Everything Must Go!

The Bible teaches in 1 (that's "First" not "one," Mr. Trump) Corinthians that "your body is the temple of the Holy Ghost." That teaching has spurned many to teach the value of treating your body like a temple, as opposed to an amusement park or a wrecking yard.

The fact is that in this life we've only got one body and we really should treat it well. The counsel to treat it like a temple is really wise. Some of us, though, have seen these temples of ours go through some unwelcome additions (weight gain), unexpected developments (Hello, MOOBS!), as well as some delightful renovations (like when I was at my peak running condition a few years ago). At this stage of my life, this temple of mine, this body, is feeling a lot like a neglected Trump casino. The original investment has gone sour and things have gotten unsightly and people really would prefer to keep the unsightliness covered up (several new rash guards were just ordered for the cruise at the end of the month - you're welcome, fellow cruise guests). Unlike Trump and his casino businesses, I'm not prepared to throw in the towel, declare bankruptcy, and walk away. There's still hope for another nice renovation.

That's the amazing thing about these bodies of ours. We can renovate them and I'm not talking in skanky Kardashian surgical fashion. With a little, or a lot of, work, we can literally reshape this thing. It's amazing what our bodies can do, like fighting off ailments, curing itself, and regenerating stuff. I was thinking about this as I donated blood this morning. Although it took me until I was 35 years old (because I was an EPIC chicken) to start donating, I've been an uber-regular blood donor ever since. The blood can go, as far as I'm concerned. It regenerates itself and in donating, I'm literally saving lives. I'm doing something good for my fellowman. In an effort to keep that doing good for my fellowman thing going, I long ago decided to be an organ donor. Once I'm dead, I will have ZERO use for any of my organs, so why not give them away? Seriously, if there's something useful, take it, use it, go on living with my spleen or my heart. I'd give you my gall bladder but that useless piece of junk took its leave from the temple here a few years ago. No gall bladder for you! To make up for that (no, not really), I recently signed on as a bone marrow donor. Again, as far as I'm concerned, it can go too. If a bit of my marrow can help someone with a blood cancer, I'm in. I can get along just fine without it. When I read the documentation associated with the marrow donation, I was in awe, again, of these temples - these bodies - that we possess.

So, sure, everything must go! A bit of blood every eight weeks. A bit of marrow when they find a match. An organ or two, or more, when I'm dead. Frankly, that's the easy stuff. The hard part? The necessary renovations to the Temple of Me that I need right now. Losing the moobs and the pillowy soft, middle-aged DadBod. That's the really hard part. And that foolishness, yeah, it really needs to go!

To find your nearest opportunity to donate blood with the Red Cross, go here
To sign up as an organ donor, go here or here
To learn more about marrow donation through DKMS, go here

Live fully

Amen! and Amen!
Thanks "This Week in Church Signs" @twitter

As the #prayfordallas and other #prayfor hashtags made their way through my Twitter feed this week, I felt enormously conflicted. As a man of faith, I have seen prayer work in ways both small and large, even miraculous ways, throughout my life. I know prayer works. However, given the events of the last several weeks and months and the hashtags that have emerged from them (#prayfordallas, #prayfororlando, #prayforbrussels), I've felt that those prayers aren't getting past my ceiling, or anyone else's. I know that those prayers have been filled with pleas of comfort for victims and for the madness to stop. But it's not stopping. It's not stopping because prayer doesn't work. It's not stopping because prayer alone can't stop the madness. The reasons it's not stopping go way beyond our collective prayers. Our acceptance of our elected officials perpetual state of inaction. Our lack of humanity. Our divisiveness. Our unique misinterpretation of the Second Amendment and America's credo, "You can take my gun when you take it from my cold dead hands." Our white privilege. These are just a few of the reasons why prayer alone will not solve for the issues currently at hand.

