"So what was your anxiety level going up there?"
It was an important question, but it was one I felt immediately confident in answering precisely. The answered wasn't rehearsed, but it was thrashing below the surface all along, through the last couple of months, through all the longings I've had, through the angst, through the processing that is required during transition.
Barely pausing, I responded. "I felt like I was going to throw up. But sometimes it feels good to feel like you might throw up."
It was during an impromptu catch-up conversation with a friend of mine who had gone through the biblical exposition course with me last year. He had recently been out of the country teaching through his organization, and he had missed my inaugural run at delivering the sermon in our church. We talked about his experiences, challenges, stresses, and successes on his trip; soon the conversation turned to my sermon on Jonah. He has delivered sermons at our church before, and he wanted to know how I felt about my experience.
That's when I expressed gratitude for the opportunity to feel like my breakfast was on the verge of projectile motion.
"Frankly," I continued. "I miss feeling like that. Like something's at risk. Feeling like throwing up generally means something important is going on, something that matters, something that you've worked really hard on and you hope goes well. I felt like doing the sermon was work worth doing, work that mattered whether I succeeded or not. And when you're in that position, you get nervous. In the absence of what I used to have, this was my game day."
And there it is. Game day. I don't have twice weekly "game day" any more, during this, the winter of transition. I'm out of coaching.
And how has it gone? I wish I could say better, but I'd be lying. It's fine. It really is. But because I'm writing, and when you're writing you don't have to put a good face on a situation for others to see, I'm willing to admit that I'm lost in a lot of ways. And I'm learning to attempt to deal with being lost, with not knowing exactly where I'm going or what this looks like, with not doing what I've always done in the winter. That is to say that I don't have any choice, so I'm reluctantly reaching out in the dark, sometimes grasping forward, sometimes lunging backward, always reaching, always blindfolded.
There are things I don't miss. I don't miss the bus rides on Tuesday nights that return at 1 AM to sub-zero temperatures. I don't miss the mornings after bad losses when I'd hang out with my kids or head to church, present but not present. But I definitely miss the nausea - those two minutes before tip-off where it was clear exactly what was at stake: hours of work, the trust of players, the belief of the community, the pride of my family, winning.
You cannot wake up one day and become not competitive. You cannot shut that off. You can bury it, and you can tell yourself that "winning" is simply another form of pride and selfishness and desire to make a god out of the self. But winning can also be the validation that the work you did, that the time you sacrificed, that the emotion you forfeited and the scars you opened were worthwhile in regards to the little corner of the world you're allowed to influence.
And so what I really want right now are opportunities to win. Or at least to want to throw up. I want work that costs something, work that matters, opportunities to face mountains and to shake my fist at them and declare my impending arrival. I want risk. And I want to be counted on to do the difficult. The sermon was that for me.
This journey to find vomit-worthy endeavors, I'm coming to understand, is more spiritual than it is anything else. It exposes faith and doubt. It reveals that which I've made sure I was too busy to see about myself. It is internal and eternal. Everyone wants to congratulate me on losing a great stressor from life. What they don't realize is just how stressful it is to not have that stress.
So many people want to tell you not to be afraid of failure. I don't buy it for one second. I was scared to death of failing when I delivered that sermon. I'm afraid every day of messing up my kids, or my marriage, or the precious few seconds I'm allowed on this earth and the treasure with which I've been entrusted. I walked around with an ulcerous pit of fear for nine months waiting for the arrival of my first born after dealing with two miscarriages. I'm an admitted, card-carrying scaredy-cat. No, fear is not the problem. It's when you have nothing to fear that's the problem. Real courage is having something worthy of fear in your life.
I realize now that I have probably three or four essays inside of one here in this blog post. I thought I was going one way, suspected another direction might beckon, and a third has required a detour. But I let it stand. Wandering around in the dark can be like that.
The connecting thread here is the vomit. It's something we can all relate to. And I want to encourage you, as I also encourage myself, to find what makes you scared and nauseous, and go do that. Exactly that. Maybe not all the time. But risk. Fear. Seek. And in the seeking you will find what is worthy of the stress in your life.
Sunday, January 4, 2015
Thursday, January 1, 2015
Word Count
Two and a half years ago, as I was finishing up my second masters degree, I knew exactly what I wanted to do when I finally finished and had more time. What was missing when I was consumed with all the homework was writing and relationships. I was in short supply of quality time for both. I locked that in as a point of focus, knowing well what a lack of both was doing to me.
In 2013 I sought those two goals by putting a number on them. I decided that I would write 75 blog posts, write and mail 25 letters, and read 25 books. I reported on my progress monthly on this blog. I successfully completed each goal and reaped the benefits of living purposefully.
