WORD

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IF THERE ARE WORDS for this I'm not sure I can find them. Words are powerful. Words are peaceful. Words are honest and dishonest. They shape lies and truth. They heal and hurt. Whoever said, "Sticks and stones... but words can never hurt me," is full of [insert a couple of words here, or is it a compound word?]

How is it that for certain people, to be able to say: "what's-on-his-mind", it’s like a virtue or a license. "He just tells it like it is," seems to require that we let him off the hook for any affect the words might have.

Sometimes words can fall on deaf ears or they can be put into someone elses mouth. They can be misheard, unheard, misspoken, miscontrued or misunderstood.

Ever have to eat your words? On at least one occasion I had my mouth washed out with Lava brand soap by my grandmother for using a word that I'm pretty sure I had heard her use.

It's Christmastime. Time to remember Jesus was called The Word, that he existed in the beginning and that "the Word became human and made his home among us. He was full of unfailing love and faithfulness. And we have seen his glory, the glory of the Father’s one and only Son." John 1:14

That event actually happened. In flesh, bone and blood. It happened in a part of the world that is now strewn with flesh, bone and blood, in Gaza; less than 50 miles--away in a manger--where according to the song, the babe lay his sweet head.

When I think of the Nativity, the words of that heavy, heavy question in Lamentations comes to mind: “Does it mean nothing to you, all you who pass by?"

This is where it gets tricky for me. I am not one of those with a license to tell it like I see it. When I try, it seems I hurt feelings, alienate and infuriate. So I write these words cautiously and with trepidation. I should know how to do this. Back in school, I took and passed with flying colors a class called "Rhetoric".

rhetoric
noun
--speech or writing intended to be effective and influence people
--the study of the ways of using language effectively

This week, I went to the doctor for my annual check-up. I'm on Medicare now so the process is a little different. I had to complete a questionnaire. One section read something like: Do you ever feel sad, afraid, angry, etc.?

I started to impulsively check YES, but I was afraid my doctor might suggest a new pill, or support group. The tip of my pin drifted toward the NO square like a pointer pulling fingers across a Ouija board, but I couldn't mark NO. So, I checked YES and quickly prepared a sane and sensible explanation, words to ensure my doc and old friend that I had it all under control.

The fact is I do feel all of those things--not all the time, and I also feel happy, hopeful, courageous, and other good things. Maybe it has something to do with my age and emotional state, but I'm blaming most of the sad/afraid/angry stuff on the current state of things. I am so sick of cutural meanness, of dehumanizing speech, of the-end-justifies-the-means politics and religion. I'm depressed from the hostile takeover of christianity by far right fundamentalists. Their message of saving the soul of America while waving a banner stitched of their own power-greedy arrogance is demoralizing to me. They march lockstep behind people who demand loyalty to their ungodly authoritarianism. They claim to be doing all of this in answer to a call to follow the WORD-become-flesh, the one of whom the Apostle Paul wrote:

Is there any encouragement from belonging to Christ? Any comfort from his love? Any fellowship together in the Spirit? Are your hearts tender and compassionate? Then make me truly happy by agreeing wholeheartedly with each other, loving one another, and working together with one mind and purpose.

Don’t be selfish; don’t try to impress others. Be humble, thinking of others as better than yourselves. Don’t look out only for your own interests, but take an interest in others, too.

You must have the same attitude that Christ Jesus had.

Though he was God,
he did not think of equality with God
as something to cling to.
Instead, he gave up his divine privileges;
he took the humble position of a slave
and was born as a human being.

Maybe this year makes next year seem particularly fraught and fragile. It seems like fascists are strikingly stirred up. Ukraine, the Middle East, the environment, political hard-lining here at home, the border, the sensitive and growing situation of homeless camped along Main street of the town where we live.