These things have been weighing on me and it's been tough to find comfort while grappling with all this. It's been tough in conversations with family and friends. It's been tough in my personal prayers. As I started plowing through my Twitter feed this morning, I didn't expect to find comfort. Each Sunday in my 'Moments' feed, up pops "This Week in Church Signs." It's a collection of the best in church signs from across the country. These are typically witty one or two liners used to get people's attention or to pique interest and bring people back to the pews. Some of these are awesome and demonstrate that there are some very funny clergy or church ladies out there. This morning I found the best one yet in my feed. It's the one pictured at the top of the post.

Live so fully that Westboro Baptist Church

will picket your funeral

Just a quick aside - if you're not familiar with the hate-fest/cabal of evil that is Westboro Baptist (and why the Baptists have not sued these people for defamation of character, slander, and libel is beyond me), here's a refresher. These are the folks who turn up at funerals of gay people with signs reading "God Hates Fags" or "God Hates You."  These are the folks who turn up at funerals of soldiers killed in action with signs reading "Thank God for Dead Soldiers." Suffice to say, they are a delight (and by delight, of course I mean a hideous scourge), living like true Christians (which is like saying the Kardashians don't care one iota about cash), and just the people you hope to invite to dinner. That is, of course, if you're dinner is in Hell where Satan is the Maitre'd, Hitler is your busboy, and Miley Cyrus and Lindsay Lohan are the house band.

The message on this sign, from the Wantagh Memorial Congregational Church, hit me with such force! In the face of an unsettled world, why not live life to  the fullest?! Why not live life out loud? Why not live in such a way that I can grapple with the issues of the day and still literally grapple with my three year old grandson? Why not live in such a way where I can stand with those who may not look like me, live like me, or love like me and let them know I'm a friend? Why not live in such a way to help those who may be voiceless find theirs? Why not live in such a way where some of my prayers that haven't gotten past the ceiling make it further? Why not live in such a way where I'm not embarrassed to go for a run, in spite of the fact that my moobs are back with a jiggly, disturbing vengeance? (I'll keep my shirt on though - you're welcome!) There's just something comforting in the specter of living life a little differently.

In "All's Well That Ends Well," William Shakespeare wrote:

Love all, trust a few, do wrong to none.

With that in mind, what a way to use that as a guide while living fully!

In the meantime, I've got to go craft an email to the Church with my reasoning as to why we need signs in front our buildings.

Though the eyes of a child

From 'The Present' @jacobfrey.de

The stunningly patient and mighty fine SML and I spent the last several days with our grandchildren behind the Zion Curtain. Would you believe me if I told you we didn't enjoy our time with them? I didn't think so. We loved every minute of it. It was tough to leave last night, especially when we were staring down the barrel of a heinous delay on what was already a heinous red-eye flight but that's a rant for another time.

It was a busy trip, especially since we were celebrating our grandson's third birthday. There was some time to relax though. At one point during some downtime, my grandson and I were sprawled on the couch, pondering our next move. I, frankly, was waiting for the start of a Cubs game but channel surfing in his house really isn't an option. Apparently, reruns of Top Gear (let me be perfectly clear - I mean reruns with the Three Idiots, not the rebooted travesty that premiered last Monday - I lasted less than seven minutes through that dreck - my annual prostate exam is more pleasant - The Grand Tour cannot get here soon enough) and Ridiculousness are verboten for a three year old. I'm not sure I understand that one - what better way, other than Jackass is there to teach an adventurous kid what might go horribly wrong for him if he gets a little too crazy? I know, #grandfatheroftheyear

I then remembered a short film I had seen a few weeks ago that had hit my Facebook feed. I thought it might be a good one for him to watch. You may have seen it. It's called "The Present" and it is four minutes of perfection. It, for me, is akin to the opening 10 minutes of "Up." If that opening sequence doesn't move you, we can all agree that you have no soul. I wondered how my grandson might react to the film and how he did taught me a lesson. Here's the video:



As the boy and his puppy went outside to play at the end of the film, my grandson asked me the following question:

Grandpa, what are they going to go play?

At that moment, it struck me hard how he did not see what I dare say all us adults saw in both the puppy and the boy. We saw what was missing. We saw the boy's frustration at a gift he saw as flawed. We saw what was wrong. My grandson saw a puppy having fun with a red ball. He saw a boy and his puppy going outside to play and it was important to him to know what game they might be playing next. Through the eyes of a three year old, there was nothing missing. There were no flaws. He saw that these two were going to do something fun.

