We've Got to Do Better

It's early, sitting out here on my newly screened deck, sipping coffee on what promises to be a warm, summer day.  I'm 50 now, and in a matter of weeks both my sons will be off to college, leaving us with our first taste of the empty nest.  It is an exciting time, and certainly promises to be a new experience.  And of course, being who I am, I find myself assessing the job we've done as parents, hoping and praying that we have done enough to shape and mold our children in a manner that prepares them for this crazy, mixed up world.  I think we've done okay, but there are many unknowns out there.  I will probably worry, but I know I will definitely pray for them daily.

Recently, I was forwarded an article on Vox about the "phenomenon" of what the writer calls "influencer burnout".  I'll quote only part of it (but do read the whole thing):

What’s happening to influencers is a microcosm of what’s happening to everyone.  … [K]ids who write increasingly about their anxiety, depression, and suicidal ideation, kids who appear in his office “sad in a way they cannot explain, desperate for something they don’t know how to have."

Several of them … dropped out to move to LA to chase the influencer dream for themselves, hoping to become famous in the same way all the other kids got famous: By getting their face to appear on millions of other people’s screens. Left unsaid is what happens when they do win the TikTok lottery, and how the unexplainable sadness doesn’t really go away. 

The article goes on to talk about the need to establish mechanisms that will provide such "influencers" counseling, care, and community.  Let me say this so that I am perfectly clear:  I do not, nor will I ever, condemn these lost souls.  Because if nothing else, they are indeed lost.  As Solomon wrote:  "I have seen everything that is done under the sun, and behold, all is vanity and a striving after the wind." (Ecclesiastes 1:14).  It's Pinocchio on Pleasure Island; it's Percy Jackson in the casino; it's District 1 in PamEm.  An "influencer's" pursuit of vanity, of perceived relevance, can only empty the soul in the long run.  Young people should not arrive at such a place of burnout or despair so soon in their young lives, so dependent on the perceived acceptance and adulation of others.  They need more than help, they need rescue. 

Is this what a "lost generation" looks like?  At the great risk of sounding judgmental, I must seriously ask, what could their home life have been like - home being whatever environment these kids grow up in - that such emptiness results in this rabid pursuit of the white rabbit of "online relevance"?  Yes, we all have at some level gone through an identity crisis of sorts during our adolescence - some more than others willing to do almost anything to fit in.  But this "influencer" phenomenon just takes it to a whole other level of neurosis.  And the depravity of a whole industry designed around exploiting insecurity.

And powerlessly, helplessly, I sit here and drink my coffee, wondering what can possibly be done to redeem this moment in time, this season so seemingly devoid of wisdom.  I pray, because it burdens me.  Again, I will not condemn these lost souls.  But as a dad, for my generation, a measure of conviction is in order - by looking in the mirror, by looking around with clear eyes - and recognizing that some way, some how, we've got to do better.

A Quiet Plea

For some time now, I have labored to find my voice. No, that's not quite right. Labor implies a level of effort resulting in a visible outcome - a product if you will. It may be more accurate to say that I've been living in a stunned silence over the past many years, observing the increasing vitriol and Pharisee-ism on ready display in our ever-increasing modes of social interaction. To publicly offer an observation, even in the interest of true inquiry, is to unleash a flood of presupposition that quickly renders the attempt at dialogue unfruitful and unpalatable. This, even among "friends."

 

I remember many a spirited discussion, in a once blue-couched room in a building near a campus I love, where issues of politics and war, religion and theology, love and sin, scandal and football were hotly contested. And yet, in the aftermath, almost without fail we would walk out en masse for chicken fingers or a slice or two at a local pizza buffet, our fellowship and camaraderie never truly threatened. Perhaps that's too rosy a picture, but nevertheless it generally rings true to my recollection.