In 2014 I counted nothing. I made no such public statements about my path and progress. I took my foot off the pedal of personal pressure to do what I knew I wanted to do. The result: 40 blog posts, 18 books, and zero letters.
I'm going back to the numbers. I felt stifled by the constraints I placed on myself towards the end of 2013. In 2014, I drowned from the freedom. I feel a moral lesson coming on here about rules and biblical guidelines, but I'll have to save that for another post.
The number this year is 13,000. Every month, my goal is to write 13,000 words. I know who I want to be, and I'm not him right now. I want to be a writer, I want to be a friend, and I want to be a follower of Christ. Writers write. Friends keep in contact. Christians pray. Between my prayers, my blog posts, and my letters, I'm aiming for 13,000 total words each month.
13,000. That's approximately 7 blog posts, 20 typed prayers, and two letters. It is manageable. It is reasonable. I have found myself entirely incapable of the manageable and reasonable the past few months.
I have heard some say that in disciplining yourself to do something, by forcing yourself and putting yourself on a schedule or a timeline and gutting it out, doing the act when you don't necessarily feel like it, it takes the heart out of it. It doesn't really count. It's unhealthy and dangerous, because you are just going through the motions and not really doing the thing that you are forcing yourself to do.
Those people are wrong.
Here's what I know. To be who I want to be is a daily battle, a constant struggle, where the victory is sweet but the path is thorny. Without a purposeful plan and imposed self-discipline, I am too weak not to slide into mediocrity. And the mediocre is so grossly unfulfilling that a pattern of accepting it turns me from fighting for who I want to be to fighting not to hate who I am. That fight, my friends, is dark and lonely. It's a foolish fight to fight.
Flannery O'Connor once wrote in a letter, "Don't let anyone or anything cut into your time with words." I'm taking her advice, 13,000 at a time.
Happy New Year, everyone.
In 2013 I sought those two goals by putting a number on them. I decided that I would write 75 blog posts, write and mail 25 letters, and read 25 books. I reported on my progress monthly on this blog. I successfully completed each goal and reaped the benefits of living purposefully.
In 2014 I counted nothing. I made no such public statements about my path and progress. I took my foot off the pedal of personal pressure to do what I knew I wanted to do. The result: 40 blog posts, 18 books, and zero letters.
I'm going back to the numbers. I felt stifled by the constraints I placed on myself towards the end of 2013. In 2014, I drowned from the freedom. I feel a moral lesson coming on here about rules and biblical guidelines, but I'll have to save that for another post.
The number this year is 13,000. Every month, my goal is to write 13,000 words. I know who I want to be, and I'm not him right now. I want to be a writer, I want to be a friend, and I want to be a follower of Christ. Writers write. Friends keep in contact. Christians pray. Between my prayers, my blog posts, and my letters, I'm aiming for 13,000 total words each month.
13,000. That's approximately 7 blog posts, 20 typed prayers, and two letters. It is manageable. It is reasonable. I have found myself entirely incapable of the manageable and reasonable the past few months.
I have heard some say that in disciplining yourself to do something, by forcing yourself and putting yourself on a schedule or a timeline and gutting it out, doing the act when you don't necessarily feel like it, it takes the heart out of it. It doesn't really count. It's unhealthy and dangerous, because you are just going through the motions and not really doing the thing that you are forcing yourself to do.
Those people are wrong.
Here's what I know. To be who I want to be is a daily battle, a constant struggle, where the victory is sweet but the path is thorny. Without a purposeful plan and imposed self-discipline, I am too weak not to slide into mediocrity. And the mediocre is so grossly unfulfilling that a pattern of accepting it turns me from fighting for who I want to be to fighting not to hate who I am. That fight, my friends, is dark and lonely. It's a foolish fight to fight.
Flannery O'Connor once wrote in a letter, "Don't let anyone or anything cut into your time with words." I'm taking her advice, 13,000 at a time.
Happy New Year, everyone.
Wednesday, December 17, 2014
Why It's Good for My Kids to Get Sick Once in a While
I take some guilty pleasure in when my daughter is sick.
It's a terrible thing to say, I know; and I didn't realize it until this week. But it's true: despite the germs and the vomit and the scrambled schedule to stay home with her, I do find joy looking into those helpless, miserable eyes on sick days.
This realization was a process beginning on Sunday morning. I woke up a little later than usual, so instead of my customary trip to the gas station to get the Sunday paper and subsequent perusal of its myriad stories, I chose to forego it in favor of the opportunity to sit in our rocking chair and read to the girls. A morning full of good books and good snuggles beckoned. There was only one problem: neither of my girls wanted to read with me.
