When I moved in with Uncle Ranny, Aunt Kathy and Mary, I began a season of stability in my life I hadn't experienced since elementary school. I completed my high school career at Stonewall Jackson High School. My weeks were punctuated by midweek youth group experiences that served as an oasis of relief between Sundays. Although I knew little of what it meant to be a Christian, I found a sense of peace and joy being in the presence of God and His people. That isn't to say there weren't times I felt totally out of place. People would often refer to "familiar" bible stories in conversation and I would have no idea what they were talking about. I had no idea what David had to do with Goliath, why Jonah was in a fish, or why God was interested in talking donkeys. But I played along and learned as I went.
I'd love to say I was Mr. Popularity in my new school environment. But as a late-blooming 14 year old in the 10th grade, that would be far from the truth. I didn't have any great attractiveness or talents that drew others to me, and I was not very socially adept. My emotional maturity had stalled somewhere around eleven or twelve years old, and I am grateful that some people were kind to me despite my selfishness. I don't remember much about finishing my sophomore year. But that summer was another summer that brought significant life change. That was the summer when I experienced one of the greatest joys on earth for the first time -- Christian camp.
Tri-State Christian Camp sits nestled in the northwestern corner of Virginia. God used this setting to call me from merely accepting Christ as Savior to accepting him as Lord. David Lucas & the Watchman quartet were there for the week. God spoke a message through David in which he explained that God has called us to be Salt, Servants, and Sacrifice. Something about the message at vespers that Wednesday night left me thunderstruck. I spent the evening talking with God while the other students were continuing with evening activities. That night at campfire when the invitation was offered, I offered myself to serve the Lord full-time in ministry. One other person came forward that night, but I don't recall their decision. I'm grateful I didn't wait until the following night when 44 students responded. Had I responded then, I would question whether my judgement was influenced by the decisions of others.
Now that I'd made this life-changing decision, I needed to figure out what it meant. When I returned home, I remember being depressed and lonely. I had gone from being around dozens of Christian peers to being by myself at home on Lake Jackson. I spent most of the rest of the summer fishing, and grew to be fairly decent at it, though I was never quite as good as my best friend Scott or Uncle Ranny, who had become Dad. Scott and Mark and I were the three amigos. We were about the same age, part of the same youth group, and we all enjoyed fishing and one another's company. My friendship with Scott endures from a distance to today, but we were grieved to learn of Mark's suicide a number of years ago.
The longer I lived with Uncle Ranny and Aunt Kathy, the more clear it was to me that they were the parents I'd never had two of before. I was never sure before what it would feel like to have a Mom & Dad, and I finally felt I was getting to experience it. They got legal custody of me, and began pursuing adoption. It may seem odd to think of adopting a junior in High School, but it meant a lot to me that they actually wanted to be my parents, since it seemed so many others had bailed on the task. My biological mother was understandably reluctant to give me away a second time, so the adoption process took a long time. In fact, it wasn't until I graduated from high school that I found out I was legally adopted for a second time. In all, I was adopted three times: the first time by the Stetten family, the second time by Christ, and now the third time by the Isenberg's. One thing that made this seem particularly fitting was knowing that when I was born, they had offered to take me in then. But at the time both Ranny and Kathy were young (21 & 23), struggling, and they already had two kids. My life had come full circle and I was back home where I might have started.
My junior year memories include pleasant memories of riding with Mary each day to school. We would stop at 7-11 to pick up snacks or play Ms. Pac Man. Although I think it was difficult for her to suddenly have a younger brother, for the most part she handled it well. We are nine months apart in age, but were in the same grade together. Thankfully, our classes were mostly different and our social circles overlapped very little. This likely helped her life feel a bit less cramped by my presence. As time went on, the relationship between Mom and Dad became more tense. There was trouble in my new paradise. It still seemed more stable that most of my life experiences, but it shook my sense of stability
The summer between junior & senior year I returned to camp where Jay Banks led the group Son's Up. They produced music that seemed much more fun and alive than the typical hymns I was accustomed to at Antioch Church of Christ where I attended on a weekly basis. Since they were based out of Roanoke Bible College, they played a huge role in my decision to go to college there the following fall. I wanted to get an education from a place where they were able to combine knowing more about Jesus with humor, music, and relevance. I never dreamed at the time that one day I would be part of Son's Up myself.
My senior year I spent very little time in school. I only went for the first four periods, and by noon I was out. I grabbed a quick lunch each day and walked to Manassas Mall where I worked from 12:30 - 9:30 five days a week with an hour long break for dinner. I worked at the Thom McAn shoe store after a short stint with a consumer polling organization called Consumer Pulse. Working 40 hours a week helped me become more responsible and gave me a nice weekly income. But looking back now, I regret that I completely squandered my senior year. I really look back now on that year of my life, and all I remember for the most part is working. The only exception I can think of is the afternoon Kathy and Mary and I walked in the house and realized that we had been robbed. While we stood in the kitchen assessing the damage, we heard the robbers downstairs still in our basement! In shock and horror, we raced out of the house and down the road. But other than that, my senior year is just a blur.
I was 16 years old when I graduated from Stonewall. I'm grateful for Mr. Miller's U.S. history class that helped me fall in love with history. I'm grateful for Mr. Button, my Christian physics teacher. And I'm thankful for Mrs. Blauvelt, who helped me learn that while you may be able to get by in life without doing your best, that you'll never be satisfied with your own medicrity when you know you could and should have done better. By the time I graduated, I wasn't very solid personally, but at least I had some positive experiences that had helped me grow in that direction.
Monday, November 8, 2010
Thursday, October 14, 2010
What About the Change?
A few days later, I was heading back east to the relative familiarity of the Carlin Springs area of Arlington, VA. My biological mother had returned with Panayiotis and Carrie from Greece. I wish I could say my life became suddenly and dramatically different because of my conversion experience. Perhaps there was a difference in my conduct that was obvious to others. I immediately quit smoking -- anything. I tried to be what I thought was "nice," but it was just as likely I had become judgmental. That's the thing about believing in God and heaven. If you're really serious about it, you've just implicitly condemned the majority of the human race. Of course you realize it isn't actually you doing the condemning, but deep down you have to believe every human being on earth is going to spend forever in either heaven or hell. Life has become an "all or nothing" proposition. If life was a poker game, becoming a Christian is like going "all in."
I traded in my smoking habit for chewing tobacco. This was a habit I picked up while visiting with my Uncle Ranny in Manassas. He was my biological father's brother, and since he only lived 45 minutes west down I-66, I visited him a couple times before school started. He chewed Red Man, fished, and lived in a house on a lake. He was also married and had two kids. He was the sort of father figure I thought made a good role model. Besides, chewing seemed a less obnoxious way to satisfy my oral fixation. My first time chewing was while Uncle Ranny and I were fishing on Lake Jackson. Having heard stories, I feared getting nauseous. But I actually found I enjoyed it. Dad used to say that spitting on the lure would take the human smell off the lure and help you catch fish. Looking back, it was probably nonsense, but we did it anyway.
In the fall, I began school at Hoffman-Boston. The school was designed for gifted students and allowed them much greater freedom than the typical school environment. We only went to classes a few days of the week, and had free time when we weren't in class. We referred to our teachers by their first names, and played poker in the cafeteria. The school also had a computer, which quickly became a source of fascination for many students. To grasp the impact of having a computer at the school, you have to remember that it is the fall of 1980. The personal computer barely even existed, and very few schools had computers available for student access. Several of us made it a personal project to begin learning how to program in BASIC.
Life began to assume some sense of normalcy and rhythm. I had a paper route again, this time in the Carlin Springs area, which was very convenient. And I started going to church on a regular basis. It was made clear to me in no uncertain terms that I would have to walk to church. So I began making the weekly trek to the only church I knew of within walking distance -- St. Andrews Episcopal Church. The preacher went by the title "Father," which seemed rather pretentious to me. But he was a very kind man who seemed to take a liking to me quickly. It wasn't long before I became an acolyte, and eventually the head acolyte. Basically, this meant I got to carry one of the flags up the aisle at the beginning of the service, sit up front and mix the Eucharist (communion).
In the Episcopal church, communion is usually referred to as "The Eucharist" and consists of melt-in-your mouth wafers and a mix of water and wine. It didn't take long before I realized that no matter how much communion I prepared, the priest had to consume whatever was left after everyone else drank. I found that if I made it mostly wine and nearly filled the cup with it, that his homily (sermon) was more entertaining and light-hearted.
However, at my core I was (and still am, to some degree) very self-centered and self-motivated. This led to me feeling that my mother was controlling when she wanted to set boundaries for me. The key moment happened one afternoon when she informed me when I got home after school that if I expected to eat dinner at home tonight, I'd better be there by 6:30 (I think that was the time). I went and delivered the newspapers on my route, and when a friend of mine offered for me to have dinner with he and his family, I took him up on it. When I got back home at about 9:00, my mother was quite angry that I was so late. She asked me, "didn't I tell you to be home by 6:30?" I pointed out that no, she hadn't really. She had merely said that if I expected to eat dinner there, that's when I needed to be home. At the time it seemed like a perfectly reasonable interpretation of her words to me.
She told me that if I didn't start behaving, she was going to send me off to live with my Uncle in Manassas.In anger, she sent me to my room. There, I seized the opportunity to call my Uncle Ranny. The idea of living with him seemed like a pretty good deal to me. Especially since 1) there was a church there that was similar to the one where I had been baptized; and 2) there were a couple cute girls in the Youth Group there. Uncle Ranny told me I was always welcome at his home, but that he didn't feel it was his place to get involved in this dispute. But the experience planted an idea in my mind that later took root.
The next time I went to Manassas to visit my Uncle Ranny and Aunt Kathy was Valentine's Day weekend in 1981. I was a sophomore in high school, and it was a three day weekend. Part of the festivities of the weekend included a "Christian Skate Night." Both of the two young ladies I was particularly fond of from the Antioch Church of Christ youth group were present, and I remember having a great time. When Monday rolled around, Virginia and Panayiotis came to pick me up at the house Dad lived at on Lake Jackson near Manassas. Without informing anyone of my intent, I announced that I wanted to stay with them rather than return to Arlington. What followed was an argument that lasted about six hours. At one point my mother tried to physically remove me from the house, but neither Uncle Ranny (who would be happy if I stayed), or Panayiotis (who would have preferred I stayed there also) were willing to help her. So eventually she got back in the car and drove back to Arlington without me.
That day I became part of a new family. I stayed in the bedroom that used to belong to my older cousin Theresa. She had recently gotten married and moved out. My other cousin Mary had the adjacent bedroom. As quickly as possible, I was transferred to Stonewall Jackson High School, where Mary attended. We were in the same grade, and so orientation to the routine was fairly easy. Behind the scenes, Uncle Ranny and Aunt Kathy and Theresa and Mary began to discuss with one another whether I would be allowed to stay and become a permanent member of the family. All I knew was that for the first time since I was twelve years old, I felt like I was home.
I traded in my smoking habit for chewing tobacco. This was a habit I picked up while visiting with my Uncle Ranny in Manassas. He was my biological father's brother, and since he only lived 45 minutes west down I-66, I visited him a couple times before school started. He chewed Red Man, fished, and lived in a house on a lake. He was also married and had two kids. He was the sort of father figure I thought made a good role model. Besides, chewing seemed a less obnoxious way to satisfy my oral fixation. My first time chewing was while Uncle Ranny and I were fishing on Lake Jackson. Having heard stories, I feared getting nauseous. But I actually found I enjoyed it. Dad used to say that spitting on the lure would take the human smell off the lure and help you catch fish. Looking back, it was probably nonsense, but we did it anyway.
In the fall, I began school at Hoffman-Boston. The school was designed for gifted students and allowed them much greater freedom than the typical school environment. We only went to classes a few days of the week, and had free time when we weren't in class. We referred to our teachers by their first names, and played poker in the cafeteria. The school also had a computer, which quickly became a source of fascination for many students. To grasp the impact of having a computer at the school, you have to remember that it is the fall of 1980. The personal computer barely even existed, and very few schools had computers available for student access. Several of us made it a personal project to begin learning how to program in BASIC.
Life began to assume some sense of normalcy and rhythm. I had a paper route again, this time in the Carlin Springs area, which was very convenient. And I started going to church on a regular basis. It was made clear to me in no uncertain terms that I would have to walk to church. So I began making the weekly trek to the only church I knew of within walking distance -- St. Andrews Episcopal Church. The preacher went by the title "Father," which seemed rather pretentious to me. But he was a very kind man who seemed to take a liking to me quickly. It wasn't long before I became an acolyte, and eventually the head acolyte. Basically, this meant I got to carry one of the flags up the aisle at the beginning of the service, sit up front and mix the Eucharist (communion).
In the Episcopal church, communion is usually referred to as "The Eucharist" and consists of melt-in-your mouth wafers and a mix of water and wine. It didn't take long before I realized that no matter how much communion I prepared, the priest had to consume whatever was left after everyone else drank. I found that if I made it mostly wine and nearly filled the cup with it, that his homily (sermon) was more entertaining and light-hearted.
However, at my core I was (and still am, to some degree) very self-centered and self-motivated. This led to me feeling that my mother was controlling when she wanted to set boundaries for me. The key moment happened one afternoon when she informed me when I got home after school that if I expected to eat dinner at home tonight, I'd better be there by 6:30 (I think that was the time). I went and delivered the newspapers on my route, and when a friend of mine offered for me to have dinner with he and his family, I took him up on it. When I got back home at about 9:00, my mother was quite angry that I was so late. She asked me, "didn't I tell you to be home by 6:30?" I pointed out that no, she hadn't really. She had merely said that if I expected to eat dinner there, that's when I needed to be home. At the time it seemed like a perfectly reasonable interpretation of her words to me.
She told me that if I didn't start behaving, she was going to send me off to live with my Uncle in Manassas.In anger, she sent me to my room. There, I seized the opportunity to call my Uncle Ranny. The idea of living with him seemed like a pretty good deal to me. Especially since 1) there was a church there that was similar to the one where I had been baptized; and 2) there were a couple cute girls in the Youth Group there. Uncle Ranny told me I was always welcome at his home, but that he didn't feel it was his place to get involved in this dispute. But the experience planted an idea in my mind that later took root.
The next time I went to Manassas to visit my Uncle Ranny and Aunt Kathy was Valentine's Day weekend in 1981. I was a sophomore in high school, and it was a three day weekend. Part of the festivities of the weekend included a "Christian Skate Night." Both of the two young ladies I was particularly fond of from the Antioch Church of Christ youth group were present, and I remember having a great time. When Monday rolled around, Virginia and Panayiotis came to pick me up at the house Dad lived at on Lake Jackson near Manassas. Without informing anyone of my intent, I announced that I wanted to stay with them rather than return to Arlington. What followed was an argument that lasted about six hours. At one point my mother tried to physically remove me from the house, but neither Uncle Ranny (who would be happy if I stayed), or Panayiotis (who would have preferred I stayed there also) were willing to help her. So eventually she got back in the car and drove back to Arlington without me.
That day I became part of a new family. I stayed in the bedroom that used to belong to my older cousin Theresa. She had recently gotten married and moved out. My other cousin Mary had the adjacent bedroom. As quickly as possible, I was transferred to Stonewall Jackson High School, where Mary attended. We were in the same grade, and so orientation to the routine was fairly easy. Behind the scenes, Uncle Ranny and Aunt Kathy and Theresa and Mary began to discuss with one another whether I would be allowed to stay and become a permanent member of the family. All I knew was that for the first time since I was twelve years old, I felt like I was home.
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
Hole in the Soul
Although life moved on (in a sense) after Mom died, death didn't sit right with me. It wasn't that I thought she didn't deserve to die or that I couldn't get over the grief. It was death itself that I found so disturbing. What bothered me most was this nagging feeling that something seemed quite different about the death of a person. Intellectually, I believed humans had evolved from less developed creatures. This development went back to energized primordial slime I believed formed the raw material for life to begin. Of course we've all heard this since we were little, but my experience challenged this belief.