 

As a believer, as one who believes that Jesus Christ died for my sins and rose again to sit at the right hand of the Almighty, I find myself wrestling with the question of how to speak into this age - or if I even should. How does one go about being a "peacemaker" where even the most mundane of issues turns into a rhetorical battlefield and everyone nearby a self-styled knights-polemic? How does the Church speak into this age where few lend any credence to its once-perceived authority, especially given that its members wield the same weapons against one another daily, in full public display?

 

Here's what I know, and what I believe. You and I are not going to agree on every facet of policy or politics, nor on intricate matters of theology and denominational order, nor on a host of other issues. We're just not. Does that make us adversaries? Does that make us enemies? I submit that if we succumb to such an outcome, we thus succumb to the decadent spirit of the age, rather than the Spirit of the Living God.

 

There is a hymn from my childhood that begins, "Blest be the tie that binds / our hearts in Christian love; the fellowship of kindred minds / is like to that above." Would that we be less passive and more active in this. Can we not commit to being the agents of this blessing, caretakers of this holy bond without regard to whether our paths diverge for a time, or whether we find ourselves with opposite views of one or more issues of the day, the circumstances of which are bound to change tomorrow?

 

I harbor few illusions, but I still choose to hope. I know I am deeply flawed, but perhaps even a flawed messenger is capable of speaking truth. To borrow from a somewhat more contemporary verse, "Let it begin with me." Amen.

Closing Thoughts on 2020

This year is not what I expected it to be.  Oh, I knew it would be busy, but little did I expect it would be crazy-busy.  Hopes for any sort of balance, graced with purposeful contemplation and writing, went out the window pretty quickly.  As they say, life comes at you fast, and the demands of the moment easily elevate the "have-to's" ahead of the "want-to's".  As one who believes that a little solitude and reflection is essential to one's mental and spiritual well-being, it seems there has been precious little of that in the past 12 months, so please pardon me if this first paragraph is a bit self-indulgent.  Introductions are not always easy to write.

 

Charles M. Schulz (of Peanuts fame) once wrote:  "It's hard to convince people when you're just staring out the window that you're doing your hardest work of the day."  I entered 2020 with high hopes to start developing the framework of a book, but the space for necessary contemplation never seemed to materialize.  Sure, there have been brief, stolen moments, followed by flashes of inspiration which I capture any way I can, often by using my phone to take a quick picture of an interesting paragraph in a book I'm reading, followed by typing up a bubble of thought as a draft email to myself.  The intent of course, is to further develop these thoughts into what Washington Irving might call a "sketch".  But then the current of events rips me away, and I never get back to "staring out the window" or developing the thoughts that come.

 

It's not like there hasn't been source material this year.  We've had a runaway virus, lockdowns, social, racial, and political strife, and an accelerating disintegration of confidence in our institutions.  The spirit of division runs rampant, and the weapon of choice is the broad brush.  I have chosen to avoid writing on such specific topics, not because I lack for opinion, but because I have learned over the years that our ability to see and hear others clearly is often diminished in the white hot passions of the moment. 

 

In all my writing and teaching over the years, my one interest was to create the conditions by which the hearer or reader would think, examine, and perhaps discover for themselves a new understanding.  My objective is not to persuade anyone to my point of view, but rather to reveal that there are other points of view.  It is up to the other to consider and determine for themselves what they think, what they believe.  It is the story of my own faith journey - I don't need to persuade anyone that the Gospel is true, I just need to share it and model it, and let the Holy Spirit handle the revelation. 

 

For me, the "standoff" approach described above is becoming all the more critical as the tribal mentality rages.  I have come to believe that "presupposition" is the bane of human interaction in the digital age.  It goes beyond just having a worldview - it is me, bringing to bear that perspective, with all its assumptions and biases, to my interactions with others.  Likewise, it is others, doing the same in their interactions with me.  But too often, rather than dialogue and engagement, we get a battle in which, as stated above, the weapon of choice is the broad brush. 