I offered. I waited a few minutes and offered again. I sat in the chair and displayed several of their favorite titles, attempting to entice them. They were otherwise detained. "Don't take it personally," my wife encouraged. But how could I take it any other way? One of the few "Dad" skills I have to offer, that of literacy coordinator, was being rejected as unnecessary.
With a pout and some grumbling, I pulled out Time magazine and tried not to mourn their independence.
In the middle of church, my 4 year old said she felt sick and went to the bathroom to throw up. She didn't throw up. At the end of the service, she went back to the bathroom. She didn't throw up. We got into the car, and then she threw up. I'm pretty sure she aimed for all the cracks in the upholstery to maximize the damage.
We got home, and the clean up began. Suddenly miserable and feeble, she needed her clothes changed and washed, she needed to be tucked in on the couch, and she needed a stuffed animal to clutch. I needed to eat lunch; instead I lost my appetite mopping up the car. That was pretty much the day.
How could I possibly find joy in that? Easy - suddenly Miss Independent could think of nothing she wanted more than to bury her head into my shoulder, listen to me tell her it was going to be okay, and let me read books to her.
I don't root for my children to experience pain and sickness. I feel bad for them when they do. But I don't feel sorry at all that it is an opportunity to remind them that I can be counted on, that I will protect and care for them, and that there are days when they just can't go it alone. It's not that they don't know all of those are true; it's just nice for them to feel that truth on rare occasions as well.
I get the feeling that God knows something of this as well. Wanting the best for us, I'm certain He realizes that there are times we don't want Him to read to us and we would much rather play whatever we feel like. There are times in which, despite the fact that we know better, we behave as if we think we can accomplish anything on our own, arrogantly celebrating our self-reliance.
I've been spiritually ill at times lately. I've metaphorically vomited all over a lot of cars, all as a result of the dual problem of catching the contagious comfort flu and shoveling sugary dessert after sugary dessert into my soul without any calories of substance. I've attempted to "battle through" the illness on my own, waiting passively to get better. But when I get sicker and sicker, fatigued and helpless, it is then I crawl on my Father's lap and ask Him to tell me it's going to be okay. And He does.
I know God doesn't want to have to baby me for long, just as I want my children to continue to grow to be independent in many aspects of their lives. I'm certain some of the messes I've made in illness have been rather foul to clean up. But I also feel He must smile knowing that it is in this state of disrepair that I often best understand our relationship.
My daughter is well again, running high octane through the house, conquering her pre-K kingdom, boldly proclaiming herself to be the queen of the universe. But she isn't too healthy to linger a few extra moments in a hug, or in a snuggle, or in my lap with a book. And that's the perfect kind of healthy for me.
It's a terrible thing to say, I know; and I didn't realize it until this week. But it's true: despite the germs and the vomit and the scrambled schedule to stay home with her, I do find joy looking into those helpless, miserable eyes on sick days.
This realization was a process beginning on Sunday morning. I woke up a little later than usual, so instead of my customary trip to the gas station to get the Sunday paper and subsequent perusal of its myriad stories, I chose to forego it in favor of the opportunity to sit in our rocking chair and read to the girls. A morning full of good books and good snuggles beckoned. There was only one problem: neither of my girls wanted to read with me.
I offered. I waited a few minutes and offered again. I sat in the chair and displayed several of their favorite titles, attempting to entice them. They were otherwise detained. "Don't take it personally," my wife encouraged. But how could I take it any other way? One of the few "Dad" skills I have to offer, that of literacy coordinator, was being rejected as unnecessary.
With a pout and some grumbling, I pulled out Time magazine and tried not to mourn their independence.
In the middle of church, my 4 year old said she felt sick and went to the bathroom to throw up. She didn't throw up. At the end of the service, she went back to the bathroom. She didn't throw up. We got into the car, and then she threw up. I'm pretty sure she aimed for all the cracks in the upholstery to maximize the damage.
We got home, and the clean up began. Suddenly miserable and feeble, she needed her clothes changed and washed, she needed to be tucked in on the couch, and she needed a stuffed animal to clutch. I needed to eat lunch; instead I lost my appetite mopping up the car. That was pretty much the day.
How could I possibly find joy in that? Easy - suddenly Miss Independent could think of nothing she wanted more than to bury her head into my shoulder, listen to me tell her it was going to be okay, and let me read books to her.
I don't root for my children to experience pain and sickness. I feel bad for them when they do. But I don't feel sorry at all that it is an opportunity to remind them that I can be counted on, that I will protect and care for them, and that there are days when they just can't go it alone. It's not that they don't know all of those are true; it's just nice for them to feel that truth on rare occasions as well.