Meanwhile, I was heading to Huntington, West Virginia. Like many people who grew up in my area, I had some pretty strong conceptions about how backward the people who live there would be. Yet I was pleasantly surprised to find my previously unknown relatives apparently had all their teeth and were actually rather intelligent. For the month I was there, I lived with my Grandmother Isenberg, who we affectionately referred to as "Mamaw." My Uncle Harry and Aunt Winifred (Winnie) lived up the hill, and Aunt Vida lived next door to them. My cousin Tim lived next door. I was literally surrounded by a family I'd never had before. They taught me to play Canasta, a game we still play at family gatherings to this day.
My Uncle Harry seemed to take a special interest in me. He drove a refrigerated truck to various small and medium sized grocery stores where he sold his goods. I went with him on at least one occasion and got to watch him engage the people he did business with on a regular basis. We spent many evenings over the course of that month sitting on the hillside together talking about God. Since at the time I didn't believe in God, this made for some interesting conversations. I remember asking him questions like, "If Christianity is true, why can you people not get your story straight?" I'd talked to many so-called Christians, and they all seemed to believe different things.
I wish I could remember half of the conversations we had over the course of that month. Eventually I was open to reading some of the words of the Bible with him. He explained to me what he believed the Bible required of someone who wants to be a Christian. Faith, confession, and repentance were mentioned, but it was clear that in Uncle Harry's mind the decisive moment was at baptism. If you wanted to be clean, you had to let God wash your soul. It seemed a pretty simple thing to me, but at the same time something in me resisted the idea. But after a while, I remember thinking he might be right. If I was right and there was no God, then I haven't lost anything. But if he was right and there WAS a God (and I didn't do anything about it), I was in big trouble. I figured I didn't have anything to lose.
July 13th of that year was the last Sunday I was going to be in West Virginia. I'd told my family that I thought I would go ahead and take the plunge. But that morning when I woke up, I felt sick to my stomach. When I told them I was going to just stay home from church, I could tell they were disappointed. But to their credit, they didn't pressure me to go. Nevertheless, at the last moment I got up and threw some clothes on. I told them I would go, but I didn't think I was going to be baptized that day.
Everyone has been in church services that seemed long. But that day I thought the preacher would never stop talking. His name was John and he seemed to drone on forever before the piano mercifully began playing and we started to sing some song out of the hymnal. Just a few more minutes and I would be out of there. Yet at some point during that song, apparently I started walking down the aisle. Halfway down or so, I realized where I was and turned around to look back at my Grandmother smiling at me. I figured at this point it would be worse to go back than to finish the journey, so I walked the rest of the way to the front.
When the preacher started talking to me, the only thing I remember is his breath. I asked if I could talk to my Uncle Harry. Uncle Harry came forward and asked me to repeat some words and I was then escorted to a chilly room on the basement floor of the building. A woman handed me a white garment with lots of strings and hooks and buttons that looked more like a straightjacket to me than anything else. In that moment, I began to think perhaps I was making a big mistake. My stomach began churning and I was nearly overcome by a desire to go running out of this building, away from these religious weirdos. The woman returned a few minutes later and asked from the door, "Do you have it on yet?" I assured her that I did not, and she got someone who could help me.
She then escorted me to a small pool where my Uncle Harry was standing in the water. I descended the stairs and turned. As my stomach continued to protest, I wondered what it would look like if I vomited in the water. Just then, someone pulled open a curtain and I realized I was standing in front of the same people who I was in church with some minutes ago. Why hadn't they gone home? What were they waiting for? Uncle Harry raised his hands and said some words about Jesus and then pushed me under the water. When I came up out of the water, I felt different.
For centuries, people have argued about baptism. Christians have very different salvation experiences. I cannot speak for others, but in my case I experienced the joy of my salvation the moment I was raised from the waters of baptism. My stomach no longer churned, I didn't feel sick any more, and I couldn't stop smiling. I didn't know exactly what had just happened, but I knew I liked it. I'd never experienced anything like that before.
My 14th birthday was three days later, on July 16th. But on July 13th I felt I'd finally found my real family, I'd be adopted by God. The sense of emptiness and longing that had defined my life to that point finally experienced satisfaction. It was as if I'd been hungry my whole life, and for the first time in my life, I'd actually eaten a meal. I would be hungry again, but for I at least knew now that I could be filled.
Meanwhile, I was heading to Huntington, West Virginia. Like many people who grew up in my area, I had some pretty strong conceptions about how backward the people who live there would be. Yet I was pleasantly surprised to find my previously unknown relatives apparently had all their teeth and were actually rather intelligent. For the month I was there, I lived with my Grandmother Isenberg, who we affectionately referred to as "Mamaw." My Uncle Harry and Aunt Winifred (Winnie) lived up the hill, and Aunt Vida lived next door to them. My cousin Tim lived next door. I was literally surrounded by a family I'd never had before. They taught me to play Canasta, a game we still play at family gatherings to this day.
My Uncle Harry seemed to take a special interest in me. He drove a refrigerated truck to various small and medium sized grocery stores where he sold his goods. I went with him on at least one occasion and got to watch him engage the people he did business with on a regular basis. We spent many evenings over the course of that month sitting on the hillside together talking about God. Since at the time I didn't believe in God, this made for some interesting conversations. I remember asking him questions like, "If Christianity is true, why can you people not get your story straight?" I'd talked to many so-called Christians, and they all seemed to believe different things.
I wish I could remember half of the conversations we had over the course of that month. Eventually I was open to reading some of the words of the Bible with him. He explained to me what he believed the Bible required of someone who wants to be a Christian. Faith, confession, and repentance were mentioned, but it was clear that in Uncle Harry's mind the decisive moment was at baptism. If you wanted to be clean, you had to let God wash your soul. It seemed a pretty simple thing to me, but at the same time something in me resisted the idea. But after a while, I remember thinking he might be right. If I was right and there was no God, then I haven't lost anything. But if he was right and there WAS a God (and I didn't do anything about it), I was in big trouble. I figured I didn't have anything to lose.
July 13th of that year was the last Sunday I was going to be in West Virginia. I'd told my family that I thought I would go ahead and take the plunge. But that morning when I woke up, I felt sick to my stomach. When I told them I was going to just stay home from church, I could tell they were disappointed. But to their credit, they didn't pressure me to go. Nevertheless, at the last moment I got up and threw some clothes on. I told them I would go, but I didn't think I was going to be baptized that day.
Everyone has been in church services that seemed long. But that day I thought the preacher would never stop talking. His name was John and he seemed to drone on forever before the piano mercifully began playing and we started to sing some song out of the hymnal. Just a few more minutes and I would be out of there. Yet at some point during that song, apparently I started walking down the aisle. Halfway down or so, I realized where I was and turned around to look back at my Grandmother smiling at me. I figured at this point it would be worse to go back than to finish the journey, so I walked the rest of the way to the front.
When the preacher started talking to me, the only thing I remember is his breath. I asked if I could talk to my Uncle Harry. Uncle Harry came forward and asked me to repeat some words and I was then escorted to a chilly room on the basement floor of the building. A woman handed me a white garment with lots of strings and hooks and buttons that looked more like a straightjacket to me than anything else. In that moment, I began to think perhaps I was making a big mistake. My stomach began churning and I was nearly overcome by a desire to go running out of this building, away from these religious weirdos. The woman returned a few minutes later and asked from the door, "Do you have it on yet?" I assured her that I did not, and she got someone who could help me.
She then escorted me to a small pool where my Uncle Harry was standing in the water. I descended the stairs and turned. As my stomach continued to protest, I wondered what it would look like if I vomited in the water. Just then, someone pulled open a curtain and I realized I was standing in front of the same people who I was in church with some minutes ago. Why hadn't they gone home? What were they waiting for? Uncle Harry raised his hands and said some words about Jesus and then pushed me under the water. When I came up out of the water, I felt different.
For centuries, people have argued about baptism. Christians have very different salvation experiences. I cannot speak for others, but in my case I experienced the joy of my salvation the moment I was raised from the waters of baptism. My stomach no longer churned, I didn't feel sick any more, and I couldn't stop smiling. I didn't know exactly what had just happened, but I knew I liked it. I'd never experienced anything like that before.
My 14th birthday was three days later, on July 16th. But on July 13th I felt I'd finally found my real family, I'd be adopted by God. The sense of emptiness and longing that had defined my life to that point finally experienced satisfaction. It was as if I'd been hungry my whole life, and for the first time in my life, I'd actually eaten a meal. I would be hungry again, but for I at least knew now that I could be filled.
Thursday, July 29, 2010
Dying for Change
As I watched the cab vanish, I went to my Grandmother Stetten's house (Ken's Mom). I remember little about the next few hours. There were two calls from the hospital. The first related to us that the situation was serious and I should get to the hospital as soon as possible. After that call, we phoned Ken to have him pick me up. The second was just as Ken arrived. My Mom had died.
Few things in life are more tragic than losing the person who you believe loves you most. Although my relationship with my mother was not an intimate one, it was still the best I had. There were nights I had prayed to a God I didn't believe in that she would die. I thought my life would be so much better without her telling me what to do. But the moment my wish had been granted, I realized an emptiness I'd never known before. The memorial service was surreal. I sang "I Get by With a Little Help from my Friends" by the Beatles. Ironically, I'm not sure I had any real friends at the time.
Custody went to Ken, who had since remarried a young woman named Mary and had a young son named Jason. To say the least, I was an enormous inconvenience. My bedroom was in an addition attached to the living room. I lived halfway between Purcellville and Lovettsville, VA in a place aptly called Wheatland. During the blur of time that I lived there, I finished the 8th grade at Blue Ridge Middle School. That winter was the largest snowstorm I had ever seen. It was on February 19th & 20th and dropped nearly two feet of snow where I lived. I saved the front page of The Washington Post from that storm for many years. That is the only clear memory I have from that school year. We were out for a week.
That spring our "family" traveled to Santa Fe, New Mexico where my Grandmother Stetten had moved. We traveled by car, and fittingly, I was stuck in the back of a Volvo station wagon for the entire cross-country trip. I remember very clearly feeling as though I was not a part of this family, and there was no changing that. So it was really no big surprise to me that when the family announced they were going to be moving to New Mexico before the end of the school year, I wasn't going to be going with them. I would stay behind so I could "finish out the school year." Yeah.
When they left, I moved in with a family who lived on a farm fairly near my school. Suddenly my routine involved getting up at about 5:30 in the morning to feed chickens and horses. There was something that seemed wholesome about this family, which is probably why I fit in like a square peg in a round hole. I did think the daughter who was about my age was very attractive. Which is probably why I didn't end up living there very long. The two clearest memories I have during my time living there was listening to the Beatles over and over again, and having my first experience with Tarot cards and a Ouija board. I remember being told my life card was "Death." Not the most encouraging sign, to be sure.
At some point during this period of time, Ken Stetten called the Pierce Warwick Adoption Agency. This was the agency that processed my adoption. He apparently asked if there was any way to give me back, or to somehow alleviate his responsibility to me. The woman who took the call was named Ginger Swisher. About seven years before this she had received another all about me from my biological mother. She had asked that a note be put in my file indicating she would like me to be able to find her. She also asked that a name be put on my record -- James Michael. This was my father's name, and the name of the man she intended to marry. Although closed adoptions like mine are supposed to be kept strictly confidential, Ginger gave Ken contact information for my biological mother. I, of course, knew nothing about any of this at the time.
Meanwhile, that fall I started high school at Loudon Valley High. I stayed there for a couple months, and then was moved -- but not to New Mexico. I ended up moving to Leesburg with a single mother and her two kids. She had a boy and a girl. I don't remember anything about the boy, but I remember the girl was nearly as old as I was and still regularly wet the bed. The woman who lived there had different men come home with her. I remember living with headphones on, filling my head with Pink Floyd's Another Brick in the Wall album. I transferred to Loudon County High School, the archrival of the school I had just attended. But I hardly cared, since I never stayed in the same place long enough to develop any loyalties -- to schools or people. It was my fifth school in two years, and the big change was still to come.
If you've ever experienced a day when you just knew something weird was going to happen, you know the feeling I had the first day of spring in 1980. I was 13 years old in the 9th grade, and all day long I felt like I was living in The Twilight Zone. So I really wasn't all that terribly surprised when I walked into the place where I lived and saw my Grandmother Stetten sitting there with a young dark haired woman. My grandmother Stetten had moved back to Virginia at some point, but it was very unusual for her to be in Leesburg. I asked her, "Grandma, how did you get here?" She answered, "This lovely young lady brought me here." We exchanged small talk for a few moments, and then my grandmother got up and left the room. At that point I turned to the lady and asked, "So, who are you lovely young lady?" She responded, "Are you ready for this?" Having no idea what I was agreeing to, I said, "Sure!"
"I'm your mother."
I stared at her, my mind whirling to try to figure out if she was telling the truth. She spoke again, and simply said, "Well?" I responded, "I'm in shock." When she said, "I'm in shock too," it only made sense to say, "Let's be in shock together!"
We stood and looked at one another, and after offering her a handshake, we instead exchanged a somewhat awkward embrace. Was I supposed to be hugging this woman that I had never met before ten minutes ago? Should I love her since she may well be my biological mother? Could I call her "Mom" when the woman I'd known as Mom for my childhood had died? I wish I could say I recall the rest of this encounter with the same clarity I have for that brief part of exchange. But we did talk for a while longer, and eventually they left.
Over the next couple months, plans were made for me to finish school early and move in with Virginia, my bio-mom, my birth mother. I didn't know what that was going to be like, but I figured anything had to be an upgrade from my current living situation. In May, I moved in with her. I discovered she was married to a Greek man named Panayiotis Gouskos. She had previously been married to another man (Michael Bugg), but never married my father. I found out then that my father Jimmy Isenberg died when I was five years old of a drug overdose. He had been addicted to heroin, but actually overdosed on methadone, a drug they gave him to help him break his heroin addiction.
I lived in a side room attached to the living room. We lived in the basement of a house that belonged to Virginia's father. She also had a baby daughter, my half-sister Carrie. When I moved in, I felt more loved and accepted here than I had for a long time. But there were still many tensions, and the longer I was there, the more obvious they were. Still, I was grateful for the provision, and for getting to know the family I would have had all along, had things gone differently. When they left to go to Greece for a month during the summer, I got that familiar feeling when they chose to leave me behind. But it gave me the opportunity to meet my father's family, and to have a far more life-changing experience in (of all places), Huntington, West Virginia.
Few things in life are more tragic than losing the person who you believe loves you most. Although my relationship with my mother was not an intimate one, it was still the best I had. There were nights I had prayed to a God I didn't believe in that she would die. I thought my life would be so much better without her telling me what to do. But the moment my wish had been granted, I realized an emptiness I'd never known before. The memorial service was surreal. I sang "I Get by With a Little Help from my Friends" by the Beatles. Ironically, I'm not sure I had any real friends at the time.
Custody went to Ken, who had since remarried a young woman named Mary and had a young son named Jason. To say the least, I was an enormous inconvenience. My bedroom was in an addition attached to the living room. I lived halfway between Purcellville and Lovettsville, VA in a place aptly called Wheatland. During the blur of time that I lived there, I finished the 8th grade at Blue Ridge Middle School. That winter was the largest snowstorm I had ever seen. It was on February 19th & 20th and dropped nearly two feet of snow where I lived. I saved the front page of The Washington Post from that storm for many years. That is the only clear memory I have from that school year. We were out for a week.