Maybe it's actually just another year. Maybe there's been worse. Surely there's been better. I remember well Christmastime 1971. My mom's heart was breaking from the weight of it. The war in Vietnam was dragging on and on. Student deferments from the military draft had ended and I had my draft lottery number. One day I got home and was met by my mom with a letter addressed to me from the Selective Service System. She was literally shaking. I opened it to find that my number, 116, from the 1970 lottery had come up. I was to meet a bus in downtown Tulsa just before Christmas to travel to OKC to take a physical for conscription.

It was a horrible Christmas for her, but 1972 brought better days. The war waned and I didn't have to go after all. In June 1972, I married my Amazing-Missus, whom Mom dearly loved. What a difference a day or a few make.

It's Christmas Eve, 2023. I am leaning on promises. The same promises born with that little baby so long ago. Promises for peace, for justice, for deliverance. To borrow a few words from John Lennon:

“You may say I'm a dreamer
But I'm not the only one.”

Merry Christmas.


GRAND GIFTS

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MAYBE YOU’RE HEARD the prescription for gift-giving:

Something they want
Something they need
Something to wear
Something to read

One of our Grand-Girls found a present, wrapped, with a tag bearing her name under our pitiful little tree. (So pitiful in fact that one of our Grand-Guys asked why we didn't have a Christmas tree. "We do." I said, "That's it right there." He looked at it, then looked at me and smiled as if I might be joking.) Anyway, the aforementioned Grand-Girl asked me if I wrapped it. No. Mimi does all the wrapping. I do the shopping.

"Do you know what it is?" she asked. I told her I did know because I'm the one who chose it. "Will I like it?"

I started to explain to her that is not one of the criteria of gift-giving. I googled and googled and couldn't fine any version of the list that said: "Something they like." That's too fleeting and subjective. I'm their Pops, not a mindreader.

I simply said, "I hope so. If you don't, there's probably a little girl somewhere who would love to have it."

She laughed and said, "That's kinda mean." What do you expect from a 70-something old man trying to guess what an 9-year old would want? [BTW: I went with something from Barbie world. I figure I can't go too wrong, right?] I hope each of the Grands will say, "This is just what I wanted!"

Next up: SOMETHING THEY NEED. We'll be taking the whole crew to my favorite Thai food place. Obviously everyone NEEDS food. They may not see it as much of a gift, but it is. The food there is wonderful, every single time. The people who own and run the business take such pride in the whole experience. We each NEED a memorable meal around a warm table.

SOMETHING TO WEAR. Check.

Each kid gets pajamas that match (whether they want to or not). And this year, there's an extra item in the category. Something everyone should have. Maybe I'll share a picture in a future post.

SOMETHING TO READ.

Traditionally this one has been my favorite. But there are no books under the tree this year. Not because I don't want them to read and read and read, but because I can't remember what books I've given them in the past. I'm pretty sure each of our kid's houses have a copy of the books I most want our kids to read and love. That list includes (in no certain order):

GOOD NIGHT MOON
THE CAT IN THE HAT
GOOD NIGHT, GORILLA
MAKE WAY FOR DUCKLINGS
CORDUROY
THE MONSTER AT THE END OF THIS BOOK
MADELINE
STUART LITTLE
THE VELVETEEN RABBIT
WHERE THE SIDEWALK ENDS
THE GIVING TREE
CHARLOTTE'S WEB
THE LION, THE WITCH, AND THE WARDROBE
HARRY POTTER AND THE SORCERER'S STONE
A WRINKLE IN TIME
THE OUTSIDERS
TO KILL A MOCKINGBIRD

Maybe it's time for them to choose a book themselves. One that intrigues them, something other than what's on Pops' list of classics. Sounds like we need to make a trip to the bookstore--something that should be on our list every year.

LUSTING FOR RELEVANCE

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"I've still got a lot of tread on the tires.": a line I heard while sort of half listening to an interview with a 31 year old NFL running back in response to a question about how much longer he would play.