I get the feeling that God knows something of this as well. Wanting the best for us, I'm certain He realizes that there are times we don't want Him to read to us and we would much rather play whatever we feel like. There are times in which, despite the fact that we know better, we behave as if we think we can accomplish anything on our own, arrogantly celebrating our self-reliance.
I've been spiritually ill at times lately. I've metaphorically vomited all over a lot of cars, all as a result of the dual problem of catching the contagious comfort flu and shoveling sugary dessert after sugary dessert into my soul without any calories of substance. I've attempted to "battle through" the illness on my own, waiting passively to get better. But when I get sicker and sicker, fatigued and helpless, it is then I crawl on my Father's lap and ask Him to tell me it's going to be okay. And He does.
I know God doesn't want to have to baby me for long, just as I want my children to continue to grow to be independent in many aspects of their lives. I'm certain some of the messes I've made in illness have been rather foul to clean up. But I also feel He must smile knowing that it is in this state of disrepair that I often best understand our relationship.
My daughter is well again, running high octane through the house, conquering her pre-K kingdom, boldly proclaiming herself to be the queen of the universe. But she isn't too healthy to linger a few extra moments in a hug, or in a snuggle, or in my lap with a book. And that's the perfect kind of healthy for me.
Sunday, December 7, 2014
Jonah, Love Actually, and Me
Twenty-eight minutes. No good.
Saturday night before I delivered the Sunday morning sermon at our church last week I was in my office giving it a final run through or two. The assignment was 25 minutes. A week ago it had been around 22. A few edits later, followed by flu days with no work, and there I was, polishing. And over time. Hoping I had just been slow, I went through again. I looked at the clock. Twenty-eight minutes. Time to cut.
I searched the sermon for what could go, what I could safely cut loose and not feel like had cost much to my message. There wasn't anything. I was emotionally tied to every piece in every section, and I felt the impact of losing every sentence whose worth I weighed.
But 28 isn't 25. Three minutes had to go. There just wasn't room for everything I wanted, and I could just imagine the yawns and clock-watching from a perturbed audience unhappy with the new guy's windy ways. So I cut. I didn't shave around the edges; I took out a knife and sliced a couple of whole pieces, pieces that I felt academically married to, some sentences and paragraphs that were there in my head and on the page long before there was any semblance of a sermon.
I liked the pieces. I liked them a lot. But I didn't need them. In the way of what mattered most, they had to go.
My wife and I watched the film Love Actually the other night. We've seen it many times before, but we never viewed the deleted scenes until that night. The director spoke in advance of the scenes, and he indicated that when they finished the movie, they realized that it was 3 1/2 hours long. They knew they had to cut to make it marketable. The final run time of the film is just over two hours, so it's clear they also cut deep. The director paraded out scene after scene, talking about how they initially absolutely loved it and couldn't imagine the film without it, but ultimately it had to go.
After watching several of the scenes, my wife and I expressed mutual feelings: we were thankful for the cuts. Frankly, we saw no loss at all. Knowing how much we enjoy the final product, we saw the value in seeing it pruned into only what was necessary and fruitful.
The cuts were hard for the director, just as they were hard for me with the sermon, just as they are hard for any writer in the revision process who must let go of prose that are perfect, just not for this occasion. You've got to cut to get to the essence of what really matters.
I see that reality in every season of my life. As hard as I want to try, I can't fit 28 minutes into 25. If I do, what I have is worse at each of the 28 minutes than if I just got rid of something. The something is usually good. I don't think cutting the garbage out of our lives is the hard part, Most people, when faced with the knowledge that something they are doing is a significant time-sucker with no real payoff are quick and even joyful to drop it. No, what's hard is when everything you have is good, or seems good. But you know it's not essential.
Everything you choose to do is a trade. You are trading that time and that activity for doing something else. Too often, it is choosing not to do better what's essential and fulfilling.
Let me encourage you to cut. It probably won't feel good, because there's not a lot in your day-to-day schedule, or in your holiday plans, or in your work day, or in your time with your family, that you don't think is helpful. But it's likely you're trading good for what's best.
Name what's best. Name what's essential. Then get out the knife.
***My writing has been primarily absent over the past month or so as I've spent much of my energies preparing for my Sunday morning sermon debut, a message on Jonah 3. My next several posts, therefore, will be either commentary about the experience, key passages from the message, or pieces I couldn't fit in but enjoyed writing anyway.
Saturday night before I delivered the Sunday morning sermon at our church last week I was in my office giving it a final run through or two. The assignment was 25 minutes. A week ago it had been around 22. A few edits later, followed by flu days with no work, and there I was, polishing. And over time. Hoping I had just been slow, I went through again. I looked at the clock. Twenty-eight minutes. Time to cut.
