God says every morning, ‘Do it again’ to the sun; and every evening, ‘Do it again’ to the moon. It may not be automatic necessity that makes all daisies alike; it may be that God makes every daisy separately, but has never got tired of making them. It may be that He has the eternal appetite of infancy; for we have sinned and grown old, and our Father is younger than we. – G.K. Chesterton, Orthodoxy

TRY AGAIN LATER

TRUST ME. The last thing I want to do is use my father and his service to this country to make a political point. This is NOT about that. This is about people, real live humans, good people who have given without asking anything in return.

Here’s the story: my dad served in the Army in World War II. His last assignment during the war was in Belgium. As a veteran he has received some assistance from the VA over the last few years: like medications and hearing aids.

There is a benefit for veterans who fought in foreign wars called the “Aid and Attendance” benefit. For years, Dad has checked many of the boxes to qualify: WW2 vet in the European theatre, and he is legally blind. He has not been able to qualify though because he and mom planned carefully for their retirement and paid premiums for years for long term health care insurance. Now at ages 94 and 91, Dad and Mom have outlived their insurance coverage, which means they should be able to qualify for the veterans benefit because of the reduced income.

Five months ago we started the application process which we were told could take six to eight weeks. We were told that the benefit would certainly start as early as Thanksgiving. It didn’t. (I guess, to be fair, they didn’t say which Thanksgiving.) We contacted Senator James Lankford’s office for help. They checked and said the application is pending—waiting on verification of his military service, which is odd since he has received VA benefits as I mentioned above. Also, we included copies of his discharge papers with the application.

Then my niece, my dad’s Grand-Girl, Ashley, discovered that there is a website where ostensibly you can create a log-in to monitor the progress of the application.

So she navigated the convulated path to entering the monitoring website. Now when we check to see if the application is moving forward we get this message:

Did I mention my dad is 94 years old?

Did I mention he is a veteran of World War II?

Did I mention I have never in my life heard
my dad even hint that he might be “entitled” to anything?

I don’t know for certain that the current government shut down is impacting the progress of my dad’s application, but government shut down or no, I can’t escape the feeling that our government is deeply damaged, that it is full of self-serving, arrogant bureaucrats, who are out of touch and out of control.

Is it hopeless? If we’re talking about my dad’s application for a benefit he qualifies for, deserves and (here I’ll say it) is entitled to, I sure hope not. If we’re talking about the bigger issue of governance in America—let me say this, I’m ready to let Trump have his damn wall to put an end to this latest chapter of disgusting nonsense.

Trying to stay positive here, one upside to “the wall” might be that once it is built we can all go there to bang our heads against the north face of it.

Understand; this is me talking, not my dad. I didn’t even ask his permission (which has gotten me in trouble more than once). My dad, and my mom, are of the Greatest Generation. They are beautiful people who trust in the Providence of God.

Me? You would think with parents like these I would have a better attitude. Maybe when I grow up.

Here is a picture of Dad a few years ago at the World War II memorial in Washington D.C. He is with my brother-in-law, Fred, a Vietnam era Marine who served three tours of duty in the Middle East; and his son Joe, currently in the U.S. Navy.

(You know, I can’t help but wonder if the current POTUS has even strolled through this memorial, or the Korean War Memorial, or the Vietnam Memorial and read the inscriptions there. Oh wait, I forgot about his pesky bone spurs.) (Sorry. I was raised better.)

In case you can’t read the words on the wall behind them, the inscription reads:

D-DAY JUNE 6, 1944

You are about to embark upon the
Great Crusade, toward which we have striven these
many months. The eyes of the world are upon you.
I have full confidence in your courage
and devotion to duty and skill in battle.

—General Dwight D. Eisenhower

Beware The Slough

DON’T GO NEAR THE SLOUGH! That was one of the stern warnings of my childhood. Why it was called “The Slough” I have no idea—maybe it was to make it sound more ominous.

I came of age (the first time) on a street named Quincy in south Tulsa, Oklahoma. Quincy stretched across the city from north to south and paralleled Peoria Street, but it dead-ended just about a quarter of a mile past our house near the banks of the Arkansas River. The Slough was somewhere at the end of the street. I don’t know for certain because as an obedient child, I didn’t go down there. Admittedly, it had more to do with fear than obedience—not unlike much of my religious journey, but that’s for another essay.