That spring our "family" traveled to Santa Fe, New Mexico where my Grandmother Stetten had moved. We traveled by car, and fittingly, I was stuck in the back of a Volvo station wagon for the entire cross-country trip. I remember very clearly feeling as though I was not a part of this family, and there was no changing that. So it was really no big surprise to me that when the family announced they were going to be moving to New Mexico before the end of the school year, I wasn't going to be going with them. I would stay behind so I could "finish out the school year." Yeah.
When they left, I moved in with a family who lived on a farm fairly near my school. Suddenly my routine involved getting up at about 5:30 in the morning to feed chickens and horses. There was something that seemed wholesome about this family, which is probably why I fit in like a square peg in a round hole. I did think the daughter who was about my age was very attractive. Which is probably why I didn't end up living there very long. The two clearest memories I have during my time living there was listening to the Beatles over and over again, and having my first experience with Tarot cards and a Ouija board. I remember being told my life card was "Death." Not the most encouraging sign, to be sure.
At some point during this period of time, Ken Stetten called the Pierce Warwick Adoption Agency. This was the agency that processed my adoption. He apparently asked if there was any way to give me back, or to somehow alleviate his responsibility to me. The woman who took the call was named Ginger Swisher. About seven years before this she had received another all about me from my biological mother. She had asked that a note be put in my file indicating she would like me to be able to find her. She also asked that a name be put on my record -- James Michael. This was my father's name, and the name of the man she intended to marry. Although closed adoptions like mine are supposed to be kept strictly confidential, Ginger gave Ken contact information for my biological mother. I, of course, knew nothing about any of this at the time.
Meanwhile, that fall I started high school at Loudon Valley High. I stayed there for a couple months, and then was moved -- but not to New Mexico. I ended up moving to Leesburg with a single mother and her two kids. She had a boy and a girl. I don't remember anything about the boy, but I remember the girl was nearly as old as I was and still regularly wet the bed. The woman who lived there had different men come home with her. I remember living with headphones on, filling my head with Pink Floyd's Another Brick in the Wall album. I transferred to Loudon County High School, the archrival of the school I had just attended. But I hardly cared, since I never stayed in the same place long enough to develop any loyalties -- to schools or people. It was my fifth school in two years, and the big change was still to come.
If you've ever experienced a day when you just knew something weird was going to happen, you know the feeling I had the first day of spring in 1980. I was 13 years old in the 9th grade, and all day long I felt like I was living in The Twilight Zone. So I really wasn't all that terribly surprised when I walked into the place where I lived and saw my Grandmother Stetten sitting there with a young dark haired woman. My grandmother Stetten had moved back to Virginia at some point, but it was very unusual for her to be in Leesburg. I asked her, "Grandma, how did you get here?" She answered, "This lovely young lady brought me here." We exchanged small talk for a few moments, and then my grandmother got up and left the room. At that point I turned to the lady and asked, "So, who are you lovely young lady?" She responded, "Are you ready for this?" Having no idea what I was agreeing to, I said, "Sure!"
"I'm your mother."
I stared at her, my mind whirling to try to figure out if she was telling the truth. She spoke again, and simply said, "Well?" I responded, "I'm in shock." When she said, "I'm in shock too," it only made sense to say, "Let's be in shock together!"
We stood and looked at one another, and after offering her a handshake, we instead exchanged a somewhat awkward embrace. Was I supposed to be hugging this woman that I had never met before ten minutes ago? Should I love her since she may well be my biological mother? Could I call her "Mom" when the woman I'd known as Mom for my childhood had died? I wish I could say I recall the rest of this encounter with the same clarity I have for that brief part of exchange. But we did talk for a while longer, and eventually they left.
Over the next couple months, plans were made for me to finish school early and move in with Virginia, my bio-mom, my birth mother. I didn't know what that was going to be like, but I figured anything had to be an upgrade from my current living situation. In May, I moved in with her. I discovered she was married to a Greek man named Panayiotis Gouskos. She had previously been married to another man (Michael Bugg), but never married my father. I found out then that my father Jimmy Isenberg died when I was five years old of a drug overdose. He had been addicted to heroin, but actually overdosed on methadone, a drug they gave him to help him break his heroin addiction.
I lived in a side room attached to the living room. We lived in the basement of a house that belonged to Virginia's father. She also had a baby daughter, my half-sister Carrie. When I moved in, I felt more loved and accepted here than I had for a long time. But there were still many tensions, and the longer I was there, the more obvious they were. Still, I was grateful for the provision, and for getting to know the family I would have had all along, had things gone differently. When they left to go to Greece for a month during the summer, I got that familiar feeling when they chose to leave me behind. But it gave me the opportunity to meet my father's family, and to have a far more life-changing experience in (of all places), Huntington, West Virginia.
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
All Downhill from Here
When I was six, Mom and I moved from the townhouse in Fairfax to an apartment in Reston, VA. We lived in a corner apartment on the bottom floor. I attended Dogwood Elementary, where I had my first teacher crush on Ms. Henson. I was what is now called a "latchkey kid." Each day when I arrived home from school it was to an empty home. I didn't stay there for long though. Most of my childhood afternoons consisted of me dropping off whatever I had in my hands and going outside to play. Although the details are fuzzy, I remember walking in the woods, making a fort, playing football, and playing on a neighborhood playground. When I went outside to play, it never really mattered what precisely we did, it was still fun.
Then there were the weekends. Saturdays Mom (Berit) was almost always around. She didn't really have a social life or any friends. I don't really ever recall her going anywhere or doing anything. She was from Finland, and her family apparently fought against Hitler's Germany during World War 2. I don't really know how that relates, but looking back I have the sense she was emotionally damaged by those childhood memories. Nevertheless, one pleasant memory from those early Saturdays included her telling me to go out to our tiny garden to get some mint leaves. That was her way of saying she was going to make tea for us, a special treat. We sat together on the concrete porch drinking our tea, and for a moment all was well with the world.
Sundays Dad (Ken) would pick me up for the day. He would usually arrive at about 8:00 am. I remember I always used to ask him how far it was to get to his house -- seems like it was always either ten minutes or ten miles away. He lived on Lake Anne on the other side of Reston for a while, and later bought a house. I don't remember where that house was, but the first time I remember smoking was while I was there. I was seven or eight years old, smoking stolen cigarettes. I used an old turtle shell as an ash tray. Smoking became a regular part of my life. Before I went to the bus stop each morning, I used to go to the storage room in our apartment building and grab my hidden cigarettes to smoke.
When I was ten, Ken was the one who first realized I needed glasses. He asked me what a street sign on the road in front of his house said, and I answered, "what sign?" He was incredulous. I think he thought I was trying to be cheeky. I didn't see any sign, a fact which was decisively demonstrated by an eye exam that showed I was blind as a bat. I'm not sure why this wasn't caught by the routine school exams. Perhaps because I memorized what direction the other students said the "E's" faced and I just did the same thing they did. I think I faked a lot of things by just copying other people.
Apparently I learned to use a knife and fork by mirroring my mother. To this day, I am occasionally asked if I'm lefthanded by those who carefully watch me eat. Everything is apparently backwards, and yet not quite perfectly so. It is as though I was a mirror image of someone eating correctly. Because that's how I picked it up in the first place. One day as the two of us sat at the dinner table, I looked up and asked Berit, "Am I adopted?" She couldn't have looked more shocked if I'd drawn a gun and pointed it at her. After lengthy moments of stunned silence, she said, "Yes, you are adopted. What made you think so?" I explained something about looking at her and looking at Ken and just thinking it didn't make sense I was their child. I was ten.
Also that year, I got my first paper route. I delivered The Washington Times since it was afternoon delivery except on the weekends. I was able to get home from school, drop my things off, and go load up my paper cart to deliver the newspapers to make a little money before I started playing. Every day I would use the stopwatch on my digital watch to time how long it took me to deliver all the papers to all the apartments in my complex. I tried to find ways to maximize efficiency without compromising accuracy. I would run down the sidewalks pushing my paper cart to get finished as quickly as possible so I could start playing. At the end of every month, I would collect the money for the subscriptions, pay the Times for the papers and the leftover money was mine. Suddenly I had some money, and a couple new friends.
One friend was a young lady named Renee' who lived on the other end of the same apartment building. She was someone who always seemed like a safe person to talk with when life was hard. My best friends then were Don and Eddie. We hung out almost every day after school. I began smoking marijuana with them when I was ten (it was a big year). We had a stash in the woods where we kept it and the utensils we used (little pipes, rolling papers, etc). The afternoon time playing in the woods had taken an interesting turn. Another interest I had was fire. We used to start fires in the woods to stay warm, and sometimes just for fun.
Once we went into the local Drug Fair and bought some lantern oil. We filled a cup with the oil and went to a local playground. While we were there, a man ran toward us yelling about having a fire on a playground where there were kids playing. He rushed to the cup with the fire burning on top of the oil and there was a moment in my mind where time stopped and I yelled, "No!" Nevertheless, he stomped on the cup and the fuel all ignited at some time, creating a ball of fire that scorched everything in a 5-10 foot radius. He started screaming, and we ran. As I ran, I noticed that the front of my coat was completely burned off, so I took it off and threw it in the woods. The front of my jeans was stiff, and my hair was singed. I ran all the way home, and when I got there I trimmed my hair and cleaned up. I felt off the hook until the phone ran about a week later. When I answered, it was the man who had stomped on the fire. I have no idea how he found out who I was, but he explained that he blamed me for the third degree burns on his body. I hung up on him in fear, and that was the last I ever heard from him.
In the winter, we used to throw snowballs at cars. We would time the cars coming around the corner and throw our snowballs to try to hit the windshields. We got pretty good at launching them from the woods beside Colts Neck Road. It was great fun . . . until the direct hit on the police car. We knew we were in trouble when the lights went on and he stopped his car immediately in the road. He ran straight up the hill toward the woods, and we scattered. I made it home, but apparently someone else didn't, because some time later he knocked on the door of my apartment and explained to my mother what had taken place. He required me to write a three page paper on why I shouldn't throw rocks or snowballs at cars. At the time, three pages seemed like it may as well have been a hundred. But I guess I did it.
My other brush with the law came when I was teaching a friend how to shoplift from the Drug Fair. I had just slipped a Chunky bar into my pocket when I noticed a manager had spotted us from the little diner upstairs. As he ran down the stairs toward us, my friend and I ran out the door. We cut left and tried to race around the corner where we could hide without being seen. But just when I thought I'd gotten away, my friend called out "Peter," and I knew there wasn't any point in running. He had already told them my name. They dragged us upstairs to the office where they called the police and our mothers. I don't really remember exactly what they said or did, but I remember thinking I got off the hook.
I was a voracious reader. I read nearly anything I could get my hands on. My fascination with dinosaurs soon led me to pursue more knowledge about evolution. I used to think church kids were rather amusing with their childlike belief in a God who shaped and made the world in a week or so. I enjoyed getting into conversations with them about evolution because it was so clear to me they didn't have the foggiest idea what they were talking about. Besides, church kids really didn't seem any better or nicer than anyone else.
But my interest in reading also led me to read works of fiction as well. My early experiences with Hardy Boys and Encyclopedia Brown quickly gave way to a fascination with fantasy. I read a lot of fantasy books, but what most captured me were the books by J.R.R. Tolkein. At first, I loved The Hobbit. But something about The Lord of the Rings trilogy absolutely enthralled me. I couldn't get enough of them.
When I was in elementary school, I was often in trouble. In the classroom, I was ahead of the other kids. In 6th grade math, they stuck me in a corner with an algebra book and told me to teach myself. But socially I was retarded. I did everything I could to get attention and it didn't particularly matter to me what sort of attention I got. At one point, I remember my Mom started taking me to these group therapy sessions where they stuck me and a bunch of other "troubled" kids in a room with foam bats where we were supposed to beat one another's brains in. I'm not sure how that was supposed to help me, but it was kind of fun.
Because I had skipped a grade, I finished elementary school early. My first year of middle school was at Herndon Intermediate. But I only went there a short time because they had just built a new high school. They decided to start middle school kids there so we could all grow into the school together. It was the fall of 1978. I was twelve years old and in the 8th grade at South Lakes High School. The school was a change of scenery and everything looked and smelled new. But Mom was sick.
She had what she thought was the flu. She couldn't keep anything down, though she tried to keep drinking water and eat toast. At first, I kept up my usual routine. She hardly ever got sick and I knew she would recover quickly. But after several days, I stayed home more. I began to get concerned because it didn't seem she was getting much better. She called the doctor who she went to see for her diabetes and he told her to come immediately to the hospital. She called a cab, and the driver came to the front of our apartment building. I followed her out and hugged her. Then I asked her, "Promise me I'll see you again?" She answered, "I promise." It was October 14th, 1978, and the last time I saw her.
Then there were the weekends. Saturdays Mom (Berit) was almost always around. She didn't really have a social life or any friends. I don't really ever recall her going anywhere or doing anything. She was from Finland, and her family apparently fought against Hitler's Germany during World War 2. I don't really know how that relates, but looking back I have the sense she was emotionally damaged by those childhood memories. Nevertheless, one pleasant memory from those early Saturdays included her telling me to go out to our tiny garden to get some mint leaves. That was her way of saying she was going to make tea for us, a special treat. We sat together on the concrete porch drinking our tea, and for a moment all was well with the world.
Sundays Dad (Ken) would pick me up for the day. He would usually arrive at about 8:00 am. I remember I always used to ask him how far it was to get to his house -- seems like it was always either ten minutes or ten miles away. He lived on Lake Anne on the other side of Reston for a while, and later bought a house. I don't remember where that house was, but the first time I remember smoking was while I was there. I was seven or eight years old, smoking stolen cigarettes. I used an old turtle shell as an ash tray. Smoking became a regular part of my life. Before I went to the bus stop each morning, I used to go to the storage room in our apartment building and grab my hidden cigarettes to smoke.
When I was ten, Ken was the one who first realized I needed glasses. He asked me what a street sign on the road in front of his house said, and I answered, "what sign?" He was incredulous. I think he thought I was trying to be cheeky. I didn't see any sign, a fact which was decisively demonstrated by an eye exam that showed I was blind as a bat. I'm not sure why this wasn't caught by the routine school exams. Perhaps because I memorized what direction the other students said the "E's" faced and I just did the same thing they did. I think I faked a lot of things by just copying other people.
Apparently I learned to use a knife and fork by mirroring my mother. To this day, I am occasionally asked if I'm lefthanded by those who carefully watch me eat. Everything is apparently backwards, and yet not quite perfectly so. It is as though I was a mirror image of someone eating correctly. Because that's how I picked it up in the first place. One day as the two of us sat at the dinner table, I looked up and asked Berit, "Am I adopted?" She couldn't have looked more shocked if I'd drawn a gun and pointed it at her. After lengthy moments of stunned silence, she said, "Yes, you are adopted. What made you think so?" I explained something about looking at her and looking at Ken and just thinking it didn't make sense I was their child. I was ten.
Also that year, I got my first paper route. I delivered The Washington Times since it was afternoon delivery except on the weekends. I was able to get home from school, drop my things off, and go load up my paper cart to deliver the newspapers to make a little money before I started playing. Every day I would use the stopwatch on my digital watch to time how long it took me to deliver all the papers to all the apartments in my complex. I tried to find ways to maximize efficiency without compromising accuracy. I would run down the sidewalks pushing my paper cart to get finished as quickly as possible so I could start playing. At the end of every month, I would collect the money for the subscriptions, pay the Times for the papers and the leftover money was mine. Suddenly I had some money, and a couple new friends.
One friend was a young lady named Renee' who lived on the other end of the same apartment building. She was someone who always seemed like a safe person to talk with when life was hard. My best friends then were Don and Eddie. We hung out almost every day after school. I began smoking marijuana with them when I was ten (it was a big year). We had a stash in the woods where we kept it and the utensils we used (little pipes, rolling papers, etc). The afternoon time playing in the woods had taken an interesting turn. Another interest I had was fire. We used to start fires in the woods to stay warm, and sometimes just for fun.