What if we all saw the world the way three year olds do? From what I've seen, they don't see the things that make us different, like skin color or a disability. They don't see what's wrong. They have an uncanny ability to make things work. Toss a few snacks their way and they are all good. What if things worked that way in your place of work?

Look, I get it. Life gets complex mighty fast. There are significant challenges in our world (#NeverTrump) and it's going to take a little more than the wisdom of three year olds to solve for those. But what if we took a step back from time to time and looked at things through the eyes of a child. Instead of seeing what's wrong, take time to see what's time. Take time to wonder what you would do if you could go play for a little while. The answers may surprise you.

Hoarding

When the "Hoarders" television series first aired, I saw the first few episodes and watched with my jaw agape, wondering how things could get that out of control in anyone's life. It wasn't long before I stopped watching because it doesn't take too many rat/cat/bird carcass discovery scenes before you get bored (more of a pathetic commentary on our media consumption and expectations than anything else, isn't it?) and off you go, never really giving the mental illness that is often associated with hoarding or its impact any further thought.

While I ran into a few hoarders during my missionary service thirty years ago and a couple of others since then, I hadn't given hoarding much thought until yesterday. Along with some friends from church, I spent a chunk of my day yesterday on a community service project (non-court ordered, by the way) that involved hauling nearly 100 bags of leaves, raked by kids from the local high school, from the yards of those that aren't able to do so to a farm for composting purposes. After playing a couple versions of real-life "Frogger" after a few leaf bags flew out of the back of the truck, it was off to our final assignment of the day - hauling refuse (let's be honest and call it what it was - junk, straight up junk) from a woman's home. Before we got there, we'd been told that there was a pile in front of the home, ready to go be scooped up and taken to our town's Transfer Station (aka dump - remember we live under the icy fist of Martha Stewart so apparently you can't use the word 'dump'). When we got there, we found that there were multiple piles and that the home was nearly indistinguishable from the piles. We literally did not know where to begin and there was no asking the homeowner. All we were told of her was that she was widowed and terribly hard of hearing and would not come to the door. So we tore into the largest pile, separating metal from wood from plastic from just garbage in hopes of making a little difference for the homeowner. Looking behind the pile, we found a 1966-ish Cadillac El Dorado convertible marooned in the earth with trees growing all around it. It was amazing and heartbreaking all at once. Staring at the heap of junk in the yard and the rusting hulk of that old car, I wondered aloud, "How does it get this bad for someone?" I wondered where was this woman's family. Where were her friends? Wasn't there someone in her life to say, 'Please let me help you.' There was work to be done and I had to stop asking questions and so I got back to tossing junk into the back of the truck. Although I had stopped asking the questions aloud while at the site, I haven't stopped asking them in my head.

I don't have the answers to those questions. I'm not a mental health professional, nor do I play one on TV, so I won't presume to try and answer the profound mental / medical issues at play here. I know that family dynamics can be a DefCon 5 / lit fuse on a powder keg situation in even the most perfect of families (P.S. there is no such thing), but how can you let a family member descend into such a level of despair? You can't. You just can't. While I have no idea how things can get so bad in someone's life that hoarding is the answer, I hope I can be a person who is there to say, "Please let me help you. Let me be your friend." I hope I can be that guy.

I've also been thinking a lot about my friends over the course of the last few days. I'm grateful for each of my friends and for what you've added to my life. Our lives, beliefs, and who we are, in many cases, could not be more different but I wouldn't want it any other way. I am better for it. I hope I've given back to you in some small way as well and that I'll be able to keep doing that.

Life can be stormy. In some cases, a person may find refuge from those storms in something extreme, like hoarding. Others are able to find comfort with family and friends. I'm happy to be that port in a storm for my family and friends. And I know you'd do the same for me. Thank you.

#editing

Where was everyone's favorite editor and pilot of
a balloon-propelled house on Friday night?