What is a slough exactly? The dictionary gives us this:

1.) a swamp
2.) an area of soft, wet land

To my young, wildly imaginative, ever-wondering & wandering, day-dreaming mind, a slough was a steaming, smelly, boiling bog filled with mutant creatures of the reptilian sort, like that Creature From The Black Lagoon.

There were a couple of houses at the far end of the street near the slough. I imagined that toothless men lived there with their sharp-toothed dogs and their snaggletoothed womenfolk. They probably brewed moonshine and their eyes had no pupils. The only thing they seemed to be able to read was the old testament in the King James version.

To this day, when I hear braggadocious talk and chants of swamp-draining, I picture The Slough, and the slough-dwellers, and while they would be all-in for the metaphorical swamp-draining, they wouldn’t want anyone messing with their actual swamp.

That dictionary that I mentioned a few sentences back also explains that a slough is:

3.) a situation characterized by lack of progress or activity.
4.) a mental state of deep sadness and no hope

As I live through my second coming-of-age, I have to admit I’m far more afraid of slough #4 than I ever was of The Slough At The End Of Quincy Street.

Tattoo Time

ALTHOUGH THE BIBLE SAYS, ”You shall not make any cuttings in your flesh for the dead, nor tattoo any marks on you,” I have thought about it.

The Bible also says that if you have a rebellious son, you can take him to the city gate and the elders will stone him to death. Thankfully my parents had grace and patience, or they couldn’t find any elders at the city gate.

My decision regarding tattoos is not a moral dilemma. It has more to do with pain avoidance and artistic scrutiny. I don’t like pain, and to this point I haven’t been able to come up with an image I want inked into my epidermis. UNTIL NOW!

Before we get to that, let’s talk about one initial idea that didn’t make the cut.

If I ask, “Who was the first female in the Bible?” you would say: _____ _____ _____

Yes, of course; EVE.

But wait, what about that woman in Genesis 1:27?

---

Gen. 1:26 God spoke: “Let us make human beings in our image, make them

reflecting our nature

So they can be responsible for the fish in the sea,

the birds in the air, the cattle,

And, yes, Earth itself,

and every animal that moves on the face of Earth.”

Gen. 1:27 God created human beings;

he created them godlike,

Reflecting God’s nature.

He created them male and female.

Gen. 1:28 God blessed them:

“Prosper! Reproduce! Fill Earth! Take charge!

Be responsible for fish in the sea and birds in the air,

for every living thing that moves on the face of Earth.”

---

Yea! That one! The one made from the same clay as Adam. Not Eve, who didn’t come along until later, in chapter two.

Early Hebrew mysticism called her Lilith. She shows up again in Isaiah (34:14), known as a “night-demon”.

Now that is the stuff of a great tattoo. I don’t know what a night-demon looks like, but I can imagine. Add an inscription, “Don’t Mess With Lilith!” and you have an awesome narrative. Of course, it makes no sense for me to have that tattoo and I’m guessing it would mean a lot of needle jabs (if that’s what the tattooist does). But, it would have been awesome for someone like Frasier Crane.

For my tattoo, I’m thinking of a utilitarian message. Something that can be useful and minimalist. The inspriation came one day when I was trying to read the expiration date on a jar of pickles and thought that’s what I need for a tattoo—a “Best By” date.

Why the summer of 69? Is that when I peaked? Have I grown stale, sour, even rancid since that time? That was the summer after I graduated from high school. I may not have been at my prime, but I felt like I was—world by the tail and all that.

But to feel like you’ve peaked at 18 is a bit moribund even for a guy like me that tends to create little private mental worlds. And it ignores the fact that life has been very sweet and full since that time.

So, maybe this arbitrary best-by date isn’t the summer after my 18th birthday in 1969 but rather the summer after my 69th; not that I’m expecting to quit or check out at that time, but just an acknowledgment that by around then I will probably retire from the working world and transition to the next chapter and then set a Not-Bad-For-An-Old-Dude date.

A SERIOUS PS: The scriptures I have quoted in this post are from a translation called The Message by Eugene Peterson who passed away today, October 22, 2018. Rest in peace Eugene. You will be missed.

Eugene Peterson