There's an ad running now selling something; it features Dan Marino (former Miami Dolphins QB), Emmitt Smith (former Dallas Cowboys RB) and a few others of that ilk. They are watching a game and imagining the possiblity of playing again.

I don't know that I could ever say about anything in my life that "I've got game." I played some decent drums back in the day but I'm not ready to get-the-band-back-together and play the casino circuit. While the temptation or the call to return to some youthful pursuit stirs not in my soul, I still feel like there's a little tread left on the tires.

Vanna has signed up for at least two more years of letter-flipping even though Pat will be making his final spin soon. Maybe the last puzzle will be from the category "Rhetorical Questions", and the puzzle: W_Y, V_NN_, W_Y?

She might as well keep spinning though. At 66, she's a youngster compared to her viewing audience and many of our politicians.

Speaking of, did you see that Mitt Romney is checking it in (for now)? I hate to see this. Mitt is one of the more sane and ethical R's on The Hill (in my highly partisan mind).

One of my favorite writers/observers, David Brooks, wrote:

"I admire him for deciding to step down at the senatorially young age of 76. As we’ve all come to see, the hunger for continued relevance is the corroding lust that devours the very old. Romney stands for the valuable idea that there are things more important in life than politics and winning elections."

WAIT! What did David say there?! "...the hunger for continued relevance is the corroding lust that devours the very old."

To quote the aging but still highly relevant Steve Martin, "Well, exccccuuussseee me!"

What would he have us do? Strive for irrelevance? Maybe what he's saying is that we, of a higher age, should just accept and maybe even embrace our blossoming irrelevance.

I think this is accurate: if you symbolically drive me across wet sand maybe you'll see subtle marking left behind by some remnant of remaining tread. When my oldest GrandGirl thanks me for being in the stands on a Friday night for the sole purpose of seeing her do her Pom Squad thing, I feel relevant. When I'm called on to be a part of an interview by a GrandGirl doing a report on 9-11, when I'm invited to "play" Barbie or Chutes and Ladders, when my youngest Grand hands me the other X-Box controller, inviting me to play some Star Wars game, and all I can do is make my guy jump up and down, somehow I still feel relevant just sitting between him and his big brother.

jeremiah, our youngest grand. photo by his uncle corey.

I get David Brooks’ point. I thought about it as I started composing this blog post. Why am I still doing this blog thing? The hunger for relevance? When I kicked it off ten years ago that was part of it. But for now, it's just fun and it gives me something to do. I like putting words together, shaping thoughts, especially since there is no teacher with a red pencil marking my poor punctuation choices. Circling the participles I may have left dangling, I know they meant well. When I write I pay more attention to life and I think a little deeper. And, who knows, maybe something I write might inspire or humor or disturb; granting a momentary relevance.

That's enough for now.

AFTER

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"WHO CAME UP WITH THE NAME TORNADO?" my 8-year old grandgirl asked me. We were driving through our tornado-devastated town in a zig-zag route to avoid still-downed power lines, uprooted trees and twisted chunks of sheet metal.

I'm glad her question was not: "Could God have stopped the tornado?"

Late Wednesday, April 19, 2023, my Amazing-Missus and I were sitting on the bathroom floor, the most interior room of our house, as instructed; under a mattress, watching the weather reports on a mobile phone. Our power was already out. The tornado seemed to have placed a bullseye on the campus of Oklahoma Baptist University with its dorms and apartment buildings full of students. They were all moved to the basement auditorium of the enourmous old chapel building which lost part of it's bell tower and a portion of its roof. All were safe!

Our oldest son who teaches at the university told me the announcement had been made that classes will have to switch to remote learning because of the damage to so many of the buildings across the campus. He said, "These poor seniors spent most of their freshman year in remote learning because of Covid. Now they're returning there because of the tornado." At least all are safe!