Once we went into the local Drug Fair and bought some lantern oil. We filled a cup with the oil and went to a local playground. While we were there, a man ran toward us yelling about having a fire on a playground where there were kids playing. He rushed to the cup with the fire burning on top of the oil and there was a moment in my mind where time stopped and I yelled, "No!" Nevertheless, he stomped on the cup and the fuel all ignited at some time, creating a ball of fire that scorched everything in a 5-10 foot radius. He started screaming, and we ran. As I ran, I noticed that the front of my coat was completely burned off, so I took it off and threw it in the woods. The front of my jeans was stiff, and my hair was singed. I ran all the way home, and when I got there I trimmed my hair and cleaned up. I felt off the hook until the phone ran about a week later. When I answered, it was the man who had stomped on the fire. I have no idea how he found out who I was, but he explained that he blamed me for the third degree burns on his body. I hung up on him in fear, and that was the last I ever heard from him.
In the winter, we used to throw snowballs at cars. We would time the cars coming around the corner and throw our snowballs to try to hit the windshields. We got pretty good at launching them from the woods beside Colts Neck Road. It was great fun . . . until the direct hit on the police car. We knew we were in trouble when the lights went on and he stopped his car immediately in the road. He ran straight up the hill toward the woods, and we scattered. I made it home, but apparently someone else didn't, because some time later he knocked on the door of my apartment and explained to my mother what had taken place. He required me to write a three page paper on why I shouldn't throw rocks or snowballs at cars. At the time, three pages seemed like it may as well have been a hundred. But I guess I did it.
My other brush with the law came when I was teaching a friend how to shoplift from the Drug Fair. I had just slipped a Chunky bar into my pocket when I noticed a manager had spotted us from the little diner upstairs. As he ran down the stairs toward us, my friend and I ran out the door. We cut left and tried to race around the corner where we could hide without being seen. But just when I thought I'd gotten away, my friend called out "Peter," and I knew there wasn't any point in running. He had already told them my name. They dragged us upstairs to the office where they called the police and our mothers. I don't really remember exactly what they said or did, but I remember thinking I got off the hook.
I was a voracious reader. I read nearly anything I could get my hands on. My fascination with dinosaurs soon led me to pursue more knowledge about evolution. I used to think church kids were rather amusing with their childlike belief in a God who shaped and made the world in a week or so. I enjoyed getting into conversations with them about evolution because it was so clear to me they didn't have the foggiest idea what they were talking about. Besides, church kids really didn't seem any better or nicer than anyone else.
But my interest in reading also led me to read works of fiction as well. My early experiences with Hardy Boys and Encyclopedia Brown quickly gave way to a fascination with fantasy. I read a lot of fantasy books, but what most captured me were the books by J.R.R. Tolkein. At first, I loved The Hobbit. But something about The Lord of the Rings trilogy absolutely enthralled me. I couldn't get enough of them.
When I was in elementary school, I was often in trouble. In the classroom, I was ahead of the other kids. In 6th grade math, they stuck me in a corner with an algebra book and told me to teach myself. But socially I was retarded. I did everything I could to get attention and it didn't particularly matter to me what sort of attention I got. At one point, I remember my Mom started taking me to these group therapy sessions where they stuck me and a bunch of other "troubled" kids in a room with foam bats where we were supposed to beat one another's brains in. I'm not sure how that was supposed to help me, but it was kind of fun.
Because I had skipped a grade, I finished elementary school early. My first year of middle school was at Herndon Intermediate. But I only went there a short time because they had just built a new high school. They decided to start middle school kids there so we could all grow into the school together. It was the fall of 1978. I was twelve years old and in the 8th grade at South Lakes High School. The school was a change of scenery and everything looked and smelled new. But Mom was sick.
She had what she thought was the flu. She couldn't keep anything down, though she tried to keep drinking water and eat toast. At first, I kept up my usual routine. She hardly ever got sick and I knew she would recover quickly. But after several days, I stayed home more. I began to get concerned because it didn't seem she was getting much better. She called the doctor who she went to see for her diabetes and he told her to come immediately to the hospital. She called a cab, and the driver came to the front of our apartment building. I followed her out and hugged her. Then I asked her, "Promise me I'll see you again?" She answered, "I promise." It was October 14th, 1978, and the last time I saw her.
Monday, July 26, 2010
A Head of Cabbage
"Of course you're pregnant. No, it's too late to get an abortion. The baby is the size of a head of cabbage. But if you have this baby, it will ruin your life." That's the advice $5 bought from the gynecologist my biological mother Virginia went to see in the basement of a flower shop. She was sixteen years old and five months pregnant out of wedlock. In 1966, that was a big no-no. Not long after that she went to the "House of Mercy," a home for unwed mothers located near the Washington National Zoo.
Such homes are designed to isolate women, and this one apparently accomplished its purpose. Aside from occasional visits to the nearby zoo, she didn't see many people outside the home. My biological father Jimmy came by once, twice if the return to retrieve his wallet counts. The song "They're Coming to Take you Away" was popular that summer and she couldn't help but relate to the lines, which sound as if they're coming from someone being committed to an asylum.
Despite the less than idyllic circumstances, she entered her 10th month of pregnancy still waiting for me to be born. She wasn't really ready to give me up, either physically or emotionally. Nevertheless, labor was induced at George Washington hospital where I was born on July 16,1966. For the first five days of my life, I stayed with my biological mother as most children do. Two weeks later, she held and fed me again when it was time to sign the adoption papers. I was adopted by a family who said they would be Christian parents. Kenneth and Berit Stetten were many things, but so far as I could tell "Christian" wasn't among them.
That isn't to say I was raised by bad people, I just don't ever recall church being part of my childhood in any sense. Ken Stetten was raised Jewish and apparently became a member of a Unitarian church so he could adopt me. Berit was from Finland and if she had any faith in God, she was very private about it. When they first adopted me, we all apparently lived for a short time in Arlington, VA. But before I had my second birthday, they had divorced and I moved with Berit to Fairfax, VA. My first memories come from a townhouse just off Gallows Road near Fairfax Hospital. The memories are broken and disjointed -- more images than anything else. I remember some things, but not really in any particular order.
I generally tend to blame my lack of cohesion on either trauma or marijuana use, but the truth is I really don't know why I remember so little of my early years. When I consider recollections of my childhood with what my own kids remember, it is truly paltry by comparison. Nevertheless, here are a few things I remember . . .
I had my own bedroom upstairs with windows facing the front of the townhouse. There was a large tree outside my window whose branches brushed the glass when the wind blew hard enough. I went to a daycare when I was little, and to Congressional Summer Camp. I skipped the first grade in private school because of my reading level. My mother drove a volkswagen, and didn't drive much. Her diabetes affected her eyesight. I remember Christmas was a BIG deal. I still recall Finnish Christmas music, pomanders and cookies -- gingerbread men and some meringue based cookie I wish I could find the recipe to. It was there I learned how to ride a bike for the first time.
What left the most lasting scar on me (literally) from those very early years was a rock fight I got into with some kid named Alex. He was about my age, and we had an on-again, off-again relationship. Once we started throwing rocks and each other and we hit one another at about the same time with a rock in the head. I still have a scar on my forehead.
Aside from that, I really don't remember much else. I probably shouldn't write about the time I ate a nickel and then noticed it came out later. People don't care about stuff like that.
We lived in Fairfax until I was six years old. At some point in that year we moved to Reston, VA on the Hunter's Woods side of what was then more of a town. We moved into Colts Neck Apartments, where I would be for the years I can only describe as the years of my corruption.
Such homes are designed to isolate women, and this one apparently accomplished its purpose. Aside from occasional visits to the nearby zoo, she didn't see many people outside the home. My biological father Jimmy came by once, twice if the return to retrieve his wallet counts. The song "They're Coming to Take you Away" was popular that summer and she couldn't help but relate to the lines, which sound as if they're coming from someone being committed to an asylum.
Despite the less than idyllic circumstances, she entered her 10th month of pregnancy still waiting for me to be born. She wasn't really ready to give me up, either physically or emotionally. Nevertheless, labor was induced at George Washington hospital where I was born on July 16,1966. For the first five days of my life, I stayed with my biological mother as most children do. Two weeks later, she held and fed me again when it was time to sign the adoption papers. I was adopted by a family who said they would be Christian parents. Kenneth and Berit Stetten were many things, but so far as I could tell "Christian" wasn't among them.
That isn't to say I was raised by bad people, I just don't ever recall church being part of my childhood in any sense. Ken Stetten was raised Jewish and apparently became a member of a Unitarian church so he could adopt me. Berit was from Finland and if she had any faith in God, she was very private about it. When they first adopted me, we all apparently lived for a short time in Arlington, VA. But before I had my second birthday, they had divorced and I moved with Berit to Fairfax, VA. My first memories come from a townhouse just off Gallows Road near Fairfax Hospital. The memories are broken and disjointed -- more images than anything else. I remember some things, but not really in any particular order.
I generally tend to blame my lack of cohesion on either trauma or marijuana use, but the truth is I really don't know why I remember so little of my early years. When I consider recollections of my childhood with what my own kids remember, it is truly paltry by comparison. Nevertheless, here are a few things I remember . . .
I had my own bedroom upstairs with windows facing the front of the townhouse. There was a large tree outside my window whose branches brushed the glass when the wind blew hard enough. I went to a daycare when I was little, and to Congressional Summer Camp. I skipped the first grade in private school because of my reading level. My mother drove a volkswagen, and didn't drive much. Her diabetes affected her eyesight. I remember Christmas was a BIG deal. I still recall Finnish Christmas music, pomanders and cookies -- gingerbread men and some meringue based cookie I wish I could find the recipe to. It was there I learned how to ride a bike for the first time.
What left the most lasting scar on me (literally) from those very early years was a rock fight I got into with some kid named Alex. He was about my age, and we had an on-again, off-again relationship. Once we started throwing rocks and each other and we hit one another at about the same time with a rock in the head. I still have a scar on my forehead.
Aside from that, I really don't remember much else. I probably shouldn't write about the time I ate a nickel and then noticed it came out later. People don't care about stuff like that.
We lived in Fairfax until I was six years old. At some point in that year we moved to Reston, VA on the Hunter's Woods side of what was then more of a town. We moved into Colts Neck Apartments, where I would be for the years I can only describe as the years of my corruption.
Saturday, July 24, 2010
Let's Take it From the Top
For years, people have told me I ought to commit my story to writing. I suppose it makes sense, since it can be rather confusing following my convoluted ramblings of my personal history. The added benefit is that it may cut down on the number of times I have to tell the tale, and add to clarity among those who really are curious for whatever reason how I came to be . . . well . . . me.
By way of disclaimer, I ought to state a few things right at the outset. First, I do not claim to be particularly adept at telling my own tale. Secondly, I'm not entirely sure why anyone other than those closest to me would care. So a public forum really (honestly) isn't some bizarre egocentrism playing out. Rather, it is a place for accountability for me among those who read. Knowing there may be people who await the next episode (so to speak) of my life in written form may help keep me motivated to write. Writer's block, I'm told by my dual English/Theater major daughter, is really either fear or laziness.
I should probably also explain that I have done this before. I began writing the story of my life on my laptop while on a plane years ago. I desperately wish I knew where that file was, but I have been unable to find it. This blog will serve as my personal "back-up," so to speak, of what I write. I'm hoping it will be a bit harder to misplace what is here for the world to see. I know I still have over 90 pages of Myspace blog saved on my hard drive now, even after I deleted the Myspace page. Perhaps someday I shall look at what I wrote there as well.
In the meantime, I am going to compile my best recollection of my story, aided to some degree by a few pages I have of my biological mother's recollections months before my birth. I really have no idea how long this will be by the time I'm done. I'm torn between hoping it will be brief enough someone will actually read it, and hoping I will recall enough specific details to make it interesting color commentary on a life thus far rather oddly lived.
By way of disclaimer, I ought to state a few things right at the outset. First, I do not claim to be particularly adept at telling my own tale. Secondly, I'm not entirely sure why anyone other than those closest to me would care. So a public forum really (honestly) isn't some bizarre egocentrism playing out. Rather, it is a place for accountability for me among those who read. Knowing there may be people who await the next episode (so to speak) of my life in written form may help keep me motivated to write. Writer's block, I'm told by my dual English/Theater major daughter, is really either fear or laziness.
I should probably also explain that I have done this before. I began writing the story of my life on my laptop while on a plane years ago. I desperately wish I knew where that file was, but I have been unable to find it. This blog will serve as my personal "back-up," so to speak, of what I write. I'm hoping it will be a bit harder to misplace what is here for the world to see. I know I still have over 90 pages of Myspace blog saved on my hard drive now, even after I deleted the Myspace page. Perhaps someday I shall look at what I wrote there as well.
In the meantime, I am going to compile my best recollection of my story, aided to some degree by a few pages I have of my biological mother's recollections months before my birth. I really have no idea how long this will be by the time I'm done. I'm torn between hoping it will be brief enough someone will actually read it, and hoping I will recall enough specific details to make it interesting color commentary on a life thus far rather oddly lived.
Thursday, July 8, 2010
Experiential Paradox
The only time we can experience God is now. When the Lord shared his name with Moses, he expressed himself as present tense existence -- "I am that I am." We can recall those moments in the past, or anticipate those moments in the future. But we can only experience Him in the present. We are currently time-bound mortal creatures who are limited by years, months, days, and hours. We cannot step laterally in the time continuum to experience what is going on in some other moment.
Because of that, our apprehension of the moment we are in is typically far keener than our ability to discern what has taken place or (more particularly) what will take place. As I consider God's role in my current experience, I cannot help but feel blessed. I recently shared with a brother in Christ that I wouldn't trade my life for anyone else's. We have all we need, our family is healthy and content. I serve in a church where I can worship as well as lead others. I believe the Lord uses me to make a difference in the lives of others, and I'm seldom called upon to suffer. [As an intriguing sidenote, while I was writing that last sentence a student approached me and asked me about Mormonism. She recently went to church with a Mormon friend of hers and wanted to ask me about some things she had been told. What a timely demonstration of what I was just writing!]
That being said, I still find myself frequently questioning the metanarrative of my life. Why is it that I have so many pieces of my own experience that seem to not fit? Why is it that so many thoughts I was relatively sure of have apparently been mistaken? The filming for this year's season of Survivor began on June 14th. My Dad died on June 16th. When things like that happen, at least the moment I'm in seems vindicated by the unfolding of events. But I feel like there are so many other things that don't make sense.
What makes this particularly vexing is when I have the same subjective sense about events in someone else's life and it is spot on. For example, when our youth minister and his (soon to be) wife were wrestling with whether to live in Roanoke -- a big factor was the unlikelihood of her finding a teaching job when the schools in our area are laying teachers off. I felt led to say I believed that when they chose to come to Roanoke that God would open that door. Not only did events unfold that way, but it required very little effort and was exactly the type of job and school she was seeking. Coincidence? I think not.
Yet when I have a feeling or sense about what is coming for me, my record is quite poor. Every time I think something is going to happen, a change is going to come, or some transition will take place -- it doesn't. Is this because I'm not doing what I need to do? Have I sabotaged it by doing something I ought not to do? Is the real problem that I'm still waiting or being prepared for what is yet to come? Or is the truth that I'm too emotionally connected to my own situation to accurately discern what God is doing in my own life? I don't know, but hope I someday will understand.
Meanwhile, I am experiencing a paradox. I feel so blessed in the moment that I'm in, and sometimes abandoned in the big picture. But then, that's just a feeling.