I searched the sermon for what could go, what I could safely cut loose and not feel like had cost much to my message. There wasn't anything. I was emotionally tied to every piece in every section, and I felt the impact of losing every sentence whose worth I weighed.
But 28 isn't 25. Three minutes had to go. There just wasn't room for everything I wanted, and I could just imagine the yawns and clock-watching from a perturbed audience unhappy with the new guy's windy ways. So I cut. I didn't shave around the edges; I took out a knife and sliced a couple of whole pieces, pieces that I felt academically married to, some sentences and paragraphs that were there in my head and on the page long before there was any semblance of a sermon.
I liked the pieces. I liked them a lot. But I didn't need them. In the way of what mattered most, they had to go.
My wife and I watched the film Love Actually the other night. We've seen it many times before, but we never viewed the deleted scenes until that night. The director spoke in advance of the scenes, and he indicated that when they finished the movie, they realized that it was 3 1/2 hours long. They knew they had to cut to make it marketable. The final run time of the film is just over two hours, so it's clear they also cut deep. The director paraded out scene after scene, talking about how they initially absolutely loved it and couldn't imagine the film without it, but ultimately it had to go.
After watching several of the scenes, my wife and I expressed mutual feelings: we were thankful for the cuts. Frankly, we saw no loss at all. Knowing how much we enjoy the final product, we saw the value in seeing it pruned into only what was necessary and fruitful.
The cuts were hard for the director, just as they were hard for me with the sermon, just as they are hard for any writer in the revision process who must let go of prose that are perfect, just not for this occasion. You've got to cut to get to the essence of what really matters.
I see that reality in every season of my life. As hard as I want to try, I can't fit 28 minutes into 25. If I do, what I have is worse at each of the 28 minutes than if I just got rid of something. The something is usually good. I don't think cutting the garbage out of our lives is the hard part, Most people, when faced with the knowledge that something they are doing is a significant time-sucker with no real payoff are quick and even joyful to drop it. No, what's hard is when everything you have is good, or seems good. But you know it's not essential.
Everything you choose to do is a trade. You are trading that time and that activity for doing something else. Too often, it is choosing not to do better what's essential and fulfilling.
Let me encourage you to cut. It probably won't feel good, because there's not a lot in your day-to-day schedule, or in your holiday plans, or in your work day, or in your time with your family, that you don't think is helpful. But it's likely you're trading good for what's best.
Name what's best. Name what's essential. Then get out the knife.
***My writing has been primarily absent over the past month or so as I've spent much of my energies preparing for my Sunday morning sermon debut, a message on Jonah 3. My next several posts, therefore, will be either commentary about the experience, key passages from the message, or pieces I couldn't fit in but enjoyed writing anyway.
Monday, December 1, 2014
Eighty Percent
Eighty percent of success is showing up, according to Woody Allen.
I've come to believe that it's 80% of friendship as well.
One of my favorite movies is Tombstone, primarily because of the theme of loyalty shown in the friendship between Doc Holliday and Wyatt Earp. Whenever an important event for Wyatt is going down, Doc shows up. He's there for drinks, laughs, and shootouts. In Wyatt's darkest times and grandest accomplishments, Doc is there. During a particularly difficult and dangerous time, another character asks Doc why he's there.
Last Sunday morning when I stood up in front of our church and delivered a sermon for the first time, I had some friends show up. I invited them without an expectation that they would or should be there. Sure, I wanted them there, but only to share with them what I'd been working on for the past few weeks. I didn't necessarily think that their presence would make a huge difference to me. I was wrong. Their faces in the crowd at a time of risk and adrenaline and joy and priority for me was a distinct act of friendship. I'm not sure there are many greater acts.
For several of these friends, showing up was anything but convenient. For some, church is one of the last places they'd expect to find themselves on a Sunday morning. For others, it required a detour of sorts in travel plans. But they showed up anyway. With no real expectation of personal gain, they were there.
Friendship is no more complicated than that.
I remember when I used to coach and our team would play at a gym in the suburbs of Des Moines. Almost every time we came to that gym, I had friends from the area in the gym. They could have cared less about the teams and players on the court. It was a never a good basketball game. They had better things to do on a Tuesday or Friday night. And it wasn't like we could hang out and spend a lot of time together; I had a game to coach, after all. They were there for no other reason than that eighty percent of friendship is showing up.
You can't show up to everything. And I don't believe anyone expects that of you. But when you can, and when you do, you will be making a statement. And it will be a statement long felt between friends.