 

I don't mind disagreements, I really don't, because I know I have my own presuppositions that deserve to be challenged.  What I do mind is the damage we permit to our relationships and to our witness.  In a year when in truth we have needed one another more than ever, it seems we have chosen to not merely accept division, but to encourage it.  I'm not suggesting we should pursue a false unity - far from it.  But I do think a greater measure of grace and humility is warranted, such that we don't allow a difference of opinion to be elevated to the epochal event we so often make it to be. 

 

2020 has been a difficult year, and as I write this day, I anticipate 2021 to reflect a continuation of that trend - more difficult days are ahead, this we know.  But I remain hopeful that we can and will persevere, understanding that perseverance is more than survival - it is a labor of love, sacrifice, and prayer.  Show us the way, oh Lord, we pray.  Amen.

Thought-Bubbles, Sketches, and Words Yet Unwritten

In Pixar's Ratatouille, the great Peter O'Toole voiced the character of Anton Ego, a food critic who, toward the end of the movie, had this to say about his nemesis, Chef Gusteau:

"In the past, I have made no secret of my disdain for Chef Gusteau's famous motto, "Anyone can cook." But I realize, only now do I truly understand what he meant. Not everyone can become a great artist; but a great artist *can* come from *anywhere*."

When I was younger, having realized that writing was to be central to nearly every endeavor I would ever pursue, I fell into the common notion that "I should write a book."  So common, and so cliché.  In those days before the internet, I labored to get my hands on those old "How to Get Published" books that contained advice and lists upon lists of publishers.  Of course, I had no idea what to write about, and the thought became intimidating, so I put it away.

Of course, trying to extend Anton Ego's perspective into this realm is an imperfect application.  Maybe not just anyone can write a book, but today, where self-publishing in the digital age puts lie to the notion that authorship is restricted in any way, fashion, or form, the question turns to not whether anyone can write a book, but whether anyone can write a book that others might actually read and enjoy.

I still would like to write a book, but until recently, I have struggled with the form it might take.  While I'm not above the employment of embellishment to relate an experience, the experience itself must be essentially true.  I am incapable of creating a pure work of fiction, as all my imaginings are derivative.  Similarly, there is simply no topic or area of interest that so holds me, or for which I possess any singular knowledge, that would enable me to produce a unique work of non-fiction or composition.  Blogging worked for a long time, allowing for the production of short, topical utterings that for a while fulfilled my compulsion to write.  I write about things that strike my fancy in the moment, things that pass through my mind like little thought-bubbles that entertain and amuse me, things that I feel need to be said and thus incumbent for me to say them.

It wasn't until I began to read Washington Irving's The Sketch Book of Geoffrey Crayon, Gent., in which his stories of "Rip Van Winkle" and "The Legend of Sleepy Hollow" appear, that a possible framework presented itself.  From what I've read, compilations of essays are not looked upon favorably by publishers, unless thematic or memoirs of a particular bent.  I don't know that I care so much about publishers.  But the concept of sketches appeals to me, and with the right organization and flavor, maybe this fleeting notion of legitimate authorship might not be so fleeting.  I cannot help but be encouraged, and even stimulated, by this quote from Irving at the end of the sketch called "The Christmas Dinner":

"Methinks I hear the questions asked by my graver readers:  'To what purpose is all this - how is the world to be made wiser by this talk?'  Alas! Is there not wisdom enough extant for the instruction of the world?  And if not, are there not thousands of abler pens laboring for its improvement? - It is so much pleasanter to please than to instruct - to play the companion rather than the preceptor.

What, after all, is the mite of wisdom that I could throw into the mass of knowledge; or how am I sure that my sagest deductions may be safe guides for the opinions of others?  But in writing to amuse, if I fail, the only evil is in my own disappointment.  If, however, I can by any lucky chance, in these days of evil, rub out one wrinkle from the brow of care, or beguile the heavy heart of one moment of sorrow; if I can now and then penetrate through the gathering film of misanthropy, prompt a benevolent view of human nature, and make my reader more in good humor with his fellow-beings and himself, surely, surely, I shall not then have written entirely in vain."