Because of that, our apprehension of the moment we are in is typically far keener than our ability to discern what has taken place or (more particularly) what will take place. As I consider God's role in my current experience, I cannot help but feel blessed. I recently shared with a brother in Christ that I wouldn't trade my life for anyone else's. We have all we need, our family is healthy and content. I serve in a church where I can worship as well as lead others. I believe the Lord uses me to make a difference in the lives of others, and I'm seldom called upon to suffer. [As an intriguing sidenote, while I was writing that last sentence a student approached me and asked me about Mormonism. She recently went to church with a Mormon friend of hers and wanted to ask me about some things she had been told. What a timely demonstration of what I was just writing!]
That being said, I still find myself frequently questioning the metanarrative of my life. Why is it that I have so many pieces of my own experience that seem to not fit? Why is it that so many thoughts I was relatively sure of have apparently been mistaken? The filming for this year's season of Survivor began on June 14th. My Dad died on June 16th. When things like that happen, at least the moment I'm in seems vindicated by the unfolding of events. But I feel like there are so many other things that don't make sense.
What makes this particularly vexing is when I have the same subjective sense about events in someone else's life and it is spot on. For example, when our youth minister and his (soon to be) wife were wrestling with whether to live in Roanoke -- a big factor was the unlikelihood of her finding a teaching job when the schools in our area are laying teachers off. I felt led to say I believed that when they chose to come to Roanoke that God would open that door. Not only did events unfold that way, but it required very little effort and was exactly the type of job and school she was seeking. Coincidence? I think not.
Yet when I have a feeling or sense about what is coming for me, my record is quite poor. Every time I think something is going to happen, a change is going to come, or some transition will take place -- it doesn't. Is this because I'm not doing what I need to do? Have I sabotaged it by doing something I ought not to do? Is the real problem that I'm still waiting or being prepared for what is yet to come? Or is the truth that I'm too emotionally connected to my own situation to accurately discern what God is doing in my own life? I don't know, but hope I someday will understand.
Meanwhile, I am experiencing a paradox. I feel so blessed in the moment that I'm in, and sometimes abandoned in the big picture. But then, that's just a feeling.
Thursday, July 1, 2010
Thoughts on "Christian" vs. Secular Media
This is actually a response comment I wrote to a blog by Leslie Nease. Leslie had mentioned in a previous blog that she listens sometimes to secular music. Some of her readers responded expressing their concern for her listening choices. In reply, she wrote a blog entitled "Listening" which you can read here: http://leslienease.blogspot.com/.
Here was my response:
Thank you Leslie for these words. There needs to be more discussion in the Church about matters of opinion, particularly with respect to use of media.
There is a big difference between rationalization for the sake of personal indulgence and God giving a believer a clear conscience. Christians need to wrestle with the application of Romans 14, 1 Cor 10:23-11:1; and Col 2:16-23. The Lord has given us clear instruction about how we are to handle matters of personal freedom.
This is vital for the modern church. The church in America has a well deserved reputation for being judgemental towards some sins while easily overlooking our own. We sneer at rock stars and homosexuals while basking in our pride and gluttony.
I suspect part of the reason Christians struggle with what to do with modern media is that we have our own music industry. The development of a Christian subculture has given us an entire world of products designed for church consumption. So when we listen to the world's music, we take attention and business away from the "Christian" market. The problem is, the word "Christian" wasn't designed to be an adjective, but a noun.
Being in the world but not of it involves engaging the world on its own terms. It means noticing the idols in our midst so we can address our culture in ways that are relevant (Acts 17:23). It is true we need to be wary of things that distract our attention from Christ. A good guide for our attention is to think about things that are true, noble, right, pure, lovely, etc. (Phil 4:8).
However, a good barometer of our hypocrisy is found in asking ourselves whether we are as discriminating about what movies we watch as we are about our music? Are we as cautious about what websites we visit as we are about what radio stations we listen to? Because if we are not, we reveal about ourselves that our interest in selecting certain "Christian" things to do is a matter of personal preference and not necessarily a measure of spiritual maturity.
Here was my response:
Thank you Leslie for these words. There needs to be more discussion in the Church about matters of opinion, particularly with respect to use of media.
There is a big difference between rationalization for the sake of personal indulgence and God giving a believer a clear conscience. Christians need to wrestle with the application of Romans 14, 1 Cor 10:23-11:1; and Col 2:16-23. The Lord has given us clear instruction about how we are to handle matters of personal freedom.
This is vital for the modern church. The church in America has a well deserved reputation for being judgemental towards some sins while easily overlooking our own. We sneer at rock stars and homosexuals while basking in our pride and gluttony.
I suspect part of the reason Christians struggle with what to do with modern media is that we have our own music industry. The development of a Christian subculture has given us an entire world of products designed for church consumption. So when we listen to the world's music, we take attention and business away from the "Christian" market. The problem is, the word "Christian" wasn't designed to be an adjective, but a noun.
Being in the world but not of it involves engaging the world on its own terms. It means noticing the idols in our midst so we can address our culture in ways that are relevant (Acts 17:23). It is true we need to be wary of things that distract our attention from Christ. A good guide for our attention is to think about things that are true, noble, right, pure, lovely, etc. (Phil 4:8).
However, a good barometer of our hypocrisy is found in asking ourselves whether we are as discriminating about what movies we watch as we are about our music? Are we as cautious about what websites we visit as we are about what radio stations we listen to? Because if we are not, we reveal about ourselves that our interest in selecting certain "Christian" things to do is a matter of personal preference and not necessarily a measure of spiritual maturity.
How Are You Doing?
Have you ever had someone ask you how you are doing and you had no idea how to answer? This has happened to me regularly for some time, and particularly over the past week. In the wake of my father's passing, I've wrestled with knowing where I am in the grieving process. I wonder if I've been thinking too much to be able to feel as much as I ought to be feeling?
When I was in my 20's, I avoided the topic of death habitually. I didn't want to go anywhere near the dying or funerals. The Lord helped me break through this barrier when I got a call shortly after arriving at New Hope telling me the father of one of the kids in the Youth Group had died. I was asked to go to the funeral home. I reluctantly drove to Vinton and entered the funeral home. There at the front of the parlor was the casket and the student standing beside it. Family members asked me to go get the student because they needed to start the service and he was stuck there. I remember thinking, "I'm supposed to go get him?" I walked to the front and stood beside him for a few moments. Then suddenly as if he was snapping out of a dream he looked up and said of his father, "He's not there (in his body) any more." With that, the spell was broken, and we walked together down the aisle.
Now as I'm approaching my mid 40's, I deal with the topic of death far more often. I minister to adults now, not just youth. I've been at the bedside of quite a few people at their passing. I've watched many families deal with the loss of a loved one. As I've observed people going through various stages of grief, it has been remarkable to me just how precisely some of the stages can be identified. But it is a different thing when the one grieving is you. A stack of condolence cards reminds you that you are in the thoughts and prayers of others. But of course the source of real inner peace is the One to whom we pray.
I guess what I'm wrestling with at this point is the question of whether the peace I feel signals the end of the grieving process for now? Or perhaps I'm just moving from one stage of grief to the next? How do I know? Does the fact that I cannot help but analyze the emotional process keep me from fully embracing the experience I am going through? This is what is on my mind these days.
So, how am I doing? Honestly, I don't know. I'm trying to enjoy life, return to a stable routine, be a good father to my kids and husband to my wife. The desires to read and write and listen are becoming more acute. In the past these impulses have been positive indications for my soul. If this is still true, I suppose for now I'm doing just fine.
When I was in my 20's, I avoided the topic of death habitually. I didn't want to go anywhere near the dying or funerals. The Lord helped me break through this barrier when I got a call shortly after arriving at New Hope telling me the father of one of the kids in the Youth Group had died. I was asked to go to the funeral home. I reluctantly drove to Vinton and entered the funeral home. There at the front of the parlor was the casket and the student standing beside it. Family members asked me to go get the student because they needed to start the service and he was stuck there. I remember thinking, "I'm supposed to go get him?" I walked to the front and stood beside him for a few moments. Then suddenly as if he was snapping out of a dream he looked up and said of his father, "He's not there (in his body) any more." With that, the spell was broken, and we walked together down the aisle.
Now as I'm approaching my mid 40's, I deal with the topic of death far more often. I minister to adults now, not just youth. I've been at the bedside of quite a few people at their passing. I've watched many families deal with the loss of a loved one. As I've observed people going through various stages of grief, it has been remarkable to me just how precisely some of the stages can be identified. But it is a different thing when the one grieving is you. A stack of condolence cards reminds you that you are in the thoughts and prayers of others. But of course the source of real inner peace is the One to whom we pray.
I guess what I'm wrestling with at this point is the question of whether the peace I feel signals the end of the grieving process for now? Or perhaps I'm just moving from one stage of grief to the next? How do I know? Does the fact that I cannot help but analyze the emotional process keep me from fully embracing the experience I am going through? This is what is on my mind these days.
So, how am I doing? Honestly, I don't know. I'm trying to enjoy life, return to a stable routine, be a good father to my kids and husband to my wife. The desires to read and write and listen are becoming more acute. In the past these impulses have been positive indications for my soul. If this is still true, I suppose for now I'm doing just fine.
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Leaving a Hole
Last Wednesday morning when I got word my father was dying, I was serving as Dean for Teen Ministry Week at camp. Initially I made preparations to leave camp immediately. But as I was leaving, I got the call that there was no rush, Dad had already passed away. Over the next day and a half, I wrestled with when the right time was to step away from my camp responsibilities and head home to grieve with my family. The funeral was scheduled for Saturday evening, but I felt I should be there some time before then.
Eventually I decided to leave the camp Thursday evening. As I was riding away from the camp, I wondered what hole I might leave behind. I left the leadership of the week in the hands of the very capable (Dr.) Steve Cook, but I wondered if my contribution would still be missed. Would the hole I left there be filled? The closer I got to Manassas and the rest of my family, the more I wondered the same thing about my father. His passing left a hole in many lives. One cousin explained, "I always looked forward to Sunday mornings because I knew my hug, kiss on the cheek followed by 'I Love Ya' was waiting for me."
Nearly everyone has relatives who will miss their passing. But as I sat in a standing room auditorium at my Dad's memorial service, I couldn't help but wonder how members of that crowd would be affected by his passing. Where would Dad be missed? What holes exist now that he's not there to fill them?
When I'm gone, I'd like to be believe I'll be missed. But I don't merely want to be emotionally missed. I'm sure there will be some who will grieve my passing. Rather, are there people I am serving and things I am doing that will be left undone when I'm gone? I want to live my life while I'm here in such a way that what I'm doing matters. I want to be missed when I'm gone . . . some. I say "some" because while I want the things I do to matter, I would also like to be known for equipping others to handle things when I'm not here any more.
None of us are indispensable. Sooner or later we will all be gone. But we have the chance to spend our lives doing things that matter. We can also train others to come alongside us so that when it is our time to go, we will leave a hole. May we leave a hole behind when we are gone, but may it be one that will be filled by those who have learned from our example.
Eventually I decided to leave the camp Thursday evening. As I was riding away from the camp, I wondered what hole I might leave behind. I left the leadership of the week in the hands of the very capable (Dr.) Steve Cook, but I wondered if my contribution would still be missed. Would the hole I left there be filled? The closer I got to Manassas and the rest of my family, the more I wondered the same thing about my father. His passing left a hole in many lives. One cousin explained, "I always looked forward to Sunday mornings because I knew my hug, kiss on the cheek followed by 'I Love Ya' was waiting for me."
Nearly everyone has relatives who will miss their passing. But as I sat in a standing room auditorium at my Dad's memorial service, I couldn't help but wonder how members of that crowd would be affected by his passing. Where would Dad be missed? What holes exist now that he's not there to fill them?
When I'm gone, I'd like to be believe I'll be missed. But I don't merely want to be emotionally missed. I'm sure there will be some who will grieve my passing. Rather, are there people I am serving and things I am doing that will be left undone when I'm gone? I want to live my life while I'm here in such a way that what I'm doing matters. I want to be missed when I'm gone . . . some. I say "some" because while I want the things I do to matter, I would also like to be known for equipping others to handle things when I'm not here any more.
None of us are indispensable. Sooner or later we will all be gone. But we have the chance to spend our lives doing things that matter. We can also train others to come alongside us so that when it is our time to go, we will leave a hole. May we leave a hole behind when we are gone, but may it be one that will be filled by those who have learned from our example.
Sunday, June 20, 2010
A Father's Mercies
Wednesday morning June 16th at 8:45 am my Dad passed away. I was at camp with three of my best friends when I got the news. Although Ann wasn't there (she was with her parents in NC), I felt the embrace of my dear friends in the moment when the grief was most heavy. There are so many little mercies, graces I felt the Lord extended to me through this process, that have reminded me He is still in charge even in the storms of life. I know this, and have seen this at work in the lives of others. But it is still encouraging when I experience it personally.
Here are just a few small things . . .
-- The day Dad passed away just happened to be the only day of the week that Steve, Tessa, and Robbie were all three at the camp.
-- In addition, the disabilities group was later than expected, which gave them the time to be with me while not neglecting the service that day.
-- I was able to preach a revival at my home church just a week before Dad died. In fact, Jon Ulm related to me those were the last three sermons Dad heard (he didn't make it to church last Sunday).
-- I was able to talk to Dad on Tuesday, the day before he passed. In fact, he told me they had said he was going to be going home. It turns out he was right, just not in the way he thought.
-- Mickey Derrow had already been scheduled to preach on Father's Day (the day after the funeral), so I didn't have to ask someone to preach for me at the last minute.
-- When a Survivor friend (Brett Bowers) expressed condolences, he did so by quoting Psalm 116:15, the very passage used in the sermon at Dad's funeral. It is the only passage anyone has left.
There are more, but I want to make sure I write these down before I forget. So many "unforgettable" memories are too easily lost.
Here are just a few small things . . .
-- The day Dad passed away just happened to be the only day of the week that Steve, Tessa, and Robbie were all three at the camp.
-- In addition, the disabilities group was later than expected, which gave them the time to be with me while not neglecting the service that day.
-- I was able to preach a revival at my home church just a week before Dad died. In fact, Jon Ulm related to me those were the last three sermons Dad heard (he didn't make it to church last Sunday).
-- I was able to talk to Dad on Tuesday, the day before he passed. In fact, he told me they had said he was going to be going home. It turns out he was right, just not in the way he thought.
-- Mickey Derrow had already been scheduled to preach on Father's Day (the day after the funeral), so I didn't have to ask someone to preach for me at the last minute.
-- When a Survivor friend (Brett Bowers) expressed condolences, he did so by quoting Psalm 116:15, the very passage used in the sermon at Dad's funeral. It is the only passage anyone has left.
There are more, but I want to make sure I write these down before I forget. So many "unforgettable" memories are too easily lost.
Saturday, May 29, 2010
Memories and Sacrifice
One of the defining characteristics of this season of my life has been a renewed appreciation for WW2 veterans. Ever since Ann & I watched the Band of Brothers mini-series, my heart has been moved by what men endured for the sake of one another and the nation. Of course you learn as you go through that men are much less likely to have abstract notions on their minds, and much more likely to die for their buddy next to them. But in either case, they were eager initially to sign up for the "privilege" of fighting for their country. Since watching the series, I've read both the book on which the series was based and an autobiography by one of the men who was in Easy Company (Donald Malarkey).
This is Memorial Day weekend, a day when we commemorate those who gave their lives in service to our country. We are showing a video in our services tomorrow that highlights the sacrifices made by the families of those who have died. The first time I watched it, I was deeply moved. The second time was no different. Yet they put it right before I have to preach. Not fair!
When you watch or read stories about men who endured what they did at Bastogne, you cannot help but wonder what you value that much. What is there that you would endure bitter cold, frostbite, gunfire, artillery, mortar bombardment, hunger, loneliness, and watching guys die next to you for? What is really that important to you? These men are rightly deemed heroes. But I wonder if the opportunity came to all of us, how many of us would rise to the occasion?