"What causes tornadoes?" was the next question from our inquisitive GrandGirl. I could have gone several directions with an answer: like something geo-political and talked about climate change, or veered off into the religious lunatic fringe and speculated it was judgement for some or the other sin. I chose to act like I knew meterological science and threw around terms like mezzo-cyclone, lowerings, convergence of warm moist air with cold. I don't know if she was buying it, but at least we moved on to a different topic. Maybe I should have just said, "It's Oklahoma, Cutiepie. It's what we do."

Here's a story from 1964, archived by the New York Times from the UPI wire service:

SHAWNEE, Okla., Jan. 14 (UPI)—A former mental patient dived a rented plane into an Oklahoma Baptist University classroom building containing 300 students today. He died instantly, but no one else was hurt. He apparently had intended to crash into an evacuated building.

The police tried to shoot the plane down, but failed. They fired seven rifle shots at it as it buzzed the airport adjacent to the campus. It was not known whether any of the shots hit the plane.

The pilot was Robert Lawson 43 years old, of Inola, Okla., a former student here.

The plane rammed into one of the few vacant classrooms in Shawnee Hall, a three‐story red brick building. A class had taken a test there two hours earlier. A French class of about 40 students was in a room just 30 feet from the impact.

It appeared that Mr. Lawson did not mean to hurt anyone. He got mixed up and hit the wrong building. The university had evacuated the Administration Building on his command.

Witnesses said that Mr. Lawson had buzzed the campus for 35 minutes before he rammed his plane into the south side of the building.

Shawnee Hall sits at the top of the Oval in the heart of the OBU like the keystone of the original campus. If you'll forgive my anthropomorphism, the old girl recovered from a direct hit by a nutjob in an airplane to her beautiful face, survived and has stood as the standard of dignity and grace since. That is until last Wednesday night, when the tornado hit.

Here are a couple of photos: the first is one I took on one of my early morning walks around the campus. The next, I borrowed from the OBU Facebook page. Last night, we drove around the Oval for the first time since the storm. So much destruction across the campus, but seeing Shawnee Hall was a gut punch. I'm pulling for her to rise again.

Certainly, Shawnee Hall isn't a single point of devastation. The tornado didn't discriminate. I'm just using her as sort of a marker, a finish line. Things will be cleaned up, what can be rebuilt will be, students will return to class, the beauty of springtime on a college campus will emerge. For me, once Shawnee Hall has a new roof, new windows, and a new start, I'll feel like we're back and ready for what's next.

In our faith tradition we speak of "rededication". It's works kind of like this: say, you're sitting in the bathroom floor with a mattress over you and a storm bearing down. You think: maybe I should quit fooling myself--Braum's frozen yogurt is NOT health food. From now on, I'll strive to be healthier, kinder and gentler...

Here's something I've learned about rededication: it must be preceeded by restoration; whether we talking about lives, life or landmarks like the old Hall. Once restored we can rededicate to place and purpose. And, when we seek to restore we understand that we're back to the essential ingredientes of dignity and grace.

Here's another picture for you. It's of that young GrandGirl of mine, the one that is full of questions. This is her, last autumn, doing a dance on the east steps of--you guessed it--Shawnee Hall.

I can imagine that once the campus is rebuilt and the old Hall is restored that maybe there could be a rededication as students return for the Fall semester of 2023 and a new class of freshman start their journey.

Once the restoration is complete, I may, while on campus for my early morning walk, run to the top of her stairs like Sylvester Stallone in "Rocky", and do a litte dance of my own.

As I'm typing these last lines, listening to a mix from Apple Music, Cat Stevens is singing:

Morning has broken like the first morning
Blackbird has spoken like the first bird
Praise for the singing, praise for the morning
Praise for them springing fresh from the Word

Sweet the rain's new fall, sunlit from Heaven
Like the first dew fall on the first grass
Praise for the sweetness of the wet garden
Sprung in completeness where His feet pass

Mine is the sunlight, mine is the morning
Born of the One Light Eden saw play
Praise with elation, praise every morning
God's recreation of the new day