Maybe there's hope for me yet, this notion of writing a book, or at least compiling one.  In the meantime, I will simply enjoy the exercise, and entertain myself in blowing thought-bubbles and writing sketches.  And if anyone happens to read and enjoy them as well, then "surely, surely, I shall not then have written entirely in vain."

The Place Once Called Home

After nine, or not quite ten hours, Wisconsin and Minnesota were behind me, as was the 70-odd miles of open landscape running from Fargo to Grand Forks. The day was remarkably cool for early June, with the kind of overcast sky that teases the sun but never quite enough to let any but the palest of rays reach the ground. A steady wind from the northern reaches buffeted my face as I stepped out of the hotel this late Friday afternoon. The gathering was the next day, and with no events planned for the evening, I made my way back to the truck, engine still quite warm from the day’s work.

Within minutes I was headed west, to a little place 20 miles away and 33 years in the past. A place that was, for a while, called home. Within my heart, there was a quickening and a hesitation, that confounding tension that sometimes arises between the dueling senses of uncertainty and adventure.

Driving down roads such as these, considering the times and one’s state of mind, can be disconcerting. For as the landscape glides by, and as the trees, homes, and an occasional business or storefront comes into view, there begins a merger of memory with the now. You see these features, at once familiar and alien, not only as they are, but increasingly as they once were, creating within the experience a poignant sense of double vision. Two universes coming together into view, stealing away any words that may form in your mind or on your tongue, for the moment – and its sensation – crosses over into the surreal.

You may think this description extravagant and overstated, and that would be your right. But we all have these moments of duality that are sensed deep within, moments that no manner of prose or elocution could ever hope to express. This was one of those moments, a dimensional view that upsets the fragile foundation that is our perception of our world – of my world. Still, both the moment and the memory are real. The only thing alien here is me.

This sense of time and duality only intensified as I pulled to a stop just past the post office, the crunch of the gravel beneath my tires kicking up a cloud of dust quickly taken away by the steady breeze. As I put my feet on the ground, and survey the scene, past and present at once began to blur my vision.

The little store, or maybe it was a bar, has been replaced by an empty lot, as has the multiple-dwelling housing unit across from it.

The old schoolhouse, long-abandoned even when this was home, still stands, a little worse for wear than that recalled from memory.

The railroad line has long since closed, iron and ties pulled up and harvested for other use. The abandoned grain elevator has been stripped of its exterior, and it seems to me there is yet more there to salvage. It stands as a forlorn reminder this place had a purpose once, perhaps not grand, but a function just the same.

Walking down the main stretch, the gravel crunching beneath my feet, the remembrances accost me full force. Winter scenes of mountainous snow drifts, ice-filled ditches that serving as a proving ground for boys and their bikes, river walks, and northern lights. Summers and flies, and a job cutting grass on half-a-dozen properties for a pittance in spending cash. Endless fields of wheat, sometimes soybean, sometimes corn, often fallow. Finding things to do in a place where there wasn’t anything to do, and managing to get by and even have fun sometimes.

And the little house, with two bedrooms, a kitchen, a bathroom, and a living room. Sharing a room with my little brother. The garage we had built, a driveway pad we poured, a basketball goal. At once, I see it as it was, which made the present state of things so much harder to comprehend. For a while the structures still stand and the grass is roughly hewn, the house that was once my home lies abandoned, overgrown, unlivable. And somehow, smaller. A wave of melancholy comes over me, threatening to pull me out to a gray, empty sea. But just then a dog barks, and the driver of a Ford F-250 Super Duty waves as he drives by, friendly but wary of this stranger standing in the road. There is still life here, families getting by, finding things to do in a place there’s not much to do. Still battling the dual images, I turn back the way I came, taking in everything as it was and everything as it is, for later contemplation and retrospection.

At some point, and in our own way, we must come to terms with the passage of time and its impact upon us. All the wisdom and all the sayings about these days of our lives, so often trivialized, are – in those quiet moments of unexpected revelation – are nevertheless seriously profound. What was, what is, what is to come – sometimes just out of range of view, sometimes strikingly clear and yet unsettling.