I have mixed feelings about this. Because some days I desperately hope I get my chance. But most days I hope I never have to find out.
This is Memorial Day weekend, a day when we commemorate those who gave their lives in service to our country. We are showing a video in our services tomorrow that highlights the sacrifices made by the families of those who have died. The first time I watched it, I was deeply moved. The second time was no different. Yet they put it right before I have to preach. Not fair!
When you watch or read stories about men who endured what they did at Bastogne, you cannot help but wonder what you value that much. What is there that you would endure bitter cold, frostbite, gunfire, artillery, mortar bombardment, hunger, loneliness, and watching guys die next to you for? What is really that important to you? These men are rightly deemed heroes. But I wonder if the opportunity came to all of us, how many of us would rise to the occasion?
I have mixed feelings about this. Because some days I desperately hope I get my chance. But most days I hope I never have to find out.
Thursday, May 20, 2010
The Power of Questions
This week in my small group, we considered the incident Mark records after Jesus descends the mountain of Transfiguration. Jesus had literally had the greatest mountaintop experience of his earthly life. He had taken Peter, James, and John with him to the top of the mountain. They'd witnessed him transformed before their eyes into a glorious body and seen him converse with Moses and Elijah. I imagine they were blown away by the experience they had just shared together. Can you imagine how eager they must have been to share what had happened with other people? Yet as they descended the mountain together, Jesus explicitly commanded them not to share what they'd seen until after his resurrection (Mark 9:9).
As is often the case after a great spiritual experience, they encounter an experience that threatens to derail their joy. In this case, it is petty squabbling between the nine disciples who had stayed at the foot of the mountain and a group of teachers of the law. Can you imagine how difficult an emotional adjustment it must have been for Jesus and his three disciples to have to face this the moment they returned from such a powerful and dramatic spiritual encounter? Yet the evil one knew something great was going on at the top of that mountain. Any time the Lord is moving, the evil one will be slinking around somewhere nearby (1 Peter 5:8).
Yet Jesus' approach to this situation is to begin by asking questions. He could have easily started talking about what was on his mind, or rebuked the group for their arguing with one another. Yet He enters into their situation and expresses interest in what is on their mind. He apparently addresses his disciples (not the teachers they are arguing with) and says, "What are you arguing with them about?" They aren't able to answer him before the man who brought his son to be healed explains his condition. After expressing his frustration over the lack of faith among the people of that generation, Jesus asks the boy be brought to him and then asks the father how long his son has been this way. Jesus may or may not have known the answer to the question. But by asking it, Jesus again enters into the world of those around Him. This is His consistent pattern when engaging others. He asks questions and engages in dialogue that communicates other people are important to Him.
Do we ask questions of others and enter into their worlds? Or do we consistently launch into discussion of our own ideas and concerns without considering others? Jesus leads us both by His commands and His example. May those of us who bear His name be as interested in people as He was . . . and is!
As is often the case after a great spiritual experience, they encounter an experience that threatens to derail their joy. In this case, it is petty squabbling between the nine disciples who had stayed at the foot of the mountain and a group of teachers of the law. Can you imagine how difficult an emotional adjustment it must have been for Jesus and his three disciples to have to face this the moment they returned from such a powerful and dramatic spiritual encounter? Yet the evil one knew something great was going on at the top of that mountain. Any time the Lord is moving, the evil one will be slinking around somewhere nearby (1 Peter 5:8).
Yet Jesus' approach to this situation is to begin by asking questions. He could have easily started talking about what was on his mind, or rebuked the group for their arguing with one another. Yet He enters into their situation and expresses interest in what is on their mind. He apparently addresses his disciples (not the teachers they are arguing with) and says, "What are you arguing with them about?" They aren't able to answer him before the man who brought his son to be healed explains his condition. After expressing his frustration over the lack of faith among the people of that generation, Jesus asks the boy be brought to him and then asks the father how long his son has been this way. Jesus may or may not have known the answer to the question. But by asking it, Jesus again enters into the world of those around Him. This is His consistent pattern when engaging others. He asks questions and engages in dialogue that communicates other people are important to Him.
Do we ask questions of others and enter into their worlds? Or do we consistently launch into discussion of our own ideas and concerns without considering others? Jesus leads us both by His commands and His example. May those of us who bear His name be as interested in people as He was . . . and is!
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
Woe to the Traitor
When Candice returned to her mutinous ways on Survivor, she reminded fans of the show why she should never have been a "hero" in the first place. People who pay way too much attention to such things recall that on S13: Cook Islands, Candice mutinied from the Aitutaki tribe and joined the rival tribe. She was booted from the game not long after that. Now on the 20th season of Survivor, she was back as a "hero" where she was booted the episode after she backstabbed the Heroes. Served her right.
I would never have bothered blogging about this had this dynamic been confined to the Survivor world. Although Survivor is entertaining to me, most people don't care much any more. But in a case of life imitates art, yesterday saw Arlen Specter lose in a primary to a Democrat. Specter had been a senator for five terms -- 30 years. He apparently left the Republican party to avoid a Republican primary battle against a conservative he only beat by two percentage points in his previous election, thinking his chances would be better running as a Democrat. So he left the party he'd been part of since Ronald Reagan was first elected to office in 1980 and became a Democrat in a move to cling to power. He lost by eight points.
Political pragmatism may seem like the best move if the greatest and highest goal is to remain in power. But where are the men and women of principle who would rather stand by what they believe than be re-elected? Until we are committed to honoring principled people over those who tickle our ears, we will continue to be faced by an endless parade of people promising "change." But we'll never actually get any change until a majority of those who vote change who they're looking for.
I'm thrilled there are examples like this from entertainment and politics to make this point clear. But is anyone paying attention?
I would never have bothered blogging about this had this dynamic been confined to the Survivor world. Although Survivor is entertaining to me, most people don't care much any more. But in a case of life imitates art, yesterday saw Arlen Specter lose in a primary to a Democrat. Specter had been a senator for five terms -- 30 years. He apparently left the Republican party to avoid a Republican primary battle against a conservative he only beat by two percentage points in his previous election, thinking his chances would be better running as a Democrat. So he left the party he'd been part of since Ronald Reagan was first elected to office in 1980 and became a Democrat in a move to cling to power. He lost by eight points.
Political pragmatism may seem like the best move if the greatest and highest goal is to remain in power. But where are the men and women of principle who would rather stand by what they believe than be re-elected? Until we are committed to honoring principled people over those who tickle our ears, we will continue to be faced by an endless parade of people promising "change." But we'll never actually get any change until a majority of those who vote change who they're looking for.
I'm thrilled there are examples like this from entertainment and politics to make this point clear. But is anyone paying attention?
Sunday, May 16, 2010
Survivor Sentiments
There are few people who read this blog, and fewer among them who care about the television show Survivor. But before tonight's finale plays out and I miss the opportunity to say what I want to say, I'd like to express a few sentiments about the newest Survivor darling, Russell.
After the last season when Survivor lost to the rather mediocre Natalie, Jeff Probst and others seemed shocked and disappointed Russell lost. I was terribly frustrated that I felt like I had to constantly explain what seemed to abudantly obvious to me. Now we stand on the brink of yet another Survivor finale and again it seems Russell is likely to make the final tribal council. I'm sure there are some who are gleefully anticipating Russell finally getting the credit he deserves. Well, let me see if I can make this clear to any Russell lover who may care.
Russell is not a great Survivor player. He's not only not the best ever, he isn't going to win . . . ever.
In the interest of fairness, I will grant that Russell is very aggressive at finding idols. He is also good at manipulation and intimidation. But in terms of being a great player, Russell lacks the necessary savvy to win at final tribal council. As a more minor issue, Russell is not a particularly good physical player either. We are near the end of the game again and he noticably doesn't win immunity unless he can find it under a rock somewhere. Which is fitting, since his type seems to be the sort who comes out from under rocks.
Two major issues make Russell Hantz a fatally flawed player of the game. First, he lacks social grace (almost completely). In Survivor, when you get to the second part of the game, you have to get rid of those people from the game but keep their vote. He's decent at the first part of that, but terrible at the second. Second, he plays the game with too much emotion. The moment someone says something cross to him, he's ready to get rid of them. Once you realize this, Russell can be easily manipulated into voting out even one of his best allies (Coach). His insecurity prompts him to get rid of those who would be most loyal to him (Danielle) if he feels for a moment she may not like him the best.
Russell has become the on-screen version of all that is wrong with Junior High school students. Selfish, manipulative, petty, and mouthy; he may make for winsome television for those who cast Survivor. But most normal people got away from that sort of thing once their voice finished changing. I will be very glad when this season is over and the next begins just so we can move beyond the Hantz era. If rumors he may return again for a third time in the following season turn out to be true, Survivor may lose a lot of loyal viewers -- and I will likely be among them.
After the last season when Survivor lost to the rather mediocre Natalie, Jeff Probst and others seemed shocked and disappointed Russell lost. I was terribly frustrated that I felt like I had to constantly explain what seemed to abudantly obvious to me. Now we stand on the brink of yet another Survivor finale and again it seems Russell is likely to make the final tribal council. I'm sure there are some who are gleefully anticipating Russell finally getting the credit he deserves. Well, let me see if I can make this clear to any Russell lover who may care.
Russell is not a great Survivor player. He's not only not the best ever, he isn't going to win . . . ever.
In the interest of fairness, I will grant that Russell is very aggressive at finding idols. He is also good at manipulation and intimidation. But in terms of being a great player, Russell lacks the necessary savvy to win at final tribal council. As a more minor issue, Russell is not a particularly good physical player either. We are near the end of the game again and he noticably doesn't win immunity unless he can find it under a rock somewhere. Which is fitting, since his type seems to be the sort who comes out from under rocks.
Two major issues make Russell Hantz a fatally flawed player of the game. First, he lacks social grace (almost completely). In Survivor, when you get to the second part of the game, you have to get rid of those people from the game but keep their vote. He's decent at the first part of that, but terrible at the second. Second, he plays the game with too much emotion. The moment someone says something cross to him, he's ready to get rid of them. Once you realize this, Russell can be easily manipulated into voting out even one of his best allies (Coach). His insecurity prompts him to get rid of those who would be most loyal to him (Danielle) if he feels for a moment she may not like him the best.
Russell has become the on-screen version of all that is wrong with Junior High school students. Selfish, manipulative, petty, and mouthy; he may make for winsome television for those who cast Survivor. But most normal people got away from that sort of thing once their voice finished changing. I will be very glad when this season is over and the next begins just so we can move beyond the Hantz era. If rumors he may return again for a third time in the following season turn out to be true, Survivor may lose a lot of loyal viewers -- and I will likely be among them.
Monday, May 10, 2010
Thoughts from the Hallelujah Mountains
Avatar struck box office gold with a blending of Ferngully (or Atlantis or Star Wars) & The Matrix, and a bit of LOST thrown in for good measure. This film was so familiar as I viewed it that it was hard to shake the feeling that I'd seen it before. Perhaps because I have.
Like so many films before it, the film creatively syncretizes numerous religious perspectives into a palatable dish that goes down easy for the heroes of the story. The Na'Vi bear a striking resemblance in many ways to American Indians, and of course we are now supposed to side with them. Long gone are the days of Cowboys and Indians when we look down on the natives for their savagery. Instead their respect for the earth and believe in Eywa is touching. This "god" is a panentheistic entity nearly impossible to distinguish from "the force" of Star Wars fame, except that it is eventually referred to as their "great mother."
Also thrown in for good measure are a couple references to Christianity, in order to help make all this feel familiar enough to be palatable. Flying mountains are called the "Hallelujah" (literally "praise God") mountains, and this show-stopping line by one of the native Na'vi people during an initiation process where the hero (Jake Sully) is striving to be among their people. Neytiri says, "Every person is born twice. The second time is when you earn your place among the people forever."
All of which gives me pause to stop and reflect on the significance and impact of these references. Are these references included because of their resonance with movie viewers? Are they a reflection of the muddled convictions of the writers and producers of these films? Or is there a deeper reason for such repetition? Is there a constantly unsatisfied longing that prompts such spiritual speculation? Is there a desire to be reborn and a lack of awareness or trust in how to go about it? Perhaps that is unrealistically hopeful.
But the more intriguing question for me is to consider the effect such speculative fiction has on our souls. What is the net result of such repetitive viewing of stories like these? Does it function as a placebo in the place of the real remedy? Or does it awaken the longing in the soul even deeper to fertilize the soil for the planting of the seed of the Word of God? Like most such questions, I suspect the answer is both, or either, or neither one. People receive messages differently, and these stories are such a muddled mishmash of confused ideology that it is hard to know what among it will stick in the mind from one person to the next.
What I do know is this. There are important reasons films like this continue to do well at the box office. Spirituality sells. Consumers are not only interested in these things, they will pay to reflect on them. Another reality worth considering: Packaging matters. Avatar is arguably one of the most visually impressive films ever released, and this is part of the appeal for many people. I've been stunned how many people have told me that seeing Avatar makes them think or heaven, or that they hope heaven looks like that. More than anything else, this tells me the makers of this film have tapped people's creative imaginations.
Whether you regard films like Avatar as wonderful or dangerous (or both), there are lessons to be learned from considering why so many people are enamoured with them.
Like so many films before it, the film creatively syncretizes numerous religious perspectives into a palatable dish that goes down easy for the heroes of the story. The Na'Vi bear a striking resemblance in many ways to American Indians, and of course we are now supposed to side with them. Long gone are the days of Cowboys and Indians when we look down on the natives for their savagery. Instead their respect for the earth and believe in Eywa is touching. This "god" is a panentheistic entity nearly impossible to distinguish from "the force" of Star Wars fame, except that it is eventually referred to as their "great mother."
Also thrown in for good measure are a couple references to Christianity, in order to help make all this feel familiar enough to be palatable. Flying mountains are called the "Hallelujah" (literally "praise God") mountains, and this show-stopping line by one of the native Na'vi people during an initiation process where the hero (Jake Sully) is striving to be among their people. Neytiri says, "Every person is born twice. The second time is when you earn your place among the people forever."
All of which gives me pause to stop and reflect on the significance and impact of these references. Are these references included because of their resonance with movie viewers? Are they a reflection of the muddled convictions of the writers and producers of these films? Or is there a deeper reason for such repetition? Is there a constantly unsatisfied longing that prompts such spiritual speculation? Is there a desire to be reborn and a lack of awareness or trust in how to go about it? Perhaps that is unrealistically hopeful.
But the more intriguing question for me is to consider the effect such speculative fiction has on our souls. What is the net result of such repetitive viewing of stories like these? Does it function as a placebo in the place of the real remedy? Or does it awaken the longing in the soul even deeper to fertilize the soil for the planting of the seed of the Word of God? Like most such questions, I suspect the answer is both, or either, or neither one. People receive messages differently, and these stories are such a muddled mishmash of confused ideology that it is hard to know what among it will stick in the mind from one person to the next.
What I do know is this. There are important reasons films like this continue to do well at the box office. Spirituality sells. Consumers are not only interested in these things, they will pay to reflect on them. Another reality worth considering: Packaging matters. Avatar is arguably one of the most visually impressive films ever released, and this is part of the appeal for many people. I've been stunned how many people have told me that seeing Avatar makes them think or heaven, or that they hope heaven looks like that. More than anything else, this tells me the makers of this film have tapped people's creative imaginations.
Whether you regard films like Avatar as wonderful or dangerous (or both), there are lessons to be learned from considering why so many people are enamoured with them.
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
Who Stinks?