***My writing has been primarily absent over the past month or so as I've spent much of my energies preparing for my Sunday morning sermon debut, a message on Jonah 3. My next several posts, therefore, will be either commentary about the experience, key passages from the message, or pieces I couldn't fit in but enjoyed writing anyway.
Wednesday, November 19, 2014
Why I Don't Want My Kids to Read the Sports Page
The sports page is no longer sacred reading space. It is no longer safe.
On a typical Sunday morning, I rise before the rest of the house, start a pot of coffee, and walk down to the gas station 2 blocks away to pick up a the Des Moines Sunday Register. Upon returning home and pouring the first cup, my habit, the same now in my thirties as it was as a teen, is to dig a few sections in to begin my morning with the sports page. While I do now get through every section, I always begin there. I don't like what I now am seeing.
In an effort that can only be explained by a desire to be "cutting-edge," The Register has regular full-length articles on what is being said about the beloved Hawkeyes and Cyclones on Twitter. Rather that analyzing another aspect of each game, a summary of social media activity is provided. All manner of passionate pearls of unfiltered wisdom are celebrated and given the recognition and distinction of being printed rather than scrolled through. Apparently I should care more about what former Cyclones have tweeted about the season, or about how "BonduHawk" and "SparrowHawk" would have coached the Hawks to victory. These words are worthy of ink.
This is made-up drama, ridiculous junior high temper tantrum-style venting that gives the speaker (or "tweeter") maximum exposure with minimum responsibility. It is foolishness. It is trashy. And it is littering my newspaper. This Northern Iowa Panther fan was none too pleased to see these two articles take up more space than the actual football game they played in which they took down the nation's longest winning streak. But even for the non-Panther, unbiased reader, I weep. For you have nowhere to go.
Lest I put this on The Register, I must include the fact that USA Today includes in their Sports Section the "Tweets of the Day." A quick perusal of the ESPN website now has 7 of their top 10 headlines not about actual contests played by teams or news directly affecting the outcomes of games. Instead we are pushed to drama: rumors, pouting, betrayal, and dollar signs. Professional wrestling has fewer manipulated story angles than does ESPN trying to promote their product. It is discouraging.
Drama sells. It sells so well that some people buy it, consume it, and try to sell it anew in fresh packaging, placing their own label over the old one. Substance is a commodity that is lacking; our society is too often told that just the facts are not enough to hold anyone's attention. To matter, one cannot merely go about quietly doing their job well; instead they must offer their reckless and half-considered opinions on the work of others and attend to reality and their own affairs only as a last result.
Social media is not the culprit. I'm using Twitter and Facebook to share this post. But my tweets are not news. And neither are yours. Nor are the ones that enrage you. And most certainly, BonduHawk's and SparrowHawk's words are hardly worth mentioning either.
Young readers, avoid the sports page at all costs. Do not buy what they are selling. You will be told that the game doesn't matter, only what people are saying about it does. You will be encouraged to lose yourself in assumptions and accusations. Save yourself the time and the paper and get all of this you want from daytime TV.
I've always believed thapt sports can tell us a lot about life. I still believe that. But I can no longer look in the sports section to find that. The comics offer a far better opportunity.
On a typical Sunday morning, I rise before the rest of the house, start a pot of coffee, and walk down to the gas station 2 blocks away to pick up a the Des Moines Sunday Register. Upon returning home and pouring the first cup, my habit, the same now in my thirties as it was as a teen, is to dig a few sections in to begin my morning with the sports page. While I do now get through every section, I always begin there. I don't like what I now am seeing.
In an effort that can only be explained by a desire to be "cutting-edge," The Register has regular full-length articles on what is being said about the beloved Hawkeyes and Cyclones on Twitter. Rather that analyzing another aspect of each game, a summary of social media activity is provided. All manner of passionate pearls of unfiltered wisdom are celebrated and given the recognition and distinction of being printed rather than scrolled through. Apparently I should care more about what former Cyclones have tweeted about the season, or about how "BonduHawk" and "SparrowHawk" would have coached the Hawks to victory. These words are worthy of ink.
This is made-up drama, ridiculous junior high temper tantrum-style venting that gives the speaker (or "tweeter") maximum exposure with minimum responsibility. It is foolishness. It is trashy. And it is littering my newspaper. This Northern Iowa Panther fan was none too pleased to see these two articles take up more space than the actual football game they played in which they took down the nation's longest winning streak. But even for the non-Panther, unbiased reader, I weep. For you have nowhere to go.
Lest I put this on The Register, I must include the fact that USA Today includes in their Sports Section the "Tweets of the Day." A quick perusal of the ESPN website now has 7 of their top 10 headlines not about actual contests played by teams or news directly affecting the outcomes of games. Instead we are pushed to drama: rumors, pouting, betrayal, and dollar signs. Professional wrestling has fewer manipulated story angles than does ESPN trying to promote their product. It is discouraging.