We can despair, and many do. But perhaps the better course is simply to acknowledge our helplessness in the face of time, and to redeem whatever we can of its passage. Celebrate the joys, lament the sorrows, and respect the struggle and even the pain. But above all, embrace with gratitude and wonder the grace that we’ve been given to live this life. It means something. It means everything.

The present beckons, and tomorrow’s gathering at the school has an anticipation all its own. With the town behind me now, I pull out onto the asphalt, leaving the gravel and dust behind. The memories, and perhaps a greater appreciation of the time, these I take with me. And that is good.

The Drive

When the virus of restlessness begins to take possession of a wayward man, and the road away from Here seems broad and straight and sweet, the victim must first find in himself a good and sufficient reason for going. This to the practical bum is not difficult. He has a built-in garden of reasons to choose from. Next he must plan his trip in time and space, choose a direction and a destination. And last he must implement the journey. How to go, what to take, how long to stay. This part of the process is invariable and immortal. - John Steinbeck, "Travels with Charley"

At last, a solo road trip. Destination, purpose, route - all planned out and ready for the undertaking. I said my goodbyes, filled the tank, and pointed the nose of my truck to the north, toward a gathering 33 years in the making. Those first few hours of that first day I succumbed to the impulse to get away, to put as much distance between me and my starting point, reasoning that the further away from the familiar I was, the sooner I could begin to relax and settle into the journey.

Driving has always been therapeutic for me, if not always pragmatic. From the day I got my license, and the job that paid just enough to put gas in my car, behind the wheel was my sanctuary. Each night after closing up shop at the theater, I'd get in the car and drive up and down the main drag, through the McDonald's drive thru once or twice, and round the circuit on the backroads before finally heading home. Windows down, music blaring, the occasional illicit cigarette, it was all part of the routine. Whatever chaos might have been going on in my teenage self, the road was my refuge.

The miles passed by, long stretches where the cognitive engine that so regularly animates me finally took a break, allowing me to simply drive with nothing to distract save the ambient noise of the road and the minor irritation of others with whom I had to share the trail. No talking, no radio, minimal musing - just the drive.

This is what I craved, what finally pushed me to make this trip - five solid driving days and 2600 miles of relative silence and psychological rest. Of course, the mind and the spirit are not always cooperative. Finally given the space and peace to process, the subconscious went to work, offering up to my greater awareness things I had forgotten, problems which needed my attention and analysis, options which required my consideration.

And what do people think of when they drive? On short trips perhaps of arrival at a destination or memory of events at the place of departure. But there is left, particularly on very long trips, a large area for daydreaming or even, God help us, for thought. No one can know what another does in that area. - John Steinbeck, ibid.

Unbidden, I began to ruminate. Ruminate is quite the interesting word. It means to turn things over in your mind, to "chew the cud" as it were. A ruminant, such as a cow, chews that which it regurgitates from its rumen, or its first stomach. A necessary process, but clearly not a very pleasant one. Still, in the solitude of my truck, and the flattening of the landscape flying by outside my window, I allowed my psyche the space it was demanding.

So many things, taken one at a time and yet haphazard. This reunion, opening a long-closed chapter of a tumultuous time - filled me with anticipation and apprehension. My kids - one home from college for the summer, soon to depart again - is he on the right path, is he happy, have I done everything I can to help him including giving him the space to discover, the independence to live his own life? The other kid, newly licensed, just starting to come out of a period of teenage angst (or is he), what does he need, what boundaries can be relaxed, which ones must yet hold? My marriage - am I doing all I can as a husband, where am I falling short, what should I be doing that I am not doing today? The empty nest is just a couple years away, are we prepared relationally for that? My job, my work: a company I helped start, people with whom I've worked for almost 17 years, do I still believe in what we're doing, the direction we're going? These feelings of marginalization and lower value, the sense of an atrophying skill set - is it time to move on, search for other opportunities? What opportunities? The same, or something altogether different? Which is more important, my sense of purpose and fulfillment, or the security of the present and the ability to provide for my family? Is that even a binary choice? And after the reunion, on the road for home, trying to sort out an experience that was both surprisingly delightful and yet deeply melancholy. What a mess the mind can be when left to its own devices.