One evening as 10 year old Tommy was spending the night at his grandparents’ house, his grandmother introduced him to limburger cheese. Tommy couldn’t believe how bad the smell was, and went to bed that night wondering how anyone could eat that stuff. The next afternoon as he watched his grandfather sleeping in his lazy boy, he came up with an idea. He went to the refrigerator and got out some of the limburger cheese and lightly brushed some on his grandfather’s mustache – right under his nose. Then Tommy snuck off to listen and watch what he would do when he awoke. A few minutes later, his grandfather woke up and wrinkled his nose. He said out loud to no one in particular, “It stinks in here!” The old man then walked into the kitchen and said, “It stinks in here too!” Then, walking out the back door, he stood outside and sniffed. He finally announced, “The whole world stinks!”
The moral of the story? If the whole world stinks, its probably you.
The moral of the story? If the whole world stinks, its probably you.
Saturday, May 1, 2010
Balance: Further Reflections
One of the most significant insights that have echoed in my soul in 2010 has been to consider what God would like the balance of my life to be. The more I have tried to live in pursuit of the righteous life, the more abundantly obvious it has become how it is nearly impossible for me to discern the best way to spend my moments. In any given day, there are so many things competing for my heart and mind that I find myself having to say "No" to more and more things. Ann has reminded me continually that the ability to say "No" is one I've desperately needed. Now that I do, knowing precisely when to use it is no less problematic.
Every component of our lives cries for attention. Career, ministry, spouse, rest, time with God, children, spiritual disciplines, household tasks, community involvement, sleep, personal fitness, maintaining contact in significant relationships. The list seems endless to me. And the truth is, I genuinely enjoy most of these things. For the most part, I run to them, not from them. But there is a limit to what can be packed into a day. For a while the attempt to work more efficiently relieves the burden of an overbusy life. But there comes a point when you simply cannot do everything. Lists have blank spaces where I feel there ought to be checkmarks.
What makes these dilemmas so perplexing is finding the balance between priority and desire, wants and needs, urgency and importance, immediate impact and long term significance. I almost feel like I'm sitting in Mr. Keating's class as he recites Mr. J. Evans Pritchard's guidelines for understanding poetry. I can graph out all the relative factors and chart what I ought to be doing. But what room do we leave for the Spirit to instruct our souls when this is how we determine how to live our lives? Is this really how God wants me deciding what to do when I have a free half an hour?
A more obvious consequence of the process I use is the model I set for those who view how I live. My eldest daughter is an extraordinary young woman with great talents. But she also possesses a remarkable propensity toward overcommitment, fatigue, and burnout. Hmm, wonder where she learned that? And yet when I consider how I've lived my life it is very difficult to determine what I should NOT have done. What ought I to have left out in order that I was not pushing my capacity to the very limits? Should we not live close to the edge of what we are capable of accomplishing while we are here? Is this not what it means to "make the most of every opportunity"? (Eph 5:15-16).
This blog is such a perfect illustration of my struggle. I began this year with the very real hope to blog every day in 2010. Clearly, this has been a disastrous commitment in terms of follow-through. Yet this very failure highlights the very thing God is teaching me. As I write, there are more things to do today than I will likely get done. I need to take my kids a couple places I've promised, do some errands Ann's asked me to do while she's at work, go to the hospital, and I have friends who intend to come over tonight. Somewhere between taking my son to "Free Comic Book Day," the kids to the library and the Strawberry Festival, and a visit to "Tudor's Biscuit World" -- I'm not going to be able to do it all and everything else as well. But perhaps the essence of the life of faith is to head off in a godly direction and see how He redirects our paths. Proverbs 3:5-6.
Every component of our lives cries for attention. Career, ministry, spouse, rest, time with God, children, spiritual disciplines, household tasks, community involvement, sleep, personal fitness, maintaining contact in significant relationships. The list seems endless to me. And the truth is, I genuinely enjoy most of these things. For the most part, I run to them, not from them. But there is a limit to what can be packed into a day. For a while the attempt to work more efficiently relieves the burden of an overbusy life. But there comes a point when you simply cannot do everything. Lists have blank spaces where I feel there ought to be checkmarks.
What makes these dilemmas so perplexing is finding the balance between priority and desire, wants and needs, urgency and importance, immediate impact and long term significance. I almost feel like I'm sitting in Mr. Keating's class as he recites Mr. J. Evans Pritchard's guidelines for understanding poetry. I can graph out all the relative factors and chart what I ought to be doing. But what room do we leave for the Spirit to instruct our souls when this is how we determine how to live our lives? Is this really how God wants me deciding what to do when I have a free half an hour?
A more obvious consequence of the process I use is the model I set for those who view how I live. My eldest daughter is an extraordinary young woman with great talents. But she also possesses a remarkable propensity toward overcommitment, fatigue, and burnout. Hmm, wonder where she learned that? And yet when I consider how I've lived my life it is very difficult to determine what I should NOT have done. What ought I to have left out in order that I was not pushing my capacity to the very limits? Should we not live close to the edge of what we are capable of accomplishing while we are here? Is this not what it means to "make the most of every opportunity"? (Eph 5:15-16).
This blog is such a perfect illustration of my struggle. I began this year with the very real hope to blog every day in 2010. Clearly, this has been a disastrous commitment in terms of follow-through. Yet this very failure highlights the very thing God is teaching me. As I write, there are more things to do today than I will likely get done. I need to take my kids a couple places I've promised, do some errands Ann's asked me to do while she's at work, go to the hospital, and I have friends who intend to come over tonight. Somewhere between taking my son to "Free Comic Book Day," the kids to the library and the Strawberry Festival, and a visit to "Tudor's Biscuit World" -- I'm not going to be able to do it all and everything else as well. But perhaps the essence of the life of faith is to head off in a godly direction and see how He redirects our paths. Proverbs 3:5-6.
Thursday, April 22, 2010
The Value of Altered Perspective
After spending four years in bible college, five years in seminary and twenty years in ministry; some scripture is too familiar. Familiarity erects an impressive blockade against truth that we may need to rock our world. When we are able to recite the profound truth God wants to say to us even as He wants to get our attention, sometimes our minds intercept what our hearts most need to hear. Our mouths are moving, but our souls are in neutral. The motor is running -- yet we're not getting anywhere.
What is particularly unfortunate is that often the most familiar truths are also the ones we most need to be told. We may not recall well what is in Leviticus 14 or Zephaniah 2; but we also probably don't need to consider those words as desperately as we need to reflect on Matthew 5 or Philippians 1. Too much familiarity with the most profound truths and experiences God gives us can innoculate us against the divine infection we're supposed to be carrying. I suspect we all know this -- but the solution is far more problematic. It is easy for the David Lettermans of the world to critique what is wrong. But it requires wisdom to offer guidance in the face of daunting spiritual hurdles.
I don't pretend to be an expert in such things. But I read things smarter people suggest, and several of them seem wise. If this diagnosis seems accurate as you examine the state of your heart, allow me to make a couple of suggestions.
1. We NEED routines, but they must change. Don't downplay the importance of routine simply because familiarity can be harmful. We need patterns of behavior to reinforce positive actions. I'm indebted to David Crowder's little book "Praise Habit" for this thought. Whatever you regularly do to connect with God -- do it regularly. Go back to it over and over. Just know that sooner or later the routine will need to change or it will become stale.
2. Look at truth from a different ANGLE. This can be done in several ways. One way I've begun doing recently is reading very familiar books of Scripture from a different version than I'm used to. I started reading Philippians today and used the NLT. I found that the wording forced me to rethink what God wants to say to my heart through Paul. Another way to do this is to discuss spiritual topics with someone who is a Christian but isn't from the exact same background. Perhaps they are from a different culture, perhaps they are from a different denomination. Either way they may jumpstart your ability to think through what God may want us to hear. A final thought on this concept is to avoid books that you completely agree with. Outside of Scripture, it is often valuable to seek books that will challenge what we believe. I'm not talking about complete rubbish, but things that will provoke serious consideration.
3. Associate with PECULIAR individuals. We often gather friends and associates around ourselves who make us feel good about what we think. But finding Christians who see things you miss will often open up whole vistas I would have never otherwise even realized existed. In my case, as a logical, analytical type of thinker, it helps to be married to a left-handed artist who works at a fabric store. I have friends who are visionaries, poets, musicians, counselors, and work with young children. They all view a world that is largely invisible to me. But I'm convinced their perspective is often something God wants to use to show me things He wants me to see.
What is particularly unfortunate is that often the most familiar truths are also the ones we most need to be told. We may not recall well what is in Leviticus 14 or Zephaniah 2; but we also probably don't need to consider those words as desperately as we need to reflect on Matthew 5 or Philippians 1. Too much familiarity with the most profound truths and experiences God gives us can innoculate us against the divine infection we're supposed to be carrying. I suspect we all know this -- but the solution is far more problematic. It is easy for the David Lettermans of the world to critique what is wrong. But it requires wisdom to offer guidance in the face of daunting spiritual hurdles.
I don't pretend to be an expert in such things. But I read things smarter people suggest, and several of them seem wise. If this diagnosis seems accurate as you examine the state of your heart, allow me to make a couple of suggestions.
1. We NEED routines, but they must change. Don't downplay the importance of routine simply because familiarity can be harmful. We need patterns of behavior to reinforce positive actions. I'm indebted to David Crowder's little book "Praise Habit" for this thought. Whatever you regularly do to connect with God -- do it regularly. Go back to it over and over. Just know that sooner or later the routine will need to change or it will become stale.
2. Look at truth from a different ANGLE. This can be done in several ways. One way I've begun doing recently is reading very familiar books of Scripture from a different version than I'm used to. I started reading Philippians today and used the NLT. I found that the wording forced me to rethink what God wants to say to my heart through Paul. Another way to do this is to discuss spiritual topics with someone who is a Christian but isn't from the exact same background. Perhaps they are from a different culture, perhaps they are from a different denomination. Either way they may jumpstart your ability to think through what God may want us to hear. A final thought on this concept is to avoid books that you completely agree with. Outside of Scripture, it is often valuable to seek books that will challenge what we believe. I'm not talking about complete rubbish, but things that will provoke serious consideration.
3. Associate with PECULIAR individuals. We often gather friends and associates around ourselves who make us feel good about what we think. But finding Christians who see things you miss will often open up whole vistas I would have never otherwise even realized existed. In my case, as a logical, analytical type of thinker, it helps to be married to a left-handed artist who works at a fabric store. I have friends who are visionaries, poets, musicians, counselors, and work with young children. They all view a world that is largely invisible to me. But I'm convinced their perspective is often something God wants to use to show me things He wants me to see.
Saturday, April 17, 2010
One Call
How many times has life been just moving along normally like a leaf floating on the surface of a stream when a phone call dramatically moved life in a different direction? Sometimes these calls are ominous reports of a friend or family member who has received a diagnosis or been fired from their job. Occasionally these calls are urgent requests for assistance (my car broke down, I'm locked out of my house) -- can you help?
On other occasions, these phone calls can be long awaited good news or an old friend who suddenly made contact after years of being out of touch. Sometimes the call that changes our day, our week -- even our life -- is one that is so random and unpredictable that we could never have seen it coming. I received a random call like that yesterday. Not a life-changing call by any means, but a random call that was an opportunity for the Lord to teach me. The call came while I was having a serious conversation. I looked down at the caller ID on my cell phone and saw an unfamiliar area code. I made a mental note to make sure to check the message when my meeting ended. When I checked the message, it was someone whose name I've heard, but I've never actually talked to before. The information honestly wasn't at all earth shattering.
That being said, I found the rest of my day was suddenly consumed with thoughts of something I hadn't even considered prior to that call. I went running yesterday (a truly invigorating marvelous run btw!). For the entire time I ran, I found myself savoring the details of this phone call. I couldn't help but notice how fickle our attention can be. Had I not returned that phone call when I did, my evening run and thoughts would have been completely different. Some of this is simply interesting to me. But to some extent it is a bit troubling. Does this merely indicate how captive I am to my momentary circumstances?
Where is the line between being responsive and attentive "in the moment" and having our hearts and heads led around by whatever is dangled in front of us? Jesus was a man on a mission. His long term goals were directly before Him and His main path was not one that would be altered. Yet he was constantly presented with impromptu situations that required a change in focus. I think of the woman with the bleeding problem (Luke 8:42ff) who snuck up on Jesus to pursue healing. He stopped what he was doing and addressed her, and when he did another opportunity presented itself (Jairus). His focus changed, but his priorities didn't. I need to figure out how to do this better.
On other occasions, these phone calls can be long awaited good news or an old friend who suddenly made contact after years of being out of touch. Sometimes the call that changes our day, our week -- even our life -- is one that is so random and unpredictable that we could never have seen it coming. I received a random call like that yesterday. Not a life-changing call by any means, but a random call that was an opportunity for the Lord to teach me. The call came while I was having a serious conversation. I looked down at the caller ID on my cell phone and saw an unfamiliar area code. I made a mental note to make sure to check the message when my meeting ended. When I checked the message, it was someone whose name I've heard, but I've never actually talked to before. The information honestly wasn't at all earth shattering.
That being said, I found the rest of my day was suddenly consumed with thoughts of something I hadn't even considered prior to that call. I went running yesterday (a truly invigorating marvelous run btw!). For the entire time I ran, I found myself savoring the details of this phone call. I couldn't help but notice how fickle our attention can be. Had I not returned that phone call when I did, my evening run and thoughts would have been completely different. Some of this is simply interesting to me. But to some extent it is a bit troubling. Does this merely indicate how captive I am to my momentary circumstances?
Where is the line between being responsive and attentive "in the moment" and having our hearts and heads led around by whatever is dangled in front of us? Jesus was a man on a mission. His long term goals were directly before Him and His main path was not one that would be altered. Yet he was constantly presented with impromptu situations that required a change in focus. I think of the woman with the bleeding problem (Luke 8:42ff) who snuck up on Jesus to pursue healing. He stopped what he was doing and addressed her, and when he did another opportunity presented itself (Jairus). His focus changed, but his priorities didn't. I need to figure out how to do this better.
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Love Incarnate
The gospel in a word is love. They'll know we are Christians by our love. God is love. For all the talk about love, you'd think it would be so commonly evident in the Body of Christ that the connection would be axiomatic. You would think churches would be full of people whose love for God and others would be so manifest that people would wonder, "what has gotten into these people?" (Wouldn't you love to have to answer that question?).
Yet somehow along the way, the majority of us seemed to have missed the memo. The church has a far greater reputation for being harsh, judgemental, and hypocritical than it does for loving people. By and large this reputation seems well-earned. But as Francis Schaeffer aptly pointed out in his book The Mark of a Christian, this really is to be the distinguishing characteristic of those who are in Christ. Jesus has given license to the world to judge whether we are authentic by viewing our love for one another. What do they see in us?
Today we lost a man in love. A dear brother in our congregation left suddenly this Sunday morning from here to worship the Lord in person rather than at New Hope. He was a Theophilus, a lover of God. His life oozed passion for a Savior he couldn't wait to see. Even though doctors had told him cancer would likely claim him, the Lord had other -- and it turns out earlier -- plans. And as selfish as many of us feel in losing him, the greatest hurt is not that we've lost the man, but the model.
How often do you meet a middle aged man who loves Jesus so much that his affection for him cannot be hidden? So many of us know "good" men, "solid" men, "hard-working" men, even "godly" men. Certainly these characteristics are admirable. But we need people with skin on to show us what love looks like. I suspect that was the most important reason for God sending His Son Jesus to us in the first place. We couldn't imagine what real love was like until we saw it ourselves.
For my own part, I miss the conversation I'm not going to get to have with him. That's two men now with whom I've postponed an important conversation who left for their eternal reward before I was able to have it with them. Hopefully this time I will heed the warning that there really is precious little time left. If there is a conversation I need to have, I need to make the time and opportunity for it to happen. Otherwise it may not happen, and what is incarnate may be available to us no longer.
Yet somehow along the way, the majority of us seemed to have missed the memo. The church has a far greater reputation for being harsh, judgemental, and hypocritical than it does for loving people. By and large this reputation seems well-earned. But as Francis Schaeffer aptly pointed out in his book The Mark of a Christian, this really is to be the distinguishing characteristic of those who are in Christ. Jesus has given license to the world to judge whether we are authentic by viewing our love for one another. What do they see in us?