Drama sells. It sells so well that some people buy it, consume it, and try to sell it anew in fresh packaging, placing their own label over the old one. Substance is a commodity that is lacking; our society is too often told that just the facts are not enough to hold anyone's attention. To matter, one cannot merely go about quietly doing their job well; instead they must offer their reckless and half-considered opinions on the work of others and attend to reality and their own affairs only as a last result.
Social media is not the culprit. I'm using Twitter and Facebook to share this post. But my tweets are not news. And neither are yours. Nor are the ones that enrage you. And most certainly, BonduHawk's and SparrowHawk's words are hardly worth mentioning either.
Young readers, avoid the sports page at all costs. Do not buy what they are selling. You will be told that the game doesn't matter, only what people are saying about it does. You will be encouraged to lose yourself in assumptions and accusations. Save yourself the time and the paper and get all of this you want from daytime TV.
I've always believed thapt sports can tell us a lot about life. I still believe that. But I can no longer look in the sports section to find that. The comics offer a far better opportunity.
Tuesday, November 4, 2014
My Father's Hymn Book
Whenever one door closes, another one opens. Or something like that. Tonight I want to take another look at those closed doors we've rushed to forget.
When I was young I sat next to my father in church. Pinned between him and the arm of the pew, I was in the perfect position to A) not antagonize my sisters and B) receive a purposeful elbow if my behavior was out of line. I remember much about sitting in my God-ordained assigned seat each Sunday morning (and many Sunday nights): the unforgiving wood bench supporting me; the small communion cup holes I aimlessly ran my fingers through; the little loose divot at the bottom of the pew in front of us within subtle reach of my shoe; and certainly the hilarity and guilty pleasure I found in the occasional head nod, snore, and snap back to attention of Dad under the duress of a week's worth of farming fatigue.
I also remember the hymn books. Whether we were sitting (sitting for the 2nd hymn was a Dutch Reformed service standby) or standing, my father and I often shared a hymn book between us. No matter what had gone on during the week, or even during the Sunday morning preparation for church, we stood side by side with that hymnal between us 4-5 times every service. To share a hymn book meant that we stood together: close enough for our arms to touch, close enough to hear every flawed note, close enough to breath the same air. There are few other situations in my youth that I remember requiring that level of proximity.
I miss those old hymn books. For many churches, they have gone by the wayside in the name of progress, replaced with giant screens with lyrics projected. The more tech savvy churches, my own included, will even place vibrant backgrounds of pictures of the glory of creation to enhance the mood and the worship experience. There is nothing inherently wrong about that; it's efficient and effective, it allows for a constant stream of new music to be introduced to the congregation, and there is no cost for physical objects taking up physical space.
With progress, though, we've left something behind. We are no longer asked to share a hymn book, meaning we are no longer asked to share that space. While we do share a screen, there is nothing tangible between husband and wife, between parent and child. Before, if there happened to be any conflict, hymn book holders had to bury their anger, or at least put it on hold, in the name of praising God. Whatever fight may have occurred that morning or that week, it was not big enough to embolden enough pride to refuse to sing a hymn. Closeness, at least for a time, was restored. Or shared joy carried into the service became intensified in that space with a widened smile, a warm expression, or the simple pleasure of reveling in being together and on the same page in one more concrete way. Perhaps even more simply, it provided a rare opportunity for sons like me to hear a loved one's voice.
A friend of mine was talking about his record collection the other day. I asked him what the appeal was. Why, with the ease of an iPod, with the clarity of digital music, would he bother? "When it comes down to it," he said, "when you're hanging out with a bunch of people playing music, having records leads to conversation. There's something to handle. Something to share. Something to pass around that leads to debate. You're not going to do that with an iPod."
He's right. The same is true of the letter. Last year I made it a priority to write 25 letters over the course of the year. I received several back. They are not as convenient, as cost-effective, or as timely as email. But receiving that physical letter from a friend in the mail was an experience all in itself. It was a piece of paper that he had touched and that I was holding, full of paragraphs that I read with priority, not randomly punctuated haphazard sentences I fit in between pauses in other conversations, while waiting in line, or in between tweets.
I want my Sunday paper spread out on my dining room table, a different section in each individual's hands. I don't want it on my tablet. I want to share a meal, not hang out on Facetime. I want to teach and conference with my students, not point them to YouTube instructors. And I want to smell paper and ink and scribble in the margins and dog-ear pages and let a book rest in my hands like an old friend; that is greatly to be preferred over using my finger to highlight on my Kindle app and type out a note that no one will read in 30 years when they come across my literary collection.
