The Family Chain (More on Multi-Generational)

(sort of continued from the last post)

THINK OF IT THIS WAY:

Take a look at this picture and try to imagine it if any one of the links in those chains were missing. The experience would be impossible—the dreamlike wonder of that little girl, the suspension, the moment, the photo…

By the way, the little girl in that picture; that’s Karlee. Her dad took that picture. Her dad is my son.

We are all links in a familial, multi-generational chain. I realize that makes it all sound so social-sciencey, but FAMILY is sort of the mother of all multi-generational relationships.

Let’s start with the individual links, singly, on their own. Each of us has something to offer. Each has a genesis, a beginning. Each has a story and is a part of a story. Each has the capacity to be generative (or degenerative, unfortunately).

And while some have gifts and talents that may be more apparent than others, we all have something we can offer. We are all links and therefore essential. My gifts may be different from yours, but that doesn’t make mine or yours any better or more needed.

For several years I had the privilege of serving on the board of directors of the International Arts Movement in New York City. The founder, Mako Fujimura taught me so much about the concept of being “generative”. I think of Mako and those ideas frequently. That experience altered me—for the better. If you want to know what I’m talking about you can read a part of his essay on the subject here: On Becoming Generative: An Introduction to Culture Care.

What happens when a link in the multi-generational chain breaks, or goes missing. Whether through a death, alienation, separation or disappearance, it happens to every family. Maybe it’s like when we played Red Rover on the playground in grade school. Some force from the other side would come running toward our frail little human chain and slam against what they presumed was our weakest link. If they broke through, they would claim one of our members. We would simply close the gap, hold hands, reestablish the link, hopefully with a stronger tie this time. Who was this “Red Rover” anyway. And why did we keep imploring her/him to send someone over. Why not just keep our little chain intact? Maybe life just doesn’t work that way.

This summer my Mom and Dad will celebrate 70 years of marriage. Maybe I’ve taken that link for granted. In all of my 65 years I have never once wondered if their bond was weak, or in danger of breaking. Of course you don’t get to the ages of 91 and 88 without some outside threats to the links in the chain.

Last night I talked to a dear friend in Atlanta. His mom is struggling with health issues. I could hear in his voice the pain of realizing that at some point the chain breaks. Maybe as a friend, but still an outsider, we can still hold hands while the chain heals. Maybe sometimes the family chain extends beyond the strict biology. After all a link is a link even if we’re a weaker link.

WHY?!

I'VE BEEN THROUGH INTERROGATION BEFORE. It was seventh-grade. Unwittingly, I had been swept up in an organized crime ring. (That was my story then, and I’m sticking to it.)

We lived on the south edge of Tulsa, but in the Jenks school district. Jenks was then a thriving small town. Most of the stores along Main Street were open for business (before Wal Mart), except for the movie theatre which had long been shuttered.

One afternoon after school, I was invited to climb the fire escape on the back of the theatre building, to the roof where there was a hatch door into what was the projection booth. Word was, there was free soda pop there. What I didn’t know at the time was that the pop had been stolen off a Pepsi® delivery truck sitting at Parker’s Grocery at lunch time.

The fun lasted for several days until one day; boy by boy, summons were issued from the principal’s office, and the interrogation began: who, what, where, when, WHY. Claims of innocence fell on deaf ears. And Mr. Burchett’s paddle fell on my backside. Despite his prophecies, I have never served hard time.

Last week, (maybe in payment for past sins, ha) our two oldest Grand-Girls (six and three) came to visit while their parents took a well-deserved vacation. We had a great time, but by the time we watched the taillights of their mini-van disappear in the distance, I was feeling the weariness of interrogatives:

• Why can’t I have an ice cream sandwich for breakfast?
• When will it be my turn? Why?
• What are you doing? Why?
• Why can’t I have some of your special, old grape juice? (Just kidding)
• Why can’t we swim when it’s lightening?
• What’s a crispy critter?
• Once, I rolled out the old tried and true: “Because I said so. That’s why?” To which the six-year-old replied, “Oh Pops, you’re silly.”

My last resort answer to the unanswerable “Why” was: “Maybe someday you’ll understand.”

[graphic by Molly Hennesy]

Saturday, we attended a memorial service for little twin boys, the children of some very, very special people. This memorial service was on what would have been the one-year birthday of their brother, had he lived. I am not making this up. Even as I type this, it doesn’t seem right in any sense of that word. This amazing young couple I’m sure, has been haunted by the question that they undoubtedly hear regularly from their beautiful three-year-old daughter, “Why?!”

I know they are people of deep faith, but I don’t presume to know what they are going through. There is no way I can begin to understand.

I do know this: for me, sometimes, faith doesn’t answer the Why question. It just says, “Maybe someday you’ll understand.”

God. I hope so.

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Here are the lyrics to one of my favorite songs. It’s by a band called, Jars Of Clay. I encourage you to give it a listen.

SILENCE

Take, take ’til there’s nothing
Nothing to turn to
Nothing when you get through

Won’t you break?
Scatter pieces of all I’ve been
Bowing to all I’ve been running to
Where are you?

Where are you?

Did you leave me unbreakable?
Did you leave me frozen?
I’ve never felt so cold

I thought you were silent
And I thought you left me
For the wreckage and the waste
On an empty beach of faith, was it true?

Yes I, I got a question
I got a question, where are you?

Scream, deeper I wanna scream
I want you to hear me
I want you to find me

Yes I, I want to believe
But all I pray is wrong
And all I claim is gone

And I, I got a question
I got a question, where are you?

And well I, I got a question
I got a question, where are you?

Where are you?