This past Friday night, the stunningly patient and mighty fine SML and I found ourselves in front of the television, in a most Norman Rockwellian manner, watching a program that wasn't being DVR'ed. We were actually watching it at its regularly scheduled time. What show, you ask? The Amazing Race, thank you very much. We are long time 'Race' fans and since it's been relegated to TV's graveyard, Friday night, we try to watch it at the appointed hour as much as possible. As we watched this latest episode, I took to the Twitters to make an snarky comment observation about one of the racers. In said tweet, I pointed out that the racer was this season's tool. It quickly got a few favorites and retweets and that was that. On Saturday, I noticed someone had responded to my Tweet and made an even snarky remark about the tool/racer and by later that day, I had inadvertently gotten into a loop of Tweets involving three of the current season's racers, including one who has already been very vocal about his dislike of the guy I had referenced. He wanted to point out that everyone was cool and that it was all #editing.

Of course it's editing. The masterminds behind this show, and pretty much any other reality show, know exactly how to manipulate their audiences through all manner of tools, but in reality programming, editing is a 'killer' app. Editing turns a nice guy into a tool. Editing turns a stumble into a disaster of epic proportions. Editing turns the Kardashians into decent people...wait, I have to stop there. No editing software, nor an editor with all the experience in the world, even the great 'Lou Grant' could do that.

This little Twitter kerfuffle got me to thinking about the concept of editing and the role it plays here in the Den. The point of editing is to correct, condense and organize a work so that you deliver a consistent, complete, and accurate work. It also helps that it's something people want to read / see / hear, etc.. As the writer and editor of this little piece of real estate on the interwebs, I endeavor to deliver a 'warts and all' view of my life. I mean I've subjected you to my gout, my gall bladder surgery and enough tales about the travails of middle-aged physicals to give any one thinking of medical school about 189 reasons to rethink their career choices. I've been upfront about those moments when I've not been the greatest husband and where I'm not winning #fatheroftheyear too. Does that mean I've told all? Heck no, techno. Just like the editors on any good reality program, I can cut things as needed and I do. Seriously, I do (although I'll just go ahead and apologize now for the fact that I have a physical at the end of this month so there will be some kind of overshare coming).

Personal blogging is a funny thing. You are inviting the world into your life. I'm not in it for an opportunity to make money; hence no sponsored posts or ads. Nor am I in it to promote an agenda (take it easy, my Mittite friends). I'm not here to portray a life where everything is sunshine and roses. So why do I do it? I'm realizing more and more that I'm a storyteller and this place is where I choose to tell / share those stories.

I said that I'm not here to portray a life where everything is sunshine and roses. That's not my life. But  it's a pretty darn good life, no matter how it's edited. I may not have the irascible Lou Grant as an editor, but I'm going to continue to do my best to deliver on tales from that life.

Moving Fast

The things one finds behind the Zion Curtain

"I learned a lot about moving fast this week."

That was just one of the things that TMFKATB had to share  in this week's letter and follow up banter. A lot went on in the past week for him and he did a pretty darn good job of keeping us filled in. Here are some of the highlights:

Transfers - with his companion finishing up his two year assignment, a new companion was certain. TMFKATB is now serving with a Salvadoreno who goes home next month. Their time together will be short but he was really excited to be assigned to work with this young man.

New Area - he's now working only in a Spanish area. He's excited about that but was bummed to say 'adios' to those he'd built relationships with. The good thing is that he's still close by.

Bike - no more car. He's in a bike area. He's excited to be on a bike. Of life on a bike, he said, 'It's fun being on bikes. I was really sore the first few days, but then it feels good. But being on a bike is great. It makes to people so much easier!'

One thing that hasn't changed since his letters from Mexico is the stream-of-consciouness nature of his writing (I blame the scourge of texting for this.) He fires off details and then out of nowhere, inserts something that he observed or learned and then he jumps back on the rat-a-tat motion of details. 'I learned a lot about moving fast this week,' is an example of one of those learnings that he buried while discussing something else. He's talked before about how he recognizes that his time as a missionary is not infinite and how he needs to maximize his time as he serves.  That theme emerged again in his non-sequitur observation.