Round and round it goes, and one would think that my escape to solitude was an abject failure. Just the opposite is true. I need the quiet and the space and the time to work these things out. Time: the all-important resource that one cannot "make". One can choose to spend it various and sundry ways, but its creation, its invention, is beyond the scope of man. Did I stumble upon any answers? No, not really. But just the act of picking up each piece of my life and examining it from various angles provided its own benefit - more knowledge, more understanding, maybe a little less fear. And between each, a momentary return to the mindless passing of the miles.

On the fifth and final day, on the home stretch so to speak, I found that same anticipation and apprehension, this time focused not on the journey to the past, but the return to the present. Looking forward to being home with my family, not so much the rest of it, and still processing the results of the past few days and the changed landscape of my childhood. But without question, I found myself in a better place emotionally and spiritually, as a result of the time away. Of course, three months back in the real world has allowed the clutter to pile up once again, making me already wistful for another drive. Such is life, I suppose.

But when the opportunity presents itself, I'll be ready. Because, in the end, it'll be another chance to drive. To just drive.

Road Trip to Yesteryear: Deciding to Go

Several months ago, virtually and out of the blue, I received an invitation to a reunion from a high school classmate with whom I did not graduate. It was quite unexpected (since I left after the 9th grade), but surprisingly enough, I found myself intrigued. It is not my custom to reopen closed chapters in my life, but in the months since receiving the invitation, I have warmed to the idea. Not in the least because such a journey would give me the opportunity to visit a place I never expected to see again.

There is a danger in the going, however. The image that I have, real or fantasy, may be lost or irrevocably altered. The rich and fertile ground of memory, perception, and impression that so indelibly mark my understanding of things - particularly my past - may be revealed as veneer, unsubstantiated, phony. To lose the mystery, to have it revealed or to be understood as something else entirely, could poison the well that feeds what remains of my imagination.

Aside: I'm not a writer, but I often wish I were. I relish the exercise of formulating a thought and laboring to fashion it in a manner that makes a concept accessible to others. Yet bridging the gap between formulations that are essentially disposable to those that weave vibrant tapestries of expression is no small feat, and often beyond my reach. I still endeavor to find ways to express that which, in hindsight, may better remain unexpressed. To contemplate the mystery without seeking its naked reveal. To appreciate that which cannot or should not be reduced by the application of language. And while this probably makes sense to no one but me, trust me when I say that I understand the tension.

On the other hand, what I find on this journey might very well reinforce, reinvigorate, and refresh that stagnant wellspring within me. Rather than rip the veneer, it may in fact enhance and deepen the mystery and wonder of it all. New impressions may be formed that indelibly mark my understanding, impressions that may bring something altogether different and revealing, a via positiva to go with the via negativa.

In the end, I have decided to go. Decided to reopen a chapter long closed, motivated by … curiosity. To see the places and people I last saw in 1986, and to learn what's become of them. You may think it silly of me, and accuse me of drastically overthinking and over(psycho)analyzing a simple high school reunion - and you would probably be right. Nevertheless, in my defense, I'd wager all of us have places and times in our lives that, given the chance to return, the idea would give us pause. What you have read is a product of my "pause". A mere expression of one's self contemplating the mark of time - my time, our time.

Lord willing, this road trip will serve as both a literal and figurative journey: one outward, one inward, yet the same. We need such journeys, each of us. What may be found remains to be seen, or perhaps, unseen. Chasing after the wind may prove to be meaningless, but there remains yet the possibility of surprise. And with it, hope.

If nothing else, of course, I will relish the solitude of a 2600-mile round trip on the road. My middle age body may protest, but my spirit surely won't. Because the best parts of a solo road trip are simply: solo, road, and trip.