Morphing, Again

You know how sometimes you sort of come to the realization that somehow you’ve changed; somehow. It just sort of happens gradually, sneaking up on you, like getting older, gradually, maybe you don’t even know its happening.

Then there are those times that something happens and you are changed more suddenly, like when you’re first married, or your first child is born, or you have your chest sawed open to fix an issue or two.

Last week we went on a roadtrip through the south: Arkansas, Tennessee, Mississippi, Alabama, and Georgia. On our trip we toured the Civil Rights Institue and museum in Birmingham. We visited the Carter Center in Atlanta, a museum and the presidential library of President Jimmy Carter. Then we toured the National Infantry Museum at Fort Benning, Georgia, with our son/soldier.

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“When I consider the small space I occupy, which I see swallowed up in the infinite immensity of spaces of which I know nothing and which know nothing of me, I take fright and am amazed to see myself here rather than there: there is no reason for me to be here rather than there, now rather than then. Who put me here?”  —Pascal, Pensees, 68

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Each of these museums marked seminal moments of my coming of age. With roots in the south and being from Tulsa, Oklahoma, I grew up seeing the ugliness of racism. One of my first jobs was driving a school bus for the Tulsa Public Schools during the integration of schools. My route included picking up black children in north Tulsa before daybreak and driving them miles and miles south to the “white” schools. I hated the unfairness of it but had no better solution to offer.

I really believe Jimmy Carter meant well. I believe he had integrity and compassion. You can still see it in the way he lives his life to this day. I applaud his fairly recent commentary condemning the narrow, blind, dogmatic view of women in much of the Southern Baptist Convention.

The Infantry Museum was sublime. It was breathtaking—not necessarily in the sense of seeing something awe-inspiring, like Multnomah Falls or the Grand Canyon; more like breath-taking when you have the air knocked out of you. The message is overwhelming: the cost of war in terms of young lives is too high. The price of freedom is incomprehensible.

We saw pictures and artifacts from all the wars like World War II in which my father served; the war of my generation, the Vietnam War, a war in which my only involvement was to protest it. And now standing with my son in his army uniform, trained and willing to serve in whatever hellish movement is bubbling up now.

I am so proud of him and so grateful for his service and the service of those who have gone before and those who will take the oath next. I am also afraid.

I wish you could have been with us when he and those of his company said the Soldier’s Creed in unison at the tops of their voices:

I am an American Soldier.
I am a Warrior and a member of a team.
I serve the people of the United States and live the Army Values.
I WILL ALWAYS PLACE THE MISSION FIRST.
I WILL NEVER ACCEPT DEFEAT.
I WILL NEVER QUIT.
I WILL NEVER LEAVE A FALLEN COMRADE.
I am disciplined, physically and mentally tough, trained and proficient in my warrior tasks and drills.
I always maintain my arms, my equipment, and myself.
I am an expert and I am a professional.
I stand ready to deploy, engage, and destroy the enemies of the United States of America in close combat.
I am a guardian of freedom and the American way of life.
I am an American Soldier.

All of this has changed me somehow. This Memorial Day is different than any I’ve lived before. It is more than a day off work and an excuse to throw some burgers on the grill.

Maybe I’m still “coming of age.” Maybe there’s hope for me yet.

After The Dance

SO, WE WENT TO OUR FIRST DANCE RECITAL. Unfamiliar with the protocol, we arrived very early as we had been advised. Soon the parking lot begin to fill with vehicles carrying little dancers, each with their entourage, some carrying costumes and bags, some running along behind their little Shirley Temples, spraying hair spray, glitter and something that gave the little girls a sort of orange tint. There were bored-looking brothers, dads with iPhones, grandparents with Kodaks, and others bearing enough flowers to make every florist in town profitable even before Mother’s Day.

Soon our tiny dancer arrived. My first thought: “How could this be? How could she be growing up so fast? We’ll turn around soon and she’ll be on the arm of some creepy boy on her way to the prom.”

As we walked into the performing arts center, I was surprised to find plenty of seats available. But quickly we discovered that evey seat in the joint was SAVED. And their saved status was guarded by some aunt or someone, with bedazzled jeans, at least one visible tattoo or two, and a too-tight t-shirt that said, “Don’t Mess With The B!” So I didn’t.

Soon the house lights dimmed. The first group was herded on stage to “Wild Thing” by The Troggs, a song I used to play as the drummer in a little rock band at teen dances back in the 60s. I will admit they were too cute not to be entertaining, althought they apparently abandoned every move they had been taught, opting for an improvisational style.

It will come as no surprise when I tell you that once my Grand-Girl’s group FINALLY tapped onto the stage, the lights got a little brighter, a hush fell over the crowd, and she danced and danced and danced. And if I had had once of those bouquets, I would have thrown it onto the stage, although apparently you only do that at figure skating recitals.

If you know me well, you know I pretty much have a C.S. Lewis quote for every occasion. This one is no different.

“As long as you notice and have to count the steps, you are not yet dancing, but only learning to dance.” —C.S. Lewis

At first each little dancer was aware of the crowd, and some were frozen, as in standing stone-still, not "Frozen" like that movie that all of these little princesses are so obsessed with.
Some were carefully watching their teachers who were doing the moves to the dance just offstage in the wings.

But there were times when most of them, almost losing themselves in the moment and confident of their learned lessons, just danced.

Not that I have to make a moral of this story, but isn’t life fun when we just quit counting the steps and dance? Saturday I did a lot of dancing. Not the kind that anyone could see. But I did the inner dance of a very, very proud Pops.

Thank you Karlee, for teaching your old Pops to dance.