Am I slow to embrace progress and change? Guilty. I still have a TracPhone as my only mobile device. And a land line. I only recently began texting. I have no idea what a DVR or TiVo even look like. There is still an analogue TV in our house that we use. I first opened an iTunes account this year. And I want my hymn books back.
They won't come back, of course. Progress says they can't. And that's fine. But that does mean that we must purposefully plan new and different ways to share the kind of space that my father and I shared many years ago. Because every minute spent there still means something unspeakable to me. And I want my daughters, who have long ago outgrown being rocked to sleep in my arms, to remember long into their adulthood how they shared that kind of space with me.
When I was young I sat next to my father in church. Pinned between him and the arm of the pew, I was in the perfect position to A) not antagonize my sisters and B) receive a purposeful elbow if my behavior was out of line. I remember much about sitting in my God-ordained assigned seat each Sunday morning (and many Sunday nights): the unforgiving wood bench supporting me; the small communion cup holes I aimlessly ran my fingers through; the little loose divot at the bottom of the pew in front of us within subtle reach of my shoe; and certainly the hilarity and guilty pleasure I found in the occasional head nod, snore, and snap back to attention of Dad under the duress of a week's worth of farming fatigue.
I also remember the hymn books. Whether we were sitting (sitting for the 2nd hymn was a Dutch Reformed service standby) or standing, my father and I often shared a hymn book between us. No matter what had gone on during the week, or even during the Sunday morning preparation for church, we stood side by side with that hymnal between us 4-5 times every service. To share a hymn book meant that we stood together: close enough for our arms to touch, close enough to hear every flawed note, close enough to breath the same air. There are few other situations in my youth that I remember requiring that level of proximity.
I miss those old hymn books. For many churches, they have gone by the wayside in the name of progress, replaced with giant screens with lyrics projected. The more tech savvy churches, my own included, will even place vibrant backgrounds of pictures of the glory of creation to enhance the mood and the worship experience. There is nothing inherently wrong about that; it's efficient and effective, it allows for a constant stream of new music to be introduced to the congregation, and there is no cost for physical objects taking up physical space.
With progress, though, we've left something behind. We are no longer asked to share a hymn book, meaning we are no longer asked to share that space. While we do share a screen, there is nothing tangible between husband and wife, between parent and child. Before, if there happened to be any conflict, hymn book holders had to bury their anger, or at least put it on hold, in the name of praising God. Whatever fight may have occurred that morning or that week, it was not big enough to embolden enough pride to refuse to sing a hymn. Closeness, at least for a time, was restored. Or shared joy carried into the service became intensified in that space with a widened smile, a warm expression, or the simple pleasure of reveling in being together and on the same page in one more concrete way. Perhaps even more simply, it provided a rare opportunity for sons like me to hear a loved one's voice.
A friend of mine was talking about his record collection the other day. I asked him what the appeal was. Why, with the ease of an iPod, with the clarity of digital music, would he bother? "When it comes down to it," he said, "when you're hanging out with a bunch of people playing music, having records leads to conversation. There's something to handle. Something to share. Something to pass around that leads to debate. You're not going to do that with an iPod."
He's right. The same is true of the letter. Last year I made it a priority to write 25 letters over the course of the year. I received several back. They are not as convenient, as cost-effective, or as timely as email. But receiving that physical letter from a friend in the mail was an experience all in itself. It was a piece of paper that he had touched and that I was holding, full of paragraphs that I read with priority, not randomly punctuated haphazard sentences I fit in between pauses in other conversations, while waiting in line, or in between tweets.
I want my Sunday paper spread out on my dining room table, a different section in each individual's hands. I don't want it on my tablet. I want to share a meal, not hang out on Facetime. I want to teach and conference with my students, not point them to YouTube instructors. And I want to smell paper and ink and scribble in the margins and dog-ear pages and let a book rest in my hands like an old friend; that is greatly to be preferred over using my finger to highlight on my Kindle app and type out a note that no one will read in 30 years when they come across my literary collection.
Am I slow to embrace progress and change? Guilty. I still have a TracPhone as my only mobile device. And a land line. I only recently began texting. I have no idea what a DVR or TiVo even look like. There is still an analogue TV in our house that we use. I first opened an iTunes account this year. And I want my hymn books back.
They won't come back, of course. Progress says they can't. And that's fine. But that does mean that we must purposefully plan new and different ways to share the kind of space that my father and I shared many years ago. Because every minute spent there still means something unspeakable to me. And I want my daughters, who have long ago outgrown being rocked to sleep in my arms, to remember long into their adulthood how they shared that kind of space with me.
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