He's got a point. Our time in this life is not infinite. We better make the best of it by working hard maximizing our time here. But we can't forget to enjoy this life either. Wasn't it the great 1980's philosopher, cultural icon, and guru, Ferris Bueller, who said, "Life moves pretty fast. If you don't stop and look around once in awhile, you could miss it."

And a couple of pictures:

He loved his spicy shrimp dish

TMFKATB with his new companero

Fatherhood

These three...

Fatherhood.

There are very few words that inspire moments of sheer terror in the mind of a man like that word - fatherhood. The word is defined as the state of having one or more children. Whether it's one child or nine (not nineteen, have we learned nothing from the freak show that is The Duggars?), becoming a father is an extended ride on the scariest, terror-inducing, exciting and most fun roller coaster on the planet.

Fatherhood is a cacophony of awesome.
Fatherhood is moment after moment of heart-bursting pride.
Fatherhood is moments of gut-wrenching pain, mostly the pain you wish you could absorb for your children.
Fatherhood is messy - countless ties ruined by projectile vomiting, shirts stretched wildly when acting as the shoulder to cry on, knees on pants torn up sliding to stop someone from hurting himself.
Fatherhood is anxiety-inducing. Seriously, why is she dating that boy? Why did the state issue him a drivers license?
Fatherhood is joy, sheer joy. Dancing with your daughter at her wedding. Sitting and cheering with your daughter in the cheap seats at an MLB game. Watching your son walking down a jetway to serve his fellow man for two years.
Fatherhood, while it may spark moments of terror, is, in a word, AWESOME.

It is a wise father that knows his own child.

William Shakespeare

You're welcome to argue just how wise I am but I can tell you this. It has been the joy of my life to get to be father to my three children. I'm glad I know them. To be their father is the highest honor I will ever receive. Other than being good to their mother, nothing else matters. Nothing.

Happy Fathers Day

Hand in Hand

A few nights ago, the stunningly patient and mighty fine SML returned from her week-plus long stint behind the Zion Curtain. After a long day of flying, made longer by everyone's favorite She Hag, Mother Nature, and her latest havoc wreaking playmate, Tropical Depression Bill, SML was famished, so we made a beeline to Bear's Smokehouse to enjoy an inappropriate amount of meat. I can't say enough good about their burnt ends, but I digress, as this is not meant to be a gushing ode to their fine barbecue.

We got home and went about the normal things that are the hallmarks of a couple that have been married for nearly twenty seven years. We puttered around, got unpacked, debated as to whether we should start a load of laundry, and noted again how much TV sucks, because it does. Sleep sounded like the best option.

As I started to fall asleep, I did something unusual, at least for me. I reached over and took my wife's hand and held it. I'd missed her and I wanted to hold her hand. As I held her hand and as I began drifting off to sleep, I thought about the past few days wherein I watched my wife interacting with her adult daughters and saw her grandmothering (PS - not a word, right?) the heck out of her grandson. I reflected on holding her hand as we saw her cousin married a few days earlier. With these images in my mind lulling me to sleep, I squeezed her hand and fell asleep, hand in hand. All was right in the world.

Hand in hand. I do not take that for granted, not for a second. Circumstances are different for each of us. Our time hand in hand with someone may have been limited for whatever reason. There's always a hand to hold, be it an aging parent, a friend in need, or even if it's just a memory for now.

I know that I am ridiculously lucky to have the stunningly patient and mighty fine SML to march through this life hand in hand. So as we go about the most mundane of tasks today, like go to the nightmare that is Costco on Saturday, I will happily hold her hand.

Will I Ever Learn?

Our inability to remember important life lessons never ceases to amaze me and it was demonstrated to me in the clearest of light last night. Sometimes these moments can take a little while to relate. This is a little bit longer post, so settle in.