Today we lost a man in love. A dear brother in our congregation left suddenly this Sunday morning from here to worship the Lord in person rather than at New Hope. He was a Theophilus, a lover of God. His life oozed passion for a Savior he couldn't wait to see. Even though doctors had told him cancer would likely claim him, the Lord had other -- and it turns out earlier -- plans. And as selfish as many of us feel in losing him, the greatest hurt is not that we've lost the man, but the model.
How often do you meet a middle aged man who loves Jesus so much that his affection for him cannot be hidden? So many of us know "good" men, "solid" men, "hard-working" men, even "godly" men. Certainly these characteristics are admirable. But we need people with skin on to show us what love looks like. I suspect that was the most important reason for God sending His Son Jesus to us in the first place. We couldn't imagine what real love was like until we saw it ourselves.
For my own part, I miss the conversation I'm not going to get to have with him. That's two men now with whom I've postponed an important conversation who left for their eternal reward before I was able to have it with them. Hopefully this time I will heed the warning that there really is precious little time left. If there is a conversation I need to have, I need to make the time and opportunity for it to happen. Otherwise it may not happen, and what is incarnate may be available to us no longer.
Saturday, April 10, 2010
The Inexorable March
Time marches dependably forward -- at least if you're human and not divine. Few things are more bizarrely eerie than the phenomenon that takes place when you go to be with an ill family member. For you and those with you, time nearly stands still and almost everything revolves around this individual for whom all have gathered. Whether it is time spent in a waiting room, or a home whose family life wraps around the chair where that individual sits -- life is different under these circumstances. Things slow down, priorities change, we are aware of different issues.
What punctuates this oddity is when life resumes in the acceleration lane. Suddenly we find ourselves pulled forward, our pace quickened as we recognize the rest of the world hasn't been on watch with us. Life has gone on without our awareness. Perhaps nothing makes this more clearly evident than the well intentioned questions we face when we get back to the rest of life. "So, how's your [insert relationship here]?"
Most often of course a very quick cursory response will do. But on the occasions when we know people want to know more than "fine," it is often hard to frame words around the experience accurately. We may find ourselves guarded as well, not always knowing ourselves whether we are ready to fully embrace the developments others want to hear.
Our family has returned to Roanoke from NoVa. I'm not sure how to answer the question "How's your Dad?" But I appreciate the intent of those who will inevitably ask it tomorrow. I'm glad to be home. But the mail here was a timely reminder that life goes on. And one way or another, so must we when we find ourselves colliding with expectations. Perhaps this is one powerful lesson we can learn from the numerous stories of the Old Testament. No matter how bizarre, incredible, powerful, and even miraculous those events were; each generation had to learn from what happened before them and realize that time and God's plan continue to move forward.
I'm glad for breaks from the routine of life. But when we pull away from our responsibilities with job and daily life to tend to family, it doesn't quite feel like a vacation. Either way, life goes on. May we learn from the lessons God teaches us to make the most of each moment -- however it is spent.
What punctuates this oddity is when life resumes in the acceleration lane. Suddenly we find ourselves pulled forward, our pace quickened as we recognize the rest of the world hasn't been on watch with us. Life has gone on without our awareness. Perhaps nothing makes this more clearly evident than the well intentioned questions we face when we get back to the rest of life. "So, how's your [insert relationship here]?"
Most often of course a very quick cursory response will do. But on the occasions when we know people want to know more than "fine," it is often hard to frame words around the experience accurately. We may find ourselves guarded as well, not always knowing ourselves whether we are ready to fully embrace the developments others want to hear.
Our family has returned to Roanoke from NoVa. I'm not sure how to answer the question "How's your Dad?" But I appreciate the intent of those who will inevitably ask it tomorrow. I'm glad to be home. But the mail here was a timely reminder that life goes on. And one way or another, so must we when we find ourselves colliding with expectations. Perhaps this is one powerful lesson we can learn from the numerous stories of the Old Testament. No matter how bizarre, incredible, powerful, and even miraculous those events were; each generation had to learn from what happened before them and realize that time and God's plan continue to move forward.
I'm glad for breaks from the routine of life. But when we pull away from our responsibilities with job and daily life to tend to family, it doesn't quite feel like a vacation. Either way, life goes on. May we learn from the lessons God teaches us to make the most of each moment -- however it is spent.
Sunday, March 28, 2010
Time and Money
When I was a kid, I had all the time in the world. I even had the audacity on a few occasions to utter those most cursed syllables that are now the bane of my existence. Namely the phrase, "I'm bored." Back then, I had an abundance of time, but very little money. In those days I was willing to trade what I had a lot of for what I had very little of. But the older I've gotten, the more I've noticed those two things have changed.
I'm not saying that I have more money than I know what to do with. And I'm certainly not rich at all by American standards (though compared to most of the world I'm filthy rich). But I am certainly much more keenly aware of the preciousness of time than I was as a child or youth. Now I'm willing to trade some money for time because the amount of time I have seems so finite. Where once I would do all I could to invest and parley my money to try to get an improved return, I now think in those terms with my time.
Every moment I spend now is an investment in a relationship. And since I have limited capital to invest, I need to be increasingly intentional about the investments I make. Is the time I'm spending with the people I meet with going to produce fruit? Is it beneficial for them? Will it help me grow personally? If it will do neither, can I justify the time I'm spending, or is it a prodigal expenditure I could do without?
There are many different kinds of benefits, so I'm not specifying the sort of productivity involved. There are many possible benefits from being alone or with other people. But I believe the time comes in our life when we have to ask ourselves whether we are being good stewards not only of our money, but of our time. Perhaps especially of our time! When we get to the other side, we're told the streets will be paved with gold, and we'll have an eternity to spend. But in the meantime, let's redeem the time, seize the day, and make the most of every opportunity. We don't have an infinite number of moments to work with before time is no more.
I'm not saying that I have more money than I know what to do with. And I'm certainly not rich at all by American standards (though compared to most of the world I'm filthy rich). But I am certainly much more keenly aware of the preciousness of time than I was as a child or youth. Now I'm willing to trade some money for time because the amount of time I have seems so finite. Where once I would do all I could to invest and parley my money to try to get an improved return, I now think in those terms with my time.
Every moment I spend now is an investment in a relationship. And since I have limited capital to invest, I need to be increasingly intentional about the investments I make. Is the time I'm spending with the people I meet with going to produce fruit? Is it beneficial for them? Will it help me grow personally? If it will do neither, can I justify the time I'm spending, or is it a prodigal expenditure I could do without?
There are many different kinds of benefits, so I'm not specifying the sort of productivity involved. There are many possible benefits from being alone or with other people. But I believe the time comes in our life when we have to ask ourselves whether we are being good stewards not only of our money, but of our time. Perhaps especially of our time! When we get to the other side, we're told the streets will be paved with gold, and we'll have an eternity to spend. But in the meantime, let's redeem the time, seize the day, and make the most of every opportunity. We don't have an infinite number of moments to work with before time is no more.
Saturday, March 27, 2010
The Checklist
Most of my life, I operate with a checklist. I’ve got lists of things I want to do, and lists of things I have to do. I put these lists together to make sure I don’t forget the things I need to get done. And I often gauge the success of my day by how many items I’m able to check off my list. The bigger the item is, or the longer it has been on my list – the more gratified I am. My sense of achievement and accomplishment is often wrapped up in just how much and what I can check off of my list.
The problem with this way of doing things is what I don’t put on my list. As I look at my lists, the things I put on there are almost never things that really matter. I don’t put things on my list like, “spend time with my kids,” “go see my Dad,” “tell Ann I love her,” and “worship the Lord.” Sure, these things that occupy my time and attention are things that need to get done. I need to pay my bills, get the inspection done on my car, and mow the lawn. But the thing I need to most be reminded of is that the most important things in life may never get put on a list – but they’re still the most important things in life.
I – we – need to make sure we never allow the most urgent things in life to replace the most important. Being part of God’s praise and His plan is the most important thing we’ll ever do.
The problem with this way of doing things is what I don’t put on my list. As I look at my lists, the things I put on there are almost never things that really matter. I don’t put things on my list like, “spend time with my kids,” “go see my Dad,” “tell Ann I love her,” and “worship the Lord.” Sure, these things that occupy my time and attention are things that need to get done. I need to pay my bills, get the inspection done on my car, and mow the lawn. But the thing I need to most be reminded of is that the most important things in life may never get put on a list – but they’re still the most important things in life.
I – we – need to make sure we never allow the most urgent things in life to replace the most important. Being part of God’s praise and His plan is the most important thing we’ll ever do.
Friday, March 26, 2010
Lessons from a Zinnia
Two weeks ago I was teaching my Systematic Theology class about spiritual growth. Scripture uses agricultural metaphors to describe the nature of the spiritual life more than any other metaphor. So, I decided to use a live demonstration as a tool for teaching. Ann provided the pot, and recommended a couple different kind of seeds. When I got to Wal-Mart, I recognized "Zinnia" as one of the names she'd mentioned. Then in class I had one of my students plants the seeds.
After class was over, I watered the soil and made sure the seeds got some sun, and the lessons began.
Lesson One: Even if the seed and soil are good, and you give it water and sun, there will not be immediate growth. Spiritual growth takes time.
While the students went home for a week for their Spring Break, I took the "Z-Man" home with me. I called the plant that because being a flower and called a zinnia, the guys in the classroom (myself included) needed to feel a sense of connection with our flowering metaphor. About a week after the initial planing, the Z-man showed signs of life and I posted it on our class Facebook site. But as encouraging as the growth was, it was still very tender. Which leads me to . . .
Lesson Two: When growth first begins, it is very fragile. It would take very little for the growth to be killed or squashed. New growth is fragile.
Over the next week, some additional growth occurred, but the most obvious change was that the Z-man was leaning whatever direction the sun shone on him. The shoots obviously leaned in the direction the light was coming from. Healthy growth is toward the light.
I'm sure the Z-man will be the means of several more lessons about growth in a godward direction. But for now, it is worth reflecting on what has been demonstrated to this point.
After class was over, I watered the soil and made sure the seeds got some sun, and the lessons began.
Lesson One: Even if the seed and soil are good, and you give it water and sun, there will not be immediate growth. Spiritual growth takes time.
While the students went home for a week for their Spring Break, I took the "Z-Man" home with me. I called the plant that because being a flower and called a zinnia, the guys in the classroom (myself included) needed to feel a sense of connection with our flowering metaphor. About a week after the initial planing, the Z-man showed signs of life and I posted it on our class Facebook site. But as encouraging as the growth was, it was still very tender. Which leads me to . . .
Lesson Two: When growth first begins, it is very fragile. It would take very little for the growth to be killed or squashed. New growth is fragile.
Over the next week, some additional growth occurred, but the most obvious change was that the Z-man was leaning whatever direction the sun shone on him. The shoots obviously leaned in the direction the light was coming from. Healthy growth is toward the light.
I'm sure the Z-man will be the means of several more lessons about growth in a godward direction. But for now, it is worth reflecting on what has been demonstrated to this point.
Monday, March 22, 2010
Dad Home
Nearly a week after he went into the hospital, Dad came home. I'm not sure what time it was today, but the doctors sent him home despite his diverticulitis and a few other lingering issues. Apparently they feelt the benefits of Dad being able to go home to rest outweigh the negatives. I can certainly understand that it is likely a LOT easier to sleep and heal at home than it would be in a hospital. I've never really understood that aspect of modern medicine. The fact that they so regularly disturb resting patients suggests to me they undervalue sleep in the healing process.
As much as I'm grateful for modern medicine, I'm caught in the tug of war between technology and natural healing. Clearly there are things modern technology can do (like removing or replacing a lung) that go far beyond what any holistic medicine will address. Yet there seems to be more value to dietary changes, exercise, vitamins, rest, and prayer than I think most doctors are even willing to consider. Perhaps they are nurtured on a world view that encourages a far more mechanistic view of the human body? I can see where a coldly clinical approach to humanity would rob one of a broader perspective.
When I think about this sort of thing, my mind inevitably goes to two books that have been highly influential in my thinking. One is Lewis' The Abolition of Man, a very short but deep book that explores the nature of truth and perspective. He believes man is not mere machine, and that concepts like sublimity are not social constructs but statements of real value that correspond to an objective reality is a sort of divinely inspired Platonism. The other is Huxley's Brave New World, a novel written about the human race after it has achieved its current cultural goals. We have it all, entertainment, happiness, physical pleasure without consequence, reproduction without pain -- and yet find ourselves impoverished once we've finally arrived at our apparent destination.
What does all this have to do with modern medicine and my Dad being sent home from the hospital? Perhaps nothing, but maybe everything. What is the point of prolonging life when we don't know why we live? And can doctors who do not understand the true nature of humanity really be expected to grasp the nuances of healing in a body that is more than matter? Years ago I met Hugh Ross, a scientist and doctor who had been part of the cloning project in Scotland. This is when the sheep "Dolly" was successfully cloned. Of course such medical advancement invites numerous questions. I asked him one of them. "What do you think of the morality of cloning humans?" He responded that once this sort of thing was done, it is likely people would discover we wouldn't be getting what we were looking for. Clones would be less like the original than "identical twins," and of course be a different age as well. Beside, he went on, "we can clone a body, but we cannot clone a soul."
The limits of medicine are far greater when doctors and scientists do not grasp this concept. Yes, you can make the body function; but is that truly the essence of healing? Or is it possible that for true healing to take place, we must address both body and soul? If doctors really believed this, it would rock the medical establishment. Not only this, it would likely also throw yet another wrench into what role we think the government ought to play in health care.
As much as I'm grateful for modern medicine, I'm caught in the tug of war between technology and natural healing. Clearly there are things modern technology can do (like removing or replacing a lung) that go far beyond what any holistic medicine will address. Yet there seems to be more value to dietary changes, exercise, vitamins, rest, and prayer than I think most doctors are even willing to consider. Perhaps they are nurtured on a world view that encourages a far more mechanistic view of the human body? I can see where a coldly clinical approach to humanity would rob one of a broader perspective.
When I think about this sort of thing, my mind inevitably goes to two books that have been highly influential in my thinking. One is Lewis' The Abolition of Man, a very short but deep book that explores the nature of truth and perspective. He believes man is not mere machine, and that concepts like sublimity are not social constructs but statements of real value that correspond to an objective reality is a sort of divinely inspired Platonism. The other is Huxley's Brave New World, a novel written about the human race after it has achieved its current cultural goals. We have it all, entertainment, happiness, physical pleasure without consequence, reproduction without pain -- and yet find ourselves impoverished once we've finally arrived at our apparent destination.
What does all this have to do with modern medicine and my Dad being sent home from the hospital? Perhaps nothing, but maybe everything. What is the point of prolonging life when we don't know why we live? And can doctors who do not understand the true nature of humanity really be expected to grasp the nuances of healing in a body that is more than matter? Years ago I met Hugh Ross, a scientist and doctor who had been part of the cloning project in Scotland. This is when the sheep "Dolly" was successfully cloned. Of course such medical advancement invites numerous questions. I asked him one of them. "What do you think of the morality of cloning humans?" He responded that once this sort of thing was done, it is likely people would discover we wouldn't be getting what we were looking for. Clones would be less like the original than "identical twins," and of course be a different age as well. Beside, he went on, "we can clone a body, but we cannot clone a soul."
The limits of medicine are far greater when doctors and scientists do not grasp this concept. Yes, you can make the body function; but is that truly the essence of healing? Or is it possible that for true healing to take place, we must address both body and soul? If doctors really believed this, it would rock the medical establishment. Not only this, it would likely also throw yet another wrench into what role we think the government ought to play in health care.
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