It was a long day in Manhattan yesterday, exacerbated by lightly falling snow, a snappy, and not in a good way either, chill in the air, and an unpleasant slog down to endlessly depressing Penn Station at the end of the day to catch some "Theater of Cruelty" service at the hands of our national passenger rail provider. You'll be shocked, shocked I tell you, to know that my train was, wait for it, late in departing. I know, I know, talk about unexpected (and if you believe that, I'm sure Fox News' assessment that the metric system brought down Air Asia #8501 is completely plausible). A late departure meant making my connection in New Haven was going to be dicey as that connection is, in my sad experience, mostly NOT held for the late inbound train. With that in mind, I was sure I was ready to bounce off the train as soon as we hit New Haven so I could bound across the platform and get on my connecting train, assuming it was still there.

As we approached New Haven, my plan was thwarted by a young woman who stood in the aisle blocking the rest of us from moving toward the door. She wasn't budging. My patience was immediately sapped and my alter ego, Judgy Judgerson, made an appearance. Unkind thoughts, yes, let's describe them as that, filled my mind as I waited for her to pick up her bag and move. She did not do so until we came to a complete stop, which was maddening (um, lady, it's a train - no flight attendant was going to shout you down for getting out of your seat before coming to a complete stop). She began to shuffle slowly while those ahead of her were long gone. My displeasure was at 11. And then it happened. I noticed she was moving slowly because of an awkward gait, and with her hand atrophied, I recognized it immediately as some kind of palsy and knew then that my reservation in Hell was now a lock. As she got to the door of the train and seeing the wider than expected gap, she asked me if I could spot her. Feeling sufficiently and rightfully awful, I told her I would do her one better. I grabbed her bag and went out the adjacent door so I could take her by both arms and help her across. That's what I did and I asked her if she needed anything else and she said no. So I made my way across the platform, noticing only then that the connecting train was also late (I know you're stunned). It showed up shortly thereafter and I sat down in a window seat to ponder why I had gotten so irritated so quickly.

As I sat lost in my thoughts, I heard a woman ask if she the seat next to me was open. Turning to say yes, I saw that it was that same young woman. Certainly, I said. She took her seat and we were off. About midway through the trip, she got up to use the restroom (her funeral). I know this because she told the person that she was talking to on her cell phone that is what she was going to do. While she was gone, another woman stood in aisle across from our seats, prattling on to the lady seated there about her failing business. This was 'delightful' banter that none of us needed to hear. None. Of. Us. She would not move as my seatmate came up and just as she approached our row, the train swerved as it is wont to do, and this poor young woman was flipped over the seats, landing with her head wedged between the seat in front of me and the front of my knees. For a split second, I hardly knew what to do. She immediately began apologizing and I kept telling her she had nothing to apologize for. It was apparent though as I tried to move, she was pretty stuck. Another passenger got up, pushing aside the rude woman who was still prattling on about her retail woes and seeming annoyed that this turn of events had interrupted her story, and he managed to get my stuck seatmate by her good arm and as he lifted, I pushed up and we got her up. She could not have been more apologetic. I know she had to be absolutely mortified. I kept reassuring her that she had nothing to worry about.

She sat quietly for the rest of the ride, as did I. All the while, I kept pondering my initial reaction to her on the other train. As we approached Hartford, I asked her if she'd been to this particular station before and she said no. Knowing that this station is not a walk off to the platform, but requires descending the steep steps from the train, I told her I'd like to help her off. I took her bag and guided her to the end of the car. When she saw the steps, she took a deep breath but fortunately, a conductor was there as well to help her. I then walked with her to the elevator and it was there that we parted ways. She apologized once more, for which I once again said there was no need and she slipped away with a simple thank you. That thank you was when i will long appreciate.

As I drove home, I thought about had she heard the thoughts in my head on that first train, she never would have sat down next to me on that connecting train. I wouldn't have had the opportunity to help her out and try and make up for an offense she wasn't even aware I had committed. About thirty years ago, while on my mission in Miami, I had an experience with another young woman afflicted with a palsy who I judged too quickly, and just as wrongly as I had done last night. I learned all those years ago how so not cool that 'Judgy Judgerson' side of me is.

You'd think at my age I'd have learned to reign him in. Last night showed me I still have some learning to do. I hope I won't forget this experience any time soon.